Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  Ash leads me into a tavern called the Dirty Stone, which is aptly named, considering the soles of my boots immediately stick to the floor. We don’t stop at the bar or at one of the scuffed wooden tables. We walk straight to the back, through a swinging door, and into a small pungent-smelling kitchen where the foods all appear to be fried.

  I give Ash a questioning glance, but he continues through the kitchen like we’re doing the most normal thing in the world. Even stranger is that the kitchen staff doesn’t look at us. They just go about their business like we aren’t there.

  Ash opens an unmarked door at the other end of the kitchen, gesturing for me to go through it. I stare at what appears to be a supply closet and consider telling him that I’ve changed my mind and we should go back to the car. But instead, I take a breath and reluctantly step into a space that smells of lemon and bleach. The door closes behind us, dropping us into blackness, and my heart makes one loud thump. There’s a click as Ash pulls a cord to an overhanging light and the bare bulb swings back and forth, casting wild shadows in the tiny space.

  “Ash?” I whisper, and he gives me a quick reassuring smile.

  He stares at the back wall of the closet and I stare at him. He touches the wall, running his fingers over the wood and concentrating. Then all of a sudden, his face relaxes and he presses a panel. To my surprise and possibly horror, the wall pops open, revealing a door. Boisterous noise spills into the little closet.

  “After you,” he says, and I slip through the opening, telling myself that whatever helps me find my dad is worth the risk.

  As the room comes into view, my heart rate speeds up. A secret pub! Only it’s vastly different from the one we just walked through. It looks older, plainer—large wooden beams frame its stone walls, the rustic wood furnishings are weathered but neat, and a huge fireplace has a large pot of what appears to be soup hanging over the flames. Iron candelabras with real candles dangle from the ceiling over long communal tables fitted with benches instead of individual chairs.

  The men and women are nothing like the students and teachers at the Academy, except for their propensity for black clothing. These Strategia are relaxed and loud and slam their pints onto the tables so hard that liquid sloshes everywhere. The patrons slouch over tables and lean against the bar, shaking their hands and pounding their fists on their knees as they talk. Maybe it’s just because they’re drunk, but there is none of the Strategia precision and rigidness that I’m used to. Laughter and arguments fill the windowless room and I can’t help but be a little awed by the scene.

  Ash looks around, and I follow his gaze. I don’t know how to identify the crew that took a hit from Jag, but I’m hoping Ash does. Three long seconds tick by before his gaze settles on a table of men and women near the fire. I can tell by the way he lifts his head slightly that he’s spotted someone of interest.

  “We just might need to be a little faster than I originally thought,” he says close to my ear, and I’m not sure if he’s reacting to something in particular or if he just realizes, like I do, that there is only one door and no visible windows, making it nearly impossible to get out of here if there’s a problem.

  Ash and I make our way across the room toward the table near the fireplace, and when we arrive a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard looks straight at us. “Might as well sit,” he says, taking a gulp of beer, “unless you and the missus plan on eyeing us from afar all night. Not that I can say I blame ya, on account of my irresistible beauty and grace, that is.” He uses both his hands to fluff his beard. The guy laughs, and even though his tone is lighthearted, I know better. His humor is all calculated.

  I scan the room briefly, but no one appears to be paying much attention to us, which I know by now means the opposite—they’ve all noticed that we’re here.

  “I don’t know anyone who could resist that invitation,” I say with a grin before Ash can respond. The man guffaws. I might not be well versed in making Strategia deals, but my gut tells me that keeping up the banter won’t do us any harm.

  “Now that’s the spirit,” the bearded man says, and slides over, making room. He pats the bench next to him.

  Ash smiles a friendly smile and moves in front of me, taking the first seat and leaving me at the very end of the bench. Considering he has been opening doors and letting me go first this entire trip, I find it hard to believe that he’s suddenly changed his MO. He must have another reason, like wanting to put a barrier between me and whoever this man is.

