Chapter One-Hundred-and-Sixty; Suspicion
"Are you downright suicidal?!"
Stephanie could barely bring herself to focus on Prall's absolutely livid face looming over her; his stubborn childish pout so incongruent with the blazing anger in his green eyes.
"I mean first of all – the Careers hated you because of all the attention you get. Then Slena tries to kill you because you murdered her cousin! – Then you go and damn well practically beg the Head Gamemaker to kill us with your smart mouth!"
The bluish light, the walkway behind the waterfall was bathed in, cast every tense line on the younger boy's face into sharp relief.
A small furrow of consternation appeared between Astara's pale brows as she looked on.
"Keep your voice down," Astara chided. She frowned as Prall scoffed at her, resuming his agitated pacing in front of the two girls.
Astara gave Stephanie a fleeting smile of encouragement or sympathy, Stephanie wasn't sure.
Prall was muttering agitatedly under his breath again, his gangly shoulders hunched as he shoved a pale hand through his bronze hair.
Stephanie took a deep breath to quell her own simmering temper, before she spoke, her voice never rising above a dangerous hiss.
"I had nothing to do with Fas Clearwater's murder," Stephanie said vehemently.
Prall was in her face again in a split second, lips curled back over his bared teeth.
"Frankly, I don't care if you did or not," he sneered, "What I care about is the number of targets you're painting on my back."
"Your back?" Stephanie echoed as she stood straighter, forcing Prall to step away. She had realised that Prall was most adept at using his lanky stature for his advantage, to tower over people intimidatingly. And she sure as hell wasn't going to let him!
Astara tensed slightly, that vague look of mild alarm crossing her features.
But Stephanie spoke on, taking care to keep her voice lowered at least. A wall of water separated them from the party, but it didn't make them entirely invisible.
"The last time I checked it was me who insulted Seneca, and me who will have to give the public apology to Seneca!"
"Why did you open your damn mouth in the first place?!" Prall snarled.
"I don't remember requiring your permission to speak my mind," Stephanie snapped. "I can say what I want, about who I want – even if that person is Seneca himself, without asking your permission Prall!"
"You insulted the Head Gamemaker - publically!" Prall spluttered, incandescent with incredulous rage.
"And I'd do it again!" Stephanie shot back with far more confidence than she felt. "I said nothing about Seneca that wasn't true anyhow," she added in a dark mutter.
Prall rolled his emerald green eyes, his face splotched with angry colour as he stalked away from them, to lean heavily on the metal rail with his back to her.
Stephanie took a deep wavering breath, trying to reign in her emotions. Her alliance was crumbling before her very eyes.
Prall was certifiably convinced now she harboured a death wish. And as much as Prall wanted her 'secret deadly talent' on his side, he wasn't prepared to shoulder all the accompanying risks being in an alliance with Stephanie involved. Stephanie could see Prall was moments away from snapping, and a cold dread was coiling in Stephanie's stomach awaiting that moment.
Astara was almost blasé about Stephanie's recent antics in publically insulting Seneca. Stephanie knew it was because of Astara's background. Astara was a rebel resigned to die in the arena. She had given Stephanie an almost proud little nod, and Stephanie had felt her stomach twist almost guiltily.
I'd make a sorry rebel being attracted to Seneca then; the President's son and Head Gamemaker…Stephanie's thoughts muttered bitterly.
Stephanie struggled to keep the stoic expression pasted on her face as Prall's mutters tapered off, though he didn't turn to face them.
It was then that Stephanie caught the curious look Astara was throwing her.
Stephanie arched a brow in silent question.
"Why do you do that?" Astara queried aloud and Prall turned around.
"Sorry?" Stephanie asked puzzled.
"Why do you call the Head Gamemaker by his first name?" Astara asked and Stephanie felt her stomach lurch unpleasantly.
"No, I don't," Stephanie immediately replied defensively, before she could even think. She cursed herself inwardly, for her mindless, knee-jerk answer.
"Yes, you do," Prall countered, approaching them again, his eyes narrowed to wary points. "Why? – It's weird. No other tributes call the Gamemakers by their first names, especially not the President's son and Head Gamemaker. Why do you?"
