AI The insistent rapping on the door cut through the drone of the late-night traffic. Aurora Carter, or Rory as her friends called her, sighed, her hand automatically going to the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. She smoothed down the front of her Golden Empress uniform, the polyester crinkling under her touch. Three deadbolts, Eva had insisted, three good reasons no one could sneak up on her. Right now, Rory wished for a fourth.
The rapping came again, louder this time. "Alright, alright, I'm coming!" she called out, her voice a bit rough from disuse. She trudged down the narrow hallway of the cramped flat, the scent of old paper and forgotten spices clinging to the air. Ptolemy, Eva’s perpetually unimpressed tabby, blinked lazily from his perch on a stack of arcane texts, his tail giving a single, dismissive thump. Rory unlocked the first deadbolt, then the second, the tumblers groaning in protest. She paused at the third, a knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach . Who would be banging on Eva’s door at this hour? Eva was out of town, visiting some obscure academic conference in Bath.
Hesitantly, Rory turned the final bolt, the heavy metal sliding back with a clunk. She pulled the door inward, ready to offer a polite, if weary, explanation about Eva’s absence.
And then she froze.
Standing on the worn doormat, silhouetted against the dim glow of the gas lamp overhead, was Lucien Moreau. His platinum blond hair, slicked back from his forehead, gleamed. He wore a charcoal suit that looked as if it had been sculpted onto him, a faint shimmer of expensive fabric in the weak light. His heterochromatic eyes, one amber, the other a startling black, fixed on her, unnervingly calm. He held an ivory-handled cane, its grip a smooth, polished curve.
"Rory," he said, his voice a low, cultured rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. It was the same voice that had once whispered promises and secrets in her ear, the same voice that had last rasped her name in a tone that was both a plea and a curse.
Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years, not since that night in London that had fractured everything. "Lucien," she managed, her own voice barely a whisper . The words felt foreign on her tongue, rusty from disuse.
He offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes . “Fancy meeting you here. Or rather, you fancy meeting me.” He gestured with his cane towards the interior of the flat, a subtle invitation to step aside.
Rory didn't move. Her mind, usually so sharp, felt like a clogged drain . She couldn't quite reconcile the image of him standing there, so polished and composed, with the raw, desperate energy she’d last witnessed. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone sharper than she intended. The question hung in the air , heavy with unspoken history.
He tilted his head, his gaze not softening. "I believe I asked you the same thing, or a variation thereof. Though I suppose my circumstances were somewhat more… urgent." He paused, his eyes scanning her face, as if cataloging every minuscule change . "You look well, Rory. The London air agrees with you."
The air in the flat, thick with the scent of ancient dust and dried herbs, suddenly felt oppressive . She remembered the night he’d last stood before her, his usual impeccably tailored clothes disheveled, a cut on his lip he’d refused to explain. He’d arrived like a storm, and then, just as abruptly, he’d vanished, leaving only shattered fragments and a suffocating silence .
"What do you want, Lucien?" she repeated, her voice gaining a steely edge . She folded her arms across her chest, a defensive gesture that felt utterly inadequate. She should close the door. She should tell him to leave. But her feet remained rooted to the spot.
He took a small step forward, his amber eye glinting . "A conversation. And perhaps, an explanation." He swept his gaze around the cluttered room, his expression unreadable . "Eva's flat, still a testament to her… organizational skills."
Rory’s jaw tightened. "She's not here."
"I had gathered," Lucien said, his voice smooth as silk . "A delivery for the Golden Empress, I presume?" He gestured to her uniform. The nonchalance in his tone was a blatant, deliberate provocation.
She bristled. "I make a living, Lucien. Something you used to understand."
A flicker of something – regret? annoyance? – crossed his face, gone as quickly as it arrived. "Indeed. And I trust it is a more stable one than your previous endeavors."
The barb landed, sharp and unexpected. He knew. He must have known about her leaving Evan, about fleeing to London. He had a network, of course, he always did. But hearing it from him, so casually delivered, felt like a violation .
"That's none of your business," Rory said, forcing the words out. She wanted to slam the door shut, lock all three bolts, and pretend he hadn't materialized from the shadows of her past. But a part of her, a stubborn, foolish part, was riveted by his presence, by the sheer audacity of him standing there.
He leaned against the doorframe, an elegant, predatory stillness about him. "Everything that concerns you has always been my business, Rory. Or at least, it was." The words, spoken softly , held a weighty implication . He was offering a glimpse into a shared history, a history that was as complicated and tangled as the stacks of books overflowing the shelves behind her.
