Not since before the Winter Solstice had Shrike taken up his post beneath Achilles during daylight hours. It didn’t make much difference. Despite the lengthening of days as the Silver Wheel turned toward the Vernal Equinox, patches of snow yet covered the grass of Hyde Park, and precious little sunshine filtered down through the thick blanket of eternal fog. The most prominent change came in the form of the mortals passing by. Glove-covered gasps and stark stares replaced the subtle sidelong appreciation of twilight glances. Shrike smirked at some and, at the gawking of one particularly boggled young lady, touched the brim of his hat. He took offense at none. Only one mortal’s opinion mattered to Shrike.
And that very mortal approached him now.
A spark of delight ignited in Shrike’s chest at the sight of Wren dashing toward him. But as Wren drew nearer, that delight turned to cold dread.
Wren did not run with eagerness to meet him.
He ran as if pursued.
Mid-stride, wind whipped the hat from his head. Despite the evident shock of on-lookers, he made no move to snatch it from the air as it fell, nor to chase after and retrieve it. He seemed not to notice it had gone at all. His sweat-streaked chestnut locks flew like moulting feathers in the breeze. His already-pale face had turned a sickly milk-white beneath the scattered freckles. Every panicked gasp bared his teeth. His eyes rolled white like a hart ridden down by the Wild Hunt.
Shrike knew such a look well. He saw it often enough in the eyes of quarry he himself had slain.
Beneath the folds of his cloak, Shrike dropped a hand to the hilt of his misericord. It would fly from its sheath in an instant. Another blink would see it in the throat of whoever dared threaten his Wren.
But first, he would see Wren to safety.
On instinct, Shrike reached to catch Wren as he stumbled to a halt before him.
Wren darted out of his grasp. It seemed as though he would bash himself against the statue’s plinth—then he threw out his hands and struck the stone with his palms instead.
Too late, Shrike recalled how the mortals of London viewed intimate touch between men. Against his wont, he forced his hands to retreat beneath his cloak, rather than throw it over Wren’s shoulders and whisk him away to the haven of Blackthorn. He could only watch, helpless, as Wren shuddered and gasped to catch his breath.
“What pursues you?” Shrike asked, keeping his voice low lest whatever harried Wren might overhear.
“What?” Wren blinked up at him in confusion, his eyes yet wide with terror. “No, nothing pursues me.”
“Then why—”
“My manuscripts. They’ve gone missing. Stolen from my garret.”
The horror of this struck Shrike like a lance through his chest. Not just the danger to Wren, but the tragedy of losing his life’s work. More than anything, he wanted to embrace Wren and shield him from peril. Yet he could not.
“By whom?” Shrike asked, a certain suspicion in mind already.
“Felix,” Wren snarled with a violence that surprised Shrike, though the name itself did not. In more subdued tones, Wren added, “Or Tolhurst. Or Miss Flora. One of the three has taken them, and I know not which.”
Having met Felix and Tolhurst, however briefly, Shrike reasoned he could dispatch them without much effort. He could take both of them on at once if it came down to it. Miss Flora remained an unknown quantity, but Shrike felt no aversion to making the attempt on Wren’s behalf.
“But,” Wren continued, oblivious to Shrike’s resolve, “I know where they must have hidden them—to a point. We must get to Rochester without delay. Miss Flora is there already, and Felix and Tolhurst are on their way. We need Rainscald—”
“No,” said Shrike. Even at a breakneck gallop, no mortal horse could suffice.
Fresh horror dawned in Wren’s eyes. It vanished an instant after beneath the stoic mask he wore in London, but not before the sight struck another blow to Shrike’s heart. “Some other horse, then, or—”
Shrike hastened to explain. “There may yet be a faster way.”
The fear fell away from Wren’s features. Granite resolve remained. “Then by all means guide me to it.”
First, Shrike went to where Wren’s hat still lay, having rolled some distance off the path. Handing it back to Wren was not the same as laying a hand on his shoulder, but it was as close as he might come to comfort whilst they remained in London.
Then they were off to the toadstool ring.
Shrike did not run, but his long legs carried him further with every stride than many of the mortals ambling past. Wren had to trot beside to keep pace. Yet he made not a whisper of complaint, and as Shrike glanced down to see how he fared, he found his sharp jaw set in grim determination.
Rochester had changed much in the intervening centuries, but from Shrike’s brief sojourn there in midwinter, he had found it not yet so iron-choked as London. What he would attempt would pain him, yes, but it was nothing to what Wren suffered now. And Shrike would hap’ly endure far worse if it spared his Wren from further harm.
They reached the toadstool ring in the secluded copse. Shrike halted before it and held out his upraised palm to Wren.
