Chapter Twenty-One

The others orient themselves around me, staying close. Unlike at the bloodbath, we have the advantage of teamwork. This time, there will be no casualties. Not on our side.

We hurry toward the campfire, eager to eliminate another opponent. Marvel and Clove fan out, circling from the sides. That leaves Loverboy trailing behind me. Several times, I glance at him to make sure he's not about to put a knife in my back, but he seems focused on our quarry, just like rest of us.

With my night-vision goggles, I can recognize our victim from a distance. She's the District Eight girl, and if the dying fire is any indication, she's the stupidest tribute in the Games. What kind of moron starts a fire in the middle of the night? It's like a beacon to other hunters, and while it may ward off animals, the real threat lies in human enemies. Us.

Worse, she's fallen asleep, meaning that the moment we come upon her, she's too helpless to do anything. Easy prey. She's barely worth the effort we've expended so far—most likely, she'd die of exposure anyway, stupid as she is. But we've come this far, and even though her chances of winning are slim, she still presents a threat. She's competition for resources, if nothing else.

I reach her first, pausing the let the rest of my alliance catch up. As soon as I see Clove emerging from a copse of trees to my left, I step forward and throw a kick at the sleeping girl's ribs. Her eyes flash open, and she scrambles to her feet. I grab her wrist and pin her to the tree she was sleeping against a moment ago.

"No, no, let me go, please!"

"Get her, Cato," Clove says, her knife glinting in the firelight. "Kill her."

"Happy to." I shift my grip so I'm holding both of the girl's spindly wrists with one hand, then reach for my sword.

Her pleas grow louder. "No, no! Let me go, I'll join your alliance, let me go . . ."

"Sorry," I say, my voice making it obvious to the cameras that I'm not sorry at all. "But I don't align with idiots."

A scream tears from her throat as I drive the tip of my sword through her chest. When she flails, the scream grows louder and louder, giving away our position and driving off every potential victim in the vicinity. Irritated with her, I plunge the sword deeper, through her lungs and out her back, until I feel the resistance of the tree bark behind her.

Her screams become whimpers. Her whimpers become whispers. When her body slumps, weight bearing down on my sword, I release her wrists and remove my weapon. A torrent of blood flows out of her chest as she collapses beside her dying fire.

"Nice one, Cato," Marvel says, lifting a triumphant fist in the air. With my glasses, I can see his smile perfectly in the darkness.

"I wish Remora was here to see this," Clove murmurs. "Maybe then she'd learn not to mess with District Two."

I grin, mind soaring on the visceral pleasure I've already begun to associate with killing. Yet there's still some part of me, like an echo in my thoughts, that's disgusted by the mess, by the whole situation. Because I could end up in a pool of blood like that. Or Clove could. And in order for either of us to win, that'll have to be one of us.

I turn away, cleaning my sword on the dead girl's pants, since there are no convenient rags around.

"Check her for supplies," Clove says. Since I'm closest, I kneel beside her and lift her thin jacket aside, searching for weapons, food, anything. There are a couple berries in her coat pocket, but that's the only thing I find on her that isn't bloodstained.

I hold them up for inspection and Clove makes a face. "I don't recognize them. They could be poisonous, for all we know. District Eight isn't known for their survival skills."

"Right." I drop the berries on the ground, sighing. The momentary high from this kill is already draining away, and I figure it must be my exhaustion dampening the triumph. Despite sleeping well in the Training Center, the late hour has left me fatigued. Maybe tomorrow I'll have an easier time cheering over my rivals' deaths, but tonight, I'm just tired.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" Marvel shouts, clearly not over the excitement yet. Oddly, this is the most outgoing I've seen him. Maybe he really is better suited to the arena than he is to the lunch table. But then, I remember my mother's words in the government building in District Two. "The Games turn everyone into a monster."

My mother wouldn't want this for me, has never wanted this for me, but there's no way out of this situation, and I can't compromise my ruthless persona now, since there are cameras watching. When I return to District Two, I'll tell her that I thought about her, that I remembered her words and did my best to retain as much of who I am as I could. I will tell her that the monster I've become is just a façade, meant to draw sponsors.

