Page 45 of They Call Me Blue

“An elgrew’s bite is a perversion of what the wood nymph’s bite used to be.

Prior to their extinction, it is believed the forest fae were monogamous and bit their mates to show possession.

Little is known about the rituals associated with biting, or about their sexual selection in general, but it is widely believed mates were attracted to one another by a force outside their control—possibly pheromones. ”

—Yaklan of Kariss, Karesai of Stitchers

Classified Research Notes

I stand in a dark forest, the trees made of shadow, the dirt so black it looks like tar.

There are no stars in the sky or traces of moonlight, despite the clouds being absent.

Charred petals crunch beneath my bare feet, ash and soot staining them as I walk.

Up ahead, a boy crouches over something, crying, sobbing.

The despair is so great, it makes my heart clench in a way it hasn’t since I lost Mom and Dad.

“Why are you crying?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t hear me.

The boy’s body is paler than most elves—and then I realize he’s not an elf at all.

Thin silver thread connects his skin together.

He’s shirtless and bony, nearly starved by the looks of it.

Long silver hair sweeps over his shoulders, concealing the thing he’s leaning over.

The boy doesn’t notice me as I approach—too consumed in his grief.

I kneel beside him and touch his shoulder. He jumps then stares at me through dark-rimmed violet eyes. I see it now. Cradled in his hands are the ashen remains of a corpse. A gust of wind comes and blows the ashes away, leaving his blackened hands empty.

“Who was it?” I ask. I can feel his pain as if it were my own, and it’s unbearable.

“My uncle.” The boy sniffles and wipes at his eyes.

“They killed him and made me watch.” He stares into the distance, where the shadows part to reveal a silver city made of stone and blood—my people’s blood.

“I’m scared I’m next. If they find out what I’ve done . . . If I can’t perform tomorrow . . .”

The boy throws his arms around me, and I hug back, the warmth of his body spreading into mine. The bite mark on my hand throbs. “It’s ok,” I whisper. “I’m scared of them, too.”

“Arden?” He pinches his brows together in confusion, blinking as he realizes who I am. “How are you here? Why—”

Our surroundings shift and suddenly we’re in the underground, beneath the glowing opalescence of the Korring-Marr.

Green glowflies blink around us, but the priests and priestesses are all gone.

Everyone is. The only sound comes from the Great Tree, but I doubt the elgrew boy can hear its gentle hum, its soothing melody.

We stand in a nutrient pool, my back pressing against one of the Korring-Marr’s nine trunks, our reflections rippling in the dark, steaming water. I look different now. My breasts are fuller, my legs longer. Freckles dot a face that’s far too pretty to belong to me and yet . . .

“Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful,” the elgrew boy says.

His body morphs in front of me, becoming thicker, stronger, lithe and tall, and fuck, he has to be the most attractive fae I’ve ever seen, even with the stitchwork.

A strong jawline frames his sharp-angled face.

His lips are full, his violet eyes piercing.

Every part of him commands authority, like he could put me in my place with a simple word, a single touch.

A bone diadem sits atop the elgrew’s long silver hair, and I know without asking it’s made from the bones of my people.

A shiver cascades down my spine, but I don’t pull away. Brain foggy, I can’t remember why I’m supposed to. He feels safe to me. He feels like home.

“What happened?” the man asks, bending to look at me. His touch is gentle as he grabs my chin and tilts, exposing the bruised column of my neck. “Who did this to you?”

I open my mouth, then close it. I can’t remember.

For the first time, alarm bells ring inside my head —we’re not supposed to be here.

He’s not allowed to see the Tree— but it’s quickly soothed when the man tucks a strand of hair behind my pointed eartip and leans forward.

He smells like citrus and leather. Not the macabre stench of blood or rancid meat that follows most Hunters.

I breathe him in, stomach fluttering in this strange, unfamiliar way. Like it’s full of butterflies.

