Ares was his bat. Gregor was Ares’ human. They were truly bonded now.
He didn’t bother to thank Ares. Somehow they were past thanking each other. Somehow it would almost be like thanking himself.
Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing.
He had a feeling they would never have a discussion like this again – about whether one would go into danger without the other.
Deep in the meadow, hidden far away A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray Forget your woes and let your troubles lay And when again it’s morning, they’ll wash away. Here it’s safe, here it’s warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm The final lines are barely audible. Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true Here.
It was at that moment that Gregor decided he was bonded to a big jerk. And he felt pretty sure that Ares had come to the same conclusion.
That leaves Haymitch. Drunken, cranky, confrontational Haymitch, who I just poured a basin of ice water on.
So well intended, and yet so insulting.
There was nothing left that anyone could do to him now. There was nothing left to fear.
There had been moments when Gregor thought he’d sensed a genuine compassion in the rat, behind the sarcasm and the snarls.
You’ve got to stop that,” I say. But since I’m already scooping up the stuff, it’s not too convincing.
We rats have a name for someone like you. You’re a rager.
I do not take orders from you, Overlander. Let us be clear on this from the start.
The impact ruptured your spleen. They couldn’t repair it.” She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, you don’t need one.
I know I should be embarrassed, but they’re so unlike people that I’m no more self-conscious.
He doesn’t like to sleep when it’s dark out.
Do what? Blow my lips up like President Snow’s? Tattoo my breasts? Dye my skin magenta and implant gems in it? Cut decorative patterns in my face? Give me curved talons? Or cat’s whiskers?
I’m not in the mood for a lecture,” I warn the clump of weeds by my shoes. “I’ll try to keep it brief.” Peeta takes a seat beside me. “I thought you were Haymitch,” I say. “No, he’s still working on that muffin.
But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips.
Orange? Like Effie’s hair?