Page 50 of They Call Me Blue
Morcai rips a throne from the ground and flings it at me. It whizzes through the air and thumps to the ground less than a foot away. Heart hammering, I rush toward him again, readying my knife. I need to end him before he has time to land a hit. A single one will be fatal.
My palm burns in the same place I bit Arden. Now’s not the time.
Ignoring the bond, I lunge. The blade slicks flesh, and purple blood beads to the surface, but Morcai shifts and I miss my mark, slicing through his forearm rather than something fatal.
He reaches for my face, fingers smushing into both sides until it feels like my skull might burst. Sticky liquid runs down my skull. Blood spatters the dusty arena.
My body lifts from the ground, and I kick out with my feet, Morcai laughing the entire time. My boots make purchase with his stomach, but it’s not enough. I slice at his already bleeding forearm, but it’s still not enough.
My skull’s going to cave in. It’s—
“Throw the dagger,” Arden hisses.
“But then I’ll be weaponless.”
“Marr-dammit, listen to me!”
Blindly, I fling my blade in the general direction of his body and Morcai drops me.
Tinnitus has me gripping my ears, panting on all fours as my vision blurs.
The pain in my skull is crippling. I barely have time to glance up, to watch Morcai pull the blade from his oozing side before he’s readying another blow.
Coughing, I clutch my aching head and stumble back to my feet, body swaying, legs wobbling. In the distance, the crowd cheers.
I prepare to strike again, knowing if I can’t get to my dagger before he throws it, this is all for nothing. Weaponless, I don’t stand a chance.
“Stop!” Arden’s voice rings in my head—a loud plea that has me freezing in place. Morcai uses the time to chuck my weapon alongside the other one, removing it from combat.
“Fuck,” I hiss . “Get out of my head. You’re going to get me killed.”
“Do you remember when I hunted that swamp dog?” she asks. Arden doesn’t wait for me to answer. “When you’re outmatched physically, you have to wear them down first. Stop going on offense. Tire him out, then go for the kill when he’s not expecting it.”
It’s sage advice. Plus, I’m out of options.
When Morcai comes for me, I let it happen, ducking and dodging each hit.
Lungs burning, I dance with him—meeting his movements with an opposite, defensive one.
It’s nothing like my normal fighting style, but it works.
I’m in better shape, and his movements are clumsy.
The more he strikes, the slower he gets, the more labored his breaths become until we’re both slippery with sweat, both struggling for air.
But I know how to work while exhausted. I’ve been doing it for years.
Body swaying, eyes drooping, Morcai looks like he’s about to pass out.
That’s when I headbutt the bastard. Growling, I slam myself against him as hard as I physically can, and he stumbles back, landing ass first on the arena ground.
The dust plumes up around him, and I climb on top, grappling him, aiming for his neck.
My good hand slips on his body, struggling to find purchase.
Metal barbs sink into my skin and shred it, lodging splinters deep inside tissue and flesh, but I don’t let up.
Morcai reaches for my bun; it’s all too easy to evade.
Ignoring the blood, the broken bones, the fucking splinters in my skin, I shove my forearm against his throat and push.
He sputters for breath. His meaty fist strikes my side and more bones crunch, but the armor stops the spikes from killing me.
His face turns lilac, then dark purple. His cheeks puff up and eyes bulge.
When he’s too exhausted to fight me, I lean down and lower my voice. “You were right,” I whisper. “All those years ago when you accused me of killing your lover.”
He whimpers in pain, and the sound fills me with euphoric bliss.
“You think Talin was bad? I promise you, I’m much worse.”
Mouth open, he snaps at me with those metal jaws in a desperate ploy to win. But we’re well past that. “I’m going to skin you again—not because I have to, but because I can.”
I wait for the bastard to pass out before I find my ceremonial blade, scooping it from the dirt.
Then, I lean over him, grinning at the crowd as I carve every bit of skin from his body—this time starting at the scalp.
The spectators chant my name, “Lye-rick, Lye-rick, Lye-rick,” as I slice through connective tissue and tendon, drowning out his pleas.
Sticky blood saturates the ground, clumping in the dirt.
It sprays into my eyes and stains my armor.
Muscles aching, hands shaking, I keep going, spurred by adrenaline to finish the job.
No one fucks with me or my family.
Groaning, I finally yank the last bit of flesh free from his muscles, then bundle it into my sweat-slicked arms. By now, Morcai’s long stopped breathing and the crowd’s gone quiet.
Everyone stares at me in horror—eyes wide, mouths open, whispers floating through the arena aisles.
Ignoring the other Karesai, I drop the flesh at Sorso’s feet where it lands with a heavy splat.
Chest heaving, I sneer up at him. “I believe this belongs to you.”
And then I limp to my godsdamned throne and take my seat.