Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
The first thing she was aware of was the silence. Not an empty, ringing silence, but a full one, warm and deep. Goldie stirred, the sheets a soft, tangled weight around her legs, and turned her head on the pillow.
Splice was asleep beside her.
He was curled on his side, facing her, one arm tucked under his head. His breathing was a slow, even rhythm, his chest quietly rising and falling. His face was free from the tension and grim focus of the night prior.
Seeing him vulnerable and unguarded like this felt like being let in on a profound and dangerous secret.
Quietly, so as not to wake him, she slipped out from under the covers. Her body felt stale and vaguely sticky, both from yesterday’s clothes and the aftermath of the ritual, and her muscles ached with a satisfying soreness.
Her cats were waiting for her as she walked into the living room, perched like twin gargoyles on the back of the couch, their eyes tracking her every move.
You smell of loam, magic, and questionable life choices, Maeve’s voice echoed, sharp and unimpressed. It is time for food.
The god-graft is nice, Oberon countered, his tone a low, rumbling purr. His respect for me carries the right amount of fear. I approve. I want salmon.
Goldie rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen. As she scooped her cats’ respective gourmet patés into their bowls, her gaze fell on her phone, discarded on the counter. The screen was lit up with a new message.
Her heart gave a familiar, reflexive little flutter. Ezra.
Ezra Caulder
Hey babe. Been thinking about you. Any chance we can meet up? xoxo
She stared at the text. A week ago, it would have sent a thrill through her, a spark for the dramatic game they always played. Now, it just felt… distant. Like a song she used to love but couldn’t quite remember the words to.
She bit her lip, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She could sparkle. She could deflect. She could make a joke and put it off for another day, another week.
Instead, she took a breath and typed.
Hey Ezra. I don’t think so.
The reply was almost instantaneous. Something I did?
For a moment, she was tempted. She could have spun a tale, manufactured a reason, let him down with the glittering, charming performance he would have expected. But as she glanced back toward the bedroom, where the man-who-wasn't-a-man still slept, the impulse died.
No, she typed, her fingers steady. I just found something worth exploring, that's all.
She braced herself for questions, a pushback, or maybe even a theatrical plea. The typing dots blinked on and off, on and off, long enough for her stomach to twist. Then the words popped up on the screen.
Awesome! You deserve it, babe. Good luck, I mean it. And hey, you always know where to find me if you need me. xo
Goldie looked down at the exchange. How pedestrian. After months of fire-and-ice theatrics, their dramatic breakups and even more dramatic reunions, it was over in three texts.
A part of her, the part that thrived on drama, felt a pang of something like disappointment. He’d let her go so easily. Shouldn’t there be more fire? More grand gestures?
But as she set the phone back down on the counter, what washed over her was relief. A clean, quiet, and profound sense of it. The stage had been cleared. And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she didn't have to perform for anyone.
She was just… Goldie. And that felt like more than enough.
She curled into the window seat, tucking her legs beneath her.
The velvet cushions cradled her, soft and familiar, a little sanctuary from the world’s noise.
It was easy here to let her mind drift back to Splice, to the ritual, to the magic that had hummed between them…
and to my approximately twenty-seven orgasms, she thought wryly.
But beneath that memory, something quieter flickered. A warmth that wasn’t desire so much as presence. The Thornfather? The Grove Core? Splice himself? She couldn’t quite name it. Whatever it was, it soothed her, though beneath that comfort lurked a faint, sour tang she couldn’t ignore.
She sighed, tilting her head against the window.
She saw the sacrificed boy’s face, contorted in the vision’s strange light.
There was something about his expression, a flicker of…
not just fear, but recognition. It felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream, and the inability to place it was an itch she couldn’t scratch.
Frustrated, she reached for a tarot deck. The cards wouldn't tell her the future, not really, but their archetypal language helped her think. She needed to lay it all out, to see the shape of the story so far.
She shuffled and laid the cards out in a neat row on the low table before her.
A story stared back at her, sharp in its outlines but blurred where it mattered most. Goldie let out a sharp breath, irritation prickling under her skin.
The path was there, ink and card stock spelling out patterns, but the final pieces still hovered just out of reach.
