“You can put me down,” she said gently.
Splice hesitated. Then, carefully, he shuffled away from the felines, who made sounds of disapproval, and gently lowered Goldie to the couch. He released her fully only when she was seated, her feet brushing the rug, her balance her own again.
Goldie sat still for a breath, grounding herself. The ginger female launched into her lap with no hesitation, purring like a possessed cello. The dark male hopped up beside her and butted his forehead into Goldie’s ribs.
Splice shuddered and took a step back.
Goldie grinned faintly and ran a hand through the ginger one’s fur. “They’re grumpy and demanding, but easily distracted when their food source returns.”
Silence bloomed in the apartment. Splice stood in front of Goldie, very still, without a protocol for what came next.
He shifted his weight. From below, a slow pulse rippled, fungal and quiet.
How fares the golden flower?
Splice drew a sharp breath.
Goldie looked up. “What was that?”
He exhaled. “Mycor. He is… asking about you.”
“Mycor?”
Splice froze. He had never before spoken so casually in front of another.It felt... exposed. Like letting someone look at the page where the story was still being written.
He fumbled. “That is to say… the Thornfather.”
Goldie’s voice was soft, a little hoarse. “Oh. Is that his name? Mycor?”
Splice looked away, jaw twitching. “It is...” He swallowed. “It is what he is. To me.”
Goldie leaned her head back against the couch cushions, “Well,” she said slowly, voice thick but edged with that familiar, crooked, maddening sparkle. “Why’s he asking about me? What about you?”
Splice frowned, the motion carving deeper lines across his bark-textured skin. He wanted to strip the glitter from her words and feel that raw, quiet version of her again, the one that had brushed the inside of his chest, briefly.
Only belatedly did he register her actual question.
“Why would he ask about me?” he said, genuinely puzzled.
Goldie let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I mean, you’re his assistant. You’d think that’s a little more important than checking on me.”
Splice didn’t answer at first. He needed to think, which was odd in itself. Most things came quickly: observation, response, movement. But this…
“Do you have a name?” Goldie asked. “I keep calling youthe Assistant, but that feels a little clinical. We did just find a body together. Pretty sure that bumps us straight to a first-name basis, right?”
“I…” His voice caught. “I have no need of names.”
The words came out flatter and more defensive than he meant. As if names were weaknesses he couldn’t afford.
Goldie nodded. “Okay. But what does Mycor call you?Assistant?”
The god-name uncurled from her tongue like a vine seeking light, each syllable sliding over Splice’s skin. He shuddered. The word burrowed down his rootlines, struck the vein that tethered him to the Thornfather, and Mycor answered—a low pulse, sap-thick and possessive—inside his ribs.
Something else answered, too. A bloom of heat beneath his sternum. Sudden and lush, as if petals were forcing themselves open.
He swallowed, the motion rough. “Splice,” he breathed at last. The word came out soft, unsteady, a leaf trembling on its stem. “It is what I am. As close to a name as anything.”
Goldie’s lips parted, and she whispered it back. “Splice.”
