Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
After Splice fled her apartment, the evening unraveled spectacularly.
Jem settled onto the couch, clutching a throw pillow to her chest and chattering endlessly about everything and nothing, while Goldie methodically polished off glass after glass of wine, grim and determined to dull the sharp edges of embarrassment and confusion.
Later, a knock at the door brought Nell, standing in the hallway with another bottle of wine and a gentle, concerned expression.
A terrible TV movie flickered on. Conversations meandered. Wine flowed. Goldie kept drinking.
Eventually, Goldie declared she was drunk, needed to be alone, and, no, she didn't want anyone to stay, thank you very much. With fragile smiles and quick goodbyes, she sent them off. She collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, pillow over her face.
She woke up in the middle of the night sweating, flushed, and replaying it—all of it—on an endless, depraved loop: His mouth. His breath. His cock in her mouth. His vines inside her.
In desperation, she yanked her vibrator out of the bedside drawer like a woman possessed, flopped onto her back, and tried to exorcise the horny out of her system.
The orgasm was fine. Quick. Mechanical. Zero stars for aftercare. It helped, but only barely, and afterward, she just lay there, panting and annoyed and still thinking about him.
She punched her mattress three times like it owed her money, rolled over, and gave up.
The next morning, Goldie awoke with a splitting headache to the sound of her phone buzzing like an angry bee on the bedside table.
Bleary-eyed, she reached over and saw the caller ID: TAMSIN DONOVER.
She hit the green button, switched to speaker, and sank back into the pillows, the phone heavy on her chest.
"Goldie," Tamsin's voice was gentle, but held the crisp edge of someone who had been up for hours dealing with a crisis. "I heard about what happened. My dear, I am so sorry. How are you holding up?"
Goldie let out a long, shaky breath. "I've been better," she admitted, the words flat and honest. "But I'm... okay. I think." Her fingers absently picked at the hem of her sleeve, then paused as she noticed the dirt caked under her nails.
“Do they have any leads yet?” she asked, the question a hollow formality.
It had only been a handful of hours; of course they wouldn’t have any leads.
Still, it was better than confessing that her veins felt overfull, that something was thrumming through her bones, making her restless, thirsty and unbearably alive.
“Not yet,” Tamsin replied, and the sigh that followed was heavy.
“It’s still too early for any of that. But, Goldie…
they’re postponing the Beltane celebration.
I’ve already sent a note to the coven, but I thought I would call you directly.
It’s truly unfortunate. I’m sorry. I know how hard you worked on everything with the bonfire.
I’m running interference at City Hall, but at the moment this leaves us with a lot of paperwork and half a dozen aldermen trying to leverage tragedy into personal gain. ”
Goldie jerked upright, a wave of hangover and dread making the room tilt. “Oh, no. Really? Not Beltane? Isn’t that, like… sacrilege?”
“It certainly is, but the police have marked the Grove Core off as a crime scene,” Tamsin said, her tone shifting, becoming sharper, more pragmatic.
“The whole area is off-limits, which means no bonfire, no vendors, and no ritual work until further notice. The council is scrambling to spin it as a postponement rather than a cancellation, but you and I both know how these things ripple. They’ll be making an official announcement this afternoon. ”
As if summoned, her call screen exploded with a flood of notifications. Goldie glanced down, wincing at the deluge. All coven, all caps, all chaos. She groaned, swiping the messages away, and pressed her knuckles to her eyes.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“For now,” Tamsin replied, her voice sliding into that firm, practiced cadence, “we focus on what we can control. The planning committee’s meeting today—salvage what we can, pivot what we must, maybe roll pieces forward to Solstice.”
A pause. Then, gentler: “Are you able to attend? If you’re not feeling up to it, I understand.”
“No, I want to,” Goldie said quickly, grateful for the lifeline while already tallying how many hangover charms it would take to feel human. She swung her legs off the bed. “Honestly, I need to do something. Sitting around just makes me keep seeing…” Her voice faltered. “Well. You know.”
Or feeling Splice’s vines in my—nope. Not going there.
“I admire your grit, Goldie,” Tamsin said warmly. “Most people would crumble after what you’ve seen. But you… you get back up. Bellwether needs that right now.”
Goldie snorted softly. “Getting back up is mostly spite and hangover charms, but I’ll take the compliment.”
