ASH AND I emerge from the woods in the back field of Moody Farms. We hug the trees around the perimeter of the open field and a pack of coy-wolves howls in the distance. Old Mr. Moody told me himself that the coyotes in this part of Connecticut are wicked big because they mated with wolves a long time ago, and over time most of the coyote genes got bred out. Who knows if it’s true, or if he was just trying to keep us kids from sneaking into his hayloft, with tales of almost-wolves? But it gave me a healthy fear of coming here after dark. I frown at the memory of being scared of such a simple idea, mourning the girl I was before I went to the Academy, before I knew too much.
I look at Ash, following me silently through the dark, our breath billowing out in front of us. There are so many things I want to tell him, things I want to explain. But until we’re out of Pembrook and out of the path of the Strategia who are hunting me, neither of us is going to take an easy breath.
I lead Ash to the barn and we slink around it, staying close to the shadows. We do a full lap of the building before he stops at the padlock that holds the wide double doors closed. He taps on the knife secured to my belt loop and I pull it out, my hand unsteady. Ash slips the key into the lock and opens the door about two feet. It’s pitch-black in the barn and we remain still and silent, assessing our surroundings. Everything is quiet and there are no signs that anyone else is in the building. The only sound is the wind howling through the bare trees.
Ash strikes a match and my eyes widen.
I almost choke as I take in the large metal frame occupying most of the barn. “A plane? I thought if we were lucky we might find a backpack or something with information, but a friggin’ plane?”
“A private jet,” Ash says, smiling for the first time in what seems like forever. “A nice one. Whoever that assassin was in the woods, he must have been important.”
Ash passes me the box of matches and I put my knife back in its holster. He blows out his match as it nears his fingers, and I light another. Now with his hands free, Ash starts removing the wooden blocks that stabilize the wheels.
“Hang on. What are you…You’re not thinking about taking this thing?” I say, my words dripping with disbelief.
“Absolutely,” he says like it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world. “Unless you would rather fly commercial and risk being detected? This is actually best-case scenario.”
“But who’s going to fly it?” I ask, unable to wrap my mind around this plan, which is galaxies outside my comfort zone.
“We’ll just have to wing it,” he says, tossing the wooden blocks up into the plane and pulling the barn doors completely open.
“We’re definitely not winging it,” I blurt out.
“Relax, November,” Ash says with a good-natured grin. He’s suddenly his usual easy self and somehow I’ve gotten more uptight. “I’ve been flying planes since I was eight. And with something like this, it practically flies itself.”
He heads up the stairs and turns on the lights.
I follow him. “Holy…,” I breathe as I look around the small plane in awe. There are two recliners with a big flat-screen TV, a small dining table, and a bed. Maybe Ash was right; maybe this is best-case scenario.
Ash goes right to the cockpit and turns the plane on with ease. While he’s pushing buttons he hands me the padlock from his pocket. “I’m going to roll this plane out of the barn, if you wouldn’t mind locking up. Just make sure to wipe our prints off.”
I nod, taking the cold metal lock and climbing back down the steps. I look up at the old hayloft I used to play in, barely visible in the moonlight, and I sigh, overcome by a pang of sadness. Goodbye, Em. Goodbye, Pembrook. I suddenly wish it were light so that I could log the details of it better. But the tail of the plane clears the doors and there is no more time to consider what this moment might one day mean to me. Instead, I pull the barn doors shut and wipe the lock down, careful to erase all signs that we were here.
I jog up to the plane, still struggling to reconcile this experience with my quiet hometown. I climb up the steps, pull the hatch shut, and take the empty seat in the cockpit. I look at Ash, who is confidently pushing controls on the complex dashboard, and I’m undecided if I’m in awe of him or simply overwhelmed.
“Did you find anything else…” I swallow, immediately conjuring the memory of the thud of the Strategia’s landing and the blood slowly pooling under his head, dripping down the side of the rock. “Did you find anything else on the Strategia in the woods?” I fasten my seat belt, fighting back the sick feeling that’s rising in my throat. “Anything besides the key?”
“I did,” Ash says, and glances toward me, pausing for a split second. “He had a Lion tattoo on his shoulder.”
I nod, not shocked, but definitely unsettled. If the Lions can find our house in Pembrook, what’s to stop them from finding my dad in Europe? I touch the tin box in my coat pocket.