She remembered the way he’d looked at her, his heterochromatic eyes a dizzying swirl of light and shadow, the night they’d said goodbye. Or rather, the night he'd simply walked away. There were no grand pronouncements, no tearful farewells. Just absence. A gaping hole in the fabric of her London life.
"That's a dangerous assumption," she countered, her voice level.
Lucien straightened, his gaze piercing. "Is it? Or is it a simple statement of fact? You left, Rory. You left and I was left… to deal with the consequences." He paused, his gaze dropping to her left wrist, the scar hidden beneath the fabric of her uniform. "Some consequences are harder to escape than others."
Her eyes darted to her wrist, a flush rising on her cheeks. He remembered. Of course, he remembered. Every insignificant detail, every shared laugh, every heated argument, every whispered confession. His memory was as pristine as his suits.
"This is not the place for this," she said, taking a step back, her hand reaching for the door. "You can't just show up here."
He pushed himself away from the doorframe, his movement fluid and silent. He stepped inside the cramped apartment, his presence seeming to expand to fill the limited space. Ptolemy, disturbed by the intrusion, let out a low growl from his literary perch.
"And yet, here I am," Lucien replied, his eyes never leaving her face. "And here you are. It seems fate, or perhaps something more… mischievous… has decided our paths are not yet finished entwining." He gestured with his cane , a subtle movement that swept across the room, encompassing the teetering piles of books, the arcane symbols scrawled on scraps of parchment, the general air of scholarly chaos. "You, still in this quaint little corner of the world, surrounded by… this."
Rory felt a prickle of defensiveness. "It's Eva's flat. And I live above Silas' bar. This is my life now."
"And a delivery girl’s life it is," Lucien observed, his tone devoid of judgment, yet laced with an undercurrent she couldn't quite decipher . He moved further into the room, his ivory cane tapping softly against the worn floorboards. He skirted a precariously balanced stack of scrolls, his movements economical and precise. He paused before a table overflowing with documents, picking up a leather-bound tome with reverence. "Fascinating. The old ways persist, even here."
"You know about this stuff?" Rory blurted out, surprised. She'd always kept her life with Eva, her fascination with the supernatural, carefully compartmentalized from her dealings with Lucien, the fixer. He operated in a world of shadows and secrets, a world she’d only glimpsed.
He ran a finger along the spine of the book, his expression thoughtful. "I have an appreciation for the esoteric. A necessity, really , in my line of work." He looked back at her, his amber eye seeming to hold a spark of amusement . "And you, Rory? Still dabbling in things best left undisturbed?"
The question hung in the air , loaded with implication . She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her childhood friend Eva had brought her into this world, a world of magic and ancient lore, a world far removed from her pre-law studies and her disillusioned return to Cardiff. This world was secret, hidden, and dangerous.
Lucien placed the book back down, his gaze returning to her. The amber and black eyes seemed to bore into her, searching for something she wasn't sure she possessed anymore. "You look… surprised, Rory. As if you believed our paths could simply diverge and remain so."
"They did diverge, Lucien," she said, her voice tight . "And I thought that was it."
He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. The scent of his cologne, something subtle and impossibly expensive, mingled with the musty air of the flat. "Did you? Because from where I stood, it felt more like a… strategic withdrawal. On your part, of course."
Rory’s pulse quickened . He spoke of his own motivations as if they were a given, as if his actions were the inevitable consequence of her departure. “I left because I had to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper . “Because you made it impossible for me to stay.”
A faint smile touched his lips, a fleeting , wistful curve. "Did I? I seem to recall a distinct lack of enthusiasm on your part for the… complexities, shall we say. The inherent dangers." He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her cheek . It was a gesture pregnant with unspoken words, a gesture that held the weight of everything they had shared and everything they had lost. "You always did crave a simpler existence, Rory."
His proximity was overwhelming. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, see the subtle shift in his eyes as he gazed at her. The air thrummed with an unspoken tension , a magnetic pull that defied logic and years of silence . She remembered the easy way they’d once moved together, his hand finding hers, his lips seeking hers. The memory was a dangerous, intoxicating lure.
"A simple existence wouldn't have you," she retorted, her voice trembling slightly . She held his gaze, a silent challenge passing between them.
Lucien’s smile widened fractionally, the amber of his eye seemed to deepen. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's a simple existence that you no longer truly desire ." He lowered his hand, the brief touch of his fingertips against her cheek sending a jolt through her. “Tell me, Rory. What brings you to this particular den of arcane clutter? Still chasing shadows?”