Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  Logan takes another swing, and even though Ash parries, Logan’s stronger blade comes only inches from slicing Ash’s ribs. I survey my surroundings again—table with metal tools that’s too far to jump to, exposed crossbeams above my head, low benches that will leave me in the dogs’ reach. My thoughts are fragmented, the pressure of the situation making me indecisive.

  Logan swings, forcing Ash backward a step toward the burning-hot furnace. A few more swings like that and Ash will get pushed into the blazing coals. Blazing coals…And suddenly, an idea dawns on me. I snatch up the old rag near my feet and shove it in my jeans pocket.

  I crouch down and jump straight up as hard as I can, reaching for one of the timbers. My right hand gets a grip on the crossbeam, but my left hand doesn’t and I drop back down to the table, nearly losing my footing. I glance at the barking dogs, which have surrounded the table, ready for me to misstep so they can rip me to shreds. I take a deep breath, relax my knees, and jump again. Gotcha.

  I readjust my grip for a better hold and pull myself along the crossbeam as fast as possible, knowing all too well from climbing trees that there’s only so long my arms alone will support me. I don’t let myself look down, but the growling and the snapping sound of the dogs’ jaws are right below me. I shinny all the way to the wall and immediately brace my feet against the stones, relieved to take some of the weight from my strained arms and hands. I study the wall for a path to the nearby crossbeam that leads to the other workbench. My gaze falls on a carved wooden coatrack against the wall. It’s a thin foothold and not ideal, but it appears sturdy enough to hold my weight. I reach my leg out toward it, hoping I can grip it with my toes, but it’s just out of my reach.

  Shit.

  If I can’t get to the coatrack, there’s nothing I can do but climb back to my useless worktable or attempt to fight off the dogs with my boot dagger. From behind me I hear Ash grunt and my forehead beads with sweat. I’m running out of time to make a decision before Logan slices up Ash or I’m forced to give in to the strain of bracing myself against the wall. I have no choice but to risk jumping, I tell myself, because it feels better than telling myself This is a terrible plan that will likely end in me being ripped limb from limb.

  I take a deep breath, make my plea to the climbing gods, and remove my feet from the wall, swinging them like a pendulum. One shot. I have one shot.

  I build up momentum, my legs reaching farther and farther with each swing until I’ve hit capacity. It’s now or never, I think, my arms already starting to ache. I focus on the wooden coatrack secured to the wall. And even though I really don’t want to, I let go of the crossbeam. My boot catches the edge of the coatrack, and I use my momentum to launch myself forward toward the next beam. My right hand gets a grip on the rough wood, but once again my left hand slips. For a terrifying second I dangle by four fingers over a sea of snapping jaws.

  It takes every ounce of my strength to get my left hand around the beam and pull myself as fast as humanly possible to the other worktable. I drop down onto it, my hands burning and my breathing labored.

  Logan swings at Ash, once again forcing him a step backward.

  I yank the old rag out of my pocket, stick it in my mouth, and tear it into strips. I snatch up a few of the metal tools and tie a single strip around each one. From my coat, I dig out the box of matches Ash and I used in the Pembrook barn and light one of the cloth strips. I do a three-sixty, scouting all of the potentially flammable materials in the room.

  I pull back my arm, aiming for a spare apron draped over a stack of logs, and throw the tool like I would if it were a knife. My aim isn’t what it would be with a blade, but it’s not terrible, either, and the fiery cloth hits its mark. Next, I aim for a cushioned chair against the far wall, and then for a wooden bucket.

  Ash and Logan have their weapons up, pushing against each other. They’re about the same size and seem to be evenly matched in strength, but Logan’s weapon advantage slides Ash backward again until he’s only inches from the flames behind him.

  “Thirty more seconds and this whole shop will go up in flames!” I yell to Logan. Ash once told me that Strategia rarely live in rural areas, that they vastly prefer cities where they can blend in, affect politics, and maneuver leaders. So if Logan is living out here making horseshoes, it’s by choice. And it doesn’t take a genius to look around this carefully arranged shop with its handcrafted ironwork to know that it’s his passion.

