Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  I jog up to the plane, still struggling to reconcile this experience with my quiet hometown. I climb up the steps, pull the hatch shut, and take the empty seat in the cockpit. I look at Ash, who is confidently pushing controls on the complex dashboard, and I’m undecided if I’m in awe of him or simply overwhelmed.

  “Did you find anything else…” I swallow, immediately conjuring the memory of the thud of the Strategia’s landing and the blood slowly pooling under his head, dripping down the side of the rock. “Did you find anything else on the Strategia in the woods?” I fasten my seat belt, fighting back the sick feeling that’s rising in my throat. “Anything besides the key?”

  “I did,” Ash says, and glances toward me, pausing for a split second. “He had a Lion tattoo on his shoulder.”

  I nod, not shocked, but definitely unsettled. If the Lions can find our house in Pembrook, what’s to stop them from finding my dad in Europe? I touch the tin box in my coat pocket.

  “Are you sensitive to motion?” Ash says, bringing me back into the present. He pushes a couple more buttons and pulls back a lever.

  “Not that I know of,” I say, but we’re already bumping across the dark field, picking up speed, and heading right for the forest. “Oh no…,” I whisper to myself.

  Ash only smiles as we sail full-speed toward the stand of trees. I grip the arms of my chair and squeeze my eyes shut. Please don’t let me have survived all of this just to die in a plane crash on Moody Farms. When I manage to open them again, we’re in the air and clear of the trees, not impaled on a maple like I feared. It takes my body a beat to catch up to the fact that the immediate danger has passed.

  I let my breath out in one audible huff. And as the sky opens up in front of us, the ground dotted with the glow of white lights in the rising dawn, a silence descends. My thoughts drift to the tin in my pocket. I was so desperate to get to the tree to see if my dad left me something, but now that I know he did, I’m equally terrified to read his note.

  “Ash, what do you know about the head of the Lions?” I ask, avoiding the inevitable.

  “Jag,” he says, and I recall Ash telling me in the Academy library about Jag’s tyrannical rule before I had any idea that I, too, was a Lion.

  “I can’t believe I never asked this, but Jag is short for Jaguar, right?” I say, even though I know why I never asked—I still believed that I could walk away from this whole experience and from the Strategia world in general, and I didn’t want to think about Jag or my vicious relatives any more than necessary.

  Ash nods. “A nickname from his childhood.”

  Jaguar…an obvious play on the big-cat theme in the Lion Family. And if it developed in his childhood, it’s always possible it’s a reflection on his personality. Jaguars are known for their temperamental nature—solitary, opportunistic creatures that stalk and ambush their prey.

  “What do you know about him?” I ask.

  “I’ve never met him, but much of my Family has,” Ash says. “They claim that on an average day he’s pleasant, but that he has a short fuse and a brutal streak.” Ash looks in my direction. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to know about your—” He stops short. “About Jag and the Lion Family? It’s a broad topic.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You can say it: Is there anything in particular I want to know about my grandfather.” The certainty of my tone surprises me, considering how rarely I’ve used that familial term. “Truthfully, I don’t even know what I want to know. All of it and none of it at the same time.” I pull at my seat belt and Ash looks at me quizzically. “It was just that assassin in the woods…” I look out the cockpit window, trying to push away the image of his lifeless body on the forest floor. “Are all Strategia that good?”

  “You mean that deadly?” he says, and I nod. “Yes. Some are better.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate and I suppose I don’t want him to. Hearing about the numerous brilliant and talented Strategia across Europe will only further unnerve me at this point. It’s enough to know I’m deeply unprepared and that I very nearly got us both killed tonight, a mistake that I hope never to repeat.

  “Why is Jag so committed to killing off my family?” I ask. “Is it just ego because my dad chose to be with my mom over staying with his Family?”

  Ash shakes his head. “Possibly. I’d always heard that your father was the shining star of the Family, Jag’s favorite, who was set to rule in no uncertain terms…before Jag told the rest of Strategia that your father was dead, that is. And from what I understand about Jag, he doesn’t forgive. He’s pathological about rooting out his enemies.”

  “I know the Bears have pushed back against the Lions in general, but has anyone ever challenged Jag directly?” I ask, trying to grasp the larger framework of Strategia relationships.

  “You would think so,” Ash says with a hint of annoyance. “You would think that Families would be lining up to fight him. But they don’t. Everyone talks about Jag’s abuses behind closed doors and among trusted friends, but nothing ever comes of it. Layla and I used to wonder as kids how everything got so unbalanced and how the other Strategia became complacent, but it’s something that happened over time, slowly. And at the point when the head Families realized their error, it was too late—Jag’s rule was solidified and his power had become far-reaching.” Ash sighs. “These days, anyone who opposes him suffers consequences so profound that the fear of him and the Lions is deterrence enough. Even the Bears have come under enormous pressure to soften their stance or risk losing their allies. Thus far they’ve held their position, but it’s on shaky ground, and if they ever backed down completely, the Lions would run roughshod over all of Strategia.”

