Her father had left for the bar to by the time she returned to her house to get ready. She scrubbed herself thoroughly and combed her clean, wet hair out by the fire until it was silky. She put on the dark purple dress that Uma had told her to wear. Outside, the sky was a gloomy gray and the wind was chilly, so she pulled on her brown leather boots and wrapped an oversized, cream wool cardigan around herself, and then she headed back over to collect Tara and take her to the square. She wasn't nervous for herself or the little girl. Neither of them had had to take tesserae; their chances of being chosen were slim.
When they arrived at the square, Hera stood beside Uma in the section reserved for the eighteen-year-old girls. She didn't know where her father was-or if he was even there, but it didn't bother her. What did bother her was that she couldn't see Tara from all the way back there. But to her right, she could see Dean on the edge of the crowd holding Mia, with his two boys flanking him. She wondered if she'd be standing beside him next year, with Mia on her hip and a hand on Reese's head.
Then the District 7 escort, Trini Sweetwater, traipsed to the front of the stage in a hideous pea-green dress and a white wig. They all watched the stupid Capitol video, and then it was time to read the names, and it was all going to be over soon, and Hera was getting butterflies in her stomach because what if Dean asks me to marry him? she thought.
And then "Tara Callahan," said Trini in her saccharine voice.
Hera felt time suspend itself as she processed what she'd just heard, felt her blood stop moving in her veins, even as she heard her pulse beat against her eardrums. No. No no no. She had promised Tara that her name wouldn't be called. She glanced to her right. Dean stood in shock, Cole and Reese were starting to cry. And then she saw the back of Tara's head as the Peacekeepers took hold of her arms to escort her onstage and suddenly time started to move too quickly.
Hera didn't think, she just moved, shoving her way past the other girls to the center aisle.
"No!" she shouted. "I'll go. Take me." She felt everyone turn to look at her, and then two Peacekeepers materialized on either side of her, each taking an arm to whisk her to the front of the crowd. And she was onstage, saying "Hera Greenleaf" into the microphone. She had no idea who they called from the boys' section. Her brain registered that he was younger than her, short and skinny, with dark hair, but she couldn't focus enough to remember his name or the features of his face.
She didn't even hear Trini announce that there had been a slight rule change this year, and that the tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games would be mentored by victors from another district.
Within seconds the Peacekeepers were escorting her inside and she found herself deposited in the fanciest room she'd ever been in, but she didn't stop to take it in as she thought about what she'd just done. She had committed herself to die. But what choice did she have? She could have said nothing, and watched a little girl she'd come to think of almost as a daughter be slaughtered on live television. She couldn't have faced herself, couldn't have accepted a proposal from Dean-if in fact, he'd meant to propose-if she'd done that. She would have drowned in her own guilt. And who would miss her when she was gone? Certainly not her father. Yes, the Callahan children would miss her, but they would have missed Tara more. Uma...Uma would be fine, she had a loving family, she had other friends. This was for the best.
Uma appeared first, bawling her eyes out. "It's ok, it's ok," Hera said over and over again, rubbing her back as they hugged. She pulled back to give her best friend a tiny smile. "You'll be done with school in a couple of weeks and then you can go work for Dean," she said, trying her best to comfort Uma. It only made her friend cry harder as the Peacekeepers came to escort her out of the room.
The Callahan family came next, tears on the three older children's cheeks and snot running down their noses. She threw her arms around the three of them, gathering them to herself. "You silly things," she said with a brave face. "Don't you know I've survived my father all these years? I'll survive the Games." It was the sweetest lie she'd ever told and she didn't feel one bit guilty for it. It was also the first time she'd acknowledged her father's abuse out loud. But the children weren't blind; they'd seen her bruises. They stifled their tears, determined to match her stoicism.
Dean shooed them from the room and turned to face her, holding Mia in his arms. Hera had lost her shyness now that she had sentenced herself to death, and she looked him boldly in the face, holding out her hands to take Mia on her hip one last time. "I'll miss you baby girl," she cooed, and kissed the top of her head. When she looked back at Dean he had tears in his eyes. "Uma Graham is done with school in a couple of weeks," she told him. "She can take my place."
He stared at her in disbelief. "You've sacrificed yourself for my daughter."
Hera shrugged. "I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd just stood there."
Dean just stared at her. Then he leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands before placing a kiss, at once sweet and rough, on her lips. And then the Peacekeepers opened the door and announced that his time was up. She pulled back and handed Mia to him, and she smiled wistfully with her mouth, but she could tell that it didn't reach her eyes. He stared at her as they pulled him backwards from the room, stared at her until they shut the door.
Alec was bouncing off the walls with excitement. He was going to be a mentor this year for the first time, and any minute now the cameras would go live, and it would be time for his tribute, Clay, to volunteer.
