The Missing


"I AM AVITUS!" The stylist howls in pain, spraying Klerkov with long strings of spittle as he is pushed forcefully to the door. "AVITUS WHO DRESSES CHAMPIONS! GREAT AVITUS THE EXCELLENT, AVITUS THE REVERED-"

But Klerkov has no mercy, and his every blow is punctuated by an insult worth of his Almightiness himself. "You are Avitus who dressed champions, Avitus the fool, Avitus the pompous, Avitus the old! Avitus the Ridiculous, Avitus the Poppycock (if you even have that much left), Avitus the Absurd, and I say to you, Avitus, Pah!" The great doors of the hall slam shut with an ominous clang, and we're left alone in the silence. All of Avitus' great entourage is gone, and I'm left with Xavier, Tasha, Klerkov, and the ever-present, ever-silent Avox who await our every wish.

"Well," Klerkov says brightly, clapping his great hands together. "I suppose we should send for someone else, my Petra?"

Three hours. My Games—my life—in his bearish hands. "I suppose."

"Klerkov," Tasha Pushkina shrieks shrilly, the shock finally wearing through, "there's no time!"

"Relax, Natalayia, relax," he pats her hand. "I must not only look the part of the drunken fool, I must play it as well." He grins. "I called ahead."

"But who, Klerkov?" Tasha whines. "They have three hours! Just tell me who!"

But my Mentor is silent. "I shall return," he states cryptically, "and shall bring someone worthy to dress my champion."

He turns to me, razor-sharp nails combing his oiled beard. "You, eat. Rest. You'll need your strength."

Cry-baby looks up at him expectantly. "And you…yes. Well," he is saved the timely intervention of the Avox girls, lined up and ready to lavish him with doting, maternal affection. "Ah, yes." Victor Ivan Klerkov concedes. "Yes."

Eat, drink, and be merry, Xavier Malcovitch, for tomorrow you may die.


To my surprise—and embarrassment—Avitus' Apprentice is still here. He offers me a long, silken robe that glides over my body like cool water. I gather it and tie it as fast as my fumbling hands allow.

"Um, thanks," I mumble. "For the robe."

"It was either you or the boy," he shrugs carelessly. "You have breasts, and I heard from the medical bay he bites."

I don't know whether to smile or frown. "Only if you scare him."

He flashes me a winning smile. "Again, no breasts. And out of the two of you, you're the one who seems to mind." He gestures with his head to Xavier Malcovitch, stretching sleepily, oblivious to his nakedness as Tasha Pushkina and that horde of silent girls pamper him. A team of medically designated Avox have already fitted his prosthetic, laced with antibiotic and morphling.

"What are you still doing here?" I ask as he offers me plush lambskin slippers. I slide them on my aching feet gratefully. "I fired you."

"You fired Avitus," he explains, sitting down beside me. "Not me. An Apprentice chooses his Master, not the other way around. It's my career, after all, and I can do as I damn well please."

I study him for a long, long moment. His coppery skin is slick and oiled, but still human nonetheless. Unlike the nurses this morning or even Tasha Pushkina, there's no paint, no scales, no feathers or whiskers that descry him as Capitol. His clothes are eccentric, yes, but only because I'm from District 6. A solid black jumpsuit, and it looks to be made of leather, but much finer quality than I've ever seen except for Klerkov's costume. "You don't even know who it is," I return. "You're risking an awful lot for someone you don't even know."

"Neither do you." He says simply. "And I didn't do it for you, Tribute, I did it for me. You just fired a Stylist with three hours to spare—so this I've just got to see. Don't mistake curiosity for kindness, not if you have any thoughts of getting out of those Games alive."

I set my jaw, anger beginning to burn anew. "Petra."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Petra, Petra Angelovna, and you'd best remember it," I hiss. "My Stylist might not be able to fire you, but I can."

Far from being offended, he merely grins, lowering his mirrored lenses for the first time to appraise me anew. I scowl, then gasp. Those eyes are green, and flecked with gold. My heart skips a beat on its own accord. "You again!"

That handsome face breaks into a grimace of disgust. "Let me guess, you went to the Medic this morning."

"Y-yes-"

"Marcus," he grunts.

"What?"

"You met Marcus," he explains in resignation. "My older brother."

"Oh," I say, somehow disappointed. "You look-"

"A lot alike," he finishes with an air of boredom, rising stiffly. "I know. But trust me, Petra Angelovna, we're nothing alike." They both called me Tribute, but they both said my name. As he walks away, sulking, I'm inclined to disagree.


I wind my way to Tasha Pushkina, still waiting anxiously for Klerkov's return.

"Any idea who he'll bring?" I ask her, plopping down next to Cry-baby on a plumped couch with zig-zagged pinstripes. It's enough to make my eyes hurt.

"No," she sighs, her magnificent hair completely askew from worrying it. "None at all. Not unless-"

"Unless?" I press, curious. But my Escort only frowns.

"Nothing, Petra," she finally says, face oddly serious. "That would be impossible."

"Who?"

"Tiberia," she whispers quietly.

"Who's Tiberia?" I press. "Why is that impossible?"

