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 Jackal 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.
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 Lions 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 match 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.”
I smile, too. “It was actually a lot of fun.”
“Exactly my point,” he says, and we share a look.
I find myself momentarily grateful for all the time I spent with my dad in our sleepy town, even if it makes giving it up more painful. “My question is, how did Dad know Logan had that sign in his smithy?”
“It’s entirely possible Logan’s had it for a long time,” Ash says. “Your father could have made a trip to Scotland in recent years and seen it.”
I try to picture my dad negotiating with someone as awful as Logan, and I just can’t. “The thing is, my dad almost never left Pembrook, much less traveled abroad,” I say. “The only long trips he ever took were with his rock-climbing buddies from college.” But the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how naïve I’ve been. “Oh god…rock-climbing buddies who I’ve never met, who would take trips to remote state parks and places without cell reception, or so my dad claimed.” I look at Ash. “How did I never question any of this before?”
Ash gives me a sympathetic smile, like even though he doesn’t fully understand the adjustment I’m going through, he knows it’s not easy.
“So the Pembrook masquerade ball,” I say, focusing back on the message. “Now we just need to figure out what message he was trying to send.”
“Where was your ball held?” Ash asks.
“Stella’s Inn, just outside of the center of town,” I say. “In a big refurbished barn. All of the town functions were held there. She hosted weddings and school dances and so on.”
Ash looks like he’s concentrating. “Layla and I have been to a handful of Strategia events with our parents in London, but none of them were held in barns, I’m afraid.”
“How about events held in an inn?” I ask.
“There are a few Strategia hotels that have event spaces in London, but those properties are all Lion-run,” Ash says with a worry line in his forehead. “If your father is pointing us toward a Strategia hotel, I’m not sure how we’d find out if they were hosting anything resembling a masquerade ball.”
I rub my temple. “What about a trade with someone who might be in the know about Lion events?”
“Maybe…,” he says, and his voice trails off. “Although digging for information on Lion-run properties will be tricky. I’m not sure a traditional trade is even possible.”
I study him, certain he’s running through ideas that he’s not saying out loud. “You said a traditional trade won’t work…is there a nontraditional one?”
Ash glances at me, but he doesn’t respond right away.
A few more seconds tick by in silence. “Ash?” I press.
“Wellll, that’s the thing,” Ash says, and I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever is making him hesitate. “There is a place in London where unallied Strategia socialize.”
“ ‘Unallied’?” I ask.
“They’re Strategia who take jobs for hire, who work with multiple Families instead of just one. My Family hires unallied Strategia for missions occasionally. But approaching them is…complex,” Ash says.
“Complex how?” I ask.
“Because I don’t know how to get in touch with them other than to go to their pub…which is exactly the type of place someone like the Ferryman might be,” he says. “And if not him, then others who may be hunting your father.”
I exhale. “When you said these unallied Strategia take jobs for hire, what exactly did you mean?” I ask.
“Let’s call them extra hands for special circumstances,” he says. “Smugglers. Thieves. But most of them are mercenaries and bounty hunters.” By the look on Ash’s face, I can tell that even though he doesn’t think going to their pub is safe, it’s also the only way.