“Are you sensitive to motion?” Ash says, bringing me back into the present. He pushes a couple more buttons and pulls back a lever.
“Not that I know of,” I say, but we’re already bumping across the dark field, picking up speed, and heading right for the forest. “Oh no…,” I whisper to myself.
Ash only smiles as we sail full-speed toward the stand of trees. I grip the arms of my chair and squeeze my eyes shut. Please don’t let me have survived all of this just to die in a plane crash on Moody Farms. When I manage to open them again, we’re in the air and clear of the trees, not impaled on a maple like I feared. It takes my body a beat to catch up to the fact that the immediate danger has passed.
I let my breath out in one audible huff. And as the sky opens up in front of us, the ground dotted with the glow of white lights in the rising dawn, a silence descends. My thoughts drift to the tin in my pocket. I was so desperate to get to the tree to see if my dad left me something, but now that I know he did, I’m equally terrified to read his note.
“Ash, what do you know about the head of the Lions?” I ask, avoiding the inevitable.
“Jag,” he says, and I recall Ash telling me in the Academy library about Jag’s tyrannical rule before I had any idea that I, too, was a Lion.
“I can’t believe I never asked this, but Jag is short for Jaguar, right?” I say, even though I know why I never asked—I still believed that I could walk away from this whole experience and from the Strategia world in general, and I didn’t want to think about Jag or my vicious relatives any more than necessary.
Ash nods. “A nickname from his childhood.”
Jaguar…an obvious play on the big-cat theme in the Lion Family. And if it developed in his childhood, it’s always possible it’s a reflection on his personality. Jaguars are known for their temperamental nature—solitary, opportunistic creatures that stalk and ambush their prey.
“What do you know about him?” I ask.
“I’ve never met him, but much of my Family has,” Ash says. “They claim that on an average day he’s pleasant, but that he has a short fuse and a brutal streak.” Ash looks in my direction. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to know about your—” He stops short. “About Jag and the Lion Family? It’s a broad topic.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can say it: Is there anything in particular I want to know about my grandfather.” The certainty of my tone surprises me, considering how rarely I’ve used that familial term. “Truthfully, I don’t even know what I want to know. All of it and none of it at the same time.” I pull at my seat belt and Ash looks at me quizzically. “It was just that assassin in the woods…” I look out the cockpit window, trying to push away the image of his lifeless body on the forest floor. “Are all Strategia that good?”
“You mean that deadly?” he says, and I nod. “Yes. Some are better.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate and I suppose I don’t want him to. Hearing about the numerous brilliant and talented Strategia across Europe will only further unnerve me at this point. It’s enough to know I’m deeply unprepared and that I very nearly got us both killed tonight, a mistake that I hope never to repeat.
“Why is Jag so committed to killing off my family?” I ask. “Is it just ego because my dad chose to be with my mom over staying with his Family?”
Ash shakes his head. “Possibly. I’d always heard that your father was the shining star of the Family, Jag’s favorite, who was set to rule in no uncertain terms…before Jag told the rest of Strategia that your father was dead, that is. And from what I understand about Jag, he doesn’t forgive. He’s pathological about rooting out his enemies.”
“I know the Bears have pushed back against the Lions in general, but has anyone ever challenged Jag directly?” I ask, trying to grasp the larger framework of Strategia relationships.
“You would think so,” Ash says with a hint of annoyance. “You would think that Families would be lining up to fight him. But they don’t. Everyone talks about Jag’s abuses behind closed doors and among trusted friends, but nothing ever comes of it. Layla and I used to wonder as kids how everything got so unbalanced and how the other Strategia became complacent, but it’s something that happened over time, slowly. And at the point when the head Families realized their error, it was too late—Jag’s rule was solidified and his power had become far-reaching.” Ash sighs. “These days, anyone who opposes him suffers consequences so profound that the fear of him and the Lions is deterrence enough. Even the Bears have come under enormous pressure to soften their stance or risk losing their allies. Thus far they’ve held their position, but it’s on shaky ground, and if they ever backed down completely, the Lions would run roughshod over all of Strategia.”
I frown. “So it’s essentially a large-scale version of what would have happened if Blackwood had ever stepped down. Conner and Brendan would have won, the Lions would have succeeded in killing the best students from nonsubdued Families, the Bears would be dead or under attack, and the young Strategia would have been forever tilted in the Lions’ favor.”
