AI The insistent rapping on Eva’s door vibrated through the cheap wood, an unwelcome percussion against the quiet hum of the city beyond. Rory, mid-sentence as she recounted a particularly absurd customer complaint to Ptolemy, froze. Three deadbolts, each heavy and protesting, secured the entrance to Eva’s sanctuary , and she rarely had visitors. Fewer still who’d use this insistent, almost aggressive, three-knock rhythm.
She padded across the floor, navigating the precarious stacks of esoteric texts and overflowing bookshelves that lined every available surface of the cramped flat. Ptolemy, a marmalade tabby of considerable girth, gave a disgruntled flick of his tail, disturbed from his sunbeam nap atop a pile of grimoires. Rory smoothed down her dark hair, a nervous habit she’d tried to break for years, and peered through the fisheye lens.
The face gazing back was jarringly familiar , yet utterly out of place. Platinum blonde hair, slicked back with an almost predatory sheen, framed sharp, aristocratic features. Heterochromatic eyes, one a startling amber, the other a depthless black, scanned the peephole with an unnerving intensity . Even through the distorted glass, Rory could discern the impeccable cut of his charcoal suit, the glint of polished leather on his shoes. Lucien Moreau. Here.
Her breath hitched. It had been nearly a year since their last… encounter . A messy, complicated entanglement of shared danger, unspoken needs, and a painful, abrupt parting. She’d told herself she and Silas had found their footing, that the chaos of Lucien’s world, and *her * world, had found a brittle equilibrium. Clearly, that was a lie.
She took a steadying breath, her fingers finding the cold metal of the deadbolts. One. Two. Three. The lock mechanisms groaned in protest, each click echoing in the sudden, charged silence . The door swung inward, revealing the full, imposing figure of the Frenchman. He didn't flinch, didn't soften his gaze. He simply stood there, a shadow cast against the light of the cramped hallway.
“Rory,” he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble, the faint French accent a familiar , dangerous lullaby. It held no surprise, no apology. Merely a statement of fact.
“Lucien,” she replied, her voice betraying none of the tumult he’d instantly stirred within her . She kept her arms crossed, a flimsy barrier against the storm he represented. “What a… surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He stepped forward, the air around him seeming to thicken, carrying the subtle, expensive scent of sandalwood and something else, something ancient and alluring, like ozone before a storm. He paused just inside the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic haven of Eva’s flat. It was a stark contrast to his own meticulously curated existence.
“Eva is not here?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. His eyes, sharp and discerning, missed nothing.
“Eva is… occupied,” Rory said, choosing her words with care. Eva’s “occupations” were her own, and rarely involved unexpected visitors from Lucien’s shadowy corners. “And you know she’s not fond of… interlopers.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips. “I am hardly an interloper, Rory. More like an unwelcome but necessary complication. Much like yourself, in certain circles.”
Rory felt a flush creep up her neck. He always had a way of cutting through the polite pretense, of wielding truth like a honed blade. “And what complication brings you to my door? Or rather, Eva’s door? As I recall, our business was concluded.”
“Business is never truly concluded, *ma chérie *,” he murmured, his gaze dropping from the towering stacks of books to the small crescent scar peeking out from beneath the cuff of her plain black t-shirt. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he met her eyes again. “Especially when the stakes suddenly shift.”
“Shift how?” she pressed, her hand inching towards the heavy wooden staff that Eva kept leaning against the wall by the door, a rather ineffective, albeit symbolic, deterrent.
Lucien’s amber eye seemed to gleam. “There has been… an incident. Something has been taken. Something valuable.”
“And you believe I have it?” Her voice was sharp, her mind already racing . She was a delivery driver by day, a woman running from a past she barely understood by night. What could she possibly have that a man like Lucien Moreau would traverse London for?
“Not you specifically,” he admitted, his tone smooth, dismissive . “But someone who frequents your… establishment. Your colleague, perhaps? The one with the rather unfortunate accent and a penchant for gambling?”
Yu-Fei’s. The mention of the Golden Empress restaurant, Silas’s cousin’s place, sent a jolt through Rory. “You mean Kai?” Kai, with his restless energy and hopeless addiction. “What has Kai done now?”
