Goldie’s breath hitched, a tremor running through her limbs. Around her, she could feel the Grove Core stir, a low, frantic thrumming that began to sync with her own racing heartbeat in an uneasy, relentless rhythm.
Chapter
Thirteen
Goldie sat on the back bumper of an ambulance, a scratchy emergency blanket draped over her shoulders. Her shoes were off—why were her shoes off?—and there was dirt smudged all over her knees, ground into her palms, caught in the seams of her rings.
Why do they always have an ambulance when the person’s already dead?she thought nonsensically.
She wasn’t bleeding. She wasn’t in cardiac arrest. Marlow Truckenham had been the one who needed help, and he was…
She didn’t want to finish that thought.
Her fingers kept picking at the edge of the blanket. She couldn’t stop. It was fraying. Or she was.
The police and medics had arrived with startling speed. One moment, she’d been crouched over the body, too stunned to move; the next, the clearing had flooded with uniforms, latex gloves, and clipped voices asking if she could stand, if she was hurt, if she could please just sit down.
It was either a testament to Bellwether’s efficiency or proof that murder here was still novel enough to stir urgency.
Across the clearing, two uniformed officers were stretching yellow caution tape across the Grove Core’s entrance, the sacred veil now marked off like a crime scene on a procedural. Which, she supposed, it was.
A murder scene.
Gods and goddesses.
To one side, the Assistant stood perfectly straight, speaking in low tones to a sharp-eyed, no-nonsense Asian woman whose gaze flicked thoughtfully between the cryptid and the entrance to the Grove Core. Her nods were serious and measured as she paused to take notes every now and again.
Goldie watched them, trying to connect the pieces of her brain that had scattered like dropped beads. She was shaking, though not in the dramatic way people always seemed to in movies. More like a subtle tremor, like her blood had lost its sense of rhythm and was now practicing syncopation under her skin.
Her teeth didn’t chatter. That would’ve at least felt cinematic.
“Vitals are solid,” came a voice beside her.
She turned. The dryad EMT crouching at her side had skin the soft gray of river clay, curls of ivy twining through her earth-dark hair. Pale freckles dusted her cheeks in green constellations. The badge readC. Tarrow.
Goldie managed a crooked half-smile. “So what you’re telling me is that my obituary can wait?”
The attempt at humor hit a jagged edge inside her. She winced, the image of Marlow’s body flashing hot behind her eyes.
C. Tarrow’s cheeks creased with sympathy. “You’ve got plenty of shelf life left, never fear.”
“Fabulous,” Goldie murmured, smoothing the blanket across her lap like it was couture. “I’ve got a haircut on the books next week, and I’d hate to reschedule.”
A nearby officer snorted in amusement.
Keep them laughing,Goldie reminded herself.Glitter is armor.She lifted her scratched arm. “Are you sure this isn’t fatal? I can’t face police questioning without a sparkly bandage.”
C. Tarrow huffed a leaf-dry laugh and produced a slim roll of moss-green gauze. “No sequins, I’m afraid, but this holds healing enchantments better.” She wrapped Goldie’s arm with gentle pressure, smoothing the edge, then winked. “Need me to kiss it better?”
“Oh, yes, please,” snickered a male voice.
Goldie didn’t turn to look. She caught C. Tarrow’s eye instead, and both of them smirked in a slow, conspiratorial way. Tarrow pressed a theatrical kiss to her fingers and tapped it against the bandage. Goldie chose to ignore the disappointed groan from whomever had spoken.
“There. Hex-proof and couture-adjacent.” Tarrow tucked the gauze away and stood with willow-smooth grace. “If bravery runs low, wave dramatically, and I’ll come running with reinforcements.”
Goldie waggled her fingers. “I’ll be waiting.”
C. Tarrow winked cheekily and vanished toward the rising hum of emergency responders.
