Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF3GP5E3MB06R2TZMFM19H

The knock came at half past midnight, three sharp raps that cut through the rain hammering against Eva's windows. Rory paused with her hand on the deadbolt, recognizing the rhythm—patient, measured, distinctly French in its precision. Her stomach twisted. She'd known this moment would come. Three months of silence couldn't erase what had happened between them, couldn't undo the words spoken in anger or the kiss that had followed. Through the peephole, Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow hallway, rain darkening his platinum hair and beading on his charcoal suit. Even soaked, he looked immaculate. Rory worked the locks one by one, each click loud in the quiet flat. Behind her, Ptolemy stretched on his perch atop Eva's research notes, yellow eyes tracking her movement. The tabby had always liked Lucien, the traitorous beast. She opened the door six inches. "Eva's in Prague." "I know." Lucien's mismatched eyes—amber and black—met hers without flinching. Water dripped from his coat onto the curry-stained carpet. "I came to see you." "At midnight. In a storm." "Would you have answered in daylight?" The question hung between them like smoke. Rory's fingers tightened on the door frame, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim hallway light. She'd gotten that scar the summer she turned eight, falling from the apple tree in her parents' Cardiff garden. Lucien had traced it once with his fingertip, called it her first battle wound. That was before— "You're bleeding," she said. A dark stain spread across his left shoulder, almost invisible against the wet fabric. He shifted his weight, leaning heavier on his ivory-handled cane. "A disagreement with some of Dmitri's people. Nothing serious." "Demon blood or human?" "Mostly human tonight." His lips quirked in that half-smile she'd tried to forget. "May I come in? I'd rather not bleed on Mrs. Kapoor's carpet. She already dislikes me." Rory stepped back, and he moved past her into Eva's flat. The scent of rain and expensive cologne followed him, undercut by the metallic tang of blood. She secured the locks while he stood dripping in the entry, taking in the organized chaos of books and scrolls. "Eva's research has expanded," he said. "She's tracking portals across Eastern Europe. Thinks she's found a pattern." Rory fetched a towel from the bathroom, tossing it at his head. "Coat off." "Always so direct." But he complied, movements careful as he shed the ruined jacket. The shirt beneath was worse—a ragged tear across the shoulder, edges dark with blood. "Knife or claw?" She guided him to Eva's kitchen table, sweeping aside a stack of medieval grimoires. "Knife. One of Dmitri's human mercenaries. They lack imagination." He settled into the chair with practiced ease, like sitting wounded in her kitchen was perfectly normal. Which, once, it had been. Rory retrieved Eva's first aid kit from beneath the sink. The familiar ritual of tending wounds created a buffer between them, something to focus on besides the way lamplight caught in his pale hair or how his fingers drummed against his cane's handle—a tell she'd learned meant pain. She cut away the shirt fabric, revealing a deep gash across his deltoid. The edges were already knitting together, his demon heritage accelerating the healing, but not fast enough. "This needs stitches," she said. "I trust your hands." The words were neutral, but she heard the echo of other times he'd said them. Her hands steady on his skin as she cleaned the wound, his breath warm against her neck. She pushed the memory away. "Why did you really come here, Lucien?" He was quiet while she threaded the needle, while she made the first careful stitch. The rain had softened to a steady patter against the windows. Somewhere below, a door slammed in the curry house. "I have information about Evan," he said finally. The needle slipped, pricking her thumb. A bead of blood welled up. "What kind of information?" "He's in London. Has been for two weeks." Her hands stilled. Through the thin walls, she heard Mrs. Kapoor's television droning. Normal sounds from a normal world, one where ex-boyfriends stayed in the past and half-demons didn't show up bleeding at midnight. "How do you know?" "I make it my business to know when threats enter the city." His good shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Evan Hartley qualifies as a threat." "To whom? Your business interests?" "To you." She resumed stitching, each pass of the needle precise. "I'm not your responsibility." "No," he agreed. "You made that quite clear three months ago." "You're the one who walked away." "After you told me to leave." "After you suggested I was just another asset to manage." The words came out sharper than intended. "Another contact in your network of useful people." His hand caught her wrist, stilling her work. "You know that's not what I meant." "Do I?" She met his heterochromatic gaze, amber and black boring into her. "You said, and I quote, 'Emotions complicate business arrangements.'" "We had just escaped a burning warehouse. I was attempting to—" "To what? Put me in a neat little box? Categorize whatever this was between us so you could file it away?" "To protect you." His grip gentled but didn't release. "My world, what Irishman—it's dangerous for humans. You've seen what happens to people close to me." "I've been dodging supernatural threats since before we met. Or have you forgotten how we met?" A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You threw a pint glass at my head." "You were terrorizing Silas's customers." "I was conducting business." "With a knife to Big Tom's throat." "A negotiation tactic." He released her wrist, letting her return to the stitches. "You have excellent aim, by the way." "Star player on the Cardiff University darts team." She tied off the last stitch, smoothing a bandage over her work. "There. Try not to get stabbed again this week." He caught her hand before she could pull away, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Rory—" Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the table, batting at the bloodied gauze. The spell broke. Rory snatched her hand back, busying herself with cleaning up the medical supplies. "You should go," she said. "Eva will be back Tuesday. Whatever information you have about Evan, you can tell her then." "The information isn't for Eva." He stood, favoring his injured side. "Evan's been asking questions about you. Where you work, where you live. Who you spend time with." Ice slid down her spine. "He doesn't know about the flat?" "Not yet. But he knows about the Golden Empress. Knows about Silas's bar." Lucien retrieved his ruined jacket, extracting a manila envelope from an inner pocket. Somehow it had stayed dry. "Details are in here. His current address, his movements, who he's been talking to." She took the envelope, its weight both negligible and enormous. "Why bring this to me? Why not handle it yourself?" "Because despite what you think, I don't see you as an asset to be managed." He moved toward the door, then paused. "I came because I wanted you to have choices. Information is power, and power means the ability to choose your own path." "Very philosophical for midnight." "I've had three months to think." He worked the locks one-handed, the familiar click-slide-click she'd heard a hundred times before. "Be careful, Rory. Evan's not the same man you left in Cardiff." "Neither am I." He studied her for a long moment, amber eye and black eye seeing too much. "No. You're not." Then he was gone, leaving only the scent of rain and the ghost of might-have-beens. Rory locked the door and leaned against it, the envelope heavy in her hands. Ptolemy wound around her ankles, purring his opinion. "I know," she told the cat. "I'm an idiot." Outside, the rain continued its assault on London's streets. Somewhere out there, Evan was asking questions. Somewhere else, Lucien was walking home wounded, probably already regretting his midnight visit. And here in Eva's flat, surrounded by the detritus of other people's lives and research, Rory opened the envelope and began to read.