Even as his vision went black.
He could still hear Tolhurst’s ragged panting over him, though with every agonizing second that passed, it sounded further and further off, as if he’d slipped beneath the waters of the River Medway alongside Felix and drifted down, down, down…
The crashing chimes of shattered glass broke through the haze. The crushing force vanished from his throat—though the pain remained—and he drew choking gasps of woodsmoke scent as he fell into darkness.
Then he hit the floor in a heap.
Over his own wheezing breaths he heard Tolhurst bite off an oath. More thuds and crashes followed. Fading in with the rhythm of the blood pounding in his ears, his vision returned. The coffered ceiling of Tolhurst’s rooms swam above his eyes. He rolled his head toward the muffled cacophony.
And beheld Tolhurst laid out flat with a familiar figure kneeling on his chest like a vengeful incubus.
“Shrike.” Wren’s mouth formed the word without any breath behind it.
Nevertheless, Shrike’s head shot up. His warm dark eyes fixed on Wren’s own. The slender point of his misericord remained against Tolhurst’s throat. Silver moonlight streamed through the shattered window behind him, and this, combined with the guttering gold of the candle-stub beneath the desk, illuminated the shards of broken glass scattered across the fallen papers like glittering ice over a field of snow.
Tolhurst’s hand closed over a particular shard.
A ragged cry sprang from Wren’s broken windpipe.
But even as Tolhurst raised his jagged weapon, Shrike’s misericord slid into his throat.
The terrible wet sputtering noise lasted the merest instant. Then silence fell.
And in a heartbeat, Shrike knelt at Wren’s side.
“Easy,” Shrike murmured, cradling Wren’s face in his gentle hands. “It’s all right. Are you hurt?”
Wren shook his head and rasped, “Only my throat.”
He tried to rise. Shrike laid a palm on his chest. It weighed almost nothing, yet it kept Wren pinned.
“We must go,” Wren croaked. “Now. The neighbours will have heard something—”
“We will,” Shrike assured him. “Catch your breath first.”
Wren felt as if he never would. Still, as he drew in shuddering gasps of woodsmoke and vanilla, the overwhelming thud of his own pulse in his skull dimmed, and the room no longer tilted when he raised his head. At length, he clung to Shrike’s arm, and with his assistance got his legs under him.
Tolhurst’s body lay as if sleeping on a bed of papers and broken glass. The dark crimson stain trickling from the hole in his throat looked almost like a ribbon tied ‘round his neck. Wren forced his gaze away from the sight. His eye fell on his manuscript pages heaped against the cracked barrister bookshelves.
“Wait,” he said, though Shrike hadn’t yet taken a step. His head swam as he bent to pick up the manuscripts.
Wood scraped against wood.
“Here,” Shrike murmured overhead, and Wren realised he’d pulled out the desk chair for him to rest on.
Against his better judgment, Wren settled himself into the dead man’s seat whilst Shrike gathered the pages much as he gathered herbs from Blackthorn garden. Quickly, too, for Wren hardly had time to think on the oddity of it before Shrike arose and handed his own life’s work back to him. Unaccountable relief washed over his heart to feel those familiar pages beneath his fingertips again. And yet…
“There is a slender chain,” Wren said, even as he avoided looking at the object. “Around his collar.”
Shrike asked nothing further. He left Wren’s sight as he went to Tolhurst’s body but returned soon enough and opened his palm to reveal the miniature of Daniel. He didn’t question why Wren wanted it so. There would be time enough to explain later, if they managed to escape.
No sooner had Wren taken it from him than voices began echoing up from the street below.
Shrike crouched before him. Wren, whose knees yet trembled, clambered onto his back with welcome relief and wrapped his arms tight around Shrike’s shoulders, just as he’d done when they rode the stag in the Wild Hunt. His manuscripts vanished into Shrike’s cloak pocket. The miniature of Daniel remained clenched in his fist hard enough to bruise his palm.
It seemed Wren weighed nothing to Shrike as he slipped out the broken window to perch on the sill beyond. Wren expected him to scale the wall down to the cobblestones—if not outright leap. Both particularly dangerous propositions when lanterns bobbed and voices rang out in the street beneath them.
Yet as Shrike began his climb, he went not below, but above.
