I smile, too. “It was actually a lot of fun.”
“Exactly my point,” he says, and we share a look.
I find myself momentarily grateful for all the time I spent with my dad in our sleepy town, even if it makes giving it up more painful. “My question is, how did Dad know Logan had that sign in his smithy?”
“It’s entirely possible Logan’s had it for a long time,” Ash says. “Your father could have made a trip to Scotland in recent years and seen it.”
I try to picture my dad negotiating with someone as awful as Logan, and I just can’t. “The thing is, my dad almost never left Pembrook, much less traveled abroad,” I say. “The only long trips he ever took were with his rock-climbing buddies from college.” But the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how naïve I’ve been. “Oh god…rock-climbing buddies who I’ve never met, who would take trips to remote state parks and places without cell reception, or so my dad claimed.” I look at Ash. “How did I never question any of this before?”
Ash gives me a sympathetic smile, like even though he doesn’t fully understand the adjustment I’m going through, he knows it’s not easy.
“So the Pembrook masquerade ball,” I say, focusing back on the message. “Now we just need to figure out what message he was trying to send.”
“Where was your ball held?” Ash asks.
“Stella’s Inn, just outside of the center of town,” I say. “In a big refurbished barn. All of the town functions were held there. She hosted weddings and school dances and so on.”
Ash looks like he’s concentrating. “Layla and I have been to a handful of Strategia events with our parents in London, but none of them were held in barns, I’m afraid.”
“How about events held in an inn?” I ask.
“There are a few Strategia hotels that have event spaces in London, but those properties are all Lion-run,” Ash says with a worry line in his forehead. “If your father is pointing us toward a Strategia hotel, I’m not sure how we’d find out if they were hosting anything resembling a masquerade ball.”
I rub my temple. “What about a trade with someone who might be in the know about Lion events?”
“Maybe…,” he says, and his voice trails off. “Although digging for information on Lion-run properties will be tricky. I’m not sure a traditional trade is even possible.”
I study him, certain he’s running through ideas that he’s not saying out loud. “You said a traditional trade won’t work…is there a nontraditional one?”
Ash glances at me, but he doesn’t respond right away.
A few more seconds tick by in silence. “Ash?” I press.
“Wellll, that’s the thing,” Ash says, and I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever is making him hesitate. “There is a place in London where unallied Strategia socialize.”
“ ‘Unallied’?” I ask.
“They’re Strategia who take jobs for hire, who work with multiple Families instead of just one. My Family hires unallied Strategia for missions occasionally. But approaching them is…complex,” Ash says.
“Complex how?” I ask.
“Because I don’t know how to get in touch with them other than to go to their pub…which is exactly the type of place someone like the Ferryman might be,” he says. “And if not him, then others who may be hunting your father.”
I exhale. “When you said these unallied Strategia take jobs for hire, what exactly did you mean?” I ask.
“Let’s call them extra hands for special circumstances,” he says. “Smugglers. Thieves. But most of them are mercenaries and bounty hunters.” By the look on Ash’s face, I can tell that even though he doesn’t think going to their pub is safe, it’s also the only way.
ASH PARKS THE car in an underground car park and we take the stairs up to the street, where Gothic-spired church steeples rise into the sky and stunning medieval buildings house everyday cafés and boutiques. In the setting sun, the city has a moody, ominous vibe that makes me look cautiously at the pedestrians, my awe of its architecture fighting with my fear of encountering other Strategia.
“Welcome to Edinburgh,” Ash says. “Just making a quick stop before we head on to London.” He told me the same thing a half hour ago, and when I asked what it was, he said in a typical Ash way, “You’ll see.”
I never really cared much about traveling when I was living in Pembrook, figuring it was something I would get to eventually. But two minutes on a Highland road or two seconds in Edinburgh and it’s clear that I was deeply wrong. Why have I been going to soccer camps all these years instead of saving up my money to go to Europe? Not that Dad would have let me go, considering what I now know about our family, but still.
“So that’s really how you pronounce it, huh, with a brah at the end, Edin-brah?” I ask.
“Yes, like the article of clothing,” Ash says, smiling at my reaction.
“I meant like the dude brah, but same same,” I reply.
Ash lifts an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“You’ve never heard of a brah? Like a bro, but a brah?” I say, even though I’m positive his proper education never included surfer terms.
“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret having this conversation with you?” he asks.
“Hey, Ash,” I say in a dramatized surfer voice, “where ya headin’, brah?” And when he doesn’t answer, I say, “Edin-brah.”
Ash shakes his head and I allow myself a real laugh at his indignation. I slip my hand into his nonbandaged one, mostly because I want to remember walking down this jaw-dropping street with him, but also so I don’t walk into anything while I’m craning my neck.
For just an instant, he tenses, and I realize that holding hands probably isn’t a Strategia thing. I remember how aggressively Layla reacted the first time I stopped her in the hallway by grabbing her arm. She almost leveled me on the spot. But a half second later, Ash relaxes and his fingers curl around mine, pulling me close by his side.
“You’re the perfect tourist,” he says with a smile.
