AI A sharp rap echoed through the cramped flat, startling Ptolemy into an indignant hiss. Rory, halfway through wrestling a particularly stubborn jar of pickled onions, dropped it with a clang.
"Who in the blazes?" she muttered, wiping brine from her fingers on a dishtowel. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Past ten. Eva was out with that new bloke from her coven; no one else usually came calling this late. The three deadbolts on the front door offered little comfort against the prickle of unease working its way up her spine.
Another series of insistent knocks, louder this time. She peered through the peephole. A tall, elegant silhouette filled the lens, framed by the dim glow of the landing light. Platinum blond hair, slicked back. An ivory-handled cane rested against the doorframe. Her breath hitched.
"Lucien." The name left her lips in a whisper , a ghost from a past she had tried, with valiant effort, to bury.
She unlatched the deadbolts, one by laborious one. Each click seemed to reverberate like a gunshot in the sudden silence of the flat. The door swung inward, revealing Lucien Moreau. He stood there, impeccably dressed as always in a tailored charcoal suit, his heterochromatic gaze – one amber, one black – sweeping over her, lingering for a fraction too long.
"Rory." His voice, a low rumble with its familiar French cadence, sent a shiver down her arm. The scar on her left wrist, a small crescent from a childhood accident, suddenly throbbed .
"What do you want?" Her tone was sharper than she intended, laced with a bitterness that tasted metallic on her tongue.
He offered a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head.
"A simple inquiry, *chérie *."
"Don't call me that." The words were out before she could stop them. "What inquiry? It's gone ten. Eva's not here."
"I am not here for Eva." His eyes, those mismatched pools, deepened, fixing on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I am here for you."
Panic fluttered in her chest.
"I need nothing from you, Lucien." She tried to close the door, but his cane, with a swift, elegant movement, blocked her path. Its ivory handle gleamed in the dim light.
"Is that so?" He pushed the door open further, stepping across the threshold without an invitation. The faint scent of expensive cologne and something subtly earthy, undeniably demon, filled the small space.
Ptolemy, previously a brave feline warrior against the pickled onion jar, vanished under a mountain of research notes.
"You can't just barge in." Her voice wavered, betraying the calm she desperately tried to project.
He turned, surveying the cramped living room, his gaze lingering on the stacks of books and scrolls that threatened to spill from every surface.
"An admirer of the occult now, are we?" A sardonic curve played on his lips. "Or merely researching for a particularly complex delivery?"
"It's none of your business." She crossed her arms, trying to appear defiant, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "What do you want?"
"A name." He moved deeper into the room, his stride fluid, silent. "Malphora."
The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, oppressive . Rory’s blood ran cold . The name, whispered only in hushed tones between trusted few, felt like a physical blow .
"I don't know what you're talking about." She felt a dull fear coiling in her gut. How did he know that name?
He stopped a foot in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. Despite his slender build, he exuded a dangerous, feral power.
"Do you truly believe I have lost my touch, *petite * Rory?" He reached out, his long fingers a hair's breadth from her face, tracing an invisible line along her jaw. A spark, a phantom tingle, prickled her skin. "I *always * know ."
She stepped back, distancing herself from his touch.
"Get out."
"Once I have my answer." He maintained a calm, unnerving composure. "Who is she?"
"She's nobody." Rory swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "I haven't seen her in years."
"That is not what my sources tell me." His tone remained even, soft, yet it carried an undeniable threat. "My sources indicate you were present, a mere fortnight ago, at a gathering. A rather... clandestine gathering. Where Malphora was the guest of honour."
A memory, sharp and unwelcome, flashed through her mind: a smoky room, hushed whispers, and the chilling presence of Malphora, a name whispered with reverence and dread in the supernatural underbelly. She had only been there to deliver a package for Yu-Fei, a discreet job, nothing more. A shiver ran down her spine .
"I delivered an order." She spat the words out, trying to sound dismissive. "That's it."
"And you saw her." It wasn't a question.
She hesitated, her gaze darting to the floor, then back to his piercing eyes.
"Yes. Brief. She was giving a speech."
"A speech." Lucien's lips curved into something that was not a smile. "On what, pray tell? The benefits of organic produce?"
"Something about... reclaiming power." The memory gnawed at her. Malphora's voice, silken and hypnotic, had promised a new era, an uprising. It had felt intoxicating, dangerous.
"And you believed her?" He watched her, dissecting her every twitch, every flicker of emotion.
"It's not about belief." She threw her hands up in exasperation. "I just delivered a parcel. I left. That's all there is to it."