  The bearded guy waves his hand in the air and a boy about my age appears, wiping his hands on his apron. “Bring two more pints and a couple more pitchers for the table,” the man says. “And a big basket of chips.”

  The boy nods and sighs, like he’s had the same request all night and he’s bored out of his mind. I remember Layla once telling me that all Strategia serve their Families, whether that means assassinating people or, apparently, waiting tables.

  The bearded man turns to us. “Right…now let’s see, the skinny one there is Willy,” he says, pointing across the table at a man with thin dark hair tied back in a frayed ponytail and a complexion similar to Ash’s. “But don’t let his appearance fool ya; he’s as strong as Eddie over here.”

  “I could crush him with my pinky, maybe eat him for a snack,” says Eddie in a deep baritone voice. He is certifiably one of the more muscled humans I’ve ever seen. His face and arms are covered in freckles and his hair is the color of spun copper.

  “Now, Eddie, let’s not,” Willy says in a patient, almost tired-sounding voice. “Last time you went down this road, you sulked for days.”

  Eddie pretends he didn’t hear him.

  “Mary,” the bearded man says, gesturing toward a no-nonsense-looking woman, whose hair is entirely white even though she appears to be younger than my dad. “Best person to have if you get caught out at sea in a nasty storm or cornered in an alley. She’s reliably steered our bucking ship and crew through the worst of conditions.”

  Mary gives us a short, perfunctory nod, and I wonder about these introductions. This is the first time I’ve ever seen Strategia actively offer information about themselves and others. But Ash did say that these unallied crews make their living doing odd jobs. So maybe this is all part of the process?

  “Jenny, our weapons specialist, with the fastest blade in all of Europe; before you even reach for your knife she’ll have skewered you,” the bearded man says, indicating a young woman with box braids woven into an elegant bun on top of her head. A silver sword earring hangs all the way to her shoulder from her right ear, accompanying her nineties leather jacket and purple lipstick.

  “And I’m Hawk,” the bearded man says, and wipes some beer foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. “Good at most things, better at some.”

  Hawk…, I think, and immediately start analyzing his name. Hawks have fierce reputations and great sight. But unlike other Strategia, Hawk isn’t a name that has an ancient origin, making me wonder if it’s a chosen name rather than a given one. And to that point, all of Hawk’s crew’s names end with a uniform E sound, giving very little away about where they might be from; but maybe that’s the point? Maybe they’re all chosen names? They’re using British accents, but I know that doesn’t mean anything.

  “I hear you’re flexible,” Ash says, and I look at him, wondering if he heard that at the Raven’s Nest, or if he’s just testing Hawk. Which begs the question—what kind of flexible does he want Hawk to be?

  What’s interesting is that Ash didn’t tell Hawk our names, real or made up, after that lengthy introduction. And if Ash’s cutting to the chase like that, then he wants out of here as fast as possible. I imagine I feel eyes boring into the back of my head and resist the urge to look over my shoulder at the room.

  Hawk laughs, giving nothing away. “I do like when a negotiation starts out that way. Means I can charge a
hell of a lot more.” I look at his crew members to see if I can glean anything, but in typical Strategia fashion, they’re impossible to read.

  The kid with the apron returns and places two glasses in front of me and Ash, two pitchers of beer in the center of the table, and a basket of piping hot French fries in front of Hawk. Just the smell of alcohol makes my head pound in phantom pain.

  “Salud,” Mary says in an authoritative tone that feels contradictory to the sentiment. She lifts her beer mug.

  We all follow suit and I manage a small sip of the bitter liquid before returning it to the table. Subtle glances from the tables next to us seem to carry an undercurrent of hostility. It’s obvious that we’re out of place here, and I’m getting the impression that there are at least a few people in the room who don’t appreciate our presence.

  “Everyone in town seems to be on the same hunt,” Ash says with no fanfare, and I nearly choke. “But we’re less interested in the hunted than we are in the hunters.”

