Chapter 9 #2
Nell shook her head, her eyes dimming back to their normal green. “No, no. He’s just being overprotective. I told him I was here with you and… ” She sighed. “I never should’ve taught him how to check the news on his phone. Now he does literal doomscrolling. It’s exhausting.”
The archive doors loomed ahead, carved oak inlaid with copper sigils that shimmered faintly at Goldie’s approach. She raised her wrist, the bracelet glowing in recognition, and the heavy doors swung inward on a gust of cool, parchment-scented air.
The shouts of the protestors, the smoke, the whole Beltane circus, all suddenly flew straight out of her head at the sight that awaited her.
Stacks upon stacks unfurled before her: rows of file folders labeled in precise copperplate, scrolls bound in red twine, leather-bound ledgers glowing faintly with embedded ward-ink. A crystal chandelier hummed overhead, its light refracting across stained-glass windows painted with civic crests.
“Oh,” Goldie breathed.
It was, without question, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
Or it would have been, if not for the little man sitting at the intake desk.
He was squat and round, with a gleaming pate and spectacles that magnified his eyes to unsettling size.
A half-eaten sandwich sat beside a stack of stamped forms. Unlike everyone else in City Hall, he didn’t look harried. He looked perfectly, smugly, at home.
Goldie sidled up, putting on her best sparkle: the smile that said I’m your favorite person and you just don’t know it yet.
She gave a little wave, flashing her bracelet as though it were stage lighting. “Hi! I’m the Herald of the Solstice Flame, and I’d like to access the archives, please.”
“And I’m here for moral support,” Nell added brightly from behind her. Her eyes flickered Dyad-white again, and she winced, muttering under her breath. “No, Sig, I’m not in danger, I’m literally in a hallway. No, I don’t need to flee the building. Sweetheart, will you just—”
The little man grunted, unimpressed. “Fine. Both of you can enter.” He jabbed a thumb at Nell. “But she stays in the reading room.”
He rifled through a drawer, producing a sheaf of cream-colored forms edged in protective sigils that faintly hummed as he laid them out. “Sign and seal. Access privileges are logged. Loss of materials will result in fines, expulsion, and a hex of mild inconvenience.”
Goldie bent cheerfully to the task, the bracelet on her wrist glowing brighter as she signed. The man scanned it with a brass-and-crystal reader that gave a satisfied ding, though he looked almost disappointed it had worked.
Goldie’s smile widened. “Guess it’s official.” She tapped Nell on the shoulder, who was still frowning faintly at some inaudible commentary from Sig. “Come on, sweetness.”
Together they passed the bridge-troll bureaucrat and stepped into the heart of the archives, where the air smelled of ink, dust, and the faintest tang of magic, as though secrets themselves were waiting to be discovered.
She drifted past the rows of shelving like she was walking through a dream.
Vellum scrolls bound with golden thread glowed faintly under their wards.
File folders stamped with sigils that pulsed like slow heartbeats.
Ledgers taller than she leaned against the walls, their spines carved with dates and lunar phases.
“Mmm,” she whispered, fingers gliding over the ward-inked spines. “Bureaucracy has never looked so damn sexy.”
Behind her, Nell had claimed a seat in the reading room, chin propped on one hand while she argued under her breath with Sig. “I’m fine. No, I don’t need to leave. No, I don’t need Goldie to hex anyone. Gods above, if you read me one more headline from the Bellwether Bulletin—”
Goldie suppressed a grin and pressed deeper into the stacks. She scanned the copper plates, zeroing in on the section she wanted: Green Holdings, zoning and boundary maps, Beltane access permits. Perfect.
Except… the files weren’t there.
She frowned, crouched, and checked the lower shelves. Nothing. Tried the cross-referenced drawers for duplicates. Nothing. Even the catalog orb above the aisle blinked at her apologetically when she tapped it, its glowing words spelling: Record unavailable. Status: In circulation.
Goldie pursed her lips, then marched back to the desk. “Hi. Small problem. The Green Holdings files? Related to Beltane? Not in their spot.”
The bridge-troll bureaucrat didn’t look up. “In circulation.”
“Mm-hmm.” Goldie nodded patiently. “Can you tell me who checked them out?”
