AI Three heavy thuds rattled the door in its frame, shaking dust from the lintel.
I froze, one hand hovering over the electric kettle, the other gripping the counter of the kitchenette hard enough to turn my knuckles white. It wasn’t Eva. Eva possessed a key and the good sense to announce herself via text before ascending the three flights of stairs above the curry house. And it wasn’t a delivery; the Golden Empress didn’t service this side of Brick Lane, and I certainly hadn't ordered anything.
The pounding came again. Harder.
I snatched the serrated bread knife from the drying rack. A pitiful weapon against what usually bumped in London's night, but it offered a weighty, cold comfort. I crept across the narrow hallway, stepping over stacks of dusty hardbacks and unrolled scrolls that made the carpet virtually invisible.
"Who is it?" I called out .
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. The air in the flat, usually thick with the scent of old paper and the spices rising from the restaurant below, suddenly felt thin.
"Open the door, Aurora."
The voice was low, smooth like velvet dragged over gravel, and undeniably French. My stomach did a traitorous little flip, followed immediately by a surge of bile. Of all the things to come scratching at my door, he was the last one I wanted to deal with. And the one I was least equipped to handle.
I slid the first deadbolt back. Then the second. I left the chain on, cracking the door two inches.
A splice of the hallway light revealed a strip of charcoal wool suit and a platinum blond head. Even in the dim corridor, that single amber eye of his seemed to glow with irritating bioluminescence.
"You're not supposed to be here," I said.
Lucien Moreau looked down at me, or at least the slice of me visible through the gap. "And you are not supposed to be hiding in a glorified broom closet above a vindaloo shop, yet here we are. The chain, if you please."
"Eva has strict rules about vampires."
"I am not a vampire, *chérie *." He sounded bored . "And your friend's wards are leaking magic like a sieve. If I found you, others can. Open."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't leave you out there."
"Because I am currently the only thing standing between you and the Court of Avaros," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "And because I brought wine."
He held up a bottle. A vintage red, darkened glass, dust on the label.
I looked at the bottle, then back at the mismatched eyes. The last time I saw him, he’d watched me bleed on a warehouse floor and told me it was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good. He’d vanished before the ambulance arrived.
"Keep the wine," I said and tried to slam the door.
An ivory-handled cane slotted into the gap with impossible speed. The wood groaned. With a casual flick of his wrist, Lucien leveraged the door open, snapping the brass chain like it was made of sugar-spun glass. Metal links skittered across the floorboards.
He stepped inside, filling the cramped space with an overwhelming presence of expensive cologne, ozone, and danger.
"Rude," he murmured, glancing at the broken chain. "I'll have that replaced."
"Get out." I kept the knife leveled at his chest.
Lucien didn’t even look at the blade. He took a slow, deliberate survey of the room—the piles of research notes Eva had left on the sofa, the half-eaten toast on the coffee table, the general chaos of two women trying to live in a space meant for one. His lip curled slightly .
"You have a unique talent for finding the most squalid corners of this city, Aurora." He turned to me, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "It is beneath you."
"It's safe. Or it was." I didn't lower the knife. "How did you find me?"
"You used your credit card to buy cat food three streets away." He gestured with the cane toward the top of the bookshelf, where Ptolemy, Eva’s massive tabby, was pressed into the shadows, hissing softly . "Sloppy. I expected better from someone so terrified of her past."
"I am not terrified."
"No?" He took a step closer. Limping slightly , relying on the cane, but moving with the predatory grace of a jungle cat. "Then why is your pulse visible in your neck? Why are you gripping that bread knife as if you intend to carve a turkey?"
"Maybe I just don't like trespassers."
"Trespasser implies I am unwanted."
"You are."
"Liar."
He was close now. Too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye and the endless, abysmal dark of the black one. He smelled of rain and ancient things. The memories I’d spent six months bottling up—the adrenaline, the fear, the undeniable heat of his hands on my skin when we were running for our lives—threatened to spill over.
I backed up until my calves hit the sofa. "What do you want, Lucien? You made it very clear in November that our transaction was concluded."
He winced, a microscopic tightening of the jaw that anyone else would have missed. "November was... complicated."
"You used me as bait."
"I used you as a distraction. There is a distinction."
"Tell that to the crescent scar on my wrist."
His gaze dropped to my left hand. I hadn't realized I was rubbing the mark with my thumb. His expression shifted, the arrogance cracking to reveal something darker, hungrier. He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering inches from my skin.
"May I?"
"No." I snatched my hand away. "Talk. Fast. Or I start screaming. This is a residential building; someone will call the police."
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "The police do not come to this postcode, Aurora. You know that. And even if they did, what would you tell them? That a man in a three-piece suit is annoying you?"
He turned and cleared a stack of occult encyclopedias off the only armchair, seemingly unbothered by the dust cloud that erupted. He sat, arranging his cane between his knees, looking every bit the demon prince holding court in a dumpster.