  I look from Ash to Hawk and back again. Oh god, is he outright admitting that we’re prying into Lion secrets?

  “Ahhh,” Hawk says, and grabs a handful of fries. They look so good I snatch a few myself. And he notices. I get the sense that he’s intrigued by my casual gesture. “So you’re attempting to hire us for a suicide mission, then.”

  Ash shrugs. “If you think you can’t do it—”

  “No one said we can’t,” Hawk says, and his voice is prideful. “But finding myself on the wrong side of Jag is the fastest way to end this life of luxury I’ve become accustomed to.” He holds up his fries as proof. Even though his voice is light, there is a serious undertone to it, a challenge.

  Ash appears relaxed, but his eyes are laser-focused. “From what I hear, your crew took a hit from Jag’s assassins earlier this year.”

  Something dark passes over the mood of the table, like Ash just spit in their food.

  “You’ve got a hell of a way of asking for a favor.” Mary’s tone makes my heart pound, and to make matters worse, the other patrons are openly watching us.

  “Not a favor,” Ash says, and his voice remains unaffected by the tension at the table. “A deal. Something that benefits us all.”

  “When people say ‘all,’ they mean themselves,” Mary says, finishing her pint and roughly clanking the glass onto the table.

  I wince.

  Mary stands up. “I’ll be at the bar,” she says to Hawk, and doesn’t spare us another look.

  Hawk frowns after her and I get the sense that losing Mary’s approval doesn’t bode well. As though someone flipped a switch, the rest of his crew loses interest in us, and they start talking among themselves as though we’ve already left the table. I glance at Ash and I can tell by the look in his eyes that recovery is unlikely.

  “Well, that settles that,” Hawk says.

  I immediately start to sweat. It can’t end like this, not this quickly, not after the risk we took in exposing ourselves by coming here.

  “That settles nothing,” I say, loud enough for Hawk to hear but not loud enough to carry in the noisy room. It earns me a hard look from Hawk.

  Ash picks up right where I left off. “I know that not only are you in desperate need of repairs to your vessel—let’s say sixty thousand euros’ worth?—but that you’re also not the type to forgive and forget.” Way to go, Ash. I’m not sure how much of this he got from his conversation at the Raven’s Nest and how much he’s just making up, but either way, Hawk has put down his beer and is giving us a serious look.

  “You’ve got my attention,” he says, his joke-laden easiness noticeably absent. “But I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Unless I’m wrong in thinking that by just sitting here, you’ve already compromised us?” He nods toward one of the tables, whose occupants have been watching us like they might eat us for dinner.

  In any other situation, I would run for the exit, but this isn’t just any situation. So instead I sip my beer like nothing is amiss and take a sweeping glance at the rest of the pub. “Given the thirtyish people in here, I’d say that there are at least five or so who will be reporting to the Lions that you were chatting with us.” I have no idea if it’s true or not. Hawk might not know exactly who we are, but it’s clear he knows we’re a problem, so there’s no point in trying to deny it.

  “Now,” Ash continues without missing a beat, “you have a choice. You can either make a deal with us, a solid deal. One where you get your boat repaired and get to take a swing at the Lions. Or you can walk away and take your chances with pissing off the Lions simply because of this conversation; maybe you even get banned from doing business in London.”

  Hawk leans forward in a threatening way. “That’s one idea. Another idea is that I kill you here and now and drop you on Jag’s doorstep with a bow tied around your broken necks.”

  I instinctively glance toward the exit, but there is a group of people standing between us and the door and no clear or fast path out.

  “Because you’re dying to do Jag a favor?” Ash snaps back.

  Something akin to a growl escapes Hawk’s mouth and his crew takes notice. “If I have to choose between you and Jag right now—”

  “You do,” Ash says, and I see Jenny’s hand move to her belt, where I’m sure she has any number of weapons stashed. I would slide under the table and melt into the floor if I could.

