The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (A Hunger Games Novel) (The Hunger Games)

Lucy Gray understood instantly. Her eyes darted to the Peacekeepers, none of whom were paying attention, and she leaned in and took a sniff of the compact. “Mm, you can still smell it, though. Lovely.”

“Like roses,” he said.

“Like you,” she said. “It really would be like having you with me, wouldn’t it?”

“Go on,” he urged her. “Take me with you. Take it.”

Lucy Gray wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “Okay, but it’s a loaner.” She took the compact, slipped it into her pocket, and gave it a pat. “It helps to clarify my thinking. Somehow, winning the Games is just too large a thing to conceive of. But if I say, ‘I need to get this back to Coriolanus,’ I can wrap my mind around that.”

They talked a bit more, mostly about the layout of the arena and where the best hiding places might be, and he got half of the sandwich and all of a peach into her by the time Professor Sickle blew her whistle. Coriolanus wasn’t sure how it happened, but they must have both risen, both moved forward, because he found her in his arms, her hands clutching his shirtfront, as he locked her in an embrace.

“You’re all I’m going to think about in that arena,” she whispered.

“Not that guy back in Twelve?” he said only half-jokingly.

“No, he made sure he killed anything I felt for him,” she said. “The only boy my heart has a sweet spot for now is you.”

Then she gave him a kiss. Not a peck. A real kiss on the lips, with hints of peaches and powder. The feel of her mouth, soft and warm against his own, sent sensations surging through his body. Rather than pulling back, he held her even tighter as the taste and touch of her made his head spin. So this was what people were talking about! This was what made them so crazy! When they finally broke apart, he drew a deep breath, as if surfacing from the depths. Lucy Gray’s lashes fluttered open, and the look in her eyes matched his own. They simultaneously leaned in for another kiss when the Peacekeepers laid hands on her and led her away.

Festus nudged him on the way out of the hall. “That was some good-bye.”

Coriolanus just shrugged. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

“I guess,” Festus answered. “I tried to give Coral a reassuring pat on the shoulder and she about broke my wrist.”

The kiss left him giddy. Beyond a doubt he’d crossed a line, but he didn’t regret it. . . . It had been amazing. He walked home alone, savoring the bittersweet parting, electrified by his daring. Maybe he’d broken a rule or two by giving her the compact and suggesting she fill it with rat poison, who knew? There was no real rule book for the Hunger Games. Okay, he probably had. But even so, it was worth it. For her. Still, he wasn’t telling anyone, not even Tigris.

It wasn’t a game changer necessarily. It would take cleverness and luck to poison another tribute. But Lucy Gray was clever, and no more unlucky than the others. They would have to ingest the poison, so his job would be to get her the food to use as bait. He felt more in control, having something to do besides watch.

After the Grandma’am had gone to bed, he confided in Tigris. “I think she’s fallen in love with me.”

“Of course she has. What do you feel for her?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I kissed her good-bye.”

Tigris raised her eyebrows. “On the cheek?”

“No. On the lips.” He thought about how to explain it, but all he could muster was “She’s something else.” Which was undeniable, on so many levels. The truth was, he didn’t have much experience when it came to girls, and even less when it came to love. Keeping the Snows’ situation a secret had always been the top priority. The cousins rarely had anyone to the apartment, even when Tigris had fallen hard in her final year of the Academy. Her reluctance to bring her sweetheart home had been taken as lack of commitment and had been a deciding factor in the breakup. Coriolanus took the incident as a warning not to become too deeply entangled with anyone himself. Plenty of his classmates had been interested in him, but he’d skillfully kept them at arm’s length. The excuse of that broken elevator had come in handy, and the Grandma’am had had several fictional ailments that required absolute quiet. There had been that one thing, last year, in the alley behind the train station, but that wasn’t really a romance so much as a dare Festus had put him up to. Between the posca and the darkness, the memory was sketchy at best. On reflection, he had never even learned her name, but it had earned him the reputation of being rather a player.

But Lucy Gray was his tribute, headed into the arena. And even if the circumstances were different, she’d still be a girl from the districts, or at least not Capitol. A second-class citizen. Human, but bestial. Smart, perhaps, but not evolved. Part of a shapeless mass of unfortunate, barbaric creatures that hovered on the periphery of his consciousness. Surely, if there had ever been an exception to the rule, it was Lucy Gray Baird. A person who defied easy definition. A rare bird, just like him. Why else had the pressure of her lips on his turned his knees to water?

Coriolanus fell asleep that night replaying the kiss in his head. . . .

The morning of the Hunger Games dawned bright and clear. He readied himself, ate the eggs Tigris prepared for him, and made the long, hot walk to Capitol News. He declined the thick makeup that Lucky had spackled on his own face, but allowed a light dusting of powder, not wanting to be too sweaty for the cameras. Calm and unruffled: Those were the qualities a Snow should project. The powder smelled sweet but lacked the refinement of his mother’s cake, which was tucked in his sock drawer back home.

