Hunting November

by Adriana Mather

  “Or someone’s ascension to a high office within a Family,” Ines says.

  “True,” Aarya says. “But Jag doesn’t keep an advisory council, so there are no offices to fill.”

  Ash and I immediately turn to each other. “The Regent,” we say at the same time.

  “The Regent?” Aarya says, now swinging her legs down from the armchair and looking at us more seriously. “What do you mean, ‘the Regent’?”

  “Supposedly he was killed a month ago,” I say. “And my dad’s been accused—falsely—of killing him.”

  Aarya’s eyes widen. “The Lion Regent was murdered a month ago and I’m just hearing it now?”

  “I’m shocked you didn’t know, Aarya. It was your cousin who told us,” Ash says, like he has a bad taste in his mouth.

  Aarya frowns. “No. He absolutely did not tell me that. Duplicitous twit. He told me about the Ferryman and nothing more.”

  I stiffen. “Wait. What did he tell you about the Ferryman?”

  “That there’s an enormous bounty on your dad’s head but that most of the trackers are calling it a wash of a job since the Ferryman has taken an interest in it,” Aarya says.

  When I don’t immediately react, Aarya rolls her eyes like she’s talking to a five-year-old. “The Ferryman is a legend. He’s a god among the crews. He’s the one who dismantled the assassination attempt on the British royal family two years ago. And he stopped the attack at the UN a few years before that.”

  I hear her, but it’s hard for me to process. How can someone who did those great things also be hunting my dad? And if the trackers don’t want to compete with him, what chance do we stand of finding him before the Ferryman does?

  “But back to this Regent business,” Aarya says. “First, good on your dad. That guy was a menace.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I say, even though I’m not sure it matters to Aarya. It does, however, matter to me. “He was in America. I’m sure of it.”

  Aarya looks momentarily perplexed. “Are you certain? Strategia don’t often get accused of things they didn’t do,” she says, repeating what Ash told me earlier.

  “One hundred percent positive,” I say, though inside I’m still trying to convince myself that my math is right.

  She gives Ash a questioning look, like maybe I’ve gotten it wrong, but when he doesn’t respond, she continues. “Second, if the Regent’s dead and has been for a month, then it makes perfect sense that Jag would appoint someone new. And that kind of appointment would be a massive political affair. A masquerade ball is exactly the type of showy arrogance Jag is known for.”

  “Indeed,” Ash says. “And the costumed aspect will allow him to bring in Families who are allied to the Lions without them risking too much exposure. There will be food and entertainment and accommodations for those who are traveling.”

  “So he’ll need a big venue,” I say.

  “And a lot of rooms,” Aarya says, and she, Ash, and Ines share a look.

  My heart thuds. “You know, don’t you? You know where the ball is going to be held.” My tone is optimistic.

  “There is a landmark Strategia hotel in central London,” Ash says. “It’s the fanciest and largest of the Strategia properties in the UK. However, it’s also popular with tourists and thus is seldom used for actual Strategia business. But for appointing a new Regent in plain sight…it’s the logical choice.”

  I sit back against the pillows on the couch, relieved we’re moving forward.

  “I wouldn’t look so pleased, Ember,” Aarya says, bringing back her awful nickname for me. “That location and a Regent appointment are crap news. The place will be swarming with Lions, not to mention crews brought in for extra security, and any secret passage or back entry is sure to be guarded.” Ash and Ines nod their agreement.

  Aarya pulls out a cell phone and I instinctively swoon.

  “You have a cell phone?” I say, glancing at Ash like he’s been holding out on me.

  She looks at me like I’m a toddler getting excited about cake. “It’s a burner. No internet, no tracking capacity. Bare-bones. Did you really think I was that stupid?”

  “No, I—” But before I can respond she’s crossing the room and pulling out what appears to be a large phone book. I watch as she points to a number on a page and starts dialing.

