Also by Adriana Mather
How to Hang a Witch
Haunting the Deep
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Adriana Mather
Cover art copyright © 2019 by Robin Macmillan/Trevillion
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9780525579083 (trade) — ISBN 9780525579090 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780525579106
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v5.4
ep
Contents
Cover
Also by Adriana Mather
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For my son, Haxtun Wolf Mather,
whom I call My Little,
but who lights up my entire world
MY NAME IS November Adley and I was born in August. The way my dad tells it, the Connecticut nights were unusually cool that summer, and the day I arrived our maple burst with color reminiscent of late fall—hence my name. He claims the leaves shone so brightly in the morning sun that it looked like our front lawn was on fire. Dad also says that’s part of the reason I’m obsessed with the woods. I’m not sure there’s any connection, but I enjoy the comfort of that story—a reminder of a time when the world was safe and so was my family.
The most disorienting thing about safety—my own in particular—is that it never crossed my mind before. My ex-CIA, now–financial manager dad often tells me I’m too trusting, all the while shaking his head like he’s shocked that we’re related. Which I, of course, remind him is one hundred percent his fault, since I’ve lived my entire life in the same small town with the same friendly people, who pose about as much threat as a basket of sleeping kittens. Dad argues that I want to believe people are good and that while that’s admirable, it’s also not realistic. To which I ask him how it helps anyone to believe that people are bad. He claims that having a healthy sense of suspicion prepares you for every possible danger. But until now, it was all just a theory. And if I’m being honest, even yesterday, with Dad insisting there was an imminent threat to our family, I still wasn’t convinced. Nope, there was absolutely nothing indicative of danger in my life until a few minutes ago, when I woke up in this medieval-looking…parlor?
I frown. A man I’m assuming is a guard stands against the wall next to me. He’s staring forward, blatantly ignoring me, as I consider the door. I push as hard as I can on the wrought-iron latch and even throw my shoulder into the dark wood, but it doesn’t budge. I let out a huff from the effort and scan the room. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace and maroon velvet furniture that probably costs more than my entire house. But there are no windows and the door in front of me is the only exit.
“I know you hear me,” I say to the guard, who so far hasn’t answered a single one of my questions. He’s dressed all in black, with a leather belt and leather armbands that put to shame the Roman gladiator costume I wore last year for Halloween. I toy with the idea of snapping my fingers in front of his face, but he’s a good foot taller than me and his arms are more muscular than my legs.
He remains silent.
I try another angle. “You know I’m a minor, right? That you can’t keep me locked up in this…Well, I’m assuming this is my new boarding school. But what kind of a school locks up their students?” Dad told me this place would be different, but I have a hard time believing he meant I’d be trapped in a windowless room.
Just then I hear a key slide into the door and it swings outward. My shoulders drop and my hands unclench. Another guard, dressed identically to the first, gestures for me to follow him. I don’t waste a second. Unfortunately, the room guard comes, too, and walking between them, I feel almost as confined as I did in that room.
The guard in front pulls a lit torch off the gray stone wall and I take inventory of my surroundings—the lack of electricity, the arched ceilings, the heavy wooden doors that use latches instead of knobs. There’s no way I’m still in the United States. This place looks like something out of a documentary I once streamed about medieval Irish castles. However, I find it nearly impossible to believe Dad would send me all the way to Europe, not to mention be able to pay for it. We almost never leave Pembrook, much less the state of Connecticut.
As we continue to walk, I notice impressive hanging tapestries depicting knights, royal courts, and bloody battles. It’s also dead quiet, no sounds of people chatting or cars driving by.
The hall has a distinct chill, and I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers for warmth. I have no idea what happened to the coat, gloves, and scarf I wore onto the plane; they weren’t in the room with me when I woke up. We pass under an archway and ascend a staircase with worn, uneven stone steps. I count two landings and three flights before we come to a stop in front of a door patterned with iron rivets. The lead guard unlatches it and warm air billows out.
The antiquated office reminds me of a somber scene in a movie about Mary, Queen of Scots. The only light in the room comes from an abundance of candles set in silver candelabras and in sconces on the stone walls. The windows are covered with heavy curtains and a fire blazes inside the fireplace, filling the air with t
he scent of woodsmoke.
