Killing November

by Adriana Mather

  “Are you trying to make me think you’re not involved in Family politics?” He’s still lounging, but his eyes are focused.

  “I’m not. I mean, not that I know of,” I say as neutrally as possible, wondering if I’ll regret my answer but not seeing a safer alternative.

  His voice is smooth and steady. “That makes no sense. You came in late, midsemester. Aarya sought you out. Brendan challenged you. Matteo punched you.”

  “See? Your guess is as good as mine,” I say.

  He’s silent for a second, studying me. “Either you’ve suddenly become a good liar or you’re telling the truth. I don’t know which is more unbelievable.”

  It has to be better for him to think I don’t know about Family politics than for him to catch me lying about what side I’m on, despite the fact that I don’t know what the sides are. I lighten my voice. “Believe what you want.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s something more going on here. Something you don’t want me to know…And don’t think I missed that there was also something about that origin story that bothered you.” He scans my every feature, taking his time reading me, and making me wish I had somewhere to hide. “What are the Bear Family attributes?” he asks suddenly.

  I attempt to unclench my shoulders. “What are the Wolf Family’s?” I shoot back.

  “Intuitive. Loyal. Diligent,” he says without pause, an answer that—I remember with a jolt of recognition—is exactly what we used to say in the game I played with my mom.

  I smirk to keep the mood from becoming too serious. “Loyal to who?”

  “Ah, isn’t that always the question?” His eyes look mischievous, like I just became his new favorite game. “Now…what are the attributes of the Bear Family?”

  I maintain eye contact with him though my heart is pounding. “Inventive. Protective. Courageous.”

  “Hmmm,” he says. By the look he’s giving me, it seems he finds something about me suspicious, but from the way this conversation has unfolded, he also assumes I know way more than I do, making him less likely to guess the truth.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “The origin story was really just a test to see how you were with history. The reality is, I came in late and missed two and a half years of history class. I just want to make sure I’m keeping up.” Less is more here.

  Ash shifts his position on the branch. “Well, now, things just got interesting. Are you asking me to tutor you in Family history?”

  “You’re a strong analyst and a good storyteller,” I say truthfully.

  He smiles. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But what do you have to trade?” Something in his expression relaxes and a bit of warmth leaks through his usual focused intensity.

  I hesitate, not only because I’m not sure how to answer, but because I find it hard not to smile back at him. “What do you want?”

  “Information,” he says. “What else is there?”

  Crap. I don’t know what I could possibly tell him that would be valuable. And if I do know something worth telling, would it even be safe to tell?

  “Like for starters, how you got into this school so late,” Ash says, and tilts his head expectantly.

  I stay still, hopeful that he’ll read my expression as indecision instead of ignorance.

  He smiles. “Look, you were paired as my sister’s roommate. That’s not an accident, because nothing at this school is random. It’s likely that we’re more alike than not.”

  No wonder everyone advised me to just stay quiet. I suddenly think Ines might be the smartest person in this whole school.

  After a couple of seconds of silence, he starts talking again in an upbeat way. “You’re probably wondering where the Academy is located, right?” He adjusts his position again so that he’s looking directly at me. “Everyone who comes here wonders that. It doesn’t matter how much we were trained to never mention this place. Curiosity is human instinct, especially for Strategia. The Council of Families knew this, and after a few failed attempts in other buildings where the school’s secrecy was breached, they settled on this location. Additionally, they came up with an elaborate camouflage system that has kept the Academy hidden for more than a thousand years. Can you even imagine?” Ash shakes his head. “Now, the most common guess is England, based on the seasons and the foliage alone. But if you start paying closer attention, the seasons and the foliage match so many places it’s not funny. There is every likelihood that the school was built to look like it’s in England because that is exactly where it isn’t. Everyone here speaks English now, but that wasn’t always the case. You’ll find that students here stop asking these questions after their first year because it’s a futile pursuit. If some of the greatest minds over the past thousand years haven’t figured out our location, you won’t, either. And besides, there is nothing to gain by knowing where we are. You only put yourself and all of us in danger.”

  He pauses to make sure he has my attention, which he most certainly does.

  “The analytical minds and ambition that drive us to figure out the school location also make us look at history differently. In history class we’re not just learning dates and events. We’re taught about our Families’ greatest victories and most catastrophic failures. And not the way we learn about Family origins as children. The lessons are broken down to illustrate specific strategy and maneuvering details, and the deeper you look, the more you see patterns. At first you don’t think much of it, but then, all of a sudden”—Ash snaps his fingers—“it clicks. You start seeing the cyclical nature of historical events—the cause and effect—in a way you’ve never analyzed it before because you never stopped to consider that a member of your own Family was not only responsible for those events, but was strategically maneuvering them.”

  Ash gestures with his hands, and his expression is more animated than I’ve ever seen it. “Take Pope Gregory the Ninth, for instance. After he decided that cats were associated with devil worship, he had them killed in droves throughout Europe, right?”

  I nod, vaguely recalling this from world history class.

