Chapter Eleven

I try checking in on Clove after dinner ends, but she doesn't open her door. In fact, there's no indication that she's inside, not even the faintest whisper of a footstep over plush carpet.

I let it go, opening my door and stepping inside. I intend to get a solid ten hours of sleep before I have to get prepped for the interviews tomorrow. Before I can take three steps into my room, I sense something off about it, as if I've somehow wandered into a stranger's room that looks identical to mine.

Which, in a building where all tributes are treated equally, is quite possible. Assuming my card key only works for the correct room, however, means there's something else messing with my intuition.

Before I can think further than that, an arm wraps around my neck and yanks me back, turning me around and pinning me to the wall. My arms go rigid, my first instinct to try and pull free, but my captor's got me pinned perfectly. "What the hell?" I shout, as my door slides shut.

Enobaria hisses into my ear. "Too slow."

This time, when I struggle, she lets me go. I whirl, fingernails biting into my palm. "What are you doing?" I demand. Enobaria raises an eyebrow; her lips curl into a smile, showing her gold-tipped teeth.

"That was a test," comes another voice, this one a deep tenor. Brutus. "You failed."

"What did I fail?" I snarl, only realizing his intention after I ask.

"You let your guard down and failed to react to the danger in time. If you'd been in the arena, you'd be dead by now."

Fury coils in my throat; I swallow it back. "I won't let my guard down in the arena."

Enobaria walks backwards and plops onto the arm of the couch. Her dark eyes never leave my face, but there's a look of amusement there, of contempt, and even though it's forbidden to fight before the Games, I want to knock her sharp teeth out of her head.

"How long do you think it takes to kill another tribute?" she asks. Her voice drips with false cheer.

Brutus answers before I can. "Less than the time it takes to snap your fingers." He snaps, and I wonder if years of working together have made their brains sync up, or if they've rehearsed this particular speech so much, it's automatic.

"A second to die if you snap someone's neck," Enobaria says. "A minute or two if you stab them in the heart."

"An hour if you nick the artery in their arm or leg," Brutus adds, rising from the couch.

"A day or two if you get them through the gut."

"And a little longer for wounds that become infected."

"So what, do you suppose, is the best way to kill an enemy?"

I look between them, my lip still curled in a snarl. "The quickest way," I answer. Or the slowest and most painful.

"Wrong," Enobaria says, kicking one foot into the air and resting it on the back of the couch. She studies her toenails for a moment, the amusement bleeding out of her face and leaving something cold and disturbing behind.

"Then what the hell was the speech for?" My frustration builds, and I have to force myself to remain rational, to hold my temper. It's not worth it, I chant. When I win, I'll be rich and famous. I can't get into trouble now.

Brutus's face has gone just as cold as Enobaria's. "The answer, Cato, is to kill them however you can, whenever you can."

"I know that."

"You know, but do you understand?"

I stalk past the couch, closing in on the screen I'd wrongly assumed to be a window the first night I'd been here.

Because they are my mentors, and because they control when my lifesaving sponsor gifts arrive, I maintain my self-control. Barely. "Understand what?"

Enobaria looks at me. "You're acting in front of a massive audience. All of Panem, in case you didn't realize. Your district, as well as many Capitol citizens, will be throwing money at us to sponsor you. If you promise them a show."

"I'll give them a show."

"Then let them know that. Strike up a few personal vendettas in the arena. Make sure the audience knows who you're targeting and why. Make sure to mention how brutally you intend to kill them, how long you'll let them linger before you show mercy. You will be on camera every minute, and if you want to come out alive, you need to convince both your allies and your audience that you are to be feared. Understand?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Good," Brutus says. "We'll discuss specific strategies tomorrow, before the interviews, but we want you to keep that in mind. Panem lives for violence. The best way to stay ahead is to give it to them."

Oh, I intend to, I think.

Brutus and Enobaria abandon the couch and walk over to the door. As they're leaving, Enobaria turns back to me. "Try not to die. It's not cost effective for us if you die."

And with that, the door closes behind her.

I stand there for a few minutes, wondering what they plan to say before the interviews tomorrow, if they haven't said everything already. Then, deciding there's no point in worrying about it, I kick off my shoes and strip down to my underwear to crawl into bed.

