Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Greymarket Towers stood like it always had: half-forgotten, half-watching, as a lump of architectural weirdness wedged between two trendy vegan co-ops and a metaphysical bookstore that doubled as a notary public.
Goldie slipped through the brass-trimmed front doors and barely had time to inhale the familiar scent of lamp oil, damp stone, and the distinct metallic tang of something eldritch, before a blur of oversized hoodie, glitter, and gangly limbs launched itself at her from the stairwell.
“GOLDIE!” Theo shrieked, all elbows and joy as he slammed into her. “Can I come up and see your cats? I made them little hats. Maeve told me she likes herringbone best!”
Goldie gently patted Theo’s spine in a show of surrender. “Hey, superstar. Can we rain check? I love you, but my eyeballs are held open by a thread.”
The nocturnal, nine-year-old cryptid pulled back, blinking his too-large eyes with solemn disappointment. Theo—a Bellwether-born bogeychild—was Greymarket’s resident chaos agent. He ran on sugar, cartoons, and whatever idea he got into his head at 3 a.m.
“But they’re nocturnal. Like me.”
Goldie huffed a laugh. “I know, babe. But even nocturnal felines need their beauty sleep. Tell you what. Come by tomorrow, and you can brush them. Maeve’s shedding like it’s her job.”
Theo’s face lit up like a disco ball. “Can I keep her fur? I’m making a wig.”
“Of course you can,” Goldie said gravely. “You’d be doing me a service. We’ll even put it in a thrice-blessed moon jar. Deal?”
Theo gasped with delight, kissed her on the cheek, and took off down the hallway at top speed, yelling “BYE, GOLDIE!” over his shoulder.
At the mailroom door, Goldie nearly collided with a ripple of silk and resonance.
Sorelle hummed a minor seventh that vibrated the lock box doors and set one of the wall sconces flickering. She moved like an underwater ballroom dancer, all slow turns and glinting shadow.
Most people in Bellwether knew her as one half of Hearthsong Reversal, the cryptid-folk duo that performed at community festivals and—when the moon aligned just right—at the Greymarket potluck.
Sorelle was the cryptid half, obviously: her eyes held the kind of shimmer that made you forget what question you were about to ask.
“Darling Goldie,” she purred, stepping back. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Picking up fan mail?”
Goldie grinned. “Just bills dressed as fan mail. You know how it is.”
Sorelle’s mouth curved, amused and just a little dangerous. “Well, if you know of anyone wanting singing lessons, send them my way. We could use a backup harmony that doesn’t shriek like a rusted gate.”
Goldie raised a brow. “Micah’s still trying to teach the gremlin choir?”
“He’s a patient man. Too good for this plane, frankly. I tell him that often.”
The siren floated backward a step, gaze sweeping Goldie up and down. “You’ve got that shimmer about you, love. The kind that means change is coming.”
Goldie winked. “Let’s hope it’s a wardrobe change, and not an existential one.”
Sorelle’s laugh rolled like distant surf. “Sleep tight, beautiful one.” She turned on her heel and sashayed away, voice trailing a lullaby that made the hallway lights sway in sync.
Goldie stood for a moment longer, then shook herself and turned toward the hallway, her keys jingling like chimes against her thigh.
It was almost half past nine, which meant she had a stop to make.
And come hell, high water, or minor interdimensional leak, she would not be the one to break this tradition.
She headed down the corridor, boots clacking softly against old tile, and poked her head into the community room.
The overhead lights were dimmed to a soft violet glow, casting long shadows that didn’t behave like they ought to.
A potted plant in the corner was gently rotating on its own.
The piano was playing a dreamy, meandering tune in 5/4 time.
A trickle of sand poured upward into the corner of the ceiling.
And at the heart of it all, Mr. Caracas sat in his throne: an orange velvet armchair that groaned in the voice of a disappointed aunt every time he shifted.
The ancient, irritable tortoise cryptid was dressed like the ghost of retirement incarnate: fuzzy cardigan, plaid pajama pants, and house slippers so worn they’d developed their own arch support.
His claw hovered over the remote, eyes locked on the television, which was currently playing a rerun of Midsomer Murders.
Goldie crossed the threshold with all the panache of a showgirl, thumbed an imaginary kiss, and blew it toward him with a flourish.
“Blessings upon your shell and your station, old friend. May your suspects always alibi too late.”
Without looking, Mr. Caracas caught the invisible smooch from the air, and tucked it into his cardigan pocket with practiced precision.
“That better not be lip gloss again,” he grumbled. “Last week I smelled like apricots ‘til Wednesday.”
