Ash looks amused by my reaction, and the way his face lights up makes my knees weak. I’ve dated a fair number of guys, but none of them gave me that stomach-flipping, word-fumbling, drunken feeling that Ash does.
“Yes, we had electricity,” he says, his eyes bright, “but we also know how to exist without it. Our parents claimed that Strategia have been effective for thousands of years without modern gadgets, and that reliance on technology would weaken our abilities.”
“I thought Layla said that every Family has Strategia technology experts,” I say, getting a glimpse into how much I don’t know about the larger Strategia world.
“We do,” Ash says, “but they are only used sparingly. The point is that if we didn’t have them we would still be able to complete our missions.”
Laid out on my parents’ bed are two sets of black gloves, two black knitted hats, and two gray wool scarves.
“I’ve got a mission for you—a very important one,” my mom says like she’s letting me in on a secret. “It’s a beautiful winter day. There is fresh snow on the ground. Aunt Jo is on her way over.”
I hang on her every word.
“Your dad and I were thinking”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“that we should all go sledding.”
I bounce on my toes. “Sledding!” I squeal, clasping my hands together and looking up at her. My dad smiles at us from a cozy chair by the window where he’s reading the paper.
Mom lifts me up onto the bed. “But we have a problem, you see,” she explains. “Dad and I have mixed up our gloves, scarves, and hats, and before we can leave the house, we need your help figuring out which is which.”
I look at the black gloves, eager to help my mom. I immediately pick up the set of gloves closest to me. “These are yours,” I say. “They’re smaller.”
My mom smiles encouragingly. “And the hats?” she asks.
“Yours has the pompom,” I say, thrilled to have the answers she needs.
“Right,” she says, and sits down on the bed next to me to give me a squeeze. “Only one more to go.”
I stare at the gray wool scarves, hoping that something will stand out to me, but as far as I can tell, they are identical. I pick them up, turning them over in my hands.
“Do they feel the same?” my mom asks.
I nod.
“Smell the same?” she asks.
I lift each one to my nose, and while they smell familiar, I’m not sure that they smell different from each other. I stare at the scarves in concentration, wondering how I can unlock this mystery so we can go sledding. She doesn’t say anything more and I don’t ask for help; I know by now that she expects me to do my best.
Then I see it, the answer to my problem. “This one is yours!” I say with enthusiasm, and hold up the scarf in my left hand.
My mother beams. “I told you she would recognize the frayed edge,” she says to my dad, victorious.
I shake my head. I hadn’t realized hers was frayed at the bottom, but as I focus, I spot the torn bit. “No, Mama, your hair is on it,” I say, feeling proud.
She takes a closer look at the scarf and plucks off a long piece of wavy brown hair. She looks at me with a big grin. “My goodness, you are smart,” she says, and tackles me onto the bed. “How did I ever wind up with such a smart girl?” She covers me with kisses as I laugh.
“Put down your paper, Christopher!” my mom exclaims. “We have a date with the snow!”
“What kind of missions did you go on with your parents?” I ask, fairly certain that missions in my house were different than in his.
“Mostly espionage,” Ash says. “They taught us how to negotiate for information and how to move around undetected.”
I nod, wondering if my parents would have done the same if my mom had lived longer. While my dad did train me in his own way, I still don’t understand why he didn’t tell me the truth about being Strategia.
“Order all the things,” I say, motioning to the menu in his hand. “I’m starved.”
He grins and I once again get pulled into his inviting look. “All the things it is.”
I smile back. “And stop looking at me like that, all attractive and what have you. It’s not fair.”
Ash laughs. “Got it. Food. Stop being attractive. And start dressing differently.”
“Right,” I say. “And if that doesn’t work we’ll just figure out a way to cover your face with something. That way I’ll be able to think clearly without wanting to kiss you. Now work on your list. I’m going to get ready so we can get out of here.” I walk back into the bedroom and hear Ash chuckling to himself.
