Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  Ash doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Because when he kills people, he leaves a coin in their hand.”

  AS WE NEAR Edinburgh, it occurs to me that Ash has been driving this entire time without using the GPS. And I can see on the dashboard that this car is definitely equipped with the technology. I mean, the car knows when it’s raining and automatically puts on its wipers. It heats and cools your back and your butt and tells you when other cars and objects are too close. The only thing it doesn’t do is provide a solution to having to stop for bathroom breaks. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if they figure out how to work that into the seats of the next model.

  “How do you know your way around Scotland?” I ask. Since our conversation this morning, we’ve been carefully avoiding the subject of the Ferryman, because if I let myself focus on it, my thoughts tailspin into doom and gloom.

  Ash shrugs. “Just years of driving through Europe, some memorizing of maps, and then when I need to, I look things up in my atlas.”

  I half laugh. “In a car with a perfectly good navigation system.”

  “Cell phones, computers, navigation systems all make it easy for someone to trace where you’ve been,” he says. “We’ve actually removed some of the microchips in this vehicle, so if someone did know this car belonged to my Family, they wouldn’t be able to track us.”

  “Right,” I say. “That makes sense.” My weeks at the Academy immersed me in Old World traditional Strategia and I haven’t spent much time thinking about what the Families might be able to do with tech.

  “Logan isn’t Angus, you know,” Ash says, and it takes me a second to process the non sequitur.

  “The blacksmith,” I say, my thoughts edging dangerously close to the Ferryman.

  “The blacksmith,” Ash repeats. And his sudden subject change makes me think he’s been thinking about Logan for a while. “What I mean is, what you did with Angus won’t work with Logan. Angus is pretty decent for a Lion, and despite his gruff manner he adheres to traditional diplomacy. Logan, not so much. He’s said to be ruthless and a legendary fighter. Some of the people who have tried to negotiate with him have ended up dead. If he weren’t the only lead we have, I wouldn’t risk it.”

  Of course Angus is a Lion. I inwardly groan. How could I expect anything other than manipulation and double-dealing? “I thought you’ve never met Logan,” I say.

  “I haven’t. But his reputation precedes him. Anyone who kills other Strategia during routine trades and then manages to resist numerous retaliation attempts becomes well known,” Ash says, and by the tension in his jaw I can tell he’s uncomfortable with the situation.

  I shift in my seat, turning away from the rolling farmland and forests to get a better look at Ash. “If Logan is so different from Angus, how do we negotiate with him?”

  “I’m going to try to entice him with a solid intelligence trade, one that doesn’t reveal anything about us personally or our plans,” Ash says. “But to be truthful, I’m not sure how well it’s going to work. I’ve only ever made straightforward deals. Someone like Logan would be assigned to a more experienced Family member.”

  “Right. Of course,” I say. Ash is so capable and smart that I forget sometimes that he’s still a student at the Academy and doesn’t know everything.

  “Whatever you do, do not tell Logan who you are,” Ash continues. “There’s a bounty on your father’s head. It’s not unusual that we would be asking about him. But Logan can’t know the real reason. He’s not an ally. As far as I know, he’s no one’s ally.”

  My stomach flips at the mention of the bounty. Now that my head isn’t pounding and I can think more clearly, my anxiety over my father has increased. I exhale, trying to stay focused on the present and not jump to the what-ifs, but of course I can’t. “What do I do if he starts questioning me and I don’t have answers? Won’t he know there’s something odd about my lack of Strategia knowledge?”

  “Yes,” Ash says. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t play silence to your advantage. Look at Layla. She never says anything she doesn’t want to and yet you would never doubt her.”

  “True,” I say, and fidget with the edge of my pink sweater, cursing my previous aversion to black clothing, which would let me blend a little better. Can I really pull off a cool and calm Layla, who is basically the exact opposite of my effusive, oversharing self?

