AI Ptolemy wound a figure eight around Rory's ankles. His purr rumbled against her shins, a comforting vibration against the thumping in her chest. She took a deep breath, the scent of stale curry from the restaurant downstairs doing little to calm her nerves, and pulled open the door.
Lucien stood on her landing.
He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit, as always, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, catching the dim light of the hallway. One amber eye gleamed, the other a fathomless black. He held his ivory-handled cane in one hand, knuckles stark white against the polished bone. He looked just as she remembered him, every bit the impeccably dressed fixer of the supernatural underworld, and every bit the man who had ghosted her for weeks.
"Took you long enough." His voice was a low rumble, a French lilt softening the edges of his words.
Rory narrowed her bright blue eyes. "What do you want, Moreau?"
"May I come in?" He glanced past her, his gaze sweeping over the books and scrolls stacked precariously in the hallway of Eva's flat. Ptolemy, sensing the tension, darted behind Rory's legs, his tail twitching.
"No." She gripped the doorframe, her fingers digging into the worn wood. "Not until you tell me why you 're here."
A small, humourless smile played on his lips. "Always so direct, *chérie *. A quality I've always admired."
She flinched at the endearment, a ghost of old intimacy tightening her stomach . "Don't."
"Don't what?" He stepped closer, forcing her to instinctively take a step back into the cramped hallway. The scent of him, expensive cologne and something subtly earthy, like damp soil and old magic, filled her nostrils.
"Don't act like we're..." She trailed off, unable to articulate the tangled mess of what they once were.
"Like we're what, Rory?" His voice dropped, a dangerous softness seeping in. "Like we didn't spend three months tangled in each other's sheets?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. "That's not fair."
"Was it not true?" He tilted his head, his heterochromatic eyes searching hers. "Tell me truly , Laila. Did you not feel it?"
Laila. Her given name. The name only he ever called her. It hit her like a punch to the gut. The name she had almost forgotten she possessed, buried beneath the layers of Rory, the resilient courier, the quick-thinking survivor.
"You don't get to use that name," she managed, her voice barely a whisper . "Not after you vanished without a word. Not after you left me wondering if I'd imagined everything."
"I had my reasons." His gaze flickered to the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a faint white line against her skin. A childhood accident, a moment of clumsiness, now a tangible reminder of a past she often tried to outrun.
"Reasons?" A sharp, brittle laugh escaped her. "Is that what you call it? A quick exit with no explanation? No call, no text, just gone. Like a puff of smoke."
"It was for your protection." The words were clipped , tight.
"My protection?" She felt a flash of old anger, hot and sharp. "From what? A broken heart? You're too late."
He winced, a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher crossing his face . Guilt? Regret? She couldn't tell. He was always so controlled. A mask of composure, even in their most intimate moments.
"There are things," he began, his voice low, "things you don't understand."
"Then *explain * them." She opened the door wider, a silent challenge. "Or get off my doorstep."
Lucien hesitated, his gaze sweeping over her again, lingering on the subtle tremor in her hands. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, he stepped inside. The air in the flat suddenly felt thicker, charged with an unspoken history. Ptolemy, eyes wide, immediately retreated under the sofa.
"I need your help," he said, his voice flat .
Rory stared at him, dumbfounded. "You need *my * help? After everything, you come to me for help?"
"You're the only one I can trust for this." His gaze was steady, unwavering . "Well, you and Moreau." A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
She scoffed. "You have a short memory. And a convenient one."
"Perhaps." He leaned his cane against the wall, taking a hesitant step into the living area. Bookshelves overflowed with grimoires and arcane texts. Scrolls, brittle with age, lay scattered across the faded rug. The air smelled of old paper and Eva's incense. "But this is urgent. Matters of life and death, Rory."
"You only care about matters of life and death when they involve you ," she countered, crossing her arms defensively. The old hurt, dulled by time, now flared with renewed intensity .
"That's not fair," he echoed her earlier words, his eyes holding hers. "You know that's not true."
"Do I?" She walked past him, a deliberate brush of her shoulder against his. "Because last I checked, you were more interested in vanished without a trace than in my continued existence."
He sighed, a deep, raspy sound. "I made a mistake. A grave one. Leaving you , not explaining thoroughly, it was a lapse in judgement I've paid for every day since."
Rory spun around. "A lapse in judgment? Is that what you call it? What about the nights? The promises? The way you looked at me?" Her voice rose, edged with an emotion she fought to suppress. "What about the fact that I spent weeks wondering if you were dead, if I was going mad, if you had just..." She swallowed, the knot in her throat making it hard to speak. "...forgotten me?"
"Never." His voice was raw, stripped of its usual smooth composure. "I could never forget you , Laila." He reached a hand towards her, then hesitated, letting it drop. "It was complicated. My world... it's not safe. Not for humans. Not for you ."
"I'm not some delicate flower, Lucien." She balled her fists. "I never was. And I don't need you to decide what's safe for me."
"This isn't about protecting your feelings, Rory." He ran a hand through his platinum hair, a rare sign of agitation. "This is about keeping you alive. Some of the entities I deal with... they don't play by human rules. They exact payment in blood, in souls, in pain."
"And you decided the best way to keep me safe was to break my heart?" The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable.
He took a step closer. "I chose the path that offered you the greatest chance of a normal life, free from the shadows, free from me."
"My life hasn't been normal since I met you ," she retorted, her voice shaking . "It's been a constant replay of 'what if', and 'why me', and re-reading old texts to see where I went wrong. It's been anything but free."
His eyes softened, if such a powerful gaze could soften. "I never meant to hurt you ."
"But you did." The words hung in the air , heavy and unspoken .
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren and the faint clatter from the curry house below. He looked genuinely pained, a vulnerability she had rarely witnessed in him. It was a crack in the carefully constructed facade she was so used to seeing.
"I need access to Eva's archives." He finally broke the silence , his voice low and urgent. "There's a ritual, an ancient text... it's the only way to stop a growing threat."
Rory frowned. "What threat?"
"A demon from Avaros," he said, his one amber eye gleaming with a predatory intensity . "One of my father's kind. It's found a route to this realm, and it's seeking to establish a foothold."
"And you think Eva has something that can stop it?" Eva, with her chaotic flat and her endless supply of obscure knowledge.
"She has an affinity for the forgotten, the forbidden." He gestured around the flat, a silent acknowledgment of the sheer volume of arcane knowledge crammed into every corner. "And you , Rory, have an affinity for navigating her labyrinthine research."
"So, you need me to play librarian for your demonic family problems?" She raised an eyebrow , a sardonic twist to her lips.
"I need your sharp mind, your quick wit, your ability to see patterns where others see only chaos." His gaze was unflinching . "I need *you *, Laila."
The use of her name again, so intentionally, so softly , sent a shiver down her spine. It was a plea, a recognition, and a reminder of everything they had shared. A desperate plea that cut through the anger. She still felt the sting of betrayal, the ache of abandonment. But beneath it, a familiar current of attraction, thrummed, alive and dangerous.
"What exactly are we looking for?" She asked, crossing her arms, still keeping her guard up. "And what does this have to do with me?"
His eyes grew serious, the amber deepening to gold. "A summoning reversal. A way to send it back before it fully manifests and unleashes true hell upon London. And it has to do with you because, unfortunately, the demon has a particular... fixation. A familiar scent."
Rory felt a prickle of unease. "A familiar scent?"
"A human sacrifice, Laila." He finally closed the distance between them, his hand gently grasping her arm, his touch still sending fire through her veins. "And you , my dear, are eerily close to the chosen bloodline."