AI The third deadbolt groaned, a reluctant, metallic shriek that echoed through the narrow hallway of the Brick Lane flat. I pulled the door open, expecting Eva with another stack of cursed parchment or perhaps a stray cat, but the weight of the air changed before I even saw his face. A scent of expensive sandalwood and something cold, like ozone before a thunderstorm, cut through the pervasive grease of the curry house downstairs.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim, flickering light of the landing. He looked exactly as he had six months ago—impeccable, infuriating, and entirely out of place in a hallway that smelled of turmeric and damp carpet. His charcoal suit didn't have a single crease, and the ivory handle of his cane caught the light of the lone, buzzing bulb overhead.
"You're bleeding on the floorboards, Aurora."
I looked down. A steady drip of crimson spiked against the warped wood, leaking from the knuckles I’d split open against a delivery van driver’s jaw an hour earlier. Adrenaline had masked the sting until now.
"It’s my floor. I’ll bleed where I like."
"Technically, it is Eva’s floor. And you are getting it on your shoes." He stepped forward, not waiting for an invitation. The tap-thud of his cane marked a rhythm I hadn't heard since the night I told him to go to hell in three different languages.
"I didn't invite you in, Lucien."
"The door is open. In my world, that is a lapse in security or a plea for company. Given your current state, I suspect the former."
He bypassed me, moving into the cramped living room with the grace of a predator in a birdcage. Ptolemy, Eva’s fat tabby, didn't even hiss; he simply watched from a stack of 17th-century grimoires, his yellow eyes tracking the half-demon with wary respect. Lucien's heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one a void of pure black—swept over the chaos of the flat. He took in the overflowing bookshelves, the discarded takeout containers, and finally, my shaking hands.
"The Golden Empress must be particularly demanding this evening," he remarked, his voice a smooth, low cello note. "Or did the ghost of your past finally catch up in a dark alley?"
"Evan is in Cardiff. This was just a van driver who thought he could skip the tip and pinch my arse at the same time."
"He has no hands left, I assume?"
"He has a broken nose. I have a ruined shift." I slammed the door shut, the three deadbolts clicking home with finality. I leaned my back against the wood, watching him. "Why are you here? We settled the accounts in Soho. I don't owe you any more secrets, and you certainly don't owe me any protection."
Lucien turned, the tip of his cane resting inches from a pile of Eva's research notes. The silver ring on his finger caught the light—a seal of the House of Avaros.
"Accounts are never truly settled between people like us, Rory. We simply stop counting for a while."
"I started counting the minutes since you left. I got to about two hundred thousand before I stopped caring."
"Liar." He didn't say it with heat. He said it as a matter of fact, his amber eye narrowing slightly . "You care quite deeply. It is your most glaring tactical weakness."
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a silk handkerchief, white as a fresh shroud. He didn't offer it. He simply waited. I stayed by the door, the small crescent scar on my wrist throbbing in time with my pulse . Being in the same room as him felt like standing too close to a high- voltage wire. You could feel the hum in your teeth.
"You look tired," he said.
"I work for a living. Some of us don't have demonic trust funds."
"I earned every centime I possess. Mostly by cleaning up the messes left by headstrong women who think a Cardiff law degree is a shield against the things that go bump in the East End."
"I was doing fine until you walked in. I was going to have a gin and a bath."
"You were going to sit in the dark and wonder if the footsteps on the stairs belonged to a debt collector or a hitman." Lucien moved closer. He didn't move like a human; there was a fluid, oily precision to his gait that bypassed the clutter of the room. He stopped just out of arm's reach. "The wards on this building are flickering. Eva is getting sloppy, or someone is dampening them from the street."
I felt a cold prickle at the base of my neck. I’d noticed the shadows stretching longer than usual in the hallway, but I’d blamed the dying lightbulbs.
"Who?"
"Does it matter? In London, the 'who' is a rotating cast. The 'why' is always the same. You possess a certain... aptitude for finding things that do not wish to be found. And you involve yourself with people who find that skill threatening."
"Is that why you're here? To tell me I’m in danger? Groundbreaking stuff, Luc. I’ll write it in my diary."
"I am here because you haven't answered my messages."
"I blocked your number."
"I have more than one number."
"I blocked those, too."
He sighed, a sound of genuine, weary frustration that made him look human for a split second. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering near my face before he caught himself. The ivory handle of his cane stayed firmly planted.
"You are stubborn. It is your most endearing and most infuriating quality."
"And you’re arrogant. It’s your only quality."
I moved past him, heading for the kitchen alcove to find the first-aid kit. The flat felt smaller with him in it, the ceiling lower, the air thicker. I fumbled with the latch of the tin box, my bloody fingers slipping. Before I could curse, a cool, firm hand settled over mine.
"Let me."
"I can do it."
"You are shaking, Aurora."
"I'm angry."
"You are both." He gently pried the tin from my grip. He set his cane against the counter and took my hand. His touch was cold—demons didn't carry much internal heat—but it was steady. He dipped the silk handkerchief into the sink, wetted it, and began to dab at my knuckles.
We stood in the narrow space between the fridge and the stove. I could see the fine weave of his charcoal suit, the way his platinum hair was slicked back without a single strand out of place. He worked with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon, but there was a lingering pressure in his fingertips that wasn't clinical at all.
"Why didn't you leave when I told you to?" I whispered. My voice betrayed me, cracking just enough to show the hollow space his absence had left.
"Because you told me to leave," he replied, not looking up . "And I have never been good at following instructions from people I intend to keep."
"Keep? I'm not a souvenir from one of your trips to the rift, Lucien."
"No. You are far more troublesome." He finished cleaning the cuts and reached for the antiseptic. "Hold still. This will sting."