My dreams are full of blood and death, which I suppose is to be expected, but there's one little scene that plays over and over again, writ bold in my mind. I'm in the arena. The scenery changes—tundra to desert, swamp to prairie, forest to wasteland—but there's one recurring element, one thing I simply can't expel from my subconscious: fear.

Not fear of losing honor, nor fear that I might have to suffer to gain it. This is a primal fear for survival, a frantic flight from death. And in my dreams, I'm running, legs driving me forward even as claws and teeth and blades bite at my back.

I never see what's chasing me, or who. I always wake up before my mind drives me to check. All I know is that something's chasing me, and no matter how fast I run, I can't get away.

Seven. That's how many times I wake up in the night, a breath away from screaming.

Morning comes, spilling into the room in the form of artificial light. According to what I've heard around the dinner table, our bedroom lights are supposed to mimic natural light patterns so well as to be unnoticeable. But I do notice, and the lack of real sunlight makes me feel like a caged muttation, waiting to be sent into the arena to murder viciously, without restraint. I want to go up to the roof, as Clove wanted to that first night, but by the time I'm done with my shower—and damn, they have good showers here—I'm already running late for breakfast.

Enobaria and Brutus decide to join us today, getting a jumpstart on our preparations. Since Clove and I agreed to train together, they make a point of tending to each of us equally. No holding back, no making guesses about which of us is more likely to survive the coming battles, no indication that either of us is expendable. Is it years of practice that allow them to be so clinical and unconcerned, or are they betting we both have a good shot to make it to the end?

I don't know. Moreover, I don't really care, so long as I live the longest. Clove is a means to an end, an ally I can use, and perhaps, in a better world, someone I could be friends with, but I'd choose my life over hers every time.

"Cato, I want you to play up your raw strength at the interview," Brutus says, pointing his fork in my direction. Half a lettuce leaf is speared on the end, a drop of dressing clinging to the edge. His head turns a fraction of a degree to look at Clove. "You will play up your viciousness and cunning, since you're too small to look as strong as Cato. But you two won't make any comments about your alliances, got it? If members of your alliance get killed in the bloodbath—and they will—it would look bad for you if you were relying on their skills. Don't even mention your alliance with each other. Got it?"

We nod.

"Get weapons first," Enobaria says. "If you've got weapons, you can track down any enemies that make off with food and steal it from their corpses."

What a pleasant image. Of course, one would expect nothing less from Enobaria.

"Got it," I say through a mouthful of sesame chicken.

Brutus speaks. "The bloodbath could last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, depending on how everything goes down. You stay there. The Cornucopia functions as a reference point for everyone in the arena. They'll see you, but they'll probably have to stay close." He leans forward, and his voice drops low. "The Gamemakers like to put all the major resources near the Cornucopia. The weapons and medicine, of course, but also a source of water, and decent shelter. They want to have a central area for tributes to fight, and that's usually it. The Games must never become boring. Give them a show, and the Gamemakers will be merciful to you. Mostly."

Because there's nothing more tragic than a fan-favorite dying in a not-so-natural disaster, I think, stabbing another piece of meat.

The other tributes start filing in then. Glimmer and Marvel arrive first, then linger in the doorway, watching us closely. When I look in their direction, our mentors' eyes slide over to them.

Brutus offers us one more shred of advice before he leaves us to our meal. "Turn on your allies before all your enemies are gone. They won't be expecting it that early."

My eyes flicker to Clove, then away.

Clove turns to me, her green eyes unreadable. Almost as if she read my thoughts. "So," she says, picking at her sweet corn. "We've got our private sessions with the Gamemakers later this morning."

"Yeah," I say.

"You know what you're going to do?"

"Of course. You?"

She shrugs. "Same thing I've been doing."

"What do you think you'll get?"

"A nine or a ten. You?"

"Same." Maybe an eleven.

Glimmer and Marvel sit down across from us. Rather than joining us as they have been, the District Four tributes, Jeremiah and Remora, sit across the dining hall and eat by themselves.

I want to smile; like Clove, I'm really starting to hate District Four. Yet they're still part of our alliance, so I keep the joy off my face and my eyes on my plate.

Breakfast is a somber event today. We're all thinking about our private sessions, or the interviews to follow. We're all thinking of ways to appear desirable to our sponsors.

We're all thinking of ways to avoid dying.