Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  “Oh god, Ash,” I say, my voice losing its volume and catching in my throat. “You’re saying…I killed my cousin?” I try to swallow the nauseated feeling in my stomach as the image of his limp body and the pool of blood flashes through my mind.

  “You survived an attack, November, nothing more,” Ash says, and his voice is insistent, like there is no other way to see it.

  I shake my head, as though I could somehow unknow this. “Maybe I didn’t kill him on purpose, but he’s still dead,” I say. “And it’s my fault.”

  “There is a world of difference between defending yourself and cold-blooded murder,” Ash says, and as much as I want to agree with him, I can’t. “Believe me, Harry was doing everything in his power at the time to kill you.”

  I not only have Conner’s death on my conscience, but now Harry’s, and what makes it even more terrible is that they were both my relatives.

  I sit on my back porch and toss a pebble toward a can that’s about twenty feet away from me. It catches the rim and bounces off onto the floorboards. It’s raining so hard outside that the forest in my backyard is blurred by sheets of water and the dampness is making my T-shirt stick to me.

  “You’ve been at that for an hour now,” my dad says, opening the screen door and joining me on the porch. “What are you doing?”

  “Figured I might as well do something useful until this rain stops and I can go to Emily’s,” I say, tossing another pebble. This one lands cleanly in the can.

  “And this is useful?” my dad asks.

  “It is if you plan on landing a gumball in someone’s soup at lunch,” I say.

  The look Dad gives me tells me he doesn’t approve.

  “What?” I say with my most innocent expression.

  “You’re practicing a skill so that you can splash soup on someone?” he asks.

  “Matt Dorsey put his chewed-up gum on my math book cover yesterday! It was gross,” I say.

  “Your actions matter, Nova,” Dad says, and I sigh because he’s clearly missing the part about Matt defiling my book. “What other people do is on them, but you’re responsible for every single one of your choices.”

  “Daaad,” I say. “It’s just a joke.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Well, what if I told you that if you land your next toss, I’ll give you twenty bucks?”

  My face lights up. “Will you?”

  “But if you don’t make it,” he continues, “you can’t hang out with your friends this weekend.”

  I stare at him, unsure what to say.

  “So, are you going to take the shot?” he asks, pressing me.

  I hesitate, trying to assess what my chances are. So far, I’ve made about six in ten. It’s not bad odds, but it’s not great, either. “No,” I huff.

  “Why?” my dad asks.

  “Because it’s not worth it,” I say.

  “Exactly,” my dad says, and I look at him, trying to figure out how this is related to Matt and his stupid gum. “Think about it this way: How would you feel if you splashed soup on him and everyone laughed?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, because I’m actually not sure anymore.

  “Well, how would you feel if everyone laughed and then he went home and cried?” my dad says, and my eyes widen.

  “Terrible. Really really terrible,” I say, flustered. “It was supposed to be a joke. I’m not trying to hurt—”

  “I know you’re not,” my dad says, his voice gentler. “But when you have as many skills as you do, Nova, it’s important to use them wisely and with caution. Misuse can lead to consequences you weren’t intending, consequences you alone will be responsible for.”

  I’m gripping my cup of cocoa for warmth when it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve overlooked the second part of Ash’s message.

  I examine Ash, my tone serious. “You said the message was Harry’s dead and there will be retaliation. What does retaliation mean in a situation like this? Retaliation against whom?”

  Ash nods, like he couldn’t agree more. “That’s the part I’ve been wrestling with. There are a lot of ways the Lions might retaliate for killing a close Family member.”

  “Let’s just say that was Harry in the woods by my house. And let’s also say that they know or suspect that I killed him. Is the retaliation meant for me?” I look Ash square in the eye.

  “That would be my guess,” he says, and my fear swells.

  My thoughts drift to the Academy’s eye-for-an-eye punishment system. “How exactly do the Lions retaliate?”

  Ash shakes his head. “Let’s just hope we don’t have to find out,” he says, and I hope with all my might right along with him.

  THE SUN IS already up as I peel my face off the reclined car seat. I wipe my mouth, grateful there’s no drool, especially since Ash is already awake and driving. But judging by the backcountry road we’re on and the look of the farms out the window, I’d say we haven’t gone very far.

  Ash’s hair and clothes are somehow pristinely neat, whereas I’m less so, based on a quick assessment in the side mirror, which revealed a wrinkle from the seam of the upholstery running across my cheek.

  “Remind me never to go camping with you,” I say, adjusting my seat and removing the blanket we bought at a supermarket on our way out of Edinburgh last night. “You’re one of those people who mysteriously wakes up looking like they’re going to prom.”

  Ash smiles at me, and in the morning light I can’t help but be impressed. “Will coffee help?” he asks.

  I spot two steaming cups in the console between us. I didn’t hear him stop to get them, but with the lack of sleep we got last night between finding a suitable hiding place and then waking every couple of hours to run the heat, I’m not surprised I slept through it.