“Exactly like that,” he says, and hesitates like he’s trying to decide if he should tell me something or not. “Layla and I used to talk as kids about opposing the Lions when we took over the leadership in our Family. We only hoped that the situation would remain stable enough until we had the power needed to enact change. But here I am actually doing it, years before I believed it was possible…and it’s because of you.”
I smile. “I’m not sure I can take credit, considering I did what I did mainly to stay alive.”
Ash doesn’t waver. “No, November. You saw an injustice and you corrected it even though you were uncomfortable and even though it involved sacrifice.”
I shift in my seat, not certain I deserve that praise and also not sure I want it. For me this has been about surviving and about finding my dad, not about correcting the Strategia power imbalance.
“You told me once that the Lions don’t rule the way other Strategia Families do,” I say, bringing the conversation back to Jag.
“The Lions are…unique.” Ash pauses to think. “Strategia Families typically rely on their leading members to make decisions as a group, on their elders to advise them, and ultimately on the Council of Families when big decisions become too complex. But not the Lions, not since Jag’s been in power. He’s more of a dictator than part of a Family.”
“So he’s Henry the Eighth?” I ask.
Ash leans back in his seat like he’s hunkering down for a long flight. “You’re definitely not the first person to make that comparison.”
I stare at the blinking lights below us, a world not yet awake and blissfully unaware that trained strategists and assassins are doing things that may change the course of their lives forever. “I remember you telling me that the Council of Families approved Jag as the leader of the Lions when they shouldn’t have, and that by the time they realized there was a problem there was nothing to be done. But I don’t understand that. Shouldn’t they have tried?”
“They did,” he says. “But Jag didn’t follow their advice, and in order to oust him they would have had to use force. And the Council of Families never uses force; they are a source of wisdom, a collective of elders who advise and oversee Family politics. The whole system is built on respect.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Respect isn’t the first word that comes to mind when I think of Strategia.”
Ash looks at me and it seems as though my comment bothers him. “I understand your reservations given your introduction to our society, but there is a lot about Strategia that you haven’t experienced. There are power plays and arrogance, certainly, but there are also selfless acts of bravery and loyalty.”
His reaction surprises me; a society that kills as frequently as Strategia do is not one I would praise. But I’m not sure that I want to debate that point right now, especially on the heels of what happened in the woods.
“The worst part about the current state of Strategia politics,” Ash continues when I don’t respond, “is that the Lions have enough resources and power to do a lot of good in the world. But Jag is selfish; he only takes on the missions that serve him politically.”
“Don’t all Strategia do what serves them politically?” I ask.
“Yes and no,” he says. “Yes, we care about power and influence, and yes, we will always choose to support our Family and our Family’s territory before others. But for a great deal of history we have been team players. We step in when other Families need us, we take on missions that support the greater good, and we compromise when we need to. Jag changed all that. He’s not a team player and he doesn’t care one bit about the greater good. And what’s worse is that he’s managed to divide us and pit allied Families against one another through fear and manipulation.”
For a moment we sit in silence. And when I don’t respond, Ash looks at me.
“It’s time, November,” he says.
“Time?” I say, but the instant I say the word I realize his meaning—the tin. I touch my coat pocket. “Yeah…I…are you hungry? Want me to go see if there are snacks in here somewhere?”
“No,” he says, and I turn away from him to the big expanse of sky. “We need to know what your father left you because it may very well affect where we land.”
I run my teeth over my bottom lip, discovering that it’s slightly chapped from the cold, dry air. “Right,” I say, not bothering to hide my reluctance.
In my peripheral vision I can see the confusion on Ash’s face and I get it, but I don’t want to explain that it’s not exactly the reading of the message that I’m resisting; it’s the thought of finishing it. While it’s still in my pocket, untouched, it holds the possibility of being everything I need to hear—an apology for not telling me who I was, an expression of love and regret, an address and a phone number so that I can instantly reach him. And somewhere in my gut, I know I’m going to be disappointed. But even though I would be happy to live with the idealized version a little longer, Ash is right—it’s time.
