I immediately head for a small table near the fireplace and Ash doesn’t object; it provides us with a good view of the room and is far enough from the other tables to allow us to speak without easily being overheard. Plus, the crackling wood masks sounds like white noise.
As I pass through the bar and tables my pulse quickens. The patrons around us are beautifully dressed, seemingly relaxed, and doing nothing more than drinking, eating, and carrying on jovial conversations. Nevertheless, I notice the same subtle and discerning glances as the students in the Academy once gave me. No one looks at us in an obvious way; their movements are deliberate and controlled. And it occurs to me that I no longer see the world the way I once did, that the Strategia part of me is growing.
Ash pulls out a chair at the small table and I move the long skirt of my dress to the side as I sit down. The warmth from the fire momentarily takes the edge off my nerves. Ash situates himself next to me, and as I listen to the hum of conversations in the room, it strikes me that I only hear Scottish accents.
“Oh god,” I say, “I don’t think I can do a Scottish accent—not believably, anyway.”
Ash nods, like he’s already considered this. “An American accent isn’t actually a problem,” he says with a Scottish accent so perfect it makes me want to groan. “Makes you appear to be a tourist, which is a persona any Strategia might use.”
“Good,” I say, but I’m not convinced it won’t draw unwanted attention. I take a quick glance around the room. “Is he…here?” I ask.
“At the bar,” Ash says in a controlled tone. “Big beard. The one sitting by himself.”
I subtly look up and toward the bar, like I might be considering what I want to drink. There, just as Ash indicated, is a burly older gentleman in a tweed blazer with elbow patches. I let out a sigh of relief. Angus.
“It’s not luck that we found him here,” Ash says, clearly reading me again. “He’s always here. My parents once told me he’s been a fixture in this pub for the past forty years.”
I might be halfway across the world, but at least my dad directed me to someone we could easily find. I suppose it could have been worse.
“What do you know about him?” I ask, realizing I should have asked earlier.
“Not a lot,” Ash says. “Layla and I have been coming here with my parents since we were little, but I’ve never spoken with him. Apparently, he has a reputation for being difficult.”
I grunt. Difficult for a Strategia classifies as nearly impossible for a normal person.
“And the rest of the room?” I ask, trying to understand how this all works.
“Half Strategia and half locals and travelers,” he says, confirming my earlier assessment. “The owners and managerial staff are Strategia, but most of the workers are not. It allows us to hide in plain sight, controlling the bookings and maintaining discretion but still blending in with the surrounding communities. Hence the no-killing rule, which assures these properties remain neutral. You’ll find glowing reviews for this place and all the establishments like it online.”
He looks amused, but I raise a skeptical eyebrow. I’m not sure I love the idea that while booking a vacation in Europe, there is every possibility of landing in an elegant hotel that’s half filled with secret-society assassins.
“But if you study the patrons closely,” Ash continues, “you can tell that what looks like casual conversation is actually trading information, planning for missions, and hiring crews.”
I focus my attention on the room without being obvious. “What kind of missions?”
“All kinds. Gathering intel, stopping assassinations, planning assassinations, influencing political leaders, protecting people who will never even know we exist,” Ash says, reinforcing once again that his “normal” is a universe away from my own.
“So how do these interactions work? Do we just approach Angus and start up a conversation?” I ask.
“You mean you,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.
I stare at him like he has two heads. “Hang on, I’m having this conversation alone?”
Ash just looks at me blankly. “Your father left that clue for you. He obviously meant for the conversation to be yours and yours alone.”
“A clue that I couldn’t decipher without your help,” I reply.
But Ash only shakes his head. “Like I said, my family has been coming here for years; Angus likely knows who I am, what Family I belong to. Me being part of your conversation would upset the whole plan. No one here knows you. Your very best shot at getting the information you need is to talk to him alone.”
I hear his words, but I’m having trouble accepting them. It’s not like I want Ash to hold my hand, but navigating the European Strategia world by myself with zero experience sounds like a recipe for disaster. The students at the Academy were impossible enough; how am I supposed to handle the adults?
I look up at Angus, who is currently searching his pocket for something, and my worry heightens. Is he looking for his wallet? Is he ready to leave? Because the only thing worse than blindly initiating a conversation with him would be chasing him down in the parking lot in this confining dress.
I stand up before I can talk myself out of it. Ash’s eyes widen ever so slightly and I know him well enough by now to tell that I’ve shocked him by making a move before we could discuss the details. But I can’t sit back down, not with all these Strategia watching. They’ll immediately know that I’m nervous and that there’s something wrong or unusual about my behavior.
So instead, I murmur “Wish me luck,” with all the resolve I can muster.
I hold my head high and walk my most confident walk all the way to the bar, sliding onto the empty stool next to Angus. At which point I see what he had been searching his pocket for—a toothpick. He sticks it in his mouth and idly chews.
I momentarily look back at Ash, who is slipping into a seat at one of the communal tables and joining the conversation like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I turn back to the bar to find a bartender standing in front of me.
