He turned one last time to his brother, and the two souls embraced again, their edges blurring, fading together into a healing, emerald glow. As the last glimmer of the two souls faded, the ground seemed to exhale—a long, deep, tremble like a shuddering breath. A breeze swept through the clearing, lifting Goldie’s hair and stirring the leaves overhead in a sound like a sigh of gratitude.
Something shifted inside her. A pressure she hadn’t realized she carried began to ease, sliding free like a splinter drawn from flesh. At her feet, a pool of light gathered. It pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
Thank you,whispered the presence, its voice resonant with soil and sap.You have cleansed the soil.
The light deepened, then slowly sank into the earth, carrying the voice with it. The Grove Core settled around her, warm and still, it’s ancient heart at peace.
The silence that followed was absolute. The magic had stilled. The ghosts were gone. Even the gods had pulled back into watchful quiet.
Only the dark hush of the Grove Core remained—and Splice.
The dam of Goldie’s composure broke. With a strangled sob, she threw herself at him, arms tight around his neck, face pressed into the solid warmth of his shoulder. Terror, grief, and exhaustion crashed over her in a single tidal wave, and she wept great, gulping sobs that shook her to her bones.
The bonds pinning Splice had dissolved with the rest of Tamsin’s spell. He sat up, wrapping Goldie close to him, holding her fast as she shook. He murmured not words but low, grounding sounds: the rustle of leaves, the steady flow of water, the gentle sigh of branches moving with the wind.
“Oh, gods,” she gasped, pulling back to look at him, her face streaked with dirt and relief. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, cracked but real. “We survived. We actually survived.”
Splice’s hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.
“We did,” he said quietly.
And in the breathing quiet of the healed Grove Core, Goldie felt it down to her bones: they were safe. Truly, finally safe.
Chapter
Forty-One
The aftermath was a riot of overlapping noise: radios crackling, boots thudding, the sharpsnapof camera shutters, and the low grumble of generators kicking to life. A team put up yellow ward-tape, its runes flickering like tired fireflies. A pair of officers were filling out forms on the hood of a cruiser, their pens clicking in a steady, irritating rhythm.
The air, once thick with the scent of raw magic, now tasted of metallic shock and the mundane sting of gasoline.
Police officers, faces grim, moved with practiced care through the clearing. They marked evidence, their voices low and clipped. Jonah Pell lay where he had fallen, his body stark against the churned earth until paramedics covered him with efficient detachment.
Near the edge of the clearing, laid atop the turned soil, rested an arrangement of human bones. Pale. Brittle. Elijah Pell, returned to the surface. His ribcage curved gently toward the roots, his skull resting at an angle that made the empty sockets seem almost watchful. The faintest sheen of leftover spectral light clung to the bones.
Of Tamsin Donover, there were only shredded remains, flung across the Grove. Strips of fabric, clots of dark blood, a single bloody bracelet caught on a root like it had tried to crawl away. The only things left whole were her head, both hands, and one bare foot.
Officers moved in small, tight-lipped teams, lifting pieces into individually warded body bags no bigger than grocery sacks. One person gagged quietly behind a glove. Another stared too long, went pale, and had to step aside, hands trembling.
The doors of the ambulance stood open to the chaos. Goldie sat on the bumper, a coarse wool blanket draped around her shoulders. Beside her, Splice mirrored her stillness, his posture carved from the same quiet exhaustion.
A paramedic had checked them both, murmured about shock, and left them with bottles of water they hadn’t opened. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
Footsteps crunched through the grass. “Ms. Flynn. Assistant.”
Detective Oseki emerged from the trees, sharp-featured and impeccably composed, her expression carved into cool precision. Detective McCutchen followed a step behind her, already rubbing the back of his neck like he expected paperwork to ambush him.
Both of them took in the ruined clearing, the scorched earth, and Goldie’s blanket-wrapped form with the same unnerving stillness.
“You look like hell, Ms. Flynn,” Oseki said bluntly.
McCutchen cleared his throat. “What she means is, are you hurt?”
Goldie leaned her head against Splice’s shoulder, feeling him tilt toward her in silent support. “Physically? No,” she said. “Emotionally? Ask me in twelve to fifty years.”
Oseki snorted. “Don’t worry, we’re not here for the full interrogation. We just need the basics while the scene is still fresh.”
Her gaze swept over Goldie’s blanket, then to Splice’s thousand-yard stare.