“Good morning, Mr. Snow.” Dr. Gaul’s voice snapped him to attention. Of course, she was here at the television studio. Where else would she be on the opening morning of the Games?

Why Dean Highbottom had found it necessary to make an appearance, he didn’t know, but his bleary eyes peered down at Coriolanus. “We hear there was quite a touching scene when you parted from your tribute last night.”

Ugh. Would it be possible to find two people less capable of love? How did they even know about the kiss? Professor Sickle didn’t seem like a gossip, so who was spreading it around? Probably most of the mentors had seen it. . . .

Never mind. These two would not get a rise out of him. “As Dr. Gaul pointed out, emotions are running high.”

“Yes, it’s too bad she’s not likely to last the day,” said Dr. Gaul.

How he hated the pair of them. Gloating. Baiting him. Still, all he could allow himself was an indifferent twitch of the shoulders. “Well, as they say, it’s not over until the mockingjay sings.” He felt satisfaction at the puzzlement on their faces. They did not have a chance to question him, because Remus Dolittle appeared to inform them that the boy tribute from District 5 had passed away in the night due to complications from asthma or some such — anyway, the veterinarian couldn’t save him — and they had to go off and address his loss.

Try as he might, Coriolanus couldn’t remember the boy, or even which of his classmates had been assigned to mentor him. In preparation for the opening of the Games, he’d updated the mentor list he’d received from Professor Demigloss. He’d decided, for simplicity’s sake, to cross the teams off in pairs, regardless of what had happened to them. He didn’t mean to be ruthless, but there was no other way to keep it straight. He pulled the list out of his book bag now to record this latest casualty.

10th HUNGER GAMES

MENTOR ASSIGNMENTS

The number of Lucy Gray’s competitors had now dropped to thirteen. Another gone, and a boy, too. This could only be good news for her.

His mentor sheet had begun to get a bit crumpled, so he folded it in crisp quarters and decided to put it in the outside pocket of his book bag for easy access. When he opened it, he discovered a handkerchief. He puzzled a moment, since his were always on his person, then remembered that this was the one Lucy Gray had returned after drying her eyes the day he’d brought her the bread pudding. It felt good to have something so personal, a talisman of sorts, and he slid the list in carefully beside it.

The only mentors invited to appear on the pre-show were the seven who’d participated on interview night. They had, by default, become the Capitol faces of the Games, even though several of their tributes seemed like long shots. A corner of the studio had been outfitted with a few upholstered living room chairs, a coffee table, and a slightly crooked chandelier. Most of the mentors rehashed their tributes’ backgrounds, playing up any dangerous elements they could.

Since Coriolanus had devoted his entire interview to Lucy Gray’s song, he was the only one with fresh material. Pleased to have something new, Lucky Flickerman let him run over his allotted time. After filling in the usual details, Coriolanus spent most of the time talking about the Covey and emphasizing that Lucy Gray was not really district, no, not really at all. The Covey had a long history as musical performers, were artists of a kind rarely seen, and were no more like district residents than people from the Capitol were. In fact, if you thought about it, they almost were Capitol, and only by a series of misfortunes had somehow landed, or quite possibly been mistakenly detained, in District 12. Surely people could see how at home Lucy Gray seemed in the Capitol? And Lucky had to agree that yes, yes, there was something special about the girl.

Lysistrata shot him a look of annoyance as she took his seat, which he understood when he realized she was trying to tie Jessup to Lucy Gray in her interview and win sympathy for the two as a pair. While it was true that Jessup was District 12 coal miner stock through and through, hadn’t the two of them shown a natural partnership from the first bow? And who hadn’t noticed the unusual closeness between them, so often absent in tributes from the same district? In fact, Lysistrata was convinced that they were devoted to each other. With Jessup’s strength and Lucy Gray’s ability to charm the audience, she felt sure this year’s victor would come from District 12.

The reason for Dean Highbottom’s presence became clear when he followed on Lysistrata’s heels. He managed to discuss the mentor-tribute program as if he hadn’t been drugged the entire time. Actually, Coriolanus found it a little unsettling how lucid some of his observations were. He noted that the Capitol students had begun with certain prejudices against their district counterparts, but in the two weeks since the reaping, many had formed a new appreciation and respect for them. “It’s essential, as they say, to know your enemy. So what better way to get to know each other than to join forces in the Hunger Games? The Capitol won the war only after a long, hard fight, and recently our arena was bombed. To imagine that on either side we lack intelligence, strength, or courage would be a mistake.”

“But surely, you’re not comparing our children to theirs?” asked Lucky. “One look tells you ours are a superior breed.”

