Disclaimer: My beta's a lawyer. You want to sue, go ahead and try.

Thanks a bunch to the many incredible people who have helped whip this story into shape; my best friend Spanish Angel, beta extraordinaire EStrunk, my sisters, various English professors, etc.

Chapter 1.

I wake up screaming. Dad—blood—scalpel! It's a long moment before I recognize the nightmare for what it was, even longer before I realize I'm holding a knife in my hands as if it will somehow protect me. I lower it at once. The things in my head, the things I'm running from, aren't ones I can fight with a blade.

My heart isn't calming down, even though the nightmare has fragmented now, lost in the hundreds I've had since returning to District 7. I start to sit up, want to go poke up the fire or something, but then remember that I'm in the Victor's Village and have electricity instead. I switch on the lamp beside my bed, but the pale white glow isn't nearly as reassuring as the warm oranges and yellows I grew up around. It's too sterile, too bright, like an operating room. The thought's nearly enough to send me over the edge again.

I bite my lip viciously and switch off the light. Even the dark is better than that memory. Liv Caldwell, the fearless victor. Scared of the dark, and now scared of the light too.

As I lay back down, trying to make myself relax, I realize why I'm so nervous. It's not nearly a whole year after the Games. It's exactly a year. Today it's some other poor kids' turns to be reaped, and I'm supposed to mentor them, watch as they either die horribly or become monsters like me. Or both.

At least I'm safe from it this year, I realize. I'm still eighteen, but now that my Games are over, there's no way I can get sent back to the arena.

I lay there for another half an hour before I realize that the nervousness in my stomach isn't going to fade, and finally get up. I keep the lights off and ghost from my room to the kitchen, guided by instinct and memory. As a victor, I'm technically the only one assigned to live here, but the Capitol provides me with enough food and money that I'm more than able to support my two siblings. None of us like the arrangement, but after Dad . . . well, there was nowhere else for them to go. They might hate me for it, but they're still alive and they're never going to starve. That's something.

I'm not hungry, but I make myself cook anyways, watching through the windows as the sun slowly begins to rise. Petronius, the head of my old prep team, sent me an outfit—black, formfitting, something I might actually wear, surprisingly enough—but the focus is going to be on twenty-four other kids, and for once I don't have to mentally prepare myself to act in front of the cameras. Good thing too, because that hard knot of dread won't loosen in my stomach. I swallow some milk, but the one bite of eggs I take stick in my throat and refuse to budge.

There's the sound of the door creaking open and I ignore the urge to look up from my plate. If I stay very still, Mareen might not notice me until she's far enough into the room that it'd be stupid to walk out again. I know it's her; I heard footsteps in the hall and Kev never makes any noise when he walks. She's already made it to the bread before I hear her pause, feel her stare. My head jerks up and I return her look with a glare.

Kev is scared of me. Dad was ashamed of me. But Mareen's worse. She tries to pretend there's nothing wrong. That I'm still her best friend. It wouldn't be so bad except that she's a terrible actress and knows it, so she always tries to avoid me or, when that fails, blathers and sticks her foot in her mouth.

"Have some eggs," I say through clenched teeth, pushing my untouched plate towards her. Mareen grimaces and doesn't make eye contact.

"No. No thank you." She must be able to feel my glare because when she takes a seat, it's at the other end of the table. I sigh, remember how this time last year both of us were bantering in our small kitchen back home, trying to pretend that neither of us was scared. I'd give anything to go back to that easy friendship, but we've both changed too much. Mareen isn't as happy-go-lucky as she used to be and I'm . . . well, I don't know what I am, but I'm definitely not the naïve surgeon's daughter determined to learn enough to help the people in District 7 survive. If anything, I'm even more afraid now than I was then.

My gut helped me survive the Games. It told me who to trust, who to run from, who to fight. And right now it's writhing so hard that I'm surprised it hasn't burst out from my stomach like a living creature. The fragment of dream still stuck in my mind makes me think back to my father's funeral and that man . . . but I took care of that issue. There's no way he's coming back, and even if he did, there's no reason he would pick today to do it. So why does it feel as if it's come back around, my angry rejection bouncing back harder than ever?

I survived the Games. Why do I feel like a pawn?

The kitchen door creaks again—we really ought to fix that, I can afford the oil for the hinges now—and Kev pokes his head in, brown hair still tousled from sleep. At thirteen, he's a string bean, just starting to come into his growth spurts, helped along by the decent amounts of food he's been getting for the first time in his life. It's one of the few things I can appreciate about surviving the Games. I push the eggs towards him and even though he waits until I'm staring out the window again, I get the satisfaction of hearing the plate scraping against wood as he lifts it from the table. When you're a teenage boy, I guess you don't care who makes your food so long as there's plenty of it.

"So do you both have your clothes picked out for the reaping?" I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant. Unlike Mareen, I'm a killer actress—quite literally—but I know they see straight past the forced casualness.