  Ash turns down a single-lane dirt road that runs between two large fields; the car bounces on the uneven surface. “Ready?” he asks, and I realize he’s slowing down.

  I want to tell him no, that I may never be ready, but I don’t have the luxury of saying that, not if I have any hope of finding Dad. “Ready,” I say, trying to mask any hint of fear in my voice.

  Ash drives us past a classic Tudor-style house, white with a framework of black timbers, and stops in front of a small stone barn with a wooden sign hanging in front. It reads: BLACKSMITH. The gray stones composing the walls are streaked with soot.

  Ash is out of the car and to my door before I realize that I’m just staring and not moving. I would slap myself in the cheek like they do in movies, but if Logan has a view of our car right now, that would be ten kinds of stupid. So instead, I step out into the cold with feigned confidence, and Ash and I walk toward the stone barn. I try to picture the agents in the British spy movies Emily loves and channel their cool composure.

  Ash opens one of the large wooden doors and the hinges whine. Inside is a scene plucked from a different century—a fire roaring in a large fireplace, old wooden workbenches, antique iron tools hanging from the walls. In the center of the room a guy with shaggy blond hair and a black apron is striking a red-hot horseshoe with a hammer. For a moment, I’m taken aback. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, not at all the swarthy old killer I pictured in my head, and the benign nature of hammering a horseshoe is disorienting.

  “Shop’s closed,” he says without looking up at us, his voice rough between clangs.

  Ash doesn’t try to explain who we are or why we’re here. Instead, he advances with a measured pace and stops about ten feet away from Logan, leaning casually against a workbench, and waits.

  After what feels like an excruciating minute, Logan stops hammering and looks up. The moment he lays eyes on me, I want to look away. He’s ruggedly handsome but with cruel eyes, like the villain prince in a movie.

  “Well?” he says, and there’s an unforgiving harshness to his tone. Behind him on the wall I catch sight of a faded wooden sign that reads BAL DES ARDENTS. I only know a handful of French words, but I’m fairly certain ardents means “fiery” or something similar, which not only suits smithy work, but also his demeanor.

  “We’ve come to make a trade,” Ash says, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Although I know him well enough by now to know it’s a front. “A trade for information about Christopher.”

  “I’m busy,” Logan says in an uninterested tone.

  “So busy that you’ll pass up an opportunity to trade with a Wolf?” Ash says, maintaining his calm. “From what I hear, you don’t get many of us out here since you beheaded Charlotte.”

  I gulp. Ash said Logan killed people, not that he beheaded someone from his Family.

  Logan grits his teeth and wipes his forehead with the dirty towel draped over his shoulder. He shifts his gaze to me and once again my instinct is to run. “And you?”

  Between the coals in the forge and the roaring fire, the barn is warm and I’m overheating in my coat. “If you don’t know who I am, then you don’t need to know,” I say in my best imitation-Layla voice, and I’m actually shocked by how convincing I sound.

  Logan grunts. “Leave it to a Bear to be self-righteous.”

  I stare back at him, neither confirming nor denying his assessment, and I catch the faintest glimmer of approval in Ash’s eyes.

  “And leave it to a Jacka
l to try to get information through insults,” Ash says, and I take a better look at Logan.

  Of course this guy is from the same Family as Aarya—mercurial, dangerous, and probably good at everything.

  Logan shrugs. “Let me save you the effort of sweet-talking me, because I couldn’t care less about your decorum and rules. I do have information on Christopher, but as you’re not the first to ask, there are very few things I’m willing to trade. And I’m not going to stand here listening to you cry about how I didn’t accept your terms. I’d rather kill you and use you for fertilizer in my back field.”

  My pulse picks up. It’s obvious by his expression and body language that he’s not trying to intimidate us. He means every word.

  Ash appears just as relaxed as he did a minute ago, but the look in his eyes has become sharper and more serious. “In that case, I’ll trade you everything you know about Christopher in exchange for a drop-off location of Owl-Lion communication.”

