5. Felix

5

FELIX

W ith a lonely whistle and a glorious plume of smoke, our train arrives at the Hellenford Train Station at just after two in the morning.

"Cat." I lean across the compartment and give my companion a gentle nudge. "Wake up, kitten, we've arrived."

Eyes still closed, in an undeniably alert voice, she answers, "If you call me kitten again, I will tie you to the roof of the train."

Amused, I say, "So you are awake."

Ignoring me, she stands, reaching into the cubby above her for her bag. My eyes travel past her corset and fitted trousers, to the heeled boots she wears spectacularly well. Feeling my gaze, she whips her head to the side to look at me over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing in the dim lamplight. It's a look of chastisement laced with a warning.

I raise a brow, unrepentant. "Is there a problem, wife?"

"Don't call me that either." The bag catches, and though she tugs it hard, it won't give. I stand, stepping close enough my chest presses to her back, and reach around her. "Then what shall I call you?"

"Miss Mason."

"Ah, but you're no longer Miss Mason, but Mrs. Catriona Cunningham ."

On the outside, she's unmoved, but I feel the shiver radiate from her body into mine. And even better, she knows I feel it, too.

I free her bag, pulling it down to the bench. "But we're not using our real surname in Braunwin, are we? So, Mrs. Cunningham, what shall I call you if I cannot call you kitten or wife? Darling? Treasure of my heart?" I lean close to her ear. "Bluebird?"

She turns, using her bag as a wedge between us. "You may call me Catriona, or, upon occasion, Cat. Never kitten. And certainly none of those other things."

People jostle down the narrow hall outside our compartment, weary travelers longing for a bed. We should be amongst their number, but I block the doorway. "And what will you call me?"

"I will call you Felix."

"I think I'd quite like it if you'd call me Felix Dear."

"Felix Dear," she says through gritted teeth. "Remove yourself from the exit, or I will be forced to remove you myself."

I chuckle, stepping aside. "That was easier than I expected."

She enters the hall, walking at a brisk pace as if she means to leave me. I scramble for my own bag and follow her.

We emerge from the train and step onto the brick platform. The air is sharp but not bitter, as it can only be on a perfectly clear, early autumn night.

"Exit to your left," the tired conductor instructs. "Move along, to your left. The tavern is across the street, and the hotel is just beyond that. Thank you, ma'am, thank you, sir. Keep walking, keep walking. Enjoy your evening. Exit to your left…"

"There's a chill in the air," I say to Cat. Though tempted to head right, I dutifully walk left and breathe in a lungful of air as soon as we step into the street. "Do you feel it? It smells like autumn."

She eyes me with ample amounts of suspicion. "How are you so chipper at two in the morning?"

"I've always been fond of holidays."

"This isn't a holiday—it's a job."

"Any task can be made into a holiday with a good dose of optimism."

She doesn't bother to answer, so I turn my attention to our surroundings.

Hellenford is a medium-sized city in Albrech, civilized and known for its botanical gardens, museums, and a plethora of tea houses. It would like to be the capital of the Allied Provinces, and I believe it's quite bitter it's not. Therefore, it's decided to out-class Valette as if making up for the official standing it lacks. It's like a little brother, putting on airs and trying a smidgen too hard.

The cobblestone roads are nearly empty this time of night, but streetlamps glow merrily. The tavern's doors stand wide open, welcoming travelers who are unfortunate enough to have a stop at such an awkward hour. Coaches won't run until morning and the lodging options are limited. The nearby establishments know it. They only have to compete against each other—a task they seem to relish—and they go about it in very different ways.

Music pours from the tavern, promising ale, food, and merriment. The hotel next door is surrounded by an air of disdain and a tall iron fence, crafted, I'm sure, to keep the merriment out.

Most head to the tavern, hoping for cheap accommodations and perhaps an after-midnight snack. After all, it would be impractical to spend a fortune on a bed when the night is already half-spent.

The fancy travelers head to the hotel—the ones in taffeta and lace, with expensive hats and jaunty canes. They're met at the door by attendants who take their jackets and offer them warm refreshments. Or so I imagine. I wouldn't know, because Cat heads to neither the tavern nor the hotel.

Instead, she shoulders her satchel and walks past the well-lit establishments, heading down the deserted street.

"Mrs. Cunningham, it appears you're wandering out of bounds."

"Stay at the hotel if you like—just don't be late to the coach in the morning. I plan to be on it, with or without you."

"You assume I'd stay at the hotel? I rather hoped we'd visit the tavern." Then, because I can't help myself, I add, "Maybe have too much to drink and then get in a rousing pre-dawn bar fight. Sound tempting?"

She sniffs in my direction, gracing me with a look of disdain that even the hotel cannot quite match. "You would."

Chuckling, I follow her down the dark street. "I'll bite—what does that mean?"

"You're not the first of the elite to take amusement in surrounding himself with those he feels are below him."

"Are we going to discuss your distaste for the affluent members of society in the middle of the night, bluebird?"

"I don't have a problem with the elite," she argues. "My distaste is for the elite's sons."

I laugh, knowing she's just being snippy now. GHOST is a family of hunters from all walks of life, and Cat has never shown preference or disdain for any. If she were being honest, she would admit her distaste is for me.