I will assure her that I am still her son, and she is still my mother, and that things are going to get better for us.

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," I say, extricating myself from my allies' admiration as much as possible.

The others murmur agreements, growing quiet once again as we continue the hunt. Our pace slows a bit, but when a few minutes have passed, Clove breaks the silence. "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"

"I'd say yes," Marvel claims, frowning. "Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."

"Unless she isn't dead."

"She's dead," I say, because that should be obvious, with her wounds. "I stuck her myself."

Clove throws me an annoyed glance. "Then where's the cannon?"

"Someone should go back," Marvel says. "Make sure the job's done."

Everyone exchanges glances while I stand there, fuming. Stupid. I should've stuck that girl again to make sure she was dead. Now I look like an idiot in front of all of Panem.

"Yeah," Clove says, looking at Loverboy. "We don't want to have to track her down twice."

"I said she's dead!" At least she will be, soon. I know I pierced her lung. I could feel my sword hitting the pocket of air. If she's not dead by now, she's drowning in her own blood as we speak.

The others are arguing all around me, over who's going to go back and finish the job. I stay silent, fists clenched at my side, as Clove and Marvel argue over which of them ought to do it. Marvel says Clove should, because she's my district partner, and I'm the one who started this. Clove says Marvel should go back because he killed the least amount of tributes at the bloodbath except for Remora and Glimmer, who are both back at camp.

"We're wasting time!" Loverboy shouts over the cacophony of voices. I blink, surprised to hear him sound so frustrated. "I'll go finish her, and let's move on."

I snort, but I'm actually relieved that someone has decided to go off and deal with it. And this way, if the girl's still conscious, there's a chance she'll injure Loverboy. "Go on, then, Loverboy. See for yourself."

Peeta nods and walks off, his steps loud over the undergrowth. There's also the possibility that he'll trip over his own feet and break an ankle, in which case we have an excuse to kill him.

He disappears into the trees, but I don't hear much struggling, so apparently he hasn't injured himself. When he's out of earshot, Clove speaks. "Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"

"Let him tag along. What's the harm?" Mostly, I want to keep him with us for a while longer because I'm the one who offered to let him join us. If I let them kill him now, it would be tantamount to admitting I was wrong. Which I'm not. Because he actually could be useful in ferreting out the District Twelve girl.

Besides, he makes a good pack mule. "And he's handy with that knife," I add, as an afterthought. Granted, the only things he's attacked so far have been trees, but I'm sure that's changing right now.

"Besides," Marvel adds, glancing at me. "He's our best chance of finding her."

"Why?" I ask. "You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?"

"She might have," Clove says. "Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke."

Well, what an intense reaction from our resident expert on knives.

"Wish we knew how she got that eleven," Marvel says.

"Bet you Loverboy knows," Clove says. This hasn't occurred to me yet—my mind has been on other things, namely the bloodbath and this hunting trip—so her insight makes me think. It's rare for two tributes to know each other before the Games. I mean, I know District Twelve is tiny, but if their population is that low, they're even worse off than I thought.

I hear a rustling in the woods and draw my sword before I realize Loverboy's come back. "Was she dead?"

"No, but she is now." And then, as if on cue, a cannon fires, signaling the District Eight girl's demise. "Ready to move on?"

I shrug and look up at the sky. Already, the deep black of night is lightening to blue. Glimmer and Remora have been guarding our supplies all night, and I'm starting to get hungry. And once it's light out, our night-vision glasses will no longer give us an advantage. "Let's head back to camp. We'll hunt again tomorrow."

The others follow as I lead them back toward camp at a jog. We follow the scratches Loverboy left on the trees, knowing that's our surest way back. I'm not sure if he's been carving them the whole way, but as long as we start out in the right direction, we should make it back to the lake with few issues.

Loverboy has made himself useful. I'll have to be sure to tell him that before I kill him.