AI The knock came at half past nine, a sharp staccato rap against the wood that made Rory flinch. She had been curled in Eva’s armchair, a blanket over her legs and a heavy tome open in her lap, the air thick with the scent of turmeric and cumin from the restaurant below. Ptolemy raised his head from the hearthrug, blinked once with slow deliberation, and settled back into his loaf.
Three deadbolts. Eva never had visitors, not at this hour. Rory placed the book aside and padded to the door, her socks whispering against the floorboards. “Eva?”
Another knock, firmer this time.
She slid the first bolt, the second, the third, and pulled the door open.
Lucien Moreau stood on the narrow landing, the weak light from the single bulb above the stairs catching the platinum sweep of his hair. He wore a charcoal suit, immaculate as ever, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. The amber eye fixed on her; the black one seemed to drink the shadows of the hallway. Rain glistened on the shoulders of his coat. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t written. It had been six weeks since she’d seen him last, in the back room of his club, the air thick with smoke and words that cut deeper than any blade he concealed.
“Rory.”
Her name in his mouth was a low, soft thing. It curled around the silence between them. She didn’t step back, didn’t invite him in. Her hand remained on the edge of the door. “You’re soaked.”
“London is unkind tonight.” He didn’t smile . His gaze drifted past her, taking in the crammed bookshelves, the scrolls piled on the small table, the cat now watching from the rug. “May I come in?”
“Eva’s not here.”
“I know.”
Of course he knew. Lucien knew everything that moved in this city, aboveground and below. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He traded in secrets, in favors, in the quiet currency of the unseen world. And six weeks ago, she had become a piece on his board, a move he hadn’t bothered to explain.
She let the door swing wider, a silent permission. He stepped across the threshold, bringing with him the chill damp of the evening and the faint, clean scent of sandalwood and rain. He leaned his cane against the wall by the door, shrugged out of his overcoat. Rory took it from him, her fingers brushing against the cold, wet wool. She hung it on the stand beside Eva’s waxed jacket, the mundane domesticity of the gesture feeling absurd.
“Tea?” The word came out clipped, practical.
“If it’s no trouble.”
She walked the few steps to the galley kitchen, her back to him. The kettle filled under the tap, the click of the switch too loud in the quiet room. She could feel him standing there, taking inventory of her – the old Cardiff University sweatshirt, the frayed jeans, her hair tied up in a messy knot. She’d been crying earlier, over something stupid, a song on the radio that reminded her of her father. Her eyes probably looked puffy. She hated that he might notice.
“You look tired,” he said. His voice was closer. He hadn’t moved from the entry, but his words reached her as if he stood just behind her shoulder.
“Long day.” She kept her eyes on the kettle, watching the first tendrils of steam curl from its spout. “Deliveries. Rain makes people order more curry.”
“And how is Madame Cheung?”
“Still threatening to adopt me.”
A quiet huff of air – almost a laugh. “She sees what others miss.”
The kettle whistled, a sharp, shrill sound that severed the moment. Rory poured the boiling water into two mismatched mugs, dropped tea bags in, stirred. Milk, no sugar for him. She remembered that. She carried the mugs back into the main room, handed one to him. Their fingers didn’t touch.
He took a seat on the worn sofa, setting his cane within easy reach. Rory resumed her place in the armchair, pulling the blanket over her legs again, a barrier. Ptolemy, ever the traitor, jumped onto the sofa and settled against Lucien’s thigh, purring like a engine.
“Why are you here, Lucien?”
He cradled the mug in both hands, looking down into the dark liquid. The amber of his eye seemed to glow in the low lamplight. “The Venatori are asking questions in Soho.”
A cold knot tightened in her stomach . The Venatori – the hunters. She’d crossed paths with them once, a messy business involving a stolen grimoire and a body in the Thames. Lucien had extricated her. For a price. “What kind of questions?”
“About a human girl who keeps turning up where she shouldn’t. A girl with a habit of… noticing things.” He looked up, his heterochromatic gaze pinning her . “They have your description, Rory. Not your name. Not yet.”
She swallowed. The tea tasted bitter. “And you’re telling me this why? Out of the goodness of your heart?”
His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in the black eye – a wounded darkness. “You think so little of me.”
“You gave me up.” The words were out before she could stop them, ragged and raw. “You handed over that ledger to Malphas knowing he’d come for me. You used me as bait.”
“I protected you.”
“By throwing me to a demon?”
“By controlling which demon caught you!” The cane clattered to the floor as he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the room, sharp and sudden. Ptolemy startled, leapt down, and disappeared under the table. Lucien took a breath, visibly reining himself in . When he spoke again, his tone was lower, frayed at the edges. “Malphas operates by rules. Predictable, cruel, but rules. The others… there are things in the dark, Aurora, that have no rules at all. I placed you squarely in a transaction I could oversee. You walked away. You always do.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Would you have listened? Would you have trusted me if I’d laid out the plan?” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his mouth. “You were already looking for the door. You still are.”
She looked away, her throat tight. He was right. She had been looking for the door, for an escape back to a normal life, back to Cardiff and law books and a world where demons were just stories. But the door kept vanishing every time she reached for it.
“Why now?” she whispered. “Why come here tonight, after all this time, just to warn me?”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of Brick Lane traffic and the drip of a tap in the kitchen sink. Lucien set his mug on the floor beside his feet. He stood, picked up his cane, but didn’t lean on it. He took a step toward her, then another, until he stood before her chair, looming over her. She didn’t look up, kept her gaze fixed on the small crescent scar on her wrist.
“Look at me.”
She didn’t.
His hand came up, fingers gentle beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his. His skin was cooler than she remembered. His eyes, one of fire and one of night, held hers. “Because I saw one of them tonight,” he said, his voice barely a breath . “A Venatori, watching your flat above Silas’ bar. Because they are not patient, and they are not kind. And because…” He hesitated, the words catching . “Because the thought of them touching you makes the demon in my blood want to tear this city apart stone by stone.”
Her breath hitched. The admission hung in the air between them, stark and undeniable. All the careful walls she’d built, the anger she’d nursed, crumbled under the weight of it.
“Luc…” Her voice broke.
He leaned down, his other hand bracing on the arm of her chair, caging her in. His forehead touched hers. She could smell the tea on his breath, the rain in his hair. “I have done terrible things to keep you safe,” he murmured against her skin. “And I will do worse. But I cannot do them from across the city, wondering if tonight is the night you finally run out of luck.”
“I’m not yours to protect.” It was a weak protest, whispered into the scant space between their mouths.
“Aren’t you?” His lips brushed hers, the lightest pressure, a question. “Then tell me to leave. Tell me you feel nothing. Tell me the last six weeks have been a relief.”
She couldn’t. The lie wouldn’t form. Her hands came up, fingers tangling in the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation of its own. It tasted of regret and rain and the metallic tang of the demon-blood that sang in his veins. His cane clattered forgotten to the floor again as his arms wrapped around her, lifting her from the chair, blanket and all, holding her against him. She was small in his grasp, but she held on just as tight, her fingers in his hair, messing the perfect sweep of it.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. He rested his forehead against hers again, his eyes closed. “I should have come sooner.”
“You’re here now.”
“They’ll come for you, Rory. Tonight, tomorrow. They have your scent.”
“Then what do we do?”
He opened his eyes, the resolve in them clear and hard. “We disappear.”