Killing November Read online

  The candles in the room flicker as though to emphasize Blackwood’s long pause, and when she speaks I once again get the uncanny feeling that she’s able to read my thoughts: “The Academy is true to its name. As far as the world’s concerned, we don’t exist. Not even your parents, who may or may not have been students here, know its location.”

  Well, at least Dad was telling the truth when he said he couldn’t tell me exactly where I’d be going. Is it possible my mountain man of a father went to this school? It’s suspicious that he didn’t mention it, but he also never talks about his childhood, so it’s not entirely impossible.

  “As you may have noticed, there’s no electricity here. There’s also no Internet access and thus no communication with the outside world whatsoever,” Blackwood continues. “Parental visits are organized through the school and approved at our discretion. Understood?”

  I stare at her. That explains the lack of a phone and her refusal when I asked to make a call. But this extreme isolation makes me think one of two things is going on here. Either this is going to be the most intense survival training of my life or the threat to our family was significantly worse than the break-in Dad claimed it was and he wanted me far away while he dealt with whatever really happened. My heart beats a little faster at the thought; I don’t want to believe he would keep something that important from me.

  “Understood,” I say cautiously.

  “And you agree to the rules?”

  “What choice do I—” I clear my throat. “I do.”

  “Very well,” says Blackwood, and releases her breath like she’s pleased to be moving on. “As I said, you’ve come to us late at seventeen. Most students start at fifteen, with the occasional admittance at sixteen. You’ll have to make a concerted effort to acclimate quickly, although I’ve been assured you have the skills not only to keep up with the other students, but to excel here.” Her look tells me she isn’t sure she agrees. “Still, keep your head down. Watch and learn from the other students. Keep your socializing to a minimum. Be on time and be polite. And above all, do not disrupt.”

  I would laugh, except it’s not funny. She just described the anti-me.

  “You’ll have meetings with our analyst, Dr. Conner,” she continues, “who will help you assimilate. Now I think it best if you retire for the evening. Dr. Conner will begin your evaluation in the morning.” She gestures toward the two guards. “These gentlemen will escort you to your room. Layla, your roommate, will act as your guide for your first week. She’s been instructed to brief you on the basics, and I have full confidence that she will be thorough. She’s one of our best students.”

  “How do you spell Layla?” I ask, my thoughts turning to one way I can get information without asking for it.

  Blackwood hesitates and gives me an odd look. I would tell her that her own name in Old English means “black wood,” but there’s clearly no point.

  “L-A-Y-L-A,” Blackwood says, then closes the journal and stands up.

  I stand up, too. I want to ask more questions, but it’s obvious from her expression that she has no interest in continuing our conversation.

  “Thanks, Headmaster Blackwood. Sleep well.”

  She gives a perfunctory nod and I head for the door. The guard with the torch lifts the latch and I follow him into the hallway. He towers over me, and I’m almost five foot nine. And once again, the guards orchestrate it so that I’m walking between them.

  The only sound is my boots on the floor. Their footsteps are conspicuously quiet as we make our way down a flight of stairs and into a hallway lined with arched wooden doors marked by wrought-iron accents. There are no numbers or names to distinguish them. The guard in front of me stops and knocks on the third door on the left. Only a second passes before there’s the muffled sound of a metal latch and the door swings open.

  The girl behind it has long black hair to her waist, so straight and shiny that it reflects the torch flame. She has dark brown eyes and full red lips. She scans me head to toe and her eyebrows push together, reminiscent of Blackwood’s sour pucker.

  Even though she’s in nothing more than a white nightgown, my boots, shabby and mud-stained from my usual outdoor antics, and my oversized cable-knit sweater suddenly make me feel underdressed.

  “Layla, right?” I say, stepping in and breaking the silence with a smile. “I hear we’re roommates. I’m November.” I reach out my hand to shake hers, but she doesn’t take it. Instead she does a quick curtsy. A surprised laugh escapes before I can consider it. Her gaze hardens and she latches the door behind me with a rough click.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Really. Your curtsy just caught me off guard. Can we start over?” I can hear my best friend, Emily, scolding me for my poorly timed laughs.

  “It’s forgotten,” she says like she’s being forced to be polite to me.

  The suite of rooms she shows me only reinforces my initial impression that we’re in an old castle somewhere in Europe. And now that I’m not locked in, I can better appreciate the medieval decor. The stone walls have candle sconces that look like they could be a thousand years old. There is a large fireplace, a light gray velvet couch and love seat, and a breakfast table in front of an arched window that’s entirely covered by heavy maroon curtains. The gray and maroon remind me of the colors of the crest in Blackwood’s office. “Daang,” I whisper.

  “Your bedroom’s there,” Layla says flatly, gesturing to my right. Her face shows no emotion whatsoever.

  I follow her line of sight to a door that’s a narrower version of the one I just came through.