  “Hello, yes, I would like to book a room this weekend,” she says in a demanding aristocratic British accent. “Booked up due to a private event? On which night?” She looks at us with a gloating grin. “Well, that is terribly inconvenient.” She presses End on the call before saying thanks or goodbye.

  Aarya smirks, plopping back down in her plush armchair. “Two days. The masquerade ball is in two days.”

  My stomach does a fast flip and I frown, trying to understand how my dad, who has always been the most cautious person I know, managed to send me first to Logan’s and now into the Lions’ den and with only forty-eight hours to prepare. Why this long trail of clues that require so much risk when he could have just given me a date and an address? “What’s the endgame here?” I say aloud, hoping someone will say something that will help me understand. “I mean, there are obviously a thousand safer places for my dad to direct me than to a private event hosted by Jag in a hotel overrun by Lions.”

  Ash shakes his head.

  “Ponder the meaning of life another time,” Aarya says with a complete absence of sympathy. “This is all we have to work with. And we have a serious lack of time to concoct a plan between now and the ball, not to mention the Ferryman, to contend with.”

  I understand Aarya’s reaction. Strategia live in a world of puzzles. They are used to messy, complicated situations that require you to be unfeeling and get the job done. But I’m not. I’ve never just followed a path without questioning why it was laid out for me, even when that path was a series of clues leading to my dad.

  Ash goes to his bag and digs out his atlas, clearing a spot on the coffee table. “Have you ever been to that hotel?” he asks Aarya and Ines as he flips through the pages, landing on a detailed page of central London. “Layla and I stayed there once with our parents, but it was ages ago and I only vaguely remember the layout.”

  “I went there for high tea with my mom two years ago,” Aarya says, and I take a closer look at her. I can’t imagine a world where Aarya goes to high tea. Or has a mother, for that matter.

  We crowd around the map, and Ines adds a log to the fire. But I’m still hung up on the why of it all. It’s different than anything my dad has ever done, and I hate that I can’t rationalize his motives. It feels…wrong.

  AARYA, INES, ASH, and I sit around a rustic dining room table covered in Indian food that Aarya made from scratch. Not only is it delicious, but she wore an apron while cooking and used all kinds of culinary jargon that I’ve never heard before as she bossed Ines around the kitchen. I’ve been side-eyeing her ever since. I really don’t know what to make of her and her deeply layered personality. Even Ash seemed impressed.

  “You guys are completely useless,” Aarya says, and pushes her plate away from her, which I’m assuming means she’s done eating and someone else should clear.

  “Ah yes, we’re the problem,” Ash retorts. “Meanwhile you’ve been spouting utter brilliance all morning.”

  “I know,” Aarya says, and sighs theatrically. “The burdens I must bear.”

  We’re all feeling the pressure of time. We went to bed last night at four a.m. after talking in delirious circles for hours with the hope that everything would make more sense if we slept on it. But here we are at lunch without a complete plan and only one day before the ball.

  The only person who looks relaxed is Ines, who’s eaten twice as much as the rest of us and is smiling faintly at Aarya’s drama.

  “Even if we can sneak onto the property, the only way this is going to work,”
Ash says, leaning forward, “is if we have a way to distract or disorient a couple of guards. Knocking them unconscious is out of the question. Their absence would immediately be noticed and it would be a clear indicator that there were uninvited guests. And imitating them is also out of the question. We run too much risk of being recognized.”

  “We’re talking about well-trained Strategia guards and hired thugs. Anything we do will be spotted for what it is and probably be just as obvious as knocking out a couple of guards,” Aarya says. “At least if we take out the guards we buy ourselves ten minutes or so.”

  “Ten minutes if we’re lucky,” Ash says. “And we don’t even know what we’re looking for in there. We may go through all the effort of getting in just to have to bolt before we find whatever November’s dad wanted her to see.”

  I shift nervously in my seat at the thought of being this close to my dad but with no clear idea how to get to him.

  “And we’re back to square effing one,” Aarya says, sitting back in her chair, exasperated. “If we keep this up, we’re not going to the ball at all.”

