Page 64 of A House of Gold
The House of Ruin is the opposite of Croesus’s domain in every way. Where his is warm and golden and overwhelming, this is cool and pale and pristine. White marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Walls of white stone carved with images of angels and kings and warriors in their finest moments. Silver light filtering through windows that show nothing but white sky.
It’s beautiful. Sterile. Perfect.
I immediately despise it.
“Lord Croesus.” A voice echoes through the hall, cultured, with an accent I can’t place. British maybe, but older. “How kind of you to accept my invitation.”
He appears at the far end of the hall, and my first thought is: angel.
Not fallen angel. Not demon in disguise. Angel. The real thing. The way we see them on TV and in movies.
Seraph is tall, maybe six-three, with a build that’s lean and graceful, like a dancer or a duelist. His skin is pale as marble, flawless, without a single mark or imperfection. Platinum blonde hair falls to his shoulders in waves that catch the silver light like spun glass. And his eyes...
His eyes are silver white, like mirrors. When he looks at me, I see myself reflected in them: dark hair, dark dress, gold jewelry marking me as Croesus’s possession.
But it’s the wings that make my breath catch.
Six of them, massive and white-gold, folding against his back but visible. Actually, physically visible. Croesus said most of them lost them in the fall. Seraph wears his like a statement.
Look at what I am. Look at what you’ll never be.
“Seraph.” Croesus’s voice is carefully neutral. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Invitation implies choice.” Seraph moves toward us with intent, each step perfectly placed, perfectly balanced. “This was a summons. There’s a difference.” His silver eyes fix on me. “And this must be the sin eater who stole from me.”
“I broke a contract,” I say before Croesus can stop me. “That’s not theft.”
“No?” Seraph stops a few feet away, tilting his head. The movement is bird-like, unsettling. “David Barnes owed me his soul. You took it. My property becomes his. If that’s not theft, what would you call it?”
“Competition.”
The word hangs in the air for a moment. Then Seraph laughs, bright and genuine and surprisingly warm.
“Oh, I like her.” He looks at Croesus. “Where did you find this one? She has a spine. Most sin eaters are broken, desperate things. But this one...” He circles me slowly, and I force myself to stand still. “This one has fight in her.”
“She’s mine,” Croesus says flatly. “Don’t touch her.”
“Possessive.” Seraph completes his circle, standing between us now. “How uncharacteristic. The angel of greed usually shares his toys freely. What makes this one special?”
“She’s not a toy.”
“No?” Seraph’s attention returns to me, and being the focus of those mirror eyes feels like being dissected. “Then what are you, little sin eater? Servant? Slave? Pet?” He leans closer. “Lover?”
“Employee,” I say, keeping my voice level. “I’m serving a contract. One year, then I leave.”
“How delightfully transactional.” He straightens, looks at Croesus. “And you’re content with this arrangement? One year of service, then she walks away, and you never see her again?”
“The terms are clear.”
“The terms are foolish.” Seraph moves to a bench carved from white marble, sits with perfect posture. “If she were mine, I wouldn’t let her go. I’d keep her. Bind her. Make her understand that perfection requires sacrifice.” His silver eyes find mine again. “You could be extraordinary, you know. With proper training. Proper refinement. You have raw talent, but no polish. Like a diamond still covered in bits of rubble.”
“I’m not interested in being polished.”
“Everyone is interested in being their best self. That’s not pride; that’s human nature.” He gestures, and servants appear from nowhere, pale, silent, carrying silver trays with crystal glasses. “Sit. Both of you. Let’s discuss this like civilized beings rather than animals circling territory.”
Croesus looks like he wants to refuse, but protocol demands acceptance. We sit on the bench across from Seraph. The servants offer glasses of dark red wine—no label, just an ancient crystal cut-glass bottle. I don’t drink. Neither does Croesus.
Seraph notices. Of course he notices. “You won’t accept my hospitality? No matter.” He takes a sip from his own glass. “ButI’m not interested in binding you through tricks. I prefer direct negotiation.”
