33. Felix

33

FELIX

I 'm uneasy, worry working its way into my muscles and chilling me more than the cold autumn air. Cyril's asleep, that's all. We're going to arrive and discover we were being paranoid.

My mind wanders to tonight's attack. To the blood and…

"Are you all right?" Cat asks when I shudder, casting me a concerned look in the moonlight.

We're on the path that leads up to Cyril's property, still waiting to hear back from Greg.

"I'm fine."

No, we're not being paranoid. We should have walked Cyril home. It was dangerous sending him alone with the werewolf on the prowl, but my mind was on Millie and the attack. And he's traveled these woods the entire time we've been here. The werewolf has never gone after him before.

My brain snags on that thought, mulling it over, turning it in my mind. We know Cyril isn't the werewolf—Greg confirmed that, and he was with us when the attack began this evening.

But why hasn't the wolf gone after him? He's alone, easy prey, with no friends or family. He'd be the perfect target for a bored, bloodthirsty monster.

The werewolf has ignored him, maybe even decided he's more valuable alive. But why?

I think back to Carl's suggestion that he's the wolf. And Millie also hinted that she believes it's him in the village meeting.

Is the real werewolf hoping to use him as a scapegoat? And is that why it attacked tonight, while Cyril was in the woods with us?

" I've located Cyril, " Greg says. " I found him unconscious, close to his property. He's awake now. "

"What happened?" Cat demands.

" He said he heard something behind him, and when he turned, a handful of redcaps were gathered. He shot one with your pistol, but another must have snuck around and hit him in the back of the head. They were dragging him into the deep woods but ran off when they spotted me. "

"Stay with him," I say. "We'll be there soon."

We quicken our pace to a run, spotting Greg through the trees before we see the dark shack. Cyril sits on the ground with his head in his hands.

Cat rushes ahead of me. "Are you all right?"

Cyril grunts.

"Does your head hurt?"

He scowls at her. "Would your head hurt if a monster cracked a branch over it?"

"How's your vision?" she asks, graciously excusing his sharp response.

"Blurry."

"How many dragons do you see?" I say, keeping my tone light even though I'm worried.

Cyril glances at Greg, wincing. "Too many."

Cat kneels beside him, asking him questions as she examines the back of his head. "You have a horrible knot forming, and you're dazed. I think it's safe to say you have a concussion." She looks over at me. "We need to get him to Bruno."

"Do you think you can walk?" I ask him.

He groans after he shakes his head.

"Right." I cross my arms, thinking. "Greg, you stay here with him. Catriona and I will go back to the village and get Bruno."

" Do I look like a nanny ?"

"No, but you look like a dragon with a pet cow to feed."

He huffs out a plume of smoke. " Fine ."

"And see if you can get a hold of Ambrose and Atticus. Surely, they're not still following Frida."

Cat and I go back the way we came, walking at a brisk pace, our eyes on the woods.

It's going to be another long night.

Atticus and Ambrose are in the apartment when Cat and I finally make it back. After escorting Bruno home once he'd examined Cyril, we were too weary to consider going back into the woods.

It's nearing four in the morning now, and our uninvited houseguests are asleep in front of the fire.

I softly close the door to our bedroom and groan as I sink onto the bed.

"Maybe Atticus and Ambrose stumbled on the werewolf while they were out and killed it for us," Cat says with a wry smile.

"Being done with the whole thing would almost make Atticus's smug expression tolerable."

Cat laughs, and then she sighs. "Let's try to get some sleep."

I turn as she changes, shedding my leathers and shirt. When she's ready, we crawl into bed and snuff the lamp.

Morning comes too soon. I wake to voices in the living space and then a knock.

"Tea's ready," Ambrose says through the door.

I roll onto my back, still groggy even though bright sunlight streams through the curtains. Yawning, I rub my hand over my face, trying to find the motivation to get up.

"It can't be morning," Cat says from next to me, burrowing under the covers and hiding from the light.

"I'm afraid it is."

I dress first and then slip out of the room so Cat can take her time.

