Chapter 1 #2
Shrike knew in his bones that it was he who ought to beg Wren’s forgiveness. For startling him. For failing to protect him. For allowing Tolhurst near enough to harm him in the first place. But his tongue lay leaden in his mouth.
So instead he indicated the chair with a clumsy hand.
“Thank you,” said Wren, and sat.
Shrike swung his cloak off his shoulders and carefully tucked it around Wren’s.
Wren glanced up at him with a faint flicker of a smile Shrike had thought he might never see again.
Somewhere between the hollow stump and the chair Wren had torn off his cravat altogether. His shirt-collar hung open. The fire, stronger than moonlight, illuminated the marks on his throat before it ever reached his face.
Shrike could not drag his gaze away from the bruises.
The strawberry scarlet had begun blooming into sloe blue.
He dared not touch them, lest he do Wren any further harm, yet he felt equally desperate to tend his beloved’s wounded flesh.
He seized the desperate impulse and dragged out the medicine chest, digging through it to find whatever potion or poultice could ease Wren’s pain.
He used leeches on his own bruises. The jar had lain empty for months, however, and he couldn’t even think of leaving Wren alone now to go and hunt for more.
The silence in the cottage thickened. Shrike looked up from his failures.
Wren stared at him with enquiring eyes.
“Rose-water might soothe…” Shrike trailed off. He could not will his tongue to describe it. He raised his hand to his own throat and gently traced the reflection of the marks Tolhurst had left in his Wren’s flesh. He could almost feel the ache of bruises beneath his fingertips.
Wren mirrored Shrike’s gesture and winced under his own touch.
Another pang struck Shrike’s heart.
“Looks worse than it is, I suppose,” Wren ventured.
Shrike silently-yet-heartily disagreed.
Wren dropt his hand back into his lap. “Tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
Shrike leapt to fill the kettle.
Brewing and pouring tea gave Shrike’s mind something to fix on other than the bruises blooming on Wren’s throat or visions of the wretched swine who’d marked him. But the welcome respite ended the moment he pressed the steaming mug into Wren’s grasp.
Wren cast a pointed look at the kettle and Shrike’s own empty hands until Shrike poured himself a mug as well. After he took a sip, his voice emerged stronger. “Won’t you sit with me?”
No sooner had the final word left Wren’s lips than Shrike perched on the hearth at his side.
Silence filled the cottage again, broken only by the crackling flame. Shrike knew not how to break it. He wished he were a man of more words. Everything within him wanted to promise Wren safety. But how could he do so when he’d already broken that very vow—
“I failed him.”
Shrike baulked. The words had come from Wren’s lips, but they may as well have dropt from his own tongue, for Shrike had failed Wren utterly, and by merest chance had arrived quick enough to prevent the worst.
But Wren did not speak of him.
Shrike ought to have gently reminded Wren to spare his throat, to wait until he’d recovered before he tried to speak. Instead he asked, “Who?”
“Daniel. Mr Daniel Durst. That is, Mr Grigsby’s ward. The one who…” Wren’s words faltered, but it seemed for want of thought than for want of breath, which Shrike supposed he ought to take as a good sign. “The one I presumed was Miss Flora Fairfield.”
“Ah,” said Shrike.
“You don’t seem astonished.”
Shrike confessed he felt no surprise.
“I suppose it’s a rather more everyday occurrence in the fae realms,” Wren mused. His voice still came hoarse, but less so the more he spoke. “I daresay I wouldn’t have known what to make of it myself were it not for all you’ve shown me.”
Shrike didn’t feel as though he deserved the credit. Particularly when Wren was already so clever and had made far better use of the knowledge besides.
“Regardless,” Wren continued. “He is known to me now as he truly is. And I have failed him utterly. If he’d not seen fit to rescue himself, Tolhurst would’ve ensnared him. He has hunted him for years. Ever since Daniel was a child. And I sent him to Tolhurst in the first place.”
“Where is Daniel now?” Shrike would cross all realms to rescue Daniel as well, if it would bring Wren peace. Just as soon as he knew Wren was safe.
“Free, for the moment. And likely forever—little thanks to me,” Wren added with a bitter laugh that became a cough. “He and his companion are en route to Canada as we speak. Assuming all has gone according to plan.” A thoughtful pause ensued. “We must look in on them after the solstice.”
Shrike readily agreed. He would promise Wren anything tonight. Wren deserved everything he wished—everything in Shrike’s power to grant him and anything beyond—as just reward for his survival.
“Tolhurst is dead, then,” said Wren.
“Aye.”
Wren’s gaze searched Shrike’s face. “You’re certain.”
Some centuries had passed since Shrike had last slain a mortal. Still he recalled well the familiar shudder, the rattling gasp, and how the eyes fixed upon forever. “I am certain.”
Wren hesitated. “Could you—that is to say, would you mind—asking the bones?”
Easier done than said. Shrike would’ve gladly undertaken a thousand far more difficult tasks if they could banish but a fragment of the fear that seeped through the cracks in Wren’s voice. He wasted not a moment in retrieving the bones from their pouch and casting them onto the floor.
Wren studied them with furrowed brow. “What do they say?”
“That he is dead, and his body lies in the mortal realm.” Nothing Shrike hadn’t already known. Everything of which he felt glad to assure his Wren.
A fleeting wince of a smile plucked at Wren’s bespeckled lips. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”
A pang struck Shrike’s heart. Before he could think, he heard himself reply, “I’ll teach you to read them.”
Wren blinked. For a moment Shrike feared he’d overstepped and given offence. But then a truer smile graced Wren’s handsome features. “I’d like that.”
To see Wren smile again was more than Shrike had dared hope and everything he had fought for. Yet rather than return the gesture, his lips betrayed him by forming the words, “I should have been with you.”
Wren’s brow furrowed. “You were with me.”
Not soon enough. Not oft enough. Not close enough. Shrike tried again to explain. “He should never have had the chance to seize you in the first place.”
“I’m far more glad you were with Mr Grigsby,” Wren replied, to Shrike’s astonishment.
“If Tolhurst had called upon him he should hardly have fared even half so well as myself alone. We only succeeded tonight because I could trust you to look after him. I knew he was safe in your hands and that gave me the courage to go forth and… well, stumble into trouble, I suppose, but all the same. My manuscripts are recovered. Daniel’s image is out of unworthy hands—or rather, in somewhat less-unworthy hands than before.
And Tolhurst is…” His voice faltered. “Well. He’ll not harm anyone again. And that’s all thanks to you.”
Shrike knew not what to say.
So instead he let his gaze flick down to those perfect bespeckled lips and then again into the warm dark depths of his Wren’s eyes.
Wren seized him by the nape of the neck and drew him into a kiss. Hungry. Ferocious. Devouring and demanding to be devoured in turn, until, for want of breath, it faded into sweet familiarity and left them with their brows touching.
Only then did Shrike dare to twine his arms around Wren’s shoulders.
Wren burrowed deeper into Shrike’s embrace in turn.
Shrike clutched him tight. A soft sigh resounded in his ears and resolved into mere breath; stronger than before, no longer a strangled gasp.
Pressed chest-against-chest, Shrike could feel Wren’s heartbeat thrumming through his own ribcage.
A pulse that had very nearly halted forever.
One which only strengthened Shrike’s resolve.
Woe betide any creature—mortal, fae, or beast—that dared harm his Wren.