All of the District 2 mentors were gathered in a room in the Justice Center, waiting for Clay and Clove, the female tribute, to join them after the reaping. Brutus would be responsible for mentoring Clove, a tiny dark-haired girl with narrow eyes and a sour expression.
They were all surprised when the door opened, and Paris, the escort for 2, entered the room, flanked by two Peacekeepers.
"Shouldn't you be going onstage any second?" Lyme asked him.
"I'm told there's been a slight rule change this year," Paris looked perturbed, and the Peacekeeper on his left handed him a thick glossy envelope sealed with Seneca Crane's monogram.
"Rule change?" Brutus asked, and, except for Cato, who just took another sip of his drink, they all leaned forward in concerned anticipation as Paris opened the envelope and began to read Crane's message.
"On behalf of our august leader, President Snow, I am excited to announce that this year each tribute will be mentored by a Victor from another district. The stylists, prep teams, and mentors of District 2 will have the honor of working with the tributes from District 7 for the 74th Annual Games, while the District 2 tributes will train under District 9. I'm sure you will find the change to be a refreshing one. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor, Seneca Crane."
They all sat in stunned silence for a few seconds, before Enobaria spoke up. "This is a joke right?" Paris looked to the Peacekeepers for an answer, but they shook their heads, serious as ever. "No ma'am," they said in unison.
"What the-?! This is bullshit!" Alec exclaimed. "Brutus, you have to call that bastard Crane and tell him we refuse to mentor any other tributes!"
"First of all," Brutus said, "one does not simply tell the head gamemaker-or any gamemaker for that matter-what to do. And secondly, I'm not wasting my time on those little runts from 7. Cato gets to do the honors along with you this year."
"Why do I have to?" Cato asked, mildly annoyed.
"Because seniority rules," Brutus said with finality, and he turned on his heel and left the room.
The two of them watched the District 7 reaping in sullen resignation.
The boy, Julian, was fourteen and scrawny, and he blubbered as the Peacekeepers shoved him up the steps and into the escort's clutches. He wouldn't make it through the bloodbath.
The girl wouldn't, either. Anyone who volunteered simply for the sake of saving another person's life was too soft. And she was a tiny little thing, who wrapped her ill-fitting sweater around herself tightly and shivered as the wind whipped her fine hair into her face. She stood onstage, devoid of expression, and when she spoke her name—Hera something-or-other—into the microphone, her voice sounded hollow. She's in shock, Cato thought.
"Do you want the boy or the girl?" Alec asked him.
"Either one. Doesn't matter to me," Cato said.
"Well I want the boy. Girls from the outlying districts are worthless."
"I'm pretty sure they're both gonna be slaughtered in the first hour, but fine, whatever." Cato had no intention of actually training this girl. She didn't have a chance, so why bother?
Hera had never seen such luxury. The walls and furnishings of the train compartment were upholstered in dark green velvet. There were thick carpets on the floors and the surfaces of the tables and counters were inlaid with patterns of different lacquered woods-cherry and maple and mahogany. Crystal chandeliers lit the compartment, and a mouthwatering variety of fruits, cheeses and pastries was spread across one of the counters.
Trini sat them down in the plush chairs and gave them each a cup of tea, then busied herself with fixing plates for them. Some of Hera's shock had worn off, and she turned to her male counterpart to ask him his name and age. "Julian," he whispered to her, looking bewildered. "I'm fourteen."
"Hera, eighteen," she whispered back and squeezed his hand comfortingly.
"Where's Johanna?" she asked Trini, as the escort handed them each a plate.
"She'll be traveling to the Capitol on another train."
"Why?"
"Well, there's no sense in her traveling with us since she'll be working with the District 10 tributes."
"Huh? Why is she doing that?"
"Didn't you hear the announcement at the reaping?" Hera looked at her blankly. "They're switching it up. The tributes this year are working with mentors from other districts. You two will be working with District 2."
"Which one from District 2?" Hera asked. There was the woman with the sharp teeth, Enobaria, and the bald one, Brutus. The ruthless quiet one that all the girls fawned over, Cato. Alec, the winner from two years ago with a sick psychotic laugh. She tried to run through all of them in her head, but she lost track; there had to be at least a dozen of them still living, probably more like fifteen, although most of the older ones had retired from mentoring. She shivered involuntarily. They were all intimidating.
"I'm not sure, dear. We'll find out once we arrive. But I'm sure you'll each get your own," Trini said. Of course they would. Districts that had more than one sane, living victor had that luxury, unlike 7.
"Do you think we'll train together?" Julian asked her a bit later.
"I don't know. Our mentors will probably decide that for us. That and whether or not we'll work together during the games. But listen, no matter what, I won't kill you." The words sounded so strange coming out of her mouth.
