Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF99KM1TYBEE23D97WH58N

The knock came just as Rory finished taping up the latest box of Eva’s research papers. Three sharp raps, followed by a pause, then two more. A pattern she knew as well as her own heartbeat. Her fingers stilled against the cardboard edge. Ptolemy arched his back beside her knee, tufted tail flicking against her calf. Three more knocks. She exhaled through her nose and crossed the cluttered flat, stepping over stacks of ancient tomes Eva had somehow smuggled out of the British Library. The deadbolts clicked open one after another, each turn of the key sending an ache through her wrist—that old scar from the bicycle spill at age nine, the one Evan had traced with his thumb the night before everything went wrong. The door swung inward. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the drizzle clinging to his shoulders. Platinum hair slicked back, hands resting on the ivory handle of his cane. That infuriating half-smile playing at his lips. "You look like hell," he said in that smooth Marseille accent. Rory leaned against the doorframe. "And you look like you walked out of a bad film noir. What do you want?" Ptolemy wound between her ankles, sniffing at the damp hem of Lucien’s trousers. The demon’s mismatched eyes—amber and void—flicked downward. "Did Eva acquire a familiar, or is this your doing?" "He’s a cat, Luc. Not a spell component." She made to shut the door. The cane shot out, wedging in the jamb. "I need your help." The quiet urgency in his voice stopped her. Lucien never asked for anything outright—he bartered, manipulated, negotiated. This was new terrain. Rain dripped from the overhang above, plinking against the metal railing. Somewhere below, the curry house’s lunch rush sent up a waft of cumin and chilies through the stairwell. Rory exhaled. "You’ve got five minutes." His fingers flexed around the cane as she stepped aside. Ptolemy led the procession into the flat, tail held high like a standard. Lucien took in the chaos—the boxes, the scrolls cascading off the dining table, the mug of tea gone cold beside Eva’s laptop. "Moving out?" "Tidying up. Eva’s in Cairo chasing down some lead about—" Rory caught herself. "Not that it’s your business." He set his cane against the sofa—the casual disarmament of a man making a show of trust—and shrugged out of his coat. The movement pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders. Rory turned abruptly toward the kitchenette. "Tea?" she asked, more to occupy her hands than anything. "If you're offering." The kettle hissed as she refilled it. Behind her, Lucien picked through Eva’s notes with two fingers, careful not to disturb the order. Rory knew that look—the slight furrow between his brows, the way his thumb tapped against his thigh. He was working up to something. "You said you needed help," she prompted. "I did." He turned a page. "There’s a book"— She scoffed. "There’s always a book with you." "—that was stolen from my vault three nights ago." The kettle clicked off. Rory poured steaming water over the tea leaves, watching them unfurl in the current. "What makes you think I had anything to do with it?" "I don’t." Lucien set down the papers. "But the thief left this." A playing card slid across the counter toward her—the Queen of Hearts, with a single drop of blood smeared across the queen’s cheek. Rory’s fingertips grazed the edge. Evan’s calling card. "I see," she said carefully. Lucien’s voice dropped. "He’s back in London, Rory." The sound of her name in his mouth sent an unwelcome jolt through her. She pushed the mug toward him, the porcelain clinking louder than necessary. "I’m not getting involved in your demonic pissing contests." "That’s not what this is." "Then what is it?" Lucien caught her wrist as she turned away. His thumb found the crescent scar. Rory froze. For all his careful affectations, his hands were warm. Human-warm. "Your witch friend is digging in places she shouldn’t," he said quietly. "And Evan knows it." A drop of tea slid down the side of the mug, pooling on the counter. Ptolemy leaped up to investigate, tail twitching. "He’s after her research?" Rory tried to pull free, but Lucien held firm. "After her," he corrected. "Just like he came after you." The memory hit like a blow—Evan’s hand around her arm, his breath against her neck as he hissed about loyalty. The way Lucien had appeared in the alley that night, blade drawn from his cane before she could blink. Two months ago. Two months since she’d last seen Lucien. Since she told him to stay away. "You’re not playing fair," she murmured. His thumb stroked her pulse point. "I never do." The flat suddenly felt too small, the air thick with the scent of bergamot and old paper and whatever cologne Lucien favored—something dark and resinous, like frankincense burning. Rory pulled her hand away. "I’ll talk to Eva. But we do this my way. No demons, no deals." Lucien inclined his head. Ptolemy knocked the Queen of Hearts onto the floor. "One more thing," he said, fishing an envelope from his breast pocket. "You left this at my place." Her fingers trembled slightly as she took it. Inside, the train ticket to Cardiff—the one she’d bought the morning after Evan’s arrest, intending to run home to her parents. She’d thought she lost it. Lucien swirled his tea. "I’d have cashed it in, but the expiry date was generous." "You kept it all this time." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Sentimentality is a demon’s worst vice." Rain pattered against the window. Somewhere on Brick Lane, a car horn blasted. Rory slid the envelope into her back pocket. "Your five minutes are up." But neither of them moved toward the door.