  “But because he took away the rat’s natural predator, medieval Europe found itself with an overpopulation of rats, resulting in nothing less than the bubonic plague, which killed twenty million people.” Ash shakes his head, as if in disbelief. “We see that misstep as obvious now, looking back. But what is unique about studying history here is that you realize our Families saw it as obvious back then and tried to stop it. When you’re paying attention, history isn’t linear; it’s a web of interrelated events, each domino toppling the next. You learn to predict instead of react. It’s the backbone of everything we do at this school. If you can figure out what someone is going to do, not just in a single moment, but five steps down the line, you can be effective.”

  His enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself nodding. How could twins be so entirely different? He’s talkative. Layla’s not. She follows the rules to the letter. Ash seemingly breaks them every chance he gets.

  “For my part of the deal, I’ll give you the highlights, make it easier for you to stop embarrassing yourself,” he says with a smirk.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, even though I know I probably won’t get a better offer. I just have no idea what I’ll trade with him or how everything I’ve heard tonight makes sense with what I know about my own family—who are clearly not who I thought they were.

  “Hey, look, it could be worse. You might have been paired with a different roommate and not had the good fortune to talk to me,” he says with a grin.

  Again, it’s pretty much impossible not to smile back at him. “Is that so?”

  He leans toward me. “Who else in this school would tell you secrets?”

  “And who else would encourage me to break all the rules?” I say, matching his playful tone.

  “Sp
eaking of which, it’s time to go,” Ash says, sliding off the branch and onto a smaller one below.

  “You’re kinda good at that,” I say, climbing down to meet him. “I’m better, but you’re still good.”

  Ash nods approvingly. “Do that. Exactly that and you’ll survive here.” Then he grabs the branch in front of him and swings down to a lower one.

  I mimic his move, but using only one hand instead of two.

  He laughs and so do I.

  “Race you down?” he says, and before he gets to the end of his sentence, I’m already moving.

  In no time we’re at the vines, me arriving a split second before he does. I give him a gloating look, since talking this close to the ground is out of the question.

  He grabs the vine I’m hanging on and yanks it toward him. I put out my hand to stop us from colliding and wind up with my palm on his chest, which I can’t help but notice is muscular. I can feel his heart racing under his linen shirt.

  He whispers in my ear, his breath warm on my cold skin, sending goose bumps down my neck. “The guards are about to make their rounds again. And just before they do, we’ll stand on either side of the doorway and tuck ourselves behind the curtain. Then as the guard parts the curtain to exit, we’ll slip behind him along the wall into the recessed doorway. As long as you don’t make any noise or pull the fabric, we’ll go undetected.”

  All my thoughts of our nearness, his breath, and his chest under my fingertips disappear and I drop my hand. “That’s a terrible plan,” I whisper back. “Why can’t we just wait for the guard to clear the courtyard and then sneak behind the curtain?”

  “If we do that, we won’t have enough time before the next guard takes up the post at the door.”

  “I thought you said they cut the number of guards at midnight?”

  “They never cut the number of guards,” he whispers. “That’s just when they rotate. Their stations are reduced because they’re in motion, not because they’re off duty.”

  I pull back and look at him so that he can see that I think he’s an ass for misleading me. He winks and lowers himself silently, hand over hand, down the vine before dropping the last few feet onto the lawn. I do the same and reluctantly follow him to the heavy fabric shrouding the courtyard door.

  He stands on one side and I on the other. I imitate his movements and tuck myself behind the curtain, pressing my back flat against the uneven stone wall, trying to stay as far away from the arched doorway as possible.

  A minute ticks by and my breath slows, but my stomach does constant somersaults. Then comes the sound of a latch lifting, and instantly every hair on my body stands at attention. The door clicks shut and the fabric moves. I slide into the archway and hold my breath in the darkness, afraid that if I even blink, the guard will hear me and skewer me with a sword. Not that I’ve ever seen them with swords, but still.

  Five horrible seconds pass before Ash opens the door. I practically trip over myself to get inside. The moment the door closes, I start to run for the stairs, but Ash pulls me to a halt. He pushes my hair back and cups his hand over his mouth and my ear.

  “You’ll get caught that way. Take the far right hallway all the way to the end, and then take that staircase up. Stay against the left wall.” He pulls my hood up over my head and releases me.

  I take off without pause, my boots making a muffled patting sound against the stone. The hallway Ash told me to take is almost entirely shadowed, making it hard to see. As much as I’d like to maintain my sprint, I slow to a jog to silence my steps. Dad always said that if you’re rushing and making noise you’ll completely miss what’s going on around you. I hug the left wall just like Ash said. And even though it’s cold, my hands are sweating from the spike of adrenaline.

  Halfway down the long hallway, the shadows ahead of me appear darker, different. I pause and steal a glance over my shoulder. No one is there and everything is still. I squint at the shadows ahead, trying to make sense of the dark shape. It doesn’t appear to be moving or giving any indication that it’s animate, but there also shouldn’t be anything on the floor of this hallway. Layla took me through it earlier and it was completely empty—no furniture, no rugs, no tapestries. I inch forward, keeping my steps perfectly silent.