"I need your help," he said.
"Funny. You didn't need my help when you had your payout."
"This is not about money." He leaned forward, the casual air evaporating. "Something has been stolen from me. Something... volatile."
"Let me guess. An artifact? A soul? A cursed monkey's paw?"
"A name," he said softly .
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Ptolemy let out a low growl from the bookshelf.
"A name?" I repeated.
"My true name. The one my father gave me." His fingers tightened on the ivory handle of his cane until the leather of his gloves creaked. "It was written on a scroll I kept in my private vault. Two nights ago, the vault was opened. The scroll is gone."
I stared at him. I knew enough about his world to understand the implications. With a demon's true name, you didn't just control them; you owned them. Body, mind, and power.
"Who took it?"
"If I knew that, I would be skinning them alive right now rather than debating the merits of hospitality with you." He looked at me, his gaze intense. "The thief left a trace. A cipher. It relies on logic that is not magical, but legalistic . Human logic. Convoluted, bureaucratic loops."
"And you need a law school dropout to solve it."
"I need someone whose mind works in angles that others miss. Someone who sees patterns in chaos." He gestured around the messy room. "You are uniquely qualified."
"Pass." I turned back to the kitchenette to finally make that tea . My hands were shaking . "Find another consultant. I'm retired."
"There is no retirement, Aurora. Not once you have seen behind the curtain."
I heard the *thump-drag * of his step behind me. He didn't stop until he was right at my shoulder. He didn't touch me, but the heat radiating from him was a physical weight .
"They will come for you eventually," he whispered near my ear. "Your ex-boyfriend. The things he serves. You think this door, these pitiful locks, will stop them? Evan is not the man you left in Cardiff. He is... changing."
I spun around, the knife coming up between us. "Don't say his name."
"Evan," strictly to provoke me . "He has been asking questions in the below-markets. Offering bounties. He wants his property back."
The word *property * snapped something inside me. I lunged, driving the point of the knife toward his shoulder. It was a sloppy, emotional strike.
Lucien caught my wrist. His grip was iron, immovable. He didn't twist or hurt me, just held my arm suspended in the air. We were chest to chest now. I could see the pores of his pale skin, the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes that the shadows had hidden.
"I am not him," he said, his voice fierce . "I do not want to own you, Aurora. I want to hire you. And in exchange, I will offer you the only thing that matters."
"Money?" I spat.
"Protection. Real protection. Not this..." He glanced at the ceiling. "This cardboard fortress."
I tried to yank my wrist back. He held on for a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over the pulse point where my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm, before letting go.
I stumbled back, rubbing my wrist. "If someone has your name, Lucien, you're already compromised. Why should I trust a man who might be a puppet by tomorrow morning?"
"Because if I become a puppet, the first thing my new master will do is send me to tie up loose ends." He straightened his jacket. "And you, *ma chérie *, are the loosest end I have."
A chill that had nothing to do with the drafty window settled in my marrow. He was threatening me and asking for help in the same breath. Classic Lucien.
"Show me the cipher," I said.
He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. It was thick, creamy vellum, smelling of ozone. He placed it on the counter between us.
"We do not have much time," he said. "The thief... he is impatient."
I looked down at the paper. It wasn't a spell. It was a riddle masked as a contract clause, written in a handwriting I recognized.
My breath hitched. "This is Evan's handwriting."
"Is it?" Lucien’s face betrayed nothing, but the air around him crackled. "Then we have a dire problem."
"You said you didn't know who took it."
"I suspected. Now I know." He moved toward the window, peering through the grime-streaked glass down at the rainy street. "And if he led me here, to you..."
A sharp, high-pitched whine began to emmanate from the walls. It sounded like a dog whistle amplified through a speaker system.
On the shelf, Ptolemy screeched and bolted for the bedroom.
The lightbulb in the hallway flickered and died.
"Get away from the window," Lucien barked.
"What is that noise?"
"The wards failing." He turned, his cane snapping up to reveal the glimmer of the hidden blade within the shaft. His casual demeanor was gone , replaced by the lethal focus of a soldier. "It seems my name wasn't the only thing he wanted. He wanted us in the same room."
The front door, the one with the broken chain and the three deadbolts, didn't shatter. It simply dissolved into ash, drifting down to the floor in a grey heap.
Standing in the dark hallway was a silhouette. Tall. Broad. Familiar.
"Hello, Rory," the figure said. "And you, demon. I believe you have something of mine."
I gripped the counter, the floor tilting beneath my feet. Evan. But his voice sounded like wet earth, and when he stepped into the light of the streetlamps filtering through the window, his smile was too wide, too full of teeth.
Lucien stepped in front of me, the blade of his cane glinting in the gloom .
"Run," he commanded.
"Not without the exit clause," I said, my mind racing faster than my fear . I grabbed the vellum from the counter and jammed it into my pocket.
"Clever girl," Evan purred, stepping over the threshold of ash.
Lucien lunged.