Page 62 of They Call Me Blue

“To wood nymphs, losing one’s mate was a fate worse than death. To kill them was unthinkable. Elgrew are not entirely dissimilar in this way. Euthanizing Orella changed Azerin forever. When we were young, he, Talin, and I used to dream of a better world. Now I fear he dreams of nothing at all.”

—Yaklan of Kariss, Karesai of Stitchers

Classified and Personal Journal

O pening my pit organs, I push through the crowded garden and scan for Arden’s silhouette.

Killing her is the morally responsible thing to do— I know that —yet I chafe against the decision.

It doesn’t matter that I want her, that I’ve saved her once before.

She’s murdering children now—a line I’d never cross.

Stabbing that elgrew boy from behind, carving numbers into his flesh, those are the actions of a coward and a sadist. A rabid animal who needs to be put down.

As her owner, it’s my job to stop her, desires be damned.

So, I’ll hunt her like I planned, eat her like I planned, and be rid of this pesky bond once and for all.

Mate . It’s just a word, and I’m a godsdamned force of nature.

I growl in frustration, the sound lost amongst the ground-vibrating drumbeats and sloppy sex noises now filling the garden.

She isn’t here. Given the crowd size and lack of tree cover, I didn’t think she would be, but it’s still annoying.

I’ve already paced the ramparts and peered into the forest. I’ve checked the perimeter, the lake, and a dozen other hiding spots in the blueleaf canopy, but her iridescent silhouette is nowhere in sight.

It’s hard enough tracking someone while sober.

Doing it while high is fucking impossible.

“Why are you here?” I hiss, staring at my palm and willing her to hear me. There’s no response.

What could she hope to gain from this?

Sneaking onto my father’s property is the single stupidest thing an elf could do, especially on a night like tonight. With over ten-thousand armed elgrew in attendance, there’s no chance of escape. She should fucking hope I catch her first. I’ll eat her; Azerin will do much worse.

“Where are you?”

Still no answer.

Prowler slinks behind me through rows of white bellflowers that jingle when his orange fur brushes up against them.

The crowd gives him a wide berth, guiding their pleasure slaves and dance partners away from his massive, muscular body.

His tail flicks from side to side, nostrils flaring as my beast tries and fails to track her scent again.

It’s not his fault. Wood smoke and cooking meats congest the air around us.

Colette’s brought all her best and most expensive pleasure slaves to the party, and they reek of vanilla, cinnamon, fruits, and a dozen other overpowering sweet things.

Then there’s the sex itself. Musky arousal, soury blood, semen, and lubricant—it’s an assault on my own nostrils, so I can’t imagine what it must be like for him.

In the forest, finding elves is easy. Their smells, sounds, footprints, and fallen leaf patterns are traceable.

Predictable. But here, the ground is well trodden, the smells and sounds are a headache-inducing nightmare, and now that I’m a Karesai and everyone’s heat signatures look unique, it’s challenging to weed through their flickering auras.

Overwhelmed by the coloration, I shut my pit organs for the dozenth time and return to eyesight alone.

The crescent moon hangs high in the sky, half-hidden by heavy rain clouds, puffy and threatening to burst. It’s almost time for the breeding ceremony and I’m still no closer to finding her. So. Godsdamned. Frustrating.

“Lyrick?” Fingers coil around my shoulder, and I resist the urge to recoil. “Why are you here? You should be with Brawler.”

Ryla steps in my path and gestures to the estate.

Near the entryway, all the Ring Day competitors stand in a single-file line—flowers, wreaths, and other tokens piled high around them.

Naked, they look no different from the pleasure slaves save for the added bruises and cuts that mar their skin.

A combination of Bracers and Butchers pace the area behind them, wielding cleavers and whips, ready to put them in their place if they act out.

Brawler is the only one who’s clothed—seated on the gleaming bronze throne I left her in.

Gray elgrew dressed in fighting leathers take turns greeting the competitors—although greeting might be too generous a term.

They make circles around them, taking measurements of various body parts, opening their mouths to examine their teeth, poking and prodding at tender nerve endings while timing their reflexes on dangling pocket watches.

Some of the elgrew might be looking to own them, others to eat them, but most will be vying for a chance to wear their muscles and skin.

Because it’s easier to buy the damned things than hunt one themselves.