  For a couple of seconds, Logan is silent. He looks from Ash to me and back again. I hold my breath.

  Logan drops his hammering tool on the worktable with a loud clang. “Which one?”

  I exhale, relieved that he didn’t say no.

  “The one in Edinburgh,” Ash says, and I can hear in his voice that he knows his offer is a good one. But there’s also something strained about his eyes, like it physically pains him to give up this information.

  Logan grunts. “Convenient.”

  “Absolutely,” Ash says.

  Logan grips the worktable in front of him with callused, sooty hands. “This is a trade, not a guessing game. Out with it.”

  I suppose that’s one way to say you accept terms.

  The slightest smile appears on Ash’s lips. “The drop-off location is just off the Royal Mile.”

  “Christopher’s in London,” Logan snaps back, and my chest feels like it might explode. London is huge and finding someone who doesn’t want to be found will be more than challenging, but just the same I cling to his words. My dad is close.

  “Nearby or inside Greyfriars Kirkyard,” Ash says.

  Logan nods, like so far the information he’s getting is acceptable. “Jag’s son-in-law was murdered a month ago in Edinburgh,” he says in exchange.

  “One of the ghost tour guides is an Owl. She facilitates the drop-off,” Ash says, and their interaction reminds me of a Ping-Pong match.

  “Christopher is suspected of killing him,” Logan says, and I fight to keep my eyes from widening in shock.

  A month ago? No way. My dad was home in Pembrook…My shoulders tense as I remember his quiet behavior, concerned looks, and frequent trips to visit Aunt Jo. He couldn’t be involved. My dad wouldn’t kill someone…would he? I relax my body just as Logan glances at me.

  “Find the tour guide and you find the drop-off location. She switches the placement of it every time,” Ash says, and there is a beat.

  I look from Ash to Logan and they are both oddly still, that is until Logan turns to meet my gaze.

  Logan wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “I have to say, I think I got a lot more than I gave in that trade.”

  “Then you should be grateful for your good luck,” Ash says, and there’s an edge to his tone that wasn’t there before.

  “See, even that response,” Logan says, gesturing at Ash, “makes me wonder…”

  He and Ash stare at each other, neither of their faces giving anything away.

  “If you’re part of the head Wolf family,” Logan says, suddenly more interested in the conversation, “and I would say you most certainly are a close relative, given your resemblance to your Family members and the access to the information you just traded. If that’s the case, you should already know half of what I just told you. But you don’t, do you?”

  “Now I believe you’re wasting our time,” Ash says, and removes his arm from where he was leaning against the workbench.

  “Which means you must be out of society…maybe at school?” Logan’s eyes brighten. “And what I want to know is, what are two Academy brats doing trading with me?” The strange thing is, he doesn’t look at Ash when he speaks, but instead keeps his eyes trained on me. His voice has shifted from its aggressive clip to a smooth cadence; he actually appears to be enjoying himself. His posture has relaxed, and as he flips his shaggy hair out of his eyes, I can almost picture him in clean clothes, schmoozing at a cocktail party. And charming Logan is way more terrifying than disgruntled Logan.

  “I wouldn’t congratulate yourself for surmising that we’re young,” Ash says, not missing a beat and seemingly not put off by Logan’s prying. “That’s nothing a person with average eyesight wouldn’t pick up.”

  “I’m not asking you,” Logan says. “I’m asking her.” His eyes focus on me so intently that my skin crawls, and I hope he can’t tell.

  “Ask anything you want,” I say with my best Layla-like composure. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to answer you.”

  “Mmmm. Right,” Logan says, never moving from the spot where he was working; yet somehow I can’t help but feel like he’s cornered me. “A Wolf pup and a Bear cub looking for Christopher Shawe. If I were less perceptive I might simply assume you were after the bounty. But no, I don’t think that’s quite accurate. Is it?” His last words come out with force, like he already knows the answer.

