Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  “Screw it. Let’s drink,” I say, the world already feeling fuzzy.

  “Attagirl!” he says, and slaps me on the back.

  * * *

  “But can you keep a beat?” the old man asks me, and sways.

  “Yeeeees. My life is beats,” I say, and he looks like he doesn’t believe me, but he also doesn’t have a better option.

  “And you remember your part? ’Cause I won’t have you holding up the tune.”

  I grab the bar to steady myself. “Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh, ring di diddly I oh. Then I repeat the last line you sang,” I say emphatically, and hiccup. “Now will you stop blustering at me and grow a pair.”

  He chuckles. “Right you are. This is shaping up to be a damn fine evening after all.” He takes one last shot, which he dedicates to someone named Mike Cross, and offers me his hand as I step down from my barstool. Problem is I’m not sure if he’s steadying me or making me sway more.

  He lets go of me and sticks two fingers in his mouth, whistling loud and clear. Half the pub turns to look at us. I start clapping my hands in the air to the beat he taught me and he stomps his foot. It only takes a few seconds for some of the other patrons to move our way.

  “Well, a Scotsman clad in kilt left the bar one evening fair. And one could tell by how he walked he’d drunk more than his share,” he sings in a deep bellowing voice. “He stumbled on until he could no longer keep his feet. Then he staggered off into the grass to sleep beside the street.” He nods to me.

  “Ring-ding deedle deedle di-de-o Ring di deedle-o dee,” we sing together. “He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street.”

  A crowd gathers around us, some of them clapping with me, which is about the moment that I realize I’m also dancing.

  “Later on two young and lovely girls just happened by. And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye,” the old man sings, and there are encouraging whistles from the onlookers. A guy around my age joins us by the bar, dancing and clapping along. “You see yon sleeping Scotsman so strong and handsome built. I wonder if it’s true what they don’t wear beneath the kilt.”

  There are bursts of laughter and cheering. I spot Ash pushing his way to the front of the crowd and I grin at him.

  “Ring-ding deedle deedle di-do-o Ring di deedle-o dill,” the guy who joined us sings with me, and more people from the crowd repeat the last line. “I wonder if it’s true what they don’t wear beneath the kilt.”

  The young guy twirls me in a circle and I’m fairly certain a “wheee” escapes my lips.

  “They creeped up to the sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be. Lifted up his kilt above the waist so they could see,” Angus sings, and the onlookers whistle and cheer. “And there, behold, for them to view beneath his Scottish skirt was nothing but what God had graced him with upon his birth.”

  The young guy grins at me and we sing, “Ring-ding deedle deedle di-de-o Ring di deedle-o do. Was nothing but what God had graced him with upon his birth.”

  He twirls me again and dips me with his arm wrapped behind my back. As I stand up, I see that Ash has broken from the group and is walking straight for me. I wave him forward, encouraging him to get involved. But instead of joining in the song, he scoops me into his arms.

  The crowd hoots and hollers, but when he begins to walk away with me, objections fly. Ash doesn’t respond and he doesn’t turn around. He just carries me through the door and out of the pub entirely.

  Examining him for the reason he looks so put out, I touch his cheek with my pointer finger, but it slips right down his face. “Did you get jealous that guy was dancing with me?” I say as we go up the steps, and I laugh until a hiccup cuts it short. “I’ve never seen you jealous before. It’s cute. Can Strategia be cute? Isn’t it against the rules?”

  “I was on the other side of the room for no more than half an hour. How did you manage to bond with old Angus, much less concoct a performance in that time?” Ash says as he continues up the stairs.

  “Whisky!” I say, and spread my arms out. “The old man—”

  “Angus,” Ash offers.

  “Angus said it was a solution to…well, I don’t remember to what, but it made sense at the time,” I say.

  Even though I can tell he’s still concerned, a smile steals across his face. His dark brown eyes focus on me in a way that makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the world he smiles at, even though I know for a fact that’s not the case.

  “Why are you so attractive?” I say, and his eyes widen. “No, seriously. I want to know. It’s weird.”

  “It’s weird?” He tries to maintain a serious expression, but his voice sounds like it’s covering a laugh.

  “Yeah. Super weird.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know how to answer that,” he says, and puts me down gently in front of the suite, waiting for me to get my footing before he lets go.

  I lean against the wall, and as soon as he finishes opening the door, I touch his hand. He intertwines his fingers with mine, and I pull him toward me.

  “I’m going to kiss you right now, Ashai, so don’t you dare try to object,” I say, and the smile he gives me is so knee-weakening that I’m grateful not only for the wall behind me, but for the builder of this wall in particular, and for the inventor of walls in general.

  He gently slips his hand behind my neck, and my skin tingles where he touches me. His lips hover above mine. “I would never refuse a kiss from you.”

  I move my mouth to meet his, and the tingles that started in my neck spread through my entire body. He steps a little closer, and his body meets mine, pressing my back into the wall.

  Then suddenly there is the sound of voices on the staircase and we break our embrace. He offers me his arm to walk into the room, but I stumble in just fine on my own.