Stephanie paled as she felt icy fingers of dread crawl up her spine. She forced herself to tilt her chin upwards, ignoring the endlessly irksome feeling of the necklace collar digging into her throat.
"I-I don't know…I just do," Stephanie replied lamely, with a failed attempt at nonchalance.
An insufferable moment of choking silence stretched and Stephanie swallowed convulsively, convinced the air around her was getting thinner.
"If we are discussing alliance matters, we should have Frenkin and Ava here as well," Stephanie blurted the words out.
The words had the intended effect of wiping the looks of building, confused suspicion from Prall and Astara's faces.
Prall's expression morphed to one of contempt once more as he turned away, and Astara frowned lightly at the younger boy's evident displeasure.
"The two lambs…" Prall spat, as he worked his jaw discontentedly.
"Don't call them that," Stephanie snapped out of habit.
Prall made to scoff, but thought better of it. He instead pinned Stephanie down with a withering look. "Course not," he agreed sarcastically. "We all know how fond you are of using personal first names afterall," he muttered meaningfully.
Stephanie froze. The suspicion was there in Prall's eyes again. She could see it clearly. But what was also evident, was the clear bafflement. Prall was wary of her, but he had no idea of the reason.
It was only a matter of time before someone noticed, Stephanie thought bitterly. She was receiving far too much attention for a defenceless tribute girl, that should have had no real odds of winning.
"Did you manage to secure any sponsors?"
Just when Stephanie was sure that her throat was closing over, Astara spoke, directing her question to Prall.
Prall's expression was immediately tinged with smugness. "Yes," he answered. "The Landas – Aral, Harron and their mother Sylva. The Landas' are one of the richest families in the Capitol."
Stephanie couldn't even find it in herself to refute Prall's words as she breathed a sigh of relief as their conversation moved on.
"Stephanie?" Astara looked to her questioningly.
But before Stephanie could speak Prall broke in with a contemptuous guffaw.
"Dess Landa practically ran in the opposite direction when I approached him – he swore the only tribute he would ever sponsor was Stephanie Trindlesworth," Prall said. "Thing was he looked terrified about it as well," Prall added in a slightly more thoughtful voice.
Stephanie knew why Dess behaved as he did. She remembered her conversation with Seneca in the car to the medical facility. Seneca had told her Dess had become her biggest sponsor after the Gamemaker had had a 'convincing chat' with him.
Stephanie attempted a careless shrug. "I had my dinner date with him," she said in a poor attempt at an explanation.
Astara arched a pale brow in blatant scepticism and Stephanie inwardly groaned.
Stephanie had the audacity to check Seneca for indiscreetness, when it was clear her own behaviour was just as bad!
"Astara did you get any sponsors?" Stephanie asked. It was beyond obvious that Stephanie was desperate to change the subject and switch the focus away from her, but she was precisely too desperate to care by this point.
"I mingled," Astara recited the Capitolite phrase distastefully before shrugging. "There was one woman who seemed interested, maybe."
"Great," Prall grumbled, scowling at Astara. But it was clear Astara didn't feel in the least guilty about not securing sponsors. And Stephanie couldn't blame her. The Capitol had stolen Astara and her twin brother's lives and she wouldn't easily forget or forgive that.
"And what about the lambs? – Frenkin and Ava?" Prall asked, looking pointedly to Stephanie.
Stephanie frowned, but answered quickly. "Frenkin already has secure sponsors with Mrs Ara and two other women."
Prall huffed, looking begrudgingly impressed. "Well, what do you know," he mused under his breath. "Good for something after all, even if it is only pity sponsors."
Stephanie gritted her teeth, feeling anger rise up in her. She had been sure Prall was going to walk away from their alliance, and a part of her wished he had. She didn't care what Electra said about needing Prall.
"Prall, if you don't want to be in this alliance, you're welcome to take your chances – on your own," Stephanie threatened, resisting the need to lash out at him physically.
A brief flash of fear lanced across Prall's expression and Stephanie felt marginally satisfied. Before the absolute anger twisted his childish features once more, his previous rage returning.