  Two seconds tick by and Logan doesn’t react. Have I completely misread him? Ash’s foot slides back another inch. I tie the last piece of cloth around the end of a long antique hammer and light it.

  “You want to keep doing what you’re doing? Fine. This one’s going to the dog beds.” I pull back my arm and land a clean shot into a pile of straw with a blanket on top. It ignites almost instantly.

  Ash and Logan have their weapons up near their throats, pushing against each other. But Logan steals a glance sideways to glimpse what I’ve done. The flash of anger in his eyes reassures me that I was right when I judged the shop’s importance to him. And as Logan turns his head again to more fully assess the flames, Ash takes advantage of Logan’s momentary distraction. Ash grabs the hot end of his metal rod with his bare hand, overpowering Logan and burning his cheek. The pain from touching the smoldering metal is obvious in Ash’s expression and I cringe right along with him. But it works.

  Logan growls and takes two steps backward, breaking their locked stance and allowing Ash to leap away from the furnace. But Logan doesn’t touch his face to check the burn like I would expect; instead his eyes flit to a fire extinguisher on the far wall. He looks back at Ash, his jaw locked, and I can see the conflict written all over him. It only takes a beat for him to give up on Ash and dash for the fire extinguisher.

  For a split second Ash doesn’t move; just like Logan, it seems he doesn’t want to walk away from the fight. But his hesitation vanishes when he shifts his focus to me. He scoops up the flaming apron with the tip of the iron rod and waves it forcefully at the dogs. They back up, giving me room to jump down to the floor. And we don’t waste a moment weaving a path to the exit. We bolt out of the barn doors and close them behind us, running full-speed for the car. My fingers practically slip off the door handle from the momentum.

  We dive into our seats, slamming the car doors. As Ash turns the key and the engine revs to life, the barn door reopens, revealing a wild-looking Logan and a cloud of smoke. The dogs sprint toward the car and Ash slams his foot on the gas pedal, sending us screeching out of the driveway and down the bumpy dirt road so quickly that if I were still feeling sick I would definitely puke.

  I look at Ash, who doesn’t appear relieved like I would expect.

  “You’re hurt, Ash,” I say, catching sight of an angry red mark on his hand.

  He focuses on shifting the gears aggressively, checking his mirrors to see if Logan is chasing us. “Everything we do from this point forward will be known.”

  “You mean Logan—”

  “I mean Logan will make sure that we’re followed. He knows we’re going to London. He knows what we’re after and why. And he may be able to guess the places we might go. We’ll be constantly looking over our shoulders,” he says, not hiding his frustration.

  I cringe, remembering all the information I must have revealed during that conversation. “Ash, look, I know I screwed up—”

  Now he does look at me. “Screwed up? November, you just saved us. Without you we’d both be dead. I might be a good fighter, but so was he and he had the weapon advantage. I screwed up. I’ve traded for information before, but never with someone as skilled and vicious as Logan. I should have known things might go south and planned accordingly. This is my fault.”

  “Oh no. Don’t you dare,” I say. “You’re not taking the blame for this. You’re here because of me, not because you suddenly got the urge to take on the L
ions in some epic strategy battle. And don’t try to tell me that the piece of information you gave to Logan wasn’t a big deal. He looked like he’d struck gold.”

  Instead of a rebuttal, a small, amused smile appears on Ash’s lips. “You have no idea how angry my Family will be when they find out what I’ve traded. It took my cousin the better part of a year to get that intel in the first place.”

  “You had no choice,” I say, dropping my intensity to a lighter tone.

  The look Ash gives me is surprisingly appreciative. “If only you could give my Family a lesson in forgiveness.”

  I laugh, surprised. “Forgiveness? That’s definitely not what I would call what I’m feeling. Gratitude is more like it.”

