Page 162 of A House of Gold
Power floods into me, not gradually, but all at once. Pride, absolute and overwhelming. The certainty that I am perfection incarnate, that everyone else is lesser, that I deserve worship and obedience and– I scream.
It's too much. Too alien. Not mine, but trying to BECOME mine, trying to rewrite who I am into something proud and perfect and utterly inhuman.
"Hold on," Seraph's voice cuts through the pain. "Don't let it consume you. You're not becoming me. You're just connecting to me."
Easy for him to say, but I grit my teeth and hold on. The pride settles slightly, becomes more manageable. I can still feel it, his absolute certainty, his need to be flawless, but it's not drowning me anymore.
When Seraph pulls his hand away, I'm gasping, and there's a thread of platinum light connecting us. I can see it pulsing between my chest and his.
"One down," he says quietly. "Six to go."
"I can't."
"You can," Croesus says firmly. Through our existing bond, he pours strength into me. Love. Determination. "You can do this."
Kael moves forward next. His approach is less ceremonial, he just grabs my bleeding hand, cuts his own, and presses them together without preamble.
Fire. Rage. Violence barely contained.
This time I don't scream. I just burn.
Kael's wrath is different from Seraph's pride. Where pride was cold certainty, wrath is hot fury. It wants to destroy, to burn, to rage against everything that exists. It's exhausting and exhilarating and absolutely terrifying.
"Breathe through it," Kael growls. "Let it pass through, not into."
I try. It's like trying to breathe through a forest fire.
But gradually, gradually, the wrath settles. Becomes a red thread connecting us, pulsing with heat.
Kael releases my hand. "Not bad, sin eater."
The next three come in quick succession.
Idris, envy, sharp and cutting, making me want everything I don't have, making me hate what others possess. Their mentalvoice in my mind becomes a constant whisper: you could be more, have more, BE more.
Lysander, lust, overwhelming and immediate, making every nerve ending come alive, making me want to touch and be touched and lose myself in sensation. His purple eyes watch me writhe with clinical interest.
Dorian, gluttony, the need for MORE, always more, never enough, wanting to consume and experience and devour everything. He steadies me when I nearly collapse, his warm hands gentle.
Each bond is agony. Each thread of light another tether. By the time Dorian pulls away, I'm shaking violently, covered in sweat, barely holding onto consciousness.
Five bonds. Five threads of light connecting me to five angels. Five sins flooding through my awareness, each one demanding attention, each one trying to influence how I think and feel.
"Two more," Croesus says. He sounds worried through our existing bond. "Can you continue?"
"Yes." The word comes out as barely a whisper.
Caspian approaches next, moving slowly with his cane. He looks at me with those pale, exhausted eyes.
"Apathy," he says quietly. "The absence of caring. Are you ready for that?"
"No."
"Honest answer." He takes my hand, cuts his palm. His blood is nearly colorless, like diluted milk.
When our palms touch, I feel... nothing.
And that's somehow worse than all the others combined.