"There is always more to it." He took another step closer, forcing her against the overflowing bookshelf. The smell of old paper and dust mingled with his powerful scent. "Malphora is... significant, Rory. Dangerous. And she is looking for something. Or someone."
"So? Why come to me?" Her voice came out choked.
"Because you have a knack for finding things, *ma chère *. And a knack for getting into trouble. A rather charming combination, wouldn't you agree?" His hand brushed her shoulder, his touch light, possessive. "Perhaps that is why I find myself so... drawn to you."
She stiffened, a volatile mix of anger and something she couldn't name swirling inside her.
"I am not interested in your games, Lucien."
"Games?" He chuckled, a low, husky sound that echoed in the small space. "This is no game, Rory. This is survival. Malphora seeks an item of immense power. And she believes you know where it is."
"Me? That's insane." Her mind raced , desperately trying to comprehend his words. An item of power? What could Malphora possibly want that she , Rory, would be connected to?
"Is it?" His gaze sharpened, burning into her. "You have a certain... resonance , Rory. A unique quality. A human who walks effortlessly between worlds, who sees what others do not. You have always been... special."
The word, "special," felt like a brand . She hated it. She hated that he could see through her, past her carefully constructed walls, to the raw vulnerability beneath.
"I'm just a delivery driver." She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way, his presence a solid, unyielding wall.
"A simple façade for a woman of many hidden depths ." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper . "Tell me what you know , Rory. Where is she looking? What is she after?"
"I don't know ." The lie felt brittle, ready to shatter.
His eyes, one amber, one black, narrowed. His jaw tightened.
"I would advise against lying to me, Rory. It rarely ends well. For anyone involved." His voice hardened, losing its earlier seductive edge. "People tend to disappear when they withhold vital information from me."
A cold dread seeped into her bones. She met his stare, defiance warring with a primal fear.
"I told you, I was just there for a delivery."
He paused, a long, drawn-out moment of silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken threats. His gaze dropped to her left wrist, to the faint crescent-shaped scar. He reached out, his thumb tracing the pale line. The touch sent a jolt through her, a familiar , unwelcome spark.
"You have always been resilient, *ma belle *. But even the strongest can break." He looked up, his eyes now unreadable . "Malphora is a force of nature. And she wants you."
"Why?" The word was barely a whisper .
"Because you are the key, Rory. The key to something she desperately desires. And if I do not find you first... if I do not protect you..." He trailed off, the implicit threat hanging in the air. "Her methods are far less refined than mine."
The words sent a fresh wave of terror through her. Malphora. Key. Protection. It was too much, too fast. She felt trapped, caught between two dangerous predators.
"And you? You're here to save me?" The sarcasm was thick in her voice.
He took another step back, creating a sliver of space between them. His hand dropped from her wrist, the warmth lingering on her skin.
"Let us say I am here to prevent a rather significant inconvenience to my own operations." A glint , almost predatory, entered his amber eye. "And perhaps, to ensure you do not make a grave mistake."
"What mistake?"
"Aligning yourself with the wrong side. Or rather, allowing the wrong side to claim you." He turned, his gaze sweeping over the haphazard piles of books once more. "This is not your fight, Rory. Yet it seems to have found you, regardless."
He reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal jacket and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. He placed it on a precarious stack of books.
"A gift," he said, his voice flat . "Or, perhaps, a reminder . Should you require my... assistance."
The bird, dark and unnervingly lifelike, seemed to stare at her with tiny, obsidian eyes. It felt like a warning, a promise, and a tether all at once. Rory stared at it, a knot of icy dread tightening in her stomach .
Lucien reached the door, paused, and looked back at her, his eyes unblinking.
"Think carefully , Rory. Malphora does not take no for an answer. And neither, I assure you, do I." He opened the door, stepping out onto the landing.
Before she could process his words, before she could even form a coherent thought, a sharp clang echoed from the street below. A choked cry. Followed by the screech of tyres.
Lucien's head snapped around, his features suddenly drawn, his eyes narrowed into slits of intense focus. He glanced down the stairwell, then back at Rory, a grim resolve now etched on his face.
"Stay here." The command was sharp, absolute.
He moved, not with his usual elegant stride, but with a sudden, alarming speed down the creaking wooden stairs, his cane tapping a rapid, urgent rhythm. Rory stood frozen in her doorway, the wooden bird a chilling weight on the bookshelf, the scent of expensive cologne still lingering in the air. The sounds from the street grew louder, more frantic. A woman's scream, undeniably human. A deep, guttural growl, undeniably not.