Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  I stop dead in my tracks, scouring my living room to be sure that no unknown threats await us. Ash moves to the bathroom, then to my dad’s bedroom, and I do the same with the kitchen and my bedroom. After we’ve opened doors and checked in closets and under the beds, certain that there isn’t a Strategia lurking there, we meet silently back in the living room, my shoulders dropping an inch.

  Everything is exactly as I left it the night I departed for Academy Absconditi. Dad must have driven me to the airport and never returned. The cushy tan couch still has the red plaid blanket strewn across it, and the bowl with popcorn remnants hasn’t been cleaned. The living room smells faintly like fireplace, as it always does, and my dad’s snow boots stand on a plastic mat near the front door. For a split second I can almost believe that the Academy wasn’t real, that my aunt Jo is still alive, and that my dad is on his way home from work. The hope is so intense that I close my eyes for a second, trying to hold the moment a little longer.

  “What weapons do you have here?” Ash asks, and the reality of our situation shatters my train of thought.

  “Right. Uh, let’s see,” I say, reluctantly turning away from the living room. “I have a knife collection in my room.”

  Ash nods. “Knives work and they’re easy to conceal. Let’s see them.”

  I lead him into my bedroom, and as he walks through the door, he pauses to take it in. My bed frame is made from twisty pieces of polished wood that are woven together in an arch, something my dad made for me for my thirteenth birthday. My ceiling is painted blue and speckled with clouds. There are stuffed animals on my dresser, tons of picture collages on my walls, and a pile of messy clothes on my desk chair from deciding what to pack to go to the Academy.

  Little did I know that there would be a uniform and that I would have no access to my luggage. But my dad didn’t tell me any of that. He didn’t tell me a lot of things—like that my aunt Jo wasn’t in danger, she was dead. In fact, the only thing he said that was true was that we needed to leave our house. I know I shouldn’t blame him, that he was only trying to keep me safe, and that if he had told me the truth I never would have gone to the Academy. But in my less mature moments I get angry that he didn’t take me with him. Since I was six, we’ve relied on each other, have done everything together, and now he’s somewhere in Europe without me.

  I sigh, shaking the thought from my head. I pull open my dresser drawer, run my finger along the edge until I find the familiar groove, and tilt up the false bottom. I grab my favorite boot dagger, which my dad gave me when I was ten, and my Browning Black Label, which I hook to my belt loop under my sweater.

  I squeal so loudly that my dad leans back on the couch to protect his hearing. “You’re kidding me! This is so so cool!” I exclaim.

  “It’s—” he starts.

  “A boot dagger. I know,” I say, thrilled that I can identify the small knife.

  My dad smiles. “Well, yes, it’s a boot dagger. But it’s not like your other knives. This one is different.”

  I turn the knife around in my hand, examining it. It doesn’t look particularly different from my others. It’s double-edged and the handle appears to be carved from bone instead of wood, but neither of those things is unusual. I look up at my dad.

  “It’s different because a boot dagger is a concealed weapon,” my dad says.

  “Seriously? That’s the most obvious—” I start, but he holds up his hand, like he was anticipating my objection.

  “And a concealed weapon should bear the element of surprise,” he continues. “That may sound obvious, but it won’t once you realize that the surprise of a boot dagger shouldn’t rely solely on its concealment.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Let’s say you’re in a fight and someone pulls a dagger out of their boot. Surprise! Now, what effect would that have on you?” he asks.

  “Do I have a knife?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” he says.

  “Dad, how am I supposed to answer a maybe?” I ask.

  “That’s exactly my point,” he replies with a subtle smile. “The possibility that an opponent will have a knife will always be a maybe. So let’s take the possibilities one at a time. Say you don’t have a knife, what would you do?”

  “Find something to use as a shield, and if there’s nothing available, I’d look for something long that I could use as a weapon to keep the knife away from my body. But if both of those fail, then I would use the disarming techniques you showed me,” I say, repeating our recent lesson.

  “Right,” my dad says. “And what if you did have a knife?”

  “Then I would just fight,” I say.

  “So how has the surprise of your opponent’s concealed weapon affected you in each of these scenarios?” he continues.

  I pause to give it some thought. “Well, I guess I would be surprised if I didn’t have a knife, but I would also know what to do. And if I did have a knife…I don’t know. I might be momentarily surprised, but it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

  “Then what is the point of hiding a dagger in your boot if you barely surprise your opponent? Why not just put it on your belt, where it’s easier to access?” he asks, slightly elongating his words the way he always does when he’s closing in on his point.

  “Because it’s awesome,” I say with a grin, and my dad smiles.

  “Awesomeness aside, think about it, Nova. How can you be certain that you will surprise your opponent with a boot dagger?” he asks.

  I consider his question and redirect my focus to the window that looks out on our back porch and the forest beyond. “Hmmm. To surprise someone with a boot dagger…,” I say, repeating the question like people on talk shows always do when they’re not sure what to say, “I suppose I would…do something surprising once I pulled it out?”