  Layla, I think. It’s a name that became popular in medieval times, and had something to do with a seventh-century poem. I’m pretty sure it’s Arabic in origin, and if Blackwood’s spelling was right, it’s most likely Egyptian. The tricky part is that each spelling signals a slight variance in meaning….“So, um, did you know your name means ‘born at night’?” I turn back to her, but she’s gone. I stare at the closed door opposite mine. A lock slides into place on the other side of the wood. I didn’t even hear her walk away. She’s no Emily, that’s certain. Who I’m sure by now is at my house, demanding to know where her best friend is and why I’m not returning her texts. I wish Dad had given me time to explain things to her.

  I push open my bedroom door—temporary bedroom door. A candle’s lit on my bedside table next to a carafe and drinking glass, and there’s a basin of water on my dresser that I presume is for washing up. A white nightgown identical to Layla’s lies across the end of my bed—which has a canopy made of wood and an intricately carved headboard. Unfortunately, though, my luggage is nowhere to be seen, and I’m too exhausted to try to sort it out. I pull off my boots and my jeans, dropping them on the floor in a pile, and sit down on the bed. It’s like sinking into a giant pillow.

  I grab the bottom of my sweater to pull it over my head but change my mind and tuck my legs under the blankets. I blow out the bedside candle and fall backward into the mound of fluff. Only then does my chest tighten with homesickness.

  I exhale and stare at the wooden canopy above me. I can make it a couple of weeks anywhere, I assure myself. I made it through soccer camp last summer in a field that stank of rotten cabbage—I’ll make it through this.

  I TUCK A white linen shirt into a pair of black leggings that I found mysteriously laid out for me when I returned from my bath. I stare at myself in my vanity mirror. The only thing I recognize is my long braid. The rest of me looks like I’ve dressed up as a pirate for the Renaissance Faire. If Emily saw me, she would laugh for a year. I just wish I had my phone to take a picture.

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  “Come in!” I say, and the door swings open.

  Layla’s dressed in the same clothes as me, only the pirate gear doesn’t diminish her grace. Her hair is in a high sleek ponytail that reaches mo
st of the way down her back. If anything, she looks more regal than she did last night. “We’ll be late if we don’t go soon. And I’m never late.”

  “I’m usually late,” I say in a friendly tone. “Maybe you’ll be a good influence on me.”

  She frowns.

  “Do you know where these clothes came from?” I gesture toward my black-laced boots. “When I got back from the bathroom, they were on the trunk at the foot of my bed.”

  Her frown deepens. “The maid.”

  “The maid?” I pause. “You’re kidding.” Dad never even hired a housekeeper and now I have a maid? This school must have cost him his savings. The knot that formed in my stomach last night tightens. Something about my dad’s decision and this entire situation feels off.

  She stands a little straighter, which I didn’t imagine was possible with her already perfect posture. “Not in the least.”

  Sheesh. She’s stiffer than my ninety-year-old physics teacher. “Well, any chance you know what happened to my clothes?” I ask. “Also, the things I brought with me from”—I remember rule number one—“home. I can’t find my luggage anywhere.”

  “Personal items are forbidden on campus. Headmaster Blackwood keeps them locked up.”

  “Even my toiletries and my—”

  “Everything.”

  I grumble. I already miss my pillowcase covered in pine trees that was part of a bed set I lusted after for months. And the scarf Emily knitted last winter that has become a staple of my wardrobe even though it’s lopsided—all the familiar little bits and pieces from my life are locked up somewhere I can’t get them.

  “About that—the forbidden part. What’s the deal with all the secrecy?” I ask.

  Layla looks at me suspiciously. “Why would you ask me that?”

  I definitely wasn’t expecting her to dish on all the inner workings of this place, considering the severity of Blackwood’s rules, but I also wasn’t expecting such a defensive answer. Now she’s piqued my interest. I smile the disarming smile that’s always worked well for me. “I was just hoping you could explain it to me.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She lifts her chin and turns around in one fluid motion. I wouldn’t be surprised if she practiced that dramatic exit, waiting for someone to frustrate her so she could use it.

  I follow her into the sitting room. She opens a tall armoire and pulls out two floor-length black coats with hoods and hands me one.

  I examine the velvet-lined wool with interest. There are gloves in the pockets. “Is this a cape?”

  “It’s a cloak,” she corrects me, “and the quality is impeccable.”

  At just about heart level on the left-hand side of the cloak is the crest I saw in Blackwood’s office. It’s embroidered with silver and maroon thread. “ ‘Historia Est Magistra Vitae,’ ” I read out loud. I’m great with Latin root words—it’s one of the things I picked up when I became fascinated with name origins—but I’m awful with the grammar. “History, Teacher, Life?”

  “History Is the Teacher of Life—Academy Absconditi’s motto,” Layla says, and sighs like she’s resigning herself to something tedious. “The maroon means patience in battle. The silver means peace. The oak tree signifies great age and strength. The torch represents truth and intelligence. And the sphinx symbolizes omniscience and secrecy.” Layla opens our arched door before the last word leaves her mouth and walks out of the suite without pause.

  I follow her and close the door behind us, thinking about the crest as I put the cloak on. The stone hallway is brighter than last night, but the air is still cold, giving it an all-around gloomy feel.

