—The blade caught the candlelight, casting dancing reflections on the salt lines that burned like molten silver?—
Pain exploded behind Goldie’s eyes. Something ancient coiled inside her brain, brandishing claws of memory she had no defense against.
—a body thrashed against the ropes with renewed desperation?—
Mycor lurched back, his posture crumpling as vines recoiled from his flesh. Sap blossomed from his nostrils and ears, dripping as if his body itself were rupturing. A strangled groantore from his throat, but Goldie’s world had narrowed to the pulsing, vicious vision racing through her.
—Blood welled from the fresh wound, dark as wine in the candlelight, pooling and spilling into the carefully carved salt lines?—
Splice pressed his forehead against hers. “Goldie! Breathe!Goldie!”
At last, the torrent of echoes slowed. The last shard of memory slipped away, leaving her gasping in a hollow silence.
Goldie sagged against Splice, her lungs heaving. All around them, the air felt too solid, too quiet.
She dragged in a shuddering breath. “What the actualfuckwas that?”
Splice was breathing hard, chest rising against hers. “That was a mnemonic bead. Where did you get it?”
“Awhat?”
“A mnemonic bead,” Splice snapped. “It stores memory. Ritual memory. They’re rare. Dangerous. Where did you find it?”
“Oh, gods and goddesses.” She swallowed, her throat scraped raw. “I found it in the dirt near the body. I wasn’t thinking, I just…”
“Youtookit?”
Goldie’s laugh came out jagged, a sound far too close to hysteria. “Yeah, well, forgive me for not acting logically while I was busy freaking out over gore and very, very dead municipal servants!”
“He screamed,” Mycor whispered. Goldie twisted away from Splice to see the god’s blazing, mournful gaze on her. “The boy in the salt screamed, and the land was bound.”
Goldie reached toward him without thinking, but Splice lunged, grasp iron-firm on her elbow, yanking her back from Mycor’s outstretched hand.
“Enough,” he hissed. “He’s burning. Touch him and you’ll burn.”
As he dragged her behind him, Splice slammed his other palm against Mycor’s moss-clad chest. Molten, luminescent threads of sap burst from Splice’s skin, unspooling into the god’s wounded form. His color drained as though a vein had been opened, shoulders buckling under the strain.
Mycor groaned in answer, the sound knotted between agony and relief. Green fire flickered weakly through his veins where rot had been eating away, patchwork light fighting to reassert itself.
Goldie’s breath hitched as she watched Splice falter, strength bleeding away drop by precious drop.
“Stop,” she gasped, reaching instinctively for him. “You’re hurting yourself?—”
Her hand closed over Splice’s forearm, and, instinctively, she pressed her palm to Mycor’s cheek.
Fire surged her veins, pleasure and agony braided so tightly she couldn’t tell one from the other. Splice’s fierce devotion burned through her like a brand, protective and desperate. Mycor’s grief sank into her chest, heavy as stone.
A sob tore from her throat. She was drowning in sensation, in need, in their shared ache. With a desperate surge, she wrenched free. The connection ripped apart, snapping through her body in a violent jolt.
Mycor reeled, eyes flaring once before dimming. Splice staggered back, the vines at his throat writhing and twitching.
Goldie’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Splice… ”
He straightened slowly, every movement heavy with exhaustion. He shook his head once, then caught her arm, grip unsteady but firm. “Come.”
“What? We can’t just leave him… ”
“We leave him now.” Splice’s voice steadied, even as his whole frame shook. “He can’t hold more without breaking. I know you felt it.”
