9
Chapter 1
"In peace, sons bury their fathers.
In war, fathers bury their sons. "
—Herodotus
"Are you prepared to loose, little girl?"
"Are you prepared to swallow your teeth?"
Abril stares me down across the dueling square, a sneer upon her face. She knows she beat me at the quarter match, and it makes my blood boil to know how much the Wardens favor her. And she's eighteen now—they'll definitely be betting on her to be this years tribute, just like her sister. But not this year.
Not this year.
I clench my fists until my bruised knuckles turn white. My hands are very small—all of me is. When others see me, they usually assume that I haven't even gone through puberty, much less that I am a student at Amsteel Academy, the finest training center in all of Panem. I let them think this—might as well give them a surprise when I win the games. And perhaps now is my year. It's customary for all the eighteens to compete in the Selection and go on to volunteer, and I've been training longer than any of them. Most started when they were twelve, but not I. I started when I was ten, and now here I am, two years younger and battling their strongest.
"Now this is to be a clean fight," Judah says as he steps between us. He's a trainer, the trainer of all the girls in our year, and I'm quite sure he's slept with more than one. Abril is his current whore. "No strangling, no eye-goring, no biting," he continues, "at least not while I am looking. When the bell sounds, you may commence." His eyes wander over to Abril, drifting down her curves. She winks at him, and he smiles slightly.
I hate them.
Judah steps back, leaving the few yards between my opponent and I completely open, but I feel naked without my knives. What I wouldn't give to be back in the target range during the first section of Selection, hurling blades at the moving mannequins, pretending they're… they're him. But I'm here, and the Reaping is less than twenty-four hours away.
Riiiing!
The sound of the timer pulls me back, and this time I don't charge at her. That's what all the other girls have done, and look where that got them. I'm sore and bruised from my previous fights, but I don't feel any of that now. I just see her, moving towards me with her fists drawn. The sounds of our chanting peers fade and blur, like I have just dunked my head in a bucket of water; I don't even acknowledge the eyes of the Wardens and the selected boy. Stressing will do me no good, not now.
Abril is just a couple feet away—now is the time to move. I take two steps forward and at the moment she throws her fist, I lean back. Air hits me as her knuckles just barely clear my throat. I've studied her technique since my numerous failures against her—she's the brute force type. She doesn't value tactics or cunning; she values her speed and brutality, and judging from her height and muscles, I can't blame her. She's a fucking wild cat, like the muttations in last year's games. But I know her, now—I've gotten inside that pretty, arrogant head of hers. I know her moves, I know her thoughts, I know how her pathetic little brain works. I may not be as attractive as her, but looks, contrary to so many beliefs, are not everything.
She flies past me, slamming against the ropes that border the dueling square. I can only imagine the look of bafflement on her silly face. But I don't have time to gloat—I only have a few seconds on her, just a few seconds until she regains her balance and lays me out like last month, so I leap onto her back and wind my arm round her neck in a choke hold. She doesn't buckle as quickly as I had hoped—am I really that light?—instead she twists and writhes in my grasp, her sharp, manicured nails digging into my arms. I don't give, though. I hoist myself up farther, twisting my legs round her waist to keep me elevated, and for once I am tall, taller than 5'2".
"You're a filthy little bitch," Abril hisses, arching her back and nearly dislodging me. "If I—if I had my mace-"
I tighten my grip, muffling her words. "You'd be dead, because I'd have stuck you already," is my reply before she pushes backward. We fall to the floor and I hit the matt hard, crushed beneath her lean, sharp shoulders. Then we roll, a grunting, snarling tangle of hair and eyes and bared teeth and bloody nails. She manages to get to her knees, though, and when she does she begins to slam me onto the ground repeatedly, knocking the breath from my lungs. But I just grit my teeth and press my arm against her throat as tight as I possibly can. Persevere, persevere, persevere. You're stubborn, Clove, you're stubborn—you can do this.
Soon she starts to weaken, but still she slams me and I know I can't keep this up much longer; can't volunteer with a concussion, can I? In a last ditch attempt, I reach my hand over towards her smooth brown collar, loosening my grip, feeling around until I find it. Then I jab my finger into the pressure point and Abril collapses, unconscious.