  “Cinderella,” I say reflexively.

  Aarya grunts. “If only we had a fairy godmother or, I don’t know, Professor Hisakawa to brew us up a concoction.”

  I freeze, her words triggering the memory of a near-forgotten conversation. “Matteo!” I blurt out.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” Aarya says. “But I’m definitely intrigued by a plan where Matteo is the fairy godmother.”

  “Actually, he might be,” I say, unsure how much I can say and still keep my word to him. “I went to see Matteo before Ash and I left the Academy to ask him—actually, more like implore him—to help in any way he could.”

  Ash looks at me questioningly.

  I don’t meet his eyes, feeling guilty that I didn’t find a time to tell him. “Matteo gave me the contact info for an apothecary here in London, but—”

  Ash opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, Aarya smacks the table. “Are you kidding me? You have a contact for a Bear apothecary? Why didn’t you lead with this information?”

  “Matteo made me give him my word that I wouldn’t share the contact with anyone,” I say, briefly stealing a look at Ash.

  “Extenuating circumstances,” Aarya says, like that’s a reason. “Besides being able to get us something to sneak into the ball, an apothecary is without a doubt one of the best resources for acquiring something that will kill Jag.”

  “No, Aarya,” I say. “I’m not breaking Matteo’s trust and betraying Bear Family secrets.”

  “First of all, Matteo doesn’t even like you,” Aarya fires back. “Second, you’re not even really a Bear. And third, you have no idea how to handle an interaction with an apothecary. They are the secret-holders of the Strategia. They take no shit and they only help who they want to help. If you go by yourself, you won’t last five minutes.”

  Ash frowns, and it’s clear by his expression that he doesn’t like this situation in the least. “Even if you go in by yourself,” he says, “we should know your location and be nearby. As much as I hate to agree with her, Aarya’s right that apothecaries are tricky. They are just as likely to hurt you as to help you.”

  For a second I’m silent. “I get that you’re trying to make sure I’m safe, but I gave my word to Matteo and I’m not going back on it.”

  Aarya starts to talk, but Ines cuts her off. “Aarya, you want to go because apothecaries are rare and a valuable resource. And believe me, I understand the curiosity.” She looks momentarily at me and then Ash. “I want to be an apothecary. But taking advantage of Matteo’s information will end badly, and will break any chance November has of gaining Matteo’s trust in the future—trust she may very much need. And as much trouble as November might have going on her own, it will be nearly impossible with all of us. Do you truly believe that a Bear apothecary will hand out information and poison to a Wolf, a Jackal, and a Fox?”

  Aarya grumbles and Ash looks down at his plate, clearly frustrated.

  “Besides,” Ines says, getting up from the table and crossing the room, “we don’t have much time. If November is going to go, she needs to do it today.” Ines disappears into the living room and comes back holding the phone book. She drops it on the table in front of me. “Wherever the apothecary is, you should be able to get the address in there.”

  Ash stands, too.

  “And where are you going?” Aarya asks, looking put out that she didn’t get her way.

  “To buy more burner phones,” Ash says, heading for his jacket. “November needs a way to reach us.”

  My stomach does a fast flip. I was so busy thinking about how I couldn’t break my word to Matteo that the reality of the situation hadn’t hit me—I’m going alone.

  * * *

  I exit the taxi, which looks straight out of the 1940s, and pull my hood up around my face. I know it’s absurd, given everything else that’s going on, but there was something exhilarating about riding in the backseat of that British cab and paying with British pounds. However, the moment I turn the corner, my thrill fades. Before me is a row of proud old buildings with elegantly decorated shop windows, one of which belongs to an antiques store with a hand-painted sign that reads ARCANE MINDED just like Matteo said it would.

  I scan the sidewalk, where people exit a bakery with their freshly baked bread and hot coffees. They move with purpose, securing their scarves tightly around their necks and bending their heads against the wind. But instead of reveling in the enthusiastic shoppers making festive purchases, I study them, assessing each one for a potential threat. If there’s an apothecary on this block, there could certainly be other Strategia as well.

