Killing November Read online

  “There’s less danger here than anywhere else,” Layla says like I’ve offended her last sensibility.

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  She leans toward me and levels her voice. “I told you to stop playing this innocent game.”

  “It’s no game.” I hesitate. My instinct is to double down. “I’m sorry you’re annoyed, but since my dad isn’t here to grill—”

  “Lower your voice.” Her tone is commanding and fiery. She looks behind her down the empty hall and pushes me back with surprising force into the stairwell we just came out of. “Maybe this isn’t an act. Maybe you really don’t know. But stupidity isn’t the answer.” Her voice is barely above a whisper and is flat-out accusatory.

  “Why would you think my questions are an act? What on earth would I gain from it?”

  “My answer’s still a resounding no,” she hisses. “By referencing your father, and only your father, you just told me that it’s likely your mother is dead. Now I know something about you, combined with the fact that you were clearly raised in America, based on your vernacular. The clothing you arrived in last night suggests you live in a northern climate, and based on the style of clothing, I’d say a rural area rather than an urban one. Your features suggest you’re originally from western Europe; I would guess southern Italian because of your hair and eyes. That narrows you down to only a handful of Families you could be related to. Should I go on?”

  I stare at her. Who, or what, is this girl? “Families? What families?”

  Her eyes widen and her hands clench. “You’re loud and you’re reckless and there is absolutely no chance I’m giving you information. Good play, but you’ve lost.” Her words are biting.

  “Wait—”

  “I’m done with this conversation,” she says. “I can’t believe Headmaster Blackwood matched us as roommates.” She walks away from me at full speed.

  Damn. I’m striking out here. Charm doesn’t work; being pushy doesn’t work. I raise my hands in surrender. “Look, I’m really not trying to piss you off. Honest. My best friend always says I push so hard that sometimes I push people right over a cliff. I get that you don’t trust me. I’ll do my best to chill out and stop attacking you with questions. But I’m not playing you and I don’t know what I’ve ‘lost.’ ”

  Before she can respond, the doors around us creak open. Students pour into the hallway, all wearing the same clothes and cloaks we are. Did a class just end? I didn’t even hear a bell. Where I’m used to shouts and laughter and pushing between classes, there are only hushed conversations and deliberate movements.

  Layla weaves in and out of the creepily quiet students. The glances I get are so subtle that if I weren’t looking for them I would assume the other students didn’t even notice me. There’s none of the openmouthed new-kid ogling that goes on at my school.

  I shiver. There’s something unsettling about this place, making me further question Dad’s decision to send me here. It feels like a test, a way for him to prove the point he’s always trying to make about me being too trusting. I can almost hear him saying: “Look, look at this place and tell me I’m not wrong—people always have something to hide.” The strange part is, even though we had our disagreements when it came to trusting people, underneath it all I got the sense that he was secretly proud that I looked for the best in everyone. Maybe I was wrong.

  “Layla,” says a guy walking toward us, and I snap out of my thoughts. He looks remarkably like her, other than his height. Where she’s three inches shorter than me, he’s three inches taller. But they both have the same regal presence and the same pointed expression. “I’m surprised,” he continues. “I would have thought you’d be at the assessment office by now.” He winks at her.

  Judging by his comment, it occurs to me she must have told him I was here early this morning. Either that, or they somehow knew I was coming, which worries me more. There’s no phone or Internet here for communicating, so the only way they could have known was if this was arranged days ahead of time, days before I knew myself.

  “Extenuating circumstances.” Layla looks at me like I’m an unidentifiable cafeteria food. “Ash, this is November, my new roommate. November, Ash.”

  “Layla with a roommate. Who would have thought this day would ever come?” He looks directly at me and I involuntarily take a step backward. There’s something about his gaze that makes me feel instantly exposed, as though he shined an unforgiving light on the pimple I was hoping no one would notice. Where Layla’s cold, he appears warm, and yet there’s nothing welcoming about his welcome.

  “You didn’t have a roommate before me?” I ask. Blackwood did say there were only a hundred students and this school is huge, so it’s not surprising there might be singles. But it does seem like a lonely choice in this gray place.

  “We’re not all suited for it,” Layla says, and it feels like a warning as much as an explanation.

  “I imagine Layla’s taking good care of you?” Ash says before I can respond. The more he speaks, the more I notice the similarities he shares with Layla—the way they move their eyebrows, their strong cheekbones, and even the curve of their hairline.

  “She’s an excellent tour guide,” I say. “But so far I’m a terrible tour-ee. I’m mostly badgering her with questions.” I pause, piecing together what little I know about him. “Is Ash short for…Ashai?”

  His smile widens but looks forced. “Exactly. I’m surprised Layla was talking about me; it’s unlike her.”

  You can say that again. “She wasn’t. It’s just that Ash by itself isn’t an Egyptian name. And since Layla’s name is Egyptian, I assumed that yours would be, too. I mean, you two are brother and sister, right?” I don’t feel the same thrill I usually do when I do this. Instead, I get the sense that I’ve said something terribly wrong.