“Damn right I am. Remind me to insist that you take me traveling for fun when this is all over,” I say.
“Strategia don’t typically travel for fun. We travel with purpose,” Ash replies, not like he’s trying to shut me down, but like he’s never really considered the idea before.
“Then you’re seriously missing out,” I say.
“The more time I spend with you, the more I believe that,” Ash says, and there is something genuine in his voice that makes my heart swell. I squeeze his hand. But as sweet as he’s being with me, he’s equally hawkish in the way he eyes the street and the pedestrians. Then I remember—Ash said most Strategia live in cities. And just like that, my moment of delight is replaced by suspicion.
I immediately question my surroundings: the woman who stares for a second too long from the bakery window. The man walking a poodle—is he holding the dog’s leash tighter than necessary? A young guy selling umbrellas, which could easily be used to conceal a thin blade. Ash said that after what happened with Logan, we would be constantly looking over our shoulders; I just didn’t realize how literal he was being.
Ash stops in front of an impressive stone building that looks like something that once belonged to an earl or dignitary. Above the door reads CENTRAL LIBRARY and carved into the stone are the words LET THERE BE LIGHT.
I look at Ash, surprised. “A library?”
“This won’t take long,” he says, and I give him a questioning look. It’s strange that he held back telling me we were coming here, but maybe he’s suffering from lack of internet access and needs to look something up? Although I’m not sure Strategia actually care about being online; my friends at home would be baffled by the concept.
“About London,” I say, now wondering if he omitted any other parts of our itinerary. “Are we stopping
anywhere else along the way or are we heading straight there?”
Ash scans the street around us. “I’m thinking we’ll drive for a few hours tonight and stop along a farm road somewhere to sleep, then continue in the morning. Unfortunately, my family doesn’t have an apartment in Edinburgh, only in London. Under other circumstances we could stay at the Strategia hotel in Edinburgh, but after our encounter with Logan, I think it would be a categorically stupid idea,” he says, keeping his voice low while eyeing the pedestrians passing us to head into the library.
“Maybe we could find an inn or some little place that would be inconspicuous?” I suggest, not thrilled with the idea of sleeping in the car in winter.
Ash shakes his head. “The reason all our Families keep apartments in major cities or stay at Strategia properties is because non-Strategia hotels have security cameras that are easily monitored and staff that are easily bribed. But more importantly, those places don’t have a no-killing rule.”
“Right,” I say, and glance warily at the street for possible onlookers. “So sleeping in the car it is.”
He gives me a knowing smile and we walk past a large iron gate and through the heavy wooden doors of the library.
Inside is exactly what you would expect from such a grand building—magnificent domed ceilings and walls lined with dark paneled bookshelves. Ash weaves us through the rooms and along elegant corridors with the ease of someone who knows exactly where he’s going. I watch him as I walk. We think differently, were raised differently, and interact with the world differently, yet I have more in common with him than I ever did with the kids in my high school in Pembrook.
Ash stops in a back corner of the library at a counter that has a sign reading REFERENCE DESK. The girl behind it wears all black and has an asymmetrical pixie cut. She leans her elbows on the counter and scrutinizes Ash in a way that instantly tells me she’s Strategia.
“Do you have any materials on Cyrus the Great?” Ash asks casually.
To my surprise, I recognize the name from one of Layla’s tutoring sessions. Cyrus the Great was the founder of the Achaemenid Persian Empire, which is where the Wolf Family Strategia originated.
“Audere es facere,” Ash says under his breath, and it reminds me of the Latin phrase Matteo said to use at the Bear apothecary, which I have yet to tell Ash about.
The girl gives Ash a hard stare and disappears into the room behind her without a word.
I look at Ash, who winks at me, but before I can ask him to explain, the girl returns with a black clothbound book. She plops it onto the counter with a thunk.
“Name and date,” she says, and pushes a ledger toward him.
Ash writes his name and scoops up the book, and we walk to the other side of the room, where there is a quiet seating area and no people.
I stare at Ash in surprise. “You wrote your name,” I say in a hushed voice. “I thought Strategia don’t usually keep written records.”
“A necessary evil from time to time,” Ash says quietly, and flips through the pages of the book. “And a way for Families to keep track of their correspondence.”
“Correspondence?” I ask, but there is no need, because Ash lands on a page that has a series of letters circled in pencil.
My eyes widen. I lean over the yellowed pages with him and ogle the letters. By the smudges on the page and the faint eraser marks, it’s obvious that the circles have been drawn and redrawn in countless configurations. Secret codes guarded by Strategia in public libraries—another example of how they hide in plain sight.
Ash stares at the page, his forehead wrinkling in concentration, reminding me of his twin sister. And the moment I think of Layla, I realize how much I miss her.
I study the circled letters, attempting to piece them together in some configuration that makes sense. I try them forward, backward, and one letter off in the alphabet, but it’s all just gobbledygook. And the longer Ash stares at the page, the more serious his expression becomes.
