It has been just over an hour since Heamon rescued us from the birds. He has been leading us nowhere in particular, but scouring the woods for something. We are still within a mile of District Twelve. Soon it will be dark, and I don't want to spend the night near the district. Hovercrafts often pass overhead, and the risk is too great that they will see us. I tried telling Heamon this, but he told me not to worry.

"What are you looking for?" I ask him eventually.

"Half-Blood Creek," Heamon answers. "It leads straight to Camp Half-Blood. It winds through the northern districts - Twelve, Thirteen, Seven, One, Eight, Six, Three. It's never more than a mile or two from the districts, but I can't seem to find it."

"Long creek," Prim comments.

I stare at the satyr. "You're looking for the creek, but you didn't bother to mention it?" Heamon gives me a nervous smile and opts not to respond. I shake my head in exasperation and say, "There's a creek this way. It's the only one around here, so I figure it's yours."

I lead Heamon and Prim through the thick foliage.

"So," Prim says to break the silence. "Half-Blood Creek. I've never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have," Heamon says. "The naiads keep it hidden. The Capitol doesn't know it exists. A good thing, too - if they did they'd arrest everyone following it for trespassing on Capitol territory. But this isn't Capitol territory. This isour territory." He smiles.

I found the creek the June after Father's disappearance. I tried to show it to Gale a few times, but I could never seem to find it when I was with him. Perhaps the naiads were hiding it from him, just as they hide it from the Capitol. The thought makes me sad. We were once as close as brother and sister, but now our worlds are drifting apart.

After another few minutes of walking, I am able to make out the sound of running water. My pulse quickens. We're almost there.

Finally, the foliage begins to let up. I push a low evergreen branch aside to reveal a long, winding creek about two meters wide. I kneel and dip my fingers in the running water, a smile crossing my face.

Behind me, Heamon lets out a relieved sigh. "Here we are," he says. "I was afraid we'd never find it. That would really be a fail on my part - successfully getting two half-bloods out of their district without any casualties but rotting in the wilderness because I couldn't find the creek." He grins. "So, now we just follow it to camp."

"Sounds simple," I mutter.

Heamon turns to face me, his dark eyes serious. "There are creatures in these woods, Katniss. You of all people should know that. But there are beasts here that even you could not imagine. Perhaps not even after the Stymphalian Birds. You can never be too careful. We're still a long ways from safety. The trip should take about two days, maybe three, but there'll be obstacles. There always are."

I shift uncomfortably, my confidence slipping down several more notches. If these 'obstacles' are anything like the demon birds from this afternoon, we have no chance of making it to any camp. I nearly died, and I was armed with my bow.

"It was their numbers that was the problem," Heamon says, glancing over at me. "People like to say that numbers aren't everything, but...well, they can mean the difference between life and death. We...hopefully...won't meet any more swarms."

I stare at him. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"I don't know. It's like you're picking up on my thoughts or something, but that's ridiculous." Only then do I realize how silly my words are. Before this afternoon, I would never have believed that the Greek gods are real, or satyrs, or that creatures like those birds exist in the woods of District Twelve.

"Oh, that." A pink tinge appears on Heamon's cheeks. "Satyrs can sense emotions. I didn't mention that?"

I stare at him. "No. No, you didn't." I duck my head, kicking the ground uncomfortably. My safety in Twelve depended partially on the fact that people couldn't see what I was thinking. They couldn't look at me and know that I'd been hunting in the woods, or that I was terrified Mother would fall apart completely.

Heamon opens his mouth as if about to say something, then shuts it again. An awkward silence descends, the only noise the soft flowing of the water.

And then I see something flickering in the corner of my vision. I turn away from the satyr. At the bottom of the creek a deep green substance is billowing out from a crevice in the rocks. A strange mixture of awe and trepidation fills me as it swirls to the surface, condensing into a humanoid figure with long sea green hair and grayish skin.

"A naiad," Prim whispers, her voice awed. Her eyes flicker up to Heamon, then back to the nymph. She stretches out her hand, tentatively touching the surface of the water barely a foot from its head. "Hello," she says quietly. "I'm Prim."

The naiad rises, its head breaking the surface of the water, and I see that she is female. She regards Prim with bright, intelligent eyes. "Prim," she repeats, nodding in greeting. She raises her arm from the water, touching Prim's extended fingers. My sister smiles, and happiness flickers briefly over the nymph's face.