  “We need to get you some water,” he says, and I can’t help but frown because our kissing didn’t immediately resume. “And a charcoal pill. Even so, you’re going to feel like ten kinds of hell in the morning.”

  “Have I shrunk?” I ask.

  “Have you what?” Ash says, and half laughs.

  “I feel like I’m two feet tall,” I say, and touch my head to make sure it’s still where it should be. “And my hands feel like flappers.”

  “Flappers, eh?” Ash says, grinning. “What exactly are flappers?”

  “Flappers. Flippies. Flappippies.” I pause to consider my strange physical predicament, and my lips purse. “Maybe I’m turning into a seal?”

  Ash’s laughter takes me by surprise and I almost lose my balance.

  “Maybe that wasn’t whisky I was drinking at all. Maybe it was a magical potion and that old man is really a witch?” I say, giving the situation some hard thought.

  “Angus isn’t a witch,” he says as though my comment warranted a response.

  “Did you think I thought…no…did you thought I think. Shit. You know what I mean,” I say.

  Ash’s grin only grows. “No, I really don’t.”

  “What’s a witch anyway by a rose’s name that doesn’t smell as sweet,” I say, and hiccup.

  “Glad we cleared that up.”

  He’s having way too much fun at my expense and I’m not sure I like it. I point at him. I just wish he would stop moving, so I wouldn’t have to sway to see him. “You said you were falling for me.”

  “I did,” he says.

  “How do you even know something like that? I mean, how are you brave enough to say it?” I grab the couch, which has snuck up behind me.

  Ash closes the distance between us and brushes back a wisp of my hair. He puts an arm around my waist to keep me standing. “I’ve always known when things are important. And you, November, are stunning. I don’t just mean that you’re beautiful, which you certainly are. I mean that you radiate kindness and laughter at the
same time that you’re besting everyone with your knife skills. You trust people and believe in their goodness, even when everyone around you attacks and betrays you. I’ve never met anyone like you in my life and I would have to be the most foolish person alive not to tell you so.”

  “Okay, I knew it…or at least I suspected it,” I say, getting hung up on the two s’s in suspected. “You’re perrrrfect. Do you really think that’s fair to the rest of us? I’m pretty sure I’m going to marry you. Not now. Don’t be crazy. But you should just tell your Family that whatever ideas they have about you marrying someone fancy are moot.” I wave my hands in the air for emphasis.

  Ash laughs. “On that note, I think we should get you to bed.”

  “On that note,” I say, and lean forward, but before I get to his lips, my stomach gurgles. “Oh no.” I break away from his arms, taking a fast, dizzying scan of the room, until my eyes land on a beautiful hand-carved wastebin. I drop to my knees and grab either side of it.

  Ash pulls back my hair and I throw up until there is nothing left in my stomach. He gets me a wet washcloth and a glass of water. I don’t need the morning to arrive to know that I deeply regret my drinking and the defiling of this lovely wastebin.

  There is a knock on the door and Ash looks out the peephole before answering it. On the other side is Angus.

  “Missed me already,” I say from my splayed-out position on the floor. “Did you know that Angus comes from Gaelic? And not only that, it means ‘one strength.’ Cool, huh?” I hiccup.

  “Paying homage to the whisky gods, I see,” Angus says to me, and hands Ash something. “She forgot her wallet at the bar.”

  I squint at the brown square and attempt to sit up. “That’s not mine.” I laugh. “Where would I even put a wallet in this dress? Pssssht.” I wave my hand at him like I’m batting a fly.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ash says, giving the old man a wary eye.

  Angus nods at Ash and raises two wild eyebrows at me before he leaves. He seems surprisingly less drunk than I do, which I consider most unfair.

  The door closes with a click and Ash opens the brown wallet, pulling out a business card. His eyes widen. “Logan James…Blacksmith.” He looks at me, his expression turning dead serious.

  “Right,” I say, and rub my head like it might help clear the fog. “Angus did say something about a blacksmith.”

  Ash looks at the card like he’s concentrating too hard. “Why would he bring you this?”

  “Hmmm?” I say.

  Ash shakes his head. “There are a lot of whispers about Logan. None of them good.”

  Some of my memories from my conversation with Angus float into my consciousness and I sit up, suddenly not feeling as carefree as I did a minute ago. “Angus said someone came here looking for my dad. That there’s a bounty on his head.” I look at Ash. “Have you heard of the Ferryman?”

  Ash exhales audibly, the color draining out of his cheeks. “We’re leaving at first light.”

  ASH LOADS OUR bags into the back of the car and I notice that mine is significantly fuller than it was when we arrived. I can only guess that he took a few items from Layla’s closet or from the room in general before we left, but I didn’t actually see him do it because it was all I could do to choke down some bread and butter and orange juice.

  I make the mistake of looking toward the sunrise and the bright light feels like it’s piercing my skull. If we were doing anything other than looking for my dad, I would run back inside and dive under some pillows for the next two days.

  “Feeling any better?” Ash asks, and opens my car door for me.

