“We have to. We have no idea if he was alone, so we need to move out quickly,” Ash says, the urgency in his voice intensifying.

I suck in a deep breath. I know he’s right. But it all feels wrong—leaving my house without saying goodbye, leaving Emily with lies, leaving a dead Strategia in the woods. This isn’t my Pembrook; it’s a nightmare.

Chapter Ten

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.