Page 59 of A House of Gold
I turn. Croesus stands in the center of the room, surrounded by his acquisitions, like a king in his throne room. He’s dressed casually today, for him, in black pants, a white shirt open at the collar, bare feet. It’s almost disconcerting to see he has feet. Like I know he does, but now I can see them. The gold veins in his hair catch the light from a thousand priceless objects.
“More than anyone could calculate,” I predict.
“Incorrect.” He moves through the space with the easy familiarity of someone who knows every item, every placement, every story. “I know exactly what each piece is worth. Down tothe last cent. The market value, the historical significance, the emotional attachment of previous owners.” He stops in front of a painting that looks like it could be a Rembrandt, dark and moody and probably worth millions. “This one gained me three souls. The merchant who owned it loved it more than his children. I offered him wealth beyond imagination for three things: his business rivals destroyed, his debts erased, and this painting.”
“And he agreed.”
“They always agree.” He moves on, trailing fingers over a sculpture of a woman in flowing robes. “This gained me one soul. A widow who wanted her husband back. I couldn’t give her that, of course; death is permanent, even for me. But I could give her the illusion. Dreams where he lived, visions where he spoke to her. Twenty years of comfortable delusion for her soul when she died and this statue she’d kept on her mantle for fifty years.”
I follow him through the maze of acquisitions, watching as he touches things with a familiarity that borders on possession. Because that’s what this is. Not appreciation. Not love. Possession.
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask.
He stops in front of a display case holding a crown. Not a royal crown, it’s too delicate, too beautiful. Something that shouldn’t exist in the human world.
“Because you asked why I do this.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “The deals. The souls. The collection. You wanted to understand.”
“And this explains it?”
“This is it.” He turns to face me fully. “I was cast out three thousand years ago. Fell from Heaven with fractured power and given form and purpose and a hunger I cannot escape. Greed made manifest. The endless need for more.”
He moves closer, and I hold my ground even though every instinct tells me to back away.
“We don’t eat, Raven. Not like you do. We don’t sleep. We don’t age. We exist in a state of perpetual want, sustained by the very sins we embody.” He gestures to the collection around us. “This is survival. Every deal I make, every soul I claim, every object I acquire—it feeds me. Temporarily. Barely. Never enough.”
“So you’re a prisoner of your own nature.”
Something flickers in his gold eyes.Surprise?“Yes. An apt description.”
“Then why not stop? Walk away? Find another way to exist?”
“Because there is no other way.” His voice goes hard. “This is what I am. Greed. Avarice. A hunger that never fills. I cannot change my nature any more than you can change yours. The difference is”--he steps closer still, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him–“you chose to be a sin eater. I was made to be this.”
“That’s not true.” I meet his eyes, refusing to look away. “You make choices. Every deal you offer, every contract you write, every soul you take are choices. You’re not some mindless force of nature. You’re an angel who fell and decided to become a monster.”
I expect anger. Defensiveness. Maybe violence.
Instead, he laughs. Low and genuine and almost surprised.
“There it is,” he says. “The honesty Nathaniel sees in you. The refusal to bow, to soften, to tell me what I want to hear.” He reaches out, and before I can react, his fingers brush my jaw. Feather-light. Curious. “When’s the last time someone called me a monster to my face?”
I jerk back, putting space between us. “Don’t touch me.”
“Why not?” He follows, matching my step for step. “You let me hold you when you almost fell to pride. You let me catch you when you stumbled. You didn’t pull away in the car either.”
“That was different. That was...” I scramble for words. “That was work. This is...”
“What?” He stops, tilts his head. Studies me like I’m another artifact he’s considering acquiring. “This is personal? Intimate? Something that crosses a line we pretend exists?”
My back hits a display case. I’m trapped between priceless treasures and an angel who’s looking at me like I’m the most valuable thing in the room.
“I’m not one of your acquisitions,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You can’t just collect me.”
“I know.” He places one hand on the case beside my head, leaning in. Not touching me, but close enough that I can smell that scent of his, gold and incense, something rich and impossibly ancient. “That’s what makes you fascinating. Everything else in this room? I own it. Completely. Absolutely. But you?” His free hand comes up, and this time when his fingers brush my cheek, I don’t pull away fast enough. “You’re here because you choose to be. Because you love your sister more than you fear me. I can’t buy that. Can’t claim it. Can’t add it to my collection no matter how much I want to.”
“Then stop wanting to.” My voice comes out shakier than I’d like.
“If I could, I would.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, and the touch is curious, exploratory. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me. “But that’s the curse, isn’t it? I want everything I see. Need everything I touch. And you?” His eyes meet mine, and despite his blindness, there’s something hungry in them that has nothing to do with greed. “You’re the first thing in centuries I’ve wanted that I can’t have.”