“Classified.”
“All right. What about when it’ll be checked back in?”
“Classified.”
Goldie’s smile strained at the edges. “Is there a copy? Maybe a charming little duplicate tucked away for the Herald of the Solstice Flame?”
“Classified.”
Goldie straightened, bracelets clinking like warning bells. “Is everything classified, or are you just allergic to joy?”
At that, the man finally glanced up, one magnified eye blinking owlishly. “It’s with the Land Trust. For their closed session upstairs. Don’t expect it back until they’ve finished screaming at each other.” He bit into his almost-finished sandwich, clearly finished with the conversation.
Goldie exhaled through her nose, then flashed him a dazzling smile. “Thank you ever so much. You’ve been a delight.”
The little man grunted, unimpressed.
Goldie strode into the reading room and tapped Nell on the shoulder. “Come on, sweetness. The files have gone walkabout, and we must chase them down.”
Nell looked up from her ongoing argument with Sig, rolled her eyes, and stood. “Let me guess. Classified?”
“Bingo.” Goldie looped her arm through Nell’s and steered her back toward the door. “But apparently the Land Trust has it. So, if we want our answers, we just need to be in the right place when their little screaming match adjourns.”
Nell’s brows rose. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“Darling Nell,” Goldie said, pushing open the heavy oak door, “if there’s one thing City Hall does better than paperwork, it’s ominous.”
They returned to the upper floor to find the younger Land Trust members still locked in combat with the glowing orb. One was threatening to sue it for civil rights violations. Another was stomping so hard his Berluti Oxfords squeaked in protest.
Goldie settled elegantly onto a bench, crossing her legs. “Delightful. A front-row seat.”
Nell groaned, slumping beside her. “If I wanted to watch rich bitches throw a fit, I’d turn on the CW.” She winced, rubbing her temple. “Can we please go? Sig is yelling doomsday headlines in my brain and he’s really loud.”
Goldie flicked her bangles. “No, darling. Those records are my Beltane miracle. Do you know how much easier it will be to place the fire pits if I don’t have to guess where the ley lines actually run?”
The doors suddenly slammed open so hard they rattled on their hinges. Chaos spilled into the hallway. Councilman Darren Swale’s face was puce. Councilwoman Priya Mishra strode past, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“You cannot promise Ashenvale a clean title while the Core’s readings are spiking,” she snapped, her heels striking marble like a metronome.
“Disclosure isn’t a magic wand. If you’d stuck to the original agreement instead of shoving in last-minute amendments, the paperwork would already be signed.
Now destabilization threatens to wreck the whole thing! What were you thinking?”
Truckenham shouldered through after her, jacket slung, folder clutched like a cudgel.
“We give them optics and a number, Priya. Raise a containment ward, make the monitors read steady, and close on schedule. Then you can draft whatever ‘remediation’ helps you sleep. I’m not letting a few moody roots tank a record-setting deal. ”
Her eyes narrowed. “Containment isn’t stewardship. And you know it.”
He smiled without warmth. “Stewardship doesn’t close sales. Stability does. Beltane goes on, the Core looks calm, Ashenvale wires the money. End of story.”
Karen Vesuvius, Truckenham’s deputy, stumbled after them under the weight of an overstuffed briefcase. When one of the younger Trust members tried to stop her for answers, she dropped half her files in the crush.
Truckenham didn’t even glance back. “Leave it, Karen. If you can’t keep up, don’t bother showing up.” His voice cracked like a whip, dismissive as gum on a shoe.
Priya spun on him, fury etched across her face. “You’re risking the entire sale just to pad your payout!”
Truckenham’s snarl split the air. “I’m doing this for all of us.”
A trio of Ashenvale delegates filed out behind them in a tight, silent formation, all grey suits and gleaming shoes, murmuring in clipped tones. Goldie caught only fragments as they swept past: “stability guarantees… liability exposure… public optics…”
The younger trustees surged forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “You can’t lock us out,” one shouted, cheeks blotched pink above his silk tie. “We’re members of this Trust, not—not some rubber stamp for your secret handshakes with investors!”