The soft click of the bedroom door pulled Goldie from her spiraling thoughts.
Splice stood framed in the doorway, one hand raking through his vine-dark hair, loose pajama pants slung low on his hips.
The simple cotton shirt he wore did absolutely nothing to hide the strong line of his shoulders or the way his chest stretched the fabric when he breathed.
Something warm and wicked fluttered in Goldie’s stomach before she managed a small, hesitant smile. “Morning.”
Splice gave a slow nod in return, his gaze taking in the apartment, her cats, the cards on the table, before finally settling on her. There was a beat of silence, the quiet of two people trying to remember the shape of the space between them.
He moved into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water from the tap with a languid grace that seemed at odds with the slight stiffness in his posture.
"How is he?" Goldie asked, her voice quiet. The question felt safer than How are we?
Splice paused, his back to her. He rested a hand on the edge of the counter as he took a sip of water. For a heartbeat, the air grew still, Greymarket’s ambient hum seeming to quiet in deference.
"Quiet," Splice said, his voice a low thrum. "Resting." He turned to face her, his green eyes clear and focused. "He feels the wound of the sacrifice more acutely now that we’ve seen its origin."
"Good," she breathed, a knot of tension loosening in her chest. Then, catching his meaning, she amended, "I mean, it's good that he's resting. Not that he's wounded."
A ghost of a smile touched Splice’s lips. He turned towards her, his gaze dropping to the tarot cards on the table. "Looking for answers?"
"Looking for a place to start," she admitted.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stepped over to the window seat, close enough that she could feel the soft warmth of him. He lifted a hand, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face before letting his palm settle against her cheek. She leaned into the touch without thinking.
Then he bent and captured her lips in a slow, deep kiss that was both a reassurance and a renewal of the promise from the night before.
The kiss left Goldie warm and steadied, but the quiet that followed felt like stepping onto an unfamiliar stage without a script.
She pushed abruptly to her feet, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her pajama pants, and made a beeline to the kitchen cabinets.
She pulled one open, then another, not really looking for anything so much as generating activity.
“Right. So,” she said brightly, far too brightly. “Coffee? Tea? Do you… need dirt or something? A spritz of fertilizer?”
Behind her, she heard a soft huff of amusement.
“Goldie,” Splice said, and when she glanced over her shoulder, he was rubbing a hand over his face. “Must you insist on treating me like a houseplant?”
“Oh yeah?” She leaned back against the counter, arms folding in a familiar defensive-flirt gesture. “So what’s on the menu for you, then? What do you eat?”
There was a distinct pause. Splice drifted after her without seeming to decide to, the way vines lean toward warmth. When he reached the counter, he rested his fingertips lightly beside the glass he’d left there earlier, eyes fixed on her as he appeared to give the question genuine consideration.
“Sunlight,” he said at last, tone utterly matter-of-fact.
Goldie slapped a hand on the counter with a triumphant thud. “Yes! I knew it!”
“I’m still not a plant,” he said, in the tone of someone who had clearly lost this argument before it even started.
Goldie waved off his protest with a breezy flick of her hand. “Of course not,” she said, eyes bright with mischief. She reached a hand toward him, fingers wiggling in a come-on gesture. “Let’s get my sweet, sexy, non-carnivorous Audrey II some chlorophyll.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m assuming you’re mocking me,” he said, tone dry as he placed his hand in hers without hesitation.
“Only a little,” she said, tugging him gently as she guided him back onto the window seat.
Morning sun poured across the velvet cushions in a brilliant gold sweep, and he sank into it with a quiet exhale.
As the light hit him, the dark strands of his hair took on a richer sheen.
He closed his eyes, a low, almost inaudible sound slipping from him.
The peaceful, sun-drenched calm shattered with the aggressive buzz of Goldie’s phone. She scooped it up. It wasn't a call or a text. It was a calendar reminder, stark and impersonal in the morning light.
SOLSTICE PLANNING COMMITTEE - 12:00 PM - City Hall
“Shit,” she breathed. The real world, with its calendars and civic duties, felt like a rude intrusion.
Beside her, Splice stirred. “A problem?”
“I have a meeting,” Goldie muttered. “For the Solstice celebration. I’m… the Herald of the Solstice Flame.”
