Wren spun a full circle to bring the scythe ‘round again. It caught Shrike at the waist. The gyrdel links chimed against the blade. The boiled leather held out against the iron.
For now.
With a mighty yank, Wren drew Shrike to him. Near enough to feel his breath on his face and fill his lungs with his woodsmoke-vanilla scent. Near enough to press his woollen waistcoat to his leather armour.
Near enough to seize his silver-shot midnight locks in his fist and drag him down for a kiss.
Rough and ravenous.
No sooner had Shrike’s hands rose to embrace Wren in turn than Wren drew back—Shrike’s teeth tearing through his lip—and got the scythe between them to shove Shrike away.
Far enough to swing the blade again.
Iron struck leather. Straps already scored once now gave way. The armour slid from Shrike’s body and fell to the field.
In a flash, Shrike had his misericord in hand from some hidden sheath. He held it back-handed as if he hoped to defend himself from the iron scythe with a bit of silver as slender as a needle. Then he struck.
But not at Wren.
The silver blade sliced through the remaining straps. Every scrap of leather fell like golden leaves in autumn. The gyrdel was not spared; Shrike stuck the point of his misericord through the links of the chain and with a vindictive twist broke it from his body.
Wren gave the scythe a few wayward spins to either side, rolling the length of the handle along each arm, then sent it in a decisive upward arc at Shrike. He redoubled his efforts to draw it up short, his muscles straining against the wood.
Shrike jerked his head back. The point of the blade halted just beneath his chin.
A hair’s breadth from drawing blood.
Wren threw the scythe aside and leapt at him.
Cries of alarm ensued as the scythe thudded into the field some yards off. Wren could only imagine how the crowd must have dived out of the path of the iron weapon, as his whole world had reduced to Shrike. He recaptured his mouth in a kiss. His own blood smeared across Shrike’s lips.
Scattered gasps arose, announcing the next action of their little play, wherein Shrike raised his misericord behind Wren’s back.
Wren made no move to halt him.
A single scream rang out as the blade descended. Shrike’s tongue tasted sweeter than honey against his own.
The ripping of wool resounded across the field as Shrike cut Wren’s waistcoat from his body.
Gasps of fear turned to murmurs of confusion, and unless Wren was much mistaken, excitement. Shrike brought the misericord down again and again, tearing through the ties of his own garb, until tunic and hose alike lay discarded on the duelling field.
The final act of their spectacle had been written—planned—but never rehearsed.
An act which would see him hanged if witnessed in England, now performed before a fae audience of hundreds.
Wren had rather thought Shrike might sit astride him, as he had sat astride Shrike at Samhain. But when Shrike bore them both to the ground, it was Shrike who lay with his back against the grass and who pulled Wren in between his thigh, and threw his own knees up over Wren’s shoulders in an acrobatic feat that only one of the fae could hope to accomplish, bending himself double beneath Wren’s weight as he dragged Wren down to kiss him. It couldn’t possibly have felt comfortable for Shrike, yet, as Wren slid his hand up the inside of Shrike’s bare thigh, he found a cock as rigid as his own. He fumbled the spermaceti oil out of his trouser pocket and uncorked it to spill over his prick and Shrike’s fundament alike. The empty bottle fell to the grass and rolled away with a hollow ringing sound. Wren took his slick cock in hand and aligned its head with Shrike’s hole, leaning his weight against it, testing the boundary not yet breached.
“Do you yield?” Wren whispered.
The wicked spark in Shrike’s eyes had flared up into a roaring flame of determination and desire. His fangs gleamed as he grinned and growled, “I yield.”
Wren gathered his courage and drove his sword in.
It could never have found a more perfect sheath. A single thrust sank him in halfway to the hilt, the tight rings of muscle opening to embrace the very core of him. Wren gasped, the sensation driving the breath from him like a hammer-strike. The sheer heat that blazed within Shrike and how it clenched ‘round him—he bit his lip to keep from spending at once and reopened the wound, fresh blood trickling forth.
Shrike arched his back beneath him with a hiss of satisfaction.
Yet Wren couldn’t allow himself to feel satisfied. For the ritual to work, Shrike must spend first—must surrender and die a little death, under the power of the Holly King.
