Page 55 of They Call Me Blue

And nothing. If I shoot him and he falls, someone nearby might see. If I miss, the arrow could land anywhere, giving away our presence. Proving to Cheevy and Chest Wound that I’m strong enough to shoot him isn’t worth the risk. Sighing, I let the bow fall and hand it back to them.

Stay on mission. The stealthier we are, the better our chances of survival. Lyrick’s coming—that’s an unforeseen and unfortunate obstacle—but he’s not here yet. We still have time to plant the explosives and escape unnoticed if we move quickly.

“Chest Wound, do you know where we’re going? How far away—”

“You can’t be serious,” Cheevy says. “Arden, look at you. You’ve been vomiting all night, sleeping all day. Your skin—fuck—have you even seen yourself?”

I glance down. My blue skin is rashy, patchy, glossy. I poke a particularly offensive blotch on my lower abdominals and bite back a whimper. It’s so fucking sensitive, like a wound freshly healed. Skin rashes. Another telltale symptom of rylock poisoning. Marr-fucking-dammit.

Without the lavender, I’d no doubt be a writhing mess on the forest floor. If my sickness worsens and the drugs stop working, we’re all fucked. But it’s too late to turn back now. Starra’lee hasn’t had a victory like this in centuries—maybe ever.

“I can do this,” I hiss. Pivoting on the branch, I run my fingers down the bandoliers strapped to my chest, confirming they’re still there. Then, I address Chest Wound. “Where’s the vent?”

He glances between Cheevy and me, fidgeting with the go-bags.

“A-a couple minutes that way, past the road,” he stutters, pointing to the dirty, blue-tiled road that leads between Kariss and the Grand Overseer’s estate.

Lanterns line the path, casting it in pale yellow light.

It’s in clear sight of the Butcher on the rampart, but he’s not watching it.

Tree canopy covers the pathway—thick enough we might be able to climb and hop between branches without being seen.

Risky, but safer than sprinting in the grasses.

“Okay, on my mark, we start jumping. Keep your eyes on the ground. There could be more Butchers on the forest floor. If we get separated, I’ll make this sound. ”

I clear my throat, curl my tongue, and form a puckered O with my lips. The resulting noise is this high-pitched screeching that mimics the korkuran’s mating call. They’re nocturnal; it won’t draw any attention. As expected, the Butcher guarding the rampart doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Got it.” Chest Wound flashes me a thumbs-up and Cheevy glares.

“Julian wouldn’t want—”

“I don’t care what Julian wants,” I whisper-shout. “I’m not failing this mission because of something stupid I did.”

“And what happens when the Grand Overseer finds you?” Cheevy asks, folding his arms across his chest. “Does he keep you for himself or give you to his son? Is that what you want—to be Lyrick’s pet?”

My cheeks burn with unmitigated rage. How dare he?

“Fuck you,” I spit. “Either help me finish the job or fuck off. I don’t care which.”

I flash him a vulgar gesture then force myself onto wobbly legs, rushing headfirst into the nearest tree.

The branch I land on groans beneath me. My knees threaten to buckle, but I flex my lamellae and throw my hands out, bracing myself against the trunk.

My finger and toepads stick to the knotted bark, stabilizing me before I can lose my balance.

A moment later, the branches above and below me tremble, too.

I guess Cheevy’s coming after all.

I don’t acknowledge either of them. Instead, I wiggle my ears and activate my sezin.

The bones vibrate to life and the noises around us amplify.

Breezeless, the forest is all too easy to hear.

Termites crawl through a nest to my right.

Muffled water whooshes underground, smacking up against something hard and metal—the dam that keeps the mine from flooding, that creates the turquoise lake on Azerin’s estate.

Across the dusty road tiles, a lone rodent scurries out of eyesight.

Straining my ears, I jump to the next tree then the next, crossing over the pathway.

Sweat rolls down my forehead, the clammy chill replaced by volcanic heat.

With my sezin in use, each breath becomes a cyclone, each thud of my feet a thunderclap.

The leaves rustle so loudly, they could be musical instruments.

For a moment, I fear the Butcher might hear us or see something strange in the foliage, but when I bring the binoculars to my face, he’s sitting on his ass—feet dangling over the rampart.

A silver flask shines in his clubbed hand.

Azerin’s definitely going to kill him.

I let the binoculars drop and keep going—afraid to stop.

If I rest now, I might not be able to start again.

A dull ache radiates through my bones, and a light sting pierces my joints with every jump.

The lavender is wearing off. I’ll need to re-dose once we reach the vent and pray the treatment works.

To my left comes the steady stream of liquid hitting wood, followed by the sharp stench of ammonia.

As Chest Wound and Cheevy land behind me, I disconnect my sezin and press a finger to my lips, then gesture for them to stay put.

I jump twice more, following the sound to its source.

Down below, a Butcher faces away from me, toward another orangeleaf tree, his pants lowered to expose a lumpy purple ass .

Not a Butcher , I realize. He’s too young and too short to be anything more than an apprentice.

Still a problem if the kid sees us, though.

Dick in hand, he pisses against the tree.

It splashes as it hits, wetness oozing down the bark and into the orange grass.

