Chapter 38 #2
Oberon padded forward, sniffed Splice’s boots with the solemnity of a customs inspector, then dropped into a theatrical sprawl at his feet. Tell him to remember my ears. And belly. Belly scritches are essential.
Goldie snorted and rubbed a hand over her face. “Gods, you two are impossible.” She grabbed her phone off the counter, checking for messages. “Tamsin wants us there around eleven-thirty, so we’ve got some time.”
A real smile bloomed across her face. “Normally I’d say let’s have another round of fantastic sex, but we should probably save our energy for the main event.”
“Agreed,” Splice said solemnly.
“So instead, I nominate a bad movie. The Happening. A very serious cautionary tale about plants making people kill themselves. Truly, high art.”
A tiny smile tugged at Splice’s mouth. He followed her to the couch, settling beside her. “Will it make me angry?”
“Oh, probably. But that’s part of the experience.”
She curled into him, their limbs folding into each other with a newfound ease, and pressed play on the remote. The movie’s wooden dialogue and escalating nonsense began to flicker across the screen.
Splice watched with solemn focus as the plot unraveled. “They fear the trees?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Not just the trees, The grass. The shrubs. The potted philodendron you forgot to water. It’s basically lawn-care propaganda.”
The film’s absurdity rolled on. Goldie leaned her head against Splice’s shoulder.
He shifted slightly, then settled his arm around her in a quiet embrace.
The movie ended with on-screen newscasters speculating about “nature’s warning,” before the final cut to Paris, where the madness began all over again.
Splice tilted his head as the credits rolled over a triumphant, synth-heavy score. “Humans misunderstand plants. If they truly wished harm, there would be no ambiguity about it.”
“And on that terrifying note,” Goldie said, clicking the television off, “I humbly beg forgiveness of every houseplant I’ve ever owned.”
The quiet hum of the apartment returned, thick with unspoken weight. Goldie glanced at her phone. 11:00 p.m.
“It’s time,” she said softly.
Splice nodded. He rose from the couch and offered her a hand. She took it, his fingers cool and firm around hers, and let him pull her to her feet.
As they walked hand-in-hand down the corridor, Greymarket Towers seemed to breathe with them. The lights in the brass sconces warmed, bathing Goldie in a soft, golden glow. The wallpaper on the walls rustled faintly, a sound like whispered encouragement.
They stepped out of the main entrance into the cool night air of Bellwether. Splice didn’t offer platitudes, didn’t tell her it would be all right. Instead, he simply squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing slow, soothing patterns onto the back of her hand.
The quiet, tree-lined streets of Bellwether gave way to the wilder edge of the Green Holdings.
The moment they crossed onto the perimeter path, the shift was immediate.
Civilization sloughed off like old skin.
Sidewalks gave way to mossy dirt. Street lamps flickered once and went out. Even the air changed, thickening.
Strips of red police tape fluttered limply in the breeze. Faded ward sigils shimmered along the iron gate, their edges pulsing faintly blue. Municipal magic, old and functional, meant to lock the land down and keep everything inside inert.
Goldie stopped short. “Oh, shit. This is still a crime scene.”
Splice looked from the gate to her. “Yes. Did you forget?”
Goldie groaned and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “There’s been a lot going on the past few days, okay? Ritual prep. Murder investigation. Multiple life-altering orgasms. I got distracted.”
Splice’s mouth twitched. “Understandable.”
She pointed at the barrier. “Okay, fine, but we can’t get in. And Tamsin definitely can’t.”
The Grove Core twitched inside her chest with an electric, visceral thrum that made her skin prickle.
Splice tilted his head, eyes going distant for a moment. “We crossed the wards before, when you sleepwalked.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But that was different. The Grove Core let me in.”
“It will again,” he said simply. “Do you truly think it will bar someone who means to heal it?”
Goldie stared at him, then sighed, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I hate that you’re probably right.” Her thumbs flew over the screen. Tamsin, let me know when you’re here and we’ll get you in. Don’t ask.
She hit send, the text disappearing into the blue glow of the night.
Goldie reached for Splice’s hand. The instant their fingers twined, the Grove Core stirred.
The ward sigils along the path flickered once, then flared.
A crack shimmered across the nearest one, jagged and iridescent, like ice fracturing under pressure.
Police tape withered in place, curling into ash.
Vines slithered back from the path, parting like a curtain.
Moss brightened faintly beneath their boots, lighting a narrow way forward.
Splice glanced toward the trees. “As I said. We’re meant to be here.”
Goldie hesitated, pulse thudding in her throat. Then she nodded. Together, they crossed the threshold.
A low, dissonant hum rose from the ground, vibrating through the soles of her shoes into her bones. The hair on her arms lifted and her pulse skipped. Ahead, a stand of ancient oaks shuddered, their leaves clattering though there was no breeze.
Goldie pressed a hand to her sternum, as if she could quiet the ache blooming outward from the Grove Core pulsing beneath her ribs.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.
Splice’s head tilted, as if catching a frequency she couldn’t hear. “The land hurts worse than before,” he said at last, his voice taut and low. “It’s good we came tonight.”
They moved on. The hedge-woven path opened into the Grove Core’s heart—a vast, circular clearing hemmed by towering green walls. The air was taut, stretched thin, like the breath before a scream.
Goldie paced the inner curve of the hedge wall, fingertips trailing over leaves and branches that felt brittle where they should’ve been springy, damp where they should’ve been dry. The whole place felt off-kilter, like someone had lifted the Grove Core and set it back down slightly askew.
She checked her phone. 11:38 p.m.
Her throat tightened. “This is weird. Tamsin’s punctual to a fault.”
The ground shuddered. The hedge walls groaned. The air curdled sharp and sour, metallic and fungal, like blood on wet leaves.
Splice’s head snapped toward the entrance of the Grove Core’s heart. “Stay here,” he said sharply.
“But—”
“Goldie.” He closed the distance between them in two strides, cupping her face in his cool, steady hands. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” His thumb brushed her cheek, soft despite the steel in his words. “Please trust me.”
Before she could protest, he was gone, swallowed by the dark.
The dread in her stomach hardened to ice. She drew in a shaky breath and jabbed the call button for Tamsin.
You’ve reached Tamsin Donover. Leave a message.
Goldie lowered the phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. Alone. Utterly alone in the Grove Core’s heart, silence pressing close from all sides.
She turned, scanning the clearing, eyes straining against the shadows pooling between branches and bark and roots.
And from those shadows came a small, sharp, metallic note, alien in this sacred place.
Click.