It's going to be awkward with Atticus and Ambrose. At least I can take the brunt of their amusement before she joins us.

"Morning." I clear my throat as I shut the bedroom door behind me.

The two hunters look over from the table, barely hiding their amusement.

"I see you didn't sleep on the floor last night," Atticus says wryly.

I walk to the teapot and pour myself a cup. When it comes out a pale yellow instead of a rich brown, I bring it up to my nose and sniff it. "This isn't the tea we bought from Johann."

"That tea was decent, but you can't rely on these local shops to carry anything of real quality," Ambrose says. "I always carry my own. You had a late night, so I decided to share."

I chuckle and then take a sip.

"Better, isn't it?" he says.

"I fear my palette isn't sophisticated enough to form an opinion." I pause, wrinkling my nose. "Why does it taste like grass?"

"It's green tea. The leaves are steamed after picking to prevent oxidization. It's sweet and complex, with bright notes and a clean finish."

"I think I like oxidization." I jerk my chin toward Atticus. "Does it taste like grass to you?"

"More like pond weeds."

Ambrose sighs. "Quality teas are wasted on the two of you."

"Give me something amber-colored next time," I say.

The hunter grunts, shaking his head as he sips his vegetal tea.

"Greg says you were following Frida last night. Did you find her doing anything interesting?"

"She was painting her statuettes," Ambrose says.

"With water, " Atticus adds.

I frown into my cup. "Why?"

"Probably to keep them from turning back," Cat says from the bedroom doorway. "If we'd doused the statuette in her pond water before we packaged it, it might not have leaped out at Benjamin as soon as he opened the box."

Atticus chuckles, obviously amused at the memory. It's hard to tell whether he and Benjamin are friends or enemies. Often, it depends on the day.

Cat laces her long, leather cuff. "We should probably have a chat with Frida eventually, but for now, I'd like to check on Cyril."

"You're not dressed as a clockmaker's wife," I point out, gesturing to her trousers and hunting garb.

"I'm not."

"Are we dropping our cover?" I ask. "Is that safe? Didn't you say the wolf will target us if it knows our true identities?"

"I'd be surprised if the wolf hasn't figured it out anyway. And if we're bold about it, maybe we can flush it out. If we're lucky, it'll come after us tonight."

I smile. "There you go again with your strange definition of luck."

A grin quickly passes over her face, but when she looks up, her expression is determined. "Let's go."

"Do you want a cup of tea first?" Ambrose asks her.

A hesitant look crosses her face. "Is it your good tea?"

"It is."

"I'll pass."

The hunter rolls his dark eyes and shakes his head, his expression that of a mother cursed with vexatious children.

"Are you heading back to Valette today or planning to stick around a little longer?" Cat asks him and Atticus.

"It looks like you have things under control," Ambrose answers.

Atticus smirks. "And we don't want to intrude on your honeymoon."

"Too late," I say.

Ambrose shoots Atticus a chastising look, but his eyes are bright with humor. "We'll catch one of the coaches today and return to the guildhall."

"If either of you mentions"–Cat trails off, using her hand to motion between herself and me—"to Arthur or anyone else, I will end you. Understood?"

"I'm not breaking that news to Arthur," Atticus says. "You can deal with that on your own."

"You're not leaving right away, are you?" Cat asks. "Why don't you watch the shop for us this morning?"

Atticus scowls. "Are we your lackeys now, Cat?"

"I didn't ask you to come. You might as well make yourself useful while you're here."

"Thanks to the festival, there are several coaches going between here and Waldst today," Ambrose says. "Waiting until afternoon won't hurt."

Before we leave, Cat pulls on a fitted leather jacket, looking more like herself than she has in several weeks. Then we head down the stairs and into the cool morning.

It's chillier than brisk. Despite yesterday's attack, people are in the streets, enjoying the jubilee. There's music coming from the festival grounds, along with the scent of roasting meat and spiced apples in the air.

"You'd think they'd be on the next coach home," I say to Cat.

She sighs, turning to the north. "You'd think."

