“We stand to lose billions?—”
“—Ashenvale will gut the contract if we can’t deliver a clean transfer?—”
“—then what do we have left? A rotting green space and a pile of lawsuits?—”
“Godsdamnit, Marlow!” someone shouted, head in their hands.
Swale was bellowing at the lawyer now, his face mottled red. “Fix it! You’re supposed tofixthese things! What are we paying you for?”
The lawyer wilted under the barrage, shrinking lower and lower in his chair, sweat streaking down his temples as if he longed to sink through the floor itself.
Splice rose slowly to his feet. The air shifted with him, threaded with a low vibration that seemed to come fromthe stone floor itself. Conversation guttered out, and words strangled in throats.
“Thank you for your attention,” he said. The ceremonial register of his tone was not loud, but it landed with the gravity of stone, each syllable a carefully placed weight.
The hush became absolute.
“In my capacity as the Assistant of the Thornfather, recognized by this city’s magical charter and witnessed by legal affidavit as the successor and majority stakeholder of the Green Holdings, I hereby assert his lawful right to veto any and all proceedings related to the sale or rezoning of said lands. All negotiations with Ashenvale Ventures are terminated, effective immediately. Any further actions are null, pending a full, independent magical audit of the land’s health.”
For a heartbeat the silence held.
Then, the humans roared. They always did when it came to the land. Always trying to tame it, to parcel it into smaller and smaller slivers, to wield it for their own bidding. And oh, how they raged when they were thwarted, as if earth itself were nothing but a tool to be conquered, reshaped in their image.
“This is an illegal seizure!” Mishra shrieked, her voice cracking with fury. “We’ll fight this in every court, magical and mundane!”
“You’re welcome to file a challenge, Councilwoman,” the lawyer said, his voice tight. “But Truckenham’s will was notarized and magically verified. There is nothing more I can do.”
Splice had heard enough. Better the empty corridors than one more breath in this hive of fear and greed. He rose, his movement sharp and final.
“Wait!” A smaller voice broke through the din. The mousy woman at the far end of the table pushed to her feet, glassessliding down her nose as she clutched the edge of the table. “Assistant—please, wait?—”
He shook his head and turned away. Each boot-fall struck the marble like a gavel. The building’s acoustics made his departure sound like judgment, but he did not care.
He needed distance. From the spiraling chaos that stank of politics. From the hole Marlow Truckenham’s death had torn in the land and in his god.
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that holes never stayed empty for long.
Chapter
Nineteen
For days now, Goldie had buried herself in the back of the library stacks, where the air smelled of dust, lemon oil, and the faint tang of mildew that no amount of charm work could quite banish. She wasostensiblychecking off items on her endless to-do list, but mostly she was prowling the shelves for answers to a more personal mystery: why, exactly, she had been humming like a cursed tuning fork since finding Marlow Truckenham’s body in the Grove Core.
Hiding in the stacks had also allowed her to avoid patrons and coworkers alike, because every time a remotely attractive man so much as cleared his throat, her traitorous body started planning a three-day sex marathon. It was humiliating. And exhausting.
The books weren’t helping, either. Lately, they’d developed a nasty habit of flinging themselves off the shelves into her arms, as though the library itself had decided to become her sex concierge.
Yesterday it wasMoonlit Conjunctions: An Illustrated Guide.Today, so far, she’d been pelted withThe Nine Sacred Positions,Consorting with the Divine,and, most mortifyingly,Blood, Seed, and Sacrament: A Compendium of Fertility Rites.
She’d chucked that last one straight into the returns bin before it could give her more ideas.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at the text that had just come in.
Ezra Caulder
Sorry, been swamped. Miss your face. Call me tonight? Or just swing by. I’ll keep the lights on.
Goldie stared at the screen. Call him? Oh, she had a few things she’d like to call her on-again, off-again hookup. Anddamn himfor knowing exactly how to phrase it so her treacherous body sat up and begged.