  “I think the charcoal is definitely helping, but I swear I’m never drinking whisky again,” I say unhappily as I slide into my seat.

  Ash gives me a knowing smile. “Noted,” he says, and closes the door.

  I wince at the sound of the car door shutting and lean my head back against the seat.

  Ash gets into the driver’s side and starts the engine. “I’ll make sure there’s none of it served at our wedding.”

  I look at him sideways. “Our wedding?” Then it dawns on me—my drunken rambling last night. “Oh god.” I put my face in my hands as Ash drives us around the circle and away from the Gothic manor. “Please tell me I didn’t say what I think I said.”

  “I’ll admit, I always thought that when a girl finally proposed to me, it would be better choreographed than that. But at the time, I think you may have been a two-foot-tall seal. And it was pretty romantic for a seal.”

  “This is so not funny,” I say.

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” Ash says as we drive down the empty street shadowed with tree branches in the soft morning light. “That definitely makes my top three best conversations of all time.”

  “This would be easier if I couldn’t remember what I said. Aren’t you supposed to forget everything when you’re drunk like that? Where art thou, friendly amnesia?” I say, and Ash laughs. “Why don’t we talk about something less awful, like how terrifying this blacksmith is.”

  “I did promise I would tell you more in the morning,” Ash says, giving me a way out but still looking far too amused.

  “You most certainly did,” I say, leaving no room to further discuss me as a marine mammal.

  Ash uses his left hand to steer with such ease that I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been driving since he was six. But before he can get a word out, Angus’s comment about the Ferryman floods my thoughts.

  “The Ferryman,” I blurt out, remembering Ash’s reaction last night. “I saw your face when I said his name. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  His expression shifts to being unreadable, which makes me wonder what he’s hiding. “I know of him.”

  I fight the urge to blabber nervously and instead sit in anxious stillness, hoping he’ll tell me the Ferryman is less awful than the hardened killer I imagine.

  “He’s…,” Ash starts, and stops. “He’s known by reputation more than anything else. I’ve never met him.”

  “What kind of a reputation?” I say, fear seeping into my words.

  “Efficient,” he says, and my rib cage tightens around me, but Ash doesn’t continue.

  “Go on,” I say, and he turns to me.

  “November—”

  “No, Ash. Tell me. I know you know more. And if this guy is after my dad, I need to know who he is.”

  Ash exhales. It’s not like him to avoid a direct question. “He’s not affiliated with one Family but works with all of them. He rarely takes on missions, but when he does, he completes them. Everyone wants to work with him. He’s…skilled.”

  Ash’s reserved tone tells me everything I need to know. When Ash says “skilled,” what he really means is a brilliant assassin.

  “What I don’t understand is, why did Angus warn me about him?” I say, looking at Ash to make sense of it for me. I was already tipsy when I was trying to reason it out last night and I didn’t get very far.

  Ash glances at me. “It was part of your negotiation, was it not?” he says, and there is something akin to worry in his voice.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “Before he decided to trade information with me, he told me someone had already been there asking about my dad. He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t want me to know it, right?”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Ash says, and his eyebrows dip.

  “Do you think Angus knew who I was before I told him?” I ask, my concerns from last night burgeoning into anxiety. “And if he already knew who I was, why would he bother trading with me?”

  “I couldn’t say for certain,” Ash says, and his grip tightens ever so slightly on the steering wheel. “He told you about the bounty and about the Ferryman. Then he pointed you toward the blacksmith, correct? Is there anything I’m missing?”

  I shake my head. “Is it possibl
e my dad traded with Angus in order to tell me those things?”

  “In order to point you to the blacksmith…yes, that could be the case,” Ash says. “Angus went so far as to bring you Logan’s address—a deliberate and heavy-handed action.” Something about the way Ash carefully chooses his words sets me on edge.

  “Right, so maybe my dad wanted me to know there was a bounty on his head, which makes sense, and then directed us to the next place we could gather information,” I say. “But that doesn’t explain why Angus led with the fact that someone was following my dad. If the Ferryman is as good as you say, Angus wouldn’t want to cross him by making his plans known, right?” And as I reason it out, my stomach sinks. I feel the color drain from my cheeks. “Oh no. Please tell me that I’m misreading this.”

  Ash presses his lips together.

  “Ash? Did the Ferryman want me to know that he’s following my dad? Does the Ferryman know I exist?” I say, my temples pulsating.

  Ash exhales audibly. “I’m going over what you told me backward and forward, but that is the only possibility I can see.”

  “Why would the Ferryman want me to know that?” I ask, trying to come up with some reason it’s not true. “Letting someone know you’re after their dad doesn’t fit with the usual Strategia tactics.”

  “Unless someone is so good at what they do that it’s the only way to make it interesting,” Ash says, and I feel dizzy. “The Ferryman is a hunter, November. He’s letting you know you’re a mark.”

  I stare at Ash, knowing I will regret asking him this question but unable to help myself. “Why do they call him the Ferryman?” My voice is quieter.