Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJ362ND4A7NBSN76QP3K2

The scent of turmeric, cumin, and frying onions drifted up through the floorboards, a thick, humid blanket that always seemed to coat the inside of Eva’s throat. It was late, the kind of late where the East London traffic finally dulled to a sporadic hum, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic thud of bass from a passing car. Rory adjusted her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose. The flat was a disaster zone of organized chaos—stacks of leather-bound tomes teetering perilously on the coffee table, scrolls unfurled across the sofa cushions, and Ptolemy, Eva’s overweight tabby, currently shedding on the only clear patch of rug. She was supposed to be transcribing notes for Eva, something about Sumerian warding limits, but the words were blurring together. A sharp, rattling knock shattered the quiet. It wasn’t the polite rap of a neighbor or the hesitant shuffle of a delivery driver. It was heavy. Imperative. Three precise strikes against the wood. Rory froze, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She glanced at the three deadbolts screwed into the reinforced frame of the front door. Eva was paranoid, a trait Rory used to mock until she understood exactly what went bump in the London night. She stood up, brushing crumbs from her jeans, and grabbed the iron poker leaning against the fireplace. It wasn’t a silver blade, but it was iron, and iron hurt plenty of things that went bump. "Coming," she called out, keeping her voice steady. She shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole. The fisheye lens distorted the view, widening the hallway, but there was no mistaking the figure standing under the flickering buzz of the overhead light. He was standing with his back to the wall, one hand resting lightly on the head of an ivory-handled cane. Rory lowered the poker. Her stomach did a traitorous flip, part anxiety, part something she didn't want to name. She undid the first deadbolt. Then the second. With a hesitation, her hand hovering over the third, she took a breath and pulled it back. She opened the door just enough to block the entrance with her body, leaning on the frame. Lucien Moreau looked like he had just stepped out of a high-end tailoring shop and into a war zone. His charcoal suit was sharp enough to cut glass, the platinum blond hair slicked back with practiced precision. But his eyes—that unsettling, arresting mismatch of amber and black—were tired. "You look like hell, Lucien," she said, proud that her voice didn't waver. A faint, tired smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "And you look like a librarian who exploded, *ma chérie*." "It’s Eva’s flat. I’m just guarding the books." She tightened her grip on the doorknob. "What are you doing here?" "May I come in?" "No." The amber eye narrowed slightly. "It’s cold in the hallway." "Poor baby." She moved to shut the door. His hand caught the edge. He didn't shove; he just held it there, his grip gentle but immovable. The cane tapped lightly against the floorboards. "We need to talk, Aurora." "We talked three weeks ago. You said—" "I know what I said." His voice dropped, the French accent thickening, curling around the vowels like smoke. "Please." The please undid her. Lucien didn't plead. He negotiated. He bribed. He threatened. He didn't stand in dingy hallways on Brick Lane asking for permission to enter a cluttered flat smelling of takeout. Rory stepped back, opening the door wide. Lucien stepped over the threshold, the air in the room seeming to shrink instantly to accommodate his presence. He was too tall for the low ceilings, too polished for the clutter. He closed the door behind him and engaged the three deadbolts with a fluid, practiced motion of his left hand. Ptolemy lifted his head from the rug, eyed the intruder with disdain, and went back to sleep. Lucien sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling just a fraction. "Curry house?" "Always," Rory said, tossing the poker back into the hearth. She turned to face him, crossing her arms. "You have two minutes before I throw you out, Lucien. I have work to do." He walked further into the room, navigating the maze of books with the grace of a tightrope walker. He stopped by the window, looking out at the neon signage of the restaurant across the street. The reflected red and blue lights danced across his pale features. "I heard about the job at the Golden Empress," he said, turning to face her. "Delivery." "Rent is expensive. Not everyone can afford bespoke suits and ivory canes." "And Silas? Does he know you are here, surrounded by…" he gestured vaguely at a scroll depicting a terrifying multi-headed beast, "...unprotected texts?" "I can handle myself." "I never said you couldn't." He took a step toward her. The air between them felt charged, electric, the way it always did. It was the demon blood, he’d told her once. It was a chemical reaction, she’d argued back. Whatever it was, it made the hair on her arms stand up. "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice softer this time. Lucien sighed, a sound of genuine exhaustion. He tapped the cane against the floor. "Because I made a mistake. Three weeks ago, when I walked away. I thought I was doing the honorable thing." Rory let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, yes. Very noble. Leaving me in a café with the bill and a broken heart. Chivalry isn't dead, Lucien, it’s just an asshole." "I am a fixer, Rory. My world is..." He struggled for the word. "...messy. It is dangerous. You are