“And what role did he play in such a court?” Wren asked.
“No one knows for certain. There are many rumours, each more absurd than the last. Given his finesse in the Wild Hunt, I would hazard he was an assassin for an aristocratic bloodline.”
“An assassin?” Wren echoed, his whisper cracking halfway through the word.
“Or trained in that art,” Shrike added. “Which it is said the nobility may do to give purpose to their superfluous heirs. He’s certainly skilled with a blade. Regardless of his role within the Court of Spindles, he commands respect without it, all through the realms.”
Wren recalled how the other fae had given the ambassador an even wider berth than they gave Shrike. A berth which had extended to encompass Wren whilst he stood in conversation with him. And Wren had thought the fellow merely an awkward wallflower.
“But he has not harmed you?” Shrike said, his urgent tone startling Wren out of his reflections.
“No,” Wren answered honestly. “Would you expect him to? Does he make sport of hunting mortals?”
“One never knows quite what to expect of him. Though I’ll admit I’ve not heard tell of him killing mortals.”
“Then what made you fear for me in his company?”
Shrike looked at Wren as if he thought Wren already knew the answer.
And after some reflection, which brought unaccountable heat to Wren’s face, Wren realized he did. “Oh.”
Shrike shot him a self-deprecating smile. “Forgive me.”
Wren, far too wrapped up in the knowledge that Shrike considered him someone precious and worthy of his protection—and perhaps also under the haze of fae wine—didn’t think Shrike had done anything to require his forgiveness. “Only if you’ll dance with me.”
Wren wouldn’t have blamed Shrike for feeling sick of dancing with him by now. Yet Shrike’s shy smile bespoke as much delight at the prospect as when they’d first begun. His strong arms wound their way around Wren’s frame to carry him off to rejoin the throng, and for a blissful evening, Wren forgot all the gloom that awaited him in London.
~
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shrike awoke with a headache.
The dull throbbing concentrated on two particular points on either side of his brow, just ahead of his temples. Still half-asleep, he groaned and raised his hand to rub the soreness away.
The brush of his fingertips felt like tonguing the raw nerve of a broken tooth
Shrike bit off an oath and snatched his hand back.
“What?” Wren murmured, rolling over to wakefulness beside him. His blearing blinking eyes fixed on Shrike’s face and flew wide.
“What do you see?” asked Shrike.
“Did you hit your head?” Wren asked in return, still staring. “Twice?”
“Tell me what you see,” said Shrike.
Wren grimaced. “It looks like a pair of bone-spurs scabbed over with lint.”
Shrike stared back at him.
“Is that normal?” asked Wren.
“Not for me.”
“But for others?” Wren supplied when Shrike failed to say anything more.
“Aye,” Shrike admitted. “For huldrekall and certain other fae. And bucks.”