"Tiberia was a Stylist years ago, Petra, fierce enough to have been a Victor herself. She refused to follow the tradition of dressing a Victor for life. She liked the excitement, the thrill of the Games so much she worked solely with each year's new Tributes. She dressed dozens of them, beginning with the first Hunger Games," Tasha continues, dark eyes burning. "Petra Angelovan, Tiberia was truly the stuff of legend."

The first Hunger Games? "Wouldn't she be…I dunno…dead?"

Tasha Pushkina sighs. "That's why I said it'd be impossible. She'd be over one-hundred years old by now."

"But she's not dead?" I ask, surprised. Any idiot who watched the Games would know that Caesar Flickerman hasn't aged in decades. I knew about the corrective surgeries to alter appearances, but how long to the Capitol citizens actually live?

"That's just it, Petra," she shrugs. "No one knows. Her body was never found, but she hasn't made a public appearance, hasn't even been seen since her last Victor, and that was twenty-five years ago."

"Twenty-five years ago?" Something clicks. "But that would've been Kler-"

"Klerkov's Games." She finishes. "I was only a child, but I remember those Games well." Every adult I've ever met has said the same thing, but few have been willing to talk about it. My father told my sisters and I as children to beware that man, that drunken medved', because he was dangerous. Mothers told their children to be back home and inside by dark because the Maneater would kill them if he caught them outside. From what I gleaned as a child from these dark legends and nightmarish monsters that prowled, hungry for children's blood, those Games were one of the shortest and bloodiest in history. That memory is firmly pressed onto District 6's psyche, even a quarter of a century later. No Careers, no Volunteers, just one man, one of three District 6 Victors in all of the Hunger Games' long history, and no one wants to talk about it. I've known all along Victor Ivan Klerkov was my Mentor, was a Victor…but somehow I'd forgotten he, too, was once a mere Tribute like me.

"But she disappeared after the Victor's interview," Tasha interrupts my thoughts. "It was a huge scandal, then an investigation, and finally a media sensation. No one's seen her since."

"She dressed Klerkov, then?" It's somewhat of a surprise. A Stylist with such an impressive history, dressing the Tribute from a District as unimpressive as ours?

She nods, albeit sadly. "Tiberia dressed District 6 that year due to a conflict of interest. You see, Petra…the Tribute from District 1—her birthplace—was a Volunteer."

My heart plummets. I don't want to hear, don't want to know, don't want to think of Malcovna's pleas, of Cry-baby sleeping just out of reach…

"Her grandson."


It's been nearly half and hour, and Klerkov's still not back.

"He'll be back," I tell Xavier Malcovitch firmly. "He'll come back for us. I know he will." You want to believe he will, I remind myself, but what if the Capitol got smart about this morning's ruse? What if he's not coming back with a Stylist? What if he's not coming back at all-?

"Two hours, Petra Angelovna," Avitus' Apprentice whistles from across the room. "This is going to be impressive."

I don't respond. I don't have to. Tasha Pushkina shoots him a glare, and he falls silent. Her feminine yet oh-so-severe painted on eyebrows have that effect on most, including Klerkov. "You'll want to be careful," she finally whispers.

"Careful?" I ask.

"With him," she gestures to that dark Apprentice, leaning nonchalantly against the opposite wall, arms crossed with one foot standing, the other propped up behind him. "Cinna Raelius."

"Why?" Cinna Raelius is handsome, understated, and carries a sense of save confidence and ease. He might be a jackass, but he's certainly a charming one.

"He's a bit of a pariah in the Games circuit, always switching from one Stylist to the next, depending on the year," she explains. "Effie Framington swears he's reneged mid-Games before if he isn't happy with the Chariot outfit."

An Apprentice chooses his Master, not the other way around. It's my career, and I can do as I damn well please. Bold, brash, foolish words, perhaps; but not dangerous.

"So?"

"So he tries to come off chic and cool, Petra, but underneath it all Cinna Raelius is just a lazy, arrogant 'slovoc who got this job because his uncle's in deep with President Snow. His brother is a Games Medic for the same reasons. Boys like that make dangerous men."

Suddenly the situation is so ridiculous as to be laughable. "So you're warning me not to be impressed? Tasha, please," I roll my eyes. "Look at him, he's gorgeous and from the Capitol. Even if I wanted to, and wasn't on my way to the Games, I wouldn't stand a chance."

"Others have said the same," she shrugs. "But that's not why he's dangerous."

That humor vanishes without a trace. A shadow falls, cold and silent. "You think it's likely he's reporting? To the Game Authorities?"

"I think it's unlikely that he's not," she counters.

It saddens me. Not for Cinna's sake, but for my own. Who are you, Marcus Raelius? Why did you warn me against the Capitol when you were working for them? Was it because of the Resistance this morning? Were you testing me for Libertas sympathies? I feel cold, naked, and alone. My Mentor is missing, I have no Stylist, and even those who are kindest to me might be betrayers instead. I am Petra Angelovna, Petra Stone-heart, and there is no one left in all of Panem I can trust.

My fingers tighten in Cry-baby's curls. I envy him, sleeping peacefully, unsuspectingly, head laid in his killer's lap. Of the twenty-four of us selected to die, he's the only one foolish, only one childish enough to believe this momentary lull of safety.