intelligent, you are brilliant, but you are human. You have a lifespan. I have enemies that would use you to get to me without a second thought." "So you decided to pre-emptively break my heart? Saves them the trouble?" His jaw tightened. The black eye seemed to swallow the light, while the amber one burned with intensity. "I was trying to keep you safe. I have spent thirty-two years keeping people at arm's length. It is necessary. It is survival." "And yet, here you are." Rory uncrossed her arms and took a step toward him. She could smell him now—sandalwood and expensive cologne, and underneath that, the faint, sharp scent of ozone. Like a storm about to break. "You couldn't stay away." "No," he admitted. "I could not. I tried. I went to Marseille. I walked the old docks. I drank wine that was too expensive and tasted like ash." He looked at her, really looked at her, his gaze tracing the line of her jaw, the messy fall of her black hair. "It seems I am incompetent at being alone." Rory felt the anger draining out of her, replaced by a hollow ache. She had missed him. God, she had missed him. She had missed the dry wit, the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve, the safety she felt when he was near, despite the danger he brought. "You hurt me," she whispered. "I know." He stepped closer. "I know." He was within reach now. If she reached out, she could touch the lapel of his coat. She looked down at his hand resting on the cane. His knuckles were white. "You can't just walk in and out of my life whenever you get lonely, Lucien. I’m not a contract you can renegotiate." "I am not asking for a contract." He shifted his weight. "I am asking for a chance to apologize. And I am asking for information." Rory blinked, the sudden shift in topic pulling her out of the emotional spiral. "Information?" "I need to know what you found," he said quietly. "In the archives. With Eva. The texts regarding the Avaros realm." She stiffened. "How did you know about that?" "I know everything, Aurora. You know that." His voice was low, urgent. "There is a destabilization in the cross-section. My father’s people are moving. If there is a prophecy or a seal mentioned in those texts..." "You came here for the books," she said, the betrayal blooming fresh and hot in her chest. "You didn't come for me." "I came for you," he snapped, the veneer of the calm fixer cracking. "I came for you because if the Avaros are moving, you are in danger. Being near Eva, being near those texts—it paints a target on your back. I cannot protect you if I do not know what we are facing." He was close enough now that she could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, a remnant of a fight he’d once told her about. She could see the way his breathing had hitched. "I’m not looking for a bodyguard," Rory said, though she didn't step away. "I know," he said, his voice rough. "You are Carter. You are capable. But even the capable fall." He lifted his hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before his fingers brushed against her cheek. The contact was electric, a spark that jumped from his skin to hers. His hand was warm, calloused from the handle of the cane despite the softness of his life. Rory closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch despite herself. It was a weakness. It was a capitulation. But she was so tired of being angry. "The seal," she whispered, opening her eyes to lock gazes with him. "It’s not in the main archives. Eva moved it. She hid it in a translation of a 14th-century merchant’s ledger. It’s here." Lucien’s eyes widened slightly. "Here? In this flat?" "Yes." "Is it safe?" "For now. But if your father’s people are looking..." She trailed off. "Then they will come here." Lucien dropped his hand, but he didn't step back. The space between them was minimal, charged with unsaid words and the weight of their history. "You cannot stay here tonight." "I’m not going with you." "You do not have a choice." He glanced at the door. "I have a car downstairs. We can go to my place in Kensington. The wards are impenetrable." Rory arched an eyebrow. "And what about Ptolemy?" Lucien looked at the cat, who was now snoring loudly. "The cat can come. But we go. Now." "You are ordering me around in my own living room." "I am attempting to ensure you survive the week, Rory." A flicker of a smile returned, softer this time. "Humor me. Consider it... penance." She looked at him, really looked at him. The lines of tension around his eyes, the way he held himself ready for a fight. He was terrified. The great Lucien Moreau, the half-demon fixer who trafficked in secrets, was scared for her. It undid her resolve completely. Rory let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. "I need a bag. And I’m taking the curry leftovers from the fridge." Lucien’s shoulders dropped an inch. "Deal. But we hurry." She turned to grab her backpack, shoving her laptop and a few changes of clothes inside. She felt his gaze on her back, a heavy, protective weight. When she turned back around, he was standing by the door, waiting. He extended a hand—not for a handshake, but an offering. An olive branch. "Rory," he said softly. She looked at his hand, then up at his mismatched eyes. She stepped forward and took it. His grip tightened immediately, grounding her. "You owe me," she said. "I know," he replied, pulling her gently toward the door. "I intend to spend a very long time paying it back." He undid the deadbolts, one by one, and ushered her out into the London night, the promise of danger and something far more dangerous hanging in the air between them.