  For the last couple of feet, I hold my breath. I tentatively nudge the long shape with my boot, and it gives slightly but there isn’t a sound. I bend down and squint in the dark and that’s when I realize what I’m looking at. Feet. My boot touched someone’s foot. Oh no. No. I rub my eyes. This can’t be right.

  I inch along the body, my pulse drumming furiously in my temples. From what I can tell from the clothes, it looks like a guy, lying on his back. And there’s something…Oh god, I think. It’s a knife. A knife is sticking out of his chest. As I continue to stare, I notice that the entire front of him is dark, but the student uniform shirts are white….“Blood,” I breathe almost inaudibly. My throat is bone-dry.

  I kneel down next to him, my knees nearly giving out, and I force myself to stretch a hand toward his neck. My fingers are shaking when they find it—cold skin, no pulse. His long hair sticks to his cheeks. Long hair…Oh god, it’s Matteo’s friend from the dining hall. I look around me for an answer, for help. There’s nothing and no one. Dead. He’s dead. My mind loops the realization and my vision blurs. For a moment I think I’m going to pass out.

  I open my mouth to call for help but freeze before a sound escapes my lips. There is no one to call. If I run to get a guard there’s every possibility they’ll think I did it. Not to mention the eye-for-an-eye punishment system here. I take one more desperate look around, like an answer might somehow pop out of the shadows.

  I shake my head, trying to get my bearings. I can’t stay here. Being caught with the body would be a thousand times worse than calling a guard. Not to mention being caught by the killer. There’s no guarantee that whoever did this isn’t lurking nearby.

  Instantly, I have that unnerving sensation of something dangerous looming behind me, the kind that used to send me running out of our basement when I was a little kid. I stand up, feeling sick at the thought of leaving him in the dark, drenched in his own blood, but equally terrified to stay. Who can I—

  Layla. Layla will know what to do.

  I run along the wall, fear pushing me forward faster than is cautious, and I duck into the stairwell. Every detail of my surroundings comes sharply into focus, the worn third step, the oddly shaped stone by the ceiling, the silence. I methodically make my way up the stairs, listening for all I’m worth and examining every shadow.

  I peek around the corner at the entrance to the third floor and find the hallway empty. Unfortunately, I’m also about as far from my room as I can be. And now that I’m this close, I just have to go. Run. I have to run. I close my eyes for a second, take a breath, and bolt out of the stairwell. I slide in front of my door and fumble it open. I duck inside, my heart raging in my chest, and just as I’m closing the door, I spot the guard with the X coming up the other staircase. He makes eye contact with me as I click the door shut. Shit!!!

  I lean my back against the wall, my breath fast and heavy, and stare at Layla’s door. I open my mouth to call out for her, but I can’t even think of the words to describe what just happened. I want to scream at myself for not telling her I was meeting Ash in the first place. And now that there’s a dead body, what if Ash denies meeting me at all? She’ll definitely believe him over me. Hang on. It was Ash who told me to take that hallway. He was the one who said to keep to the left.

  Could Ash have set me up to take the fall by intentionally sending me the long way around? That guard would have caught me outright if I hadn’t decided to run the last few feet. Ash knows their schedules to the second.

  I sink to the floor and put my head in my hands. I’m so screwed.

  WOOD CREAKS AND my head shoots up off my knees. Layla st
eps out of her room, not blinking and groggy like I would expect, but clear and focused.

  She takes note of my crouched position and my strained expression. “You went out.” Her tone is accusatory.

  “I did,” I say, my voice unsure and too fast.

  Layla watches me, and I swear I can almost hear her thinking: You went out when I warned you not to.

  “I met Ash in the vine courtyard.”

  Her eyes widen and her lips momentarily press together before she says, “You got caught.”

  I rub my hands over my face and press them into my temples. “No. Well, kind of. Not with Ash.” I stand up so fast that I see spots. I look at Layla for a long second and will myself to focus. “We went to those branches, the ones that make a bench in the sky, and we talked about the school, about nothing really. Then on the way back to the room, he told me to take the long way around to avoid the guards. And I…” My voice catches.

  Layla glances at the door and back at me. “November.” There is an anxious edge in her tone now.

  “My foot hit something in the shadows. A body. My foot hit a body.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “I think it was Matteo’s friend, the one with the long hair.” My words gargle and twist.

  For just a second, Layla’s completely still.

  I move toward her, my words tumbling out. “He was dead, Layla. Cold. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave him there. But I panicked and ran back to our room. I think one of the guards spotted me as I was shutting the door.”

  “How did he die?” Her voice is small and quiet.

  “A knife in his chest. And blood. There was so much—”

  “Stop.” She closes her eyes and takes a breath.

  And I do.

  “You know our rules,” she says with a steady voice.

  I nod, squeezing my hands together until they hurt.

  “If a guard saw you, they’re going to question you. And then they’re going to question me. We need to go to our bedrooms. Now.”