"You damn - !" Prall's dark insult tapered off as his clammy hand shot out to curl around Stephanie's upper arm painfully. Not expecting it, Prall yanked her forward and Stephanie's eyes widened in shock. Prall possessed a deceptive wiry strength in his lanky limbs.
"After everything you've done to damage things, you're not going to kick me out of my own alliance as well," Prall snarled threateningly at her.
"Hey! – First rules of alliances are not to try and kill those in your alliance," Astara's pale, bony hand stopped Prall's fingers from digging in any more to Stephanie's skin.
"Get your hand off me," Stephanie seethed as she stared defiantly up at the younger boy for an interminable moment.
Prall released her and Stephanie tried not to stumble at the suddenness of it.
Prall took a conscious step back, his eyes still smouldering angrily. "We'll have to start discussing the arena. But we can leave it until next time – the party is near over anyway." His voice was low and disgruntled and Stephanie refused to look at him.
"Besides, you have a public apology to make – with Seneca," Prall muttered scathingly before he stalked off. Stephanie valiantly attempted not to shudder at his words, because Astara was still standing at her shoulder.
Stephanie was immensely grateful then, that Frenkin and Ava hadn't been there to witness the heated exchange between their alliance partners.
Astara sighed lightly. "I can see why you don't trust him," she murmured, slightly sardonically.
Stephanie released a long breath of resignation, remembering similar words Slena Clearwater had said to her.
"We can't trust anyone Astara – it's the Hunger Games afterall," Stephanie replied hollowly.
…
"Seneca Crane, how do you respond to claims that your health is in serious jeopardy after a vicious attack from a Capitol mutt prototype, you've been working on for the Games?!"
Seneca ground his teeth together as he directed an icy glare at the idiotic reporter. If he had to field off one more question about his damn health, Seneca was sure he was going to snap and tear the entire squawking gaggle of reporters in front of him to pieces, any minute.
"As I have said before, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself; I am in perfect health," Seneca replied coolly, directing a withering glare on his fellow Gamemaker, King.
King flinched, feeling Seneca's burning gaze boring into him.
"You see when I said Seneca was…ah, unwell, what I really meant – "King began some pitiful attempt at trying to somehow unsuccessfully renege on his previous words. Seneca barely listened, tuning out the other man's voice, as he turned sharply to his personal bodyguard.
"Get me Selwa, now," Seneca muttered fiercely under his breath.
Seneca turned back to catch the end of King's unconvincing explanation and he barely resisted from scoffing aloud.
Seneca could easily announce to the reporters how King was vying desperately for the position of Head Gamemaker, and was forever searching for ways to oust Seneca from his place by undermining him. Making Seneca appear as a weak invalid was only King's latest laughable attempt. But Seneca's rage with the man was for an entirely different reason this time, than King's usual antics. And just as the red hot anger was beginning to cloud over Seneca's thoughts, the cloying cloud of perfume that suddenly invaded his senses, alerted Seneca to the appearance of his personal assistant and secretary Selwa at his side.
Seneca cut his eyes to the side at the smaller woman, as King uselessly tried to dissuade another reporter that Seneca wasn't desperately ill.
"Selwa, you're meant to be my damn secretary – deal with this! I swear if I have to answer another simpleton asking me if I am sick…" Seneca hissed venomously under his breath, leaving the threat to trail off ominously.
Selwa nodded emphatically, eyes wide, ever faithful clipboard clasped tightly in her hands. "Yes Sir, right away Sir," Selwa added quickly.
"Seneca Crane! Sir! What's your response to rumours of a mystery woman you've been hiding away?" The question was fired somewhere from Seneca's right and Seneca stiffened instinctively in response.
But his secretary along with her team of public relations officials had already swooped in to fend back the slew of questions, before Seneca could finalise the details of an arena in his mind, designed specifically for Capitolite reporters.
