Page 61 of They Call Me Blue

“Upon reaching their Age of Majority, an elf’s body is inundated with sex hormones, leading to hypersexuality that can last for months or even years. Little can be done to minimize the effect. Thank Marr an elf cannot be impregnated without rowan berries.”

—Anya of the Drift, Healer of the Selenquin Tribe

S omething sweet and floral coats my tongue.

I come to with a vial in one hand and a knife in the other, with no recollection as to how either got there.

Lowered onto all fours, I’ve wedged the blade between my hip bone and waistband, which is several inches too tight—the inseam digging painfully into my crotch.

I finish what I apparently started, dropping the vial so I can saw myself free.

The glass clinks as it hits the floor and rolls away, but I pay it no heed, slicing loose the sweat-soaked fabric from my upper thighs.

A hide breastwrap constricts my chest in an equally unpleasant way, so I cut myself out of that as well, throwing both it and the shorts into a shallow pool of icy water.

Marr-damn, the relief is instantaneous.

Sighing, I stare down at the pair of bandoliers that lay beneath me on the gritty sandstone—the straps severed in half, a dozen or more daggers gleaming in the room’s dim blue light. I must’ve rid myself of them earlier.

A quick scan of my body shows dark lines cut into my shoulders, ribcage, and abdominals—some of them deep enough to draw blood.

I check myself for other injuries, trying to conjure up memories of where I am, who I am, but the answers remain elusive.

Dried blood flakes off my earlobes and even more runs down my nose, but neither hurt.

Aside from a low-grade headache, I’m not in any pain at all.

My gaze snaps back to the vial of clear liquid— no, oil —now lying next to my discarded clothing.

Medicine? A painkiller?

Whatever it is, it’s nearly full.

I ignore the dull pin pricks behind my eyes and crawl to it, scooping the vial into my hands. When I shake the container, viscous oil clings to its sides, but it doesn’t elicit any new memories. So I keep scanning, assessing, searching for answers.

Azure light flickers all around me; I’m not in a room, but a cave.

Metallic blue dust sparkles in the nearby distance, down a darkened tunnel where a go-bag lies discarded in the center of the walkway.

My bag , I realize. With a grunt, I force myself to my feet and stumble toward it.

And that dull pricking in my skull becomes a steady throb.

With each step, my legs wobble beneath me like a freshly birthed calf and I have to brace myself against the jagged stone walls to keep from falling.

Everything feels . . . strange. Wrong. Soft feminine curves frame a pair of too-long legs that make my gait awkward and clumsy.

Unbound hair brushes against the tips of my breasts, which are abnormally heavy and ache at their peaks.

And my pussy . . . I refuse to acknowledge how swollen and puffy it looks, how it throbs, not with pain but with need .

Atop my go-bag lies a set of blueprints with red ink scribbled across them. Sloppy handwriting— my handwriting —overlays images of scratched out tunnels and air pockets with the words “this map isn’t accurate, use your sezin” written in bold.

My sezin?

My sezin.

I wiggle my ears and they pop, the inner bone vibrating to life.

Water drip-plinks down the hallway, condensing on the ceiling before hitting the stony floor.

Somewhere much deeper and to my right, a heavy current slams against a stone barrier, threatening to burst my eardrums. I cut the sezin off before the noise can deafen me, but not before my once manageable headache intensifies into what might as well be a javelin spearing my frontal lobe.

More painkiller. Now!

Returning to my earlier spot, I retrieve the vial and down a quarter of it. That pain dulls to nothing, but the ache between my thighs grows worse. I ignore it, snatching up my bandoliers and blades and swinging them ‘round my shoulders, holding onto the vial in my clenched fist.

I’m here for a reason, I think.

Something about a lake? A dam?

Something involving that stone barrier that must be almost a mile away.

Scooping up my go-bag, I proceed down the darkened hallway, sparsely lit by glowfly lanterns strung up on either side.

My vision blurs with liquid as I near a mining cart full of blue metallic ore.

I blink the liquid away, but not before more replaces it then spills down my nose.

Sniffling, I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and it comes back not wet with tears or snot, but bloody.

The closer I get to the cart, the more my nostrils and tear ducts gush and the more my vision blurs. I pinch the bridge of my nose as blood drains into my throat, choking me on its tangy, metallic taste. But I don’t slow.

A sense of urgency propels me farther, allowing me to push everything aside and focus on the mission. Even though I can’t remember what that mission is—just that I need to hurry.

The farther I travel, the more ore appears in the walls in front of me, jutting out in a way I’m forced to touch them.

Zinging pain shoots through my nerve endings, frying them like a bolt of lightning.

I take another swig of oil— lavender oil, I remember now—but even it isn’t enough to abate the spasms rocking through my arms and legs, turning them to gelatin.

Blue dust glimmers in the air around me, making it hazy and thick. Each breath splinters my lungs until I’m coughing up blood onto the sandstone floor.

With a gasp, I fall to all fours and drain what little remains of that vial.

The sickly-sweet taste of the lavender oil is missing this time, drowned out by the thick tang of my blood.

I swipe the sweat-soaked hair from the back of my fevered neck and try to think beyond the pain, the crippling headache.

The vial slips from my hand and rolls across the floor, hitting a jagged wall. And suddenly I can’t remember what was in it.

Where am I?

Who am I?

What the fuck am I doing here?

Absolutely nothing comes to mind.

My arms and legs give out—elbows and knees smashing into rough stone.

But I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything past the tingling between my thighs.

My eyes snap shut. My vision shifts. And then I’m somewhere else, seeing the world through someone else’s eyes as they elbow their way through a crowded garden.

Elves writhe in front of me, grinding up against each other, dancing to a heavy drumbeat.

