Chapter 26
Iwake up in Croesus's bed with golden sunlight, fake, but beautiful, streaming through the impossible windows.
For a moment, I just lie there, watching the view shift from desert sunrise to mountain peaks to ocean waves. All illusions. All perfect. Just like everything else in this House.
Croesus is lying beside me, one arm draped across my waist. His face is peaceful, younger somehow, the perpetual tension smoothed away. I watch his chest rise and fall, listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He says he doesn’t sleep but whatever this is looks an awful lot like it.
Last night was...complicated. Angry and desperate and necessary all at once. And now, in the soft morning light, I don't know what to feel about it.
Through the binding, I sense his emotions contentment, possession, something that might be peace. He's not hungry right now. Not reaching for more. Just... holding what he has.
Holding me.
I should feel trapped. Should be planning how to reclaim the distance we lost last night. Should be putting walls back up before this gets any messier.
But I'm tired of fighting. Tired of pretending I don't want exactly what happened.
So instead, I carefully extract myself from his arm, slip out of bed, and find my clothes he’s brought in sometime while I slept, leaving them on the floor.
I dress quietly, trying not to wake him.
He needs the rest, I felt his exhaustion through the binding last night, the toll of maintaining control all this time.
I leave him sleeping and make my way back through the house's shifting corridors.
It's early enough that the hallways are mostly empty. A few servants pass me, their heads bowing slightly in acknowledgment. Do they know where I'm coming from? That I spent the night in their master's chambers?
Probably. The house knows everything.
I should go back to my room. Should shower, change, try to process everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the library.
I start in the section Nat showed me during my first week, the ledgers, those meticulous records of every deal he's made, every soul he's collected, every debt Croesus has claimed.
I pull the ledger marked though the present and flip to the entries around my grandmother's contract date, the page I memorized without even trying from the first time I found it. Not for any reason than it makes me feel closer to Gramms for just a second.
I return the ledger and move deeper into the library, following the call numbers Nat mentioned weeks ago. The restricted section isn't locked, Croesus gave me access to most of the house, but it's clearly separated. Darker. Older. The books here don't have neat labels or organized shelving.
They're piled. Stacked. Hidden.
I start pulling volumes at random, scanning tables of contents, looking for anything about the first falling or the word morningstar. Most are in languages I can't read, ancient script that hurts to look at too long. But some are in English, or have been translated.
I find references to Lucifer. To the originalf fall. To the Morningstar's punishment.
But nothing about missing souls. Nothing about bloodlines. Nothing that explains what my grandmother was actually looking for.
I'm about to give up when I find it.
Not a book. A folder. Plain brown leather, stuffed behind a row of grimoires, like someone hid it there and forgot about it.
Or like someone wanted it found by the right person.
I pull it out, open it carefully. Inside are papers, handwritten notes in my grandmother's precise script. Photocopies of old contracts. Newspaper clippings about deaths ruled as natural causes. And a list.
A long list of names.
Each one has a date beside it. A location. A note about angelic bloodline heritage. And a status: MISSING.
I count them. Forty-seven names. Forty-seven people who made deals with the seven houses over the last hundred years. Forty-seven people who should have been collected when their contracts ended.
But weren't.
My hand shakes as I flip through the pages. The notes are sparse but telling:
"Contract fulfilled but soul never collected. House of Fury confirmed no retrieval."
"Subject disappeared three days before collection date. No body found. Bloodline: 6th generation, House of Ruin."
"Natural death reported, but soul not in House of Gold's vault. Croesus unaware of discrepancy until inquiry."
And at the bottom of the last page, in my grandmother's handwriting:
"Pattern confirmed. All missing souls are angel-bloodlines. All descendants of original contracts 300+ years ago. Someone is collecting them before the houses can. Purpose unknown. Danger level: EXTREME. If you're reading this, I'm dead. Don't trust anyone. Not even–"
The sentence cuts off. Like she was interrupted. Or like she couldn't bring herself to finish it.
My throat is tight. My hands won't stop shaking. Goosebumps break out along my arms.
Forty-seven missing souls. All angel-blooded. All collected by someone, or something, before the houses could claim them.
And my grandmother figured it out. Tracked them. Documented them.
Six months before she died.
"Find something interesting?"
I spin around so fast, I nearly drop the folder. Croesus is standing at the entrance to the restricted section, dressed now, his gold eyes pointed in my direction. His expression is carefully neutral, but through the binding I feel his concern. His curiosity.
His fear.
"How long have you been there?" I ask.
"Long enough to see you pull out Meredith's research." He moves closer, each step measured. "I wondered when you'd find it."
"You knew this was here?"
"I knew she was researching something. She spent most of her time in this library, pulling records, cross-referencing contracts." He stops a few feet away. "I didn't know what she'd found until after she died. When I went through her things."
"And you just left it here? For me to find?"
"I left it where she hid it. Where you would find it when you were ready." His jaw tightens. "I couldn't show you directly. The binding prevents me from revealing certain information about the houses without permission from the other six. But I could leave breadcrumbs."
I look down at the folder in my hands. "Missing souls. Forty-seven of them. All angel-bloodlines."
"Yes."
"Someone's collecting them."
"Yes."
"Before the houses can."
"Yes." He moves closer, and I see the tension in his shoulders, the fear carefully locked down but bleeding through the binding. "Show me what she found. All of it. I want to her what you think."
I hand him the folder. Watch his face as he reads through the pages, the notes, the list. His expression doesn't change, but through the binding I feel his emotions spike, alarm, recognition, dread.
"This is worse than I thought. I read this after her death, of course, but I didn’t think about it." he says quietly.
"Worse how?"