  “Think carefully, now,” Ash continues like this isn’t all going horribly wrong. “You may never be offered a shot at Jag again, not like this one. As much risk as you’ll be assuming, we’ll be assuming a lot more.”

  I look at Ash, who is doubling down on my double-down. We’re in as deep as we can go.

  Hawk grunts and for a long second he’s silent. He looks from Ash to me, staring me down like he’s searching my face for something. My heart skips a beat, remembering how Logan figured me out.

  “Look,” I say carefully and slowly, forcing my face to relax and my hands to unclench under the table. “The way I see it, we’ve all been forced into one position or another by the Lions, with little or no hope that anything will change. So we all have a choice here. Go forward together and fight. Or roll over like cowards.”

  A mocking laugh escapes Hawk’s lips. “You don’t think for a second that some kumbaya speech about togetherness is going to convince us to put our lives on the line for you, do you?”

  “I definitely don’t think you would do it for us. I think you would do it for yourselves,” I say. “Now I’m not going to lie, I don’t know the extent of the hit you took, but if you’ve had even one-tenth of the experience that I’ve had with Jag, then you can’t be dismissing this straight out.” I can only hope they hate the Lions more than they fear them.

  “More emotional bullshit,” Hawk says, and waves his hand dismissively.

  “I don’t know, boss,” Eddie chimes in. “I kinda appreciate the heart in it. The old Strategia would have considered this offer.”

  Willy rolls his eyes. “Oh, great. Here we go with the sentimentality about the good old days.” Willy pulls the pitcher of beer farther from Eddie. “I’m cutting you off before you start singing ballads.”

  “I can’t imagine what you mean by that. I have a delightful voice,” Eddie says.

  An amused look passes over Jenny’s face.

  Hawk frowns and sets down his beer. “It’s time for you to go,” he says.

  Everything in me sinks. That was it. That was our shot at getting the information we need to find my dad and we blew it. From the corner of my eye, I see Ash watching the table at the end of the room. If he’s looking at another table and not at Hawk, it can only be because there is something or someone there of greater importance than this conversation.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Hawk says, the threat more pronounced.

  Ash stands. I don’t get up immediately,
but by the way Ash looks from me to the back table, I know that if I don’t move soon, we’re going to have more than just Hawk to contend with.

  “And here I thought we were getting along so well,” I say to Hawk, plucking up one last French fry and popping it in my mouth. “I even considered asking you to go to the masquerade ball with me.” It’s as indirect as I can be, as time’s up.

  Hawk glances from side to side, checking to see if anyone heard me. When he looks back, he’s furious. “I’m going to assume that was a rookie mistake, given your tender age.” His voice is a growl and he touches the knife hilt on his belt in a menacing way. “But let me be clear, if I see you there, or at any point before, poking around in my business, I will hand you over to Jag with pleasure.”

  I stand and take a step backward, my heart pounding. Not only has Hawk confirmed there is a masquerade ball, but in the most horrible of coincidences, he is going to be there. I’m not sure if I’m deeply relieved that we figured out part of my dad’s clue or terrified that I’ve just made an enemy of Hawk.

  Ash grabs my arm and the moment I look up I know why. Two men from the back table have gotten up and are headed straight for us, and by the way they are zeroed in on us, I’m sure they’ve figured out who we are.

  We don’t hesitate. We move full-speed for the exit, weaving around Strategia and between tables. Any relief I had over the masquerade information is now eclipsed by panic.

  Ash flings open the door and I run into the dark closet, grab the handle leading to the kitchen, and push it open. I look momentarily for a lock, but of course there is none. At a loss for options, I grab a rolling rack of dishes, and the second Ash clears the doorway, I wedge it between the door and the edge of the counter where a guy is chopping onions.

  All at once, everyone in the kitchen turns to look at us, the room dropping into an eerie stillness. The kitchen staff don’t try to hide their worried reactions, telling me that at the very least, they’re not Strategia.