I pull the cold metal tin out of my pocket and stare at it, gathering my resolve. I hook my fingernails under the curved lip of the tin and gently pry the lid off. The baggie containing the note lies on top of a picture of me and Em at thirteen at a carnival with our arms around each other and huge grins on our faces. We had just eaten cotton candy, candy apples, and funnel cakes, fully committed to turning upside down on the Gravitron without puking. My heart aches so profoundly with the memory that I press my palm into my chest.
I take a sip of the nonalcoholic piña colada Aunt Jo made me. “Mmmm,” I say, licking my lips and watching the fireflies in my backyard as they blink in and out. I hold out my palm, soaking in the heat from the fire pit. “Where did you learn to make these? They are so good.”
Aunt Jo adds some rum to her colada and stirs it with her finger, licking it when she’s finished. “I shared these with a very handsome date on a beach in Hawaii last summer. The stars were out and the air was salty and…well, let’s just say I’ll tell you the rest when you’re eighteen,” she says, grinning at me. “And when I got home I decided they would be my new summer drink. They feel like a celebration, no?”
“Definitely,” I say, enthusiastically taking another sip of the coconut goodness. I remember Aunt Jo making that trip, but she never told me about a love interest. “So what happened to your date? Did you ever see him again?”
She adds a log to the fire. “Sadly, no.” She brushes a loose brown curl off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “But I will always have these drinks and I will always have my memories,” she says, and her expression looks serious, way more serious than her words.
I wait for her to go on, but she just stares at the fire, lost in thought. “Is everything okay?” I ask when she doesn’t snap out of it.
She sighs. “It’s so easy to take what you have for granted, so damn easy,” she says, and looks up at me. “Promise me this, Nova, that you will enjoy every piece of wonderful as it comes along, because you can’t go back, not for all the money or effort in the world—sometimes, when something is over, it’s over for good.”
I stare at her, not sure what to make of the weightiness of her tone. “We’re not talking about your date anymore, are we?”
She gives me a small sad smile. “I didn’t know when I had coffee with your mother the day she was in the car accident that it would be the last time. No one tells you it’s the last time. The air doesn’t feel different, your heart doesn’t pound, and there are no warning signs. Everything just changes in a single moment.”
I twist my glass between my palms. “Do you think about her a lot?” I ask, not meeting her gaze.
“Always,” she says. “And I will never stop.”
I sigh at the happy memory of me and Em, realizing that Aunt Jo was right—that you must enjoy every piece of wonderful as it comes because you can’t go back. I pry the baggie open, pulling out the lined paper, which I instantly recognize as coming from the notepad in my kitchen. I unfold it slowly, like it might crumble in my hand if I’m not careful.
There in the center of the paper, in my dad’s handwriting, are three words:
Old Jack’s dog
There’s no “Dear Nova,” no “I know you must be confused right now and upset with me for everything that’s happened,” and absolutely no contact information.
I turn the note over, my heart thudding and my breath short, but there’s nothing more, not a suspicious indentation or even an erased scribble.
Ash waits as I stare at the paper, which I grip too hard, crumpling it a little between my fingers. My mind swings into motion. Old Jack’s dog’s name was Angus. And Jack was the Pembrook fire chief for most of my childhood before he retired. He used to sit outside the firehouse every Sunday morning with Angus, the paper, and a hot cup of black coffee. We said hi when we passed, like everyone did, but we didn’t know him particularly well. In fact, he was kind of cranky. And what on earth does Angus have to do with any of this? I run through my memories of Jack and Angus, scanning them for anything that might connect to this situation or might tell me what to do next, but nothing feels right.
I look up at Ash, my face scrunching in concentration. “Does Old Jack’s dog or the name Angus mean anything to you?”
By the way his eyes brighten, I know his answer before he says it. “Why yes, it does.”
Ash knows what this means and I don’t. Again. The realization hits me like a punch in the stomach—this isn’t like the note in the quilt, this one is for me, and yet it’s not decipherable by me. My dad gave me a clue that required someone else to decode. And suddenly I’m angry. What if I didn’t have Ash here? Would I be stuck with a nonsense note, left to wonder where my dad is and what happened to him? Not saying anything personal is upsetting enough, but this is so much worse.
“Old. Effing. Jack’s. Dog.” I say each word under my breath like it’s an insult. It is an insult.
