Bring him home.
Those three words had formed the whole of Shrike’s need from the instant he heard his true name whispered on the wind between realms.
Mr Grigsby had at that very moment arisen to fetch down the tea-chest and refill the kettle.In the space of a blink, while the mortal’s back remained turned, Shrike leapt from his chair and dashed from the office.He shifted to his feathered form in the stairwell’s solitude.Then he flew through the fog to Hyde Park and dove into the toadstool ring to emerge from the well in the Rochester stable-yard.
All this passed in mere minutes.To Shrike, it felt like eons.He staggered upright, still in his feathered form, convinced he’d come too late.
Rochester lacked the smothering fog that blanketed London.The moon shone bright, casting its silvery rays clear across the town.More than enough to illumine Shrike’s path to Cemetery Gate.He shot for it swift as an arrow.
Shrike.
The second whisper shivered through his feathered ears and shuddered down into his bones ‘til it grew barbs in his ribcage that dragged his heart towards the whisperer.If he hadn’t already known where Wren was, he knew for certain now.
Less than a minute of flight lay between the stable-yard and Cemetery Gate.Still not fast enough for Shrike.His wings had never felt so inadequate before.At long last, the gate-house loomed ahead of him.He flitted from window to window, peering in to find his Wren, drawn ever-onward by the whisper in his heart, until?—
There, upstairs, in Tolhurst’s office, moonlight without and a guttering candle within shone upon his Wren.
Held aloft by his throat in Tolhurst’s grasp.
For an instant, Shrike’s heart ceased to beat.Then his blood surged forth with rage the likes of which he’d not felt since the night Larkin died.
Shrike flew up beyond the roofline, his heart pounding against his barbed ribs with every feverish wing-beat.Then, at the apex of his climb, he tucked in his wings and dove down to the window.
And returned to his true form the instant before he struck the glass.
The window shattered.Shrike, who’d thrown his cloak ‘round himself, felt none of it.He hit the floorboards and rolled upright.
Tolhurst stared back at him, mouth agape, gaze bewildered.
His hand still around Wren’s throat.
Shrike charged him.
Whether Tolhurst had trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat, Shrike knew not.Nor did Shrike know what weapons he might keep on his person.Whatever ones he did have would surely be made of iron.And though they stood of a like height, Tolhurst had more bulk.
Which left surprise as the one advantage Shrike could make sure of.
Shrike had the satisfaction of feeling ribs crack beneath his blow as his attack knocked Tolhurst to the ground.Still more satisfying was severing Tolhurst’s grip on his quarry.He wished only that he might have ensured a softer landing for his Wren.
Tolhurst did not remain surprised for long.He attempted to rise—very nearly succeeded—until Shrike knocked him down again, pinned him, knelt upon his chest lest he rise again, and pointed the tip of his misericord into the hollow of his throat.
“Shrike.”
The third whisper sang through Shrike’s blood.His head shot up to find its source.
Wren had crumpled before the bookshelves without Tolhurst’s choking grip to hold him up.But he had not fallen into unconsciousness.His Wren lay beaten—broken—but alive, gloriously alive, his eyes open and focused and meeting Shrike’s glance with his own yearning, a gaze Shrike had feared he might never see again.
Until they flicked towards something over Shrike’s shoulder, and a strangled shout burst from Wren’s tortured throat.
Shrike knew the threat without looking.He didn’t hesitate.
And sheathed his misericord in Tolhurst’s throat.
The familiar sounds of a creature drowning in its own blood bubbled up from the wound.Shrike held firm.Kept still.Until his stillness suffused Tolhurst, and he knew him dead.
Then he relinquished his blade to its mortal scabbard and flew to his Wren.
The sight of Wren collapsed on the floor, battered and broken, was mollified only by those dark eyes meeting his and the warmth of his flesh beneath Shrike’s fingertips as he gently felt for what Tolhurst might have crushed.