  Ash looks at Layla and not at me. “You told her we’re Egyptian?”

  The we’re tells me I’m also right about them being siblings.

  Layla lifts her chin. “Obviously not.”

  They look at each other for a few long seconds. They don’t say a word, but even I can tell they’re communicating in some way by the intensity of the looks they share.

  Ash shifts his gaze back to me. “I have time this afternoon. Maybe I could join your tour or even take over for Layla if she needs a break?”

  My instinct is to say no, apologize to Layla, and promise I’ll stop talking if she just won’t pass me off to him.

  Thankfully, Layla shakes her head. “You know she’s my responsibility,” she says, and I’m grateful—not that being called someone’s responsibility is a compliment.

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll just see you both at lunch. Oh, and Layla…” He holds up a small braid made of pine needles.

  Layla checks the now-empty pocket of her cloak while Ash grins victoriously. “Five, four,” she says with a hint of annoyance. “You win.”

  Ash gives us both a small bow as he slips back into the river of students, who behave more like spies than high schoolers. Up close his intensity is almost overwhelming, but as he walks away I find that it’s equally hard not to watch him. I’m not sure if I’m intrigued or intimidated.

  I TAKE A seat on one of the maroon couches in the assessment office, which is mostly lit by the glow of flames coming from a large fireplace. Portraits of sour-looking old men and women cover the walls, and the ceiling is crossed with wooden beams. I drag my boot along a faded rug and look out the tall, narrow window, which reveals nothing but thick tree branches.

  Dr. Conner places a silver tray bearing steaming-hot bread, butter, and jam on the table in front of me. My stomach rumbles in response. There are few things in the world better than fresh bread. And because of the drugging, I’m not even sure how long it’s been since I last ate.

  “Now, November, I’m going to ask you a series of ques
tions,” Dr. Conner says as he lowers himself onto the couch across from me. His accent sounds British, and he wears a black blazer similar to Blackwood’s, only his has a maroon pocket square. If I had to guess, he’s about my dad’s age or maybe even a few years younger.

  “The most important thing is that you answer honestly,” Dr. Conner says as he crosses his legs and opens a leather folder. “It will greatly increase our chances of getting you into the appropriate classes. As it’s unusual for us to accept a student midyear, especially one as old as you, we don’t have the time to leisurely assess your strengths and weaknesses the way we normally would.”

  “Absolutely. Fire away,” I say as my brain races through its own assessment. Conner—deriving from cunnere, meaning “inspector,” and cun, meaning “to examine.” “Did you get any transcripts from my school?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Certainly not. I can assure you that none of that information exists here. And everything said in this office is confidential and used only for teaching purposes. No one else has access to your files besides Headmaster Blackwood and myself.”

  Layla’s and Blackwood’s warnings ring in my head. Did he think I was testing him to see if any of my personal information was on record here?

  “Oh, good. Then let’s tackle your questions,” I say with less pep.

  He runs his hand over his short beard and frowns at me. “Are you an introvert or an extrovert?”

  “Extrovert. Hundred percent,” I reply.

  “Do you have any injuries that currently limit your movements?”

  “Nope. No injuries.”

  “Which level of balance most accurately describes you—the ability to walk a ledge, a tree branch, or a tightrope?”

  I can feel my forehead scrunching as I consider my answer. Where is he possibly going with this? It feels more like an assessment for playing extreme sports than for a school. “Tree branch. Are there really people at this school who can walk a tightrope?”

  “Climbing skills?” Conner asks, ignoring my question.

  “Excellent.”

  He looks up for a brief moment. “How excellent?”

  It’s starting to seem like none of these questions are going to be about my academic strengths. “Trees are my best, but I can climb rocks, shinny up poles…basically, if there is a texture and a handhold, I can climb it. It’s sort of a—” I stop myself before telling him that there’s a running bet among my friends in Pembrook about what I can climb and how fast. Rule number one, I remind myself.

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Nighttime or daytime?”

  “Either.”

  “Nighttime or daytime?”

  “Really, both are fine.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he says in a way that tells me he’s not glad. “But when I give you a choice, I expect you to choose.”

  I shift my position on the couch even though I don’t need to. “Nighttime.”

  “Why?” he says, and looks up at me.

  “Well,” I say, and pause. “Darkness doesn’t bother me, and it can be really useful sometimes.”

  He nods and jots down a note, which by this point in this bizarre conversation I would really like to see.

  “Which of your senses would you say is the strongest?”

  “Huh, okay, let me think.” When I was little, Dad and I started playing this game where one person was blindfolded and would follow the other through the woods and away from the house for five minutes. The leader would zigzag and go in circles, trying to confuse the blindfolded person as much as possible. But if the blindfolded one could find their way back to the house, they won. I always did it by listening and by touching the trees. Dad swore he did it mostly by scent, which I still think is unbelievable. He started designing outdoor strategy games like the blindfold game after my mom died when I was six. We’d go on camping trips for long weekends and he’d teach me all sorts of tricks—survival skills, I guess is what they really were, though they felt more like puzzles or games back then. He never admitted it, but I think he was trying to find ways to exhaust me physically and mentally and keep me from asking questions about my mom.