  I frown. “So it’s essentially a large-scale version of what would have happened if Blackwood had ever stepped down. Conner and Brendan would have won, the Lions would have succeeded in killing the best students from nonsubdued Families, the Bears would be dead or under attack, and the young Strategia would have been forever tilted in the Lions’ favor.”

  “Exactly like that,” he says, and hesitates like he’s trying to decide if he should tell me something or not. “Layla and I used to talk as kids about opposing the Lions when we took over the leadership in our Family. We only hoped that the situation would remain stable enough until we had the power needed to enact change. But here I am actually doing it, years before I believed it was possible…and it’s because of you.”

  I smile. “I’m not sure I can take credit, considering I did what I did mainly to stay alive.”

  Ash doesn’t waver. “No, November. You saw an injustice and you corrected it even though you were uncomfortable and even though it involved sacrifice.”

  I shift in my seat, not certain I deserve that praise and also not sure I want it. For me this has been about surviving and about finding my dad, not about correcting the Strategia power imbalance.

  “You told me once that the Lions don’t rule the way other Strategia Families do,” I say, bringing the conversation back to Jag.

  “The Lions are…unique.” Ash pauses to think. “Strategia Families typically rely on their leading members to make decisions as a group, on their elders to advise them, and ultimately on the Council of Families when big decisions become too complex. But not the Lions, not since Jag’s been in power. He’s more of a dictator than part of a Family.”

  “So he’s Henry the Eighth?” I ask.

  Ash leans back in his seat like he’s hunkering down for a long flight. “You’re definitely not the first person to make that comparison.”

  I stare at the blinking lights below us, a world not yet awake and blissfully unaware that trained strategists and assassins are doing things that may change the course of their lives forever. “I remember you telling me that the Council of Families approved Jag as the leader of the Lions when they shouldn’t have, and that by the time they realized there was a prob
lem there was nothing to be done. But I don’t understand that. Shouldn’t they have tried?”

  “They did,” he says. “But Jag didn’t follow their advice, and in order to oust him they would have had to use force. And the Council of Families never uses force; they are a source of wisdom, a collective of elders who advise and oversee Family politics. The whole system is built on respect.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “Respect isn’t the first word that comes to mind when I think of Strategia.”

  Ash looks at me and it seems as though my comment bothers him. “I understand your reservations given your introduction to our society, but there is a lot about Strategia that you haven’t experienced. There are power plays and arrogance, certainly, but there are also selfless acts of bravery and loyalty.”

  His reaction surprises me; a society that kills as frequently as Strategia do is not one I would praise. But I’m not sure that I want to debate that point right now, especially on the heels of what happened in the woods.

  “The worst part about the current state of Strategia politics,” Ash continues when I don’t respond, “is that the Lions have enough resources and power to do a lot of good in the world. But Jag is selfish; he only takes on the missions that serve him politically.”

  “Don’t all Strategia do what serves them politically?” I ask.

  “Yes and no,” he says. “Yes, we care about power and influence, and yes, we will always choose to support our Family and our Family’s territory before others. But for a great deal of history we have been team players. We step in when other Families need us, we take on missions that support the greater good, and we compromise when we need to. Jag changed all that. He’s not a team player and he doesn’t care one bit about the greater good. And what’s worse is that he’s managed to divide us and pit allied Families against one another through fear and manipulation.”

  For a moment we sit in silence. And when I don’t respond, Ash looks at me.

  “It’s time, November,” he says.

  “Time?” I say, but the instant I say the word I realize his meaning—the tin. I touch my coat pocket. “Yeah…I…are you hungry? Want me to go see if there are snacks in here somewhere?”

  “No,” he says, and I turn away from him to the big expanse of sky. “We need to know what your father left you because it may very well affect where we land.”

  I run my teeth over my bottom lip, discovering that it’s slightly chapped from the cold, dry air. “Right,” I say, not bothering to hide my reluctance.

  In my peripheral vision I can see the confusion on Ash’s face and I get it, but I don’t want to explain that it’s not exactly the reading of the message that I’m resisting; it’s the thought of finishing it. While it’s still in my pocket, untouched, it holds the possibility of being everything I need to hear—an apology for not telling me who I was, an expression of love and regret, an address and a phone number so that I can instantly reach him. And somewhere in my gut, I know I’m going to be disappointed. But even though I would be happy to live with the idealized version a little longer, Ash is right—it’s time.

  I pull the cold metal tin out of my pocket and stare at it, gathering my resolve. I hook my fingernails under the curved lip of the tin and gently pry the lid off. The baggie containing the note lies on top of a picture of me and Em at thirteen at a carnival with our arms around each other and huge grins on our faces. We had just eaten cotton candy, candy apples, and funnel cakes, fully committed to turning upside down on the Gravitron without puking. My heart aches so profoundly with the memory that I press my palm into my chest.

  I take a sip of the nonalcoholic piña colada Aunt Jo made me. “Mmmm,” I say, licking my lips and watching the fireflies in my backyard as they blink in and out. I hold out my palm, soaking in the heat from the fire pit. “Where did you learn to make these? They are so good.”