  “Agreed,” he says. “But what?”

  I inspect the small knife, turning it over in my palm. “I could do one of my tricks,” I say.

  “Possible,” he says. “But you would have to be sure it was the right moment; you know that with knives the smallest mistake can mean forfeiting your weapon.”

  “So what’s the answer?” I ask, now genuinely curious.

  “Don’t think like a knife expert,” he says.

  This time I don’t attempt to object because I know he’s not finished.

  “People who are trained to use knives have expectations for themselves and others. Defy these expectations and you can win,” he continues with emphasis. “Most people mistakenly use weapons as though there are invisible boundaries or rules dictating conduct. You don’t. You integrate moves you’ve learned in soccer and secret handshakes you made up with Emily—this way of thinking is the key. Just because there isn’t a clear shot doesn’t mean you can’t win. There is always a work-around and a way to surprise your opponent. It just takes creativity and a lack of self-imposed boundaries.”

  “Take what you need,” I say to Ash, but when I look up from my knife drawer, he isn’t standing next to me. “Ash?”

  I turn around to find him examining my room, which I’m certain tells him all kinds of personal things about me. His expression is curious, like my things surprise him in some way he wasn’t expecting. I follow his eyes toward my picture collages and to my bookshelf, which is covered with knickknacks, my book collection on plants and trees, and my mom’s old CDs and movies, most of which are scuffed and imperfect from the countless number of times Emily and I played them. And as I look over my belongings, I realize that a month ago I would have called these things unremarkable, brushed them off as normal or griped about wanting a new iPod. But in this moment, they seem invaluable—a catalogue of my childhood imbued with more memories than I can put into words. And I wonder: Will I ever see these things again? Will I ever sit in my bed, which my dad built, listening to music with Emily and talking about our plans for
the weekend?

  “Okay, now, let’s see,” Ash says. He joins me at the dresser and turns his attention to the knives, nodding approvingly. “Not bad,” he says.

  “You mean awesome,” I say, looking back at the drawer and the knife collection I’ve always been proud of.

  He smirks. “Well, not quite as good as mine,” he says. “But only because you’re missing some collector’s pieces.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Are you trying to make me jealous? Because it’s working.”

  “Or trying to convince you to come and visit my house in Egypt when this is all over,” he says with a sly grin.

  I look at him sideways. “You think your parents would be okay with that?”

  “With you? The disowned firstborn of the Lion and Bear Families that everyone’s hunting…what could they possibly object to?” But I can hear in his voice that even though he’s making light of it, this mess with my family is a big deal. At present, there is nowhere I belong in the Strategia world.

  “We need to avoid the windows,” he says, shifting our conversation. “And don’t turn on any lights. Let’s get our searching done before the sun sets.”

  “Definitely,” I say, aware of the time restrictions. I drop the false bottom back into place and close my drawer.

  “What can you tell me that will help me search?” he asks, and I scan my room, trying to figure out how to explain to him what could qualify as unusual in my house.

  “The way you were just looking at my room…,” I start. “It seems haphazard and messy to you, doesn’t it?”

  “It seems lived-in,” Ash says, and there is something in his voice that almost sounds like longing.

  “But I’m willing to bet it’s also not the typical bedroom for a Strategia. You keep your space sparse and meticulous, right?” I ask.

  “I do. But how do you know that?”

  “Because my dad does the same thing. His room is like walking into a stage set. And after seeing how everyone behaved at the Academy—so structured, so exact—it makes sense. So why don’t you start in my dad’s bedroom? You’ll probably understand it better than any other room in the house. Look for anything that might be a message to me. Dad always had a thing for making me search out my birthday presents. So whatever the message is, it’s probably a puzzle.”

  Ash nods and leaves me to my bedroom. For a second I just stand there, nostalgic for my once-normal life. I move to the silver jewelry box on my dresser, which was my mom’s, and pull out her gold ring that looks like knobby bark with delicate leaves. I slip it on my pointer finger and sigh. There is no time for me to go through my special things one by one the way I want to. There is just no time, period.

  I begin to pace, focusing on the task at hand and trying to remember everything that happened from the time Dad told me about the school until the moment we walked out the door with my duffel bag. My thoughts immediately go to the popcorn bowl and I move quickly into the living room. He left everything exactly as it was. No one but me would know if something changed…no one but me. I scan the room.

  Next to the bowl is the open magazine I was reading, exactly where I plopped it down when my dad said we needed to talk. The blanket is draped haphazardly where I tossed it before packing. The matches he used to light the fire lie open on the mantel. The area rug is in its place. The furniture is the same. There is just as much wood stacked near the fireplace as there was when we left.

  I spend the next few hours meticulously scrutinizing every detail of my living room, dining room, kitchen, mudroom, and bathroom. But for the life of me I can’t find one thing so much as an inch out of place. If someone did search my house, then I’m impressed, because I would never be able to tell.

  “November?” Ash says, and I turn to find him standing in my dad’s bedroom door. “I found something.”

