Chapter 42
Chapter
Forty-Two
The first thing Goldie was aware of was the silence. Not the usual quiet of her apartment, which was always humming with the soft chatter of the building and the purrs of her cats, but a profound, weighted stillness, as if the world had finally run out of things to say.
The second was the solid, unyielding warmth next to her.
She pried her eyes open, the light from the window a dull, gray smear.
For a disoriented moment, she didn't know what day it was.
The night before was a raw, gaping wound in her memory, and the hours after were a blur of adrenaline and bone-deep exhaustion.
She remembered stumbling back into her apartment, the door clicking shut behind them, and then… nothing.
A soft sound came from beside her. Goldie turned her head slowly, every muscle protesting.
Splice.
He lay on his back beside her, on top of the covers and still in yesterday’s clothes. One arm draped over his eyes, the other settled on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The sight undid her. Splice, who had never slept, not really. Splice, who had always been an extension of something vaster, never his own self. Splice, simply… resting next to her.
Goldie swallowed around the ache rising in her throat. Gently, barely a whisper of touch, she pushed a strand of hair away from his brow. His face, freed of its usual tightness, looked soft. Vulnerable in a way that warmed her heart.
She pressed her palm briefly to his cheek. They’d figure out what came next. But for now, she just wanted to memorize the miracle of this moment.
The shrill, demanding ring of her phone on the nightstand tore through the quiet. Goldie flinched, and Splice stirred with a low groan, pulling his arm from his face. His leaf-shadow-dark eyes, hazy with sleep, found hers.
“Is it morning already?” he muttered, voice rough.
“Define morning,” Goldie croaked, fumbling for the phone on the nightstand. She squinted at the screen. “Oh, gods. It’s the police. I’m sure of it.”
Splice grunted, rolling over to plant his face in the pillow. “Do you have to answer?”
“Yes,” she sighed, and thumbed the call open. “Hello?”
Detective Oseki’s voice was crisp and professional, every syllable too precise for this hour. “Ms. Flynn. Just a few follow-up questions. If you and your companion could come to the precinct? The sooner the better.”
Goldie blinked. “As in, right now?”
“If you can,” Oseki said, which in police-speak meant, don’t make me send a cruiser.
Goldie closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sure. Of course. Because sleep is a social construct anyway.”
“Thank you, Ms. Flynn.” The line went dead.
Goldie dropped the phone onto her chest and stared at the ceiling. “We’re being summoned.”
A short time later, they stepped into the sterile, buzzing lobby of the Bellwether Civic Precinct. The air smelled of stale coffee and flopsweat, an aroma Goldie now firmly associated with the worst days of her life.
She clutched the paper cup in her hand a little tighter.
The caffeine wasn’t a miracle, but it helped.
And the walk over in the thin morning sunlight had done something for Splice; he still looked rumpled and hollow-eyed, but there was a faint, new brightness in him, like the warmth had coaxed him a little further into his own skin.
A tremor of anxiety ran through her anyway. Her hand instinctively found Splice’s arm, fingers curling tightly around his bicep. He didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he straightened, becoming a solid, living anchor against the fluorescent glare and muted murmur of the precinct.
They waited in the entry area, perched awkwardly on a bench that had definitely seen better days. Goldie sipped her coffee; Splice watched everything with alert, quiet wariness, like the building itself might decide to interrogate them.
A glass door squeaked open, and Detective Oseki strode out, sleek and composed as ever, her black hair perfectly in place and her dark eyes sharp and cutting.
Detective McCutchen trailed behind her, clinging to a cup of coffee like it was holding him together, his gray eyes shadowed with fatigue and a rough stubble marking his jaw.
Oseki gave them both a brisk once-over, cataloguing their rumpled clothes, Goldie’s coffee, Splice’s unblinking focus, and then gestured sharply, a silent command to follow.
“Let’s get you settled,” she said, already turning on her heel.
Goldie and Splice rose together and followed her deeper into the precinct.
“How is she this awake?” she asked Splice, sotto voice.
Without turning, Oseki replied, “Clean living and a complete lack of hobbies.”
McCutchen snorted into his coffee.
Detective Oseki didn’t lead them to one of the glass-walled interrogation rooms, but instead to a small, functional office. A single, healthy-looking fern sat on the corner of the desk, its fronds an almost aggressive shade of green against the municipal beige.