"I've had worse."
"I know. I saw the marks Evan left."
His black eye flared, the pupil swallowing the iris entirely for a heartbeat. It was the only sign of the violence simmering beneath the tailored exterior. He hated that I had a history he hadn't cleared away, a past that didn't involve his intervention.
"Don't," I said. "Don't play the protector. You’re a fixer. You fix problems for money or leverage. Which one am I tonight?"
"Tonight, you are a headache." He wrapped the gauze around my hand, his movements slowing. He didn't let go when he was finished. He kept my hand held between his, staring at the small crescent scar on my wrist. "And a reminder that I am remarkably bad at being indifferent."
"You were doing a great job for six months."
"I was in Marseille. Dealing with my father’s estate. It took... longer than anticipated to extract myself from the politics of Avaros."
"And you couldn't send a letter? A raven? A cryptic smoke signal?"
"I didn't want the filth of that realm following the trail back to your door." He finally looked up, his amber eye burning with a sudden, sharp intensity . "I am here now. And the wards are failing, Aurora. You need to gather your things."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"The men downstairs are not van drivers looking for a tip. They are looking for the girl who stole the ledger from the Black Friar."
I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "How did you know about the ledger?"
"I am the person people call when they lose things, Rory. And I am the person they fear when I find them first."
A heavy thud sounded from the front door. Not a knock. A shoulder. The three deadbolts held, but the frame groaned. Ptolemy bolted under the sofa, a blur of orange fur.
"They're early," Lucien muttered, reaching for his cane. He didn't look worried. He looked annoyed, like someone had interrupted a fine meal. He twisted the ivory handle, and four inches of thin, gleaming steel slid out with a melodic *shing *.
"Lucien—"
"Get your coat, Aurora. And the ledger. I assume it’s hidden in the flour jar?"
"Cereal box," I corrected, my brain finally snapping into gear . "The gluten-free stuff. No one ever touches it."
"Clever girl." Another thud hit the door, followed by the splintering crack of wood. "Quickly. I would prefer not to get blood on this suit; it’s hand-stitched."
I dove for the kitchen cupboard, grabbing the box of cardboard-tasting muesli and shoving the heavy, leather-bound book into my satchel. Behind me, the front door exploded inward in a spray of splinters and ancient brass.
"Stay behind me," Lucien commanded, his voice dropping an octave into something that wasn't entirely human.
Two men in heavy leather coats pushed through the wreckage, their eyes glowing with a sickly, jaundiced light. They weren't human, or at least, they weren't anymore. They moved with the jerky, unnatural twitching of husks.
"Moreau," one of them rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones . "The master wants the book. And the girl."
"The master has poor taste in henchmen," Lucien said, stepping over a pile of Eva's books. He flicked the blade in his hand, a drop of his own blood hitting the steel. The metal began to glow with a faint, violet light. "And even poorer timing."
The first husk lunged, its fingers lengthening into jagged claws. Lucien didn't flinch. He parried the strike with the shaft of his cane and drove the concealed blade upward with a sickening squelch.
"Rory," he called out over the sound of the scuffle, "if you’re going to jump out the window, now would be the time."
"The window? We're three floors up!"
"Then I suggest you hold on to me very tightly ."
The second husk snarled, its jaw unhinging to reveal rows of needle-teeth. Lucien kicked the first body away and turned to me, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying, magnetic pull. He held out his free hand, the leather glove stained with black ichor.
"Trust me?"
"I'd rather trust a rattlesnake."
"Excellent choice." He grabbed my waist, pulling me flush against him. The scent of sandalwood and blood overwhelmed me as he swung his cane in a wide, shimmering arc, shattering the glass of the bay window behind us. "Close your eyes."
The cold night air rushed in, and for a terrifying second, we were suspended in the void above Brick Lane, the world tilting into a chaotic smear of neon signs and shadows. Then, we weren't falling; we were drifting , the laws of gravity bowing to the dark lineage in his veins.
We hit the roof of a parked car twenty feet below with a bone-jarring thud. The alarm began to wail, a shrill, piercing scream that tore through the quiet of the street. Lucien didn't miss a beat, sliding off the dented metal and pulling me with him.
"My car is around the corner," he said, his breathing barely elevated . He tucked the blade back into his cane with a sharp click.
"You're insane," I gasped, clutching my satchel to my chest. "You just jumped out a window!"
"I believe the term is 'tactical egress'." He paused, his hand gripping my elbow as he scanned the shadows of a nearby alleyway. Three more shapes moved in the darkness, their eyes catching the light. "And it appears we aren't finished yet."
He pulled me toward a sleek, black Bentley idling at the curb, its engine purring like a large, dangerous cat.
"Get in. Unless you’d prefer to explain the ledger to the gentlemen with the teeth."
I didn't argue. I dived into the leather-scented sanctuary of the passenger seat. Lucien slid behind the wheel, the car roaring to life before his door was even shut. We tore away from the curb, tires screeching against the asphalt.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my heart finally slowing enough for me to feel the ache in my ribs.
"To my house. It has better locks. And a significantly better wine cellar." He glanced at me, a wolfish smirk playing on his lips. "Also, you still haven't told me what’s in that ledger that’s worth dying for."
"I haven't decided if I'm telling you anything yet."
"Fair enough." He swerved around a bus, the car leaning hard into the turn. "But I’d buckle up if I were you. We're being followed."
I looked in the side mirror. A pair of headlights was gaining on us, weaving through traffic with a speed that no London taxi could achieve.
"Is it them?"
"Worse," Lucien said, his grip tightening on the steering wheel . "It’s the police. And in this borough, the police work for my father."