Page 60 of They Call Me Blue

“Verncats domesticated themselves. Following the Great Takeover, they began lingering outside our cities—likely lured by the scent of cooked elves and animal feed. Social by nature, their species developed a close bond with our Hunters, who have since utilized them for a variety of purposes, including elf trapping. While elgrew have always struggled to follow our prey into the canopy, verncats possess no such limitations. Equipped with sharp claws built for tree-climbing, they are largely responsible for the success of our hunts.”

—Modern Hunting: Chapter Seven, A Hunter’s Greatest Tool

I barely remember exiting the arena. I don’t remember how Brawler got into my lap, my arms pulled tight around her waist.

On top of a parade float, our Ring Day champion sits not as a fighter, but as my myrie, dressed in low-rise harem pants with a brassy chain-mail corset that exposes everything.

The victor’s crown glitters atop her shaved head—mocking her while simultaneously reminding every elf in the city that even their most powerful fighters can be laid low.

It’s the exact reason Azerin picked her.

And for once, I don’t care.

My father can have his machinations, as long as I don’t have to think about them.

Reaching between Brawler’s teeth, I pluck the blunt from her glossy purple lips and take a long draw.

The floral fumes burn my nostrils. The sweet smoke rolls over my tongue.

Eyes heavy, I slump in the gilded throne we’re sitting on and inhale again, feeling the sweet relief of brain cells departing my body.

Hug-like warmth floods my veins, and the tension in my muscles eases, turning my bones liquid.

I can’t feel my injuries anymore—not the bruises, or metal splinters, or the still-healing wrist that’s no longer in its sling.

Lavender’s taken all the pain away. My greatest regret in life is not seeking Ryla sooner.

Fuck ya’esen; this stuff is so much stronger.

I pull Brawler close and nuzzle into her neck, putting on a show for Kariss’s peasants.

The spectators whoop as I lick a trail up her throat, lapping at the lavender oil Ryla so kindly lathered there.

Brawler’s body is slick with it, and the fumes are more than strong enough to keep us both complacent.

Mouth salivating, I moan at the salty sweetness of her skin, at the thump-thump of her steady pulse. She stiffens against me but doesn’t struggle when I press my lips to her carotid artery. I can do whatever I want to her and none of these assholes would care.

Venom floods my mouth, but I yank my head away before I accidentally bite down.

She’s a rental—not for keeps. Biting her means Claiming her, and Claiming her means keeping her long after the pregnancy ends.

While my father would gladly pay the wholesale cost, it’s not something I’m keen on, even high as I am.

Besides, there’s only one elf I care to own—and it’s not her.

Staving off my instincts, I set my sights on the crowd instead.

Gray and purple elgrew amass in the Butcher’s Block, roaring as we pass, nudging and shoving at one another to get a closer look at our procession.

On either side of the congested roadway, elves stand in multistory metal cages that are as large as buildings— daycare centers, my father calls them.

They’re free to the purples who can’t afford a proper observation facility for their pets.

Thousands of dirty elven faces smush up against the centers’ rusty iron bars—all of them crammed together so tightly, there’s no space to turn, let alone sit. Black-aproned Butchers pace beside the cages, smacking canes against the bars any time a pet tries to speak.

The clanging of metal is constant.

When we’re gone, dozens of elves will no doubt be pulled out and whipped for their transgressions. Repeat offenders might lose their tongues, same as Fenris.

Talin always hated here the most—where the abuse is most prominent. It’s hard to disagree, though the lavender makes it a bit easier. It’s not my caste, not my problem. This is Sorso’s territory, and nothing I can say or do will ever make a difference here.

“Congratulations on the match,” a purple boy says, forcing my gaze away from those eyesore cages. He stumbles up to the float, a yellow coneflower in hand. Dressed in Butcher’s black, the boy is barely old enough to be an apprentice, but not old enough to despise me. Yet.

The oxen pulling Brawler and I move at a slow crawl. Still, he struggles to keep pace.

“I hope I can fight as good as you someday,” the boy wheezes. “Both of you.” Warts cover his bulbous nose and a pulsing tumor grows from the side of his neck. He may not survive long enough to become one of those assholes manning the daycare centers. Or he might outlive them all. It’s hard to tell.

Beaming up at us, the boy sets the flower down at our feet, then disappears into the crowd.

We turn a corner, exiting the last parts of the Butcher’s Block, where an adult elgrew replaces him, this one wearing dull leather armor that’s fraying at the seams. His skin is mottled gray, and when he smiles, he exposes several shattered and missing front teeth.

“It will be an honor to hunt with you,” he says to me, depositing a wreath made of white ivy.

The man withdraws a blade from his belt and slashes it across his palm, sending purple blood beading to the surface.

He places his wounded hand over his heart and recites the motto we all learn as children.

“Hunters do not bow. We bleed.” Then he leans in close.