“One look tells you ours have had more food, nicer clothing, and better dental care,” said Dean Highbottom. “Assuming anything more, a physical, mental, or especially a moral superiority, would be a mistake. That sort of hubris almost finished us off in the war.”

“Fascinating,” said Lucky, seemingly for lack of a better response. “Your views are absolutely fascinating.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flickerman. I can think of no one whose opinion I value more,” deadpanned the dean.

Coriolanus thought the dean’s eye roll was implied, but Lucky blushed in response. “That’s very kind, Mr. Highbottom. As we all know, I am only a humble weatherman.”

“And a budding magician,” Dean Highbottom reminded him.

“Well, perhaps I’ll plead guilty to that!” said Lucky with a chortle. “Hold on, what’s this?” He reached behind Dean Highbottom’s ear and pulled out a small, flat candy with bright stripes. “I believe this is yours.” He presented it to Dean Highbottom, the colors smearing his damp palm.

Dean Highbottom made no move to take it. “My goodness. Where did that come from, Lucky?”

“Secrets of the trade,” said Lucky with a knowing grin. “Secrets of the trade.”

Cars were waiting to carry them back to the Academy, and Coriolanus found himself with Felix and Dean Highbottom. The two seemed to know each other socially, and they largely ignored Coriolanus while they caught up on gossip. It gave him time to reflect on what Dean Highbottom had said about the people in the districts. That they were essentially the equals of those in the Capitol, only worse off materially. It was a somewhat radical idea for the dean to be putting out there. Certainly, the Grandma’am and many others would reject it, and it diminished Coriolanus’s own effort, which had been to present Lucy Gray as someone completely other than district. He wondered how much of that had had to do with a winning strategy, and how much of it reflected his confusion about his feelings for her.

It was not until they were headed into the hall, and Felix was distracted by a camera crew, that Coriolanus felt a hand on his arm. “You know that friend of yours from Two? The emotional one?” Dean Highbottom asked him.

“Sejanus Plinth,” said Coriolanus. Not that they were actually friends, but that wasn’t any of Dean Highbottom’s business.

“You might want to find him a seat near the door.” The dean slipped his bottle from his pocket, ducked behind a nearby pillar, and dosed himself with morphling drops.

Before he could consider this, Lysistrata appeared in a temper. “Honestly, Coriolanus, you could work with me a little! Jessup keeps calling Lucy Gray his ally!”

“I had no idea that was your pitch. Really, I didn’t mean to trip you up. If we get another chance, I’ll work in the team angle,” he promised.

“That’s a big if,” said Lysistrata with an exasperated huff.

Satyria made her way through the crowd and didn’t help the situation when she crowed, “What a clever interview, my dear. I half believe your girl was Capitol-born myself! Now come on. You, too, Lysistrata! You need your badges and communicuffs!”

She led them through the hall, which, unlike in previous years, was buzzing with excitement. People were shouting good luck to him, congratulating him on the interview. Coriolanus enjoyed the attention, but there was something undeniably disturbing about it as well. In the past, these had been subdued occasions, in which people avoided eye contact and spoke only when necessary. Now an eagerness filled the hall, as if a much-loved entertainment awaited them.

At a table, a Gamemaker oversaw the distribution of mentor supplies. While all were given a bright yellow badge with the word Mentor emblazoned on it to wear around their necks, only the ones with tributes still in the Games were issued communicuffs, making them the objects of envy. So much personal technology had disappeared during the war and its aftermath, as manufacturing had focused on other priorities. These days, even simple devices were a big deal. The cuffs buckled onto the wrist and featured a small screen, where the tally of sponsor gifts blinked in red. All the mentors had to do was scroll down the list of food items, select one from the menu, and double-click on it for a Gamemaker to set its delivery by drone in motion. Some of the tributes had no gifts at all coming to them. Despite not appearing at the interviews, Reaper had picked up a few sponsors from his time in the zoo, but Clemensia was nowhere to be seen, and her communicuff sat unclaimed at the table, drawing covetous looks from Livia.

Coriolanus drew Lysistrata aside and showed her his screen. “Look, I’ve got a small fortune to work with. If they’re together, I’ll send in food for both.”

“Thank you. I’ll do the same. I didn’t mean to snap like that. It’s not your fault. I should’ve brought it up before.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “It’s just . . . I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about sitting through this. I know it’s to punish the districts, but haven’t we punished them enough? How long do we have to keep dragging the war out?”

“I think Dr. Gaul believes forever,” he said. “Like she told us in class.”

“It’s not just her. Look at everybody.” She indicated the party-like atmosphere of the room. “It’s revolting.”

Coriolanus tried to calm her. “My cousin said to remember this isn’t of our making. That we’re still children, too.”

“That doesn’t help, somehow. Being used like this,” said Lysistrata sadly. “Especially when three of us are dead.”

