Marlow Truckenham stared up at her, eyes filmed, mouth gaping. His shirt was soaked through with black-red blood, blooming from the center of his chest in a perfect, terrible circle.
Chapter
Twelve
She should be screaming. Should feel the electric spike of fight-or-flight.
But instead, a heavy, listening stillness pressed in, pinning every muscle in place. A slow, detached part of her brain began to catalogue the scene with unnerving calm.
His shoes are Italian leather. The blood hasn't touched them.
Marlow Truckenham’s hair was perfectly coiffed, his jacket crisp, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. One hand was clenched into a tight, white-knuckled fist. He looked immaculate, except for the gaping hole torn through his chest. The blood, dark and deliberate, had pooled beneath him in a perfect, ritualistic ring.
Her stomach lurched.Oh, gods and goddesses.
The bonfire pile seemed to vibrate, a low resonance that lodged in her bones. The ground shifted under her knees—subtle but undeniable—as if the earth itself exhaled.
A small, gleaming bead rolled free from the roots and tapped against her leg. She swallowed, heart hammering, and bent to pick it up. The metal gave off a faint pulse, low and insistent, that seemed to echo in her chest. Before she could think better of it,her hand moved on its own, slipping the bead into the pocket of her leggings.
A cool hand settled on her shoulder, steady and sure.
“Marigold?”
Goldie looked up calmly. The Thornfather’s Assistant bent over her. His leaf-shadow-green eyes scanned her face, sharp and curious.
“I… he…” Goldie’s voice faltered. Her hand moved weakly, a gesture toward the bonfire mound she’d been blessing, but her gaze was dragged back to the body. Marlow Truckenham’s empty eyes seemed to pierce through them both, a silent, final accusation.
Dead,her mind supplied, the word a flat, dull thud.Shit. Shitshitshit.
“Are you hurt?” The Assistant’s voice was calm, a grounding pulse amid the swirling chaos of her own thoughts.
She shook her head, but as she did, a sharp, violent tremor rolled through the ground beneath them. It was a spasm of agony, a wave of pain that shot up through the soles of her feet and echoed deep in her bones, a nauseating harmony with the thrumming in her own chest. She winced, a gasp catching in her throat.
“The land,” she whispered, the words tumbling from her mouth. “It’s screaming.”
The Assistant’s gaze sharpened. He cupped her chin, his touch surprisingly gentle, and studied her pupils as if reading the growth rings of a tree. He opened his mouth to speak, but another pulse, stronger this time, slammed through the ground.
Goldie flinched violently as it shot through her. The world rushed back in, loud and sharp and horrible. Her breath hitched, then came in ragged, desperate gasps. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror.
Ohgodsohgoddessesohnonononono.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. There was a dead body.A dead body.Marlow Truckenham was dead.Here.
“The destabilization is amplifying,” the Assistant murmured, his voice a low, urgent hum. “We must leave.”
In one liquid motion, he drew her to her feet, then bent, sliding one arm behind her knees and the other below her shoulders. Goldie gasped as he lifted her as if she weighed nothing more than a collection of twigs and leaves.
“What about—about him—” she stammered, her gaze fixed on the still, silent form of Marlow Truckenham.
“No.” The Assistant’s tone was absolute, brooking no argument as he moved through the twisting hedge-labyrinth. Goldie bit her knuckle, stifling a scream that clawed at her throat.
Voices began to filter through the green walls: the bustle of event staff, the murmur of vendors, a distant ringtone. Goldie risked a look up. The Assistant’s eyes had gone a solid, luminous white, his lips moving in a silent, urgent litany.
They stepped through the last hedge wall and into a gathering of volunteers. The murmurs of the festival volunteers halted as all eyes snapped to Goldie and the Assistant.
“What happened? We felt—” A tall volunteer with a sweat-dampened ball cap and an anxious jawline took a step forward. “Somethingshifted.Is everyone okay?”
“There is a body,” the Assistant said sharply, his voice ringing with cold authority. “And the ground is destabilizing further. You need to call the police. Now.”