A tall, thin woman stands behind a seemingly ancient desk. Her brown hair is pulled into a high bun so tight that it gives me a headache just looking at it. She’s probably around Dad’s age, but her severity makes her seem older.
She does a poor impression of a smile. “Welcome to Academy Absconditi. I’m Headmaster Blackwood. I trust your trip was agreeable?” Her voice and demeanor command obedience.
“I don’t remember my trip,” I say, feeling uneasy under her gaze as I pull a piece of fuzz off my jeans. The rant I was working up downstairs feels inappropriate in this formal setting. “I passed out on the plane and woke up on a couch in the…To be honest, I’m confused how—”
“Teachers’ lounge,” she says, and gestures for me to sit in an armchair in front of her desk. The frills of a white blouse spill out from the edges of her black blazer. The contradiction makes me wonder which one she is—uptight and trying to appear approachable, or soft and trying to look stern. “You were out for some time.”
“I was locked up down there,” I say, expecting shock, but it doesn’t come. I turn and look behind me. Both guards are still with us, one on either side of the now-closed door. Whether they’re protecting her or preventing me from leaving is unclear. Maybe both.
Blackwood nods as though she understands my unspoken question. “Guards aren’t permitted to speak to students; they only speak to faculty and staff. Now, considering the lateness of the hour, I think we should dispense with the small talk, don’t you?” She glances at a dark metal clock on the wall that resembles a small Gothic tower with exposed gears.
It reads 1:30, and judging by her “lateness of the hour” comment and the empty hallways, I’m guessing it’s a.m., not p.m. “Hang on…that can’t be right.” I look between her and the clock like someone is playing a joke on me. It was after midnight when Dad dropped me at the airport. And about two hours after that when I fell asleep. “Have I been out for a full day? How is that possible? And why didn’t I wake up when I was being brought in here? Or when the plane landed?”
“I understand that you’re disoriented, an unfortunate side effect of getting you here smoothly—”
“Side effect?” My stomach knots up as I narrow the possibilities as to why I was asleep for twenty-four hours. “Did…did someone drug me?” My voice has risen in pitch, and I fight off a sense of panic.
I file back through the sequence of events before I passed out. The last thing I clearly remember was having a lemonade on the plane. Dad must have told me a million times not to eat or drink anything that wasn’t given to me by someone I trust, but refusing a drink from a flight attendant is like refusing something I ordered in a restaurant.
I look up at Blackwood for some indication of what’s going on, but her expression is blank. She definitely isn’t acting like the suggestion of a possible drugging is outrageous.
I stand up. My instinct is to run. Except I don’t have a clue where I am, other than a vague sense that I’m in a rural area, judging by the lack of noise. “Ms. Blackwood, can I use the phone? I’m not sure this is…I just need it for a minute.” I scan her desk, but there doesn’t seem to be one.
“Unfortunately, no, you may not.”
“I’m sure this is a great school, but—”
She puts up her hand to stop me, like she understands me perfectly but is unwilling to indulge my concerns at present. “Before you leave this office or communicate with anyone, you must understand and agree to the rules.” She pauses. “Also, I’ll ask that you call me Headmaster Blackwood. We pride ourselves on tradition here.”
I stare at her, at a loss for words, something my best friend, Emily, will verify has only happened once before.
Blackwood gestures for me to sit down. “Now, I suggest you relax and pay close attention. Some of what you want to know, I’m about to explain to you.”
I reluctantly sit. Dad told me this school would challenge me in strange ways, and even though I find it all wicked suspicious, I trust him. He wouldn’t put me in danger. In fact, that’s the whole reason I’m here—to keep me out of it. I lean back in the worn leather armchair, tucking one of my feet under me.
Blackwood raises an eyebrow as she takes note of my slouched posture. She stares down at me and lifts her chin almost like she would lift me up if she could will it through her thoughts. “Your sudden arrival was unforeseen. It’s not our policy to admit new students midyear—midsemester, no less.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Thanks for making an exception…,” I say, invoking my manners even though the words feel stiff in my mouth. I don’t like the way she says admit, like this is a long-term thing. Dad told me it would only be for a few weeks, just until he could clear up the break-in at Aunt Jo’s. Then I’d return to my house in sleepy Pembrook and everything would go back to the way it was.
