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, deemedworthyby 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?”
