Neither Dean nor I say a word until much later that night. Effie and Haymitch rush us back to our rooms. Effie gushes about how well we did, while Haymitch starts talking arena strategy at us. The moment we get back, Effie insists we both shower and head right to sleep, as we'll be sent to the arena directly after breakfast in the morning.
Dean and I comply, disappearing into our separate quarters with nothing more than a quick, shared glance. I try to shower quickly, but even with the fancy Capitol shower, it takes ages to scrub off my makeup. I dry off and change quickly, fastening my pin to my nightshirt and mechanically braiding my wet hair to one side.
I sneak out of my room, tiptoe past Effie and Haymitch's rooms, and find Dean exactly where I expect to: on the roof.
"Hey," he says as I quietly close the door behind me.
"Hey," I reply.
Dean leans against the railing, his hair barely damp from his shower and a flask hanging from his long fingers.
"I was starting to think Haymitch's drunkenness scared you off the stuff for good," I say, pointing at his flask.
"No," Dean says. "I'd never let myself be that much of an alcoholic, but it still helps."
I nod in understanding, absently wandering to lean on the railing, as well. I'm not right next to Dean, but he could easily touch me if he reached his arm out. He almost does, as he offers me the flask.
I shake my head. Dean shrugs, and takes a swig.
"It's almost surreal," I say. "I can't believe we'll be in the Games tomorrow."
"We're not prepared," Dean responds somberly. "Our two days of training are nothing compared to the Careers."
"We're used to beating the odds," I say. "We come from Twelve. We've been trained to hunt, to stay quiet, to avoid being seen, for years."
Dean nods, but doesn't say much. I can tell he isn't convinced. I'm forcing myself to speak optimistically, because I can tell Dean has done the same throughout training, but we both know it's useless. We'll probably be dead by this time tomorrow.
"There's something you should know before we go into the arena, Katniss," Dean says, refusing to meet my eyes. "The people in there, the ones that killed my mom…they're not normal people."
A long silence stretches out between us as he tries to evade my unspoken questions.
"Not normal like the Capitol people aren't normal, or not normal like that boy from Three a few years ago that sharpened his teeth and nails like razors?" I finally ask.
"Not normal like no one you've ever met before," Dean says.
This time, I wait for him to speak. I stare at him, stubborn, as his eyebrows knit together above the mouth of his flask.
He finally meets my eyes.
"Not normal like not human."
"Not human?" I echo, confused. "Then what are they?"
"You're not gonna believe it," Dean says, taking another swig from his flask. "I didn't either until I saw one in Twelve. They came for the journal, a few days after we got it. I knew they weren't from Twelve because of their clothing. Black suits, like no Peacekeeper or Capitol official I've ever seen."
"I never saw them," I say.
"Yeah well, there's a good reason for that," Dean says. "I came home from hunting, and Sammy was in the corner, with these two men in suits standing over him. I said 'hey' and they turned around. Their eyes were fully black. They smiled at me, and said they'd come for the book."
"The book?"
"The journal," Dean clarifies. "Now, Sammy's read this journal front to back a million times over. I didn't believe half of what's in it, but he did. He said 'they're demons, Dean.' I told him to shut up, and I told the guys in suits to get the hell out. They refused, so I went to punch one of them. It was like punching a wall. They had strength like no one I've ever seen. I didn't stand a chance against one of them, let alone both."
"So how'd you get out of it?" I ask, my mind racing to imagine such powerful, black-eyed men.
"I didn't," Dean admits. "Sammy got me out of it. He started chanting, saying something in another language, a funny sounding language that seemed to put the guys in suits in a lot of pain. They went after Sam. It took everything I had, but I was able to hold them off long enough for him to finish. When he did, smoke shot out of their eyes and mouth. Thick, black columns of smoke that flew in a line out the door, one after the other. And the bodies hit the floor."
"They were dead?" I ask, incredulous.