I glance up at Heamon. "This is a naiad?"

Maybe it is something in my voice, or maybe I merely look volatile. Whatever the reason, the nymph casts me a distasteful look, pulling away from Prim's hand.

"Half-bloods," she sniffs. "So insensitive. Though I must compliment your perceptiveness. At least you didn't take me for a dryad." Her eyes slide to the forest behind me, then back to my face. She lifts her arm from the water again, but this time it is not to pet Prim's hand. She points downstream. "The camp is that way. Try not to contaminate the river." Her voice is hard and sarcastic.

The naiad sinks back into the water and I straighten. I follow Heamon and Prim down the creek, still considerably miffed by the nymph's less than warm attitude towards me. I never did anything to her. I've only gone fishing a couple of times since Father's death, or rather, disappearance, and even if I had, well, there's a whole district where that came from.

We walk for another hour, covering three, maybe four miles. We started off at a decent pace, but Prim soon began to slow. Recognizing that a three day long trip could take a week at the pace she was going, I eventually suggested she walk in the river to avoid the uneven roots and rocks of the bank, knowing that the naiad had taken a liking to her, but she refused.

Prim began to match our speed again, but I could see she was straining herself. Feeling profoundly guilty about making the eleven-year-old tire herself to just to keep up to us, I offered to let her ride on my back, but she refused that, too, saying that it wouldn't help anyone if I was tired, too.

Finally, when the sun is lighting the sky brilliant shades of pinks and oranges, Heamon stops. He steps away from the creek, scanning the nearby trees for something. Though I have gone farther in my own exploits, this is unfamiliar territory, so I doubt I can be of much assistance to the satyr, but still I ask.

"What're you looking for?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, but walks towards a thick cluster of trees. He grips the corner of what looks like a curtain of leaves and pulls it to the side. He peers past it, then turns back, grinning. "Here it is - come on in."

I approach him, Prim at my side. He pulls back the leaves again, revealing a small enclosure maybe five by eight feet and six or so feet tall.

And then I see the supplies. Weapon line the far side of the wall, everything from huge swords to thin bronze arrows that match mine. Beside them are backpacks, baggies of ambrosia, canteens of nectar, everything a half-blood on the run could possibly want.

I stare at Heamon, my eyes wide. "What is this place?"

"Half-blood hideout," the satyr answers. "By the half-bloods, for the half-bloods. Excellently hidden - the dryads get the credit for that. And technically they also put a lot of the stuff into the hideouts. We often give them to the dryads at camp, and they transport them to various hideouts. Don't ask me how they do it, but they do. Marvelous nymphs, dryads." He smiles dreamily.

I clear my throat. "So. Are we staying here for the night, or..."

"There isn't much room," Prim puts forth uncertainly. "Staying in here might not be the best idea."

"Your scent will be masked more in here," Heamon says. "It won't be hidden - monsters can see through the Mist - well, smell, in this case - but we'll be better protected than out there." He glances at us, then continues. "Better snag some of those arrows, Katniss. Yours won't last forever. And Prim..."

My sister tenses visibly. "I have to take a weapon?" She sounds horrified. "Heamon, I'm more of a healer. I tend to injuries, not inflict them. I can't - "

"You'll have to," he says. "I'm sorry, Prim, but you'll need it. A spear, probably not. A sword...no, definitely not. Has Katniss ever shown you how to shoot with her bow?"

"She...she's tried once or twice, yes. I could never do it."

Heamon gazes at the pile of weapons, tapping his fingers on his knee. After a moment, he bends down and picks up a knife with a wood handle and a bronze blade. It is particularly small, and Prim seems to relax when she sees it. She is still reluctant to take the weapon from him, and when she does she holds it nervously in her hands.

Heamon hands us each an apple and a chunk of bread. I am about to bite into the apple when he holds up a hand.

"Wait," he says. "There's something...I mean, at camp...it's a tradition...well, more than that...actually, we can't really do that here...so..." He stutters, turning red. "Um. Never mind."

I give him a strange look, then turn back to my meal.

My mind keeps replaying one word from earlier today like a broken record: 'obstacles'. And once again, fear begins to settle inside me.

We are not safe. We have never been safe, but tonight the odds are higher than every before that I might be dead by morning.

I curl up on the ground, trying my best to ignore this fact and fall asleep.


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