Mareen snorts lightly. "It's not that difficult. We don't have a prep team, Liv, it only takes a few minutes."

Ouch. I know she meant it to be lighthearted but, as usual, it came out flat. We finish the rest of breakfast in silence. Kev moves to do the dishes, but I wave him away and take care of it. Then I head to my room and look at the outfit my old team left for me.

Black, my trademark color during the Games. Silky and cool under my fingers but when I pull it on, instead of the cold I expect, the material feels warm on my skin. Pants rather than a dress or a skirt, and tight enough that you'd be able to see the shape of the underwear through it if Petronius hadn't sent specially made stuff. The shirt rides up just a little, showing a bare inch of my bony hips. It's as tight as the pants were, but at least long sleeved. I never went for sexy during the Games, and I'm a little uncomfortable I admit, but compared to a lot of the outfits you see during the Games this isn't too bad. And when I look in the mirror, I realize that they've somehow made me look dangerous—not an easy feat with my porcelain-pale complexion and short, frail build. The scar over my eye definitely helps, though, and the delicate features somehow seem menacing when I twist my lips into their habitual, arrogant smirk. I've kept my reddish brown hair as short as a boy's ever since the arena, so all I have to do is comb my fingers through it and I'm ready to go.

Something red catches my eye as I turn to leave. I look back at the mirror and see that there, on my back, Petronius has outlined an hourglass in scarlet ribbon. I twist an arm around my back, trace the bottom of it, and have to fight the sudden impulse to tear off my shirt and shred it to pieces. Maybe he's right. If today's going to be as bad as my gut is telling me, it might be a good idea for me to remind everyone in Panem just how dangerous I really am.

Mareen's in the living room, waiting for Kev, and I join her. She's wearing the dress I bought for her, blue, matching the ribbon that binds back her curly brown hair. She looks innocent, almost girlish with it, the opposite of me. Her eyebrows rise as she catches the hourglass on my back, but she doesn't say anything and I'm grateful.

Kev joins us a minute later, also in dark blue, and I'm pleased to notice that he fits in the suit I bought him; it was too big for him just a month ago, but the proper food really is doing him good. Luckily he doesn't notice my hourglass, perhaps because Mareen puts an arm around his shoulder and keeps him on the other side of me. They both look nervous—who wouldn't be?—but they're obviously trying not to show it, so I pretend not to see it.

I drop them off in the thirteen and sixteen sections, then make my way up to the stage where the other victors sit. I'm the only girl there, but Bren, my mentor from last year, saved me the seat next to him. He grins a bit as he takes in my clothes.

"Nice. Hope Petronius manages to pull off a theme that's just as good this year."

I grimace. I don't know how he can be so light-hearted. These are the fourth Games he'll be mentoring, but he's only two years older than me and somehow he seems completely at ease here.

"Come on, Liv, cheer up," he says, "I know you hate giving in to the Capitol's orders, but at least we're alive, right? And if nothing else they'll keep your family safe to ensure that you do what they want, so—"

"What are you talking about Bren?"

He cocks his head at me and slowly something in his face changes. "You don't know? Didn't Catiline send someone to talk to you about this? He must have, I met with someone two months before I went back to the Capitol and I can't imagine. . . Liv?"

My intuition was right. Something is very, very wrong. "He. . . yes, he sent someone, but—but I didn't—"

Bren grabs me by the shoulder and I shut up, realizing that the cameras might already be rolling. I make my face into the smooth, smirking mask I mastered so well during my Hunger Games, and neither one of us speaks again. I can feel the tension though, and it seems like five hours rather than five minutes until our escort, Janus, swaggers onto the stage, long purple ponytail bound behind his head, face coated with white make-up.

"A very happy Forty-Ninth Hunger Games to you all!" he calls out to the crowd. "And may the odds. . ."

I tune him out, lost in a strange sense of unreality. Catiline. The man was from Catiline, Snow's right hand man, the one who runs the Games. Rumor is that he's even worse than Snow, although either of them is bad enough. We in the Districts mostly hope their continual power struggles will end with both of them dead. And instead of keeping my head down, staying out of their turf war, I took his envoy and. . .

It's everything I can do to keep my mask up, to stare straight ahead as first Janus and then the mayor start speaking. My hand dangles over the side of my chair and Bren casually drops his too, lets me feel the comforting pressure of the back of his hand on mine. It helps. A little. Enough that I can stand and acknowledge the crowd as the lists of previous District 7 victors is read, the people roaring in approval when they reach my name. My face is unmoving, the only sign of emotion my trademark smirk that doesn't reach my eyes. What I did in the arena destroyed my life and family, but the District thinks of me as its hero. A hero. I sit back down feeling sick.

Janus is back on stage, shouting "Let's do the ladies first this year, shall we?"

I watch his fingers scrabble around in the little glass ball, suspicion hitting me like an axe in the stomach. No. No, Catiline wouldn't—

"Mareen Caldwell!"