  “Yes, yes it will,” I say, gratefully clasping the warm cup in my hand.

  Ash steals a look at me. “I take it prom is a good thing?” he asks.

  For a moment I just stare at him, shocked that Ash, who seems to know everything about everything, doesn’t know what prom is. But then I realize that of course he doesn’t. He never went to a normal school, didn’t have normal friends, and probably never watched TV shows. Plus, I think it’s mostly an American thing.

  “It’s a formal dance,” I say, taking a small sip of the delightfully hot coffee. “You get all decked out in fancy gowns and tuxes, rent a limo with your friends, and then dance to super-predictable songs in some themed venue. There’s always pictures beforehand in someone’s backyard with your parents telling you to stand near your date and then there’s a rager afterward where someone sneaks in alcohol and at least one person winds up puking in the bushes.”

  Ash listens, amused by my description. I can’t help but think it probably sounds like nonsense to him. “I always wondered what regular school was like,” he says, and I give him a questioning look.

  “You did?”

  “Of course,” he says, and takes a sip of his coffee.

  It baffles me that this confident, model-esque expert strategist ever gave a second thought to something as mundane as high school. “Mostly it’s painfully early classes and a bunch of teens taking their angst out on each other. You’re not missing much.”

  “I’ve also never been to the movies,” he says.

  “Never ever?” I say with a heaping of dramatic shock.

  Ash shakes his head.

  “Oh man. Emily would have a field day with you,” I say, and realize this is the first conversation in a long time where I feel somewhat like my old self. I look at Ash. “You know what? When this is all over, we’re having movie night, and we’ll watch all the high school classics. When the night is over, you’ll know more about American high school than you ever wanted to.” I pause. “So you didn’t go to the movies and you didn’t go to a regular school—what did you do?�
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  “Mostly Layla and I trained,” he says. “Our days and evenings were filled with tutors, and when we weren’t training we were shadowing our parents and meeting our foreign contacts. There wasn’t time for much else. An occasional shopping trip to pick up supplies or Strategia social functions, sure, but we didn’t do what you would probably think of as typical. There were no visits to toy stores or theme parks, and there were definitely no playgrounds. If we exhibited our agility skills in the open, people would have instantly realized there was something different about us.”

  “Oh,” I say, studying him. “That…”

  He smiles at me. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

  “That sounds like it sucks?” I say, adjusting my tone so the inflection is like a question, not an insult.

  But he just laughs. “Sometimes it really did,” he says. “Although I don’t think Layla ever felt that way. She was the same as a three-year-old as she is now. Before she could even read she was carrying around books in a little satchel she got in London, like a tiny lawyer.” He pauses and I realize this is the first time he’s actively shared what his life was like, not just a single memory or an explanation, but more casually, like he trusts me with it.

  I lean back in my seat. “So that’s what my life would have been like if I’d been raised a Strategia, huh?”

  He changes the hand he’s driving with. “Yes and no. Not all Strategia have the perfectionist parents that Layla and I do, but there’s always some version of training, especially for the kids who are expected to go to the Academy.”

  “And what would you do if you needed a break? What would you do for fun?” I say, not accepting that it’s possible to have a childhood completely devoid of anything silly.

  “Set traps for Layla,” he says with a mischievous grin. “I once rigged a cake to drop on her head when she entered the dining room. I got in loads of trouble, but it was totally worth it.” He sips his coffee. “And if I really needed some quiet time, I would climb up to the roof. There were parts of it that were just decorative, domes with cutout stonework and so on. I would tuck myself up in one nook or another. I’m certain my parents knew where I was, but no one ever bothered me up there. What about you? What was it like being with non-Strategia so often?”

  My mouth lifts at the awkwardness of his question, like the word friend isn’t commonly used in his vocabulary. “I never really thought about it before. But I guess the best word to describe it is relaxed. Pembrook is small. My friends all grew up together. There wasn’t a lot of trouble to get into, although I definitely did my fair share of digging to find some. And people were…happy. I know it probably sounds boring compared to traveling the world and whatnot, but it was kind of perfect for me.”

  Ash smiles at me like I just told him a secret. “I’ve never met anyone who was so happy to be exactly who they are.”

  “What?” I say, nearly choking on my coffee. “Right now I wish I were anyone but me.”

  “No you don’t,” he says. “You lean into life. Even now, even when you’re being hunted by the Lions, you gape at the streets of Edinburgh, light up over the sight of a Christmas tree in a hotel lobby, ask five thousand questions about the Scottish countryside, and plan movie nights with enthusiasm. It’s not just about the end goal for you; you look at the everyday world like it’s something special, and you make me see it that way, too.”

  I blink at him, taken aback. But before I can say anything, Ash looks in the rearview mirror, letting his gaze linger.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, resisting the urge to turn around.

  He glances at me.

  “I mean with whatever is behind us,” I clarify.

  “Ah, well, I’m not actually sure. Although I am sure we’re being followed.” He doesn’t sound nearly as freaked out as I would expect.

