Chapter One: Smoke and Mirrors

The melody of an ancient song stuck in the dry throats of the workers, the words as long-forgotten and dusty as the people who once inhabited these mountains. But the hum of the tune and the rhythmic clink of the mallet against the wedge rose from the quarry's depths to the stone-walled academy like a heartbeat, always in the background, never stopping or slowing, against a marble-blue sky.

Artemis saw me leaning against the window-frame and idled over, her hips swinging from side to side, a cig stuck between two pointed, tattooed fingers. She raised her eyebrows and blew pink smoke into my face.

"What?" I crossed my arms and shook my head at her.

"You're doing it again."

"What?"

She flipped the cigarette out the window, and we both watched as it tumbled, still smoking, past the walls of the academy and past the walls of the cliffs, and into the throngs of shirtless men who slaved away below. "You're thinking." She gave me a wry smile. "What have I told you about thinking, Drafton?" She drew out a box from her pants pocket and proceeded to pull another cigarette out of it.

I felt around in my pocket for a lighter when she indicated that she needed one, but I had none. "You know I don't smoke, Artie."

She sighed and leaned both elbows on the thick window ledge, peering over the edge. Her voice shrilled an octave higher as she shrieked, "Cato! I need a light!"

You could always tell when Cato was coming. His big feet stomped up the stairs and the whole building would shake. At this particular moment, as Cato moved from the quarry to the outdoor stairs of the academy and began to climb them, Artie had to cling on to the window to keep from falling, and she dropped her cigarette.

She sighed in annoyance. "Two hours until the Reaping and I can't even have a cig for my nerves."

"Why are you nervous?"

She reached for another cigarette with a wry smile. As she leaned over, her shirt slipped over her shoulder and revealed a sleeve of colorful ink patterns.

A new one stuck out to me. It was a pink rose with lavender flowers growing around it. Artie saw that I saw and her fierce eyes met mine, her crystal corneas daring me to say something.

I thought of many things I could say, but nothing particularly good came to mind, so I kept quiet. When Cato arrived, my muteness had saved the silence between Artie and me of its fraughtest tension.

"Here," he said gruffly, shoving a black lighter in Artie's face as she put her cigarette to her lips and inhaled. We were silent for a moment, listening to the pound, pound, pounding of the masons.

Then I said the thing that everyone was thinking, but wasn't allowed to think.

"Are you guys nervous?" I cocked my head at Artie. "Are you really nervous?"

Cato ran a big hand across the smooth windowsill, quiet for a second. Then he laughed. "Nervous? Are you kidding? I've been training since I was ten. I'm going to volunteer. And I'm gonna win, too."

"Of course, you are." Artie rolled her big, blue eyes and took a long drag on her cig. "You do what everyone always expects of you."

"Well," Cato shrugged. "I don't have anything to lose."

"What about your family?" I crossed my arms over my chest.

"What about them?" His face morphed into a sneer, but it was superficial. "I'm not like you guys. I actually listen to the teachers."

"Pride to the district, and all that." I shrugged. "It's superficial, Cato. You know that."

"Well, it's not like you'd win." He shook his head, puffing out his chest.

"Why not?" Artie interjected. "Drafton's just as strong as you, and he fights better."

I shook my head. "No, he's right. I think too much. I'd overanalyze everything. It's my weakest point."

Just then, movement on the stairs knocked us out of our contemplations. Dexter appeared on the top step, out of breath, her slight build shaking. "Artie, I need you. It's Lavender." Her hair was falling out of its standard ponytail, and she was almost in tears. "In the girls' latrines."

Artie dropped her cigarette on the floor and smashed it with her leather boot as she raced toward the stairs, her hair flying behind her.

I locked eyes with Cato when Artie had disappeared. "It's Clove again, I'd bet you anything."

He shook his head. "Damn, girl can't leave well enough alone."

We trailed behind Artie, dreading what we would find in the girls' latrines. We could hear Lavender's wail before we could even see the room, and when we arrived, we stood outside and listened for a bit, both wondering if we should go in and help or stay out of it. Trace bits of conversation melted through the stone walls:

"Bad…bad…I am…bad…not smart…"

"No, no, Lavie." Dexter's voice crooned, and I could almost see her stroking the younger girl's hair. "You're not bad, she is. She should never do this to you."