Freed from the reporters at last, Seneca's eyes tried to find Stephanie about the room, unsuccessfully. He hadn't seen her since she had exited the bathrooms her stylists had bundled her away to, directly after his arrival. Even from where he had been standing, Seneca had saw how pale and haggard looking she was, as she had weaved amongst the crowds. In fact, she had looked like she usually did after just fainting. The thought had pierced Seneca like a knife's stab. Impatience had fired his blood and he had had to fight down every impulse to go and get Stephanie immediately. Damn discretion and the entire Capitol, if he had to.
King smiled nervously at Seneca, in that disgustingly inane way that Seneca had always despised.
"Persistent lot those reporters were, eh?" King remarked feebly.
Seneca barely resisted the urge to bury his fist in King's round, shining face and to break every bone in King's greedy, podgy fingers. But with monumental effort, Seneca managed to maintain the look of icy civility on his face, so as to anyone else it merely looked like he was engaged in normal conversation with his fellow colleague.
Cameras were still circling around him like irritating buzzing flies and his personal bodyguard was keeping at bay eager people from the crowd who wanted to run up and accost him.
"King, what the hell do you think you're playing at?" Seneca demanded icily, composure never once faltering.
King's smile wavered slightly, as he wrung out his corpulent hands nervously. "Wirin Xavier had rang the events' organiser to say you would be arriving late, and I thought…"
"You thought you saw an opportunity to exploit my absence for your own gain. Is that it King?" Seneca finished scathingly.
King was visibly starting to struggle for an answer, his mask for the cameras slipping. Seneca's guard murmured a quiet caution, but Seneca ignored it as he kept his burning gaze fixed on King, fury uncoiling in him like hot, sparking wires.
"Seneca, I never meant to –"
Seneca never let King finish though. "You are to stay away from Stephanie Trindlesworth. Do you understand King?"
Brief confusion swept across King's face as he nodded once, jerkily.
Seneca had worked with King long enough to know the latter's tastes in tributes. The moment Seneca had saw Stephanie stood before King and that greedy look on King's face, Seneca knew. He knew that King; his fellow Gamemaker had dared to single Stephanie out for his own personal collection. Seneca felt a spike of rage for his presumptuous colleague as a fierce tide of possessiveness seized Seneca, and threatened to propel him forward to go and simply take Stephanie, tow her away out of this room and away from everyone.
"I want to hear you damn well say it," Seneca demanded, not breaking his lethal look from King.
"I warned you he would be annoyed, did I not?" A smooth sardonic voice interrupted them, saving King from grappling to formulate a response.
"And what is that supposed to mean, Sonny?" Seneca looked scathingly towards the other man, who had sidled up between him and King.
The other man, a fellow Gamemaker, his sunny yellow hair shaped into a cutting quiff, looked innocently to Seneca.
"I warned him not to go near that District 3 girl Seneca, that she was yours," Sonny remarked casually almost, and for a split second, Seneca swore his heart stopped.
"What?" Seneca breathed, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind, as icy fingers of dread splintered through his veins.
Sonny gave an easy, careless shrug. "I told King to leave the girl alone – she was yours," Sonny reiterated, "We all know afterall, you like to personally see to the deaths of those from District 3."
Seneca released a measured breath, trying to coax his tensed muscles to relax as Sonny's words registered.
Sonny merely thought Seneca's possessiveness to be because he wished to kill Stephanie himself. Seneca felt in equal measures relieved and enraged at the idea.
"Sir!"
"What?" Seneca snapped impatiently as his assistant Selwa popped up insistently at his side.
"Sir, I have just been informed that you have a televised interview with – "
"No," Seneca interrupted shortly. His patience had already been shot to pieces that night. There was no way Seneca could hold it together long enough to conduct an entire interview.
Selwa looked to Seneca helplessly, clipboard clutched in her perfectly manicured hands.
"I wouldn't blame you personally," Sonny sympathised, "I can think of nothing more tedious than to have to listen to a tribute, stutter out some idiotic apology."
Seneca arched a brow, barely interested. He was still caught up in his own thoughts. He knew it was dangerous to appear so distracted, especially when so much attention was focused on him with his late arrival. But he couldn't help it.
He was utterly exhausted, not able to remember the last full night's sleep he had enjoyed. And furthermore, the past few hours had been something of an emotional rollercoaster; from the darkest low of thinking he was going to lose Stephanie before he had even got her, to the crippling relief followed by his frantic search for a cure.