The room has gone quiet; I notice this as soon as I separate myself and stand up. I do have friends, at least companions who I socialize with occasionally, but they're not cheering for me anymore, not now—I suppose they never actually thought I'd make it.
"Well," stutters Judah, glancing between me and his current sex toy, who is still crumpled, now drooling upon the ground, "I… I don't-" he looks up at the Wardens. "Can she really be a tribute? She's only sixteen…"
"Absolutely not," Rafe, the chief Warden says. She is severe and solemn, looking down from the elevated balcony with prim distaste. "It's against regulations."
"I've trained longer than any of them!" This pours from my mouth before I can stop it. "Age means nothing!"
"You'll be slaughtered and we will have to deal with the reproductions," she counters.
"Just let her go."
This voice belongs to neither Warden Rafe nor Judah. It's familiar to me, though. I follow it to its source.
"She's trained with the eighteens and harder than a lot of them—I don't think her age makes much of a difference," Cato says. He must be the Selected for this year's Games—why else would he be with the Wardens? But why the hell is he vouching for me? We knew each other once, but that was a very long time ago; surely he's forgotten? He's grown since the last time I saw him, in both width and height. Broad shoulders, long legs, cropped, pale blonde hair; certainly not the same boy I knew from the community home, not the same boy who partially witnessed It. The thing that changed everything, changed my life, my emotions, me. But then again, I'm not that same girl either, am I?
He meets my gaze for a moment, and I'm not sure who breaks first—either way, we both duck our heads and look away almost immediately. It's inevitable, of course: we both know he fucked up and there is nothing he can ever do to go back and change what happened.
While this is taking place, Rafe narrows her eyes and exchanges murmured words between the other Wardens. My chest is tight and my heart's in my mouth and I don't know whether I want to scream or simply punch someone in the face. I do neither, though—just stand here in the center of the dueling ring, the only movement being Abril as she comes to her senses, disgruntled and petulant. The other eighteens are silent for the most part, though there are still occasional muffled comments exchanged between girls; I pay them no heed.
Finally—good God, finally—they stand and stare me down for a moment. All these eyes on me, scrutinizing me like this, makes my skin crawl a bit. I don't like being regarded as a piece of meat.
"Clove Lozier," Warden Rafe says, "do you swear to strive to bring honor to your district, even at the cost of your life?"
I nod automatically.
"Will you play by the rules and regulations of the Hunger Games and fight with valor, cleverness and veneration, despite the pain and temptations that await you as tribute?"
"Yes, Madame."
Warden Rafe presses a button and the balcony lowers itself slowly until it's at the same level as the dueling square. I approach her, as I've seen so many other girls do, and take her hand: the act of sealing my loyalty. Her fingers are slender and cold and wrinkled and I hope that she cannot see the gooseflesh crawling up my arms.
"You're ready, then?"
"I am, Madame. I've trained six years for this, and I will not dishonor your name or the name of District Two." I hope my voice sounds steadier than I feel. I don't doubt my capabilities nor do I doubt my allegiance, but there's this flicker of uncertainty now: I'm really doing this. I'm going to be killing children in a few weeks time, but this is what I've been trained to do since pre-pubescence. This is how I will claw myself out of a veritable hell, how I will validate the meaning of six years of bloody knuckles, broken noses, split lips, fractured ribs. This is how I will prove that a Lozier can win, that Lochlan didn't die for nothing.
When we're done shaking, I bow my head to the other Wardens and try not to look at Cato. Thinking of him makes me think of It, and thinking of It makes me feel weak, and if I feel weak, they might notice it in my face. Then they will see past everything that I have layered upon my surface, tear down my walls, and the eight years I've spent building them up will be confirmed to be futile. Utterly futile.
"Now," Warden Rafe says, breaking my concentration, "you may return to your chamber for fifteen minutes to gather what you will need for the Reaping. Then you and your district partner will be escorted to the Tribute Quarters, where you will spend the night before the reaping." She looks from I to Cato in a businesslike manner. "You will be awoken at eight AM and driven to the town square, where you will volunteer accordingly. I hope to see courage and fierceness from you both: make our Academy and our district proud."
