Sorelle’s mouth curved, amused and just a little dangerous. “Well, if you know of anyone wanting singing lessons, send them my way. We could use a backup harmony that doesn’t shriek like a rusted gate.”
Goldie raised a brow. “Micah’s still trying to teach the gremlin choir?”
“He’s a patient man. Too good for this plane, frankly. I tell him that often.”
The siren floated backward a step, gaze sweeping Goldie up and down. “You’ve got that shimmer about you, love. The kind that means change is coming.”
Goldie winked. “Let’s hope it’s a wardrobe change, and not an existential one.”
Sorelle’s laugh rolled like distant surf. “Sleep tight, beautiful one.” She turned on her heel and sashayed away, voice trailing a lullaby that made the hallway lights sway in sync.
Goldie stood for a moment longer, then shook herself and turned toward the hallway, her keys jingling like chimes against her thigh. It was almost half past nine, which meant she had a stop to make. And come hell, high water, or minor interdimensional leak, she would not be the one to break this tradition.
She headed down the corridor, boots clacking softly against old tile, and poked her head into the community room.
The overhead lights were dimmed to a soft violet glow, casting long shadows that didn’t behave like they ought to. A potted plant in the corner was gently rotating on its own. The piano was playing a dreamy, meandering tune in 5/4 time. A trickle of sand poured upward into the corner of the ceiling.
And at the heart of it all, Mr. Caracas sat in his throne: an orange velvet armchair that groaned in the voice of a disappointed aunt every time he shifted. The ancient, irritable tortoise cryptid was dressed like the ghost of retirement incarnate: fuzzy cardigan, plaid pajama pants, and house slippers so worn they’d developed their own arch support. His claw hovered over the remote, eyes locked on the television, which was currently playing a rerun ofMidsomer Murders.
Goldie crossed the threshold with all the panache of a showgirl, thumbed an imaginary kiss, and blew it toward him with a flourish.
“Blessings upon your shell and your station, old friend. May your suspects always alibi too late.”
Without looking, Mr. Caracas caught the invisible smooch from the air, and tucked it into his cardigan pocket with practiced precision.
“That better not be lip gloss again,” he grumbled. “Last week I smelled like apricots ‘til Wednesday.”
“Love you too, Caracas,” Goldie said sweetly, already stepping backward toward the hallway.
His only reply was aharrumph,and the sound of the remote clicking up the volume.
Goldie grinned to herself, still tired, but buoyed by the weird, cozy weight of home. The building creaked approvingly above her head, a rustle like fast-growing wood.
A blur of movement streaked across the hallway just ahead, wearing what looked like a thimble helmet and dragging a glowing bread crust on a bit of string. The creature paused, squeaked something cheerful in a language made entirely of glottal stops and giddy vowels, and scurried into the walls.
Goldie saluted its retreating tail. “Nice hat,” she murmured, then continued toward the elevators.
There were two: one newer, all brushed chrome and sentient buttons; and the older one, whose scuffed brass doors bore the noble scars of decades and thunked like arthritic knees.
Goldie liked the old one. When she sang under her breath—low, smoky jazz, or syrupy standards—the cab groaned a harmony in response.
Her steps slowed as she drew level with the Greymarket atrium. It yawned open to her right; a cathedral veined with ivy and moonlight. Tonight, it waswatching.
The Thornfather sat unmoving on a bench near the room’s center, the vines of his body hanging like theater curtains. His crown of antlers shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with something ancient.
At his side, draped in half-shadow, perched his Assistant.
Goldie hadn’t meant to stop. Hadn’twantedto look. But her gaze snagged on the two the way a scarf catches on a thorn.
The Thornfather lifted his head. His gold-green gaze met hers, dark as soil and just as weighty.
The Assistant turned in the same breath, eyes catching the light like a wet gleam on stone.
Goldie swallowed. Managed a polite nod.
The Thornfather inclined his head in return, a motion so slow it might have been tectonic.
The Assistant didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened as it focused on Goldie.