  That was a serious rundown of symbols Layla just gave me, not some generalized school motto. I chew on my lip. It’s odd that someone chose colors that mean both “patience in battle” and “peace,” which strike me as contradictory. Also, I don’t know much about crests, but I do know that the sphinx is most commonly associated with Egyptian and Greek cultures. “So back to this secrecy thing—”

  “No.”

  I take a better look at Layla. I wonder what would happen if she ever met my dad. I bet they would stare each other down, never saying more than two words to each other. I guarantee she’s the type of girl who likes to pretend she never farts and if one did slip out she would pass out from overwhelm. I laugh.

  Layla turns to me sharply. “What?”

  For a brief second, I consider telling her. “Look, we’re here together, right? In this, well, this castle, I guess, for at least the next few weeks until we go home for the holidays—” And home forever.

  She huffs. “I’m not going home for any holidays.”

  I search her face for a hint of emotion but find none. I would be devastated if I wasn’t with my family for the holidays. “Just the same, we might as well make the best of it. Don’t you think?”

  Layla turns away from me and down a stone corridor with a series of narrow arched windows cut into it. The stone is so thick that you could easily use the windowsills as seats. I can picture archers perching in them once upon a time, raining arrows down on enemy invaders.

  “This building takes some time to learn,” Layla says, completely ignoring my comment. “It zigzags, but the thing to remember is that the outside is a rectangle. So if you follow the outer wall, you can always find your way again.”

  It’s like I’m having a conversation with the supermarket lady, Agnes, who hums incessantly and barely listens to anyone. Instead of answering whatever question you asked, she responds with whatever she’s currently thinking about. Emily and I treat her like a fortune cookie. If she tells us the artichokes are running rampant or that potato sprouts look like zombie fingers, we figure trouble’s afoot, but if she goes on about a new ice cream shipment, it’s going to be an amazing day.

  “And if you find yourself outside in a courtyard or garden, you’re somewhere in the center of the rectangle,” Layla continues in a monotone, like she’s reading out of a brochure. “The entire structure is three stories tall, except for one tower that’s four stories.”

  “Blackwood’s office,” I say, happy to recall a sliver of information about this place.

  “Yes,” she says, and takes a quick questioning look at me. “You can orient yourself by that tower. Think of it as north and the girls’ dormitory as east. Directly across from us, on the west side of the building, is the boys’ dormitory.”

  I count the doors and the turns as we go, a crack in a stone, a step that’s steeper than the others, committing them to memory. I was the kid everyone followed around at carnivals because it only took me one go-around before I knew where everything was. Dad says it’s from obsessively learning every inch of the woods near our home, which are a bazillion times harder to map than a building or a fair.

  Layla reaches the end of the corridor, goes down three steps, and turns left. “I suspect the class schedule here is going to be different from what you’re used to. While some classes are back to back, most are not because many of the courses involve physical exertion. Our heaviest days are Monday through Friday, with a lighter schedule on the weekend. But the professors have the right to call an impromptu challenge whenever they want.” She pushes a flyaway hair back into place. “Now we’re entering the north side of the building, which has classrooms and faculty offices.” She points to the wall. “And the south side has common rooms—the dining hall, library, weapons rooms, and so on.”

  I stop abruptly. “Hang on. What kind of weapons rooms?”

  She stops, too. “We have a fairly extensive sword collection. And the bows and knives are some of the best.”

  I can feel myself grinning. I’ve never used a real sword. Dad always made me practice with a wooden one, which I did so often that I broke my fair share of them. And a room full of knives? Sign me up.

  “But the poisons aren’t what they could be,” Layla conti
nues, almost to herself. “There’s no point in talking about it now, though, because we won’t get to that side of the building until lunchtime.”

  My smile disappears. “Poisons?”

  “I hear they’re expanding the curriculum next term, so it may improve.” Her delivery is matter-of-fact.

  As far as I can tell, the only reasons to teach poisons are because you plan to use them or because you think someone might use them on you—neither of which sits well with me. “Why exactly are we learning about poisons?”

  She looks at me like I can’t be serious. “You’re excited by knives but wonder why there’s a poisons class? If this is some kind of carefree, innocent act, you can do better than that.”

  I stare at her. “Using knives, arrows, and swords is a skill. Poisons are strictly about hurting people.”

  “Right. And knives are for cuddling,” she says flatly, and starts walking again. “You have an appointment right now with the head of assessment. His office is just down this hall.”

  I grab her wrist, but she smoothly undoes my grip before I get a good hold. She glares at me, the first real sign of life I’ve seen in her. “Don’t ever do that.”

  “Touch your arm? Sorry. But stop the tour for a sec. I’m serious. What’s with the poisons and the archaic eye-for-an-eye rule?” My off feeling is escalating and I’m getting the distinct sense that there is something about this place I should know and don’t. “And what about the student deaths Blackwood mentioned? I know I can’t ask who the students are and all, but can you explain at least a little? Should I be nervous right now?”

  For a second she looks confused. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “The truth. Why would our parents send us to an isolated school where all the rules have some imminent-danger theme?” I dislike the disorientation of not knowing where I am, but not as much as I can’t stand the idea that my dad withheld information from me.