"The funny thing is, they looked like they'd been dead for a while," Dean said. "Sammy and I dragged them out beyond the fence in the dead of night, to that little field we never go to because there's never any wildlife or plants. We buried the bodies, and Sam told me everything. He told me they were demons, that he was speaking Latin, that he had exorcised them and sent them back to hell. He also insisted that we pour salt on the bodies to prevent them being possessed again, and burn them in their graves before we piled the dirt back on."
I simply stared at him, wordless. I felt sick.
"It's messed up, I know," Dean says. "But when you see one, you'll believe me. And you'll do anything in your power to get away from it."
"What can I do against such a strong demon?" I ask, noticing how odd the question is.
"You believe me?" Dean asks doubtfully.
"I'm not sure," I say honestly. "But on the off chance that you're right, I want to be prepared."
"Well," Dean says after a moment, "that's smart, I guess. You're either smart of crazy, Katniss, to actually be considering this. I'm damn near crazy, myself."
"The arena is crazy," I say. "The Game Makers are insane. Maybe we need a bit of crazy, to survive their insane games."
"To crazy," Dean says, smiling humorlessly as he reaches his flask out over the balcony in a toasting motion.
"So how do we fight these things?" I ask as Dean drinks.
"First line of defense is your anti-possession symbol," Dean says. "Wear that, and demons can't possess you. We'll know that you're always you."
"What symbol?" I ask, but Dean's already pointing at my pin.
"Sammy must have painted it for you to protect you," Dean says.
I take the pin off, looking closely at the intricate paint job, the odd black star surrounded by a circle of fire.
"Why did he give it to me and not you?" I ask.
"Once he figured out that the journal was telling the truth, Sammy made us follow every protection protocol he could find," Dean says. "I didn't believe it, I didn't want to believe it, but being here and seeing the hard proof in front of my face, I can't deny it. I'm glad Sammy did it, and forced me to go along with it?"
"Did what?" I ask.
"He painted those traps on the floors in our house," Dean says. "He lined every entrance and window with pure salt, and something he made called Goofer Dust. We both memorized the Latin exorcism, and certain ways to reveal if someone's a demon or not. Like, using Holy Water, which is almost nonexistent. You can also say 'Christo' and their eyes will flash black, even if they're trying to appear human, with normal eyes."
"Latin?" I guess.
"Bingo," Dean says, storing his flask in his jacket pocket before he strips it off. "And Sammy made sure that he and I would always be protected."
In one fluid motion, Dean plucks his shirt off his back, jerking it suddenly over his head and letting it drop to the floor in a pile of black. I inhale slightly, feeling blood rush to my face.
I haven't seen a man shirtless since my father was alive. Well, except for Gale, when we would swim in the small stream beyond the fence when it got hot in the summer, but Gale is like family to me, as well.
Dean's hard muscles lay over his thin frame, emphasizing the strength packed into his constantly starved body. Everyone in Twelve is too skinny, but only Dean has rippling muscles, deep contours that cut across his abdomen and down his sides. I can see the veins resting against the bulges of his biceps. Even his chest is huge, sitting beneath sharply defined collar bones.
I gasp as I finally see what he wanted to show me. Tattooed on his chest, near his heart, is the odd star symbol, complete with the circle of flames. The jet black ink lay strikingly against Dean's pale skin. I swallow. My face drains of color again as I meet Dean's serious gaze. I nod, and he scoops his shirt off the floor, putting it back on quickly, as if hiding himself from me.
"So you believe it now," I say, careful not to make eye contact with him as the blood in my face refuses to recede. "At least, enough to tattoo it on your body."
"Yeah," Dean says, finishing the last of his drink. "I believe it even more after coming here."
I have nothing to say to that. My mind is reeling. I'm forcing myself to consider that something downright supernatural exists, that it's evil, and that it's coming for us. I lay awake long after climbing into bed, my thoughts racing. I beg my body to sleep, because I know I'll need it, but even when I finally manage to doze off, nightmares plague my mind.
I am already awake when Effie comes to fetch me in the morning.
