Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“They’re peaceful.”
“If they are, they’re outliers. All the birds I’ve encountered are vicious.” A dribble of bloody spittle leaks from Snow’s mouth. “Bet I know a thing or two about your dove.”
“Like what?”
“Like she’s delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.”
Not exactly, but too close. I think of the misty look she gets when she talks about the open road, the life of the Covey, and a kind of freedom that has nothing to do with me. Worse, I think of Clay Chance and the fire under the reaping stage and how there’s a part of her she refuses to share with me. She’d say it was to keep me safe, but maybe she just doesn’t trust me with her secrets.
“She loves me,” I insist.
“No doubt she says so. But believe me, romantically speaking, you’re dodging a bullet with these Games.”
“So I should be thanking you?”
Snow laughs. “You should. Although perhaps not for that.”
“For what? You’re sending me to my death in the Games.”
“Yes, your behavior has guaranteed that.”
There it is, in case I had a shred of hope left. Straight from the horse’s mouth. Allies or no, I am a dead man walking.
“On the good side,” he continues, “with you out of the picture, Lenore Dove and your family should be free to enjoy long and happy lives.”
Even though their safety is my greatest concern, his reminder that their future will not include me is, as Maysilee would say, “a special kind of vicious.”
Snow dabs at the spittle with his shirt cuff. “But there are many different ways to die in the arena. You might get stabbed, or strangled, or die of thirst. Death by mutt tends to be the most memorable. We have some beauties this year. Programmable to serve individual tributes. And far scarier than the weasels.”
He watched it, then. Our tribute session in the kitchen where we revealed our final wishes. “I have no say in that.”
“No, but I do. And I will orchestrate your death based on your behavior from here on out. You decide what you want Lenore Dove and your mother and that dear little brother of yours to see. You can die clean and fair, or we can open the Games with the slowest, most agonizing death ever to befall a tribute. And yes, you should be thanking me for giving you the option.”
I meet those pale blue eyes. “I guess you’ve got me.”
“Don’t feel too badly. You’re in good company. You know, my family has its own little aphorism.”
“What’s that?”
“Snow lands on top.” Without shifting his focus from me, he calls out, “Hide-and-seek is over! You can join us now!”
Who is he summoning? My torturers, brought in to reinforce his threat?
“So, no more unauthorized chariot rides, I think. No mocking me on or off camera,” he continues. “And I have a belated birthday gift for you. I want it treated with the gratitude it deserves.” He inclines his head in the direction of the conservatory.
Standing in the doorway is Louella McCoy.
Part 2
My heart leaps, then sinks like a stone. I feel Louella’s crushed skull leaking hot blood into my hand. See her vacant eyes. She was good and dead in a way that defied return. So who is this girl in the doorway?
She sure looks like Louella. Same size, same height. Heart-shaped face, big gray eyes, long dark braids. Her fingernails are bitten down and there’s a scar on her forehead that matches the one the real Louella got falling off our cistern. She wears the District 12 training outfit, as if she’d dressed at the apartment with us this morning. Maysilee’s purple and yellow flower bead necklace hangs over her collar. She checks every box.
But this isn’t Louella. In the same way you instinctively know the waxed pears on the table lack juice, this girl lacks Louella’s essence.
“Come in. You know Haymitch,” the president says.
Fake Louella crosses to the end of the table. “Hello, Haymitch.”
The accent’s only slightly off, but the greeting’s a dead giveaway. Louella is a “Hey, Hay” or “How you?” kind of girl. Her cheekbones look funny, too. Like they’ve shot something into her face to make it fuller. Most of all, she won’t look me in the eye, which my sweetheart never failed to do.
“Who are you?” I ask her.
She stares at the mess of pears on the table, her eyes unfocused. “My name is Louella McCoy. I’m from District Twelve.”
“You’re not,” I tell her, then address Snow. “She’s not. Anyone can see it.”
“I doubt it. Her family, maybe a few close friends. No one outside of the drunken audience at the parade even witnessed the accident. People will believe she’s Louella. Especially since you’ll be there by her side, coaching her, like the good ally you are. A perfect pair in what I am determined to make a perfect Quarter Quell.”
I understand now. The people who saw the crash in person will be told Louella recovered. Incitatus Loomy, the parade master, has been killed for his incompetence. Poisoned by a plate of oysters that Snow somehow survived. And it is up to me and Fake Louella here to cover the worst casualty of the evening.
Plutarch hustles into the room with a glass of milk and a plate of rolls. He pulls up short at the sight of Louella. “Is that -?”
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