  Conner clears his throat. “Next question.”

  “Wait, I have my answer.”

  He looks at me pointedly. “I said next question, November.”

  “Some combination of touch and hearing,” I say quickly before he can start talking again, not because I couldn’t pass on the question, but because I don’t like to be silenced.

  He doesn’t react. “Would you rather climb a tree, go out to sea, or be pain-free?”

  I hesitate. Dad used to give me these kinds of personality tests as a sort of riddle. I always teased him that it was a carry-over from his former life in the CIA. But what I want to know now is what going out to sea, my strongest sense, and whether I like day or night have to do with anything.

  “It’s not a difficult question,” Conner says, and my brain snaps into motion.

  Climb a tree probably means you just want to have fun or live in the moment. Go out to sea? Leave where you are, feeling unsatisfied with your current situation. Be pain-free…other than the obvious meaning, I’m actually not sure about this one.

  Conner pulls at his beard and looks between me and the folder as he jots down notes.

  “Be pain-free,” I say, even though climb a tree is definitely the most accurate for me. However, if there’s one thing I get the sense this school doesn’t value, it’s having carefree fun.

  He grunts. “And your capacity for spatial relations?”

  “Solid.”

  “Athletic stamina?”

  “I’ve always played a lot of sports…so I would say strong.”

  “Codes?”

  “As in breaking them?” Boy, this guy doesn’t spare a word he doesn’t have to.

  “As in breaking or creating.”

  I shrug. “No experience.”

  He looks up at me for a second and I get the sense that he doesn’t believe me. “Okay, good. That will give us a starting point at least for class assignment.”

  Class assignment—I now take it that the classes Blackwood and Layla described aren’t just electives, they are the curriculum. Not that I’m sad to give up math and English, but it’s also shocking that a prep school wouldn’t be more focused on academics.

  Conner puts the leather folder on the table. He looks at the untouched tray of food. “Aren’t you going to have some bread and jam?”

  “Thanks, but I’m good. Feel free to eat without me,” I say, trying not to make eye contact with the tempting bread.

  “You must be hungry. You haven’t had breakfast yet,” he says, and smiles.

  After they most likely drugged me on the plane, there is no way I’m eating this. I look at him squarely. “This is an assessment office and you’re assessing me, right? The only thing I can think is that the food is part of my assessment, and I’m not sure I want to find out what’s in it.”

  His expression shifts, like he’s found something he was looking for. “You’re suspicious. Or maybe it’s just me that you don’t trust.”

  For a second I’m taken aback. This is the first time anyone has ever called me suspicious. And somehow this comment feels different from the others, like he’s probing my psyche as opposed to just collecting information. “I don’t like to make the same mistake twice,” I say carefully.

  He waits a beat, and I can practically see the wheels in his head turning, making decisions about me. It’s strangely uncomfortable to be assessed when you don’t know what people are looking for or what types of conclusions they are coming to.

  Conner leans back on the couch, and his casual posture almost appears welcoming, like I’m talking to one of my friends’ dads, not an uptight assessment officer. Dad. A pang of homesickness grips my empty stomach.

>   “How much do you know about the Academy, November?” Conner asks.

  “Very little,” I say, and I can tell by his look that he takes it as the truth.

  “Headmaster Blackwood asked that I speak to you a bit about our history and what is expected of you here,” he says, and I lean forward.

  “Yes, please.” At this point I’ll take all the info I can get.

  He folds his hands in his lap. “But,” he says with emphasis, “this brief introduction will not make up for the plethora of information that you have missed in your first two years.”

  I get the sense that he’s warning me, which is baffling. Why would they let me in if they were so worried about everything I’ve missed?

  “Before we get into all that, though—Headmaster Blackwood made rule number one clear to you, did she not?”

  “Never reveal personal information about yourself or your family,” I say.

  Conner nods. “We also ask that you use precautions with any students you might recognize. We understand it’s inevitable that some of you will know each other. But it’s in those moments when you are most comfortable that you will be the most vulnerable,” he says, and again I get the feeling that he’s fishing for something.

  “Not a problem,” I say. “I don’t know anyone.”

  He looks at me for a long moment and clears his throat. “Now, let’s see here….The Academy was designed and built by the original Council of Families as an elite institution for their best and brightest children. It was the first time that all of the Families worked together toward a common goal. It was agreed then, as it is still agreed today, that strategic excellence and safety among their children be prioritized above politics.”

  Now I’m officially lost. I want to ask him What politics? but he continues speaking before I can open my mouth.

  “I cannot tell you the exact date this school was founded, as its secrecy has prevented some of that information from being recorded, although many estimate that it was approximately fifteen hundred years ago, roughly a thousand years after the first three original Families formed. What I can tell you is that Academy Absconditi has been housed in this particular building since 1013.” He lifts his chin a little higher, as though that’s a mark of pride.