  I walk quickly to the store and bend my head like the other shoppers, even though what I want to do is scour my surroundings. But if there are other Strategia here, my direct gaze will be a dead giveaway. So instead, I stop in front of the store window, giving it a thoughtful once-over like I’m just here for a browse.

  Unlike the antiques store in my town, where everything is piled on top of everything else, these window displays are artful and accented with twinkling white lights for the holidays. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s strictly collector’s and auction house items—things so fragile and expensive that you would never bring children here for fear they would break something that costs more than your car.

  A shopper carrying bulging bags filled with colorfully wrapped presents walks around me and I realize I’ve been hesitating near the entrance. I take a deep breath, repeat what I need to say in my head one more time, and push the door open.

  The inside of the store is full of whimsy and blue. It’s not the dark Gothic style of the Wolves, but the precision is the same. To my left is a counter made of rustic wood and decorated with a quill pen, a book of sales receipts, and a bell. Behind it is a thin, pretty guy with shoulder-length hair who looks like he’s barely twenty. I frown. The apothecary couldn’t be that young, could he? After watching him for a few moments, I turn away and almost walk smack into a middle-aged woman in a floor-length royal-blue dress. Her salt-and-pepper hair is piled high on her head in curls, her posture is impeccable, and her dark eyes are even more penetrating than Ash’s.

  My stomach drops like I’m free-falling.

  She looks from me to the guy behind the counter, and when her eyes settle on me again, I get the sense that she’s already formed an opinion. “Can I help you find something?” she says, and her voice is deep and strong like her jawline.

  I nod my head and completely forget what I’m supposed to say. Something about her is hypnotizing and intimidating, knocking me off-kilter.

  “Would you like to tell me what it is, or would you like me to show you our recent acquisitions?” the woman says, and there is something hard and dangerous in her look, as if she’s daring me to make a wrong move.

&
nbsp; My heart thuds and I lick my dry lips, desperately searching for my line. I break eye contact with her, and in my peripheral vision I notice the guy from the counter watching us. I study what I’m guessing is a medieval confessional turned bookshelf, decorated with dried blue flowers and old books. Just a brief break from her intense look and my memory comes flooding back.

  “Aut cum scuto aut in scuto,” I say quietly, repeating the Latin phrase Matteo gave me, meaning “either with shield or on shield,” and it comes out sounding awkward.

  “I see,” she says after a moment, and her words are clipped.

  She stares at me in a way that makes me afraid to move, like if I blink wrong, she’ll tell me she can’t help me and that I need to leave.

  “It’s possible we have what you’re looking for in the back,” she says, and turns around.

  My chest deflates with relief, but the moment is fleeting. As she silently weaves her way through the furniture displays, I find myself resisting following her. Something about this woman gives me an unbalanced feeling, like losing a handhold while climbing.

  We make our way to the back of the store, where the apothecary takes a ring of old-fashioned keys out of her pocket and unlocks a thick wooden door. I know this is why I came here, to talk to her in private, but I’m not thrilled about disappearing behind a locked door with her.

  The apothecary holds the door open and gestures impatiently for me to go through. And I do. I step into a long hallway that’s lit by two dim sconces. The walls have wainscoting on the bottom and above that a midnight-blue wallpaper with a patterned velvet overlay, making the dark hallway darker. I instinctively look over my shoulder, just in time to see the apothecary locking the door behind us. I touch the outside of my coat pocket where my phone is and take a breath, reassuring myself that I can text for help if I need to. In fact I can text from inside my pocket, a skill I mastered in school when I wanted to send Emily notes without getting my phone taken away.

  “Head straight to the door all the way at the end,” the apothecary says, and my self-soothing falls flat the farther I get from the door. It’s akin to the feeling I have in dark basements, like I’m being followed and I should probably run.