Sparks Fly

Chapter 11

"No!" I cry, and spring forward. It's too late to stop the arm from descending, so I instinctively throw myself directly between the whip and Gale. I've flung out my arms to protect as much of his broken body as possible, so there's nothing to deflect the lash that slices my cheek.

The pain is blinding and instantaneous. Black spots flutter in and out of my vision and I fall to my knees, a loud crack shuddering through my body as I hit the cobblestones. I cup my injured face, which has now swelled to cover my eye. The stones beneath me are wet with Gale's blood, the scent hot and thick as it reaches my nostrils. "Stop it! You'll kill him!" I shriek.

I stare down my assailant. His eyes so black they seem all pupils. His face is harsh with deep lines, a cruel mouth. Gray hair shaved almost to nonexistence, a long, straight nose reddened by the freezing air. The powerful arm lifts again, his sights set on me.

"Hold it!" a voice barks. The crowd parts, revealing Haymitch who promptly trips over a Peacekeeper lying on the ground. Darius. He's unconscious, a large purple lump protruding from his forehead, blood running from his nose. What happened? Did he try to come to Gale's aid before I got here?

Haymitch stands, brushing snow and dirt off himself, and pulls me to my feet roughly. "Oh, excellent." He grips my chin, lifting it. "She's got a photo shoot next week modeling wedding dresses. What am I supposed to tell her stylist?"

I see a flicker of recognition in the eyes of the man with the whip. Bundled against the cold, my face free of makeup, I'm unrecognizable as the victor of the last Hunger Games. Especially with half my face swelling up. But Haymitch has been showing up on television for years, and he'd be difficult to forget.

The man lowers the hand holding the whip, but I know the danger of our situation has not passed. "She interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal."

Everything about him, his commanding voice, his odd accent, warns of an unknown and dangerous threat. Where has he come from? District 11? 3? From the Capitol itself?

"I don't care if she blew up the blasted Justice Building! Look at her cheek! Think that will be camera ready in a week?" Haymitch snarls.

The man's voice is still cold, but I can detect a slight edge of doubt. "That's not my problem."

"No? Well, it's about to be, my friend. The first call I make when I get home is to the Capitol," says Haymitch. "Find out who authorized you to mess up my victor's pretty little face!"

"He was poaching. What business is it of hers, anyway?" says the man.

"He's her cousin." Peeta's got my other arm now, but gently. "And she's my fiancé. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us." I relax an infinitesimal amount and lean into him, warm and steady as always.

Maybe we're it. The only three people in the district who could make a stand like this. It's temporary and there will no doubt be consequences, but at the moment, all I care about is keeping Gale alive. The new Head Peacekeeper glances over at his backup squad. With relief, I see they're familiar faces, old friends from the Hob. Their expressions are grim, almost sad.

One, a woman named Purnia who eats regularly at Greasy Sae's, steps forward stiffly. "I believe, for a first offense, the required number of lashes has been dispensed, sir. Unless your sentence is death, which we would carry out by firing squad."

"Is that the standard protocol here?" asks the Head Peacekeeper.

"Yes, sir," Purnia says, and several others nod in agreement. I'm sure none of them actually know because, in the Hob, the standard protocol for someone showing up with a wild turkey is for everybody to bid on the drumsticks.