Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGQ4AA7HCH7V2FYMMA0T1

The hammering on the door didn't sound like the postman, and it certainly didn't sound like Eva. Eva’s knocks were a rhythmic, impatient *tat-tat-tat*, a drummer’s warm-up. This was a heavy, authoritative thud that vibrated through the floorboards of the cramped flat and rattled the stack of precarious hardcovers on the coffee table. It was a knock that demanded answers. Rory froze in the act of balancing a mug of tea atop a tower of occult encyclopedias. The curry house downstairs was just firing up the tandoors for the dinner rush, the scent of roasting spices drifting up through the floorboards, but the aggression at the door cut through the savory haze. Setting the mug down with a shaky clatter, she checked the time. It was barely eight. She wasn't expecting a delivery, and Silas never left the bar this early unless the roof was caving in. She padded to the door in her socks, the floorboards groaning under the weight of the flat’s accumulated clutter. Eva’s place was a labyrinth of paper; scrolls wedged into bookshelves, loose notes threatening to slide off piles of leather-bound tomes. It usually felt like a sanctuary, a chaotic nest of knowledge. Now, with the relentless pounding shaking the hinges, it felt like a trap. Rory pressed her eye to the peephole. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sharp, painful intake of air that tasted of old dust and sudden panic. The hallway was dim, lit only by the flickering bulb at the top of the stairs, but she would have recognized that silhouette anywhere. The cut of the shoulders, the precise angle of the chin, the way the figure stood with a terrifying stillness—as if he owned the very air in the corridor. Lucien Moreau. He wasn't looking at the door. He was looking down the hallway, his gloved hand resting lightly on the silver head of his cane. His suit was charcoal, tailored within an inch of its life, hugging a frame that was half human elegance and half something far more dangerous. He looked like he had just stepped out of a high-end boardroom in the City, or perhaps out of the smoke and ash of a hellfire pact. Rory’s hand hovered over the first of the three deadbolts. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a traitorous rhythm. She could ignore it. She could back away, turn off the lights, and pretend she wasn't home. Then he shifted. As if sensing her gaze through the layers of wood and steel, he turned his face toward the door. Even through the fisheye distortion, the mismatch of his eyes was jarring—one warm amber, the other a void-like black. He knocked again. Once. Softer. "Open the door, Aurora," he said. His voice was low, smooth, and muffled by the wood, yet it bypassed her ears and settled directly in the pit of her stomach. "I know you’re there. I can hear your heart beating." Rory closed her eyes for a second, centering herself. She was cool-headed. She was the woman who had negotiated with goblins and stared down angry wraiths. She wasn't the scared girl he had left standing in the rain three months ago. She slid back the first deadbolt. Then the second. The third. She pulled the door open just enough to reveal the chain, looking him in the eye. "Go away, Lucien." The Frenchman tilted his head. A lock of platinum blond hair, slicked back in severe perfection, glinted in the hallway light. He offered a thin, polite smile that didn't reach those strange, beautiful eyes. "It is charming to see you too, *mon chéri*," he said, his accent wrapping around the syllables like silk. "But we need to talk. And I would prefer not to do it in the hallway where your neighbors can hear me discussing the end of the world." "My neighbors are used to weird noises," Rory said, though she didn't move to close the door. "I’m busy, Lucien. I’m working." "On what? Eva’s translation of the *Grimorium Verum*?" He gestured vaguely with his cane toward the mess behind her. "I saw the pile of books through the crack before you opened it. You are wasting your time. That text is incomplete." "I didn't ask for your editorial opinion," she snapped. The scar on her left wrist began to throb, a phantom ache that always flared up when she was stressed or near him. It was a reminder of old wounds and the fact that he had patched her up once, long ago, with a gentleness that belied his demonic heritage. Lucien sighed, the sound long-suffering and patient. "I am not here to argue over your research methods. I am here because there is a situation. One that requires your particular… perspective." "I don't work for you anymore." "You never worked for me," he corrected gently. "We were partners. Until you decided to vanish." "I didn't vanish," she lied. "I moved." "You changed your number, blocked my signature, and warded your apartment against my kind," Lucien said, stepping closer. The smell of him hit her—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that always surrounded him. It was intoxicating. It was infuriating. "I had to bribe a doorman at the Golden Empress just to find out you were staying here." Rory’s grip on the doorknob tightened. "You’re stalking me now? That’s low, even for a fixer." "I am concerned," he said, the amber eye darkening. "Now, are you going to take the chain off, or am I going to stand here and embarrass us both until Eva comes home?" Rory stared at him, looking for a crack in the armor, a sign of the man she had let herself care about. But he was a wall of polished fabric and restrained power, as unreadable as ever. With a huff of frustration, she shut the door in his face. For a second, she thought he might break it down. But he waited. Silent. Still. Rory undid the chain and swung the door open wide. "Fine. Come in. But if you set Ptolemy off again, I’m using your cane for firewood." Lucien stepped over the threshold, ducking slightly to avoid the lintel. He moved into the flat, filling the small space with his presence. The air pressure seemed to drop, the temperature dipping a few degrees. "It is not my fault the beast dislikes me," Lucien murmured, closing the door