Page 88 of A House of Gold
The room beyond is vast and overwhelming.
Not a room, a cathedral. Soaring ceilings that disappear into darkness. Seven massive thrones arranged in a circle, each one carved from different materials: gold, white marble, mirrors, black obsidian, deep red velvet, polished wood, and something that looks like solidified smoke. Between them, smaller chairs and tables where other supernatural beings gather, demons, fae, spirits I can't identify. Dang. I blink and try to make sure my mouth isn’t hanging open. I’ve never actually seen a fae. Heard of them, of course, but always thought they had died out or were simply myth. I guess the same could be said about my kind too.
The air thrums with power. So much power that my skin prickles with it, my angel blood recognizing the presence of beings that could unmake me with a thought.
And on five of the seven thrones sit the angels.
I see Croesus' throne, solid gold, empty and waiting. He guides me toward it, and I feel every eye in the room track our movement.
"Croesus." A voice rings out, cultured and cold. "How good of you to finally arrive."
I look up and see Seraph on his white marble throne. He's exactly as I remember, platinum hair, silver-mirror eyes, six white-gold wings spread behind him like a declaration. He's wearing white and silver, every line of him perfect, and when his eyes land on me, I feel assessed and found wanting in the space of a heartbeat.
"Seraph." Croesus's voice is cordial but cool. "I trust I haven't kept you waiting long."
"Only an eternity." Seraph's smile is sharp. "And you brought your little sin eater. How... cute."
Other voices join in, and I force myself to look at the other thrones, to see the angels I'll eventually serve.
On the throne of mirrors sits a figure that's beautiful in a way that makes my eyes hurt, sharp cheekbones, perfect features, with hair that shifts color in the light like oil on water. Idris. The Angel of Envy. Their lips move as if speaking, but no sound comes out. Instead, a voice slides directly into my mind, smooth and androgynous.Welcome, little sin eater. I've been so curious about you.The mental touch feels like silk against my thoughts, invasive and intimate.
The black obsidian throne holds a figure that radiates heat I can feel from here. Tall, heavily muscled, with dark red hair and ember-bright eyes. Scars cover his visible skin, arms, neck, even his face bears burn marks. Kael. The Angel of Wrath. He doesn't acknowledge us, just watches with the stillness of a predator, and I swear the air around him shimmers with heat.
On the red velvet throne lounges an angel who makes my breath catch. Dark hair with red undertones, purple eyes half-lidded, full lips curved in a knowing smile. He's wearing flowing clothes that look like he just rolled out of bed, and everything about him screams sensuality. Lysander. The Angel of Lust. He winks at me, and even from this distance, I feel the pull of him, magnetic, nearly irresistible.
The wooden throne holds someone softer, golden-brown hair, warm brown eyes, a kind face. He's wearing comfortable clothes, holding what looks like a wine glass, and he smiles at me with genuine warmth. But there's something sad in his expression, something hollow. Dorian. The Angel of Gluttony. He raises his glass in greeting, but the gesture feels empty somehow.
And on the throne that looks like solidified smoke... nothing. No one. Just emptiness and the sense of something watching from a void.
"Caspian never attends these gatherings," Croesus murmurs, following my gaze. "The Angel of Sloth. He hasn't left his house in decades."
So that's five of the other six. Five of the angels I'll serve. Five curses I'll have to navigate.
Six more opportunities to break or be broken.
I only know them from interacting with their sins. Now, I can feel them in the way I feel the chains with each soul I save. It’s disconcerting...like knowing someone you met on the internet well, then finally meeting them in person.
Croesus guides me to a chair beside his throne, not on it, not equal, but beside. A clear statement of where I belong. He settles onto the gold throne.
"Now that we're all here," Seraph says, his voice quieting the murmurs, "we can begin. First order of business: territorialdisputes in the mortal realm. Lysander, I believe you've been encroaching on my contracts in Europe."
The meeting devolves into exactly what Nat said it would be: political theater. The angels argue about territories, about contracts, about souls they've claimed or lost. They're polite but vicious, every word a calculated strike. Watching them is like watching apex predators circle each other, all teeth and claws hidden under beautiful faces.
I try to follow the discussion, but it's hard to concentrate. The room is too much, too many powerful beings, too much magic pressing against my skin, too much attention every time someone's eyes slide toward me.
And they do. Often.
Idris, especially, keeps looking at me with those mirror eyes. Lysander's gaze is warm and appraising. Even Kael glances over occasionally, his ember eyes assessing.
Croesus notices. His hand comes to rest on the arm of his throne closest to me, fingers drumming a slow rhythm. A warning? A claim?
After what feels like hours, Seraph calls for a recess. "We'll reconvene after refreshments."
The angels rise. Beings scatter toward tables laden with food and drink. And before I can stop him, Seraph is there, standing in front of me with that perfect smile.
"Dance with me," he says. Not a question.
"She's not—" Croesus starts.
