Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYY472NBCA6WY9WFM8PSX0

The third deadbolt clicked, a heavy metallic thud that vibrated through the wood of the door. Aurora pulled the handle. Her breath hitched, snagging in her throat like a ragged nail. Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe of the Brick Lane flat. The hallway’s flickering fluorescent bulb caught the platinum sheen of his hair, slicked back with surgical precision. He looked exactly as he had six months ago—wrapped in a charcoal suit that cost more than Rory earned in a year at the Golden Empress. One hand gripped the ivory handle of his cane. The other adjusted the fit of his cufflink. "You changed the locks, petite souris." Rory gripped the edge of the door until the wood bit into her palms. The scent of him—expensive sandalwood, old parchment, and the metallic tang of something otherworldly—flooded the narrow entryway. "Go away, Lucien." She moved to slam the door. The tip of his cane slid into the gap, an immovable bar of bone and silver. He didn't exert force, yet the door refused to budge. His amber eye shimmered with a predatory light, while the black eye remained a bottomless void. "A polite woman would offer a weary traveler a seat. London is particularly cruel this evening." He stepped over the threshold without waiting for an invitation. Rory retreated, her heels skidding on a loose floorboard. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, bolted from his perch on a stack of grimoires and vanished under the sofa. Lucien took in the chaos of the room—the scattered scrolls, the half-eaten takeaway containers, the scent of stale tea. "You look tired, Aurora." He traced the spine of a leather-bound book on the dining table. His fingers were long and elegant, betraying nothing of the demonic blood humming beneath his skin. "I look like a woman who doesn't want a fixer in her living room. How did you find this place? This was supposed to be off the grid." Lucien turned, the corner of his mouth twitching into a ghost of a smirk. "Information is my currency. You know this. Did you truly believe a few extra bolts and a change of postal code would hide you from me?" "I believed you’d have the decency to stay in the shadows where you belong." She crossed her arms, tucking her left wrist into her armpit. The crescent scar there felt like it was throbbing, a phantom itch of a life she’d tried to bury. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the movement. He knew her tells. He knew the way her pulse jumped in the hollow of her throat when she was lying, or scared, or something else entirely. "Decency is a human trait. I am only half-burdened by such things." He moved closer. Each step was silent, a predator’s grace disguised by a limp he didn't actually have. He stopped just inches from her, close enough that she could feel the unnatural heat radiating from his chest. "You left without your payment for the Avaros job." "I didn't want your money, Luc. I wanted out." "Out of the job, or out of my sight?" The question hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Rory looked up, defying the urge to shrink back. Her bright blue eyes clashed against his heterochromatic stare. "The two were tied together. I couldn't have one without the other." "And yet, here I am. And here you are, trembling." "I'm not trembling. I’m annoyed." Lucien reached out. It was a slow, deliberate movement. His thumb brushed the underside of her jaw. His skin was scorching. Rory’s breath hitched again, but she didn't pull away. The electricity of his touch sparked a memory of a rainy night in Marseille—the taste of wine, the sound of a blade unsheathing, and the way his mouth had felt against hers before the world tore them apart. "You are a terrible liar, Aurora Carter. Even after all the lessons I taught you." "I learned enough to know you only show up when you need something. What is it? A soul to broker? A ghost to haunt? Or did you just run out of people to manipulate?" Lucien’s expression hardened. The charcoal fabric of his suit seemed to darken, absorbing the dim light of the flat. "I require a courier. Someone who can move through the city unnoticed by the Council. Someone who isn't afraid of the dark." "Find someone else. I’m delivering noodles now. It’s safer." "Safer, perhaps. But beneath you." He leaned down, his lips hovering mere inches from her ear. "You were meant for more than grease-stained bags and minimum wage. You have a mind that carves through problems like a scalpel. You have fire, even if you try to dmother it under this drab existence." Rory pushed against his chest. It was like shoving a stone wall. "I like my drab existence. I like not waking up with blood on my hands. I like a life where I don't have to wonder if the man I'm with is going to sell me to a demon for a piece of ancient history." Lucien flinched. The movement was microscopic, a slight tightening of the eyes, but Rory saw it. "I never would have sold you." "You used me as bait, Lucien. Don't rewrite the past because you’re lonely." "I was securing our future." "There was no 'our'." He grabbed her wrist—the left one. His grip was firm but not painful, his thumb pressing directly over the crescent scar. The heat from his hand seeped into her bones. "There was everything. There was a moment in that cathedral when you looked at me and didn't see a monster. Don't tell me you’ve forgotten the weight of it." Rory tried to yark her arm back, but he held fast. