Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Snap - Claymore

Claymore

The only sound all day has been the noise of the trees and it's been doing my head in. I suspect that the only reason Portia hasn't stormed out is because there's no doors to slam on her way out, and she hurls a packet of dried fruit into my face with enough venom that it stings. I rub the spot on my forehead. I'm probably a disgrace back home now. All that training to run away and skulk around like any other tribute.

"Are you cross I came with you?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, "But if you go back now, they'll slaughter us."

I open my mouth to loudly deny that they'd ever get a touch on me, let alone a deadly blow...and close it again, because she's right. Venus, Luxury, Diamond, Elton, Chase, Adrienne and Crispin. All of them, I could take on my own. But all of them at the same time would be a different matter.

And of course, this time it's us not me. I've never had that before. I can't go back. As my mother would say, I've made my bed.

This is boring. Just sitting around doing nothing is no way to play the Games. That's a rule written inside my very core, etched into my being along with the slogans engraved into the walls of the changing rooms: the Games are about glory, no pain no Games. I might not be with the Careers, but I'm still a Career. Which is why I say without thinking, "We should go hunting."

She looks up at me quickly, sharp eyes digging into mine with fierce disapproval. "Animals yes. Tributes no."

That's when it strikes me. No animals. There haven't even been birds singing. Even in the pine woods back home there's birds, as well as shadowy rumours of bears, mink, even wolves.

How can she object to hunting? Yesterday she slit the girl's throat while she looked her big sister straight in the eyes. There are still specks of blood on her hands and a blotch on her neck, under her ear. How is hunting any different?

"Hunting is for animals, Claymore," she says, as though she's read my mind, still looking at whatever it is she's carving, "Not for people."

"They've got to die."

"Then let them die of their own accord. I won't track them down."

I breathe out a long sigh, a trick that the instructors used to tell me to do to keep my patience. You've got to be patient to be an archer, and it's the only thing that still eludes me sometimes, especially when I'm talking to her.

There's a leaf jutting out of her hair and the not-so-inner perfectionist in me itches to rip it out; it looks messy and careless. I run a hand over my hair to check, but it's still fine.

"They'll be furious with me back home," I offer. She should like that, she'll latch onto it and make a few sarcastic comments.

But that's not what happens.

What happens is that she stands up in one angry movement, a blade flashes in her hand and I'm on my feet and she's in throwing stance.

"You wouldn't. You couldn't." I almost repeat it again because my heart is hammering in my ears and I can barely hear. Beads of sweat collect at the base of my neck. She has the knife ready in her hand and she knows that I won't fight back.

I try to make my voice sound confident, like I'm completely convinced that she won't, and in case she's forgotten, I reach out a hand to tap the bracelet clamped around her arm.

The next second, I'm looking at the floor with my cheek burning, the whip of the slap still cracking around my ears. A few spots dance around my eyes and retreat. I'd hit her back but my mind is still trying to work out what happened and ouch, it hurt.