Chapter 5 #2
“Seems pretty simple to me. Letter said three days. I show up in three days. Math checks out.” I try to close the door again. He still doesn’t budge. “Are you going to let go of my door, or do I need to get creative?”
His smile takes on an edge. Amused, but with teeth underneath.
“Creative how? You’re not armed. Your closest weapon is.
..” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening to something I can’t hear.
“There is a kitchen knife in the drawer to your left, and a ritual athame in the back room. Both iron, but you’d have to reach them first. And I’m faster than you. ”
The casual assessment makes my skin crawl. “You’ve been watching me.”
“Lord Croesus has been watching you. I’m simply here to deliver a message.”
“The letter was the message.”
“The letter was an invitation. This is a clarification.” He finally lets go of the door, but doesn’t step back.
Just stands there in my doorway, taking up space like he has every right to be here.
“You have until noon, not a minute later. The entrance will be at the First National Bank downtown, vault seven. You’ll know which one. ”
“The letter didn’t specify a time.”
“I’m specifying it now. Noon. Sharp.” His amber eyes lock on mine, and there’s something hypnotic about them. Something that makes it hard to look away. “Lord Croesus doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”
I force myself to hold his gaze, even though every instinct is telling me to look down, to submit, to acknowledge that he’s more powerful than me. “And I don’t appreciate supernatural stalkers showing up at my apartment. Guess we’re both disappointed.”
That gets a laugh out of him. Genuine, surprised. “You’re mouthy. I like that. Most humans cower when they meet me.”
“I’m not most humans.”
“No,” he agrees, studying me with an interest that makes me deeply uncomfortable. “You’re not. Angel-blooded, fourth generation if the records are correct. Enough to resist basic compulsion, enough to break contracts. Not enough to actually fight me if I dragged you to the house right now.”
My hand twitches toward where my knife usually is. He notices, of course. Notices and finds it amusing.
“Relax, little sin eater. I’m not here to drag you anywhere. Just to deliver the message and make sure you understand the consequences of noncompliance.”
“Let me guess. You’ll come back, and you won’t be as nice?”
“Oh, I’d come back. But it wouldn’t be me you’d need to worry about.
” He leans against the doorframe, casual as anything.
Like we’re old friends chatting. “Lord Croesus has been very patient with you. Gave you three days to get your affairs in order, say your goodbyes, prepare yourself. That’s more consideration than most inheritors receive. But his patience has limits.”
“What happens if I’m late?”
“Then I come to collect you. And your sister.” He says it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it takes a second for the words to register.
“Luna, isn’t it? Nineteen, a sophomore at State, environmental science major.
Pretty girl. Shame if something happened to her because you couldn’t tell time. ”
The rage hits like white fire. I’m moving before I can think, shoving past him into the hallway, getting in his face even though he’s got six inches and probably a hundred pounds on me. “You stay the fuck away from her.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just looks down at me with the same amused expression. “Then be on time.”
“I’ll be there at noon. But if you or Croesus or anyone from the House of Gold goes near my sister—”
“You’ll what?” He’s not mocking me. Just genuinely curious.
“Break a contract? You already do that. Fight me? We both know how that ends. Run?” He shakes his head slowly.
“There’s nowhere you can go that we won’t find you.
The House of Gold has eyes everywhere. Literally.
Every transaction, every dollar that changes hands, every coin that falls, Croesus sees it. You think you can hide from that?”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right, and we both know it.
“But,” he continues, his tone softening slightly, “if you show up on time, fulfill your contract, serve your year with good faith, then your sister remains exactly as she is. Ignorant, safe, living her normal little life. That’s the deal.”
“That’s the threat.”
“Semantics.” He straightens, adjusts his cuffs with casual precision. “Noon, two days from now. Vault seven. Don’t be late.”
He turns to go, and I should let him. Should just go back inside and lock the door and try to forget this conversation. But my mouth, as always, has other plans.
“What are you?” I ask.
He pauses, looks back over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not an angel. Not like the seven. But you’re not human either. So what are you?”
For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then he smiles, and it’s the first expression I’ve seen from him that looks genuine. Almost sad.
“I’m what happens when a human makes a deal with an angel and lives long enough to regret it.
” He taps the side of his head. “Four hundred and thirty-six years of service and counting. Bound immortal, if you want the technical term. I traded my death for eternal life in Croesus’s service.
Best decision I ever made. And the worst.”
The words settle heavy in the air between us.
“Does it hurt?” I don’t know why I ask. Don’t know why I care.
“Every single day.” He says it lightly, but there’s weight underneath. “But you get used to it. In the same way you get used to eating sins, I imagine. The pain becomes background noise. And eventually, you forget what it felt like to be anything else.”
He walks away then, heading down the hallway. I watch him go, watch him round the corner and disappear, and I stand there for a long moment in the empty hallway before I go back inside.
Lock the door. Deadbolt and chain both.
Not that that would stop him if he wanted to come back.
I lean against the door, close my eyes, and try to slow my racing heart.
Twelve hours.
Twelve hours until I walk into the House of Gold and become...what? A servant? A prisoner? A tool to be used and discarded?
I don’t know.
But I know this: Auric was lying about one part.
The pain doesn’t become background noise. Not for people like us. We just get better at hiding it.
I push off the door and head to the kitchen. Then I pour another glass of water with almost steady hands. The journal sits on the table, mocking with answers in Gramm’s handwriting. And I can’t bring myself to open that door again.
I pick up the journal and carry it to my bedroom. Set it on the nightstand next to my bed. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready to read more. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be strong enough to face whatever warnings she left me.
But tonight, I need to sleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll start saying goodbye.