Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
For days now, Goldie had buried herself in the back of the library stacks, where the air smelled of dust, lemon oil, and the faint tang of mildew that no amount of charm work could quite banish.
She was ostensibly checking off items on her endless to-do list, but mostly she was prowling the shelves for answers to a more personal mystery: why, exactly, she had been humming like a cursed tuning fork since finding Marlow Truckenham’s body in the Grove Core.
Hiding in the stacks had also allowed her to avoid patrons and coworkers alike, because every time a remotely attractive man so much as cleared his throat, her traitorous body started planning a three-day sex marathon. It was humiliating. And exhausting.
The books weren’t helping, either. Lately, they’d developed a nasty habit of flinging themselves off the shelves into her arms, as though the library itself had decided to become her sex concierge.
Yesterday it was Moonlit Conjunctions: An Illustrated Guide. Today, so far, she’d been pelted with The Nine Sacred Positions, Consorting with the Divine, and, most mortifyingly, Blood, Seed, and Sacrament: A Compendium of Fertility Rites.
She’d chucked that last one straight into the returns bin before it could give her more ideas.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at the text that had just come in.
Ezra Caulder
Sorry, been swamped. Miss your face. Call me tonight? Or just swing by. I’ll keep the lights on.
Goldie stared at the screen. Call him? Oh, she had a few things she’d like to call her on-again, off-again hookup. And damn him for knowing exactly how to phrase it so her treacherous body sat up and begged.
The throbbing between her thighs surged at the suggestion, as if every nerve ending had heard the word swing and decided it was an order.
Right on cue, another notification chimed.
Jonah Pell
Thanks for the coffee date Had fun, would love to do it again. Maybe dinner next time? What’s your schedule like next week?
Goldie closed her eyes. The whole coffee date had been exquisite torture.
Jonah had smiled, listened, leaned in close enough for her to smell that mix of cedar and clean linen, and she’d spent the entire time trying not to climb across the table and ruin it.
He’d been so damn sweet: thoughtful, steady, and the polar opposite of Ezra’s smutty invitations.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to figure out how to respond without blatantly propositioning him.
Marvin’s head poked into the stacks. “You busy?” he asked, voice muffled around a set of oversized fangs.
Marvin, one of the part-time librarians, was technically a cryptid, though Goldie thought of him more as a walking pile of broom bristles with glasses.
His shaggy black fur stuck out in wiry tufts no matter how much he combed it, and his narrow snout gave him a perpetually apologetic look.
Cute in a mop-dog sort of way, but about as sexy as an unwashed floor mat. Which was, frankly, a relief right now.
“That depends,” Goldie said, flashing him a wink as she wiped her dusty hands on her hoodie.
She looked down at her nails and grimaced at their state.
The stacks must be filthier than usual. She flicked a dark crescent of dirt from underneath one fingernail.
“Is it something fun, or just overdue notices?”
Marvin shifted uneasily, clutching a clipboard like it might protect him. “Uh… someone at the front desk asking for you. Only you. I offered to help but…” He trailed off, looking both confused and slightly alarmed.
“It’s all good, Marvin.” Goldie hauled herself up, grateful her libido wasn’t doing anything overly angsty in his presence.
Although, irritatingly, just the fact of him being male was enough to set off a faint, unwanted spark.
She ignored it, smiled at him, and started toward the front desk with her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
No accidental eye contact today. Her hormones were singing loud enough already.
She rounded the corner and nearly tripped over her own feet.
Nell was at the desk, chatting with a tall patron in a long, dark coat. His skin caught the library’s fluorescent light like pale birch bark, softened with a green undertone. Dark, vine-like strands crowned his head, faintly tousled and absorbing the light.
Her body roared in instant recognition, heat surging low and insistent.
Memory replayed itself in traitorous flashes: the flex of his vines snaking around her body, thrusting into her, becoming undone around them as she clenched and writhed.
And beneath all that, another sensation rose: the faintest thump beneath her soles, as though the floor itself had a pulse.
Nell glanced up, bright-eyed, and Splice’s gaze followed. His eyes fixed on Goldie, sharp as thorns, unreadable.
Goldie flushed, the spark of want colliding with the raw memory of him shoving her away, the look of almost-disgust in his eyes.
She swallowed and forced her shoulders back, lips curling into a glittering smile as she drew her signature sparkle tight around her like armor.
Then she stepped forward, meeting him head-on.
“Well, hello. I understand my presence has been requested for some research-related goodness?” She smiled, then flicked a hand toward Nell, shooting her friend a look. “I’m flattered, truly, but you know, this lady here is a fiend in the stacks as well.”
Splice inclined his head, posture rigid. “I understand that. But I require you.”
Goldie felt the flush crawl up her throat, her lips parting before she could stop them. She scrambled, flinging glitter over her panic—wider smile, brighter eyes, bigger gestures—but her voice still cracked when she said, “Well then, let’s see what I can do for you. Nell? Want to join us?”
Nell’s gaze flicked between them, sharp as a scalpel. “Ah… unfortunately, I have to handle archival intake reports.”
Her eyebrows arched in perfectly sculpted accusation. The look screamed: Something is going on here, and you are going to tell me everything, witch.
Goldie waved a hand, sparkling like it was a shield. “Alrighty then! This way.” She turned on her heel and all but speed-walked toward the research desk, already hating everything about her life.