  “Let’s just hope things go smoother in Edinburgh,” he says, and he flashes me a smile, but I can still see worry lingering in his expression. If I had just held off Logan like he did, I would be feeling wicked proud of myself, not nitpicking my performance. But then I was raised by my dad, who Emily used to joke was my personal cheerleading team, and Ash was not.

  I want to smile back at him, but I can’t stop remembering what Logan said about my dad. “Ash, who was the guy that my dad is suspected of killing?”

  Ash nods, like he knew this question was coming. “Jag’s son-in-law,” he says, and by his serious tone I know this must be a big deal.

  “Yeah. Is that…Brendan’s dad?” I ask, a heavy feeling in my chest. As much as I dislike Brendan, I would never wish that upon him, and what’s more, I can’t imagine my dad doing it.

  “His stepfather,” Ash says. “And the Regent.”

  “And what is a regent exactly?” I ask.

  Ash glances at me. “It’s still incredible to me how much you don’t know about Strategia. You’re so much like us, and yet so completely different. What you did with the fire in Logan’s smithy…I would have thrown a knife, any Strategia with your throwing skills would have.”

  “Are you saying I should have?” I ask.

  “I’m saying what you did was brilliant. You not only assessed how greatly Logan values his smithy, but your attack created a diversion instead of a fight,” he says, and I beam at the compliment.

  We stop at a red light, and as his eyes linger on me, there is a touch of awe in his expression that surprises me. He glances at my lips and my cheeks grow warm. After a couple of long seconds, the light turns green and his eyes return to the road.

  Ash clears his throat. “Regent…It’s a title borrowed from the old royal court system, denoting the person who would exercise ruling power if Jag were ever absent or incapacitated. It’s a holdover from the Middle Ages and it’s nothing more than an honorary title in most Families, which are set up to rule by council. But the Lions don’t have a council. It’s just Jag and the Regent.”

  “The thing is,” I say, “I don’t think my dad killed him.”

  “Are you certain?” Ash says, and I can see that he’s not convinced.

  “Positive. Unless the Regent was in America?” I say like it’s a question.

  Ash shakes his head. “Possible, but Logan said he was killed in Edinburgh.”

  I nod. “Logan also said he died a month ago, but my dad hasn’t left our town since early fall. Actually, that’s not accurate; he did take a handful of day trips to see my aunt before she was murdered, but nothing long enough to make a secret trip to Europe.”

  “That’s odd,” Ash says, considering the situation. “Strategia don’t often get accused of crimes they didn’t commit.”

  “And why would someone like Logan know that my dad was being accused?” I ask.

  Ash frowns in concentration. “I’m not certain. That’s not information I’d think he’d have access to, unless the Strategia trackers are whispering about the Ferryman, which I suppose is possible.” He falls silent again.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, positive there’s more he’s not saying.

  “I’m trying to make sense of and contextualize the accusation,” Ash says. “I’ve never met the Regent. But from everything I’ve heard, he was nearly as terrible as Jag. The rumor is that Jag strong-armed Brendan’s mother into the marriage ten years ago, shortly after which Jag appointed Arlo as Regent, a double insult because the title should have gone to Brendan’s mother, who is rumored to be a brilliant strategist. According to my Family, there are plenty of people who would have wanted him dead. But that doesn’t explain why the murder was pinned on your father. He isn’t an easy target to blame, considering that until very recently no one even knew he was alive.”

  “Brendan’s mother,” I repeat, and it occurs to me that after I found out Conner was my uncle, I never thought to ask if my dad had any other siblings. I think I subconsciously didn’t want to know.

  “Rose,” Ash says.

  Rose. I swallow and my heart speeds up. “My middle name is Rose,” I say, unsure what to make of the fact that I might be named for someone who I not only didn’t know existed, but who is part of a Family like the Lions.

  Ash must hear the hesitancy in my voice because he glances at me and all he says is: “Hmmm.”