Some of them wear formal clothing, and others dress in combat gear; nearly a fifth wear nothing at all.

All around me, flames flicker from at least a dozen firepits, casting their spindly silhouettes across canvas tents and food carts.

Pleasured cries fill the muggy air, and I watch in morbid fascination as a male elf in hunting leathers slips his hands between a naked female’s thighs.

She parts her legs for him, granting him easier access, and I cup my own pussy in return, grinding my palm into something small and achy—that little bundle of nerves adult females have that makes sex pleasurable.

The woman throws her head back as he pumps her, and I do too, a fire burning inside me until it feels like I might combust.

Another elf—a woman in a glittering teal suit—shoves a naked man to his knees and unhooks her pants, shimmying them down her thighs. She tugs his face to her crotch then bucks into his mouth, the grasses crumpling around them. He grunts beneath her, hugging her knees for support as he licks her.

Similar scenes seem to stretch out for infinity. Everywhere is a sea of debauchery that I can’t stop watching. And the more I watch, the hotter I burn. The tension in my lower stomach coils tighter and tighter, driving me toward the edge of something that I can’t quite reach.

Farther into the garden, I— he —walks. On a bed inside one of the tents, two suited men pin a woman between them—one rutting into her throat, the other between her thighs.

Tears and kohl stream down her cheeks. The bed squeaks from the force of their thrusting.

And I’m acutely aware of how empty I am—how much I crave not to be .

. . until one of the men smiles, exposing his sharp, serrated teeth.

Not men— elgrew .

In the darkness, their silver threads are all but invisible.

But now that I’m looking for it, I can see the edges of their patchwork skin shimmering in the firelight.

All the naked ones are pleasure slaves, and all the dressed ones, their masters.

Bile rises to the back of my throat, my hand jerking free of my clit like I burned it on a stove.

The moisture pooling between my thighs quickly dries up, replaced by guilt that I’d been pleasuring myself to that.

With concentration, I yank myself free of the vision and return to my spot on the floor. For one brief moment, I remember exactly why I’m here—to destroy their cold-iron production, to stop any more elves from ending up exactly like those ones.

Nirissa. Me. Giara. Fenris.

I can’t save the ones in Kariss, but I can save the ones back home.

An unfamiliar bag lies beside me, and a set of daggered bandoliers drapes atop it—a rusty dagger standing out amongst the other, more uniform blades.

Peering over my shoulder, I see a hallway where the dust isn’t quite so thick and the ore isn’t quite so dominant.

In front of me, it continues in a curtain.

Every instinct begs me to turn back, but I’ve come too far, and I won’t stop now.

I’m almost there—wherever there is. I give the safer tunnel a longing glance before tossing the duffle around my shoulders and neck, crawling forward one hand, one foot at a time.

It’s too hard to see past the blood draining down my eyes and nose, so I rely on feeling alone.

Wet rock scrapes against my raw and bloodied knees.

Grit and metal shards dig into my palms.

The deeper I go, the wetter and sharper the ground gets, until I’m splashing through a thin film of icy blue-green water.

Even without my sezin, the roar of an unseen current grows painfully loud, whooshing through my bloodied ears.

Sharp ringing pierces my skull, and I follow the pain, letting it guide me where I need to go—to a room made entirely of cold iron.

To an underground dam that keeps the Aegis River from reaching the mines, creating the turquoise lake on Azerin’s estate. Because that’s why I’m here.

To plant bombs.

To collapse the tunnels beneath his property.

Brain fog threatens to return, but I shake it away, then wipe the blood draining down my tear ducts, and crawl to the stone dam that’s keeping this place intact.

Mortar infused with blue dust forms a thick line between each pink sandstone brick; if I touch it, it’ll be no different from touching the ore.

Careful not to, I toss the go-bag from my neck and fumble past buckles and straps to reach the folded wad of animal furs at the bottom.

Children’s clothing, first-aid supplies, and a jar of survival glue —a sticky black substance made from boiled orangeleaf resin and charcoal—spills out onto the floor.

My fingers curl around the soft furs, gently unfurling them to expose the modified firecaps inside.

Long silver strings have been glued to the pull tabs, then wrapped around a thick spool that will allow me to pull and detonate them from afar.

Through teary, bloody eyes, I pop open my jar of survival glue, then dunk my fingers into the sticky, gummy mix, slathering it onto the caps.

Crawling parallel to the dam, I check for weak points—cracks in the foundation—that I can stick the bombs to.

Something warm and tingly tugs on my palm. Lyrick.

A pit of dread settles in my gut.

He’s here. He’s coming for me. And if he catches me, I could very well be one of those elves in the garden, forced to pleasure him, his father, and all the elves in Kariss until they’ve bred me with half the city. But that’s not going to happen; I’d sooner die.

Gritting my teeth, I slap the glue then firecaps onto Azerin’s dam.

As I search for an exit, I grab the strings that dangle from the bombs’ pull tabs, unspooling them a little bit more with each step.

There are no air ducts in sight—just the surface entrance Butchers use to service the dam’s pumps.

If I escape through that, I’m caught. If I stay in the tunnels—gods know how long it’ll be until the lavender oil stops helping and my brain turns to mush.

I’m fucked.

“I own you.” Lyrick’s words echo in my head. I can still taste his lips on mine—and damn it all, thanks to the lavender oil, my stomach flutters at the memory. The only thing worse than being trapped in that garden would be my traitorous body wanting to be there.

In the corner of my eye, I spot my discarded bandoliers—my favorite rusty dagger amongst them. If I can’t escape . . . well, I won’t let myself get caught. I unsheathe it, ready to end it all if it comes to that, and toss the rest of the blades into my bag.

Then, I find the cold-iron elevator leading to the surface and step inside.