Page 48 of A House of Gold
I step forward, moving around the desk to stand beside Barnes. He looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes, desperate and pleading.
“This is going to hurt,” I tell him. “Both of us. But it’ll be over quickly.”
“I don’t care.” His voice breaks. “Just make it stop.”
I look back at Croesus one more time. He’s watching me, or listening to me, or sensing me, however he perceives the world. And there’s something in his expression that might be respect. Or satisfaction that I’m doing exactly what he wanted.
I can’t tell which.
I turn back to Barnes, place my hand on his shoulder, and reach for the contract I can feel wrapped around him like chains.
Golden light. Beautiful and terrible. Pride in its purest form sunk into his bones like hooks.
“Ready?” I ask.
He nods.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and pull.
12
Barnes is shaking harder when I step toward him.
I don’t blame him. Most people shake when they realize what’s about to happen, that I’m going to reach inside them and pull out something they can’t even see. That I’m going to take the hunger that’s been eating them alive and swallow it myself. That for sixty seconds, maybe less, they’re going to watch me become the worst version of themselves.
It’s not comfortable to witness.
“This is going to hurt,” I tell him again, keeping my voice level even though my pulse is already climbing like it always does right before.”
“I don’t care.” His voice is hoarse, desperate. He’s forty-seven but looks sixty. The pride has aged him badly, sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, skin stretched too tight over bone. He looks like he’s been dying for months. Because he has been. “Just make it stop.”
I glance back at Croesus. He’s leaning against Barnes’ desk, arms crossed, watching me with those unsettling gold eyes, molten metal which sees too much, reflects too little. Beautiful in the way a sword is beautiful, perfectly made for a very specific purpose. In the dim office lighting, his skin seems to glow faintlybronze, and the veins of actual gold running through his black hair catch the light like wire.
“You need to leave,” I tell him.
One dark eyebrow rises. “I think not.”
“I’m serious. When I absorb this...” I gesture vaguely at Barnes, at the golden chains only I can see wrapped around his throat like a collar and his wrists like manacles. “It’s going to get ugly. You don’t want to see it."
“On the contrary.” Croesus shifts his weight, and the movement is too fluid, too predatory. Like a big cat pretending to be relaxed. “I want to see exactly what I’ve purchased.”
Purchased.Like I’m a tool. A thing. A commodity he’s gained to use however he sees fit for the next year. Property, in everything but name.
The thought makes me want to put my knife through his perfect face.
But I need him here for the second part of this anyway, the deal with Barnes, so I just turn back to the human and try to ignore the angel watching my every move.
“Sit down,” I tell Barnes, gesturing to his leather desk chair. “Don’t move once we start.”
He does, sinking into the seat like it’s a throne or an electric chair; he can’t seem to decide which. His hands are gripping the armrests so hard, his knuckles have gone white. There’s a photo on his desk: him with a woman and two teenage kids, all smiling at some beach resort. They look happy. Like they don’t know what he’s become. Maybe they don’t. Maybe he’s been hiding it from them too.
I kneel in front of him so we’re closer to eye level, pull the knife from my boot, and slice my palm without hesitation. The pain is sharp and immediate, familiar as breathing. Blood wells up, dark against my skin.
“Give me your hand.”
He does, and I cut his palm too. Quick, clean, practiced. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. I press our bleeding palms together, skin to skin, blood to blood, and feel the contract snap into sharp focus.
It’s written in golden script across his soul, each letter perfectly formed and absolutely merciless: glory in exchange for dedication to excellence. Beautiful language hiding a brutal truth. The contract has been feeding on him, draining every drop of self-worth, every moment of satisfaction, replacing it all with this gnawing certainty that he’s never good enough, never perfect enough, never enough.