He closes the folder, hands it back to me carefully. "The missing souls aren't just disappearing. They're being harvested. And if the pattern your grandmother identified is correct, all of them angel-blood, all from old bloodlines, then someone is collecting specific genetic material."
"For what purpose?"
"I don't know. But nothing good requires forty-seven angel-blood souls.
" He starts pacing, one hand running through his hair.
"The houses would have noticed eventually.
We track our contracts carefully. But by taking them right before collection, spreading them out over a century, it's been subtle enough that we each thought it was isolated incidents. Random disappearances. Bad luck."
"Until my grandmother connected them."
"Yes." He stops pacing, turns to face me. "Meredith didn't just discover the pattern. She figured out why it matters. That's what got her killed."
"Her murder wasn’t coincidence, it was a warning."
"To who?"
"To me. To the other houses. To anyone else who might start asking the same questions.
" He crosses to me, takes my hands. "Your grandmother was brilliant.
She saw the pattern, understood the implications, and she died for it.
And now you're her heir. You've inherited her contract, her knowledge, and. .."
"Her target," I finish. We already knew that. We prepared for it with the binding.
"Yes." Through the binding, I feel his fear crystallize into something sharper. "The protection Wren gave you, the binding that hides you from watchers, it's strong. But if this goes higher than watchers..."
"How high are we talking?"
"Archangels." The word drops between us like a stone.
"If archangels are involved in this, if this conspiracy goes to the highest levels of Heaven, then Wren's wards won't be enough.
Archangels can override almost any protection.
They're not just observers, Raven. They're Heaven's generals. The God’s right hand. "
My knees go weak. I sink into the nearest chair. "So I'm not safe. The binding doesn't matter."
"The binding matters. It buys us time. Makes it harder for them to track you." He kneels in front of me, hands still gripping mine. "But if they're determined, if they've already killed your grandmother for knowing too much, then we need to assume they're coming for you too."
Through the binding, I feel his desperation. His need to protect me. His fury that he can't guarantee my safety.
"What do we do?" I whisper.
"We find out who's behind this. Fast. Before they make their move." He stands, pulls me up with him. "And we don't do it alone. If this is big enough to threaten all seven houses, then we need all seven houses to fix it."
"You mean, tell the other angels?"
"I mean call a meeting. All of us, together, for the first time in centuries outside of our usual squabbles" His grip tightens on my hands.
"They won't like it. The houses hate each other, Raven.
Compete constantly. Seraph would rather die than ask Idris for help.
Kael would burn the world before cooperating with Lysander. "
"But?"
"But if someone is stealing souls from all of us, if someone is collecting angel-blood humans for some purpose we don't understand, then we're all targets. And we're stronger together than apart." He pulls me closer. "Even if we hate admitting it."
I look down at the folder in my hands. "She knew," I say quietly. "She knew this would get her killed. And she did it anyway."
"Yes."
"Because, " My voice breaks. "Because she wanted me to finish it."
Croesus's arms come around me, pulling me against his chest. Through the binding, I feel his agreement. His sorrow. His determination.
"We'll finish it," he says into my hair. "Together. We'll find out who's behind this, why they killed your grandmother, what they want with these bloodlines."
"And then?"
"And then we make sure they can't hurt you." His arms tighten. "Whatever it takes. Even if I have to call a meeting of all seven souses and play nice with angels I despise. Even if I have to ask for help from my enemies. Even if it costs me everything."
"Croesus."
"You're mine, Raven. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe." His voice is fierce. "And I will burn Heaven itself before I let them take you the way they took your grandmother."
I should argue. Should remind him I'm not his possession. Should push back against the possessiveness bleeding through every word.
But right now, with my grandmother's research in my hands and the weight of forty-seven missing souls pressing down on me, right now, I'm glad he's possessive. Glad he's willing to fight for me. Glad I'm not facing this alone.
"When do we tell the others?" I ask.
"Soon. I need to prepare. Make sure I have enough evidence to convince them this is real." He pulls back enough to look at me. "And you need to be ready. They'll all want to know why I'm sharing this information. They won’t trust my word at face value.."
"What will you tell them everything?"
"The truth." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "That someone is stealing our souls. That they killed a sin eater to cover it up. That Meredith's heir has evidence we can't ignore." He pauses. "And that she's under my protection. Anyone who wants to harm you will have to go through me first."
Through the binding, I feel his determination. His fury. His absolute refusal to let anyone hurt me.
And underneath it all, the thing he still won't say out loud: love.
He loves me. It's written in every protective instinct, every possessive claim, every desperate promise to keep me safe.
And I, Gods help me, I love him back.
"Okay," I whisper. "Call the meeting. I'll be ready."
"Good." He kisses my forehead, gentle and claiming all at once. "Because this is just the beginning. If your grandmother was right, if someone is collecting angel-blooded souls for a specific purpose, then we're not just stopping a conspiracy."
"What are we stopping?"
His gold eyes meet mine, and through the binding I feel his certainty. His dread.
"Something that could unravel the balance between Heaven and Hell. Something that could remake reality itself." He pulls me closer. "And we have no idea who we're fighting or how to stop them."
"But we'll try anyway."
"Yes." His mouth quirks in something that's not quite a smile. "Because you're your grandmother's heir. And I'm too greedy to let anyone take what's mine."
I probably should argue with the "mine" part, remind him I make my own choices. Instead, I just hold onto him and stare at my grandmother's handwriting:
If you're reading this, I'm dead. Don't trust anyone.
Sorry, Gramms. But I'm going to have to break that rule.
Because fighting archangels and Heaven's conspiracies alone?
That's a death wish.
And I'm not ready to die yet.