Wren’s eyes darted ‘round—though Shrike knew they remained unnoticed by the other mortals in the park—before he dared to grasp Shrike’s hand.
And Shrike pulled them both down into the ring.
Traveling between the fae realms, or even the fae and mortal realms, in Shrike’s experience, was a simple matter of following the natural currents of the boundless ocean and drifting downstream to one’s destination.
Navigating the realm between realms from London to Rochester, one choked with iron and the other well on its way to the same fate, was not quite so straight-forward.
Rather than slipping smoothly amidst warm and gentle waves, Shrike plunged through ice into frigid depths. The shock of cold drove the breath from his body, and though he did not need it, he felt the want of it keenly, his lungs starving for air he could not gather. His flesh numbed, then froze, then burned. Fish-hook snares of broken ethereal ice tore him open as he clawed his way through, fighting against the current, drowning in total darkness.
Yet amidst the fathomless void of the icy sea, a point of warmth and familiarity remained to anchor him.
Wren’s hand clasped in his own.
As his flailing limbs struck a barrier, Shrike knew it would lead to his salvation. He drew back his fist and struck it. It spider-webbed beneath his raw knuckles and shattered. Shrike plunged his arm through the hole, breaking off larger and larger pieces, widening it enough to fit his shoulder, then his chest, then the whole of him, pulling Wren through after.
All at once the waves broke over his face and he gasped the iron-tinged air of Rochester.
The stone rim of a well loomed above him. He threw his arm out to grasp its edge and haul himself and Wren both out. Wren seemed to come alive in his grasp and scrambled up with admirable agility for a mortal. Shrike followed, ready to catch him if he should fall.
He needn’t have worried. Wren landed on his feet.
Shrike, meanwhile, did not leap over the rim as he intended, but rather collapsed onto the dirt beside it, the back of his skull thudding against the outer wall of the well.
Shrike and Wren had both emerged dry as dust despite the water rippling in the well below. Nor had any ethereal injuries followed Shrike into the mortal realm. Still, his head swam. His raw throat drew ragged breaths. An ache had bloomed deep within his bones and threatened to make his limbs tremble. He forced his eyes to focus on his surroundings.
He found himself in a stable-yard, bereft of mortals apart from Wren. A few scattered horses stood about munching hay and gazing over them both with disinterest. The sun shone brighter than it had in London. Even so, Shrike could tell its position remained unchanged. Scarcely a blink had passed whilst he struggled to drag them both through the portal. It had felt like eons.
Shrike looked to Wren to see how he fared. Mortal, and unused to journeying between the realms, it could hardly have been easy for him.
Yet Wren appeared not half so harrowed as Shrike felt. He gazed down at Shrike with a perplexed expression.
“Are you all right?” Shrike rasped.
Wren stared at him. “Areyou?”
“Aye,” Shrike lied. The resilience of mortals in the face of iron never ceased to amaze him. With Wren’s example before him, he could hardly do less. He braced his trembling palms against the well and struggled to shove himself upright.
Wren hastened to his side. His soft hands proved their strength as he grasped Shrike’s forearms and hauled him to his feet.
Shrike clutched the rim of the well and gathered his breath. Dark spots flitted in the corners of his eyes. His legs, not quite recovered from the numb shock of the journey, burst into pins-and-needles beneath him. Still, he stood.
As quickly as he’d approached when Shrike first faltered, Wren retreated an arm’s-length away—the customary distance between them whenever they met in the mortal realm. The pained expression on his handsome features suggested it cost him a great deal to do so.
“I’m all right,” Shrike assured him. “Let’s be off.”
Wren didn’t look as though he believed him but set his jaw regardless.
The path out of the stable-yard led into a quiet by-street. Once Shrike had overcome the initial shock of his arrival, he found it easier to breathe in Rochester than in London. A smaller town with fewer mortals meant far less iron surrounded him.
Yet despite how few mortals wandered Rochester’s roads, Shrike caught far more astonished glances from those he passed.
Shrike supposed it better the strangers fixed their gaze on him rather than on Wren. If their memories filled with Shrike’s striking appearance, they would hardly recall the comparatively plain figure of Wren beside him. Thus, Wren might pass almost unnoticed in Shrike’s shadow. All the better for the surreptitious work yet before them.
Meanwhile Shrike could not keep his own gaze from returning again and again to Wren. Not just for the simple pleasure of gazing at Wren’s beautiful bespeckled face. Wren did not meet his gaze, nor the gaping gawk of any of those who stared as Shrike passed by. Yet Shrike noted how again and again Wren stretched his fingers at his sides to prevent their forming into fists. Shrike could almost feel the nervous energy sparking off his small form.
Wren’s determined march kept up a pace that Shrike, his long stride hindered by his weakened state, found difficult to match. The cathedral steeple loomed over the town and drew closer and closer with every step. Then they turned a corner and came to High Street, where Cemetery Gate arched astride the road.
“Tolhurst first, then Miss Flora,” Wren explained, though Shrike had never intended to question him.
