Splice turned. Goldie Flynn stood in the doorway, a mostly-eaten cinnamon roll in one hand. She wore a flowing dress of purple velvet, earrings shaped like cat heads, and a pair of gold heels with embroidered moons that dared anyone to call them practical. Her copper hair was piled into an artful chaos that suggested both intention and disaster.
“She offended the building.” Splice’s voice came out flatter than he felt.
Goldie’s mouth quirked. She crossed the room and plunked down beside him without asking, her skirts rustling like mischief itself. “Well, she is a bit of a bitch. Basically said I was a nuisance."
She popped the rest of the roll into her mouth and rolled her eyes. “I’m only a nuisance when I want to be,” she said, the words muffled by cinnamon and sugar.
A nuisance?And a flare of heat surged through him, sharp enough to startle. Splice almost wished the building would drag Karen back in, just so it could expel her again for daring to call Goldie such a thing.
“Yes,” he said, the words clipped but certain. “She is a bitch.”
The printer gave a final, satisfied whirr, as if seconding the verdict.
Goldie winked at him and licked a smear of icing off her thumb. “So. After our little hallway conversation with Mr. Lyle—don’t roll your eyes, you were totally about to roll your eyes?—”
He was not planning on rolling his eyes. His eyes were firmly, helplessly fixed on the thumb she had just licked clean of icing. The motion was utterly human, and it did something perilous inside him.
“—I did some digging.” Goldie leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping confidentially. “You know how Greymarket is. It doesn’t let just anyone in. And once you're in, it doesn’t like to let go.”
Splice’s fingers twitched against the table. “But Truckenham left.”
“Yes. The question is, why? I would ask Mr. Lyle, but you know him. He won't tell us. So that means we have to find someone who might remember him.”
She glanced at Splice, and for the first time since she’d sat down, her energy wavered. “Are you okay?”
He started to nod, but the motion stalled. The answer should have been simple—yes, of course, he was fine—but the earnestness of the question struck something tender and unguarded in him. His mouth opened, then closed again, the words dissolving before they reached air.
“Has something changed with Mycor?” Goldie asked quietly. Her hand came to rest on his arm, fingers tracing a slow, careful caress, like she was afraid he might vanish if she pressed too hard. “Did you have to give him any more of yourself?”
For an instant, Splice forgot how to breathe. She worried for his god, yes—but also, impossibly, forhim.
She was still watching him, her brow drawn in a small, worried crease. The urge to reach up and smooth it away roseunbidden, strong enough to startle him. He curled his fingers into his palm instead.
“He hasn’t changed,” Splice managed at last, his voice low and rough-edged. “Not since you saw him.”
A flicker of relief crossed her face, and she squeezed his arm gently. “Well,” she said, her mouth curving into something like a smile, “at least he hasn’t gotten any worse. I’ll take that as a small mercy.”
Then she winked, the familiar spark flaring back to life. When she stood, her bracelets jingled like tiny applause, bright against the hush that had settled between them.
“Come on, partner,” she said, her grin widening into something determined as she held out her hand. “If Mycor’s stable for the moment, let’s solve ourselves a mystery. Mr. Caracas has been here forever—and if anyone remembers when Truckenham lived here, it’s him. And I know just where to find him.”
The community roomwas bathed in the soft, flickering light of the television, casting long, dancing shadows over the mismatched furniture and the few quiet residents within. In a cracked orange velvet armchair that groaned with the weight of ages sat Mr. Caracas. His massive, shelled back was to the door, his full attention on a rerun ofMurder, She Wrote.Onscreen, Jessica Fletcher was looking suspiciously at a scone.
Goldie took a steadying breath, then glided forward as though she were stepping onto a stage, hips swaying, her velvet skirt trailing a beat behind like living applause. Splice’s breath stuttered at the sight. He followed a few paces back, a shadow drawn along in her glittering wake.
She approached the armchair without a word. Mr. Caracas didn’t turn, but a low grunt rumbled from deep in his chest.
“It’s you,” he grumbled. “The sparkly one. What do you want? I’m busy.”
A thousand-watt smile bloomed on Goldie’s face. She leaned over the arm of his chair, her voice pure honey. “Too busy forme, my favorite ancient grump?”
For a moment, the cryptid remained impassive. Then, the corner of his leathery mouth twitched. He shifted his immense weight, and the armchair groaned in protest. Goldie took this as her cue, sinking gracefully onto the ottoman at his feet. Splice glanced around uncomfortably and eventually chose to perch on the edge of a nearby, unoccupied loveseat.
They all sat in silence, watching the on-screen drama unfold until the show cut to a commercial. Goldie seized the opening, delicately placing a hand on the cryptid’s knee.
“I amsosorry to bother you during your program?—”
“No, you’re not,” Caracas interrupted without rancor, his large, clawed hand patting her smaller one with surprising gentleness.