And if she were being really honest, she would admit her distaste is actually attraction, and she's only irritated because it exists at all.

"Where are we going?" I ask. "Do you plan to leave town and pitch a tent?"

I can tell she doesn't want to answer, but she finally gives in. "There's an inn I prefer to stay at while I'm here."

"How far away is this inn?"

"Farther than your lazy legs can carry you, so it would be best if you went back to the hotel."

"A hike through the dark city with my bride sounds like an adventure. Lead me, my love, for wherever you go, I will follow."

"You're especially annoying after midnight," she mutters.

I grin, enjoying myself. "It feels good to be away from Valette, doesn't it?"

She glances my way, frowning slightly. "You mean away from your father?"

"Now that you mention it."

"He's a good man."

"He's an excellent man," I agree.

"And you're…well, you're all right." Then, as if she's worried that stingy praise will go to my head, she adds, "Mostly."

I huff out a laugh. "Are you going somewhere with this?"

"I don't understand why the two of you don't make an effort to get along."

"Oh, bluebird." I grin. "This is the effort."

She presses her lips together, trapping in whatever admonishment crackles in her pretty eyes. Whether she means to or not, she wears her emotions for all to see. Cat is an open book, easy to read. I love that about her. You know where you stand with the hunter, even if she's trying to hide it.

As we walk, my mind wanders to our assignment. How did Cat specialize in werewolves? Why did she kill her first so young?

And is that why she joined GHOST?

"You're quiet," she says.

"It's late, and this section of the city sleeps. I don't wish to wake the neighbors."

"You look like you're brooding."

"I have a naturally pensive look. People say it all the time. ‘That Felix is so dark and mysterious, always pondering life's mysteries.'"

"No one has ever said that about you. Are you uncomfortable walking through the city in the middle of the night?"

"Terribly. What if we bump into hobgoblins? Redcaps? Night pixies?"

"Forget I asked."

I peer at her curiously. "Do you expect to run into trouble?"

"I always expect trouble."

"Then consider me spooked."

She looks at me, frowning, and then faces forward. Her voice tight, she says, "I would protect you, you know. No matter what I've said, I won't actually leave you for dead."

I bump my shoulder into hers. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Do you think you could embroider that promise on a handkerchief so I may tuck it in the breast pocket of my jacket and keep it close to my heart?"

"Never mind. Let the night pixies take you."

"It's too late to take it back."

She scoffs, the sound of it loud in the still night. Our boots thud softly on the cobblestones, and my cloak, a smidgen too long, makes a soft sweeping noise with each step I take.

We walk for so long; the city begins to thin out as we reach the outskirts. I suppress a yawn. "You are planning on sleeping tonight, aren't you?"

"We're almost there."

There are no streetlamps here, and the night is dark. A cold breeze kicks up, tugging at my cloak and whispering that winter is on the move. In just a month, we could have our first snow. Maybe it will come earlier here, in the rolling verdant foothills at the base of the Somner Mountains.

The clouds shift overhead, moving away from the moon. It casts a silvery glow on the street, somewhat eerie.

I slip a hand inside my cloak, feeling for the reassuring presence of my pistol. Like Cat, I also always prepare for trouble.

Ahead, I see a sign that reads, "Thimbleberry Inn." I know immediately that it's Cat's establishment. The sprawling cottage is surrounded by a four-foot stone fence, with a short iron gate at the entrance. Late summer coneflowers line the outside perimeter of the property, leggy and unruly, their tall stalks falling into the walkway and many of their heads going to seed.

A lantern hangs from a crook near the entrance, welcoming us. Though most of the windows are dark, the ones near the entry glow from within.

"This is it." Cat winces as the iron gate creaks in the silent night. She tries to close it gingerly behind us, but that only prolongs the groan.

"Well, they know we're here," I whisper cheerily.

She shoots me an unamused scowl and then walks the path that meanders through the thick flowers on its way to the entry.

I try the door, surprised to find it locked.

Undaunted, Cat follows several flagstones deep into the moonlit cottage garden. She then bends down to fuss with something I can't make out in the dark and produces a key.

When she slides it into the lock, I whisper, "This is starting to feel like breaking and entering."

Rolling her eyes, she pushes the door open, ushers me into the warm room, and sets the lock. A dying fire burns low behind the fireplace screen. It crackles quietly in the silent room, the only sound except for the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Shall we make Benjamin's day and save the guild a bit of money by sharing a room?" I tease Cat. Even my whisper seems too loud for the dead of night.

"That depends. Do you fancy sleeping on the floor?"

"We haven't even been married a week, and you're already kicking me out of our bed." I chuckle under my breath, amused even if Cat is not. "It looks like your innkeeper is asleep."

"I sent them a telegram and told them we were coming." She kneels next to a basket of yarn beside the armchair in front of the fireplace, shuffles things around a bit, and produces two keys. "They left these for us."

"Awfully trusting innkeepers, aren't they?"

"They know me. I exterminated a boggart that moved into their cellar several years ago." She hands me a key. "You're in the second room down the hall, and I'm upstairs. I'll see you in the morning. Be sure to wear clothing that suits a clockmaker when you dress, as we'll arrive in Braunwin by the end of the day."

I lift my brows. "So that's a no to sharing a room then?"

Not bothering to answer, she disappears up the stairs.