Ash’s gaze lingers on my features in a way that tells me he’s reading me, but he doesn’t press me to tell him my thoughts. “Angus is one of the older Strategia,” he explains. “He’s gruff and difficult to deal with, but he’s a genius with information. He knows just about everything about everyone.”
I nod, not in the best control of my emotions. “And you know where he is?”
“I do,” Ash says carefully, probably trying to figure out why a clue is causing me so much grief. “Scotland.”
“Right,” I say. “Of course you know.”
“And you wish I didn’t?” Ash asks.
“No. I just wish…” I shake my head, not ready to vocalize my hurt. “You know what? I’m going to go search the plane, see if that Lion assassin left anything behind.”
“Understood,” Ash says, and I don’t make eye contact with him as I walk away.
There is a slight shaking motion and a hand on my arm. I groan.
“November,” Ash says.
“Huh?” I open my eyes and sit up so fast that spots form in my vision. “Is everything okay? I was just…” I look around the bed where I went through all the items I found on the plane. As usual with Strategia, there was no written information, and there was absolutely nothing identifying the assassin, not even a clue that would tell me the plane belonged to the Lion Family. But at present, the bed is neat and tidy with nothing on it but me. Ash must have cleaned up.
“Sorry, I barely remember closing my eyes,” I say, rubbing my hands over my face. “Where are we?”
“The Highlands,” Ash says.
I practically fall out of the bed. “What? I slept through the landing? I don’t even…” I pull on my boots and straighten out the blankets.
“I would have let you sleep longer, but we need to go. It’s late afternoon here and we have work to do tonight,” he says, and I can hear a little distance in his voice. I meant to apologize for putting him in danger in Pembrook after I searched everything last night, but clearly that didn’t happen.
“Right. Yeah, of course.” I slip on my jacket and grab my duffel bag.
He turns off the plane and I make my way down the steps.
“Another barn?” I say as he follows me out. Although this one looks considerably older than the one we left, hundreds of years older. “Is this a Strategia thing…parking planes in barns? Is that why you knew what we’d be looking for with that key back in Pembrook?”
He nods and offers to take my bag with a gesture, but I shake my head.
“For the places we frequent or for important meeting spots, we rent barns or warehouses year-round. And everywhere else we need to travel, we find a location that we can make work. But this particular barn is one my Family uses throughout the year,” he says, and walks around the plane to a car that’s covered with a tan tarp.
He pulls back the cover to reveal a sleek black Mercedes.
“Whoa. How rich are you guys?” I say, even though I’m sure that’s not a polite question. I’ve just never been around people who kept spare sports cars in other countries for convenience.
Ash laughs for the first time in a long time and I instantly realize how much I’ve missed our usual banter. These past forty-eight hours have been almost nothing but tense.
“We do okay for ourselves. All Strategia do,” he says, and pulls out the keys from under the wheel hood. He pops the trunk with a click and we throw our bags in the back.
“Apparently so,” I say. “Remind me to send you my holiday list when this is all over.”
Ash opens the passenger door for me and I climb in.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The Raven’s Nest,” he says before he joins me in his James Bond vehicle.
Ash and I drive through the farmland of Scotland with me glued to the window, as I have been for most of the ride; it’s undeniably the prettiest place I’ve ever seen in my life, with rolling hills, villages filled with stone houses that look like they were plucked out of a medieval fairy tale, and lakes surrounded by snow-capped mountains that sparkle in the setting sun. I’m reminded of my aunt Jo and my promise to enjoy every piece of wonderful as it comes along. It’s just a bummer that it’s not safe to have my phone because I’m dying to take pictures, which I think I’ve told Ash at least five times by now. But he’s mostly been quiet this entire ride. Layla goes quiet when she’s thinking, but I’ve never seen Ash do it before. It’s possible this situation requires more contemplating than usual. But it’s also possible that he’s just annoyed with me.
“I’m still sorry, Ash,” I say, and turn to look at him. I attempted to talk to him about this when we got in the car, but he responded briskly and we turned our attention to navigating, filling up the tank, and getting some food for the road. And when I tried to transition the conversation to the Lion Family, he said we would talk about it later.
“Okay,” he says, and I get the sense that it’s not okay.
It’s nearly impossible for me to let things go when I know someone’s frustrated with me. I think my insistence causes bigger fights in the end, but I feel incomplete when situations are left unresolved.