  Shawe? A wave of disorientation hits me and I rack my brain. Shawe is Middle English for someone who lives near the woods or a thicket, which is the exact opposite of our last name—or what I thought was our last name. Adley means “clearing.” Did my parents choose it on purpose to separate themselves from their Families?

  Ash nods toward the door and I snap back into the moment, taking a few fast steps in the direction of the exit.

  Logan whistles long and loud, and before we’ve made it ten feet, four large Dobermans appear at the barn door. Oh crap. I look back at Logan, who’s still staring at me.

  “This is personal,” he says, scanning my face. Logan doesn’t bother phrasing his assumption like a question. “And it’s not about revenge.”

  Ash hovers by my side, looking from Logan to the Dobermans and back again. And he sighs like this is all very tedious, which is basically the last response I would expect. “Either make a move or get your dogs out of our way.”

  I assess the barn in a sweeping glance. Almost everything in it is a potential weapon—knives, swords, tools, oil for quenching steel. And just about every surface is hard and sharp-angled. There’s no way to get into a fight here without getting hurt. There’s just too much room for error and too many unpredictable factors.

  “If this is personal,” Logan continues, still focused on me, “then you must know Christopher. And you’re too young to know him from his childhood in Europe, so it’s only logical to conclude that you know him from his time in hiding.”

  It’s suddenly so hot that I can’t catch my breath. He’s inching toward the very piece of information Ash said he mustn’t discover.

  “Right,” I say, “because you know everything. Why even bother making trades when you’re clearly omniscient?”

  Logan’s focus doesn’t waver. “And then there was your emotional response to consider—fear and concern. Now, why would you be concerned for Christopher?” A small smile appears on his lips, but his eyes are just as dangerous as they were when we first walked in. “If you were with him in hiding…given your age…” He pauses. “Do you know who you look remarkably like?”

  Damn it all! I look to Ash for help, and he’s already in motion, pulling his jacket sleeve down over his hand and grabbing one of the long metal rods out of the coals. It blazes red-hot at the end. Before I can even take a breath, the dogs start for me, teeth bared.

  One of them lunges for my calf, his jaws snapping air, as I throw myself atop a tall worktable just in
time. The four dogs circle below me, their lips pulled back, growling.

  Logan scoops up his hammer and chucks it toward Ash, who manages to deflect it with the metal rod he’s holding. By the time Ash recovers his stance, Logan has grabbed a sword off the wall behind him. It’s immediately obvious that Ash’s metal rod, which appears to be an unfinished fire iron or a farm tool, won’t stand up to Logan’s long blade.

  I glance at the knife in my boot, but Ash is positioned between me and Logan, leaving me with no clear shot and a good chance of giving up my weapon for no reason. Just then, one of the dogs jumps at the table, its paws scraping the wood as it strains to reach my ankles.

  I look down at the table, where there is nothing but an old rag, and then side to side, assessing my surroundings. There’s one workstation nearby that has some metal tools on it and a slightly better angle for throwing, but it’s definitely not close enough to jump to. And there are a few benches nearby, but they’re too low—the dogs would get ahold of me in a second. I frown at the dogs. Defending myself from terrible people is one thing, but defending myself from dogs is a completely different story.

  Logan takes a swing at Ash. Ash manages to block the strike, but I can see the strain on his face as he tries to compensate for his inadequate weapon. My heartbeat throbs in my temples and for a moment I just stand there, frozen, trapped, and no solution in sight. Another dog jumps for me, snapping its jaws viciously and slinging a thin streak of saliva onto my boot.

  Think, November, think. I look again at the nearby workstation. If I could get to the tools, I might be able to make use of them alongside my knife. Although the way Ash and Logan are positioned, and given their distance from me, I’m not confident it’s the right choice. I look up at the ceiling, but there’s nothing but bare crossbeams.

  My dad’s advice about how to surprise someone with my boot dagger rings in my thoughts. 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.