Every camera is trained on me now, and it's all that keeps me from falling over. My sister, my sister! I want to jump out of my chair, volunteer for her, push her away, save her, something!

But I can't volunteer. I'm a victor. Safe from the Games.

Just like that man promised, I'm paying.

"I really am sorry, Miss Caldwell."

The man's face is puffy, round, as ridiculous as his Capitol accent, as the idea that his shallow little mind can feel anything like sorrow. The last of my father is burning on the funeral pyre in front of us, ash and snow falling together, and all he can do is try to make conversation.

I turn away. It's traditional to stay until the fire has turned him to ash and bone, but I can't take this anymore. The wood is wet, compliments of the snow, and the smoke is blowing straight into my stubbornly dry eyes, but honestly they're the least of my problems. Funny that I can deal with the most gruesome deaths in the arena, can cause them, and here I can't stand a simple funeral.

The Capitol man follows me, fat little legs having to trot to match my quick strides. "Miss Caldwell, this may seem like the wrong moment, but I have a business proposition I simply must mention to you."

Business? My father committed suicide less than a day ago, is being burned twenty feet away, and this man wants to discuss business?

My instincts from the Games take over. Like I did in the arena, I keep any anger or fear from my face, instead make it look casually interested. I'm always at my most dangerous when I seem friendly. "Walk with me," I suggest, putting just a hint of a question into it.

He's stupid. I didn't earn the nickname of Black Widow for nothing, but he's stupid enough to follow me as we pass out of sight of the funeral, the people on the street, to the deserted, slushy back alleys of District 7. I raise my eyebrows at him as we walk.

"What sort of proposition?"

"It's traditional for former Tributes to return to the Capitol on a yearly basis, mentoring and assisting the new Tributes in their Games."

"I know that already." I fold my arms, allowing a hair of impatience to tinge my voice. The man clears his throat.

"What you may not yet be aware of is that it is also traditional for these mentors to then entertain some of the Capitol's most prominent citizens." It's a prepared speech, I can tell; his squeaky Capitol accent has taken on an extra round of pompousness. Entertain. I don't need the twisting in my gut to figure it out. "It both fosters good relationships between the districts and the Capitol and provides you with a means to—"

"Cut the crap. What do you want from me?"

He blinks, then pulls out a crumpled, greasy piece of paper from his pocket. "If you would be so kind as to make yourself available to these people during the course of the next Hunger Games, it would mean very much to—"

My fist snaps into his face, grabs him by the collar, yanks him close. My knee jolts into his groin like a battering ram, and suddenly my grip is the only thing holding him up as his breathing turns to pained squeaks.

"Do you really think," I shake him by the collar like a dog holding a rat, "That I am ever going to give in to one more filthy Capitol demand? That you can come in during my father's funeral and start ordering me around? He's dead! He killed himself because of what you turned me into, and you expect me to bend over backwards one more time?"

"Please—"

The knife is in my free hand before I even think, stabs into his trapezius, that fleshy triangle connecting neck and shoulder. He screams and I wait for him to stop before I yank it back out and wipe the blade clean on his shoulder, careless of if he's nicked by the edges, then toss him to the slushy ground. I replace the knife in its arm sheath, thanking Bren for the paranoia he instilled in me, making me carry the blade with me everywhere.

"That's the most of me any Capitol scum is going to get," I hiss, kicking the bloody hole. He moans and I kick it again, harder, for good measure, that same sick pleasure rising up in me like it did in—

But my father wouldn't have wanted me to do this. The thought makes me pause on the verge of turning him into a bloody, broken pulp. My father killed himself, stabbed himself in the heart, because he couldn't take me turning into this. I swallow and turn away, head back towards the thin pillar of smoke where my father's pyre is still burning.

"You'll be sorry!" he calls out after me, Capitol accent even shriller with the pain. "You can't just turn this down!"

I don't look back as I leave him bleeding on the filthy cobblestones. He won't die from the stab, but it's a rough neighborhood. If I'm lucky, one of the thugs living in this part of the District will get annoyed with the noise and finish him off.

But now I am sorry, just like he promised. My little sister is out there, standing where I did one year ago, chin up, back tense with no one to take her place. Yes, I am sorry.

If I'd known he was from Catiline would things have changed? I'd like to think so, but to be honest I just don't know. And as sorry as I am that Mareen's the one who has to pay for my mistake, the truth is that I feel angrier than ever too, that if I saw Catiline or that little Capitol freak again, I'd kill him like I'd wanted to the first time. As slowly and painfully as the black widow bite itself.

Janus's hand is scrambling around the boy's glass ball, but my eyes are trapped on Mareen. I don't even hear the name called, just Bren's gasp.

And I look. My head turns, eyes staring through the crowd as someone pushes from nearly the back of the crowd, one of the youngest kids . . .

Kev.