Page 145 of Bound By the Plant God
The white light faded, returning her eyes to their natural green shade. “Huh. That was new.”
Goldie grinned, trying to shake off the goosebumps. “Well, add that to our running list of Dyad-weirdo-shit.”
Jem exhaled and pushed back her chair. “That’s it. I’m going back to my apartment to grab another bottle of wine and a loaf of comfort carbs. Whatever that was? It calls for carbs.”
Goldie laughed. “Make it two bottles.”
The three women clinked glasses, laughter layered over a faint, impossible sound—somewhere deep in the pipes, a single note of song. None of them heard it. Not yet.
The clickof the apartment door shutting behind Nell and Jem was soft. The air, which had been buzzing with laughter, gossip, and the fizz of sparkling wine, now settled into a comfortable, warm silence. Goldie gathered the empty plates and glasses, the pleasant weight of a full and happy evening settling over her.
The front door opened, and Splice stepped inside. He no longer looked like an intruder in her glittering, chaotic space. He looked like hebelongedhere; his quiet stillness a perfect counterbalance to her shimmering energy.
Goldie smiled to herself, her heart doing a slow, warm turn in her chest. This was her life now. And gods and goddesses, shelikedit.
Splice paused in the doorway, his gaze falling on the armchair he usually favored, which was currently occupied by a slumbering Oberon. He regarded the cat for a long moment, his expression one of profound, stoic resignation. Then, without a word, he moved to the sofa and folded his frame onto the cushions with quiet grace.
Goldie wiped her hands on a dish towel, crossed the room, and curled up beside him, tucking her feet beneath his thighs. “Wanna watch a movie?”
He nodded, settling an arm around her. “Yes.”
She grabbed the remote and clicked the television on. “Here’s one I think you’ll like. I’ve been saving it.”
The opening credits rolled:Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.An ominous narration began as music swelled under a montage of panicked civilians and bouncing fruit.
Splice groaned, one hand dragging down his face in slow, pained disbelief. “Is this satire? Or a threat?”
Goldie kissed his jaw. “I’ll stop doing this when you stop reacting.”
He grimaced, but didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her temple, tucked the blanket over both of them, and exhaled like a man preparing for battle. From the armchair, Oberon stretched long and luxuriously, and then hopped down and padded toward the couch. He jumped up, promptly licking Splice’s neck with deliberate, wet finality.
“I’m being tested,” Splice muttered.
Goldie snorted. “And you’re passing.”
Together, wrapped in the sounds of bad dialogue, the world’s worst theme song, and the warm gravity of a quiet evening, they let the movie play. As they watched the flickering screen, Greymarket Towers hummed around them with quiet, sentient contentment.
On the seventeenth floor, Sig Samora was in the kitchen, making something that smelled like blackberry cobbler. His wings were carefully folded back, antennae twitching with concentration as he measured out sugar with surgical precision. Nell drifted in and wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades.
In the apartment down the hall, Jem and Hollis moved through the kitchen, stirring and flipping and chopping like dancers in a well-rehearsed routine. They paused only to kiss each other in passing, laughter and flour dusted between them, the scent of garlic and cinnamon winding through the air like something sacred and familiar.
In the atrium, the Thornfather slumbered. His great, antlered head bowed, his massive form curled in a posture of profound, restorative rest. From a distance, he might have been mistaken for an overgrown tangle of roots and lichen, save for his slow, ancient exhales that stirred the leaves of the vines circling him.
In the community room, Mr. Caracas, wrapped in a crocheted throw, was deep into aMidsomer Murdersmarathon, a cup of cinnamon tea perched on his stomach, and a notebook open beside him where he tracked red herrings with the intensity of a war general.
Outside, the city of Bellwether breathed. The night air was cool and damp. The streets were threads of silver and gold, woven with the last of the late-night traffic and the silent, purposeful movements of creatures who only thrived in the dark.
At the heart of it all, Greymarket Towers stood, a silent, watchful sentinel. Its ancient stones and sentient walls shifted in infinitesimal ways as it tended to its eccentric, sometimes dangerous, always cherished collection of tenants.
The world continued to turn, caught in the endless, swirling dance of light and shadow, magic and mortal. For those who dwelled within the walls of Greymarket Towers, the night was never just an ending. It was a promise. And as the first, faint blush of dawn began to paint the eastern sky, the next chapter was already waiting to begin.