“Spite counts as grit in my book,” Tamsin replied, a smile audible in her voice.
“Thanks,” Goldie said softly.
They exchanged goodbyes and ended the call. This felt like progress. Something productive—doing more than just reliving the shock of death or the ache of desire she hadn’t had time to process.
The phone slipped into Goldie’s lap and buzzed again. She glanced down.
Nell Townsend-Samora
Hi babe. I’m going to work and you’d better not be.
I know there’s something you’re not saying, but you don’t have to until you’re ready.
Just know I love you and I’m worried, and not just because dead bodies are ick.
I’ll try to get home early tonight. Let me know if you need some liquid courage, or just courage, or just me. Love you.
Goldie sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. Of course Nell had seen straight through her carefully constructed sparkle. Trust Nell to be both blunt and gentle in the same breath.
Her gaze drifted to the balcony. Outside, a vine, vivid and red as garnet, had started creeping up the sill. It hadn't been there yesterday. She watched, breath catching, as a bloom at its tip unfurled slowly and deliberately, turning its petals toward her as if she were the sun.
Maeve, curled nearby in a sunbeam, let loose a low, guttural hiss.
Goldie stared for a long moment, the unsettling beauty of it sending a chill down her spine. Then, with a decisive snap, she pulled the curtain closed.
Bellwether Civic Hall loomed ahead, a monument to simmering tensions. The chaotic swarm of protestors had been pared down to a grim picket line corralled behind glowing police wards on the far side of the street.
Goldie took a long breath. The hangover charms she’d thrown together that morning dulled her headache but did nothing for the frantic edge jangling her nerves. She felt scraped raw, like her skin had been turned inside out. But she’d be damned if she let it show.
Today, her armor was a sleeveless emerald-green romper, paired with a dramatic black shawl embroidered with silver moons. The ensemble declared power and poise, even if her insides were still a tangle of wine-soaked regret, shame, and the echo of vines curling through her dreams.
She pushed through the heavy oak doors, leaving the muffled chants and police wards behind.
Inside, Civic Hall breathed its own brand of order.
The hush was thick and bureaucratic. Goldie smoothed her shawl, spine tall, and let the air of calm sink into her skin.
Subdued was better. Subdued, she could manage.
She followed the signs to the council chamber, took one final, steadying breath to plaster on a serene smile, and walked through the door.
Then, immediately regretted it.
Conversation dropped mid-sentence. Chairs creaked as their occupants shifted uncomfortably. Two people froze with paper cups halfway to their mouths.
Goldie’s smile didn’t falter. Not her real smile, but the one she kept in reserve for baby showers, bad dates, and, apparently, murder aftermaths.
“Don’t all stare at once,” she said lightly, flicking the end of her shawl over one shoulder. “I’m not cursed. Not yet.”
A ripple of uneasy chuckles answered her, the kind of brittle laughter people used to prove they were fine when clearly no one was.
Her gaze caught on a figure near the head of the table—Truckenham’s deputy, Karen Vesuvius. She sat very still, a legal pad neatly set before her, pen resting in the margin. Her glasses caught the light, hiding her eyes, but her expression was composed, unreadable.
Something tugged at Goldie’s chest. Gods and goddesses, of course she was quiet, her boss had just been murdered. She must be reeling, holding herself together by sheer will, forcing order onto paper because it was the only thing she could control.
Poor woman, Goldie thought. What a nightmare to be trapped in here, expected to function. The sight made her spine stiffen in sympathy, as if the only way to get through this meeting was to mirror Karen’s resolve: sit tall, keep notes, pretend the ground beneath them wasn’t cracking open.
“Goldie,” came a warm, steady voice, pulling her from her thoughts. “Here.”
Jonah Pell stood slowly and pulled out the seat beside him with a small, old-fashioned flourish that, in lesser hands, might have read as performative or patronizing. But Jonah made it look easy, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and was glad to spend it helping her settle.
Gods help her, his forearms should have been illegal. Rolled sleeves, strong hands, fingers that looked like they’d leave prints on her hips and spells on her skin.
Her thighs clenched reflexively. Her nipples tightened against her bra, begging for notice. She blinked hard, but her mind betrayed her anyway:
Jonah’s strong hands pressing her down into soft sheets. His voice rough and low against her throat. His mouth trailing heat down her collarbone. His eyes holding hers as he moved inside her—steady, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world for this too.