He brushed his fingers once along the frame, a tender, silent thanks. “Rest easy,” he whispered in the language of the green. “I’ll return what I took when the roots are steady again.”
Then he turned and walked briskly back toward the chaos. The marble beneath his boots seemed to pulse faintly in rhythm with his stride, as if the building itself approved of the theft, or at least the reason for it.
The hallway had disintegrated into a full-blown spectacle. Goldie and Karen were still shrieking at each other, the two reluctant security guards now wedged between them like human sandbags.
Karen jabbed a manicured finger over their shoulders. “You’reobscene!You’re violating decency codes?—”
“Oh, please!” Goldie shouted back. “If the gods cared about decency, they wouldn’t have made vines that flex!”
The crowd howled, equally scandalized and thrilled. More than a few phones were out, red recording lights winking like tiny eyes of judgment. Someone yelled, “Tag the mayor’s office!” and someone else shouted, “Iamthe mayor’s office!”
Splice glanced sideways. Across the hall, Carmen’s gaze locked on his, sharp and questioning.Did you do it?her expression demanded.
Not knowing what else to do, he gave a tiny, awkward wave.
Her eyes narrowed, then she nodded once, decisive. “I want it on record,” she bellowed, her voice slicing through the din. Heads snapped toward her as she clambered onto a bench, brandishing a manila folder like a holy relic. “Deputy Vesuvius is in violation of Section Twelve, Paragraph Four of Public Conduct!Abuse of volume in a shared space!”
A delighted roar answered her. Someone started clapping in rhythm. The guards looked like they wanted to melt into the floor. One clerk ducked out of an office and hollered, “Don’t quote bylaws at her, Carmen, shelikesit!”
Splice exhaled, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Bellwether, he thought, was a place that devoured dignity and spat out paperwork. He stepped up to Goldie’s side and caught her arm. “I have the files,” he murmured. “We should leave.Now.”
Goldie drew in a sharp breath, and then, with the precision of a stage performer, let out one last shriek that rang through the marble corridor like a trumpet blast. “Oh, shove your bylaws where the sun doesn’t shine,Karen!”
Before Splice could react, she spun, hauled him in by the collar, and kissed him. Hard. Thoroughly. One hand slid boldly down to squeeze his ass for emphasis.
The hallwayeruptedin cheers, gasps, and wolf whistles. Phones shot higher, flashes popping like fireworks. Someone yelled, “Get it, Herald!” Another shouted, “That’s what I callpublic-private partnership!”
“Public obscenity laws!”Karen shrieked, her voice cracking.
Goldie surfaced for air, lipstick smeared, eyes bright and wicked. She threw the crowd a grand, theatrical wave.
Splice didn’t wait for anything else to happen. Hugging his jacket tight around the stolen files, he pulled Goldie through the knot of gawking onlookers and out the heavy double doors.
Sunlight and cool air hit like a slap. The protestors were still there. A few were half-asleep on the steps, their signs propped against their knees. But the moment the crowd saw Splice and Goldie emerge, a ripple went through them.
A glastig near the front gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. “The Thornfather’s Assistant,” she whispered. And then, louder, triumphantly: “He’s the one stopping the sale!”
A cheer went up, ragged but fierce. “Power to the people!” someone yelled. “Save the Grove Core!” Another voice chimed in, “Down with zoning!” which didn’t quite fit but no one seemed to care. The chant caught like wildfire, echoing off the stone facade.
Goldie threw her free hand in the air. “That’s right! Power to the people, save the Grove Core, plant a tree, kiss a cryptid, recycle your wine bottles!”
The crowd roared back, some laughing, some actually chantingkiss a cryptidas if it were a rallying cry. A satyr waved a reusable coffee cup like a torch. Someone started live-streaming.
Goldie looped her arm through Splice’s, tugging him down the steps with the confidence of a woman leading a parade. “Smile, Splice,” she hissed under her breath. “They’ll make memes out of you either way.”
He tried. It came out somewhere between a grimace and divine bewilderment.
Phones tracked their every move. Someone blew a vuvuzela; another protestor launched a confetti charm that burst into a shower of green sparks over the steps.
He let her pull him through the throng, the chanting still pounding in his ears—kiss a cryptid, save the Grove Core.
And then, at the very edge of the crowd, he saw Jonah Pell.
The man leaned casually against a lamppost, not chanting, not cheering. He lifted a hand in a lazy, mocking wave, his mouth curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
But Goldie was already steering him away, her skirts bright against the gray stone as she swept them both down the sidewalk.
Chapter
