Chapter 7
Seven
The library in the House of Ruin makes Croesus's collection look modest.
It's not a room. It's a cathedral. Three stories of white marble and silver accents, with bookshelves that spiral up toward a domed ceiling painted with scenes of angels.
They all look too perfect, too happy, too whole.
Crystal chandeliers hang at intervals, casting that same sourceless silver light that permeates the entire house.
And the books. God, the books.
Thousands of them. Maybe tens of thousands.
Some look ancient—leather-bound volumes with cracked spines and pages that probably crumble at the slightest touch.
Others are newer, sleeker, even some digital tablets set into the shelves like they belong there.
Every language imaginable. Every subject conceivable.
This is a collection built over millennia by someone who values knowledge the way Croesus values gold.
I stand in the entrance, overwhelmed.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
I don't jump. I'm getting used to Seraph appearing without warning, moving so quietly I never hear him coming. It's unsettling how something so large can be so silent.
He's standing near one of the reading tables, dressed in another perfectly tailored suit. This one is cream-colored, almost the same shade as the marble. Making him blend into his own house like camouflage.
"It's..." I search for the right word. "Excessive."
"Knowledge is never excessive." He moves toward me with that liquid grace. "It's the only thing that lasts. Gold tarnishes. Flesh decays. Power shifts." He gestures at the shelves. "Knowledge endures."
"Is that why you collect it? Because it lasts?"
"I collect it because I'm curious." He stops a few feet away, studying me with those mirror eyes. "About everything. About history and magic and the patterns that govern reality. About why humans make the choices they do. About..." He trails off.
"About what?"
"About your grandmother." He says it quietly.
Simply. "She spent weeks in this library.
Researching. Taking notes. Cross-referencing contracts from centuries ago.
I gave her access to everything. My restricted sections, sealed records, documents most sin eaters would kill to see.
" His jaw tightens. "And then she left. And three days later, she was dead. "
The grief in his voice surprises me. Not just regret, but actual grief. Like he cared about her. Like her death was more than just a broken promise.
"What was she researching?" I ask.
"I don't know. She wouldn't tell me." He turns toward the shelves. "But she was methodical. Started with the oldest records. Contracts from the first century after the fall. Then moved forward chronologically, taking notes on specific bloodlines. Specific patterns."
"Patterns like what?"
"Missing souls." He walks to a shelf in the far corner, runs his fingers along the spines of several books before selecting one. "Contracts that were fulfilled but never collected. Souls that should be in our vaults but aren't."
My heart starts beating faster. "That sounds familiar.”
He brings the book to one of the reading tables, opens it to a marked page. "All of them angel-blooded. All of them descendants of original contracts made three hundred years ago or more."
I move closer, look at the page. It's a ledger of some kind—names, dates, contract terms, collection status. And beside dozens of entries:
NOT COLLECTED - WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN.
"We already know someone, or something, is taking them," I say slowly. "Before the houses can."
"Yes." Seraph's fingers drum once against the table—a tell he probably doesn't realize he has. "Your grandmother figured that out. Documented it. Started tracking the pattern. And then she came to me and asked me to protect you."
"Because she knew whoever was collecting these souls would come for me eventually."
"Because you're angel-blooded. Because your family has been making deals for generations. Because you're exactly the type of person this collector might target."
The weight of it settles over me like ice all over again. I'm not just serving seven houses because of inherited debt. I'm being hunted. By something or someone powerful enough to steal souls from fallen angels.
"I need to see her research," I say. "Everything she looked at. Everything she documented."
Seraph studies me for a long moment. Then he nods. "I'll show you where to start. But be careful. Your grandmother was brilliant and experienced and cautious. And she still died. Whatever she found—it was dangerous enough to kill for."
"I know."
"Do you?" He closes the book. "Because I don't think you understand what you're dealing with. The missing souls span all seven houses. All seven sins. Which means whoever is collecting them either has access to every house, which should be impossible, or has power we don't understand."
"Or they have help." The thought chills me. "Someone on the inside. In one of the houses."