“You’re mad,” I say. “It’s fine. I get it. You should be mad. I put us in a shit position back there.”
“I’m not mad at you, November,” he says, but his tone isn’t easy.
“Well, I’m sorry just the same. I know what kind of a risk you took by coming with me. When that guy hit you…God, Ash, if it had been a knife instead of a punch,” I say again, shuddering as an image of the assassin flashes into my mind.
“But it wasn’t.”
“No, it wasn’t. But still,” I say, searching for the words to tell him how much it means to me that he’s here, and how much I know that he’s taking an unbelievably huge risk. Normally this would be a breeze for me. I’ve had to apologize to Emily so many times that I consider myself somewhat of an expert. But with Ash it’s different. It feels like so much is at stake, not just in our danger-addled situation, but between us personally.
We’re silent for a good minute, BBC Radio filling the quiet car.
Suddenly Ash switches it off. “Why do you think I came here with you, November?” He wears the same laser-focused expression his sister uses when she’s concentrating on a problem.
My pulse quickens. “Why?”
“Yes, why would I leave my twin sister, my training at the Academy, and risk my life to be here with you?” he asks, and I can see that this answer is important to him.
“Um,” I manage. My dad always said I could talk the hind leg off a dog, but right now English seems to have vanished from my brain altogether. Ash waits and I swallow. “Well, you want to stop the Lions, for starters.”
“Not the reason I’m getting at.”
I’ve never seen Ash this serious and it’s making it harder to think. “You enjoy a good risk?”
“I’m falling for you, November,” he says, and my heart pounds so hard that I hold my breath, hoping it will slow down and not reveal how off-kilter those words make me feel. “I realize that might sound trivial to you. I saw those pictures in your room, listened to your stories. And I am certain that you’ve been surrounded by people who care about you your entire life. But it’s new to me. Caring about someone other than my Family wasn’t encouraged; in fact it was actively discouraged.”
I remember him telling me how attached he was to his best friend and how she was burned alive in her house. I would stop getting attached to people, too.
“You asked me why I decided to come on this mission with you. You listed all the reasons I shouldn’t. That is why. The truth. Because being without you felt like a greater sacrifice than all the rest.” He steals a look at me and my stomach drops so fast that I reflexively touch it.
For two seconds I just stare at him. I want to tell him that it’s not trivial and that I care about him a great deal. But I can’t seem to get my thoughts in order or my tongue to work. “I…”
“No, you don’t need to say anything. I don’t expect you to,” he says, and before I can respond he continues. “But I do need you to trust me. You didn’t say a word to me before you left for Emily’s.”
I rub my forehead, my cheeks flushing. “I know. I…It’s just Pembrook. I guess I’m not used to asking someone before I do things there.” As the words leave my mouth, I know they aren’t even a sliver of what they should be.
Ash laughs, but not like he thinks it’s funny, like he thinks it’s sad. “I don’t want you to ask my permission. We’re partners. We need to consult each other about decisions that affect the course we’re on. We’re attempting not only to find your father, but to subvert and potentially attack the most powerful Strategia Family in the world. If we aren’t on the exact same page, the Lions will crush us. They might crush us anyway. But if we have a slipup here in the UK like the one we had in Pembrook, we’ll end up dead.”
I exhale. “You’re right. One hundred percent. I didn’t tell you because I thought you would convince me not to go. And maybe I shouldn’t have gone. It was a selfish decision. I just couldn’t stand the thought that I might never see her again. In that moment it felt like I couldn’t go on if I didn’t at least let her know I was alive. But I didn’t think it through. And my carelessness put us both at risk. Again, I’m sorry. I really truly am.” I touch the tin with my dad’s note in it.
“All is forgiven,” he says, and pulls off the highway and onto a dirt road lined with trees.
I stare at my hands for a long moment. He’s done nothing but give me the benefit of the doubt since this whole thing began and I’ve returned the favor with bad decisions and an inability to tell him how I feel.
Ash said he’s falling for me. No one I’ve dated has ever said that to me before. And the truth is, there’s no one I would want to hear it from more than him. And I just blew past it with a stutter. I look at Ash. He’s just as beautiful in profile as he is straight-on. And as outrageous and daring as he is, he’s also got such a good heart. If I could push a rewind button on this whole conversation and approach it differently, I would.
