Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXEKACFCB9AF513WBJ96C0

The sharp knock echoed the frantic thumping in her own chest. Three distinct raps, patient yet insistent. Rory’s hand froze above a page of yellowed parchment detailing demonic sigils. Eva never knocked. Nobody ever knocked. A tabby cat, Ptolemy, uncurled from a pile of books and stretched, his claws snagging on a threadbare Persian rug. The scent of chicken vindaloo and garlic naan crept up through the floorboards from the curry house below, a constant, comforting aroma that now felt cloying. She slid the chain across the door, her fingers fumbling with the deadbolts. One. Two. Three solid, metallic clunks that peeled back the flat’s defences. She pulled the door open a crack, peering into the dim hallway. The single bare bulb overhead cast a jaundiced glow on the man who stood there. Lucien Moreau. He was a slash of charcoal and silver in the grimy corridor, perfectly out of place. His platinum hair was slicked back from his forehead, untouched by the city’s humidity. The tailored suit fit his frame without a single wrinkle, a stark contrast to her own worn jumper and paint-stained trousers. One hand rested on the ivory head of his cane, a casual pose that did nothing to soften the predator’s stillness about him. His eyes found hers. The right, a warm, liquid amber. The left, a flat, depthless black. They swept over her, a slow inventory that made the skin on her arms prickle. “Rory.” He did not smile, but the corner of his mouth ticked upwards. His voice was a low velvet rasp, the French accent curling around her name. She kept her hand firm on the door. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” “Business, as it happens. With your friend.” He gestured vaguely with his cane towards the chaotic interior of the flat. “Is she in?” “Eva’s not here.” The words came out clipped, final. She made to close the door. His cane shot out, the ivory handle pressing gently but immovably against the wood. “Then my business is with you.” Her breath hitched. The air between them crackled, thick with everything left unsaid since that night by the Thames. His nearness was a physical weight, pressing in on her. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of his cologne, sandalwood and something sharp, like gin. It was a world away from the dust and spice of her life. “I’m busy.” “I can see that.” His gaze flickered past her to the stacks of books and scrolls that threatened to swallow the small living room whole. “But this won’t wait.” She held his stare, her bright blue eyes challenging the strange dualism of his. For a long moment, the only sounds were the distant wail of a siren on Brick Lane and the frantic beat of her own heart. He didn't blink, didn't waver. He simply waited, a study in patience she knew she could never match. With a quiet curse, she pulled the door wider, stepping back into the clutter. Lucien entered, his polished leather shoes navigating the obstacle course of books with an unnerving grace. He moved like a dancer, his presence shrinking the already cramped room by half. Ptolemy, the traitor, wound around his ankles, purring like a tiny engine. Lucien paused to stroke the cat’s head once with a long finger before his eyes began to roam the flat, taking in the arcane charts pinned to the walls, the half-empty mugs of tea, the organised chaos of Eva's research. “Charming,” he murmured, his tone unreadable. He tapped a stack of leather-bound tomes with his cane. “Anything interesting?” Rory slammed the door, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet. The deadbolts went home with three sharp reports. Armour back in place. “I doubt it’s your kind of reading material. Not enough profit margins and leveraged buyouts.” A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his face. He turned from the books, his mismatched eyes locking on hers again. “You wound me, Aurora. I have a great many literary interests.” He used her full name. He only ever did that when he wanted to get under her skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, a barricade against the pull he still exerted. “Get to it, Lucien. Why are you here?” He took a step towards her, and she fought the instinct to take one back. The flat was too small for retreat. He stopped barely an arm’s length away, his height forcing her to tilt her head up. “I have information. About the disappearances in Nine Elms.” Her posture tightened. “What information?” “The kind people pay a great deal of money for.” His amber eye glinted in the low light. “The kind I am prepared to offer you as a gesture of… goodwill.” “I don’t want your goodwill.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. “No?” He took another slow, deliberate step. Now she could see the fine silver threads in the charcoal wool of his suit, the perfect knot of his tie. He was close enough that his body heat washed over her. “What is it you want, then?” The question hung in the air between them, heavy and dangerous. He wasn’t just talking about the case. He was talking about the wreckage of their past, the smouldering embers he’d just casually stirred. She remembered leaning against a cold stone embankment, the river a black ribbon at their feet, his voice a low promise in her ear. She remembered the screech of tyres and the flash of black eyes that were not his own, and then… nothing. He was gone. Her own voice was a low tremor. “I want you to leave my friend’s flat.” “I don’t believe you.” He reached out, not to touch her, but to trace the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with the tip of his finger. His touch was feather-light, but it seared her skin like a brand. She flinched, pulling her hand back as if burned. “Don’t,” she whispered, the single word frayed with a history he knew all too well. His hand dropped, but he didn’t move away. His gaze was intense, stripping away the years of anger and hurt she had so carefully constructed. “You are in danger, Rory. More than you know. Your investigation, Eva’s research… you are treading in waters far deeper than you can imagine.” “And you’re here to save me? The noble fixer with a heart of gold?” Sarcasm was her only shield. His expression hardened, the warmth in his amber eye extinguished. “I am here because you have stumbled into my world. Your ex-boyfriend Evan was not merely abusive. He was a collector for a very powerful, very old entity. An entity that does not like its possessions being stolen.” The world tilted. Evan. His name from Lucien’s lips was a violation. “You know nothing about that.” “I know everything.” His voice was quiet, deadly serious. He had cornered her now, his body blocking the slim path between a towering bookshelf and the wall. Her back was pressed against the unyielding spines of ancient histories. “I know why you fled Cardiff. I know why Eva brought you to London. And I know what Evan took from you is a key he was meant to deliver. A key his master now wants back. And they believe you have it.”