Finally, he closes the book and stands. “Shall we?” he says in a cheerful tone, which might just be an indication that he’s not going to discuss the message here, but for some reason his good mood feels ominous.
I nod and we return to the reference desk. Ash places the book on the counter and the girl stamps the ledger Returned like it was nothing more than a commonplace transaction. And then we weave our way out of the library as casually as we came in.
The moment we step outside, I turn to him. “The everydayness of Strategia is eerie,” I say.
Ash raises an amused eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“They’re just everywhere…lurking in libraries and hotels and who knows where else,” I say, and Ash laughs.
“You mean we’re everywhere,” he corrects me, and I realize that even though I know I’m Strategia, I’m still not comfortable identifying as one. While Strategia skill sets are awe-inspiring, the brutality I’ve seen is stomach-turning. And once again the image of the dead assassin from the woods flashes in my mind.
I shake my head, like the action might somehow erase the memory and the sense of dread that accompanies it. “So that book…,” I say. “Families leave messages for each other that way?”
“It’s less traceable than emails or phone calls,” he says. “Every Family has books and codes in libraries in major cities.”
“Is that secure?” I ask, keeping my voice as quiet as possible. “Couldn’t other Strategia intercept messages that way?”
“Yes, it’s secure, and yes, they could intercept messages,” Ash admits, putting on his gloves. “But they don’t. It’s like the study rooms in the library at the Academy—everyone respects everyone else’s privacy because not respecting it would invite retaliation. And if someone was caught breaching another Family’s correspondence, not only would that person be punished, but their entire Family would lose the ability to use the libraries. It’s not worth it.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever understand the dichotomous nature of Strategia—chaotic and orderly, deceptive and respectful. “And the message you just read?” I say, leaving the question open-ended.
“I’m not sure yet,” Ash says, and immediately changes the subject. “Let’s grab a coffee and some food before we get back on the road. There’s a café on this block where J. K. Rowling used to work on Harry Potter. And the view of Edinburgh Castle isn’t bad, either.” Ash smiles, but his eyes don’t. Which tells me I was right to be suspicious; something is definitely bothering him.
“Okay, Ash, what’s going on?”
We cross the street and stop in front of a café with a bright red storefront.
“You mean besides a coffee and a deadly blacksmith stalker?” he says, and pushes the door open for me, temporarily halting our conversation.
Wintry garlands are strewn around chalkboards, and white lights twinkle along the glass displays filled with mouthwatering pastries. Everything smells of cinnamon and nutmeg. Normally I would be soaking in every second of this winter-themed bliss, but all I can think about is what Ash isn’t telling me.
I quickly order and we take a seat at a table by the far wall.
I slip out of my coat and lean forward, looking Ash straight in the eye. “Despite the risk of being followed,” I say, quietly picking up our conversation, “you randomly took a detour to the library. And now you’re doing everything to distract me from hearing what you found other than balancing a seal on your head. While dancing.”
He raises an eyebrow at the seal comment, like he doesn’t know where I come up with this stuff.
“A desperate need for a coffee or not,” I say, “don’t tell me it’s nothing if it’s something. And it’s clearly something.”
Ash sighs. “I’m not avoiding telling you,” he says carefully. “It’s just that I only got a piece of the message and I’m not sure what it all means yet.”
> I look at him sideways. “What do you mean, you only got a piece of it?”
Ash sits back in his chair. He gives the other patrons a quick glance, and I can tell by his face that he doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary. “The way those codes work is that you only see the latest correspondence but could have missed a long conversation that came before it. It can be hard to interpret out of context.”
I frown at him. “Okay, now you’re really making me nervous. You never try to qualify things.”
He hesitates, not trying to deny it. A waiter brings our food and drinks, setting them down in front of us.
When we’re alone again, Ash sips his coffee and studies me. Whatever he sees in my expression must tell him that I’m not going to let this go.
He leans forward with a sigh. “The message said Harry’s dead and there will be retaliation.”
Instead of me grappling to process some big reveal, my nervousness shifts to confusion. That’s the message he was resisting sharing with me? “Who’s Harry?”
Ash pushes his hair back even though it’s perfectly in place and gives the other patrons a scan. “Brendan’s cousin. Your cousin. Not a first cousin, but a second or possibly a third. He was one of Jag’s favorites. Students at the Academy always joked that Harry was the reason Brendan tried so hard to prove he was good at everything. That he was always worried his grandfather would eventually appoint Harry as head of the Family instead of him,” he says, keeping his voice down and his body language casual.
I frown, knowing there is a dot I should have connected somewhere but haven’t; it’s clawing at the edge of my awareness.
Ash rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t recognize him in the woods. It was too dark and the one time I met him was long ago and he didn’t have that beard then,” he says, and the realization hits me like a slap.
I stare at him, unmoving.
“At first I thought the message must be wrong,” Ash continues, “that it couldn’t be Harry, because Jag wouldn’t send him to America to just sit and wait…but then there was that expensive jet that pointed to an important Family member. And it’s always possible that if Jag knows about you, he might assume you would go back to Pembrook and therefore prioritized that mission.”
Hunting November Page 16