  “ ‘Hmmm’ is right,” I say, and we’re both silent for a few seconds, trying to untangle this bizarre information.

  “And so Jag chose Arlo over his own daughter even though she’s a great strategist?” I say, miffed.

  “He did,” Ash says in a tone that tells me he agrees with my judgment. “The thing that’s odd is that no one at the Academy has been talking about Arlo’s death. Logan was right when he said we should have already known. The murder of the Lion Regent is big news. Very big news.”

  “It only happened a month ago, though. Isn’t communication to the Academy monitored and delayed?” I say.

  “It is. But Brendan would have been told, the same way you were told when your aunt was killed,” Ash says. “And that is exactly the type of news that spreads quickly. But Brendan protected it, keeping it from the rest of the school.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want everyone gossiping about it?” I suggest, because that’s what I would want. But then I remember something Layla said during one of our midnight challenges: We always expect that people will react the way we do—that when we hit them they’ll hit back, or that when we help them they’ll be grateful—and when they don’t behave the way we think they will, we’re surprised. “No, scratch that. You’re right. There must have been a reason he didn’t want everyone to know.”

  “A specific political reason,” Ash says. “One that may have an impact on our conflict with the Lion Family, especially if your father was falsely accused.”

  “You told me earlier that because the Lion attacks on my family have been spread out over the years, something must have instigated this last one. Do you think this is it? Do you think that’s why my dad sent me to the Academy, because he knew he was accused and the Lions would be coming for him?” I ask.

  “Likely,” Ash says, but his voice betrays his doubt.

  And again we drop into silence and I stare out the window, analyzing our newfound information.

  “There’s something else…,” I say, turning back toward Ash. “We got information from Logan, but we didn’t find out where we were supposed to go next.”

  “London,” Ash says.

  “Right, but it doesn’t match my dad’s previous clues,” I say.

  Ash glances at me, waiting for me to continue.

  I chew on my lip, working my way through the messages we’ve received thus far. “The first clue we got was in the photo collage in my room…and it pointed to an exact spot in the woods,” I say. “That message pointed us to Angus—to a specific person. And then from Angus we were told to go speak to Logan, which is another specific clue. But from Logan we learned that my dad is accused of killing the Regent and is in London? London isn’t specific enough. That doesn’t m
atch the pattern of my dad’s other clues.”

  “True,” Ash says slowly, like he’s considering my words.

  “Was there something we missed in there? Something Logan said or didn’t say?” I ask.

  “I’m playing the conversation back, but there’s nothing that I would flag as having a double meaning. Was there anything he said that you noticed, possibly something symbolic or personal?”

  I shake my head slowly. “Nothing.”

  “What about something in the barn?” Ash asks.

  “Not really,” I say, pausing to re-create the smithy in my mind. “We have tools at home, but none of them are related to blacksmith work. And the other objects were pretty nonspecific—workbenches, fireplace, swords…” My voice trails off and I make eye contact with Ash. “Wait…there was that sign in French—”

  “Bal des Ardents,” Ash says. “Ball of the Burning Men. It was a masquerade ball in 1393 hosted by Charles the Fourth where four costumed dancers caught fire and died.”

  “A masquerade ball,” I say quickly, my voice lightening with an excited uptick. “We had one every summer in Pembrook.”

  “And you think your father might use a masquerade ball as a coded message to you?” Ash asks.

  “Maybe,” I say. “It matches the other clues in that it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me.” I pause to consider what it all might mean. “The masquerade ball was one of the few town events that we consistently participated in. The balls were always themed and every year for the past eight years or so my dad and I were in charge of decorations. We would build them and the art teacher at my high school would paint them.”

  The corners of Ash’s mouth turn up in a smile.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I mean, it isn’t anything we haven’t said before,” he says. “It’s just that your upbringing was so wildly different than mine. I can’t imagine making dance decorations with my parents, unless we were installing surveillance devices in them. And even then, someone else would make them and we would just supervise.”