I stand in the middle of the modern room for a few seconds, staring at my plaid duffel bag, not yet acclimated to this unfamiliar familiar world. The last time I was in Connecticut, I was at peace. My world was small. My family was small. And I had everything I needed. None of those things are true now.
I touch the back of my head, fish out the lock of hair Layla gave me from my own braid, and hold it to my heart like it might have the answers I’m looking for, or at least help me find my footing.
THE CLOSER WE get to my hometown, the more my stomach churns. For the past hour, I’ve been resisting the urge to look over my shoulder at the other passengers, wondering what type of threat might be lurking there. Instead, I fidget in my seat and tap the armrest with my fingers, unable to sit still. Ever since we left the hotel I’ve had this uneasy, vulnerable feeling, as though something ominous and deadly might spring out of every shadow. Ash insisted it would be unlikely that a fellow Strategia would be on the bus with us, but he also insisted I wear a wig, which he just happened to have in his luggage, like it’s common to pack disguises alongside travel-sized deodorant.
I stare out the bus window, watching the familiar tree-lined highway, but the monotony of it only unsettles me more. I pull at the edge of the lopsided scarf Emily knitted for me last winter and glance at Ash, who seems lost in thought himself.
The bus slows, but instead of feeling relieved that the wait is over, I’m even more worried. Worried that I’ll find something at my house that will confirm that my dad’s in danger. And worried I won’t find anything at all.
“Coming?” Ash says, and I realize the bus has stopped and he’s already standing. He pulls down our bags from the overhead compartment.
“Right,” I say.
I sneak a look at the other passengers on the bus as I stand. They seem like regular people—two families, one with a sleeping baby, a couple of girls in their twenties with headphones on, and so on. But if a Strategia were on this bus, wouldn’t they blend in as ordinary, too? How would I ever know if we were being followed?
No one else gets up and I’m grateful; if someone from my town were on this bus, they would likely recognize me, wig or not, and badger me with questions about where I had disappeared to for the last few weeks. The entire town would know I was here within an hour and Sheriff Billy would be knocking on my door.
I follow Ash down the aisle and outside. The trees are bare and the air is freezing, even in the afternoon sun. I pull my hat down farther over my ears and tuck my hands into my gloves. The bus pulls away, revealing Spring Rose Lane, which is aptly named for all the wild roses that grow along it in the warmer months—a street that I’ve walked down more times than I can count.
“You see these roses,” my mom says, pointing to the bushes covered in pale pink flowers that crowd both sides of the street. “These are beach roses. Rosa rugosa.”
“Rosa rugosa,” I repeat.
“Here, smell,” my mom says, bending down and bringing one of the pink blooms to my nose. My face lights up and she smiles at my reaction. “Delicious, aren’t they? Wild roses always smell the best. You know why?”
I shake my head.
“Because the ones you buy at the florist prioritize their loo
ks over their other properties,” she says like it’s a shame. “But these? These are hardy. They are strong and bold and even though they love the sun, they aren’t afraid of a little frost. They are edible and the leaves and hips have medicinal purposes. When I gave you the middle name Rose, I named you after this kind of rose, not the kind that makes a pretty bouquet but isn’t good for much else.”
She slips her warm hand back in mine and we continue our walk. As I stare up at her, I can’t help but be proud of all she knows.
“We should get off the main road,” Ash says, watching me curiously.
I sigh, pulling myself out of my memory. “Town is a block that way,” I say, pointing to my right. And an unexpected sadness washes over me. Even though I’m so close, I can’t go there, not unless I want all of Pembrook following me down the street like a St. Patrick’s Day parade. “But we can’t take the streets, even the back streets. I would run into at least ten people I know. We’ll have to take the woods.” I look down at my scuffed, mud-stained boots and his shiny laced ones. “Will you be okay in those?”