"Good morning, princess," Haymitch greets me half-heartedly as I join everyone at the breakfast table. "Eat up, both of you. You'll need you strength."
Each bite feels like cardboard, but I force as much protein down my throat as I can. No one utters a word through the somber blanket that hangs over us all. All too soon, Cinna, Portia, Effie, and Haymitch usher Dean and me to our holding areas. On the trip over, Haymitch drills some last-minute advice into our heads.
"When you get there," he says urgently, "there will be a cornucopia of goods, vital things you may need to survive. Do not go in it. I'm serious, both of you. It will turn into the biggest bloodbath you'll see. If you try for the goods, you will be dead five minutes in. Run as far away as you can, and quickly. That's your only chance at survival. You hear me?"
Dean and I nod as Effie hugs us each quickly before Cinna takes me to one room and Portia pulls Dean away. Cinna and I are alone now. He dresses me in the same outfit that all the other tributes will be wearing, pinning my token carefully on my chest. I'm wearing a green shirt with a hooded black jacket, tawny pants, a brown belt, and socks and boots even better than the ones I had dreamed up with Dean.
"Guess I finally got boots," I whisper.
Sadness overcomes me suddenly as I realize Dean never got his pie from Effie last night. I find myself worrying about Dean as Cinna braids my hair snugly to one side.
"How does that feel?" Cinna asks. "The outfit, I mean."
"Good," I say.
A woman comes in, a Capitol woman, obviously, with an odd metal object in her hand.
"Give me your forearm," she instructs.
I oblige, and she inject something into to painfully.
"What is that?" I ask, frustrated.
"It's your tracker," she quips, and stalks out without a word. The door locks behind her.
I press on the small lump in my arm until a bruise begins to form, trying to deny the reality of my situation.
"Do you want to talk, Katniss?" Cinna asks.
I shake my head. Minutes pass in silence.
"Just remember what Haymitch said," Cinna says anyway after a while. "Run, find water, and use your hunting skills. You'll be fine."
"Do you really believe that?" I ask.
"I do," Cinna says.
His words offer little comfort, as he only knows about half of what I'm scared of facing in the arena. I want to talk to Dean again before we go in, but a robotic voice announces for all tributes to prepare for launching. I step onto a metal plate and hold Cinna's confident gaze as a glass tube is lowered around me.
"I'm not allowed to bet," he says as the clear glass descends. "But if I could, I'd bet on you."
"Truly?" I ask.
"Truly." I barely catch the word as the tube seals to the plate beneath me. I turn back toward Cinna and barely catch him mouth a few final words. "Good luck, girl on fire."
I rise. The metal plate propels me upward through the glass. I am surrounded by darkness.
Suddenly, brilliant sunlight blinds me. The smell of pine needles is strong in the air around me. I will my eyes to adjust as the announcement is made.
"Let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"
For the first minute, all tributes must remain on their plates. One misstep and land mines blow off legs, or simply kill. Seconds drag by as I adjust my eyes and take in my surroundings. The cornucopia gleams in the sunlight, golden and stuffed with crates of food, weapons, and what look like medical kits.
The seconds slip quickly away as I try to form a plan. Haymitch told us to run away from the cornucopia, but neither Dean nor I have anything with us that will help us survive. I look around more carefully. Scattered in the grass between the cornucopia and the metal plates we stand on are smaller items, increasing in usefulness as they get closer to the cornucopia. A silver bow and sheath of arrows gleam from the base of a pile of weapons inside the cornucopia, just begging to be used.
I spot Dean, a few tributes down from me. We lock eyes. His eyes dart toward a small bag on the ground near him, then back at me. He juts his chin out toward a small orange backpack not very far from where I stand, then looks at me intently. I understand what he is going to grab, and what he wants me to grab. I nod.
I look behind him at a small space between two large trees at the edge of the. Dean follows my gaze before turning back to me and nodding.
We have a plan. We have barely five seconds left, but we have a plan.
The buzzer sounds.
