Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Back at Greymarket Towers, on the floor of the secluded quiet of the atrium, Goldie spread out the folders and clippings Splice had lifted.
Soft light filtered through stained glass, painting muted colors across the worn stone floor.
Serenity surrounded her, but the storm in her head refused to quiet.
The Thornfather rested beside her, not sleeping and visibly uncomfortable. Roots twitched along the flagstones, restless. His massive head tilted with an unease that made the air thick with hurt.
After their dramatic exit from City Hall, Goldie had rifled through what Splice had grabbed. It was golden: Ashenvale contracts with frantic marginalia, Land Trust charters with names circled in red, even a provisional copy of Marlow Truckenham’s will.
She’d been ready to burst into song, or at least another screaming match, until she realized Splice was on the edge of falling apart in a nervous breakdown. Instead, she’d kissed his cheek and told him to rest.
Now he sat folded into one of the leafy corners of the atrium, half-shadowed among the climbing ferns. From where she worked, she could just glimpse him, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, the greenery curling toward him as if in comfort.
Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since arriving home.
Marla Gardner
OMG GOLDIE U ICON. “Kiss a cryptid” is TRENDING. Also I don’t want to talk about why but vines sound… appealing?
Nell Townsend-Samora
Are you TRYING to get arrested?? Call me if you need bail. Also, BOYFRIEND????
Mom
MARIGOLD HECTAE FLYNN. Your sister sent me a video of you raising hell. Who is this cryptid boyfriend, and when are we going to meet him?
Ezra Caulder
I saw your little shouting match, sunshine. You’re terrifying. It’s hot. Your cryptid’s a lucky guy.
The Thornfather shifted, a low, unsettling creak echoing through the Atrium. Goldie glanced up again.
“You okay, big guy?” she asked softly.
The god’s eyes slowly found hers. A sigh rumbled through him like wind through hollow wood.
“Hurts,” he said at last, the single word drawn out like it had been pulled from deep in his chest.
“I know, Mycor,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
A flicker of something passed through his gaze, but his mouth curved into the barest suggestion of a smile.
Goldie went back to work, poring over yellowed clippings that traced Marlow Truckenham’s steady rise from obscure civic clerk to powerbroker in under a decade.
The coverage wasn’t flashy, but the through line was unmistakable.
Every article was somehow tied to zoning maneuvers, shell companies, and the slow commercial chokehold on the Green Holdings.
She shifted a stack of memos, and something caught her eye: a folder tucked inside another, almost deliberately hidden. Its label had long since faded, and the paper was brittle at the edges. When she tugged it free, a smaller slip of parchment slid loose and fluttered to the floor.
Goldie bent and scooped it up. The handwriting was archaic, looping in ink that had bled nearly to illegibility
The Charter Custodians of the Green Holdings:
Marlow Truckenham
Priya Mishra
Alma Idris
Darren Swale
James Reed
Eamon Price
Dorthea Wolfinger
“Bingo,” Goldie whispered, lips curling. But the thrill of discovery ebbed almost as soon as it sparked.
The Big Four—Truckenham, Mishra, Idris, Swale—were either dead or collapsed in comas now.
The remaining three? She flicked to her phone, thumb darting as she cross-checked the internet quickly.
Price died of colon cancer three years ago.
Reed, heart attack five years ago. Wolfinger had cashed out and disappeared to the coast. All of it neat, tidy, and almost boring in its mundanity.
She opened up the file the parchment had slipped from and riffled through the papers, eyes skimming over the endless paragraphs until one comment caught her attention.
Upon the death of any member, their shares revert to the remaining original Custodians. The Council may, at its discretion, grant partitions of shares to individuals deemed worthy of stewardship.
Goldie snorted. Worthy, in her experience, usually meant money, favors, or the right cocktail party handshake. No bloodlines required. No magic needed. Just access.
She tapped the page, frown deepening. The newer trustees of the Land Trust—the ones Jonah and Carmen had mentioned as “ill” or “unavailable,” but not comatose—weren’t heirs at all.
They’d been slotted in later, deemed worthy by the Council.
Bought-in names. Paperweight legacies. Pretty figureheads meant to look respectable while the real power stayed locked up with the originals.
Unfortunately, in this case, being a figurehead also meant “experiencing a magical backlash severe enough to make you sick when someone performs ritual sex magic.”
Her mouth twisted. Did any of those shiny new members even realize what they’d signed onto? She doubted it.
