Page 50 of A House of Gold
And I’m doing it perfectly. Better than Gramms ever did. Better than any sin eater in history.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. “Not real. Not me.”
But it feels real. It feels like the truest thing I’ve ever known.
“Almost there,” Croesus says, and his hand tightens on my waist.
I pull away from him. “I can walk.”
“Raven.”
“I said I can walk.” My voice comes out sharp, imperious. The pride swells at his doubt, at the implication that I need help. I don’t need anything. I’m the best sin eater alive. I can handle this. I’ve been handling worse since I was seventeen years old. “I don’t need you to carry me like some...”
We step into an empty conference room, and the world shifts before I can finish. The corporate blandness melts away like wax, replaced by black stone and golden light. The House of Gold, pulling us back into its pocket dimension.
A ritual room.
It’s small but bigger than the one at my apartment, maybe fifteen by fifteen, with walls of smooth black obsidian that seem to drink the light. Golden bowls sit on stone pedestals in each corner, filled with salt and iron and herbs I don’t recognize but can smell: bitter, sharp, medicinal. The floor is inlaid with a purification circle in gold and white, not paint, but actual precious metal hammered into the stone. In the center sits a low altar, black marble veined with gold, holding my tools: athame, chalice, lengths of iron chain.
I walk toward it without stumbling. See? I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m exceptional.
“You need to start the ritual,” Croesus says behind me. “Now.”
“I know that.” I turn to face him, and the pride makes me lift my chin, square my shoulders. Makes me meet his gold eyes without flinching. “I’ve been doing this for years. I don’t need instructions from someone who’s never purged a sin in his life.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those molten eyes. “You’re holding pride. Seraph’s sin. It’s making you?—”
“Making me what? Confident? Strong?” I laugh, and it sounds strange even to my own ears. Too bright. Too sharp. “I am those things. I’ve always been those things. Maybe you’re just seeing it now.”
“You’re losing yourself.” He takes a step closer, and I back away on instinct. “The pride is talking, not you. You need to purge it before?—“
“Before what? Before I realize I don’t actually need you?” The words pour out, vicious and cutting, and part of me, some small, rational part buried under the weight of borrowed arrogance, knows I’m going to regret this. But I can’t stop. The pride won’t let me stop. “You think I’m here because I’m weak? Because I need your protection? I’m here because I made a choice. Because I’m smart enough to keep my sister safe and strong enough to survive whatever you throw at me. Don’t mistake servitude for inadequacy.”
“I never said you were inadequate.”
“You didn’t have to. Every time you look at me, I can see you thinking it. ‘Poor little sin eater, so desperate, so broken.’” I’m circling him now, and the pride makes me feel powerful, untouchable. “But I’m not broken. I’ve never been broken. I’ve survived things that would have destroyed you if you weren’t immortal. I’ve eaten sins that would shatter your precious angelic mind. I am exceptional at what I do, and you...”
“Are you going to keep posturing?” Croesus interrupts, his voice gone cold and sharp as a blade. “Or are you going to prove it?”
I stop. “What?”
“All these claims of competence. Of strength. Of being the best sin eater alive.” He gestures toward the altar, toward the ritual circle. “Prove it. Show me how exceptional you are. Purge the pride. Right now. Or admit you need help.”
The pride snarls at the challenge. At the implication that I might fail. That I might be anything less than perfect.
“Fine.” I turn toward the altar, my hands steady despite the roar in my head. “Watch and learn, angel. This is what real power looks like.”
He moves to one of the bowls, and I think he’s going to conjure fire for me, like I’m some helpless apprentice who needs assistance with basic tasks, but he just leans against the wall and watches.
Good. I don’t need his help, anyway.
I light the candles myself, hands perfectly steady. Seven white for purification. Seven black for protection. Seven red for blood. Each flame springs to life at my touch, and the pride purrs at how easy it is, how natural. See? I’m the best at this. I’ve always been the best at this.
I step into the circle,and the wards snap into place around me. The pride surges, hates being contained, being limited, but I’m stronger than it. I’m stronger than everything.
I take up the athame, and that’s when my hands finally shake.
No. No. I’m not weak. I’m not afraid. I’m-I’m perfect. Flawless. Beyond reproach.