He glances at me, his lips turned up in a small smile. My cheeks deepen their flush and I turn away, staring out the window, searching for the right words. Get yourself together, November! The last of the sunlight flickers through the trees, whimsically speckling our path. The sun moves lower in the sky and hugs the horizon, spilling red and orange through the bare winter branches.
Suddenly the trees clear and the dirt road becomes an enormous circle with a well-manicured lawn at its center. On the other side of the green is a giant stone mansion with spires that reach into the darkening sky.
“Raven’s Nest Manor,” Ash says as I attempt to pick my jaw up off the floor. He drives around the circle toward it, and the closer it gets, the more impressive it gets. “A twelfth-century manor house that was converted into an inn. Home to Raven’s Pub, a favorite among locals and a meeting place for Strategia.”
“Meeting place…but aren’t we in Lion territory?” I ask, wondering how worried I should be.
“Technically, yes. But we’re on the outskirts. And in every Family’s territory there are places like this, meeting spots that have developed over the past thousand years that all the Families use to trade information and make deals.”
Ash stops the car, and before I have a chance to open my door, a butler in white gloves and a long-tailed coat opens it for me.
“Thank you,” I squeak, looking up at the imposing Gothic manor. There is an oversized wreath on the door and a single candle in every window, making the whole place feel magical.
The butler takes our bags and Ash offers me the crook of his arm. If I felt out of my element at Academy Absconditi, it’s nothing compared to this. We take the fanned staircase to the front door and Ash opens it for us.
The front foyer is an impressively tall room with ornately arched ceilings. The woodwork on the walls is accented with gold-framed paintings and garlands of pine and red berries, and there is a fifteen-foot Christmas tree that makes the one in my town square look plain. I would squeal if I weren’t positive Ash would kill me. Where is my effing camera?!
Ash leads us to a large antique desk at the far end of the room. A man with a neat full beard and a hunter-green tweed suit sits behind it.
The bearded man smiles. “Nice to see you, Mr. Ashai. I’m assuming you’ll want your usual suite?” he asks in a Scottish accent. He stands and pulls an old-fashioned iron key from one of the desk drawers.
“Exactly so, Murray,” Ash says, matching the guy’s Scottish accent. I do a double take. I never considered Ash’s ability with accents, or my lack thereof.
He takes the key. “But no need to see us up. Our bags are light.”
Ash lets go of my arm and takes our luggage from the butler who carried it in, giving him a tip. He heads for an impressive curving staircase. Each turn we make, there is some new grandeur, and I’m beginning to seriously wonder about my parents, who gave up this life of luxury and intrigue to live in quiet Pembrook.
Ash opens the door to his family’s suite and turns on the lights.
“You’re kidding me right now,” I say, and practically trip over myself getting inside. “It looks like we just entered a Gothic queen’s private apartment.” There are black velvet couches, tall arched windows and vaulted ceilings, chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
“Like it?” he asks with an amused expression.
“Like it? I want to move in,” I say, circling the sitting room, running my fingers over ornate furniture that makes me feel like I’ve stepped back into a fantasy kingdom. “This is really your life….You just keep planes and cars in other countries, and stay in places like this as though it were normal?” There is some amount of awe in my voice.
Ash laughs and gives me a full smile, indicating that whatever tension was there before is now gone. And I smile back.
“We need to get ready to go to the pub. We can eat dinner there while feeling out who might have information about your father,” he says, and I look down at my worn jeans.
“Judging by the elegance of the serving staff and that foyer, I’m guessing these jeans aren’t going to cut it,” I say, but he’s already disappearing with my duffel bag into one of the adjacent rooms.
I follow him into a bedroom with a four-poster wooden bed that has a canopy of sheer black fabric.
“You can stay in Layla’s room,” he says, and I nod with an open mouth, promising myself despite the imminent danger that I’ll enjoy every last detail of this.
He rifles through an armoire and pulls out a floor-length sapphire-blue dress that looks like it belongs to a princess.
“You and Layla are about the same size; this should do,” he says, and hands it to me.
Emily would be losing her mind right now, I think. And just like that my moment shatters. Emily is back in Pembrook, worried and scared, my dad is being hunted, and I just inadvertently killed someone in the woods behind my house. Nothing is ever going to be the same. I’m never going to be the same.