“She says thanks,” Butcher murmured before Wren could ask.
Wren stopped himself from questioning the pronoun. He knew little enough of human women. He could hardly expect to know a she-wolf on first sight, though now he knew better than to assume.
“You needn’t fear for them,” Butcher continued. “Wolves heal up almost as quick as fae.”
A yelp came from behind them. Wren turned to see the wounded wolf staggering to its feet, supported by its fellows on either side, with more of its pack-mates leaping and yipping in victory. Its breath came hard, and its lumbering limp bore little resemblance to its once fleet pace, but it lived. A scarlet band had wrapped around its mid-section in the meantime. It took Wren a second glance to recognize his own formerly white cravat.
Cracks and crackling filled the air. Broken branches had piled around the boar, several of them on fire thanks to the efforts of a few industrious armoured fae still striking their chain-mail and swords with flint. Other more impish fellows perched on the corpse as if in imitation of the flock of ravens that had descended to begin their feast. The moth-like fairy in the mottled grey cloak seemed to delight in flitting through the embers flying up to join the stars.
The elf-maiden looked on from the fringe of the festivities with her bow held loose at her side as a mortal girl might hold a doll. She took note of Wren and Butcher as they passed by and inclined her head as if to invite them to join. Butcher shook his head in reply. She shrugged and turned away toward the other revellers.
Beyond the boar in a secluded curve of the riverbank, Wren espied the fairy in the spiderweb mask. A crimson stain had seeped through his seafoam-green waistcoat and spread all down his side. It didn’t seem to concern him overmuch as he daubed at the darkest parts with a lace-edged silk handkerchief.
The stag awaited them at the forest’s edge. Butcher swung himself up onto its back in the same swift leap as he’d done in Hyde Park. He held out his palm to Wren. His eyes danced with the gleam of the hundred thousand stars above. A shy smile tugged at the corner of his handsome mouth.
Wren’s heart flung itself against his ribcage in its eagerness to join him. He settled for grasping that sinewy forearm and letting Butcher haul him up to sit beside him. His arms twined around Butcher’s waist as naturally as ivy climbing the oak. The crest of his hip-bones jutted against the meat of Butcher’s backside. His chin rested against the corded muscles of Butcher’s shoulder. The exertion of the hunt had sharpened Butcher’s scent, the woodsmoke musk rising above vanilla notes to mingle with the salt sweat of valiant feats. Neither absinthe nor opium could prove more intoxicating to Wren’s senses than this. Something stirred within his atrophied heart, ancient embers breathed into renewed life by the exhilaration of the hunt and by Butcher’s warm bulk in his arms.
Something stirred lower down as well. Wren tried to turn his mind to less tempting thoughts. The immediacy of Butcher’s body against his own condemned such ventures to failure. He settled for hoping Butcher wouldn’t notice his growing interest.
Then the thighs that overlapped Wren’s own clenched against the stag’s flanks, and they leapt forward into the night.
~
Chapter Six
Shrike could hardly fail to notice the clerk’s growing interest.
He’d taken him to join the Wild Hunt not just to prove the truth of his claims but likewise to prove his own martial skill and convince Lofthouse that, with his patronage, he was more than capable of achieving victory against the Holly King.
Now, with Lofthouse’s arms wrapped around his waist like a second armoured gyrdel and the clerk’s rigid interest thrust against his backside with every leap of the stag beneath them both, Shrike felt confident he’d surpassed his aim.
London had quieted considerably by the hour of their return to Hyde Park. The stag trotted to a halt beneath Achilles. Shrike slipped from its back and held out his arm to assist the clerk in following him down. No sooner had Lofthouse dismounted than he shrugged off Shrike’s rabbit-fur cloak and returned it to him.
Shrike had admired the way his cloak looked with its furred bulk wrapped around the clerk’s narrow shoulders. He felt almost sorry to have it returned. He resolved to fashion something like it for Lofthouse. Amongst other things. A thousand trinkets this mortal might have, if he could help Shrike survive the coming solstice. A thousand more, if he found Shrike as compelling as Shrike found him. Lofthouse’s evident cock-stand on the path back to London seemed a promising indication, but it wasn’t enough to merely possess desire. One must act on desire if one wished to achieve its prize. And for that, Shrike had patience enough to wait.
“You’ve convinced me,” said Lofthouse.
Shrike allowed himself a victorious smile.
“I’ll do what I can to assist you,” Lofthouse continued, much to Shrike’s satisfaction. “Though I know not how I might. For the moment, however, I must return to Staple Inn and to work in the morning—but if you would do me the honour of meeting me at the office after Mr Grigsby departs for the evening?”
“Aye,” Shrike readily agreed.
Despite the fog hanging over the city, the clerk’s eyes shone bright with excitement equal to Shrike’s own, as if reflecting stars to match the constellations of freckles scattered across his sharp features. The ones on his curiously soft lips, in particular, drew Shrike’s eye.
Lofthouse, gazing up at Shrike in turn, looked as if his mind entertained similar thoughts. For a moment, Shrike expected his idle desire might become decisive action.
But then a slight shudder ran through the clerk’s frame, and with nothing more than a polite smile, he turned away and with a few swift strides vanished into the fog.
~
A delicate tapping sound roused Wren from dreams of wild woods and wilder company. He opened his eyes to find himself in bed.
The tapping sound persisted. Wren rubbed the last remnants of his dreams out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. He blinked stupidly at his room for a moment before he realized the tapping came from the door. The fog swirling past his window had bloomed full white with the risen sun. The fae hunt had been but a dream, and worse yet, it had kept him abed well past his usual pre-dawn waking hour.
And in the meantime, someone had not only got into the office, but up the stair to Wren’s garret to tap upon his chamber door. He felt sure he’d locked up last night, and as only one person besides himself held a key…
Wren’s heart plunged into his stomach, the horror of his situation like a bucket of ice-water upended over his head. He leapt out of bed and ran to the door—stopping just short of opening it, as he realized he wore only his nightshirt. He cleared his throat of its waking raps and called out, “Good morning, Mr Grigsby.”