People give us curious looks, their eyes falling on our clothing and weapons. Cat proudly wears her twin blades today. They're strapped to her back, making an X that gleams in the autumn sunshine.

We pass through the festival grounds, entering an orchard where apple picking is in full swing. Eventually, the road that leads to Cyril's property enters a forest. Seldomly traveled, weeds grow between the rutted wagon tracks.

Away from the crowds, a strange feeling passes over me. Again, it feels like we're being watched. "I don't like these woods."

"It's the redcaps," Cat says. "Watch your back."

"They don't usually attack during the day, do they?"

"No, but this section of the forest is thick with shadows. Who knows where the little monsters are hiding?"

"Why are there so many here?"

"We must be close to a crossover," she says.

The human realm and the shadow realm are separate, but they overlap in places. That's where the spirit monsters come from, how they get into our world.

"Let's be careful not to wander into it," I say. A strong breeze kicks up, sending fallen leaves swirling in the road and making me wonder if a storm isn't moving in. "As far as you know, has anyone ever crossed into the spirit world?"

"I'm sure many people have, even if just by accident. But they don't come back."

It's a chilling thought. "What do the crossover points look like?"

"Plants don't grow near crossover regions, and animals naturally avoid them. When you get near one, it grows very cold."

"Have you seen one before?"

She nods. "One, in Dalhahn, near the Shadow Forest."

"If only there were a way to destroy them, or at least fence them off so the monsters couldn't enter our realm."

"If only." She hurries ahead when Cyril's shack comes into view.

It looks different in the daylight—sadder. The charred remains of his old life lie to the left of the property, taken over by dead weeds and several young trees. Cyril's shack is a rough creation constructed of scrawny logs, old, scavenged wood, and mud.

It's the kind of shelter a thirteen-year-old boy would be capable of building, impressive considering he was left to his own devices.

Cat knocks on the door, frowning when he doesn't answer.

"He's probably sleeping."

"Probably, but I don't want to leave before we've checked on him." She tries the door, but it's locked, as expected. "I should have asked him for the key last night. No, we should have taken him to our shop."

"It was the middle of the night, and he couldn't walk," I remind her.

"We'll take him today," she says. "Surely someone will let us borrow a wagon?"

"Arnold probably has one."

She nods, knocking again.

This time, the door cracks open. Groggily, like he's hiding from the light, Cyril croaks, "Who is it?"

"It's just us," I tell him.

He opens the door, looking like death, and wanders inside. Taking that as an invitation, we follow him, leaving the door open for light.

The space smells like animal hides and soot and could use a good airing out. The floor is dirt. He made the furniture himself, I'm guessing. There's a log chair and a large stump that stands in as a table. The bed is a cot made from more logs, with a leather hide stretched across the top.

His tanning pots and equipment take up most of the space, and a heavy black stove sits in the corner, likely scavenged from the main house.

Overall, it's functional and dry. He did a good job with the materials available to him. But it's freezing because he didn't get up to light a fire, and it would be as dark as a tomb if the door was closed.

With a groan, Cyril lies on the cot, bunching an old, lumpy pillow under his head, and rests his arm over his eyes. "I don't suppose you found the werewolf last night, did you?"

"No," Cat says. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a redcap bashed me over the back of the head and then dragged me through the forest."

His neck and face are scratched up, likely from the rocks, twigs, and who-knows-what-else the redcaps pulled him through. Luckily for him, his clothing covered the rest of his flesh.

"Johann mentioned that you have a wagon you take to the larger cities once a month so you can sell your hides," I say.

He grunts.

"Do you have a horse to go with it?"

"A donkey. The same fool creature who fought me when the barn was on fire. He's in a lean-to out back."

"I'm going to hitch it up," I tell Cat. "We'll take him into the village."

"Do you know how to do that?" Cat asks skeptically.

I lean close so Cyril won't overhear and whisper, "I'm not just for looking at, you know."

She turns to me, her lips twitching. "Though I do enjoy that."

I lift my brows, chuckling, and then step outside to look for Cyril's donkey.