His wings rustle and it makes me feel powerful that I’ve noticed at least one of his tells already. "I've considered that. If one of us is involved..."
"Then telling them puts an even bigger target on my back."
As the thought rises ,I reach inside and try to smother the bonds I share with all of them. It could be any one of them after all. I squint up at Seraph. Even him. He could be toying with me in some twisted angel kink way.
If he sees my glare he doesn’t react. "Exactly." He picks up the book and returns it to its shelf. "So we investigate quietly. Carefully. And we trust no one."
"Except you?" I ask sweetly. And Croesus.
"Except me." His smile is sharp. "I'm many things, Raven. Arrogant. Controlling. Obsessed with perfection to the point of cruelty. But I keep my promises. And I promised your grandmother I'd protect you. Which means I'll help you find answers. Even if those answers put us both at risk."
Something in my chest loosens slightly. Not trust, not yet, but possibly the beginning of it. "Where do I start?"
"The restricted section. Second floor, eastern corner.
Your grandmother spent most of her time there.
" He gestures toward a spiral staircase off to the side of the room.
"I'll have someone bring you more materials.
Don't take anything out of the library. Don't make copies.
Don't leave any evidence you're researching this.
If someone is watching, someone inside the houses, we can't let them know you're following your grandmother's trail now. "
"Understood." Not like they couldn’t have figured it out already. What with the watchers and the freaking archangel.
He starts to leave, then pauses. "One more thing. If you find anything that feels dangerous or wrong, come to me immediately. Don't try to handle it alone. Don't be like your grandmother." His voice hardens. "Don't make me fail twice."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the vast library with its thousands of secrets.
I climb the spiral staircase to the second floor. The restricted section is smaller than I expected. I guess fifty feet across. The shelves are set in a semicircle around a single reading desk. The books here are older. More fragile. Some are bound in materials I don't want to look at too closely.
I select a volume dated to the early 1700s and settle at the desk to read.
The work is slow. Tedious. Each contract has to be read carefully, cross-referenced with collection records, checked for patterns. My eyes start to blur after the first hour. My back aches after the second.
But I keep going.
Because somewhere in these records is the answer. The pattern grandmother saw. The reason she died.
I'm three hours in when I hear it.
A sound. Soft and uncertain. Like someone clearing their throat but afraid of being heard.
I look up from the contract I'm reading—House of Fury, 1743, wrath collected successfully—and scan the restricted section.
Nothing.
"Hello?" I call out quietly.
Silence.
Then, even softer than before: "You shouldn't be here."
The voice is young. Female. And seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
I stand slowly, looking around. "Who said that?"
"No one." A pause. "Everyone. I don't know anymore." The voice is clearer now, coming from my left. Near a shelf of particularly ancient-looking books. "You're the new one. The sin eater. Seraph's... guest."
"Guest is a generous term." I move toward the voice. "Who are you?"
"I'm..." Another pause. Longer this time. "I don't remember. I've been here so long. Watching. Listening. Forgetting."
I round the shelf and freeze.
There's a girl standing there. Nineteen or twenty, with long dark hair and pale skin and eyes that don't quite focus on anything.
She's wearing a dress from another era—Victorian, possibly, with a high collar and long sleeves and too many buttons.
And she's... translucent. Not solid. I can see the bookshelf through her body.
A ghost.
"You're dead," I say, because apparently my filter stops working when confronted with the supernatural. Even though I am fucking supernatural.
"Yes." She doesn't seem bothered by the observation. Just looks down at her hands, or through them. "I think so. It's hard to remember. Time works differently here."
"How long have you been here?"
"I don't know. Years? Decades? Lord Seraph doesn't see me. Or maybe he does and just ignores me. Most people do." She finally focuses on me, and her eyes are sad. So incredibly sad. "But you see me. You're looking right at me."
"Yeah." I take a careful step closer. "I'm Raven."
"Raven." She tests the name like it's a new language. "That's a bird name. Birds are free. Are you free?"
"Not particularly." I gesture at the books around us. "I'm researching. Trying to find information about someone who died. My grandmother."