The only thing he had wanted was to arrive at the party, secure a private meeting with Stephanie as soon as possible for them both to slip away. There he could give her the pills and reassure himself that she was alive and breathing, and not be tortured by images of her still and cold like his sleep-deprived brain had been haunting him with. But he had arrived at the party only to discover every single thing working against him, including it seemed Stephanie herself.
King was determined to damage his image irrevocably. Every reporter in the Capitol had seemed to conspire together to absolutely erode what little scrap of patience he had away. And Seneca had to watch Stephanie flit tortuously about the vast room for the past agonising while, she never knowing just what he had endured for her the past hours.
"But Sir the interview, well…it's actually a public apology to – "
"Selwa, do you want to keep your job?" Seneca snapped, ice-blue eyes lancing his quavering secretary Selwa, meaningfully.
"Seneca, don't take it out on the poor girl," Sonny said smoothly, giving the cowed Selwa a charming grin. Selwa's cheeks pinked, as she managed a tremulous smile back for the sunny-haired Gamemaker. Seneca barely resisted rolling his eyes, his saturnine expression only deepening.
"It's that district girl's fault in the first place, Seneca," Sonny continued, expression turning sullen and dour, as it always did with the mere mention of tributes.
"Yes, yes it was," King eagerly interjected, keen to shift some of Seneca's fury to another source. "When Miss Trindlesworth insulted you like – "
"She what?" Seneca barked, looking incredulously between the three individuals stood before him.
"You didn't hear?" Sonny remarked, genially surprised.
"I haven't exactly been here, have I Sonny?" Seneca replied sarcastically.
Sonny gestured to Selwa and his secretary meekly offered her clipboard to Seneca. She tapped the inbuilt screen on her clipboard a few times, and suddenly Stephanie had appeared before Seneca, in a video clip that had clearly been shot exactly where Seneca was standing now.
Seneca frowned. She was even paler, hair tumbling messily and haphazardly over her shoulders. Seneca felt his blood boil as he saw the fear clear on Stephanie's face as King spoke to her in the video. King shifted uneasily beside Seneca as he saw Seneca's expression darken, watching the clip.
Then Seneca's features had smoothed to absolute impeccable vacantness.
"I'm not interested in that blue-eyed, arrogant Gamemaker for anything!" Stephanie, fiery-eyed, two pennants of colour blazing high in her cheeks, shot fiercely back at King in the video.
Seneca stopped the video and wordlessly handed the screen back to his secretary, Selwa.
"So you see Sir…t-that's why there has been a televised, public apology arranged, for Miss Trindlesworth – "
"Fine."
Selwa, Sonny and even King looked slightly surprised at Seneca's interruption; to have gone from so vehemently refusing any interview to so easily conceding within seconds, was utterly uncharacteristic of the blue-eyed Gamemaker.
"When is it?" Seneca asked, uncaring of the other's strange looks at his odd behaviour.
"W-well…" Selwa began uncertainly, but a sudden sharp look from Seneca, made her words speed up.
"Well Sir, the televised public apology is of course at your own convenience. Whenever you're ready, I will fetch Miss Trindlesworth and we can begin," Selwa said smartly.
"Good – get her now." Seneca ordered.
Selwa didn't need to be told twice, as she hurriedly scuttled off to do the Gamemaker's bidding.
"Trindlesworth…?" Sonny drawled contemptuously, a thoughtful look to his face.
"What?" Seneca snapped.
"Wasn't that the tribute you arranged the private interview with, after the idiotic girl missed hers at the first party a while back?" Sonny asked curiously.
Seneca felt his muscles tighten as he glared stonily at the bright-haired Gamemaker.
"And what is your point?" Seneca spat, eyes defiant; daring Sonny to try and make some connection between the two events. If Wirin was here, he would be having an aneurysm by now screaming discretion, Seneca knew.
Sonny shrugged lightly, as King's beady eyes flickered between the two taller Gamemakers avidly.
"Nothing. Nothing at all, Seneca," Sonny replied easily.