Chapter 9
All I can do in this place is wait. Walk. Wander. And wait. Luckily, I’m in my room when the note arrives.
It’s written in elegant script on thick parchment: First assignment tonight. Dress appropriately for a debrief in my office now. Don’t keep me waiting. - C
Short. Direct. Well, if this is how it’s going to be, I don’t mind. As little interaction between us as necessary is best.
I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. Probably not what he meant by appropriate.
I cross to the wardrobe, the one I ignored yesterday because I was too exhausted to care. Pull open the doors and blink
The wardrobe is full of clothes. Not my clothes. New clothes. Expensive clothes. Organized by type and color like a boutique display.
Pants. Shirts. Dresses. Jackets.
Quickly, I snatch a few items and check the tags. '12.’ All in my size. What the hell?
I pull out a pair of black pants, tailored, well-made, the kind of thing I’d see in a store window and never buy because who spends two hundred dollars on pants? And hold them up against my waist. They look like they’d fit, but sometimes my too round hips and ass make clothes impossible.
I check the tags on a few other items. No brands I recognize. But how did he know?
The creep factor of this makes my skin crawl.
I grab the black pants out of spite. If he’s going to stock my wardrobe without input, I’m at least going to wear the most practical, least decorative option. Pair them with a simple black shirt, also perfectly fitted, also annoyingly comfortable.
There are shoes lined up at the bottom of the wardrobe. Boots, heels, flats. I grab the black leather boots with a low heel, which are actually practical, and pull them on.
Perfect fit.
I look at myself in the vanity mirror. The clothes are nice. Really nice. Better than anything I own. The pants fit as if they had been tailored for my body. The shirt is a soft, expensive fabric which drapes just right. The boots are out of a wet dream. I could never afford boots like this.
I look put-together. Professional. But there’s no way clothes are going to make me look like I belong in a place like this.
I hate that he’s lined up these clothes like I’m a doll and that he knew my size, my measurements, and probably my preferences too.
Hate that I look good in these clothes, that they make me feel, just slightly, less out of place in this golden prison.
What did I expect? I’d wear the same jeans I arrived in for a year straight?
No, I’d even been a little defiant, thinking they’d have to provide if they wanted something else from me clothes wise.
I hate that I walked into this knowing something like this would happen.
But this feels different than I expected.
It’s a subtle form of control, making me comfortable, ,making me look the part, easing me into this role he’s crafted for me.
I grab my actual worn leather jacket from the chair, and pull it on over the fancy shirt. A small rebellion. A needed reminder that I’m still me under all this expensive costuming.
The journal is still in the inner pocket. I press my hand against it like I can sink it into my own heart.
Still haven’t read more than those first few pages. Still can’t bring myself to.
Later. I’ll read it later.
I check my reflection one more time. Yeah, I look like someone who works for an angel–which is exactly the problem–and head for the door.
The hallway is empty. Silent. I stand there for a moment, trying to remember Auric’s advice.
The house responds to intent. If you want to find something, the hallways will take you there.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
I want to find Croesus’ office. I need to report for this assignment before he decides I’m late and does something unpleasant.
When I open my eyes, the hallway feels different. Not visually, it still looks the same, all gold walls and identical doors. But there’s that pull and direction again, like a compass needle swinging north.
I follow it.
Left. Straight. Right. Down a hallway, past more doors that all look the same. The pull gets stronger, more insistent, until I’m standing in front of a door with a gold serpent handle.
Croesus’s office? Only one way to find out.
I knock.
“Enter,” comes Croesus’s voice from inside.
I turn the handle and step inside.
He’s standing by the windows again, back to the door, hands clasped behind him. Same position as yesterday. Like he never moved. Like he’s been standing there since I left just waiting for me to return.
The light catches the gold in his hair, making it shimmer.
“You’re on time,” he says without turning around. “Good.”
“Your note said not to keep you waiting.”