  I look at the side mirror nervously but can’t see anyone behind us. “How can you tell? Do you think it’s Logan?”

  “A hunch,” he says.

  I gaze out the window, wondering if he’s right, if Logan is angry enough to follow us.

  “Logan’s precise,” Ash says, and his voice takes on the lilt it gets when he’s analyzing people. “Did you notice his ironwork? His craftsmanship is exceptional, and he does everything the old-fashioned way, with precision and care, which is not only harder but more time-consuming. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s someone who has the patience to be a tracker and prefers the long route. We likely presented ourselves as an interesting challenge. Also, information about you will be worth a hell of a lot right now. So even if I’ve read him incorrectly and he’s not following us, he would have to be an idiot not to sell what he knows. Either way, the likelihood is that we’re being followed.”

  * * *

  Ash looks in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time since we entered London. He’s been trying to keep things light the entire drive, telling me stories about him and Layla as kids, playing a BBC Radio 2 show where they give hilarious relationship advice, and pointing out landmarks as we go. But our conversation never felt as uninhibited as it did this morning. I don’t know what it is about mornings and their ability to make you forget, to give you a little slice of peace before the world descends.

  I exhale loudly when Ash says we’re nearing the pub where the unallied Strategia socialize. A couple of months ago the most exciting thing going on in my world was the two-for-one cupcake sale at my local bakery.

  “Is there anything we can do to make ourselves less conspicuous? Would it help if I dyed my hair or dressed differently?” I ask.

  Ash shakes his head. “We will just have to be fast and smart. Although I’m not sure that what we’re about to do qualifies as either.”

  I nod. I know he thinks this is a bad idea, but it’s the only lead we have to help us figure out if that sign in Logan’s smithy relates to my dad.

  “Is there anything I need to know about these unallied Strategia?” I ask.

  Ash slows his car down in a bustling neighborhood full of circuitous stone alleys with dim lighting, street vendors, and cobblestoned everything.

  “Well,” he says, considering the question. “It’ll depend on whether or not they are amenable to working with us. If we ask them about the specifics of a Lion event without reaching an understanding first, we could potentially be telling them how to find your father.”

  I press my lips together. What a mess. “So start with a more general ask, then? About the Lions, maybe?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “Like I said, the Strategia in that pub aren’t like the ones you’ve met so far. While they do keep alliances with certain Families, they’re more like free agents or…specialists. They take big risks and get compensated accordingly.”

  “So they make their living doing things like capturing people like my dad?” I wait for Ash to deny it, but he doesn’t, so I continue. “Back at the Raven’s Nest, you seemed to know a few people…is anyone you know likely to be here?”

  Ash shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I only know this place exists because my cousin used to talk about it. But I’ve never actually been here or made a trade with a crew like this before.”

  I scan his face. “So we’re winging it?”

  “Something like that,” he says, keeping his voice confident, but I know him well enough to know he’s uncomfortable.

  “Should I be worried?”

  He focuses back at me. “More like I should be worried that you can read me so well these days.”

  “These days?” I say with playful bravado to keep the fear from seeping into my voice. “Don’t forget that I was the only one who could spot your lie in deception class.”

  At that, he smiles, big and broad. “I will never forget that.”

  And for just a split second, the chaos fades and it’s just me and Ash smiling at each other.
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  Then he sighs. “I actually heard something at the Raven’s Nest that might be pertinent.”

  “What kind of something?” I say, looking at him curiously.

  “That conversation I joined at the pub? They were talking about a crew based here in London, something about a job gone wrong that resulted in Jag killing the crew leader’s brother along with a couple of other members,” he says.

  “Do you think they’re angry enough with Jag that we might be able to convince them to help us?” I say.

  “I honestly don’t know. It’s a long shot.”

  “But it’s worth a try, right?” I say, and at the hopeful uptick in my voice Ash frowns. I’ve never seen him this worried before and now I wonder if he didn’t tell me about this crew because he didn’t want to take the risk of coming here.

  For once, Ash doesn’t try to spin it into a positive. “We’ll want to get in and out as fast as possible,” he says. “There’s no such thing as a no-killing rule here.”

  For a brief moment I wonder if we’re making an awful mistake. But there’s no time to stew because he’s out of the car and headed for my door. He offers me his hand and helps me out.

  I look down at the jeans I changed into at a rest stop. “Will I be okay in this? I’m guessing by the look of this neighborhood that we’re not going anywhere fancy.”

  “More than okay. In fact you might be overdressed,” he says, and leads me into a cobblestoned street that’s closed to cars. It’s lined with small stores ranging from pawnshops to specialty bourbon sellers. I get the sense that a fair amount of the merchandise sold here falls on the illegal-ish line.

  We turn down a narrow alley filled with bars that reminds me of a place where pirates and smugglers from a different era might spend their free nights onshore, drinking until they pass out, draped over barrels. I scan the numerous people in the alley, wondering which ones are Strategia, and I pull my coat tighter around my body.