I wake up screaming. My thin nightclothes stick to my body with sweat. I reach over to my bedside table and flick on my lamp. The light burns my eyes and I hold up a hand to shield my face. I stumble over to the dresser, squinting, and peel off my sweaty clothes. After rummaging around in the drawers, failing to find something lighter to put on, I decide to just sleep in my undergarments. I climb onto my bed and lie down on top of the blankets. It takes me about two minutes to realize that there is no way I am going to be able to go back to sleep. Instead, I head into the bathroom and take a long, cold shower. When I step out, the clock reads 1:43 am. Trulace surely won't be checking in on me until at least seven, so I do what I have done for the past three nights. I run across the hall to Darrion's room.
It hits me just as I'm opening the door that perhaps this isn't the best idea, as he just murdered me in my dream, but I shove the thought aside and slip inside. I'm not surprised to see him sprawled across the bed, all wrapped up in his blankets. Even at home, he thrashes in his sleep.
Not that I've ever slept at his house. Or at least, not that my mother knows of.
He eyes jerk open the moment I sit on the bed.
"Another nightmare?" he asks.
I nod.
"You wanna talk about it?"
"Not really," I reply.
"You sure?"
In response, I lie down next to him and bury my face in his shoulder. This is how Trulace finds us the next morning.
"Tsk. Honestly, you really need to stop doing this," he chides us. "This is the second time I have found you two in bed together. And Anascee is wearing even less clothing than last time!"
I feel the color flood my cheeks as he said it. But he's right, unable to find anything suitable after my shower, I just pulled my undergarments back on. I start to sputter out an apology, but he cuts me off before I can form a comprehensible thought.
"Just get dressed in something half-way decent and meet us for breakfast."
By us, he means himself (our escort), Cyranno (my stylist), and Sienna (Darrion's stylist). Darrion and I both nod curtly and Trulace leaves. I follow him out and quickly sprint to my room to get dressed. I'm clean and presentable in record time, but I am still the last one to get down to breakfast. I take my usual seat next to Darrion and an Avox offers me some orange juice. I politely decline, then turn my attention to Trulace. He's digging into his omelet, so I figure I have at least ten minutes before the lecture starts. That's when I notice the empty chair. The chair for my mentor.
When they first announced the final Hunger Games, I had figured the preliminaries would be completely different. No chariot rides, no training, no sponsors, and especially, no mentors. They wouldn't want us having any chance of surviving in that arena. Turns out, I was wrong.
I was sure the point of these Games was to punish the people of the Capitol, just as they punished the districts. However, this is worse. The majority of us have no strength. We don't know how to find our own food. We're inept with most weapons. We can't really fend for ourselves in any way, shape, or form. I'd thought for sure that they were just going to throw us into the arena, hoping one of us would somehow manage to scrape a victory. But instead, they're treating this like any other Games.
It's been a big mystery as to who our mentor is going to be. The Capitol has never participated in a Games, and therefore we don't have any victors. And I can't imagine it could possibly be a Gamemaker, as I'm ninety-nine percent sure they were all executed. Which leaves me with no idea who might be my final lifeline.
Trulace clears his throat. I look at him from across the table, and as soon as he is sure he has everyone's attention, he begins talking.
"As you all know, training begins today. You need to be down there at ten sharp, so that leaves you forty-five minutes to finish your breakfast and get your asses in the elevator."
"What are our training strategies?" I interject.
"Well—"
"I believe that's for me to decide."
I have to do a double take when I locate the source of that voice. There must be some kind of mistake. Of course, our mentor doesn't seem to think so, since she pulls out a chair and plops down in it before she continues.
"I doubt you half-wits know anything about surviving on your own," she begins. Neither of us can truthfully deny that statement. Taking our silence as confirmation, she continues. "So you're going to start with basic skills. Edible plants, knot-tying, fire-starting. You'll focus on this all day today. Tomorrow you'll work on knives, archery, and spears."
I'm about to interrupt to her to tell her we're both already quite capable of most of the above, but she cuts me off with a glare that could kill. Deadly eyes that I have seen a thousand times on television.
The eyes of Johanna Mason.