Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
The noon sun had melted Bellwether into a patchwork of soft shadows and glittering reflections.
The sidewalks shimmered with heat wards that fizzled faintly underfoot, and every storefront seemed to be trying harder than the last to catch the eye: a bakery with sugar-sigil croissants spinning lazily in the window, a record shop with vinyl sleeves fluttering like prayer flags, even a tax office whose gargoyle mascot had donned sequined sunglasses for Beltane week.
Goldie and Nell threaded their way through it all, coffee cups in hand, looking like two women on a mission. Goldie’s phone vibrated again in her bag, and she groaned.
“Let me guess,” Nell said, taking a sip of her iced chai. “That’s the coven group chat.”
Goldie fished the phone out and glanced at the screen. “They’re debating fireproof tablecloths. Fireproof. As if we’re hosting a picnic in hell.”
Nell smirked. “It is Beltane. Fire is literally the point.”
“Yes, but Solstice is where the real fun is,” Goldie sighed. She wiggled her wrist so her new Herald bracelet caught the sunlight. “I’m ready to graduate from hawthorn bundles and ribbon warding to real planning. Big, sexy, ceremonial planning.”
“Don’t let Clara St. James hear you call Solstice sexy,” Nell teased. “She’ll start crocheting lingerie for the altar again.”
Goldie snorted and nearly spilled her latte. “Please. The gods are still recovering from last year’s lace thong sachets.”
Her phone buzzed again. She rolled her eyes so hard her bangles clinked in sympathy. “Oh, my gods. Now they’re arguing about whether the bonfire needs one circle of salt or two. Lita says three. Rosemary says it doesn’t matter, because salt is passé.”
“You love it.” Nell said, nudging her in the side.
“I love fire and drama,” Goldie corrected.
“This drama, though? Not so much. But since they’re all tearing their hair out over the bonfire, I offered to peek at old festival layouts in the archive.
Salt circles, warding permits, that kind of thing.
” She grinned. “Total busywork, but it gets Tamsin off my back and earns me coven brownie points. Why not make lunch break a field trip?”
“Research as a treat,” Nell said solemnly.
“Exactly. Plus, I get to use my fancy new bracelet! And maybe I can sweet-talk them into letting you in, too.”
“Whatever,” Nell said, squinting into the sun. “I’m just glad to be outside. Planning that senior-group thing for next week is making me want to stab someone. Maybe it’s Beltane. Everything’s just… messy.”
The closer they got to City Hall, the less it felt like a lunch break and more like marching toward a fault line. The building’s marble steps were jammed with bodies, banners, and voices raised in ragged unison. The tambourine player had been joined by a drummer on an overturned bucket.
Goldie and Nell edged toward the fringe, coffees clutched like talismans. A broad, horned, ox-like protestor climbed the top step and bellowed through a bullhorn until the sound buzzed against Goldie’s teeth.
“The land’s been crying out for months!” he shouted, face red, eyes wild. “You can’t turn sacred ground into a balance sheet and wonder why the roots fight back!!”
The crowd roared back, a sound too big for one plaza.
“How long do we let them keep profiting from what belongs to all of us?” yelled a sharp-faced woman waving a hand-painted sign. “This isn’t theirs to sell!”
A ripple passed through the protestors as a line of uniformed officers appeared at the square’s edge, ward-badges flickering in time with the chanting.
One officer lifted a crystal mic, his voice magically amplified and clipped with official cadence. “Clear the steps. This assembly is unlawful. Any threats directed at councilmembers will be investigated to the fullest extent.”
“Threats?” Nell whispered, her voice pitched higher than usual.
Goldie’s phone buzzed. She yanked it out, half-expecting another text about fireproof bunting. Instead, the coven chat was lit up in frantic blue bubbles:
Clara St. James
Did you SEE the news feed??
Maureen Murphy
Death threats, plural. This is very uncouth.
Lita Baines
Seriously? During Beltane week? If something blows up, half the city’s wards go with it.
Goldie shoved the phone back in her bag and exhaled sharply. “Well. Shit.”
Nell clutched her latte like it might sprout fangs. “Are we about to walk into a political assassination?”
Goldie squared her shoulders. “We’re about to walk into City Hall, which might be worse.”
Inside the building, the chaos was almost louder than the protest outside. The marble floors gleamed like they’d been polished by a nervous intern, but the air felt brittle, every conversation pitched too sharp, too fast.
Goldie and Nell paused just inside the atrium. Half the people waiting in line for the elevators were glaring out the tall windows at the chanting crowd; the other half were staring straight ahead with the blank focus of people trying very hard to pretend none of it was happening.
