The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins [98]
She’s cost me time, too, because by now it’s clear that I must get to the table next. Anyone who beats me to it will easily scoop up my pack and be gone. Without hesitation, I sprint for the table. I can sense the emergence of danger before I see it. Fortunately, the first knife comes whizzing in on my right side so I can hear it and I’m able to deflect it with my bow. I turn, drawing back the bowstring and send an arrow straight at Clove’s heart. She turns just enough to avoid a fatal hit, but the point punctures her upper left arm. Unfortunately, she throws with her right, but it’s enough to slow her down a few moments, having to pull the arrow from her arm, take in the severity of the wound. I keep moving, positioning the next arrow automatically, as only someone who has hunted for years can do.
I’m at the table now, my fingers closing over the tiny orange backpack. My hand slips between the straps and I yank it up on my arm, it’s really too small to fit on any other part of my anatomy, and I’m turning to fire again when the second knife catches me in the forehead. It slices above my right eyebrow, opening a gash that sends a gush running down my face, blinding my eye, filling my mouth with the sharp, metallic taste of my own blood. I stagger backward but still manage to send my readied arrow in the general direction of my assailant. I know as it leaves my hands it will miss. And then Clove slams into me, knocking me flat on my back, pinning my shoulders to the ground, with her knees.
This is it, I think, and hope for Prim’s sake it will be fast. But Clove means to savor the moment. Even feels she has time. No doubt Cato is somewhere nearby, guarding her, waiting for Thresh and possibly Peeta.
“Where’s your boyfriend, District Twelve? Still hanging on?” she asks.
Well, as long as we’re talking I’m alive. “He’s out there now. Hunting Cato,” I snarl at her. Then I scream at the top of my lungs. “Peeta!”
Clove jams her fist into my windpipe, very effectively cutting off my voice. But her head’s whipping from side to side, and I know for a moment she’s at least considering I’m telling the truth. Since no Peeta appears to save me, she turns back to me.
“Liar,” she says with a grin. “He’s nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him. You’ve probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What’s in the pretty little backpack? That medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he’ll never get it.”
Clove opens her jacket. It’s lined with an impressive array of knives. She carefully selects an almost dainty-looking number with a cruel, curved blade. “I promised Cato if he let me have you, I’d give the audience a good show.”
I’m struggling now in an effort to unseat her, but it’s no use. She’s too heavy and her lock on me too tight.
“Forget it, District Twelve. We’re going to kill you. Just like we did your pathetic little ally... what was her name? The one who hopped around in the trees? Rue? Well, first Rue, then you, and then I think we’ll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound?” Clove asks. “Now, where to start?”
She carelessly wipes away the blood from my wound with her jacket sleeve. For a moment, she surveys my face, tilting it from side to side as if it’s a block of wood and she’s deciding exactly what pattern to carve on it. I attempt to bite her hand, but she grabs the hair on the top of my head, forcing me back to the ground. “I think...” she almost purrs. “I think we’ll start with your