Without thinking, I reach for two throwing daggers and fling them into the elgrew’s back, my muscles quivering with the strain of it.

They hit their marks in short succession—one to his nape, the other to his kidney.

Grunting, he topples over into the piss puddle, bleeding out onto the forest floor.

Blood gurgles past his open mouth, but with the blade lodged through his throat, no sound comes out.

Within seconds, his lilac eyes glaze over—dead.

The logical part of me knows it’s insane to mark my kill. I don’t have any paper, I’m on a time crunch, and the dull ache in my bones is starting to become an all-encompassing, debilitating pain. But I almost always mark them.

Lamellae extended, I descend the tree—vision swimming, body so hot I can barely breathe.

My clothing clings to me as badly as when Cheevy carried me from the river.

Hands on my knees, I take several panting breaths before approaching the corpse, stepping around wet grasses to retrieve my blades.

Soft, damp soil clings to my soles. The stench of it gags me.

Fucking disgusting.

Crinkling my nose, I wiggle my weapons free of the monster’s thick, deformed skin then carve the number seventy-nine into his palm—Sarvenna wasn’t my kill after all.

It was Cheevy’s. Amethyst blood slicks the blades.

I wipe them on my sopping leather shorts before re-sheathing them in my bandoliers.

“Arden?” Cheevy and Chest Wound appear beside me, apparently unable to take directions. “Are you alright?” Cheevy asks.

“Of course I am. Why—”

I glance down and see that glossy, patchy rash has spread.

My entire body shines like it’s made of marble.

I brush my fingertips against it and wince.

“Lavender,” I say, extending my palm. Cheevy doesn’t object.

He passes the vial to me, and I swallow down three more drops of that soapy, floral goo.

It’s not enough. I know that already, but I can’t risk anything more.

“Are we close to the vent?” I ask Chest Wound, stashing the rest of the vial into my pocket.

He nods. “It’s just around those trees. That’s probably why they stationed the guard here.”

Taking the lead, Chest Wound weaves us through a worn dirt path—easy to miss if someone didn’t know to look for it.

He stops over a patch of grasses and swipes at the nearby ground, clearing it of twiggy underbrush and fallen leaf litter.

A shimmering silver net appears, staked to the dirt in a half dozen places.

I sit beside him and unsheathe a dagger strapped to my thigh, then saw through the netting. It’s thicker than it looks and impossible to break through via hands alone. A perfect safeguard to keep the slaves in their place.

“Go-bag?” I glance to Chest Wound, but he doesn’t have it. Peering behind me, I find Cheevy staring at us with his lips pursed, his forehead crinkled with worry lines. “Go-bag. Now.”

Slipping it from his shoulder, he sets it in the grass beside us. “Do you remember where you’re going?” he asks.

“I’ve memorized the maps.” A lump of emotion wedges in my throat, but I swallow it back down.

I will not die here tonight. I will not get caught.

These assholes’ faces won’t be the last ones I see.

But what if they are? Doubt creeps in, but I square my shoulders and steel my jaw.

Soldiers who panic die, and that isn’t me.

“Do you remember where the rendezvous point is?” Cheevy asks.

I nod. “At that spot by the river.”

Cheevy lowers himself to the forest floor and cups my shoulder.

There’s a comradery here I’ve never seen before—not with him.

And it makes my eyes burn. He reaches into a sheathe at his thigh and pulls out a small, rusty dagger— mine .

It’s banged up, the dull and dented edges magnified in the moonlight, all but useless for a mission like this.

“For luck. Even if you don’t use it, it’s never let you down. ”

He places the familiar, shoddy hilt in my hand and curls my fingers around it.

Then, he repeats the exact same words the spotter said to me all those years ago—words I told him once when I first joined the squad.

“Don’t let yourself get taken. If you can’t get out .

. . don’t let those assholes have you, Arden. ”

There’s no animosity there—not like there was with the Lok’owe Tribe. Just pity.

I refuse to meet his gaze, though my heart twists at the weight of the dagger against my scarred palm. If I can’t escape, both he and the spotter are right. It’s better to end things by my hand than let Lyrick or his father find me. But I’m not thinking about that because failure isn’t an option.

“Once the bombs go off, the Butchers stationed here will be too distracted to see me slipping away,” I say, sheathing the dagger in one of my bandoliers. “I’ll be fine.”

I roll onto my stomach and stare into the dark, unlit tunnel that stretches far into the ground.

The opening is narrow, but I’ve climbed through worse.

Ignoring Cheevy and Chest Wound, I crawl forward, brain throbbing, breaths rapid.

My sensitive skin stings as it rubs against the itchy grass like I have the world’s worst sunburn.

This is not how I envisioned things.

I debate the validity of sending my go-bag in first. From Chest Wound’s blueprints, I know the tunnel runs at a mostly acute angle. So, it’s not in danger of any hard drops. But I also dislike the idea of not being able to see what’s in front of me. Then again—

Fuck it. My temples hurt too much for higher-level thought. I’ll make it work.

I shove the go-bag into the hole.

“See you on the other side,” I say. And then I plunge face-first into darkness.