Blackwood opens a black fabric journal marked with a satin ribbon and scans the page. “Before I tell you about Academy Absconditi and its student body, there are three rules that are absolutely nonnegotiable. They must be obeyed at all times and they apply not only to students, but to faculty as well.” She folds her hands over her papers. “The first is that you do not speak, write, or in any other way communicate about your life outside these walls. Not what town you lived in, not who you’re related to. Not your last name or the names of people you know. I understand that you’re particularly gregarious, and I just want to make myself extra clear that if you break this rule, you not only put yourself in danger, but also put your family in danger.”
I squint at her. “How would I put my family in danger here? This place is supposed to be the opposite of dange—”
“I also understand that you’ve been quite sheltered,” Blackwood says, flat out ignoring my question and giving me a disapproving stare. “But time will correct that.”
I don’t respond because I’m not sure what she’s referring to and I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe she’s right about the disorientation, or maybe it’s this conversation that makes me feel like I’m upside down.
“The second rule forbids you to leave the campus,” Blackwood continues. “This institution is located deep in a forest that’s rigged with traps. Going beyond the perimeter walls is not only unwise, but extremely perilous.”
I sit up. Now, this is the kind of school perk Dad sold me on—tree obstacle courses, complex puzzles, knife-throwing tricks. If this place turns out to be as Robin Hood adventurous as it is creepy, I guess I can forgive him for the long-distance travel, and her for the possible drugging. “What kind of traps? Has anyone ever made it through them?”
“No. Never,” she says as though she’s answered this question countless times and it never stops being exhausting. My eyes drift momentarily above her head to the maroon-and-silver crest on the wall, under which I read the Latin phrase Historia Est Magistra Vitae. Before I can work out the meaning, Blackwood starts talking again.
“The third rule is that if you harm another student, we adhere to an eye-for-an-eye punishment system. All sparring must be confined to the classroom under faculty supervision.”
The momentary excitement I had over the booby-trapped forest disappears, and I feel my expression drop into a frown. Dad said that sending me here was only a precaution, that he needed to be with Aunt Jo for a few weeks, that he couldn’t watch us both at the same time. He told me to trust him. I just assumed he was being overly protective like usual. But if there’s danger here, then the whole thing reeks. A tiny knot forms in my stomach, not the type that overwhelms you in the moment, but the type that lurks and grows in the dark, quiet moments when you’re by yourself.
I look again from the blotted-out windows to the guarded door. “Isn’t that a given…the no-hurting-people bit?”
“There have been an unusual number of fatalities here in recent years. So no, it’s not a given,” she says like it’s no
thing more important than Taco Tuesday in the cafeteria.
My throat suddenly goes dry. “What do you mean, fatalities? How intense are the classes here? What exactly are people dying from?”
Blackwood looks at me like I’m a lost puppy that she has no intention of petting. “We do not offer basic studies like other preparatory schools; what we offer is a great deal more. The Academy builds on your skill sets and on your individual strengths. For instance, knife throwing is not simply about precision. It is a skill that is practiced while in motion and under duress. And deception is honed so that you may both read it in others and deploy it as second nature. Instead of languages, we offer an accents class and a cultural norms elective to allow you to better move between countries without your origins giving you away. It’s a privilege to attend this school, not a right. Our professors are of the highest caliber and our students are hand-picked from all over the world. There are eighteen professors in residence, and you, November, make our one hundredth student. Every spot in this school is coveted and every student here knows that.” Her tone sounds like a warning, like I will be out on my butt if I make a wrong move. “You’ll need to undergo a psychological and physical examination before we decide which classes will best suit you.” She leans back in her chair, the candles in the candelabra on her desk casting shadows across her face.
Academy Absconditi—definitely Latin. My brain whirls into motion. Absconditi stems from absconditum, meaning “hidden” or “secret.” So it’s either Hidden Academy or Academy of the Hidden. I can feel my eyebrows scrunching up as I try to take it all in. I’m not sure if I’m excited or terrified to be in a secret school with a bunch of knife-throwing deception experts with accent control.
Killing November Page 1