AI The insistent, rhythmic pounding at the bolted door vibrated through the floorboards, a frantic Morse code that Aurora Carter had no desire to translate. She paused her meticulous arrangement of ancient texts on Eva’s cluttered coffee table, her heart giving a reluctant thump against her ribs. Three deadbolts. Eva, ever the paranoid enchantress, had spared no expense in deterring unwelcome visitors, and Rory, by extension, enjoyed a rather robust sense of security. But this was no casual knock; it was a declaration of urgency.
Hesitantly, she padded across the worn rug, the tabby cat, Ptolemy, a ginger blur weaving between her ankles, his tail a question mark of impatience. Rory reached the door, her hand hovering over the topmost bolt. It couldn’t be Evan. He’d been banished from her life, a ghost she’d fought tooth and nail to exorcise. Besides, Evan’s desperation had always manifested in sullen silences and manipulative games, never this raw, untamed assault on her sanctuary .
With a deep, fortifying breath, Rory slid the first bolt. Then the second. The third. The door swung inward, revealing not a threat, but a familiar silhouette etched against the dim light of the hallway.
Lucien Moreau.
He stood there, taller than she remembered, his platinum blond hair slicked back with an almost unnatural sheen, a stark contrast to the rumpled charcoal suit that was his usual armour. His eyes, one amber, the other black, raked over her, intense and searching. An ivory-handled cane, its polished surface glinting , tapped a silent, nervous rhythm against the worn linoleum. He looked like a predator who'd miscalculated his pounce, momentarily caught off guard by the prey’s unexpected composure.
“Rory,” he stated, the word a low rumble, devoid of surprise, as if he’d expected her all along, perhaps even welcomed her.
A dozen retorts, sharp and defensive, clamoured in her mind, but all that escaped her lips was a choked whisper . “Lucien. What… what are you doing here?”
His gaze softened, a flicker of something akin to regret – or was it merely weariness? – clouding his heterochromatic eyes. “I have need of you.”
“Need of me?” Rory scoffed, a brittle laugh escaping her. “It’s been months, Lucien. And you don’t exactly have a reputation for polite social calls. Especially not to someone you left… well, you know.” The unspoken history hung between them, thick and cloying as the scent of old paper and dried herbs that permeated Eva’s flat. He’d vanished without a word, without a trace, leaving her adrift in a city she barely knew, a city he seemed to effortlessly navigate .
He took a step forward, the polished tip of his cane tracing a delicate arc on the floor. “Circumstances. Unforeseen, inconvenient, and rather dire.”
“Dire enough to warrant a personal appearance, bypassing all established channels of communication?” she questioned, her voice regaining some of its usual sharp edge. She stepped back, inviting him in with a reluctant gesture of her hand, though her body screamed for her to slam the door shut.
Lucien entered, his presence filling the cramped space with an unsettling energy. The air seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken words and lingering tensions. Ptolemy, sensing the shift, wisely retreated to a precarious perch atop a teetering stack of occult journals. Rory watched as Lucien’s gaze swept over the organised chaos of Eva’s flat – the books piled high, scrolls spilling from their bindings, arcane symbols sketched onto loose parchment. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, controlled environment he usually inhabited, a world of shadows and secrets.
“I have made inquiries,” he began, his voice a low cadence that always managed to both soothe and unsettle her. “About a certain… artefact. It has come into rather undesirable hands.”
Rory’s brow furrowed . “An artefact? What are you talking about, Lucien? And why come to me? I deliver Pad Thai for a living, not divine wisdom.” She gestured around the room, a pointed reminder of her current mundane existence.
“You possess… unique insights, Rory. A perspective that cuts through the usual fog of manipulation and misdirection. Especially where Avaros is concerned.” His mention of the demon realm pricked her ears. Avaros. A name whispered in hushed tones in certain circles, a realm of infernal power and forgotten knowledge, a place Lucien had ties to, a place both he and she had tried to forget.
“Avaros is your father’s playground, not mine,” she stated, crossing her arms . “And my ‘insights’ are usually about figuring out the quickest delivery route to avoid traffic. What is this about?”
Lucien moved closer, his amber eye locking with her bright blue. “A relic, Rory. A shard of obsidian, imbued with the echoes of a thousand screams. It’s called the 'Malakor’s Whisper'. And it has found its way into the possession of one Elias Thorne.”
The name struck her like a physical blow. Elias Thorne. A name laced with poison, a phantom from her past, a man whose cruelty had been instrumental in her flight from London. He was a ghost she’d desperately tried to bury. “Thorne?” The single word was a ragged breath, a testament to the fear that still coiled in her gut at his name.
Lucien’s grip tightened on his cane. “He intends to use it. To… amplify his influence. To sow discord on a scale that would make even my father blush.”
Rory’s mind raced . Thorne, with his insatiable hunger for power, dabbling in forces he couldn't comprehend, fuelled by something from the demon realm? It was a terrifying prospect. She remembered his cold, calculating eyes, the way he delighted in breaking people, in orchestrating their downfall. He was a viper, and this relic, this ‘Malakor’s Whisper,’ sounded like the venom to match his ambition.
