AI The sharp, insistent rap echoed through the small flat, jolting Aurora from a half-sleep. Her hand instinctively went to her chest, the rhythmic thudding of her heart a frantic counterpoint to the sudden noise. Drunk students, probably, mistaking her door for one of Silas’s regulars. Grumbling, she pushed aside the chaotic pile of novels on her bedside table and padded towards the front door, the floorboards cold beneath her bare feet. She peeked through the warped peephole, wiping a smudge of condensation away with the heel of her hand.
The hallway light cast harsh shadows, but the figure silhouetted against it was unmistakable. He stood too tall, too straight, his platinum hair a glinting halo even in the dimness. The ivory-handled cane was tucked under one arm, a dark, elegant punctuation mark against the grimy backdrop of the stairwell. Lucien.
A cold dread, mingled with a flicker of something she refused to name, coiled in her gut. What was he doing here? Now? She hadn't seen him in months, not since he’d… well, not since that night. The night she’d fled to London, seeking refuge and anonymity, only to find him a shadow already clinging to her heels.
Another series of raps, more demanding this time. He knew she was here. He always knew. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Aurora reached for the three deadbolts, her fingers fumbling slightly . Third one clicked open, then the second. The first resisted for a moment, stubbornly jammed, before finally yielding. She gripped the cool metal knob, her knuckles white, and pulled the door open.
Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes, one amber, one black, swept over her, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. They held an amused curiosity, the gaze of a man accustomed to dissecting and cataloguing. His usual charcoal suit was immaculately tailored, the crisp white shirt a stark contrast to the shadows clinging to his features.
“Aurora,” he said, his voice a low, cultured rumble that vibrated in her bones. “Or should I say, Laila? I admit, your current alias is rather… pedestrian.”
Her breath hitched. He knew. Of course, he knew. Lucien had a knack for unearthing secrets, for peeling back layers of deception until the unvarnished truth lay exposed. Her carefully constructed anonymity was a tattered veil in his presence.
“What do you want, Lucien?” Her voice was raspy, betraying the tremor she tried to suppress. She gripped the doorframe, her nails digging into the chipped paint.
He offered a slight, almost imperceptible inclination of his head. “An introduction, perhaps? To your… landlady? Or perhaps a more informal inquiry. You’ve certainly been keeping a low profile. Quite unlike the Laila I remember.”
The memory of that Laila, the one who’d been reckless and bold, the one who’d thrown caution to the wind, felt like a distant echo . Now, there was just Aurora, the pragmatic delivery driver, the woman trying to outrun her past.
“I’m not Laila anymore, Lucien. I’m Rory. And this is my flat.” She tried to inject a steely note into her voice, to project an authority she didn’t quite feel .
He stepped forward, not waiting for an invitation, his movements fluid and unnervingly graceful. He completely ignored her demand, his gaze lingering on the cluttered interior of her modest flat, on the precarious stacks of books, the overflowing ashtrays, the faded rug on the floor. A faint, sardonic smile touched his lips.
“Indeed. Above a rather… pungent establishment.” He gestured vaguely towards the window, where the faint aroma of spices and overcooked meat still clung to the air, a constant reminder of the Golden Empress downstairs. “Still delivering their… culinary endeavours?”
Her jaw tightened. He always managed to find the precise point of vulnerability, the exact nerve to prod until it screamed. “It pays the rent. Unlike some people’s… hobbies.” Her gaze flickered to the ivory cane.
Lucien’s smile widened, revealing just a hint of impossibly white teeth. “Ah, but these hobbies, as you so quaintly put it, provide a rather unique vantage point. And access, of course. Access to information. And sometimes, Aurora, information is all that stands between one and… inconvenience.”
He moved further into the room, his eyes scanning the bookshelves. “Still immersed in your dusty tomes, I see. One would have thought you’d have tired of the theoretical, after escaping a rather volatile reality.”
That hit a raw nerve. The very reason she was here, the reason she’d left Cardiff and Evan and everything she knew behind, was the sheer, suffocating volatility of her previous life. She’d sought a quiet existence, a life where her biggest worry was an overdue library book or a hungry customer.
“What do you want, Lucien?” she repeated, her voice gaining an edge . “Spit it out. I’m tired, and I have work in the morning.”
He turned to her then, the playful glint in his eyes sharpening into something more intense, more predatory. He stopped a few feet away, close enough for her to feel the subtle shift in the air around him, the faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone and something ancient, something wild.
“A mutual acquaintance, let’s say, has… mislaid something. Something of considerable importance. And this acquaintance believes you might know its whereabouts.”
Aurora’s stomach plummeted. She took a step back, her head swimming. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” His voice dropped to a near whisper , a silken threat. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. Her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed , a phantom ache from years ago, a reminder of childhood clumsiness, of a life that seemed impossibly distant now .
“Your friend Eva,” he continued, his gaze unwavering , “she’s been asking some rather… pointed questions recently. About a certain artifact. An artifact that has a curious habit of surfacing when certain individuals are in distress.”
Eva. Of course, it was Eva. Her old friend, the slightly eccentric, fiercely loyal woman who’d offered her a lifeline when she’d landed in London, heartbroken and terrified. Eva, with her flat crammed with forgotten lore and her unwavering belief in the unusual.
“Eva doesn’t know anything,” Aurora said, her voice surprisingly steady .
Lucien let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “My dear Aurora, Eva Bayes is a veritable font of obscure knowledge. And her curiosity, as you well know, is insatiable. She’s been digging. And when Eva digs, she tends to unearth more than just dust. She unearths trouble.”
He reached out, his fingers – long, elegant, tipped with perfectly manicured nails – brushing against her cheek. The touch sent a jolt, hot and unwelcome, through her. She flinched away, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“And you,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, his heterochromatic gaze holding hers captive, “you have a tendency to find yourself entangled in the very troubles you try so desperately to avoid.”
He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her lips, a scent of expensive cologne and something darker, more primal. The air crackled with unspoken history, with the raw, dangerous energy that had always defined their interactions. The years melted away, and she was no longer Aurora Carter, London delivery driver. She was the girl who’d been drawn to his darkness, the one who’d fallen too fast and been burned too hard.
“So, tell me, Aurora,” he whispered, his voice a seductive caress, “what has Eva misplaced this time? And more importantly, has it found its way into your possession?”
His eyes, the black one seeming to swallow the light, the amber one burning with an unnerving intensity , bored into her. She could feel the unspoken question hanging in the air between them, heavy with threat and something akin to desperation . The silence stretched, taut and suffocating, broken only by the distant rumble of traffic and the frantic, accusing beat of her own heart. She knew, with a sickening certainty, that her quiet life had just exploded.