behind him and sliding the deadbolts home with a practiced ease. "Animals sense the demon blood. It is instinct." "He likes me," Rory countered, crossing her arms over her chest. "He has taste." Lucien walked further into the room, his cane clicking rhythmically on the floorboards. He navigated the clutter of books with supernatural grace, not disturbing a single paper. He stopped by the window, looking out at the Brick Lane street scene below, his back to her. "The Council is moving," he said, his voice losing the playful lilt and dropping into the tone he used for business. Serious. Dangerous. "They found the vessel." Rory’s arms dropped. The anger drained away, replaced by a cold wash of dread. "The vessel? I thought that was a myth." "I wish it were," Lucien said, turning to face her. He leaned against the windowsill, the gray light of the London evening framing him. "It is real. And it is here. In London." He looked at her then, really looked at her. The black eye seemed to swallow the light, while the amber one burned with intensity. It was a look she remembered from nights spent in safe houses, from moments when the world was burning down around them and he had looked at her as if she were the only thing worth saving. It hurt. It physically hurt to see him standing there, looking the same as he always did, while she felt like she had aged a decade in three months. "Why are you telling me this?" Rory asked, her voice quiet. "If it’s that dangerous, you should be handling it. You and your kind." "Because," Lucien said, pushing off the sill and walking toward her. He stopped just inside her personal space, close enough that she could see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. "The vessel responds to human resonance. It cannot be opened by a demon, nor can it be destroyed by one. It needs a human touch. Specifically, one with a knack for seeing the things others miss." He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering near her elbow. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from his hand. "I tried to stay away," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper that was barely audible over the hiss of the curry house vents. "When you left, I told myself it was for the best. You are safer away from me. Away from this." "Then why come back?" Rory challenged, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Because keeping you away from me is impossible when the alternative is you getting caught in the crossfire." Lucien’s jaw tightened. "I would rather have you angry and alive than safe and dead." From the top of the bookshelf, a pair of yellow eyes narrowed. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, let out a low, warning yowl. Lucien ignored the cat. He took a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing fractionally. "I missed you, Rory." The words hung in the air, heavy and fragile. Rory’s throat tightened. She looked at his suit, at the cane that held a blade she’d seen him kill with, at the terrifying dichotomy of his eyes. She remembered the way he had held her in the dark, the way his hands felt when they weren’t covered in leather, the way he made her laugh when he wasn't brooding over ancient prophecies. She had left because it was too much. The danger, the secrets, the knowledge that he would live for centuries and she would grow old and die. It was a heartbreak waiting to happen. So she had preempted it. But looking at him now, standing in her friend’s cluttered, spice-scented flat, she realized the flaw in her logic. Leaving hadn't stopped the danger. It had just removed him from the equation. And as terrifying as his world was, she had never felt as alive as she did when she was part of it. "I didn't miss the drama," she said, her voice trembling slightly. Lucien’s lips twitched, a genuine flicker of amusement breaking through the intensity. "I know. You hate drama. That is why you are currently hiding in a flat above a restaurant that smells like cumin and despair." "It's not despair," she argued weakly. "It's character." He reached out, finally closing the distance. His gloved hand cupped her cheek, the leather cool against her skin. He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone, his gaze searching her face. "I can make this go away," he said. "The threat. I can handle it. But I need you. And… I do not want to leave again." Rory leaned into his touch despite herself, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. The wall she had built around her heart for the last three months cracked, just a little. The familiar mix of want and wariness washed over her. "You have a terrible way of asking for help," she whispered. "I am a fixer, not a diplomat," he murmured. He bent his head closer, his breath ghosting over her lips. "Do we have a truce?" Rory opened her eyes. The amber eye was so close it looked like liquid gold. She saw the regret there, the desire, the unspoken apology for everything that had gone wrong between them. She couldn't fix the past. She couldn't change what he was. But she could choose what happened next. "Just one job," she said, her voice firming up. "We stop the vessel. We close the door. Then we talk about us." Lucien’s smile was slow, soft, and devastatingly handsome. "Deal." He straightened up, offering her his arm, the ivory handle of his cane catching the light. "Shall we, then? I believe we have an apocalypse to prevent." Rory looked at his arm, then at the chaotic room around them. She grabbed her jacket off the back of the sofa and slipped it on. "Just try not to scare Ptolemy," she said, stepping past him toward the door. "I make no promises," Lucien replied, but there was warmth in his voice that hadn't been there before. As they stepped out into the damp London night, the smell of rain replacing the smell of curry, Rory felt the familiar thrill of the chase ignite in her veins. It was complicated. It was dangerous. But as Lucien clicked the deadbolt shut behind them, his hand settling gently on her lower back to guide her down the stairs, she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be.