“And you think I can help?” Her voice was barely a whisper . The crescent scar on her wrist, a faint silver line against her pale skin, tingled with a phantom pain. The memory of Thorne’s touch, his chillingly possessive words, threatened to resurface.
“You are the only one I could think of,” Lucien admitted, his tone laced with a vulnerability she hadn't heard from him before. “You understand the nuances of extraction, the art of misdirection, and… you have faced Thorne before.”
The reminder hung in the air , a heavy, unwelcome guest. She remembered the fear, the helplessness, the desperate flight that had brought her to London in the first place, to Eva’s doorstep. But she also remembered the steely resolve that had carried her through, the quick thinking that had saved her then.
“Facing him was a mistake I’ve spent years trying to rectify,” she said, her voice firm, though her hands trembled slightly . “I won’t go back to that place, Lucien. Not for anything.”
Lucien’s gaze held hers, unwavering . “This isn’t about returning, Rory. It’s about stopping him. Before he drags us all into the abyss he crawls from.” He paused, his eyes flickering with a dangerous intensity . “He intends to use the Whisper to unravel the very fabric of your old life. To visit his particular brand of torment on everyone you ever cared about.”
The implicit threat, the knowledge that Thorne would seek to inflict his malice not just on her, but on the few people she’d allowed herself to open up to, struck a chord deep within her. Eva, her fierce, bookish friend, and the gruff but kind proprietor of the Golden Empress, Yu-Fei Cheung, whose restaurant she now worked for, and even the grumpy but loyal Silas, who owned the bar downstairs. Thorne’s reach was long, his cruelty boundless.
“What does this… artefact, this Whisper, do exactly?” she asked, her voice low, tinged with apprehension .
“It amplifies despair,” Lucien explained, his voice grim . “It feeds on fear, twisting memories, turning loved ones into enemies. It’s a weapon of psychological warfare, perfected over centuries of infernal torment. Thorne wants to use it to cripple your former associates, to sow absolute chaos in their lives, to break them as he tried to break you.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. The memory of Thorne’s chillingly manipulative tactics, the way he played with his victims’ minds, flashed before her eyes. He thrived on their shattered psyches, relished in their despair. This relic would be his ultimate tool.
“So you want me to help you… what? Steal it back?” she asked, a spark of defiance kindled in her eyes .
“Precisely,” Lucien confirmed, his voice regaining some of its usual confident timbre . “Your talent for acquiring the unattainable, for navigating the impossible… it’s precisely what’s needed.”
She met his gaze, assessing him. He wasn't asking for a favour; he was demanding a skill he knew she possessed, a skill he’d perhaps even helped hone in their shared, complicated past.
“And what’s in it for you, Lucien?” she challenged, her voice hardening . “You’re not exactly known for your altruistic tendencies. Unless, of course, Thorne’s actions somehow threaten your own comfortable existence in the shadows.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “Thorne’s ambitions extend beyond mere petty revenge, Rory. If he succeeds, the balance shifts. And that would be… detrimental to all parties involved. Including myself.” He stepped closer, the ivory cane tapping a more deliberate rhythm against the floor. “Besides,” he added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that sent a shiver down her spine, “you owe me, don’t you?”
The implied accusation, the raw nerve he’d struck, was like a physical blow. She owed him. For leaving her to pick up the pieces, for vanishing when she needed him most, for the silence that had echoed in her life for months. But she also remembered the whirlwind of their shared nights, the dangerous dance of attraction and distrust, the raw, electric current that had always pulsed between them.
“Owe you?” she echoed, her voice tight . “You disappeared, Lucien. You left me in London with nothing but Eva’s warning and a bruised heart. What do I owe someone who abandoned me?”
His gaze intensified, a dark, hungry fire igniting in the amber depths of his eyes. “You owe me the woman you were becoming when I left. The woman I saw glimpses of, the one who could face any darkness and walk away unscathed.” He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a stray strand of black hair from her cheek. His touch, as always, sent a jolt through her, a forbidden spark that ignited the embers of a desire she’d tried so hard to extinguish.
“You don’t get to walk back into my life and demand I play your games, Lucien,” she said, her voice trembling, not entirely with fear .
“This isn’t a game, Rory,” he countered, his thumb stroking her cheekbone . “This is survival. And I’m not asking you to play *my * games. I’m asking you to help me stop Thorne from playing the most dangerous game of all.” His heterochromatic eyes held hers captive, a silent plea, a dangerous promise. “I need your help, Aurora.”
He used her full name, a formality that always signified the gravity of his intentions. It was a plea, yes, but also a statement of fact. He needed her, and she, despite every instinct screaming resistance, felt a reluctant pull, a morbid curiosity, and perhaps, a deep-seated desire to confront the ghosts of her past, especially when they wore such a dangerously familiar face. The air crackled with unresolved history, with the potent perfume of danger and desire , and Rory knew, with a sinking certainty, that her quiet life above Silas’ bar was about to be irrevocably upended. The door had been opened , and there was no easy way to close what had walked in.