A Nest Within Briars (Oak King Holly King #3)

Chapter 1

Bring him home.

Those three words had formed the whole of Shrike’s need from the instant he heard his true name whispered on the wind between realms.

Mr Grigsby had at that very moment arisen to fetch down the tea-chest and refill the kettle.

In the space of a blink, while the mortal’s back remained turned, Shrike leapt from his chair and dashed from the office.

He shifted to his feathered form in the stairwell’s solitude.

Then he flew through the fog to Hyde Park and dove into the toadstool ring to emerge from the well in the Rochester stable-yard.

All this passed in mere minutes. To Shrike, it felt like eons. He staggered upright, still in his feathered form, convinced he’d come too late.

Rochester lacked the smothering fog that blanketed London. The moon shone bright, casting its silvery rays clear across the town. More than enough to illumine Shrike’s path to Cemetery Gate. He shot for it swift as an arrow.

Shrike.

The second whisper shivered through his feathered ears and shuddered down into his bones ‘til it grew barbs in his ribcage that dragged his heart towards the whisperer. If he hadn’t already known where Wren was, he knew for certain now.

Less than a minute of flight lay between the stable-yard and Cemetery Gate.

Still not fast enough for Shrike. His wings had never felt so inadequate before.

At long last, the gate-house loomed ahead of him.

He flitted from window to window, peering in to find his Wren, drawn ever-onward by the whisper in his heart, until—

There, upstairs, in Tolhurst’s office, moonlight without and a guttering candle within shone upon his Wren.

Held aloft by his throat in Tolhurst’s grasp.

For an instant, Shrike’s heart ceased to beat. Then his blood surged forth with rage the likes of which he’d not felt since the night Larkin died.

Shrike flew up beyond the roofline, his heart pounding against his barbed ribs with every feverish wing-beat. Then, at the apex of his climb, he tucked in his wings and dove down to the window.

And returned to his true form the instant before he struck the glass.

The window shattered. Shrike, who’d thrown his cloak ‘round himself, felt none of it. He hit the floorboards and rolled upright.

Tolhurst stared back at him, mouth agape, gaze bewildered.

His hand still around Wren’s throat.

Shrike charged him.

Whether Tolhurst had trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat, Shrike knew not. Nor did Shrike know what weapons he might keep on his person. Whatever ones he did have would surely be made of iron. And though they stood of a like height, Tolhurst had more bulk.

Which left surprise as the one advantage Shrike could make sure of.

Shrike had the satisfaction of feeling ribs crack beneath his blow as his attack knocked Tolhurst to the ground. Still more satisfying was severing Tolhurst’s grip on his quarry. He wished only that he might have ensured a softer landing for his Wren.

Tolhurst did not remain surprised for long. He attempted to rise—very nearly succeeded—until Shrike knocked him down again, pinned him, knelt upon his chest lest he rise again, and pointed the tip of his misericord into the hollow of his throat.

“Shrike.”

The third whisper sang through Shrike’s blood. His head shot up to find its source.

Wren had crumpled before the bookshelves without Tolhurst’s choking grip to hold him up.

But he had not fallen into unconsciousness.

His Wren lay beaten—broken—but alive, gloriously alive, his eyes open and focused and meeting Shrike’s glance with his own yearning, a gaze Shrike had feared he might never see again.

Until they flicked towards something over Shrike’s shoulder, and a strangled shout burst from Wren’s tortured throat.

Shrike knew the threat without looking. He didn’t hesitate.

And sheathed his misericord in Tolhurst’s throat.

The familiar sounds of a creature drowning in its own blood bubbled up from the wound. Shrike held firm. Kept still. Until his stillness suffused Tolhurst, and he knew him dead.

Then he relinquished his blade to its mortal scabbard and flew to his Wren.

The sight of Wren collapsed on the floor, battered and broken, was mollified only by those dark eyes meeting his and the warmth of his flesh beneath Shrike’s fingertips as he gently felt for what Tolhurst might have crushed.

“Easy,” Shrike murmured, though his own heart flung itself against his ribcage as if it meant to break free. “It’s all right. Are you hurt?”

Wren shook his head and rasped, “Only my throat.”

With that, he tried to rise. Shrike stayed him with a palm on his chest. But for all the beating Wren had taken, the fight had not nearly gone out of him.

“We must go,” Wren croaked. “Now. The neighbours will have heard something—”

“We will,” Shrike assured him. “Catch your breath first.”