“I wish it were you tomorrow,” he says, his voice a low growl. The man’s breath is hot against my sensitive eartip, sending tingles down my spine. Something hard and warm presses into my thigh, and I try not to think about what it is, even as my body nudges closer, craving the friction, the heat.

“I can’t wait to bite you again. To taste you.” He grazes his teeth along the curve of my ear, and I melt into him, whimpering when his hands sink lower to squeeze my ass.

And then his lips are on mine.

My mouth parts as I take him in, head swirling. My pulse pounds in my chest, between my quivering thighs. The Hunter isn’t gentle as he slides his tongue past my teeth, swallowing my moans, cupping my ass until all I can think about is . . .

More. I need more.

Sharp canines dig into my lower lip, and the taste of metal slicks our tongues, spills down my chin. The sting of it only makes it better, makes me weaker for him. My legs turn to jelly until I feel like I could melt into a puddle.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remember.” He licks into my mouth and groans in satisfaction. The man kisses with the full weight of his body, pushing me up against the Korring-Marr and pinning me there.

I never thought I’d like this, but gods, the way he’s touching me. . .

“Don’t stop,” I say between jagged breaths. “Please.”

“I don’t intend to.” He reaches for my palm, breaking the kiss long enough to find my pulsing, swollen bite mark.

“Mine.” Smirking, the Hunter brings my flesh to his lips and bites down hard, staring into my eyes as he pumps hot venom deep beneath the skin, marking me a second time just to prove he can.

I slide my fingers into his stolen, silky hair and moan his name. “Lyrick.”

My eyes snap open.

Sweat drenches my body as I jolt from sleep, staring at the starry sky. I roll onto my belly and crawl over dewy vines and sharp stones to reach the Aegis River, barely registering the doused bonfire or the looks of apprehension Cheevy and Chest Wound shoot my way.

My mind is elsewhere.

I hugged him. I consoled him. I let him touch me.

Fuck, I think I’m going to be sick.

Sour bile climbs my throat and I lose my stomach at the water’s edge, chunky red liquid spraying the coarse gravel, cool water soaking into my palms. My forearms tremble.

My bite mark burns—the scar darker and more sensitive than it’s ever been before.

I can still feel his teeth on my skin, his wet tongue tangling with mine.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” My face is pallid in the river’s reflection—eyes sunken and cheeks flush with fever.

But unlike in the dream, I still look like me.

I’ve never been so Marr-damn relieved to see my small stature, even if moist hair clings to the back of my neck and every bone in my body fucking aches.

Stomach clenching, I heave again, remembering the way I begged him to keep going—like some horny new recruit.

No better than Cheevy and Chest Wound. Worse than them because he’s elgrew, because he thinks he owns me.

More bile. The current carries some of it downstream, but the foul and bitter stench still fills the air.

My mind showed him the Korring-Marr. It put everything at risk.

The gravel crunches as Cheevy approaches, then kneels beside me. “Arden, are you alright?”

He rubs soothing circles into my upper back, holding my hair as I heave again and again until there’s nothing left. I don’t have the strength to tell him to fuck off, so I let him, moisture blurring my vision as everything inside me lies outside in a messy splatter.

“I’m fine,” I croak, wiping my eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Rylock vines,” Cheevy whispers. “I knew it.”

“It’s not rylock.” I start to argue, but then my head swims. I fall backward, vaguely aware of Cheevy lifting me, carrying me back to the unlit campfire.

My head lolls, too Marr-damn heavy to lift, and the rest of me isn’t any better.

It’s like weights have been tied to my ankles and wrists.

Something cool and moist presses against my forehead as I drift in and out of consciousness.

“What do we do if she’s like this tomorrow?” Chest Wound asks, his voice fading as my eyelids flutter shut. “The plan hinges on her.”

“We pray she’s better by morning.”

“And if she isn’t?”

There’s a long pause. “Then we pray she can work through the pain.”