Page 137 of A House of Gold
I stand back, watching them read. Watching their faces as they process what my grandmother discovered.
Forty-seven missing souls. All angel-blooded. All collected before the houses could claim them.
And as I watch them, as I see the fear and fury and calculation in their eyes, I realize something.
Croesus was right. They're going to help.
Not because they care about me. Not because they want to protect me.
But because someone stole from them. And fallen angels never, ever forgive a theft.
This is going to work.
And it's going to be a disaster.
But at least I won't face it alone.
30
Silence falls as the angels read through my grandmother's research.
Silence that feels alive, weighted with centuries of power and barely restrained violence. I can hear my own heartbeat, feel the press of divine attention like heavy weight against my skin.
Seraph is the first to look up, his mirror eyes reflecting the candlelight. "Forty-seven souls. And you're certain of this pattern?"
"My grandmother was certain," I say before Croesus can answer.
Those mirror eyes fix on me. "You speak with remarkable confidence for someone who owes me a year of service. Tell me, little sin eater, do you know what I do to those who waste my time with conspiracy theories?"
"This isn't a theory." I meet his gaze, refusing to look away even though it's like staring into a mirror that judges you. "Collectors tried to erase me with void. Not capture, erase. Make it so I never existed."
Interesting.Idris's voice slides into my mind, smooth as silk.Collectors are Heaven's executioners. They either collect soulsor erase them entirely. If they tried to erase you, that means someone wants you dead. Permanently.
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Croesus says, his tone clipped. "Someone is collecting angel-bloodline humans. Someone powerful enough to hide this pattern for over a century. Someone who killed Meredith when she discovered it." His gold eyes sweep across the gathered angels. "And if they're targeting sin eaters, targeting bloodlines, then this threatens all of us."
"Does it?" Kael speaks for the first time, his voice a low rumble. Heat shimmers in the air around him. "We lose souls occasionally. Contracts break. Humans slip through. This is nothing new."
"Forty-seven souls across seven houses over a hundred years is not 'occasionally,'" Croesus counters. "That's systematic. Organized. Someone is stealing from us."
The temperature in the cathedral drops ten degrees at the word "stealing."
Because that, I realize, is what matters to them. Not the murders. Not the conspiracy. Not even the threat to me.
Someone stole from them.
"Show me the list again." Dorian moves closer, wine glass still in hand. His warm brown eyes scan the papers with sudden intensity. "These dates. These locations." He looks up at Croesus. "Three of these souls were mine. Contracts that should have been collected but... weren't. I thought it was my mistake. Poor record keeping."
"Same," Lysander drawls from where he's leaning against a pillar. His purple eyes are half-lidded, but there's nothing lazy about his attention now. "I lost several contracts in the last fifty years. All strong angel-blood. Vanished right before collection." His gaze slides to me, appraising. "I didn't realize it was part of a pattern."
"Because we don't talk to each other," Seraph says coldly. "We compete. We steal from each other. We maintain our territories and guard our secrets." He looks at Croesus. "You're saying someone exploited that. Used our animosity against us."
"Yes."
"Clever." Idris's mental voice carries a note of grudging admiration. “Whoever orchestrated this understood us very well. They knew we'd never compare notes. Never see the pattern.Counted on it.”
"Until Meredith did," I say. "Until my grandmother served two houses, saw the discrepancies, and started asking questions."
Caspian shifts in the shadows, his cane scraping against stone. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, tired, hollow. "Which means this goes high. Very high. collectors aren't common tools. They're reserved for–"