The Tribute Quarters is the small apartment attached to the west wing of the academy. It's only used once a year, to keep the two volunteers separated from the rest of the student body—evidently a boy was killed in his chamber by one of his competitors twenty or thirty years ago, and thus the Quarters were erected as a precautionary measure. The competition here is cutthroat, and I'm honestly—in the back of my mind—relieved for this separation, for I can see Abril glaring at me from the peripheries of my vision. She would snap my neck in an instant if it didn't run the risk of her being expelled and beaten by the Supervisors' clubs. That's generally the punishment for excessive violence here: cracking a few ribs or breaking a bone is generally overlooked, or even smiled upon by some of the more vindictive trainers ("It's excellent practice—a good way to apply yourself!"), but the infliction of more lethal damage will inevitably lead to expulsion and, in the most vicious cases, stringent punishment. Occasionally, if the murder is brutal enough, a friend or family member of the victim is allowed to kill the perpetrator: an eye for an eye, so to speak. It's generally a public event; I've witnessed two.
The walk to my chamber is broken between congratulations from peers and scowls from opponents—Abril even goes so far as to shove me in one of the hallways, but my appointed bodyguard throws her aside as if she were a child's plaything.
"I'll cheer when you're killed," she spits after me. "But at least I'll have the satisfaction in knowing that, when you're body's shipped back in the box, there will be nobody to claim it, just like your broth-"
I spin round and punch her as hard as I've ever hit anyone before. My hand meets her nose and there is a satisfying crack, seconds before a faucet of red begins dribbling down her chin. I push her into the wall, though I have to get onto the tips of my toes to keep her there—I've got the collar of her training jacket gripped tight in my fingers.
"I should kill you," I hiss, hitting her against the paneling again. "But if I did, I'd be expelled. Say one more word about Lochlan, Abril—one more word and your teeth will be next. Come on, I dare you. Say one more word about my brother."
Her brown eyes are wide and frightened like that of a cornered animal, framed by blood and dark, glossy curls. Perhaps if she had sneered at me I would have beat her face in, anyway, but this terror, so alien and childlike, makes me balk, and I release her, step away.
"Not so tough anymore, are you?" I ask. "I hope your nose stays crooked—perhaps now Judah will find a prettier whore to play with."
She wipes the blood from her chin, the fear ebbing, replaced by umbrage and resentment, but speaks no further, and like a cat that has just been kicked, she slinks off sulkily. My bodyguard says nothing as we turn back down the hall, seemingly unperturbed by this scuffle and exchange of death threats. This, after all, if a relatively common occurrence at Amsteel.
The door shuts behind me, leaving me alone in my chamber. I glance round at the drab steel walls, the cast-iron bed frame, the small, circular window that looks out onto Amsteel's concrete courtyard and it's high walls, topped off by electrified barb wire—I'd often lay in bed and listen to the quiet hum, waiting for it to lull me to sleep. This place has been my home for six years, and yet the more I see, the more I take it in as I am doing now, the more it looks like a prison. I sit upon the hard mattress and run my hand along the sheets, looking round at the room I have slept in every night since I was selected from the community home, and I know now that I won't miss it. I can't miss something that has no character, no impression of myself—it's forbidden to customize your quarters here; uniform compliance is essential.
But we are allowed to keep a box for special things and belongings we have found and collected over the years. The idea behind this is to give us a selection of things that could potentially be our district token if the time came; for the most part, Amsteel discourages tokens that can be used as weapons, such as hidden poison or pins. We're careers, after all—we're supposed to be honorable, at least those of us from Two, and there really is no need for extra assistance; we have built-in sponsors and generally complete control over the cornucopia. Hidden weapons are silly and infantile, like a child trying to sneak candy from a store. So when I get my own box, a little cared, mahogany thing, I know exactly what I'm taking.
"Lochlan, please, please don't go there! You're too kind to be one of them!"
The boy holds the weeping girl in his arms, his nose in her hair, waiting for her to calm down. It takes awhile—desperation makes her incoherent. The boy is sixteen, the girl seven, and yet he seems so much older and she so much younger.