  For a second, I’m confused. “Really?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?” he says, and I follow him into my dad’s bedroom.

  “Truthfully, no,” I admit. “I never spent much time in my dad’s room. My dad didn’t spend much time in here, either—not since my mom died, anyway.”

  Ash stands near my dad’s neatly made bed and gestures to the folded quilt. “Check the second navy square on the bottom left.”

  I move around the bed and run my fingers over the square he indicated. The seams are straight and nothing is amiss. I put my hand under the quilt and inspect the other side. Everything feels perfectly as it should be. I give Ash a questioning look.

  He directs my hand to the corner where the stitching is almost imperceptibly thicker. He uses my fingers to pinch the seam, and sure enough there’s something in there. I pick at it until the threads separate, then use my nails to pull out a tiny piece of tightly rolled paper.

  On the inside is written:

  Meet me under the city.

  I stare up at Ash, confused, trying to figure out why in the heck my dad would leave me a message in a place I would never find it. “This doesn’t…”

  “This doesn’t what?” Ash asks, reading my expression.

  “Honestly? I want to be excited that you found something, but if this wasn’t written in my dad’s handwriting, I wouldn’t believe it was from him.”

  Ash’s eyebrows push together. “Are you positive it’s his handwriting? Because the seam was repaired where the note was and it looks like it wasn’t the first time. If you ask me, another Strategia already found it.”

  “I’m positive,” I say, and I stare at it like it’s going to sprout teeth. A Strategia was in my house. My stomach does a quick flip and I’m suddenly immensely grateful Ash stopped me from running up to Emily. If someone was watching, I could have gotten us all killed.

  I hold the note up to the light, but the paper is thick, with no watermarks and no indentations from previous writing. “The thing is, it’s not like Dad’s usual clues. I don’t have any idea what this means. We mostly never leave Pembrook, much less the state of Connecticut, and we certainly never went underground anywhere.”

  Ash looks at me like I just said something odd. “And he never talked to you about a city that had underground meeting spots?”

  I shake my head and stare back at him, trying to decipher his expression. “You know what this means, don’t you?” I say, and I don’t need to wait for his answer because I recognize the confirmation in his eyes. “Why do you know what this note means and I don’t? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if this note wasn’t intended for you,” Ash says with confidence. “And if it wasn’t intended for you, then it was meant for the Strategia who searched this place.” He rolls it up and puts it back where it was.

  I chew on my thumbnail as I try to sort out his logic. “I know I’m the one saying this note doesn’t make sense, but how can you be so sure? Scratch that. I need you to be without-a-doubt positive, because it would be a complete and total mess if we disregarded a message we shouldn’t have.”

  Ash nods, like he understands my objection perfectly. “There are series of underground crypts, catacombs, and streets all over Europe that Strategia use to meet. But your father wrote the city, and given the fact that he’s a Lion, that most likely indicates London. And in London there’s an underground pub that’s used by all the Families—a popular spot for trading information and meetings. You don’t know that, but any other Strategia would know what it meant instantly.”

  I consider his explanation. “Okay, I see your point: Why would he bother leaving me a note that everyone but me would understand?”

  “Exactly,” Ash says.

  I exhale. “Even though it’s not for me, I’m relieved you found it. If my dad left a decoy note, then there’s definitely a real one. And if you’re correct that someone has already searched my house, then we need to find it fast.”

  “Agreed,” Ash says. “Ha
ve you found anything?” He glances at my dad’s bedroom window and he doesn’t need to say what he’s thinking. This late in December, the light’s already dimming.

  My stomach knots up as our opportunity to search fades with the sun. And I’m not willing to risk another day here, not with my dad in who knows what kind of danger in Europe and with a potential Strategia lingering around my property.

  I shake my head. “No clues yet.”

  “Let’s think about this,” Ash says. “If the note was a decoy, then whatever he left for you has to be drastically different in order to avoid the possibility of another Strategia finding it.”

  I nod. “Right. And if it’s drastically different, then it’s probably not going to be a hidden object—a hidden object could be found by anyone with the proper searching skills. So maybe…” I stop and chew on my lip as I think. “Maybe it’s something that’s hidden in plain view.”

  “Potentially something symbolic?” Ash offers.

  I walk back into the living room, turning in a full circle and reexamining the room. “And if the message is in plain view, then it has to be something I would know how to decipher but that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else….” My voice trails off as the realization dawns on me. I run to my room with Ash at my heels.

  I immediately scour my picture collages.

  “What are you thinking?” Ash asks. “Can I help in any way?”

  “What I’m thinking is that Dad always said I logged our entire lives in these collages,” I reply. “I’ve been making them since I was eight. I used to spend weeks on them, picking a theme, cutting out the pictures so they fit together exactly the way I wanted them to. I’d take over the whole living room floor with photos from our trips and school dances. Dad used to come along and move a couple of the pictures on me as a joke and I would get super annoyed,” I say, scanning every inch of the collages.