“Talin was a good friend of mine. It’s time everyone learned the truth. ”

“What truth?” I ask.

A throng of people shove the Hunter aside before he can answer. I blink and then he’s gone, replaced by an endless stream of visitors who either congratulate us on our matches or make crude remarks about what it’ll be like to have Brawler in my bed.

It’s probably nothing.

I shrug the man’s words off and take another draw from my blunt.

Then offer it back to Brawler, who inhales as well.

She doesn’t acknowledge any of the elgrew who greet us, but her pointed ears twitch to let me know she’s listening.

And that simply won’t do. If she’s sober enough to listen, then she’s sober enough to remember, and I don’t want her remembering any of this abject humiliation.

By the time we near the city’s outer walls, the flowers on our float are inches deep and we’ve smoked the blunt to near termination.

Head reeling, I hear the crowd’s words meld into gibberish.

If I concentrate hard enough, I can keep a straight face and nod along like I care what they’re saying, but I’m not concentrating.

I’m imagining Arden in my lap. That it’s her body, not Brawler’s, that’s sluggish and warm from lavender oil. That it’s her arousal I can smell.

I’m too far gone to be ashamed that I want her. The only thing keeping me on this float, and not rushing into the godsdamned jungle, are the morals Talin ingrained into me. But they’re hanging by a thread.

As our float exits the portcullis, my pit organs open and I scan the trees for her on instinct.

The silhouettes of light gray trees and a dozen parade floats come into focus, followed by the glowing auras of the elgrew that surround us.

I revert to sight—disappointed but not surprised.

At least the crowd has dissipated. Out here, anyone with purple skin has vanished—all the Butchers and their children and any of the lower-class Bracers, Trainers, and illegitimates—leaving only the elite.

Even the elgrew guiding our oxen are gray.

Orangeleaf canopy blots out the moonlight, casting the blue pathway into shadow.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and white smoke climbs into the sky, carrying with it the stench of savory meats and cooking oils.

At Azerin’s estate, dozens of food carts will be setting up for the event—hundreds of pleasure slaves too.

Everyone important in Kariss is expected to attend, and my father has spared no expense.

He’s the best showman in the city. I just wish I weren’t the main act.

I take one last draw from the blunt then flick it into the forest. The fiery-orange cherry vanishes behind tall grasses before fizzling out.

Rhythmic drumbeats reverberate through the air, pounding through my blood as we near the last stretch between Kariss and the estate.

Somewhere to my left, the grasses rustle, and a moment later Prowler emerges, bounding onto the float, knocking off dozens of flowers in the process.

Brawler curls in on me like I’m her fucking protector, not her soon-to-be rapist, and I sigh in frustration.

“Sit.” I point to the float, and Prowler meows at me, brushing up against mine and Brawler’s calves. The elf trembles so hard, it shakes the armrest. I stroke her back until she settles, soothing her the way I’d soothe a frightened animal because that’s all she is—a frightened animal.

“I said, sit.” I snap at my verncat, but the beast meows louder, nudges harder.

His saberteeth clack against the throne, and Brawler digs her sharp fingernails into my forearm.

She opens her mouth, closes it, then tugs on my swamp-dog tunic instead.

At the same time, Prowler drools onto her harem pants.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Message-fucking-received. I’m getting up.”

Groaning, I pry Brawler’s fingers off me one at a time and stand from the throne, knocking her on her ass.

She tumbles into the pile of soft flowers, and I step over her before jumping off the cart.

Engaging with Prowler only encourages his inappropriate behavior, but I’ve had terrified elves piss on me before and I have no interest in repeating the experience.

Prowler leaps after me and headbutts my stomach, almost knocking me over. The elgrew guiding our oxen peer over their shoulders, but I wave them on. “We’ll catch up. Send for someone to watch the elf.”

“What do you want?” I ask, growling at him.

On his haunches, he meows at me and turns his head toward the forest.

“I don’t have time for a hunt,” I say.

His golden eyes blink. He jerks his head again and taps me with his muzzle.

“Fine.” I rub my temples, my vision whirling as I stumble off in that general direction.

Twigs snap beneath my military boots. Orange grasses swat at my stomach, obscuring my surroundings.

For a moment, I half-forget why I’m trudging through the forest, when Prowler pushes me again and meows into the back of my knee . Annoying little ass—

And then I see it.

Half-hidden by the bramble, a purple elgrew boy lies belly up beside a tree.

My cat slinks toward him and nudges his hand, but the guard-in-training doesn’t move.

From this angle, I can’t see his glassy eyes, nor the purple blood that would no doubt blend into his black Butcher’s apron.

But I feel it in my bones. The boy is dead.

When Prowler steps away, the child’s hand flips. Carved into his flesh is the number seventy-nine. And there’s only one elf who marks her kills.

Arden. She’s here.