“Love you too, Caracas,” Goldie said sweetly, already stepping backward toward the hallway.
His only reply was a harrumph, and the sound of the remote clicking up the volume.
Goldie grinned to herself, still tired, but buoyed by the weird, cozy weight of home. The building creaked approvingly above her head, a rustle like fast-growing wood.
A blur of movement streaked across the hallway just ahead, wearing what looked like a thimble helmet and dragging a glowing bread crust on a bit of string. The creature paused, squeaked something cheerful in a language made entirely of glottal stops and giddy vowels, and scurried into the walls.
Goldie saluted its retreating tail. “Nice hat,” she murmured, then continued toward the elevators.
There were two: one newer, all brushed chrome and sentient buttons; and the older one, whose scuffed brass doors bore the noble scars of decades and thunked like arthritic knees.
Goldie liked the old one. When she sang under her breath—low, smoky jazz, or syrupy standards—the cab groaned a harmony in response.
Her steps slowed as she drew level with the Greymarket atrium. It yawned open to her right; a cathedral veined with ivy and moonlight. Tonight, it was watching.
The Thornfather sat unmoving on a bench near the room’s center, the vines of his body hanging like theater curtains. His crown of antlers shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with something ancient.
At his side, draped in half-shadow, perched his Assistant.
Goldie hadn’t meant to stop. Hadn’t wanted to look. But her gaze snagged on the two the way a scarf catches on a thorn.
The Thornfather lifted his head. His gold-green gaze met hers, dark as soil and just as weighty.
The Assistant turned in the same breath, eyes catching the light like a wet gleam on stone.
Goldie swallowed. Managed a polite nod.
The Thornfather inclined his head in return, a motion so slow it might have been tectonic.
The Assistant didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened as it focused on Goldie.
The elevator dinged. Goldie flinched and darted inside the carriage.
As the doors rumbled shut, she burst into a nervous riff of “Fly Me to the Moon,” her voice shaky but on-key. Somewhere in the shaft, a bolt creaked a low, delighted bass note.
Goldie unlocked the apartment door of 4C, which swung open with a soft creak and a sigh.
Her feline overlords, Maeve and Oberon, met her at the threshold like twin guardians of the underworld, come to weigh her heart against a feather and find her lacking.
Maeve, ginger-haired and unapologetically round, issued a long, drawn-out murrrrrrreh of theatrical disappointment. She flopped dramatically onto her side and glowered.
Oberon, lithe and dark and with a permanent resting bitch face, emitted a sharp rrrmph? and immediately began winding between Goldie’s ankles.
“Oh, you poor, maligned, mistreated, ignored creatures,” Goldie murmured, crouching down. She scratched Maeve behind one ear, eliciting a disdainful grumble, and let Oberon headbutt her square in the nose. He purred so hard that he hiccuped.
She’d adopted them shortly after her move to Bellwether almost four years ago. They were meant to be her familiars, but that had… not gone entirely to plan.
Maeve refused to do any magical labor on principle. When Goldie had tried to get her to participate in a moon rite, Maeve had hissed, turned around, and peed on the altar cloth that had cost Goldie more than a hundred dollars.
Oberon, meanwhile, would only lend his spiritual influence to workings he’d personally approved, and only if he could knock something off the offerings table first.
Still, familiars or not, they were hers, and she loved them fiercely.
Goldie kissed the top of Maeve’s head, then let Oberon climb halfway into her blouse.
“I know, I know,” she whispered. “Oberon, you are the sharpest claw and the softest menace in all the realm. Maeve, you are Queen of the Fae and Hairballs, long may you reign.”
Maeve flicked her tail with imperial disinterest. Oberon sneezed into Goldie’s face and bolted toward the kitchen.
Where Nell’s warmth had once clung to the corners of the apartment, Goldie’s presence now glowed, filling the space with intention and energy.
The bones of the original floor plan remained, but the space had opened up around her.
Walls had softened or vanished entirely, dissolving into flowing thresholds and archways.
The apartment had adapted to Maeve and Oberon as well, with small openings that appeared at random and went… someplace. Goldie never knew the destination, but the cats always returned looking smug, satisfied, and sleepy, so she, too, was content.
Goldie stepped out of her boots and padded into the kitchen to feed her fluffy tyrants.
She pried the lid off a dented tin of sardine paté and scooped it into a chipped, pentagram-shaped porcelain dish.
Maeve glared until the last smear was scraped free.
Oberon got a bowl of duck bits in gravy, and he chirped, delighted.