Karen Vesuvius, pale and shaking, scrambled to collect the papers she’d dropped. The deputy crouched low, juggling the briefcase and a flurry of loose pages, her glasses slipping down her nose. “S-sir, if we could just file the amended reports before—”
Truckenham snapped his folder across her knuckles without looking at her. The crack of paper on skin made Goldie flinch. “Not now, Karen. Gods above, must I do everything myself?”
He turned on the younger trustees, his voice rising like a whip. “This is business. If you can’t stomach the stakes, go back to your country clubs and your brandy decanters and let the grown-ups handle it.”
Before anyone could snap back, a sharp crack split the air. A fizzing charm whistled through a half-open window at the end of the hall and burst, flooding the corridor with a rolling wave of grey smoke.
The chant surged louder, pounding against the walls like a war drum: “Hands off our Holdings! Hands off our Holdings!”
People coughed, stumbled, shouted over one another. Clipboards clattered to the floor. The orb above the dais blinked red. “Emergency protocol enacted. All personnel proceed to the nearest unhexed exit in an orderly fashion. This is not a drill.”
“Everyone out!” barked an aide, flapping his arms as if that might clear the smoke. “Evacuate, evacuate!”
Nell’s eyes flashed Dyad-white. She clamped a hand around Goldie’s wrist. “We’re leaving. Sorry, babe, but you can untangle Beltane another time.”
Goldie whined, but another lungful of smoke cut her short, leaving her doubled over coughing. Nell hauled her bodily through the press of people and out onto the steps.
“There’s Marlow Truckenham and his deputy!” a protestor roared, voice cracking like a trumpet.
The chant fractured into a howl. Signs waved like weapons as the crowd surged forward in a furious swell.
Truckenham strode into the chaos with leonine arrogance, thunder etched across his face.
His cufflinks caught the light as if even his jewelry was mocking the mob.
Behind him, Karen trailed miserably, papers clutched to her chest like a shield, her gaze flicking between the protesters and the ground as if praying for it to swallow her whole.
“Out of my way!” he bellowed, plowing forward.
“You’re killing the Grove Core!” someone screamed.
“You’ve sold us out!” another shrieked.
Marlow snapped his head toward the voices, his smile cold as a knife. “Then buy it back,” he snarled. “Oh, that’s right—you can’t afford to.”
Goldie’s eyes went wide with horrified delight. She wheezed through the smoke, tugging against Nell’s grip for a better view. “This is delicious. We should stay.”
“Absolutely not,” Nell snapped, dragging her harder.
The air dropped ten degrees.
A shadow swept over them, vast and winged, blotting out the sun for a heartbeat.
Someone looked up and gasped. The creature descended, landing with an earth-shaking thump.
His eyes glowed a deep, burnished red; above his brow, two antennae flicked like divining rods.
His long fingers ended in curved, black claws.
Sig Samora, former Harbinger of Doom, Nell’s mate, and occasional bringer of unwanted drama, drew himself up to his full height, ruby eyes blazing like twin suns. A protester shrieked, dropped her sign, and keeled over in a faint, hitting the pavement with a squeak like a collapsing accordion.
“We are leaving. Now.” Sig’s voice rolled out with apocalyptic resonance, rattling the protestors’ placards and making the nearest streetlight flicker.
“Honestly, Sig—” Nell began, but he scooped her up without waiting, one arm pinning her tightly against his chest. With the other, he plucked Goldie up as easily as a doll, ignoring her delighted squeal.
“Sig!” Nell hissed, half strangled. “You are overreacting!”
“I told you, beloved,” he growled, wings beating once, twice. “There is smoke. There is anger. I will not have you here.”
The ground fell away. The plaza blurred beneath them, a smear of signs and police wards.
Goldie whooped, throwing her arms wide like she was on the world’s most dangerous carnival ride before quickly throwing her arms back around Sig’s neck.
“This is the best day of my life! Smoke bombs, politics, and now a retired Doom harbinger carrying me into the sky? Name one other Herald who’s had this much fun!”
“Kill me now,” Nell groaned into Sig’s shoulder.
“Careful what you wish for,” Goldie sang, hair whipping wild in the wind. The city dropped away beneath them, and all she could do was laugh.