“So,” she said brightly, plopping down at the terminal and jiggling the mouse, eyes fixed on the screen. “What sort of research brings you here today?”
“I require information on breaking land transfers in wills.”
“Well, that’s… interesting. And wildly vague.
” Goldie tapped on the keyboard, letting her hands do the thinking while her brain scrambled to catch up.
“We’ve got a lot of different ways this could go.
You’ll have me lost in the stacks for hours if we’re just sticking with the broad category. So maybe… a little more context?”
He was looming at her shoulder, silent as stone, and she could feel the awkwardness like static against her skin. Risking a glance, she saw he was very carefully looking at a spot somewhere over her shoulder. His hands twitched at his sides, vines shifting in restless knots.
He was… fidgeting?
Goldie bit her lip. “Okay, well. Why do you need this exactly? Might help me narrow the search. I’m good, but I’m not psychic.”
“The Thornfather has been designated majority shareholder of the Green Holdings Land Trust upon Marlow Truckenham’s death. I wish to break the claim.”
Her eyes darted back to the computer screen. The text swam, letters slipping sideways as if someone had nudged them out of place. Her pulse thudded in her ears, and beneath the floorboards came another slow, answering beat.
“I don’t…” She cleared her throat, forcing her voice steady. “I’m not sure we’ve got anything on breaking that kind of transfer. Isn’t that more of a lawyer thing? Probate, maybe? I think there’s a way to reject a bequest? I feel like I read—”
“I can’t,” Splice cut in. His voice was flat, but something brittle ran under it. “The claim activated automatically. And now it is hurting Mycor. I do not know why, but he is sick, and it is tied to this.”
Something inside her gave a low twist, like a root seeking water. The cursor blinked at her, patient, merciless. Blink. Blink. Her thoughts scattered like loose tarot cards, her brain warring between want and the humiliation of his previous rejection.
“Uh…” She caught her lip between her teeth. “We could… look at cross-references? But if I keep it broad, I’ll be in the stacks until Solstice.”
From the next aisle, Marvin trundled by with his squeaky cart, offering a timid thumbs-up before vanishing again. The absurd normalcy of it made her stomach lurch.
She needed Splice to leave, now, before she did something catastrophically stupid, like haul him behind the map case for a very public snogging—or worse, clumsily blurt out her whole rotten mix of wanting and hurt in front of everyone.
“I was told you have access,” Splice said. His tone was low, and for the first time there was something that might have been panic threaded through it. “Access where others cannot go. I thought…”
He hesitated, choosing the words with painful precision. “Herald of the Solstice Flame. Mr. Lyle said that title matters.”
Goldie frowned. “I… have keys to the municipal archives,” she said slowly. “But I can’t just go rummaging willy-nilly. And I don’t know why City Hall would keep anything relevant to—”
“Not even related to the Green Holdings?” he pressed. His eyes locked on hers, sharp and oddly pleading.
The thump came again under her feet—louder this time, closer.
She darted a look down the hall. Ms. Kephra peered around the corner, glasses shimmering like two tiny, benevolent moons. Goldie gave a tiny, frantic wave that was either help or do not come closer; Ms. Kephra, sensibly, retreated. Goldie wasn’t sure if she was frustrated or relieved by that.
“I mean, I can look,” Goldie blurted. “If that would—I mean—I can put in a request, see what’s public, and—”
“Please,” Splice said. His words landed in her like a hook.
She swallowed. “Leave me the particulars. Any dates, anything you have. I’ll see what I can legally access and how quickly. No promises.”
She pressed her knees together under the desk and pasted on a brighter smile to hide the heat.
Under the desk, the floor seemed to breathe.
Splice’s shoulders eased. “Thank you.”
He reached for the scribble pad, wrote a few neat lines, and slid the page across the desk. “This should narrow your search. I will contact you again.”
Goldie nodded, not trusting her mouth to form anything that wouldn’t come out as a moan. Splice turned and walked away, the faint rustle of vines trailing after him like the world’s most unsettling ASMR.
The moment he turned the corner, she collapsed into the chair, both palms slapping over her face. Her body was still singing with heat and static, every nerve ending rioting like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the moment was over.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Goldie fished it out and glanced at the screen. Unknown number. Normally she would’ve let it roll to voicemail but, still frazzled by the encounter with Splice, she decided to welcome the distraction and thumbed it on.
The voice that came through was tinny and professional.
“Ms. Flynn? It’s Detective Oseki. Do you have a minute today? I’d like to clarify some things on your timeline. Can you come by the station?”
Goldie stared at the note in her hand. “Yes. Um… I get off at three. Is that too late?”
“Not at all,” Oseki said, her voice smooth. “We appreciate it, Ms. Flynn. We’ll see you then.”
“Bye,” Goldie said blankly, and hung up.
She stared at her phone. No new notifications, no messages. Just the sparkly swirls of her wallpaper, suddenly too bright, too loud.
Nell appeared at her elbow. “Hey. You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Goldie said, her voice small. “I have to go to the station after work. They want to ‘clarify my timeline.’”
Nell’s eyes sharpened. “Do you want me to come?”
“No.” Goldie forced a smile onto her face. “It’s fine. I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably some paperwork.”
Nell didn’t look convinced. “Text me when you’re done. I’ll be here until six, but I’ll be home right after.”
“Promise.”
Nell squeezed her arm and drifted back toward the desk.
Goldie slid the note Splice had left into her pocket, took one long breath, and stood.