"I have to go," he says softly, running his gentle fingers through her tresses. "While I'm there, the Academy will send you food and other things, to support you while I'm gone. I've been selected, they want me, Clove. If I can volunteer when I'm eighteen, if I can win, we'll have a nice big house and you'll never, ever have to look at this place again. I promise."
She pulls away from him, tears pausing on her freckled cheek. "But when can I see you? You'll be training so much…"
"Once a year."
Her throat tightens and she can hardly speak. "No, no, that's not enough! Please, please don't leave me here, I need you!"
She's beginning to sob again and the boy takes her small face in his hands. They are warm and calloused, familiar. Comfort washes over her immediately.
"Everything will be all right," he tells her. "Perhaps I won't be selected for the Games—they still give us money to live off of when we graduate. Then I'll come back for you, Clove, you know I will. I always come back. That's what big brothers do—we come back." He leans forward and presses his forehead against hers, their dark hair meshing, their blue eyes just centimeters in separation. Their only difference is her freckles—she got them from her father, whoever he was. The father of her brother was a drug addict. Their common link had been severed when she was born, premature, to an alcohol-wasted prostitute, their mother. She never got to hold her crying, freckled daughter in her arms because she was already dead. But then there was Lochlan. There was always Lochlan.
Suddenly, the girl feels something being tied to her wrist, and she opens her eyes, looks down. Her brother has fastened a little twine bracelet with red beads to her wrist, his mouth pulled up in a melancholy smile. "I made it. For you." He kisses her once on her forehead, once on her nose. "To show you you're not alone. You're never, ever alone; just remember I love you and that I'm coming back soon. Clove. Clove, listen to me—listen to me. I'll come back for you. I will. Don't cry."
"Come on, we don't have all day," one of the Scouters says, re-entering the hallway where they were saying goodbye.
The boy stands up but his sister clings to him, wrapping her thin arms round his waist. "Don't go, Lochlan, don't go, don't go, I love you! I love you, don't go, don't leave me here alone—I need you! You're all I have!"
He bends down and pulls her into a tight embrace, so tight that it hurts, but she never wants him to let go. She clutches the flannel of his shirt tight in her hands, frantic, distressed—of all the people in the world, why did it have to be him, the only person she had ever loved, the only person that she could not imagine living without?
Cold panic grips her as he starts to move away from her—no, no, no, no! She says it over and over again, but he squirms loose of her, taking her face, kissing her, telling her to be strong and clever. But now he is leaving, going away, and one of the home's staff is holding her back as she watches her beloved brother walk out the door. A few moments pass but she finally breaks free and tears down the hallway, into the front yard of the building. As she presses her smudged, puffy face against the wrought-iron gates, she can see him climbing into the automobile.
"Lochlan!" she screams. "Lochlan please! Lochlan! Don't go, don't go!"
He turns his head for a moment and tears are running down his cheeks. And then, just like that, he's gone.
The girl bangs her fists against the bars and screams until she can taste blood in her mouth, screams until her lungs are about to shatter and deflate. The staff try to hold her again but she squirms and wrestles and thrashes until she is loose. She runs to the girl's lavatory, locks herself in one of the stalls, and weeps until her strength fails her and she falls to the grimy tiles.
I slip the little twine bracelet onto my wrist—it's tighter than it was the last time I wore it. Then again, six years changes things. The string is rough and warm, like him. You're not alone, you're not alone. For a while I simply sit upon my bed, rubbing my token and staring out the window. Was this how he felt? The night before his games? Had he been afraid, or had he been indifferent, like me? I'm not excited like some of our past tributes—I don't look forward to slaughtering kids my age, even younger, sometimes. But it's a necessary act, the only way. I'll even have to kill Cato, if I make it that far. I suppose it wouldn't be incredibly hard; just pretend he's a training mannequin, just a soulless, characterless piece of plastic. That's how much we're supposed to value human life here. And maybe I might even enjoy it a little; he may not remember what that boy did to me, but I do. I do, and he could have stopped it. Maybe I'll tell him that while I throw my knife at his chest.