Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0V0KNGPRWK4WR0R09Q4QB

The third deadbolt clacked open, a heavy metallic thunk that vibrated through the thin floorboards. Rory yanked the door inward, expecting the delivery guy from the Chinese takeout down the street or perhaps her landlord coming to complain about the noise Ptolemy made at three in the morning. Lucien Moreau stood on the grimy landing, rain dripping from the brim of an umbrella he hadn't bothered to open. His charcoal suit absorbed the dim hallway light, making him look like a cutout against the peeling yellow wallpaper. Water traced paths through his slicked-back platinum hair, ruining the meticulous style he usually maintained with obsessive precision. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the tip resting on a discarded pizza flyer. "You changed the locks," Lucien said. His voice lacked its usual polished cadence, roughened by the damp London air. Rory gripped the doorframe, her knuckles white. She didn't step back. She didn't invite him in. The smell of curry from the restaurant below mingled with the wet wool of his coat and something sharper, like ozone before a storm. "I changed everything," she replied. "Get off my mat, Lucien." He pushed past her anyway. The movement was fluid, effortless, as if the three deadbolts and her verbal command held no more weight than a cobweb. He stepped into the cramped hallway, shaking water from his sleeves onto the stacks of books lining the floor. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, hissed from atop a pile of research notes on the sofa, tail lashing. "Your cat remembers me," Lucien observed, tapping his cane against the floor to steady himself. He turned, those mismatched eyes—one amber, one void-black—locking onto hers. "Unlike some people." "Ptolemy hates everyone. It's a survival trait." Rory slammed the door shut and engaged the first bolt. Then the second. She left the third off, a silent concession she hated herself for making. "How did you find this place?" "Eva talks when she's had two glasses of Pinot Grigio. You'd be surprised how loose her tongue gets regarding your whereabouts." Lucien navigated the obstacle course of scrolls and textbooks, moving with a grace that belied the clutter. He stopped in the center of the living area, the only clear space being the worn rug beneath his feet. "Cardiff feels a lifetime ago. London suits you. Chaotic. Hiding in plain sight." "Stop analyzing me." Rory crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the old crescent scar on her left wrist itch under her sleeve. "You have five minutes. Then I call the police. Or something worse." "Call Silas. He knows better than to interrupt us." Lucien unbuttoned his wet jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath. He didn't take it off. He just stood there, radiating a heat that had nothing to do with the radiator clicking in the corner. "I didn't come to fight, Rory." "You came unannounced to a flat with three deadbolts after six months of silence. That sounds like a fight to me." "I came because Avaros is stirring. The borders are thinning." He took a step toward her. The distance between them shrank, charging the air with static. "And you are the only person I know who can read the old Welsh texts without burning their fingers." Rory laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "So that's it? I'm a tool again? You dump me in Marseille because your father's realm got too 'complicated,' and now you need a translator?" "I left to protect you." Lucien's voice dropped, the words landing heavy in the small room. "My father's kin do not tolerate human entanglements. Staying would have gotten you killed. Or worse, turned." "You didn't ask me what I wanted." Rory stepped forward, closing the gap until she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye. "You decided for me. You packed your tailored suits and your secret blade and vanished. Left me with a one-way ticket to Heathrow and a heart full of nothing." "I left you alive." "Alive isn't living, Lucien." Ptolemy jumped down from the sofa, weaving between Lucien's legs. The half-demon looked down, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before he redirected his focus to Rory. He reached out, his long fingers hovering near her face. She flinched but didn't pull away. "Your hands are cold," he murmured. "London winter." "Liar." He caught her wrist, his thumb brushing over the crescent scar. The touch sent a jolt through her arm, familiar and terrifying. "You've been working nights. Delivering food. Sleeping in chunks. Worrying." "I've been fine." "You look exhausted." He released her wrist but didn't step back. His presence filled the room, crowding out the dust motes dancing in the single beam of streetlight cutting through the window. "Let me help." "With what? Your demon problems? I told you, I'm done with that life. I study law now. Well, I studied it. Now I deliver dumplings and read Eva's crazy research." "The law cannot stop what is coming." Lucien's gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "But we can. Together." "There is no 'we'." Rory turned away, walking to the kitchenette to busy herself with the kettle. Her hands shook as she filled it. "There was a 'we' once. Then there was you disappearing without a word for three weeks. Then there was silence." "I wrote letters." "I never got them." "Your father intercepted them." Lucien moved behind her. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, though he didn't touch her. "Brendan Carter is a formidable man when he thinks he's protecting his daughter. He burned them. All of them." Rory froze, the kettle slipping from her grip. Lucien's hand shot out, catching the handle before it hit the sink. His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and steady. "He told me you stopped caring," she whispered, staring at the stainless steel sink. "He said you found someone else in Marseille. A demoness. Something suitable." Lucien spun her around, forcing her to look at him. His face was inches from hers, the intensity in his heterochromatic eyes burning away the shadows of the flat. "There is no one else. There never could be. Not after you." The admission hung in the air, raw and unpolished. "I burned half of Marseille looking for a way to break the contract my father signed. I spent every night for six months fighting shadows so you could sleep safely in your little flat above a curry house." Rory searched his face for the lie, for the manipulation she expected from a fixer of the supernatural underworld. She found only exhaustion mirroring her own, and a hunger that made her breath hitch. "Why now?" she asked. "Why show up tonight?" "Because the dreams started again," Lucien said softly. "The ones where you scream. I felt them across the channel. I couldn't stay away." Rory's breath caught. She hadn't told anyone about the nightmares. The visions of fire and black wings that woke her in a cold sweat. She had buried them under shifts at the Golden Empress and piles of legal briefs. "You felt that?" "I am half-demon, Rory. Our bond... it doesn't sever with distance. It festers." He lifted his hand, tucking a strand of her straight black hair behind her ear. His touch lingered on her jawline. "I tried to let you go. I thought giving you a normal life was the gift you needed. But normalcy is a cage for people like us. And you are not normal." "I wanted normal," she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. She leaned into his touch despite herself. "I wanted to forget the monsters." "The monsters are here." Lucien gestured to the window, to the rainy London night beyond. "And they are coming for you because you carry a piece of Avaros in your bloodline. Your mother's side. The Welsh teachers know more than they let on." Rory pulled back, the moment fracturing. "My mother is dead. She taught primary school. She baked scones." "She hid grimoires in the cookie jar, Rory." Lucien walked over to the stack of books on the coffee table, picking up a dusty volume Eva had left out. He flipped it open to a marked page. "Eva knows. That's why she sent you here. That's why she keeps this collection." Rory stared at the book. The symbols on the page swam before her eyes, suddenly making a twisted kind of sense. The headaches, the strange luck, the way animals reacted to her. "So what do we do?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. Lucien closed the book with a snap. He walked back to her, stopping just out of reach. The tension between them pulled tight, a bowstring ready to snap. "We survive," he said. "We figure out what your mother hid. And we prepare." He paused, his gaze dropping to her mouth again. "But first, you need to eat. You're swaying on your feet." "I'm fine." "You're starving." He moved to the small table, pulling out a chair. "Sit. I'll make tea. And then you're going to tell me everything Eva has found." "I'm not your subordinate, Lucien." "No." He met her eyes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You're the only person who can tell me no and mean it. Sit down, Rory." She looked at the chair, then at him. The rain hammered against the window, isolating them in their bubble of clutter and history. The anger was still there, a dull ache in her chest, but the relief of not being alone in the dark was stronger. She sat. Lucien filled the kettle, his movements precise, domestic in a way that clashed wildly with the ivory blade hidden in his cane. He hummed a tuneless melody, something French and old, as the water began to heat. Rory watched him, tracing the line of his spine through the wet shirt. The complications hadn't vanished. The danger was real. But for the first time in six months, the silence in the flat didn't feel empty. It felt like a held breath, waiting to be exhaled.