Chapter 41
Chapter
Forty-One
The aftermath was a riot of overlapping noise: radios crackling, boots thudding, the sharp snap of camera shutters, and the low grumble of generators kicking to life.
A team put up yellow ward-tape, its runes flickering like tired fireflies.
A pair of officers were filling out forms on the hood of a cruiser, their pens clicking in a steady, irritating rhythm.
The air, once thick with the scent of raw magic, now tasted of metallic shock and the mundane sting of gasoline.
Police officers, faces grim, moved with practiced care through the clearing. They marked evidence, their voices low and clipped. Jonah Pell lay where he had fallen, his body stark against the churned earth until paramedics covered him with efficient detachment.
Near the edge of the clearing, laid atop the turned soil, rested an arrangement of human bones.
Pale. Brittle. Elijah Pell, returned to the surface.
His ribcage curved gently toward the roots, his skull resting at an angle that made the empty sockets seem almost watchful.
The faintest sheen of leftover spectral light clung to the bones.
Of Tamsin Donover, there were only shredded remains, flung across the Grove. Strips of fabric, clots of dark blood, a single bloody bracelet caught on a root like it had tried to crawl away. The only things left whole were her head, both hands, and one bare foot.
Officers moved in small, tight-lipped teams, lifting pieces into individually warded body bags no bigger than grocery sacks. One person gagged quietly behind a glove. Another stared too long, went pale, and had to step aside, hands trembling.
The doors of the ambulance stood open to the chaos. Goldie sat on the bumper, a coarse wool blanket draped around her shoulders. Beside her, Splice mirrored her stillness, his posture carved from the same quiet exhaustion.
A paramedic had checked them both, murmured about shock, and left them with bottles of water they hadn’t opened. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
Footsteps crunched through the grass. “Ms. Flynn. Assistant.”
Detective Oseki emerged from the trees, sharp-featured and impeccably composed, her expression carved into cool precision. Detective McCutchen followed a step behind her, already rubbing the back of his neck like he expected paperwork to ambush him.
Both of them took in the ruined clearing, the scorched earth, and Goldie’s blanket-wrapped form with the same unnerving stillness.
“You look like hell, Ms. Flynn,” Oseki said bluntly.
McCutchen cleared his throat. “What she means is, are you hurt?”
Goldie leaned her head against Splice’s shoulder, feeling him tilt toward her in silent support. “Physically? No,” she said. “Emotionally? Ask me in twelve to fifty years.”
Oseki snorted. “Don’t worry, we’re not here for the full interrogation. We just need the basics while the scene is still fresh.”
Her gaze swept over Goldie’s blanket, then to Splice’s thousand-yard stare.
“You two look about five minutes from collapsing. Give us the short version, then go home. We’ll follow up later when you’re upright and capable of sentences.”
Goldie and Splice nodded, weary gratitude flickering between them.
A police cruiser ferried them back to Greymarket, its interior humming with quiet runes and the faint smell of stale coffee. Neither of them spoke. Shell shock sat between them like a third passenger, heavy and unyielding.
When the car rolled to a stop at the front steps, McCutchen gave them a brief, weary nod from the driver’s seat. “Get some rest,” he said, voice rough with sincerity. “We’ll follow up tomorrow.”
Goldie managed a thin, grateful smile. Splice only inclined his head, the motion small and stiff, and they stepped out into the cool night air.
Greymarket Towers rose before them, tall and still.
When they stepped inside, the lobby greeted them like a hushed chapel.
The usual creaks and whispers of the old building had softened to a low, sleepy hum.
A lamp flickered overhead, then steadied, glowing warm and constant, as if reassuring them and welcoming them home.
Goldie drew in a breath, shaky but grounding. Splice didn’t speak, but the brush of his fingers against hers said enough.
From the far hall, Mr. Caracas shuffled into view in his robe and slippers, balancing a tray with a microwaved Salisbury steak and a sweating glass of milk. He gave them a genial nod, entirely unbothered by the fact that it was the middle of the night or the gravity weighing on their shoulders.
“Go see your god, plant-boy. You too, Sparkles.” He grunted and shrugged. “Don’t panic, he’s all right. Just going back to sleep. Place feels back to normal again.”
The ancient tortoise cryptid squinted at them both, something like pride flickering briefly behind his wrinkled eyes. “You did good,” he said simply.
Then, as if nothing world-altering had happened, he disappeared down the hallway, humming the theme to Murder, She Wrote.