“Menu, miss?” he says in a Scottish accent.
“Yes, please,” I say, happy to have something to focus on besides my nerves. It only takes me a quick glance before I spot what I want. “I’d love some potato and leek soup, creamy mash, and sticky toffee pudding with honeycomb ice cream.”
Angus turns slightly and raises a wild eyebrow. “So you’re having potatoes with your potatoes?” His voice is raspy and a bit abrasive.
I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or worried that he spoke to me first. For starters, I haven’t had time to consider what my strategy will be. But I turn to Angus with my most ladylike expression. “And dessert, of course…otherwise it wouldn’t be a well-rounded meal.”
Only he doesn’t react the way most people would, with a polite laugh or a smile or even a return of banter. Instead, his look is hard and his expression is unreadable.
“And to drink?” the bartender asks, and when I don’t answer right away he says, “We’ve got a local cider for the holidays.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say with a smile.
“What are you having?” I ask Angus, because for the life of me I can’t think of a better way to continue our conversation.
“Whisky,” he says gruffly, and finishes his glass, clinking it on the bar for a refill, leaving no easy follow-up.
There is a beat of silence and I continue with a lame: “I’ve never tried whisky.”
Angus glances in my direction, his expression unforgiving. “How long do you intend to keep up the pretense of casual chatting? If you have something to say, get on with it.”
My eyes widen. “Says the guy who started talking to me in the first place,” I reply, matching his tone of voice.
He grunts, which I suppose is better than silen
ce, but not by much. The pressure of needing to succeed here weighs on me.
The bartender places a mug of hot cider in front of me. I immediately take a sip. It’s more sour than our usual holiday cider in Pembrook, but it’s warm and comforting and has a stick of cinnamon in it.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that Wolf boy sending you over to talk to me. You children are about as subtle as my ninety-year-old aunt after a bottle of wine,” Angus says as he sips his whisky, and I have to wonder if he’s right. While Ash is well trained and definitely has more experience than me, he’s still young.
Now I grunt. “And you’ve got about as much tact as—”
“Don’t have time for tact. Too old,” he says.
I take another sip of my cider and decide to attempt a new approach—honesty. “Okay, well, the truth is I was told to find you, but I have no idea why, other than that you have information that I need.”
“I have information that most people need; doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to you,” he says, and now that he’s looking directly at me instead of his whisky, I can see that he has sly and assessing Strategia eyes.
My pulse quickens. “I’m looking for information about Christopher, the firstborn son of the Lion Family, who disappeared more than twenty years ago,” I say, trying to swallow the fear that comes with saying my dad’s name aloud.
The old man’s expression turns penetrating and I take a gulp of cider. “What use is information that’s twenty years old?”
My hand stiffens around my cider. Is he saying he doesn’t know anything about my dad? Or is he just testing me? “I don’t want twenty-year-old information,” I say, not sure what the protocol is here. I feel like this is the conversational equivalent of tumbling down a mountain, hitting trees as I go.
“Fill ’er up,” he says to the bartender, lifting his glass, and he turns away from me without another word.
I wait, but he doesn’t show any sign that he’s going to continue. “So that’s it?” I say. “You’re just going to stop talking to me?”
“Precisely,” he says without looking in my direction.
I glance at Ash, who’s laughing and gesturing while he tells a story. Meanwhile, I’m one sentence into my ask and I’ve already been told no. And for the life of me, I can’t think of a smooth or cunning way to convince Angus to help me. But then again, I’m not sure cunning would even work with him. So I change tactics once again. “Why?”
He pauses for a moment, looking at me like I just said something strange. “Because you’re green and sloppy.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have information to trade,” I say, and my head feels a little odd, like I’m not getting enough air.
“Not interested,” he says.
Damn it all. No one would shut me down so completely unless they actually knew something.
I take another big gulp of cider and gather my resolve. “Look, I don’t know what the right thing to say here is.”
He turns toward me, looking at me like I’m saying wild things, but I know that at the very least, I have his attention.
“I’ve never tried to trade for information before,” I say hurriedly, “so I don’t know how it works. And maybe I am sloppy, but you’ll deeply regret it if you dismiss me on that point alone.”
He rolls his whisky around in his mouth like he’s trying to make a decision. He stares at me for such a long time that sweat beads at my temples. “So tell me,” he finally says, “what could a young girl, whom I’ve never seen in society, possibly tell me that I don’t already know?”
By his tone, I get the sense that it’s his business to know what no one else does, that it’s a mark of pride.
“What do you know about Christopher?” I ask again.
“That’s not how this works,” he says. “You’re going to tell me what it is that you know, and if I think it’s worth a trade, I’ll reciprocate. If not, you’ll get nothing.”
My heart beats faster, making it harder to breathe inside this tight dress. I don’t know what’s safe to tell him and what isn’t. But it’s not like I can ask him to wait while I go confer with Ash, either. “Christopher’s younger brother was working at Academy Absconditi. He’s dead,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and confident.
