Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT037CMZZWHFMHFTK6881FT

The third deadbolt slid back with a heavy thunk. Rory pulled the door open, a complaint about forgotten keys already forming on her lips. It died there. Lucien Moreau stood on the narrow landing, the smell of rain and expensive cologne cutting through the curry-scented stairwell. He looked like a piece of the city’s night had broken off and climbed the stairs — charcoal suit immaculate, platinum hair slicked back, one hand resting on the ivory head of his cane. The amber and black of his eyes fixed on her, unreadable. For a heartbeat, neither moved. The distant honk of Brick Lane traffic and the drip of water from his coat were the only sounds. “You,” she finally said. The word was flat, a stone dropped into still water. “Aurora.” His voice was the same — a low, smooth baritone that felt like it should belong to a jazz singer, not a half-demon fixer. He didn’t smile. “May I come in?” “No.” He didn’t react to the refusal. His gaze moved past her, taking in the chaotic interior of Eva’s flat — the towers of books threatening to topple, the scrolls weighted down by mugs, the single tabby cat observing from the top of a filing cabinet. “It’s not a social call.” “That makes it worse.” She made no move to step aside. Her left hand, the one with the small crescent scar, tightened on the edge of the door. “How did you even find this place?” “It’s my job to find things. And people.” He shifted his weight, a barely perceptible movement. “Eva is in trouble.” The air left Rory’s lungs. All the old defences — the anger, the coldness she’d practiced in the mirror after leaving him — crumbled. “What kind of trouble?” “The kind that requires a conversation inside, with the door closed.” His heterochromatic eyes held hers. “Please.” That ‘please’ did it. He never said please. She stepped back, letting the door swing inward, and he moved past her into the cramped space. He seemed too large for it, his presence making the bookshelves feel closer, the ceiling lower. He didn’t take off his coat. Ptolemy the cat jumped down and wound himself around Lucien’s polished shoes, purring. “Traitor,” Rory muttered, shutting the door and reactivating all three deadbolts. The finality of the clicks echoed. She turned, crossing her arms over her chest. “Talk.” Lucien leaned his cane against Eva’s desk, his long fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound tome. He wasn’t looking at her. “She’s been asking questions in places she shouldn’t. Digging into lineages. Specifically, mine.” “Why would she do that?” Now he looked at her. “I believe you know why.” The memory was a physical thing between them, a third person in the room. A rainy night six months ago, in the back room of Silas’s bar. His mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, the taste of whisky and something darker. And then the fight. Her questions about his father, his realm, his demonic heritage. His stone wall of silence. Her walking out. “She’s trying to protect me,” Rory said, her voice quiet. “She’s painting a target on her back. And by extension, on yours.” He finally unbuttoned his coat, but didn’t remove it. “There are entities who monitor such inquiries. They are not academic. They are… proprietorial. They consider certain bloodlines their business.” “And yours is one of them.” “My father’s lineage from Avaros is. Eva’s research tripped a wire. They’ve identified her as a practitioner prying into restricted lore. They won’t approach her directly, not here. They’ll send a collector.” Rory’s stomach turned to ice. “A what?” “A creature that specialises in acquiring troublesome individuals. It will take her, and all her research, and it will make her disappear into a place not on any map.” His tone was clinical, but she saw the tension in the line of his jaw. “It’s already in the city.” “You’ve seen it?” “I’ve felt it. Like a change in atmospheric pressure. It’s hunting.” She uncrossed her arms, her palms slick. “And you’re here why? A warning? After all this time, you just show up to deliver a warning?” He took a step toward her, and the distance in the cluttered room vanished. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the perfect cut of his suit, the way his amber eye seemed to catch the lamplight while the black one absorbed it. “I’m here because you are connected to her. That makes you part of the hunt. I couldn’t…” He stopped, his usual eloquence failing. “You couldn’t what, Lucien?” “I couldn’t let that happen.” The words were rough, stripped bare. The air crackled. All the unsaid things crowded in, louder than his warning. The attraction was still there, a live wire she’d never managed to cut. It hummed in the space between their bodies. But so was the hurt, sharp and fresh. “You left,” she said. The accusation hung there. “You asked for truths I couldn’t give.” “I asked for trust!” “They are the same thing!” His composure slipped, a hairline fracture. He looked away, collecting himself. When he spoke again, it was measured. “My truths are dangerous. Knowing them is a liability. I was… trying to keep you clear of that.” “By shutting me out.” “By drawing a line.” He met her gaze again, and the vulnerability she saw there was new, and terrifying. “I failed. Eva is across that line now. And so, inevitably, are you. My methods were flawed.” An apology. From Lucien Moreau. Rory felt the ground tilt. Ptolemy meowed, breaking the spell. “What do we do?” she asked, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a cold, focused fear for her friend. “We find her first. She’s not at her usual haunts. I assume you have ideas.” Rory nodded, her mind clicking into the practical gear. “There’s a reading room at the Bishopsgate Library she uses. And a contact in Soho, a talisman seller. She might have gone to ground with him.” “Then we start there.” He reached for his cane. “We should go now. The night is the collector’s favoured time.” “We?” He paused, his hand on the ivory. “You know her patterns better than I do. And you are, whether I like it or not, already involved. It’s safer if you’re with me.” “Safer.” She gave a short, humourless laugh. “Being with you has never been safe, Luc.” The old nickname slipped out, unbidden. His eyes darkened, the amber one glowing faintly. For a second, she thought he might reach for her. His fingers flexed on the cane handle. “No,” he agreed, his voice a low murmur. “It hasn’t. But tonight, it is the least worst option. For Eva.” He was right. Every instinct screamed at her to send him away, to handle this alone, to avoid the vortex of him. But Eva was out there, and Lucien knew this shadow world. Her choice was no choice at all. “Give me two minutes.” She turned toward the bedroom to grab her boots and a jacket. As she passed him, his free hand shot out, not to grab her, but to hover near her arm. She stopped, the heat of his proximity like a brand. “Aurora.” Her full name, this time. “What happened before… I regret the pain it caused you.” She didn’t look at him. She stared at the bookshelf, at the chaotic, fragile normalcy of Eva’s life. “Regret doesn’t fix it.” “I know,” he said, and the raw honesty in it made her chest ache. “But it’s all I have to offer. For now.” She nodded once, a sharp, mechanical movement, and continued to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. She leaned against it, pressing her scarred wrist to her forehead, listening to the silence of the other room. He was still out there. The past was unlocked, the door opened. And somewhere in the London night, something was hunting.