Goldie blinked after Mr. Caracas, his humming fading. For a heartbeat, the heaviness in her chest eased. Then the weight of his words settled.
Just going back to sleep.
“If he’s settling,” Goldie whispered, her voice barely steady, “then… what does that mean now?”
For us? The thought rose sharp and unwelcome. If Mycor slept… would Splice fade too?
She didn’t dare say it aloud. Instead, she reached for his hand and squeezed hard, as if she could anchor him to the floor.
“I don’t know,” he said, swallowing hard.
Don’t go. Stay with me. The words burned on her tongue, but she couldn’t speak them.
Goldie nodded once, decisive despite the tremor in her chest. “Then let’s go find out.”
Hand in hand, they crossed the quiet lobby and slipped into the atrium.
The air changed the moment they stepped inside. The raw, heavy grief that had once clung to the space was gone, washed clean. What lingered now was a deep, restorative quiet that settled into Goldie’s bones like a balm.
At the koi pond, Mycor sat waiting. Not a shadow of a god unraveling, not the hollow-eyed husk she’d braced herself for. He looked up as they entered, and when his smile broke across his face, Goldie’s heart leapt.
He looked good. Better than good. The light filtering through the ivy-covered ceiling glowed a gentle, healing green, dappling the bark of his skin. The blossoms woven through his antlered crown, once withered and brown, now unfurled fresh petals, tender and newly pink.
Goldie’s breath caught. Her feet carried her forward, and then she was in his arms, throwing herself against him with the kind of reckless relief she couldn’t hold back.
The god caught her easily, folding her close and smiling down at her. One hand rose to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against the curl of her jaw. “Beautiful one. Golden flower,” he murmured, voice low and resonant. “I thank you for what you have done.”
The words sank into her, warm and weighty. For all the mythic grandeur wrapped around him, the look in his eyes was filled with gratitude, affection, and love.
Goldie let out a shaky laugh, the corners of her mouth curving despite the ache in her chest. “Well. It was a pleasure, big guy.”
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth, soft and lingering. His lips tasted faintly of rain and sap, cool at first, but warming as he returned the touch. Her pulse fluttered in response, a spark of the heat they’d shared shimmering through the quiet.
When she drew back, she brushed her thumb along his jaw, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re adorable when you get all grateful. Might make a habit of it.”
Mycor’s eyes gleamed, amused and fond, and he bent to kiss her again, this time slower, savoring. The blossoms threading through his antlers trembled as though stirred by the same current running through her veins.
Goldie’s smirk lingered as she stroked his cheek, but her voice softened. “Okay, big guy, now what? You look good, but… did we fix it? You’re whole again?” Her breath hitched. “And you’re… going back to sleep now?”
“Yes,” Mycor intoned, the word resonant, carrying more weight than its simplicity allowed. He breathed in the scent of her once more before his arms uncurled from around her, like roots releasing their hold on warm earth. Goldie exhaled and eased back a step, her palms sliding from his chest.
A soft rustle stirred beside her as Splice stepped forward, one hand settling carefully on Goldie’s shoulder, the other lifting to touch his god. For a moment he hovered, then his fingers pressed against the Thornfather’s arm.
“Mycor,” he said, the name barely a whisper. “When you return to sleep… what happens to me?” He shook his head once, sharp, as if trying to clear it. “You told me to guard her. To watch her. That was your first command.” His breath stuttered. “But if you go silent… if I go silent with you… ”
His eyes found Goldie’s, wounded and terrified and wanting. “How can I stay with her if I am not awake?”
Goldie felt her heart seize in an aching, electric stutter that rattled through her ribs. His words carved straight into her, terrifying in their honesty. For a moment she couldn’t breathe around the mix of fear and fierce, impossible hope climbing up her throat.
With a slow, deliberate grace, Mycor reached out, one hand cradling Goldie’s face, the other reaching for Splice’s shoulder. His presence wrapped around them like the hush of the atrium itself, green and inexorable.
“Golden flower,” he murmured, gaze warm on Goldie, “you have given me breath again.” His eyes shifted to Splice, the faintest smile curving his mouth. “And you, my Splice, you have grown into a new shape. Awake, and wholly your own.”
Splice’s breath hitched.
“Together you are stronger,” Mycor continued, voice deep as roots. “Stay with her. Be with each other. You will not fade when I sleep.”