“He’s done nothing,” Lucien corrected, his tone hardening just a fraction . “He has merely been *present *. And in his presence, something of… significance has gone missing.”
Rory felt a prickle of unease. She knew Kai. He was naive, impulsive, but not malicious. If he was caught up in something Lucien was investigating , it couldn't be good. “What exactly is this ‘something’?”
Lucien stepped closer, his height intimidating as he loomed over her . His gaze was intense, pinning her in place. “A vial. Containing a rather potent form of demon ichor. Not just any ichor, mind you. This is specifically refined, capable of… amplifying latent abilities. Particularly those with Avarosian blood. And it would fetch a considerable sum in the right circles.”
Demon ichor. Rory’s blood ran cold . She’d only ever heard whispers of such things, dark artefacts from realms that were best left undisturbed. And Lucien, a half-demon himself, clearly knew its value.
“And what makes you think Kai has it?” she demanded, her voice tight .
“He was seen near the premises where it was last secured,” Lucien stated flatly. “And then he disappeared. Vanished. Leaving only a trail of frantic, desperate messages about needing coin. Money he couldn’t have acquired through any legitimate means.”
Rory clenched her fists . Kai owed her money. He owed everyone money. But this… this sounded far beyond his usual petty debts. “Where. Is. He?”
Lucien’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “That, Rory, is why I am here. Your loyal friend has a habit of… confiding in you. I believe you may know where he’s hiding.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie was thin, she knew. Lucien would see right through it, just as he’d seen through every other clumsy attempt to shield herself from his world.
“Don’t you?” His voice dropped, growing softer, more dangerous. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The touch sent a familiar shiver down her spine , a sensation she’d fought hard to forget. “Your instincts are usually impeccable, Aurora. Even when you try to ignore them. Even when they lead you towards trouble. Towards me.”
His amber eye held hers, a silent challenge. His obsidian one seemed to absorb the dim light, a void of secrets. The years, the separation, the pain – it all seemed to melt away in the charged space between them. The scent of sandalwood intensified, a potent elixir that clouded her judgment.
“Kai wouldn’t steal something like that,” she insisted, though the conviction in her voice wavered . He was desperate , and desperation bred dangerous actions.
“Perhaps not intentionally,” Lucien conceded, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw . “But he is a pawn , Rory. And sometimes, pawns act without understanding the game. Or the consequences. And this game, *ma chérie *, has the potential to be very messy. Very public. Something that would draw unwanted attention to London’s… less visible inhabitants. And to their allies.”
His words hung in the air , heavy with unspoken threats. Allies. Was that what they were? Or had been? A knot of old feelings, a dangerous cocktail of attraction and resentment, tightened in her chest.
“What do you want from me, Lucien?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper .
“Information,” he said, his gaze unwavering . “Where is Kai? And where is the ichor?” His hand lowered, his knuckles brushing the delicate fabric of her t-shirt . She felt a phantom heat, a memory of his touch that made her skin crawl and her heart thrum in equal measure. “The longer he remains hidden, the more precarious your own position becomes. Silas might be a formidable ally, but even he cannot protect you from everything.”
Rory’s breath caught. He knew about Silas. Of course, he’d know. Lucien Moreau knew everything about everyone in the shadows. The implication was clear: help him, or find herself caught between a desperate thief with a dangerous substance and a half-demon who brokered in dark magic. It was a choice she desperately didn't want to make.
“I… I need to think,” she stammered, backing away, needing an inch of space.
Lucien’s smile returned, cool and knowing. “Indeed. But time, as you know, is a luxury not always afforded to those who dance on the edge of the abyss.” He turned, his ivory-handled cane tapping rhythmically against the worn floorboards as he moved towards the door. He paused on the threshold, looking back at her , his heterochromatic eyes locking with hers. “I will be in touch, Rory. Find Kai. For all our sakes.”
With that, he was gone , melting back into the London night as if he’d never been there at all, leaving Rory alone once more with the scent of sandalwood, the unease churning in her gut, and the distinct feeling that her quiet life had just been irrevocably shattered . Ptolemy, disturbed by the sudden departure, sauntered over, rubbing against her ankles with a questioning purr. Rory sank onto the nearest pile of books, running a hand over her face. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.