Useless sacks of shit. Barely better than the peasants.

The one good thing about Brawler being rented out to me, though, is that she’s not exposed to this barbarity. No one touches her; they don’t even look her way.

“I’m . . .” I try to explain my absence to Ryla, but the lavender makes it hard to conjure a suitable response. So, I pivot instead. “Do you know where Azerin is?”

She cocks her head toward the estate. “The nursery with Tyla. He wanted to check on her before the ceremony. You look tense. Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine,” I grunt, stepping out of reach. “I need to speak with him.”

Because he’s the only one with the authority to dismiss me.

Surely a security breach means I’ll have his permission to track the culprit. We can delay the ceremony . . . or cancel it altogether.

Not wanting to engage with the competitors or the elgrew fawning over them, I take the back entrance, weaving through writhing masses of flesh.

Ryla doesn’t follow. Neither does Prowler, choosing instead to track and hunt Arden on his own.

It’ll be more effective this way. Separately, we can cover more ground.

What started as erotic dancing has shifted to fucking, to Colette’s pleasure slaves being passed around to whoever wants them.

No breaks. No mercy. To their credit, most of them pretend they enjoy it—perhaps some even do—riding their patrons inside canvas tents, on plush beds Azerin imported.

Unlike the Room of Champions, none of them wear chains; there’s no need.

We’re stronger than them, faster, and they have nowhere to run.

My footfalls land clumsily. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch a Hunter bend one of the slaves over mid-dance and smack her ass, belt jingling as he frees himself.

For a moment, my mind scatters, and I imagine it’s Arden and me in their place—my cock instantly hard, pushing up against my form-fitting leathers.

Through the drugs, it’s hard to remember why it can’t be Arden and me.

She’s here. She’s mine. I just have to find her and . . .

No. I’m better than that.

Breeding Brawler is one thing. It’s necessary for my leadership—my survival. Keeping Arden as a pet and using her to pleasure me on command is altogether different. She might be a rabid animal, but she’s done nothing so evil as to warrant that.

Still, I can’t pull my eyes away from them, can’t stop wondering what her blue pussy looks like all swollen and exposed to me. And it makes me a terrible person, but fuck if I care. I send the mental image down our bond—or at least I try to—but she doesn’t respond to that either.

It takes longer than it should to reach my father’s house.

Dozens of elgrew stop me along the way, congratulating me on my position, sucking up so they’re in my good graces.

It’s annoying as fuck, but I fake a smile and pretend to listen.

All the while, my attention lingers on my palm, which burns hotter than ever before.

Opening the back door to the estate, I stumble toward the familiar steps leading to Tyla’s nursery.

Elgrew sit on couches in the parlor room, sipping ya’esen and eating curried meats.

Elves wind arms around their necks, bounce on their laps, kneel at their feet.

Besides giving the group a cursory wave, I ignore them—my goals singularly focused.

When I reach the upstairs, my sister’s nursery door is open and Azerin is holding Tyla, shushing her to sleep.

“Dad?” Water seeps over my leather boots, through the damp moss-covered floor as I cross the threshold. Relief floods through me at how fucking comfortable it is up here. No loud sounds. No unwanted scents. Even the humid air is less sticky, its moisture absorbed by the living moss.

Azerin doesn’t look at me as he sets a snoring Tyla in her crib, tucking in the sides of her dark blue baby blanket. “You should be celebrating with the others. Not up here with me.” He smooths his thumb over her patchwork cheek then spins the mobile above her crib. “Is there something you need?”

I clear my throat, not sure how to explain Arden without mentioning her by name. “I found a dead guard outside the walls. I’d like permission to track the elf who did it.”

“No,” Azerin says plainly. He crosses the room and ushers me outside. “We have people for that. Greet your new subjects and I’ll send Hunters out to look.”

“But—”

“The breeding ceremony is nonnegotiable, Lyrick. There are thousands of elgrew on the premises. If it’s still here, my people will find it. Go. Enjoy your party.”

I grind my teeth and resist the urge to remind him the Hunters are my people now. “If it’s found, I want to be the first to hear of it.”

Quietly, Azerin shuts the door and locks it, his key ring jingling as he clips it onto his belt. “Fine. Now return to your myrie. It’s uncouth to leave her alone.”