“And you listened. Impressive self-restraint.” Now he turns, and those molten gold eyes fix somewhere near my face. “You found the clothes I provided.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Hard to miss them. They take up the entire wardrobe.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“I’m not thrilled that you know my exact measurements, no.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “I know the value of everything I acquire, Raven, as I told you. That includes physical dimensions. It would be inefficient to provide you with clothing that didn’t fit.”
“Still creepy.”
“Noted.” He moves toward his desk, runs his fingers along the edge. Learning the space through touch instead of sight. “But you wore them anyway.”
“They were the only options available.”
He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. We need to discuss your first assignment.”
I sit, and he settles into his own chair with fluid, almost otherworldly, grace.
He pulls a leather-bound folder from a drawer and sets it on the desk between us, but doesn’t open it. Just rests his hand on top of it, fingers drumming once against the leather.
“Your first assignment is relatively straightforward,” he begins. “There’s a human in New York, a man named David Barnes, age forty-two, investment banker. Three months ago, he made a deal with the House of Ruin.”
Seraph. Pride.
“What kind of deal?” I ask.
“The usual. He wanted success, recognition, to be the best at what he does. Seraph offered him perfection, flawless performance, impeccable reputation, the admiration of his peers. In exchange, Barnes signed away his ability to accept help from anyone. Ever.”
I wince. “So he’s isolated.”
“Completely. Can’t ask for assistance, can’t accept advice, can’t admit weakness.
It’s destroying him, slowly. His marriage is failing, his health is declining, and his perfect performance is starting to crack under the pressure.
” Croesus opens the folder, runs his fingers over what I assume is a document inside.
“Seraph will collect his soul when he breaks, when the isolation becomes too much and he collapses under the weight of his own pride. It’s how Seraph operates.
He gives them everything they want and watches them destroy themselves with it. ”
“And you want me to break the contract before that happens?”
“Precisely.” Croesus closes the folder. “Barnes has a week, maybe two, before he breaks completely. If you can reach him before then, absorb the pride, break the contract, then his soul becomes available. And I’ll collect it instead of Seraph.”
“Corporate warfare,” I mutter.
“As I said.” He leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “This is what the houses do. We compete. We steal from each other. We pretend there are rules and honor while we stab each other in the back.” He tilts his head in that listening way. “Does that bother you?”
“Does it matter if it does?”
“Not particularly. But I’m curious.”
I think about it. About this man, David Barnes, who made a deal he didn’t understand and is now suffering for it. About Seraph, who offered perfection and delivered isolation. About Croesus, who wants to swoop in and claim the soul for himself.
“You’re both predators,” I say finally. “You and Seraph. You’re just fighting over the same prey.”
“True.” He doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds pleased I understand. “But if you break the contract, Barnes goes free. He gets his life back. Isn’t that worth doing, regardless of my motivations?”
He’s right, and like most things about all of this, I hate it.
Because yes, breaking the contract saves Barnes. Frees him from Seraph’s deal, lets him live without that crushing isolation. That’s the whole point of what I do, giving people back their agency, their freedom, their lives.
The fact that Croesus benefits from it doesn’t change the fact that Barnes gets to walk away. Gets some time back before Croesus swoops in.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“I know you will. You don’t have a choice.” He stands, moves around the desk. “But I appreciate the illusion of agreement.”
I should probably leave it there. Should just accept the assignment and go. But there’s something about the way he’s standing, almost approachable, that makes me think he might actually answer if I push.
“Can I ask you something?” I say before I can stop myself.
He pauses, tilts his head. “You just did,” he says, deadpan.
“Smartass.” The word slips out before I can filter it, and I tense, waiting for him to be offended.
Instead, he smiles. Actually smiles, and it transforms his face from merely beautiful to something that makes my breath catch. “Go ahead. Ask.”
“Auric,” I say. “The bound immortal thing. How does that work? He said he’s been serving you for four hundred years.”
“Four hundred and thirty-six,” Croesus corrects. “He made the deal in 1589. He was dying, plague, I believe. Came to me desperate, willing to trade anything for more time. So I gave him eternity in exchange for eternal service.”
“That seems like a raw deal for him.”