Wren caught his counter-argument upon his tongue as he recalled something about that afternoon he’d almost forgotten. “Did you perchance strike the window?”
“The glass looked far clearer than any I’d seen in my last visit to the city,” Shrike said, colour blooming in his high cheeks.
Wren wondered aloud exactly when Shrike had planned to tell him he could transform into a bird.
Shrike cleared his throat and continued. “It’s unfortunate that this Felix should have golden hair. Some fae are particularly fond of that shade.”
“Like yourself?” Wren heard himself ask before he could think better of it.
Shrike blinked down at him. Then he raised his hand to Wren’s own chestnut locks and ran his fingers through a few strands that had evidently tumbled loose over Wren’s temple, smoothing them back into place, and twining them between his fingertips.
Wren knew he ought to catch his wrist and remind him where they stood—though he could see no one near them, and surely no one could perceive them in turn through the pea soup fog that blanketed the park. His heart hammered in his chest, in fear and desire both. Yet he said nothing.
Shrike let his hand fall. “No. You?”
Wren, who’d known he asked a stupid question even as it fell out of his mouth, still felt some relief at his answer. To know magical compulsion alone was not responsible for Shrike’s interest in him despite natural inclination. He replied in kind. “Not particularly. But you believe Felix’s hair colour may mark him out for danger amongst the fae?”
“Perhaps,” said Shrike. “If he has encountered any fae besides myself.”
“I think I saw him in the Court of the Silver Wheel,” Wren confessed. “Amongst the revellers during the solstice duel.”
Shrike frowned. “In whose company?”
“Women,” said Wren. “Blondes, mostly. Only their ears hung down like a goat’s, and they danced on cloven hooves. And I think I saw a tufted tail, as well.”
“Huldra,” said Shrike.
Wren shot him a startled look. “Do you know them?”
“I know of them,” Shrike said in a none-too-encouraging tone.
“What about them?” Wren pressed. “Are they dangerous?”
“All fae are dangerous when they wish to be.” Something of Wren’s frustration with so vague an answer must have shown in his features, for Shrike quickly added, “The huldra pose a peril unique to their kind. They delight in revels and never tire of them, but will continue on well past the exhaustion of other folk.”
“Which must make them the most obnoxious sort of neighbours,” said Wren. “But I hardly see the danger in it.”
“They will dance until their partner’s feet are cracked and bloodied—and then dance on. They will embrace until their lover collapses in their arms—and then abandon them. Some say they feed upon it, that to throw themselves into the throng revitalizes them even as others are drained to death. Others say the draining itself is how they draw their strength.”
“A succubus,” Wren concluded.
“Some are called so,” Shrike admitted. “Though they come in many forms and are called many things. It’s wiser to ask the individual which title they feel most suits them. The ones who appear as you described—the milkmaids with bell ears, cloven hooves, and tufted tails—are most often called huldra.”
Old ballads and folk tales flickered through Wren’s mind. Fae capturing mortals to exhaust and kill them with their revels was a story as old as the hills. Yet he recalled nothing about cloven hooves, which seemed a vital detail to leave out. “Are they the only fae who dance mortals to death?”
“No,” said Shrike. “But they are the only fae who embrace fae to death.”
“You said fae could only truly die if they lose all will to live,” Wren replied uneasily.
“There comes a moment where exhaustion grows so great that one would do anything for rest—even if it meant one must rest eternally.”
Wren stared at him.
“Though,” Shrike added, “there are some who know what the huldra are capable of, and seek them out for the pleasure of their company.”
Wren made no effort to disguise his incredulity. “The pleasure of dancing to death?”
A spark of amusement lit up Shrike’s eyes. “More for the embracing than the dancing.”