Oseki gestured for them to sit in the two chairs opposite her desk, which they did, a silent, unified movement.
The detective sat, pulling a slim tablet from a drawer. She didn’t power it on immediately, instead folding her hands on top of it and regarding them with a calm, unreadable expression.
“I’ll get straight to it,” she said, her voice even. “There’s a lot to unravel from the other night, but the preliminary findings are consistent with your statements.”
She paused, and Goldie felt Splice tense beside her.
“The energy signature from the event that killed Tamsin Donover and Jonah Pell was enormous, and originated from the Grove Core itself. Our forensic readings tracked the pulses and concluded it was a defensive reaction. A violent, but targeted, expulsion.”
Oseki tapped the screen of her tablet, and a faint web of light projected into the air between them.
“They didn’t catch everything, but they caught enough. There’s no trace of offensive spellcraft from either of you. You were caught in the blast radius, not causing it. From a legal standpoint, it’s clear you didn’t do anything wrong.”
The knot of tension in Goldie’s chest loosened just enough for her to breathe. “That’s good,” she said, the words coming out as a weary exhale.
Oseki gave a slight, acknowledging nod before swiping the projection away. “It is. It simplifies one aspect of this. But it complicates another.” Her focus shifted, landing squarely on Splice. “We did some digging into the Green Holdings Land Trust.”
Goldie’s grip on Splice’s arm tightened instinctively.
“It was founded thirty-three years ago by Marlow Truckenham and six other private partners,” Oseki explained. “A magical charter binding them to the land, and to each other. With Truckenham’s death, and the subsequent events, we checked in on the other founding members.”
She made a small, wry face, a gesture so subtle it was almost invisible. “As of this morning, the three surviving founders are in magically-induced comas. They’re receiving the best care money can provide at Bellwether General, but doctors aren’t optimistic that they’ll ever wake.”
She tapped her stylus once against the desk, a soft, resigned click. “Because of this, they are, for all intents and purposes, no longer active parties in the trust.”
She hesitated, glancing between Goldie and Splice.
“Which means, by the binding terms of the original charter and Marlow Truckenham’s will, the Thornfather is now the sole remaining active partner.
And you, Splice…” She looked directly at Splice, saying his name with pointed intention.
“As his declared extension, that makes you the sole holder of the Green Holdings.”
Goldie drew in a sharp, silent breath, the sound swallowed by the sudden ringing in her ears. Beside her, Splice flinched, a violent, full-body recoil as if Oseki’s words had been a physical blow.
“I don’t want it,” he said.
“Be that as it may, that’s where it stands,” Detective Oseki said. “The city’s legal counsel is still trying to unravel the implications, but it’s a knot that won’t be untied overnight.”
She offered a small, almost sympathetic shrug. “Fortunately, that also means you have time to think. With the other original founders incapacitated, there’s no one to challenge the succession. The Holdings are in a state of legal stasis.”
The detective leaned back, her focus shifting slightly as she moved on to the next item on her mental list. “On that front, there is some good news. Forensics and our magical consultants have finished their preliminary sweep of the Grove Core. The area has stabilized significantly since the incident.”
She paused, then added, “Elijah Pell’s remains have been recovered. We also located a surviving relative. A second cousin in Schenectady, of all places. Both his bones and his brother’s body have been released to her for a private burial.”
Goldie and Splice both nodded, the motions small and slow.
Detective Oseki slid the tablet across the desk, along with a stylus. “Anyway,” she said, her tone shifting back to brisk efficiency, “that about covers the major points. The rest is just paperwork.”
She gestured to the tablet, which now displayed a series of standard release forms and non-disclosure agreements, their dense legal text glowing with a soft, bureaucratic light.
“Standard procedure when magical incidents intersect with civic property and multiple fatalities. This just confirms your testimony and formally closes our investigation into your involvement. We have nothing else for you.”
Goldie took the stylus, her hand feeling strangely steady as she scrawled her signature on the indicated lines. She passed it to Splice, who signed with a short, sharp flick of his wrist, as if trying to get rid of something distasteful.
Oseki took the tablet back, her expression softening for the first time into something that might have been sympathy. She looked from Splice’s rigid posture to Goldie’s exhausted face.