Saying it out loud made it sound absurd, like she’d forgotten to take off a costume.
“I’m supposed to have done stuff. Historical precedents, a draft speech… I’ve got nothing. Oh shit, and Tamsin! Tamsin asked me to get research. She’s going to be so disappointed in me! Oh, I’m the worst.”
And then—Jonah.
Guilt stabbed, sharp as a thorn. He’d asked her to dinner, and she’d never texted back. Between Ezra’s visit, Splice’s ritual, gods, and visions of murder, her lightning-flash hunger for Jonah felt like it belonged to another lifetime. He was kind. Too kind.
And once he knew about… well. All of this.
She winced, biting her lip. She’d have to find a way to let him down easy. Hopefully.
Splice turned his head toward her, eyes narrowing. “Will the Big Four be there?”
Goldie let out a short, humorless laugh. “I know that the three of them who are still alive will be there.”
“Then you’re not going.” His voice was flat, a low rumble that carried no give.
“Splice.” Goldie gaped at him, incredulous. “Come on. They have no idea I know anything about anything. Hell, I don’t even know if I do know anything about anything.”
“I don’t care.” His jaw tightened. “I know. And I won’t have you in a position where you might say something you shouldn’t.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I can’t keep my mouth shut? Or that I don’t know how to be subtle?”
He didn’t answer, only glanced toward the sequined throw pillow on the window seat—the one embroidered in glittering silver letters that read I’m Hexy And I Know It.
Goldie flushed. “I can be subtle,” she repeated, much less convincingly. “And if I don’t go, everyone will descend on me like nosy municipal pigeons. It’ll be worse.” She shrugged helplessly. “Going is the path of least disaster.”
“I don’t like this,” he said, his subcutaneous vines swirling.
“Well, then, you can come with me,” she shot back. “You can be my… bodyguard.”
His brows rose. “And that’s subtle? Me, the Thornfather’s Assistant, proxy to the majority owner of the Green Holdings, at your side?
Yes. Brilliant plan. If the Land Trust are the ones we saw in that mnemonic bead, I’m sure they won’t notice when you, the person who found the body, show up with me. ”
Goldie groaned. “What do you want me to do, then?”
“I want you to stay here, where you will be safe,” he growled.
“That’s not going to happen.” Goldie stood, brushed past him, and stalked to the counter where her laptop sat buried under unopened mail.
She yanked it open, dropped back into the window seat, and started typing furiously, panic-Googling anything she could skim in the next ten minutes to look marginally prepared instead of like a woman who’d done absolutely no homework.
“This is actually a golden opportunity,” she said after a moment.
“Really,” Splice said dryly.
“Yes, really.” Her fingers kept flying across the keyboard.
“I’m the Herald, which means I can request records—special access, ceremonial precedent, all that.
Sure, we’ve got plenty at the library, but I know there’s more buried in City Hall’s archives.
Original Land Trust paperwork.” She shot him a glance over the screen.
“The file I wanted has probably been checked back in since Truckenham died. Bet it lists the original members. It’d be a start. ”
Splice went still for a moment, the annoyance in his posture smoothing into something more thoughtful.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “this could be an opportunity for me to request access to Truckenham’s records.
I am, technically, the majority stakeholder’s representative.
I could claim it for... procedural review. ”
Goldie looked up, and something bright sparked behind her eyes. It was elegant. It was simple. It was—perfect.
“You beautiful bastard,” she breathed. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
“The benefits of inheriting a bureaucratic nightmare,” he said dryly.
“Okay then.” She stood, energy crackling through her exhaustion.
“You’re brilliant and amazing. Let’s go to City Hall.
I’ll have my meeting, and you can use your fancy legal standing to get a hold of records and be close by without raising suspicion.
Between the two of us…” Her grin widened. “We’ll get it. We’ll figure this out.”
He exhaled, a small surrender in the sound. "You're very optimistic," he murmured with obvious fondness in his voice.
She winked. "That's me in a nutshell."
Her phone buzzed against the table. The calendar reminder again.
"Okay," she said, already moving toward her bedroom. "Let's get dressed. We've got bureaucracy to meddle in."