Death threats, plural. This is very uncouth.
Lita Baines
Seriously? During Beltane week? If something blows up, half the city’s wards go with it.
Goldie shoved the phone back in her bag and exhaled sharply. “Well. Shit.”
Nell clutched her latte like it might sprout fangs. “Are we about to walk into a political assassination?”
Goldie squared her shoulders. “We’re about to walk into City Hall, which might be worse.”
Inside the building, the chaos was almost louder than the protest outside. The marble floors gleamed like they’d been polished by a nervous intern, but the air felt brittle, every conversation pitched too sharp, too fast.
Goldie and Nell paused just inside the atrium. Half the people waiting in line for the elevators were glaring out the tall windows at the chanting crowd; the other half were staring straight ahead with the blank focus of people trying very hard to pretend none of it was happening.
And then Goldie saw Jonah Pell. He was halfway down the hall, leaning toward a wereskink clerk with scaled cheeks and a gaze like twin adding machines, the kind of woman who looked like she’d memorized the entire budget and hated every number in it.
“Jonah!” Goldie called brightly, her bangles jangling like punctuation.
His head snapped up. The harried lines at his brow didn’t vanish, but when he saw her, they softened into a smile. “Goldie. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
The wereskink beside him gave Goldie and Nell a once-over. “Glad you made it through without getting ripped to shreds by the mob,” she said, smirking faintly.
Goldie lifted her coffee cup in mock salute. Jonah chuckled, though his eyes still darted nervously down the corridor.
“So,” Goldie continued, lowering her voice. “What happened? Did the sale go through? Is that why everyone is so rowdy today?”
“Not yet,” the wereskink said briskly, shifting her clipboard to one hip. “But the final discussions are happening upstairs right now. Truckenham stormed in about an hour ago. The Ashenvale delegation was right behind him.”
As if on cue, a shriek ricocheted down the marble hall.“What do you mean, they’re in a meeting?”
Goldie craned her neck. Three people she didn’t recognize were squared off against a glowing directory orb that kept chirping, in the patient voice of a long-suffering nanny:
Access restricted. Session in progress. Please await notification.
“Who are they?” Nell whispered.
“Junior trustees on the Land Trust,” Jonah said, his lip curling. “They want a vote—of course they do—but their trustee status is more honorary than actual. The Big Four run the room.”
“The Big Four,” the wereskink grumbled. “Truckenham, Swale, Mishra, Idris. They wrote the rules and never stopped grading everyone else’s homework. Truckenham loves closed sessions and locks out anyone who might tell him no.Includingthe other three when it suits him.”
Goldie whistled. “So the kiddie table’s barred from the dining room while the parents whisper over dessert?”
“Welcome to Bellwether politics,” Jonah murmured.
Goldie took in the harried aides, the scolding orb, and the junior trustees vibrating like toddlers denied recess. “And here I thought I could squeeze in a little Solstice research and flirt with the archives. I’m guessing that’s not in the cards?”
The wereskink shrugged, her scales flashing. “Honestly? It’s probably the best time. Everyone else is chasing protesters, babysitting Ashenvale’s delegation, or fielding death threats. The archives are practically deserted. That bracelet of yours will open more doors than usual.”
Goldie brightened. “Well, then. Guess I’ll go make friends with some dusty ledgers.”
Over by the doors, the younger Land Trust members had escalated from angry glares to full-on shouting at the orb.
“You can’t bar us from our own Trust business!” snapped a lean, half-dragon youth in a silk blazer far too expensive for daylight, his scaled temples glittering like jewelry.
“This is corruption!” bellowed a broad-shouldered human with a golf-tan and cufflinks shaped like tiny warding sigils, the kind of man who’d never carried anything heavier than a polo mallet.
“We have rights!” shrieked the third, a woman with hair lacquered into place and stilettos that flashed red soles as she stabbed an accusatory finger through the glowing projection, as if she could gouge its eyes out.