She flipped through financials, amendments, ritual permits, and legalese. No smoking gun. No neat instructions. Certainly no helpful page labeled, here’s the ritual human sacrifice we did to bind the Grove Core to ourselves, and here’s how you undo it.
Goldie sighed and snapped the brittle file shut. “Of course not. Why make it easy?”
She sighed and sat back, frustration clawing at her chest. She let the papers fall and absently pressed her hand against Mycor’s arm. The bark of his flesh was cool and shifted slightly beneath her touch. His eyelids fluttered and his gaze found hers.
Her fingers traced slow, soothing patterns against his skin. A low rumble vibrated through him, steady, but faltering, like a heartbeat fighting to keep time. Goldie swallowed hard.
A soft motion drew her attention. She looked up to see Splice rising from his leafy corner, moving toward her. He crossed the atrium with measured steps, shadows shifting across his face until he reached them.
He knelt and laid his hand gently against Mycor’s bark. The god stirred again.
Goldie stiffened. “Don’t you dare give him your life force,” she warned softly.
Splice only nodded. For a long moment, they both kept their hands on Mycor, grounding themselves against his faltering strength. Then, slowly, Splice reached across and took Goldie’s free hand, threading his fingers through hers. She let him.
“I didn’t find anything useful.” Her voice cracked into the quiet. “The only thing even close was the list of the original land grant members, and it’s not like that gives us answers. No mention of the ritual, of course. Nothing that tells us how to stop this.”
She sighed, eyes lowering to the mess of papers scattered around them. “So, basically, you stole from City Hall for nothing. I promise I’ll post bail for you.”
Splice’s fingers tightened around hers. “It was not nothing,” he said quietly. “Names. Patterns. Maybe not the answers, but pieces.”
Goldie gave a hollow laugh. “Pieces that don’t fit. And Mycor is getting sicker faster than we can keep up. I just—” Her throat caught. “I don’t know what to do.”
Splice’s hand brushed lightly across her temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice was calm, certain. “Then we need to find someone who can help.”
Goldie stilled, the words lodging in her brain like a spark. Her mind spun through options, names, allies, until one name flared brighter than the rest.
“Oh gods,” she whispered. “Of course.”
She dug her phone out of her bag, thumbs already flying. A soft glow lit her face as she typed, fast and sure, each keystroke landing with the precision of a spell. Splice didn’t interrupt. He only watched, steady and silent, as she sent the message and set the phone on the floor.
Goldie exhaled slowly. “You’re being awfully calm about everything.”
“I’ve accepted there’s nothing I can do right now.” Splice leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple. “Except, perhaps, comfort my… girlfriend.”
Goldie’s head snapped up, eyes wide. The word hung strange in the air, heavy and startling. His leaf-shadow-green gaze met hers, steady but edged with tension.
He tilted his head. “You called me your boyfriend back at City Hall.” His brow arched, but the question underneath was quieter, almost hesitant. “Or was that just for show?”
Goldie looked at him, mouth opening to answer, or dodge, or something, when a sharp buzz split the tension. She jerked her gaze down to her phone, heart giving a startled kick.
Tamsin Donover
Come to my house. 8 p.m. We’ll discuss.
Her breath hitched. She held up the phone for Splice to see, her voice steady despite the tremor running through her. “My coven leader. She’ll help us figure this out. She’s the smartest witch I know. If anyone can help, it’s her.”
A thought pushed its way forward: one that had been hovering all day, half-formed and absurd, but impossible to ignore now.
It burned behind her teeth, electric with possibility and risk.
Determination flickered through her face before faltering as she turned back to look at Mycor.
Awe tangled with dread in her chest, heavy enough to make her throat tighten.
She swallowed. “Oh. Well. Um.” Her gaze darted to Splice, then back to the god. “Does he… need more than just… sex energy?”
Splice’s brows drew together. “Does he need what?”
She made a hesitant, wildly inappropriate little gesture with her hands. “Yeah, I mean… the rot is getting worse, quickly, and we just had sex twelve hours ago. So, I was thinking that… um…”
“Need,” rasped Mycor suddenly.
Both of them jolted like children caught whispering in church. Green flooded Splice’s cheeks, sharp against his pallor. His vines twitched along his arms, restless, serpentine.
Goldie sucked in a breath, willing her voice to steady. “Okay. Look. If we need to have sex again, I’m enthusiastically consenting, because it was excellent, ten out of ten, would absolutely ritual again. But…”