"I won't kill you either," he said to her, managing to give her a weak smile.
Neither of them asked what they would do if they made it to the final two, because they both knew it would never happen.
"Hmmm, surely they're here by now," Trini frowned as she looked out at the platform. She was waiting for the District 2 mentors to board the train and greet Hera and Julian before they disembarked and headed into the Training Center to prepare for the Tribute Parade.
Julian peeked through the curtains at the crowd that had gathered in front of the platform to cheer the arrival of each new pair of tributes.
"Ma'am, we can't wait any longer," said a Peacekeeper, sticking his head into the compartment. "The next train will be arriving in less than 10 minutes."
Trini sighed frustratedly and ushered her tributes to the door. "Alright my dears, smile and wave for the crowds." And then she placed a hand on each of their backs and pushed them gently out the door and onto the platform. Julian waved weakly, but was too overwhelmed to smile. Hera didn't feel like waving and the attention made her nervous, so she fixed her eyes just above the crowd and waited for it to be over with.
"Oh thank god. Something I can work with," were the first words out of her stylist's mouth. His name was Gianni and he typically worked with the female tribute from District 2. "I wasn't sure what was under that monstrosity of a cardigan you had on at your reaping."
"Just please nothing that shows my back," she requested. "I have some scars there that I'm pretty self-conscious about."
Gianni narrowed his eyes at her and reached towards the back of her shirt. "May I look?" he asked.
She hesitated, but he was going to see them anyway at some point. So she nodded, and he hissed when he saw the decade's worth of marks her father's abuse had left on her skin, but he promised he'd honor her request.
"Do you know who's going to mentor me?" she asked.
"Cato Hadley has been assigned to you," he said cheerfully, but it sounded unnatural and strained, as if there was something he wasn't saying. She frowned and pictured Cato. All of the women of the Capitol were obsessed with him, and back home most of the girls thought he was hot too. Hera had seen him on tv, and in real life from a distance during his Victory Tour stop in 7, and she had to admit he was attractive, tall and built and blond. But he seemed so cold and ruthless. She remembered his games, remembered how his expression had remained detached and neutral as he ran other children through with his sword. That anyone could so calmly end the life of another...She shivered. She was not looking forward to meeting him.
"And what about Julian?" she asked.
"Alec," Gianni said.
Poor Julian. She'd rather deal with Cato's iciness than that sick son of a bitch and his crazy, high-pitched laugh.
It was while her prep team was in the middle of de-fuzzing her entire body that she overheard Gianni and Trini as they whispered to each other in the corner, and she understood Gianni's strange tone when he had told her that Cato would be her mentor.
"He's refusing to train her. He says it's a waste of his time because she's just gonna get killed," she heard Gianni say quietly "And of course, when Alec found out, he immediately followed suit and said the same thing about the boy."
"Well I won't stand for it," Trini huffed. "I'm going to go to Seneca."
"No, don't. Trust me, I've worked with both of them. You'll only make Cato resentful, and Alec, well, god knows what that psycho will do. Calm down, let me see if I can persuade the two of them," Gianni said, but he sounded doubtful.
Although it hadn't occurred to Hera that Cato would refuse to work with her, once she heard the words it made so much sense given his reputation and demeanor, that she wasn't shocked. The news didn't upset her though. If anything she was relieved.
They put her in a filmy, body-skimming gown embroidered with delicate, sparkling tree branches in shades of gold, olive and chocolate, and they piled her light brown hair on top of her head and wove tiny, dusty green leaves through it. They smudged a rich brown liner into her lashes and put so much fine gold glitter on her lids and cheekbones that some of the pieces got in her eyes, irritating them to no end, and it took all of Hera's self-control not to rub them furiously with the heels of her hands.
But her costume wasn't humiliating like the tacky cowgirl outfit poor District 10 had to wear (and what the hell was that on the District 6 tributes' heads?), and it could have been a lot worse, so she sighed and endured their manhandling without complaint.
As the chariot made its way past the audience, Hera didn't know how to respond to the sea of faces and cacophony of cheers. She fixed her eyes on the horizon and pretended that the cool air rushing over her cheeks and shoulders was a pine-scented breeze rustling through her hair as she ran through the forest.
Cato, who hadn't bothered to meet his tribute yet, sat in the box reserved for previous victors, glass of scotch in hand, and decided he should at least spare a glance for the District 7 chariot and its occupants. His gaze skimmed past Julian, but he froze when he saw Hera, and he found he couldn't look away from her. He thought she held herself like a queen, aloof and dignified, with a faraway look in her eyes. Brutus shook him out of his stupor with an elbow to his ribs. "Well at least they look respectable." he commented. Cato shoved his impression of Hera to the back of his mind. "Looking respectable doesn't count for shit in the arena," he said flatly.