“Right,” I say. “The afternoon rush.”
We go back inside.
Chapter 22
It’s Been Fun
Felixannounceshe’sgoingto the coven on Sunday evening with the particular energy of someone who has made a decision and is not inviting discussion.
“They’ve been asking,” he says, folding the borrowed clothes I lent him into his bag with the neat precision he brings to everything. “Since the fire. Morgana has a spare room, and her house has better wards than anywhere in Bristol right now, which seems relevant given recent events.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say.
“I know it is.” He glances up at me. “You’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
“You have the shadow prince.”
“I’m aware.”
He zips the bag. He looks at me for a moment with those sharp dark eyes that don’t miss anything, and I know he is reading something in my face because Felix always reads something in my face. He picks up his bag and his coat and his collection of rings, which survived the fire because he sleeps in them, which is extremely Felix.
At the door, he pauses.
“Adam,” he says.
“Felix.”
“Whatever happens.” He stops. Starts again, which is unusual for Felix, who generally says exactly what he means on the first attempt. “You’re going to be okay. Both of you.”
I don’t ask him what he means by both. I don’t ask him if he’s done witchy stuff with tarot cards or runes and knows something I don’t. Felix says things when he’s ready to say them and not before.
“Felix…” rumbles Hex, but he’s stopped by Felix holding up a hand.
“No, I’m not leaving my phone so you can play with it. I never should have introduced you to the internet.”
Hex’s expression shifts into something that could possibly be described as a pout.
“Play with Adam’s”
Hex sucks in an indignant breath. “It’s an Android!”
I close my eyes. Count to ten. It doesn’t matter that my insufferable prince just said the word Android like it was a terrible insult.
I open my eyes, ignore Hex, and smile at Felix.
“Go,” I say. “Morgana will be waiting.”
He gives me the brief, businesslike shoulder pat that is his version of a hug, nods once at Hex, and leaves.
The flat settles around us. Just me and Hex and the November dark outside and the mugs in their descending row and the spice rack that has been reorganised twice since Thursday.
Hex is looking at me.
I sit down on the sofa. I pull my knees up. I look at the coffee table, at the candle burning there, at the space where the ring used to sometimes sit before I started keeping it in my pocket.
“When?” I ask.