And then Artie, in that tone that she reserved only for her younger sister, began to speak in words I understood, but phrases I didn't. She talked about things only Lavender would understand, from Lav's inner world, about magic and unicorns and things that didn't exist in our world, or any. And the cries began to subside.

Dexter emerged from the bathroom, her hands covered in blood. She sniffed and wiped her nose, smearing a red streak across her petite features.

Cato sighed. "What happened this time?"

She came to us, holding her hands out so as not to drip blood on her clothes. "It was awful." She shook her head. "Clove was taunting her as she was trying to, well, you know, go. And then, when Lavie didn't understand what she was saying…" Dexter's eyes welled up with tears, "…Clove took a knife out of her belt and cut her face. Said something about how poor Lav was a disgrace to the district." She balled her tiny hands into fists. "I hate that girl so much, if I was twice the size I am, I'd…I'd…" She scrunched her face up in anger.

"Fifteen years old, Dexter." Cato said quietly. "Lavender is fifteen. How much longer can we protect her?"

"Someone has to." I hadn't realized I'd been chewing my lip until I tasted blood in my mouth. "What if…what if Artie isn't always…here?"

Cato put a wide palm against the stone, quiet for a minute before muttering to himself, "God, I hate this place. I'm so tired of rocks."

"Lavender would never survive." I pointed out. "It's a miracle we've been able to keep her alive this long. Especially here."

The academy, with its claustrophobic grey walls and its precarious position perched above the depths of Quarry Number 13, was known for its "accidents". There was Icarus, who'd lost a fight with the headmaster and had fallen to his death an hour later. There was Petal, who refused to fight and had locked herself in the library one Weapons period during fifth year. The next day, when the doors were finally opened to the students, she'd been found slumped over her pile of books, ashen and cold. A gas leak, they said. It wasn't.

And then there was Perfect, the worst of all. Even four years later, I cringe whenever I think of Perfect. She was the sweetest little person, with slanted eyes that crinkled when she laughed and tiny rosebud lips that never uttered an unkind word. She was…different. I had befriended her during first year because she was picked on by the bigger kids, and I'd taken her under my wing. I'd studied her condition. She'd been born with an extra chromosome. Ancient doctors had called it Down Syndrome, although I never did figure out who Down was. I thought I'd be able to keep her safe. But then sixth year exams came, and she failed every single one. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not. I know that she was smart enough to pass. Sometimes I couldn't figure her out.

She didn't meet me for our study plans that afternoon. When I went to look for her, I found her body in the garden, surrounded by the genetically altered flowers that the Peacekeepers planted for our enjoyment.

In grief counseling, they told me she'd died of a heart attack. That she'd had health problems because of her condition. But I knew that everyone had to pass sixth year exams, the same as twelfth year exams. I didn't know what happened if you didn't pass.

Until then.

As if reading my mind, Cato said reassuringly, "Lavender passed sixth year exams. She'll be fine."

"She can't fight." I said. "She's too slow." I made a slow-motion sword-slashing wave with my hand. "No reflexes."

"If she gets called, Artie'll volunteer." He patted me on the back. "Cheer up, it's exciting times."

I couldn't tell if his tone was sarcastic or not.

Dexter appeared in the bathroom door. "Come on, the Reaping's in an hour. We'd better get ready." She moved to walk down the corridor to the dormitories.

"Hey," I grabbed her hand as she passed. "You have blood on your face."

"Good." She pulled at my hand but stilled when I didn't let go. "Maybe it'll make me look fierce."

I reached out and wiped it away with my fingers. "Dex…"

She drew her hand out of my grasp and met my eyes. "We'll talk later, ok?" And she shook her head, then walked away down the hall.

Cato grinned suddenly, a strange smile that warped his features. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "You'd better tell her how you feel soon, bro."

I exhaled. "Why?"

"Because," he said. "I have a feeling that shit's about to go down."