He sighs, like I’m predictably disappointing. “I’ll tell you what I told the last person who came here looking for him. No. Now leave an old man to enjoy his drink without prattling on.”
My heart jumps into my throat. Someone else came here looking for my dad? Brendan’s threat about my father rings in my thoughts.
Angus smiles a satisfied smile. “And now I know you were unaware others were following him, which only solidifies my first impression—that you are green and have nothing to offer.”
I take a huge gulp of cider, placing the large glass down so hard that it sloshes. “I killed Christopher’s brother,” I say, even though it’s not exactly the truth.
“Right,” he says, and half laughs.
“Because I’m Christopher’s daughter,” I say with force. And as they say in poker, I’m now all in.
The old man stops his drink halfway to his mouth and turns to look at me, dead serious, examining my every feature. His gaze is uncomfortable, but I know breaking eye contact right now would make me appear to be lying.
“You may not know me, sir. But if you knew my mother, Matilde, you know I look like her,” I say, gaining confidence and lifting my chin. “Now if you know something about where my dad is, it’s time to say it. I think I’ve more than fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
He continues to stare at me for so long that I worry the whisky got the better of him. But whatever he sees on my face must convince him I’m telling the truth, because after a painfully long stare-off he nods and grunts. But when he still doesn’t speak, I begin to second-guess myself, convinced that he doesn’t believe me and he’s just going to shut me out.
“I know—” I start, but he cuts me off with a hard look.
He subtly leans closer, reeking of alcohol. “For those…in the know,” he says, picking his words carefully, “Jag has placed a bounty on Christopher’s head. More if he’s alive, but a good healthy sum either way.”
It takes all my self-control not to fly off my stool. Dead or alive. I grip the bar harder than I should and take another big sip of cider. I’ve been entirely focused on the Lions as our enemy, but if there’s a high-priced bounty on my dad’s head, anyone from any Family might be after him.
Then it occurs to me that Angus insinuated that people know about my dad. “Wait, what do you mean by ‘those in the know’?” I ask. “Are you saying that other Strategia know he’s alive?”
“Who’s to say?” he answers cryptically.
I open my mouth to ask him a slew of questions but close it again. He already made it a point to tell me I’m sloppy. I force my fingers to relax their hold on the polished bar top and I take a measured sip of my drink. I study him for a few seconds. I haven’t played him the way Ash would have or used any of the deception techniques I learned in Professor Gupta’s class; I’ve basically been honest. In fact, I’ve shown very little Strategia finesse at all. Yet…
“You said someone was here looking for my dad,” I say, eyeing him. “That information must not be private or you wouldn’t have said it in the first place. And considering I’ve taken a huge risk in telling you who I am, the least you can do is tell me who I’m up against.”
He grunts, but his eyes look amused. “Is that so?”
“You know it better than I do,” I say. What I don’t say is that he told me that before he decided to trade with me, which makes me wonder, did he suspect who I was all along? Was he trying to give me a warning or has he been playing me this entire time? I remember Professor Gupta saying in deception class that a good deceiver will make you see a lie where there
isn’t one and truth when it doesn’t exist. Was he just leading me down a path?
“The Ferryman,” he says with a neutral expression, watching my reaction.
The Ferryman??? My mind spins. As in the mythological Greek figure who shuttles dead people across the river? Oh god. That does not…I can’t even think about…
“If you want to know more, then trade with the blacksmith near Edinburgh,” the old man says, interrupting my silent panic, and turns away from me.
“The blacksmith?” I say, and my throat feels unnaturally dry.
“Another.” He holds up his glass and it’s clear that our negotiation is now over. “And one for the lady.”
I try to get my bearings, but everything feels upside down and wrongways. Someone called the Ferryman is after my dad. I still don’t have the faintest idea where my dad is besides somewhere in the UK—maybe. And the one clue he left me is now pointing me to some unknown blacksmith? My head feels like it’s floating, instead of being properly attached to my body.
I take a sip of my cider and freeze. I stare at my now almost-empty glass. Oh crap. I know exactly why the cider tastes different. It isn’t sour, it’s alcoholic. I know the drinking age here is eighteen instead of twenty-one, but I never assumed when the bartender suggested it to me that he might be offering a real drink.
The bartender puts two whisky shots on the bar in front of us.
“None for me,” I say, my voice sounding slightly displaced from my body.
“Nonsense,” the old man says. “We did business and now we’re drinking. That’s what you do when you’re on a suicide mission, kid. You enjoy the moments you have.”
I hesitate. I have no reason to trust this guy, especially since there is every likelihood he played me. But maybe that’s a nonpoint; you can’t ever trust Strategia because they will always deceive you…enthusiastically. I glance at Ash, who has started up another conversation at the other end of the room. It’s December twenty-second, my dad has a bounty on his head, we’re all being hunted with no hope for making it home for the holidays or possibly ever. Despite not being able to see any clear path forward, I can’t help but think that my aunt Jo would not only agree about enjoying the moments you have—she would actually get a kick out of this guy and his grumpiness.
Hunting November Page 12
