𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄 ▸ HUNGER GAMES [ 1 ]

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY ONE -

After two days of sitting tight at the camp, nursing our wounds from 12's attack and generally rethinking our strategy, us remaining four are prepared and baying for blood. The girl on fire would be our ideal target, but I doubt she's stupid enough to set foot anywhere near the camp after the stunt she pulled.

I head out on a hunt just after breakfast, Cato at my side. The sting on my thigh no longer throbs when I walk or run, and I only notice it when branches brush my legs. Even then, the sharp hint of pain is easy to ignore in favour of more important things. Like revenge. Cato has made it clear that he is ready to comb every inch of the forest until we find Katniss Everdeen, but with a few convincing words I manage to reduce our hunting ground to the few miles square around the camp.

It feels good to be back amongst the trees. Knives in my hands, poised to throw. And Cato looks happier, no doubt because he feels we're closer to making a new kill.

There were no tributes in the sky last night, which means Peeta must have somehow survived the attack, however unlikely it seems. The sheer amount of blood dripping from Cato's sword could only have indicated a deep cut, designed to drain the victim. The fact that Peeta is still alive is some kind of miracle. But it also means he must be out here somewhere, wounded and hanging on by a thread. We are going to track him down.

When I spot the figure hobbling away through the trees, I'm almost certain we have him. The way the boy's leg drags behind him across the forest floor, catching on gnarled roots, threatening to trip him, indicates some kind of earlier injury. He's slow enough that we could catch up to him walking.

The two of us ground to a halt in a small clearing, and I pull a knife from my vest, holding it out to Cato. "Care to do the honours?"

His eyes light up like a kid at Christmas. "Don't mind if I do." He yanks the blade from my grip and throws. Immediately I can tell his trajectory is all wrong, confirmed when my knife lodges into a tree trunk a metre away from the retreating boy's figure.

"You really can't throw for shit, can you?" I growl up at my District partner, who just laughs.

"Go on then Clover, show all us amateurs how it's done." He teases, crossing his arms over his chest as he steps back. All of a sudden I feel like I'm back home in 2, at the Academy. Cato Hadley's playfully mocking voice whispering to me in the locker rooms. I'm struck down by my prior lack of observation. Everything about the way he tries to insult me, and always has done, is so evidently flirtatious, it makes me laugh out loud. Loren was right. I must be blind not to have noticed it.

The boy is still attempting to escape, but he must know he won't get far enough to evade us. He must have accepted by now that he is going to die. I dart forwards through the trees to get a clear line of sight between the branches, and the moment it's there I pull a second knife from my vest and throw. The blade spins through the air, sailing in a perfect arc before sinking into the tribute's back. He collapses forward in a heap, groaning loudly as he lands on his front amongst the undergrowth.

I fix Cato with an innocent smile as he sidles up beside me. "Nailed it."

He shakes his head, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment before we make our way towards the fallen tribute. Up close it's obvious that the boy is not our defected ally. A mop of strawberry blonde curls sticks out from the hood of a burnt orange jacket. He's still gasping for breath as I slide my knife from his back and return both weapons to the vest. Bright crimson blood bubbles up around the wound, and it's clear he doesn't have long left.