I thrust myself off the platform and sprint for the orange backpack. I'm able to scoop up a large square of plastic on my way. The boy from Nine tries to grab the bag at the same time my fingers close around it, but as we struggle, he coughs up blood.
The girl from Two, Clove, has sunk a throwing knife into his back. She runs toward me, hurling another blade at me. Instinctively, I bring the backpack up to protect myself, and a knife sinks into it. Before I can react further, Dean materializes behind her.
In a fraction of a second, he has plucked the rest of the knives from Clove's hand and shoved them into her stomach. Dean pulls them back out quickly, and I shut my eyes as she collapses, moaning, on the ground.
"Come on!" Dean roars.
I follow him through the chaos, back through the woods until we've left the bloodbath far behind us.
We walk through the woods for hours, as quickly and quietly as we can, in search of water and wildlife. We startle a rabbit, which gives me hope at the prospect of food. We keep walking until nearly dusk, finding no water, saying nothing.
Suddenly, Dean stops in his tracks.
"We need to make camp," he says. "I doubt we've been followed."
"We need water," I say, but I squat down anyway.
"We'll find water first thing tomorrow," Dean says. "And food. But tonight, we need to see what we've got to work with, and figure out a way to sleep."
We both dump out our bags. Dean's is black, but mine is bright orange. He immediately grabs it from me and begins camouflaging it with mud and leaves while I lay out our supplies.
We have one large square of plastic that can be unfolded like a tarp, one black sleeping bag that reflects body heat, a small coil of wire, a box of matches, a large bottle with a cap to carry water, a bottle of iodine to make the water drinkable, a pair of sunglasses, a pack of dried beef, a pack of crackers, four throwing knives, a pack of kindling, a decent length of rope, a few long strips of durable cloth, a sheet of tarp made to retard rain, a large pack of dried fruit, and a small tin of black grease.
"What's the grease for?" I ask, confused.
"Probably to make slick ground for traps," Dean says. "Or to do something with fire. It's flammable."
"That's useful," I huff.
"Actually, it is," Dean says. "We can make camp, and then smear the grease and some mud over everything that's brightly colored."
I'm surprised at the efficiency of Dean's plan as we set to work. Dean finds a perfect little gap between tree trunks, protected by dense moss. The trees form a sloppy ring around a small but manageable space that's been overrun with moss. Working quickly, Dean and I clear the moss out, and lay down the plastic as a makeshift floor. Dean uses the rope and a bit of wire to suspend the rain tarp up like a tent while I repack our supplies into the bags and spread the sleeping bag across the plastic. I place one knife in each bag, and one on either side of the sleeping bag. I've unzipped it so that it lays flat, as the night grows cold around us and I realize that we will have to huddle together for warmth at night.
I show Dean where the knives are set, inches from where our hands will be as we sleep.
"We're sleeping here?" He asks. "Both of us?"
"Um, yes," I say. "Isn't that the point of the shelter?"
"Well, yeah," he starts, "I just didn't think we'd be, you know, sleeping…"
Flustered, he trails off. I simply look at him, the smallest bit of amusement softening my face.
"Forget it," he says suddenly, "it's fine. This whole thing is fine. It's…great."
He isn't looking at me, but I can't stop looking at him. I'm not sure why he's so embarrassed, or why I find it funny, but it's a welcome break from the stress surrounding us.
Dusk settles in as we use grease, mud, and moss to disguise our makeshift home. There is one open end where Dean and I can clearly see out, but thankfully we're able to disguise it with a sheet of moss. From more than three yards away, our shelter is nearly invisible to the naked eye.
"Not too shabby," Dean says, grinning in satisfaction.
"I guess those camouflage trainings paid off," I say, almost grinning at him.
Before Dean can respond, the Capitol theme plays. Projections appear in the sky as they announce today's deaths, followed by booming cannons. I count them off as they appear.
The girl from Three, the boys from Four and Five. Both tributes from Six, and from Seven. The boy from Eight. Both from Nine. The girl from Ten.
Eleven tributes gone, thirteen remaining.
And night has just barely begun to fall.
