Wren stared at Shrike. Then a startled laugh burst from his throat. “If anyone could succeed in such a venture, I daresay it would be you.”
Shrike found himself smiling in return. If you’re determined to wait until Felix attacks—”
“Which I am.”
“Then when he does,” Shrike continued, “know you may seek sanctuary in Blackthorn. Its paths are ever open to you.”
This seemed to astonish Wren, though the wistful smile it provoked on his bespeckled lips bespoke how well it pleased him.
“Should you ever find yourself in peril in the mortal realm,” Shrike added, “call for me by my true name, and I shall come to your aid.”
Wren’s smile grew fonder still, though he replied, “You must think me ridiculous.”
“Wherefore?” Shrike asked, bewildered anew.
“It’s the height of foolishness for me to complain of what fate might befall me in London, knowing what you must grapple with come the Summer Solstice.”
How bizarre, Shrike thought, for Wren to worry after him who had proved over and again his prowess on the battlefield and who bore Wren’s own sigil of protection, when Wren himself stood defenceless against the thousand slings and arrows of the mortal realm. Yet it warmed Shrike’s heart nonetheless in a manner he could never have anticipated. He found himself smiling. “Come the solstice, with you at my side, I can claim nothing less than victory.”
~
Chapter Twenty-Two
The moon hung bright above the fae realms as Wren and Shrike passed through the briars on the path to Blackthorn. They walked along arm-in-arm in companionable silence, Wren’s mind yet preoccupied with the loss of his manuscripts to an unknown hand. So much so that he noticed nothing amiss until Shrike came to a sudden halt. Wren hadn’t even realized Shrike had drawn his sword until he saw the moonlight glinting off its edge.
“What,” Wren started to ask, but stopped as he saw what had given Shrike pause.
In the arrow-slit window of the cottage flickered a faint candlelight.
“Trouble?” Wren whispered with more courage than he felt.
Shrike shook his head. His arm slipped from Wren’s grasp. He strode up to the door and pushed it open.
There at Shrike’s work-bench, by the light of a beeswax candle, sat the elf-maiden archer of the Wild Hunt, with her raven hair braided with feathers and her high cheekbones bereft of the woad she’d worn against the monstrous boar. Or rather, she sprawled, for the tunic and hose she wore in place of a bodice and skirt allowed her to put her boot-heel up on the corner of the work-bench whilst she flung her arm over the back of the chair in a posture of perfect casual indifference, making herself as much at home as Wren had felt when first he came upon Blackthorn.
Shrike dropped his sword-arm to his side. “Nell.”
“Butcher,” the elf-maiden replied. “No one has seen you since the solstice.”
“You see me now,” said Shrike.
To Wren’s astonishment, Nell laughed. And to Wren’s further astonishment, Shrike smiled with her and sheathed his blade.
“What shall I call your companion?” Nell asked.
Shrike shot an enquiring look over his shoulder at Wren.
Wren stepped out of Shrike’s shadow. “Lofthouse, Miss Nell.”
“Lofthouse,” she echoed with another smile. “Just Nell, an’ it so please you.”
“What brings you to Blackthorn?” Shrike asked, shutting the door behind them.
“Imbolc and Ostara,” she replied.
Wren, bewildered, watched Shrike nod as if she’d said something sensible.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint you for Imbolc,” Shrike said. “What did you hope for on Ostara?”