“More than okay,” he says. “Since there’s no snow, we won’t leave much in the way of tracks; the woods are ideal.”
I take my duffel bag from his shoulder and lead him through the forest—a route I’ve taken so many times that I could narrate every twisted trunk and bent limb before we got to it. Our steps are mostly silent, even though I don’t anticipate running into anyone. In all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve only ever seen hikers in these woods in the summertime.
Our breath billows out in front of us in white clouds and I run my gloved fingers over a gnarled trunk that I nicknamed Mr. Henry as a child because I swore it had a face like my English teacher. As we get closer to my property, I pick up my pace, anticipation fueling my steps. I suddenly have this urge to run to my house, fling open my door, and call for my dad. And as that desire gets more insistent, my chest begins to ache. Will I ever do that again? Will my dad and I ever come back here?
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ash says, and there is none of his usual charm, just a kind offer.
“I don’t know,” I say, and I’m quiet for a few more steps, trying to figure out how to verbalize feelings that I haven’t fully processed myself. “Everything looks and feels so familiar and yet it’s all…just out of my reach. This is my home. I know this place better than anywhere in the world—every porch, the brick sidewalks pushed up by old tree roots, Mr. Martin, who makes the best cakes in all of Connecticut and who’s been the reigning champion at the state fair seven years in a row, and Mrs. Bernstein, who has an antiques store and organizes the farmers’ market on Sundays. The way you can’t park in front of the candy shop for more than an hour, because the owner is the crankiest human alive and will leave you ragey notes. Everything. Emily.” My voice catches on her name and I take a breath. “I’m finally home, something I’ve been dreaming about for weeks, and yet I’m not. My dad’s not here, I can’t talk to anyone, and I need to sneak around quietly without calling attention to myself. When what I really want to do is march right into the town square and get a big cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows from Lucille’s diner.” When I stop speaking, my chest deflates, and I realize how many feelings I’ve been suppressing.
For a split second Ash seems taken aback by the intensity of my emotion for Pembrook, and after a moment of thought he nods. “You’ll be able to come back here,” he says in a reassuring voice.
I want so badly to believe him. “Will I, though?”
“Yes. We’ll find your father and do what we need to in order to stop the Lions from hunting you—even if it means we need to take out the whole group of them.” His tone is definite.
I know that what he’s saying is highly improbable, but I also know he’s reassuring me out of kindness. And I need a little kindness more than I need harsh reality right now. I sigh. “Just take out the most powerful Strategia Family. Sounds like a breeze.”
“See? You’re getting into the spirit alr—” Ash stops short, and I instantly know why.
“Tires on dirt?” I whisper, and turn toward the noise. “From where we are…” I examine the trees around me and my stomach bottoms out. “Oh god, it’s coming from my driveway. There’s nothing else close enough.” I point. “I live just through the trees at the top of that hill.”
My heart races and my mind spins, searching for possibilities of who it might be. For a fleeting moment, I get my hopes up that maybe it’s my dad returning home to tell me this whole nightmare is over and that I never have to think about it again.
I run for the top of the hill, keeping my steps quiet, and Ash runs by my side. We crouch down behind a patch of brush that has a good view of my small white house with its black shutters, red door, and Victorian trim. My eyes widen. But it’s not the longing for my house that shakes me—it’s the old silver VW pulling to a stop in my driveway.
“Emily?” I whisper to myself, and I’m flooded with so many emotions that I can’t breathe.
I stand up. I need to run to her, hug her, and tell her how incredibly sorry I am for not saying goodbye. I need her to know that I had no choice in going and that I didn’t willingly disappear. But before I can take a step, Ash pulls me back down into the brush cover.
“Don’t,” he whispers, and his eyes hold a warning.
“But that’s my best…I have to,” I say, desperation in my voice. I yank my arm, but he has a solid grip on me.
“And what if someone is watching your house? If someone is watching Emily?” he whispers back. “Think, November. I can see by your face how much she means to you. Don’t put your friend in danger like I once did.”