And then Goldie saw Jonah Pell. He was halfway down the hall, leaning toward a wereskink clerk with scaled cheeks and a gaze like twin adding machines, the kind of woman who looked like she’d memorized the entire budget and hated every number in it.
“Jonah!” Goldie called brightly, her bangles jangling like punctuation.
His head snapped up. The harried lines at his brow didn’t vanish, but when he saw her, they softened into a smile. “Goldie. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
The wereskink beside him gave Goldie and Nell a once-over. “Glad you made it through without getting ripped to shreds by the mob,” she said, smirking faintly.
Goldie lifted her coffee cup in mock salute. Jonah chuckled, though his eyes still darted nervously down the corridor.
“So,” Goldie continued, lowering her voice. “What happened? Did the sale go through? Is that why everyone is so rowdy today?”
“Not yet,” the wereskink said briskly, shifting her clipboard to one hip. “But the final discussions are happening upstairs right now. Truckenham stormed in about an hour ago. The Ashenvale delegation was right behind him.”
As if on cue, a shriek ricocheted down the marble hall. “What do you mean, they’re in a meeting?”
Goldie craned her neck. Three people she didn’t recognize were squared off against a glowing directory orb that kept chirping, in the patient voice of a long-suffering nanny:
Access restricted. Session in progress. Please await notification.
“Who are they?” Nell whispered.
“Junior trustees on the Land Trust,” Jonah said, his lip curling. “They want a vote—of course they do—but their trustee status is more honorary than actual. The Big Four run the room.”
“The Big Four,” the wereskink grumbled. “Truckenham, Swale, Mishra, Idris. They wrote the rules and never stopped grading everyone else’s homework. Truckenham loves closed sessions and locks out anyone who might tell him no. Including the other three when it suits him.”
Goldie whistled. “So the kiddie table’s barred from the dining room while the parents whisper over dessert?”
“Welcome to Bellwether politics,” Jonah murmured.
Goldie took in the harried aides, the scolding orb, and the junior trustees vibrating like toddlers denied recess. “And here I thought I could squeeze in a little Solstice research and flirt with the archives. I’m guessing that’s not in the cards?”
The wereskink shrugged, her scales flashing. “Honestly? It’s probably the best time. Everyone else is chasing protesters, babysitting Ashenvale’s delegation, or fielding death threats. The archives are practically deserted. That bracelet of yours will open more doors than usual.”
Goldie brightened. “Well, then. Guess I’ll go make friends with some dusty ledgers.”
Over by the doors, the younger Land Trust members had escalated from angry glares to full-on shouting at the orb.
“You can’t bar us from our own Trust business!” snapped a lean, half-dragon youth in a silk blazer far too expensive for daylight, his scaled temples glittering like jewelry.
“This is corruption!” bellowed a broad-shouldered human with a golf-tan and cufflinks shaped like tiny warding sigils, the kind of man who’d never carried anything heavier than a polo mallet.
“We have rights!” shrieked the third, a woman with hair lacquered into place and stilettos that flashed red soles as she stabbed an accusatory finger through the glowing projection, as if she could gouge its eyes out.
Goldie’s lips pursed. Anyone wearing Louboutins to a Trust meeting wasn’t there for the land. “And on that note, I’ll take my leave,” she said breezily.
Jonah managed a strained smile, though the lines at his eyes didn’t soften. “While you’re down there, see if you can dig up anything about staving off ritual death and dismemberment. We might need it before the week’s out.”
Goldie’s bangles jingled as she swept a mock bow. “If I find a how-to manual, I’ll bring back extra copies.”
The further she and Nell moved into City Hall, the stranger the atmosphere became. The building seemed to vibrate with its own anxieties: corridors bent at odd angles, as though trying to avoid each other; light fixtures flickered in competing rhythms.
A clerk rushed past, balancing a stack of files that squeaked as though they disapproved of their contents. Nearby, a door slammed, then immediately opened again of its own accord, sulking loudly on its hinges.
They’d barely made it to the first stairwell when Nell stopped short. She winced, one hand going to her temple as her eyes flared Dyad-white.
Goldie halted, bangles clinking in alarm. “What—Nell? Hey.”
Nell grimaced and waved a hand. “It’s nothing. Just Sig. He’s doing his Harbinger voice at me.” She exhaled and rolled her eyes skyward. “Beloved, there is fraying in the threads. Where are you?”
Goldie’s stomach dipped. “Shit. Are we Dooming right now? Do I need to go grab ritual chalk?”