  Aunt Jo adds some rum to her colada and stirs it with her finger, licking it when she’s finished. “I shared these with a very handsome date on a beach in Hawaii last summer. The stars were out and the air was salty and…well, let’s just say I’ll tell you the rest when you’re eighteen,” she says, grinning at me. “And when I got home I decided they would be my new summer drink. They feel like a celebration, no?”

  “Definitely,” I say, enthusiastically taking another sip of the coconut goodness. I remember Aunt Jo making that trip, but she never told me about a love interest. “So what happened to your date? Did you ever see him again?”

  She adds a log to the fire. “Sadly, no.” She brushes a loose brown curl off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “But I will always have these drinks and I will always have my memories,” she says, and her expression looks serious, way more serious than her words.

  I wait for her to go on, but she just stares at the fire, lost in thought. “Is everything okay?” I ask when she doesn’t snap out of it.

  She sighs. “It’s so easy to take what you have for granted, so damn easy,” she says, and looks up at me. “Promise me this, Nova, that you will enjoy every piece of wonderful as it comes along, because you can’t go back, not for all the money or effort in the world—sometimes, when something is over, it’s over for good.”

  I stare at her, not sure what to make of the weightiness of her tone. “We’re not talking about your date anymore, are we?”

  She gives me a small sad smile. “I didn’t know when I had coffee with your mother the day she was in the car accident that it would be the last time. No one tells you it’s the last time. The air doesn’t feel different, your heart doesn’t pound, and there are no warning signs. Everything just changes in a single moment.”

  I twist my glass between my palms. “Do you think about her a lot?” I ask, not meeting her gaze.

  “Always,” she says. “And I will never stop.”

  I sigh at the happy memory of me and Em, realizing that Aunt Jo was right—that you must enjoy every piece of wonderful as it comes because you can’t go back. I pry the baggie open, pulling out the lined paper, which I instantly recognize as coming from the notepad in my kitchen. I unfold it slowly, like it might crumble in my hand if I’m not careful.

  There in the center of the paper, in my dad’s handwriting, are three words:

  Old Jack’s dog

  There’s no “Dear Nova,” no “I know you must be confused right now and upset with me for everything that’s happened,” and absolutely no contact information.

  I turn the note over, my heart thudding and my breath short, but there’s nothing more, not a suspicious indentation or even an erased scribble.

  Ash waits as I stare at the paper, which I grip too hard, crumpling it a little between my fingers. My mind swings into motion. Old Jack’s dog’s name was Angus. And Jack was the Pembrook fire chief for most of my childhood before he retired. He used to sit outside the firehouse every Sunday morning with Angus, the paper, and a hot cup of black coffee. We said hi when we passed, like everyone did, but we didn’t know him particularly well. In fact, he was kind of cranky. And what on earth does Angus have to do with any of this? I run through my memories of Jack and Angus, scanning them for anything that might connect to this situation or might tell me what to do next, but nothing feels right.

  I look up at Ash, my face scrunching in concentration. “Does Old Jack’s dog or the name Angus mean anything to you?”

  By the way his eyes brighten, I know his answer before he says it. “Why yes, it does.”

  Ash knows what this means and I don’t. Again. The realization hits me like a punch in the stomach—this isn’t like the note in the quilt, this one is for me, and yet it’s not decipherable by me. My dad gave me a clue that required someone else to decode. And suddenly I’m angry. What if I didn’t have Ash here? Would I be stuck with a nonsense note, left to wonder where my dad is and what happened to him? Not saying anything personal is upsetti
ng enough, but this is so much worse.

  “Old. Effing. Jack’s. Dog.” I say each word under my breath like it’s an insult. It is an insult.

  Ash’s gaze lingers on my features in a way that tells me he’s reading me, but he doesn’t press me to tell him my thoughts. “Angus is one of the older Strategia,” he explains. “He’s gruff and difficult to deal with, but he’s a genius with information. He knows just about everything about everyone.”

  I nod, not in the best control of my emotions. “And you know where he is?”

  “I do,” Ash says carefully, probably trying to figure out why a clue is causing me so much grief. “Scotland.”

  “Right,” I say. “Of course you know.”

  “And you wish I didn’t?” Ash asks.

  “No. I just wish…” I shake my head, not ready to vocalize my hurt. “You know what? I’m going to go search the plane, see if that Lion assassin left anything behind.”

  “Understood,” Ash says, and I don’t make eye contact with him as I walk away.

  * * *

  There is a slight shaking motion and a hand on my arm. I groan.

  “November,” Ash says.

  “Huh?” I open my eyes and sit up so fast that spots form in my vision. “Is everything okay? I was just…” I look around the bed where I went through all the items I found on the plane. As usual with Strategia, there was no written information, and there was absolutely nothing identifying the assassin, not even a clue that would tell me the plane belonged to the Lion Family. But at present, the bed is neat and tidy with nothing on it but me. Ash must have cleaned up.