Used? Coriolanus had not thought of being a mentor as anything but an honor. A way to serve the Capitol and perhaps gain a little glory. But she had a point. If the cause wasn’t honorable, how could it be an honor to participate in it? He felt confused, then manipulated, then undefended. As if he were more a tribute than a mentor.

“Tell me it will be over quickly,” Lysistrata said.

“It will be over quickly,” Coriolanus reassured her. “Want to sit together? We can coordinate our gifts.”

“Please,” she said.

The whole school had assembled by this time. They made their way over to the section of twenty-four mentor seats, which were set in the same place they’d been for the reaping. Everyone able was required to attend, whether they had a viable tribute or not. “Let’s not sit in the front,” said Lysistrata. “I don’t want that camera right in my face when he’s killed.” She was right, of course. The camera would go to the mentor, and if Lucy Gray died, especially if Lucy Gray died, he was assured a good, long close-up.

Coriolanus obliged her by heading toward the back row. As they settled themselves in, he turned his attention to the giant screen on which Lucky Flickerman acted as tour guide to the districts, giving background about their industries, spiced with weather facts and the occasional magic trick. The Hunger Games had been a big break for Lucky, and he was not above accompanying his District 5 spiel on energy with some gadget that made his hair stand on end. “It’s electrifying!” he panted.

“You’re an idiot,” muttered Lysistrata, and then something caught her attention. “That must’ve been an awful flu.”

Coriolanus followed her gaze to the table, where Clemensia had just collected her communicuff. She was scanning the room for someone. . . . Oh, it was him! The moment their eyes met, she made a beeline for the back row, and she didn’t look happy. She looked terrible, really. The bright yellow of her eyes had faded to a pale pollen shade, and a long-sleeved, high-collared, white blouse concealed the scaly area, but even with those improvements, she radiated sickliness. She picked distractedly at the dry patches on her face, and her tongue, while not protruding from her mouth, seemed bent on exploring the inside of her cheek. She made her way to the seat directly in front of him and stood there, flicking bits of skin randomly into the air as she examined him.

“Thanks for visiting, Coryo,” Clemensia said.

“I meant to, Clemmie, I was pretty beat-up —” he started to explain.

She cut him off. “Thanks for contacting my parents. Thanks for letting them know where I was.”

Lysistrata looked puzzled. “We knew where you were, Clem. They said you couldn’t have visitors because you were contagious. I tried to call once, but they said you were sleeping.”

Coriolanus ran with that. “I tried, too, Clemmie. Repeatedly. They always gave me the runaround. And as to your parents, the doctors promised they were on the way.” None of that was true, but what could he say? Obviously, the venom had unbalanced her, or she wouldn’t even be bringing the whole incident up in such a public setting. “If I was wrong, I’m sorry. As I said, I’ve been recovering myself.”

“Really?” she said. “You looked top-notch at the interview. You and your tribute.”

“Easy, Clem. It’s not his fault you got sick,” said Festus, who’d arrived in time to hear enough of the conversation.

“Oh, shut up, Festus. You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Clemensia spat out, and stomped off to take a seat near the front.

Festus settled down next to Lysistrata. “What’s her problem? Other than she looks like she’s molting.”

“Oh, who knows? We’re all a mess,” said Lysistrata.

“Still, that isn’t like her. I wonder what —” Festus began.

“Sejanus!” Coriolanus called out, happy for an interruption. “Over here!” There was an empty seat next to him, and he needed to shift the conversation.

“Thanks,” said Sejanus, dropping into the seat on the end. He looked unwell, exhausted, with a feverish sheen on his skin.

Lysistrata reached across Coriolanus and pressed one of his hands. “The sooner it starts, the sooner it can be over.”

“Until next year,” he reminded her. But he gave her hand a grateful pat back.

The students had barely been instructed to take their seats when the seal of the Capitol overtook the screens and the anthem drew everyone to their feet. Coriolanus’s voice rang out over those of the other mentors, who mumbled their way through. Honestly, by this point, couldn’t they make a little effort?

When Lucky Flickerman returned and extended his hands in a welcoming gesture, Coriolanus could see the bright candy smear from the magic trick on his palm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let the Tenth Hunger Games begin!”

A wide shot of the arena’s interior replaced Lucky. The fourteen tributes who remained on his list were positioned in a large circle, awaiting the opening gong. No one paid any attention to them, or to the new wreckage from the bombing that littered the field, or to the weapons strewn on the dusty ground, or to the flag of Panem strung from the stands, adding an unprecedented decorative touch to the arena.

All eyes moved with the camera, riveted as it slowly zoomed in to the pair of steel poles not far from the main entrance of the arena. They were twenty feet high, joined by a crossbeam of similar length. At the center of the structure, Marcus hung from manacled wrists, so battered and bloody that at first Coriolanus thought they were displaying his corpse. Then Marcus’s swollen lips began to move, showing his broken teeth and leaving little doubt he was still alive.