I shake my head stubbornly, tears forming in my eyes. I can’t be this close to Emily and do nothing. “If the Lions already knew about Pembrook, why did Conner threaten to kill us if I didn’t tell him where this place was?”
Ash’s expression is serious. “Two possibilities: One, the Lions figured it out and because of the communication delay at the Academy, Conner did not know yet. Or two, Conner wasn’t privy to all the information his Family had. You have no idea what the Lions know and what they don’t know. Are you willing to risk her life on an assumption?”
Emily gets out of her car and I look away from Ash. Her hair is in a high ponytail and she wears red earmuffs, a long peacoat that flares at the waist, and impractical high-heeled winter boots. She rubs her nose with her red-mittened hand and carries a white long-stemmed rose in the other. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my tears at bay.
“These,” Emily says, pointing to a cluster of orchids in the flower shop. “Purple orchids are the prettiest flower, don’t you think? They just scream elegance.”
I glance at the price tag and take a deep breath. “What about roses?” I offer.
“Roses are your thing,” Emily says, like it’s obvious.
“Correction, roses are not my thing. It’s just my middle name,” I say, and immediately regret it. I love roses, and when my mom was alive she kept vases of them in our house all summer long.
“If this were your birthday, I would get you white roses,” Emily says, because even if I claim I don’t have an affinity for them, she knows me too well. “But it’s not your birthday. It’s mine.” I can tell by her tone that no amount of reasoning with her is going to change her mind.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let me get this straight. You want me to buy you a bunch of orchids. But then instead of handing them to you like a normal person, you want me to leave them anonymously on your desk and then pretend they weren’t from me?” I look at her doubtfully.
Emily clasps her hands together and lets out an excited squeal. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“It’s going to be dramatic,” I say with a laugh.
She gives me a mischievous smile. “Same thing.”
Emily walks up to my front
stoop and places the white rose on a pile of roses in front of my door. Has she been coming here every day since I left, bringing me a rose? The realization hits me hard and it feels like my heart is going to tear straight out of my chest. I had been so concerned with surviving the Academy that I hadn’t truly thought about the impact my absence would have on her.
Emily kneels down on my steps and says a few words that I can’t decipher before she gets up again. But even from here I can tell that her eyes are red, and she wipes at them with the back of her mittens. And I wipe at mine. More than anything I want to make the grief on her face disappear. As she walks toward her car, I have a desperate desire to call out to her. And as she closes her car door, I feel like I’ve lost something precious. She turns on her engine and backs up, her silver car jostling on the dips in the dirt driveway. Just like that, Emily pulls out onto the road and disappears behind the tall trees.
I press my fingers into my eyebrows. I take a few deep breaths before I even dare look at Ash because I know I will crumble.
“Would you like a minute alone?” Ash asks, and there is concern in his eyes, but something else is there, too—a question I can’t quite make out.
“No,” I whisper, and break eye contact with him. “Let’s just go.” I motion for him to follow me, focusing all my energy on the task at hand.
I take off my wig and shove it in my bag, pulling my coat hood up in its place. Then I zigzag us around the back of my house along a sheltered path that provides maximum coverage. I put out my hand to tell Ash to stop about five feet from the cleared grass of my backyard. We both stand perfectly still and listen, scanning the forest for any sign of other Strategia.
When I’m reasonably certain that there is no immediate threat, I look at Ash and nod.
“Let’s make a run for it,” Ash says, his breath warm on my ear, and we do.
We sprint full-speed across the grass. I take the steps to my back porch two at a time, an action so familiar that despite the potential danger, a smile appears on my face. I pull my keys out of my coat pocket and without even looking at them I find the right one. I slip it into my back door, turn it, and jiggle the handle so that it doesn’t stick. In five seconds flat we’re inside my living room, Ash silently closing the door behind us.
Hunting November Page 6