Wren ceased struggling against Shrike’s hold. He kept breathing, each one stronger than the last, returning proper colour to the face beneath his freckles. Beaten and broken but alive, gloriously alive, and every breath eased the ache in Shrike’s heart.

Shrike could ask for no more fit reward than this. To cradle Wren’s bespeckled face in his fingertips. To lift him into his arms and clasp him close, to press him tight into his chest, to pry open his own ribcage and cocoon Wren within it and armour him with his very bones against all perils.

But Wren required other things of him. His manuscripts, for one. The curious relic chained ‘round Tolhurst’s neck, for another. Fetching these took mere moments. Yet every moment even an arm’s-length away from his Wren proved agony.

Until, at long last, whilst townsfolk gathered below with lanterns and voices raised in ever-increasing alarm, Wren permitted Shrike to bundle him into his arms and carry him away across the rooftops to the stable-yard and thence down the well into the Grove of Gates.

The path to Blackthorn Briar was short and swift if one knew it well. Shrike knew Blackthorn like his own heart. Yet any span felt far too long whilst his Wren suffered. He strode on.

“I can walk,” said Wren.

His voice emerged feeble after his ordeal but nonetheless strident—a tone Shrike recognized as the one Wren used when he would not suffer argument.

So against all his better instincts, Shrike set him down.

Wren stumbled a half-step, laid a hand on Shrike’s shoulder to steady himself, drew upright, and strode on.

Which left Shrike with no choice but to follow.

Shrike had never feared the forest. Nonetheless a dread grew within him now.

For himself he feared nothing, but Wren walking alongside him seemed altogether far too exposed, already wounded and wearied by the night’s trials.

If Shrike could hear his ragged breath, what else could hear his heartbeat pounding through the wood?

Shrike knew only one cure for this ill. Bring him home.

Secure his Wren safe and sound behind the briars, where no one—not Tolhurst nor any of his ilk—could trespass without the thorned vines rending them asunder, as Shrike wished he might rend Tolhurst asunder even now.

The swift sheathing of the misericord had come too quick.

The briars would strangle and flay him in a single blow.

There were briars enough to strip the flesh from his bones if he had but dared to try the stronghold of Shrike’s heart.

And to that end Shrike hastened on to meet the briars.

Those self-same briars withdrew from Shrike and Wren’s approach.

The vines knit together tight behind them as they went, closer than ever before, almost on their heels.

The cottage came in sight, limned in silver by the moon.

Shrike resisted the urge to sweep Wren off his feet again and carry him across the threshold.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his side, bereft of purpose, until he could bear it no longer and slipped ahead of Wren—quiet so as not to startle him, swift so as not to deprive Wren of his protection for a moment longer than absolutely necessary—to throw the door open and ascertain the cottage held no skulking threats before his heart ventured within.

It remained just as he’d left it. No unfamiliar footprints on the floorboards. No rafter cobwebs broken. Not so much as a wrinkle out of place amidst the furs that warmed their nest. A few dust motes danced in the moonbeams streaming through the windows. Nothing more. Quiet. Calm. Safe.

Wren followed him into the cottage. Shrike bolted the door behind them. No doubt the briars would draw nearer to the cottage whilst they slept. Assuming Shrike could sleep at all.

Shrike turned from the door to find Wren poised before the hollow stump, one palm braced against the rim.

A shiver ran up his arm. He raised a trembling hand to his rumpled cravat, already half-untied, and fumbled with it.

Shrike knew not whether he meant to straighten it out or tear it off altogether.

But the flicker of movement drew his eye to Wren’s throat, marked red and raw with the brand of Tolhurst’s fist just beginning to bloom into bruises.

A glimpse sufficed for Shrike to feel that same fist claw through his own ribcage to crush his heart. He could do nothing for that. The shivers, however, he might vanquish. He strode to the banked hearth and stoked the embers back into flame, spreading warmth and light alike throughout the cottage.

Then he turned to find Wren just where he’d left him. Staring into the flames now, their flickering autumnal reflections the only light in his dark gaze, but not seeming to see them.

Shrike fetched the chair from his workbench and set it before the fire.

Still Wren did not move.

Shrike laid a hand on his shoulder.

Wren flinched.

A barb tore through Shrike’s heart.

“Pardon.” The word flew from Wren’s lips. He blinked rapidly. But his gaze focused on Shrike at last.