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. "I saw what I wanted to see. I was wrong." "Look at me and say that." She looked. She searched the amber and the black, looking for the lie. She found only a devastating, hungry sincerity. It was worse than a threat. "You shouldn't have come here," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I had no choice. The shadows are growing long, rory. The entities I deal with... they are asking questions about the girl with the blue eyes who walked through the gates of Avaros and returned unscathed." "Let them ask." "I cannot protect you if you are hiding in a curry house on Brick Lane." "I don't need your protection. I escaped Evan. I escaped you. I can handle myself." Lucien let go of her wrist, his hand falling to the ivory head of his cane. He paced the small room, his eyes scanning the stacks of research Eva had left behind. He stopped at a scroll written in a dialect that hadn't been spoken on Earth for three centuries. "Eva is deep in it, isn't she? This isn't just curiosity. She’s hunting for the Seventh Key." Rory stiffened. "She’s just a researcher. A student." "She is a target. And because you are here, you are the bullseye." He turned back to her, his face a mask of calculated coldness. "I am not here to reclaim a romance that ended in fire. I am here because I am the only person in this city who can keep your head on your shoulders when the hunters arrive. You think you’re hidden? You’re a beacon." "And you just happened to be the first one to find me." "I am always the first." He stepped toward the door, tapping his cane twice on the floorboards. The sound echoed with an unnatural resonance. "Pack a bag. Not the entire flat. Just what you need to survive forty-eight hours." "I'm not going anywhere with you." "Then you’ll die here. And your friend Eva will follow shortly after. Is that the 'safe' life you charted for yourself?" Rory looked at the piles of books, then at the three deadbolts she’d thought would keep the world out. They looked like toys now. Fragile, useless things. "Where?" Lucien paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked back over his shoulder, the amber eye glowing with a faint, hellish light. "Back to the beginning. We’re going to find the man who put out the contract on your life." "And who is that?" "He goes by the name Malphas. But you’d know him as your father’s oldest friend." The air left the room. Rory felt the floor tilt. Every instinct she had screamed at her to run, to bolt out the window and lose herself in the crowds of London. But Lucien was watching her, his presence fillng the cramped space, offering a terrifying sort of sanctuary. "I need ten minutes," she said. "You have five. Use them to say goodbye to the cat." He stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door hanging open. Rory stood in the center of the room, her hand trembling as she reached for a discarded backpack. Under the sofa, Ptolemy hissed. She didn't blame him. The darkness hadn't just knocked on her door; it had walked in and told her the truth. She grabbed a jacket and stuffed a handful of Eva’s notes into the bag. Her fingers brushed against a small, silver dagger she’d kept hidden under the mattress—a gift from Lucien during their time in France. The metal was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch. She stepped out into the hallway. Lucien was waiting by the stairs, silhouetted against the grime-streaked window. "You kept the blade," he noted, his voice smooth. "It’s for you, if you lie to me again." "A fair bargain." They descended the stairs in silence. The smell of turmeric and cumin from the curry house below mingled with the damp London air. Outside, the street was a blur of neon signs and rain-slicked pavement. A black sedan with tinted windows waited at the curb, its engine idling with a low, predatory growl. Lucien opened the door for her. "After you, Rory." She hesitated, looking back up at the flat. For a moment, she saw a shadow move in the window. Not Ptolemy. Something taller, darker. "Get in," Lucien commanded, his voice losing its playful edge. She slid into the leather interior. It smelled of him—that same intoxicating mix of old world and underworld. He shut the door and walked around to the driver's side, his limp gone, replaced by the lethal fluidity of a soldier. As he pulled away from the curb, Rory stared at her reflection in the window. The girl who delivered noodles was gone. The woman with the crescent scar and the blue eyes was back. "Tell me everything," she said. "Everything is a very long story, petite souris. We should start with the night you left Cardiff." "I thought we were starting with the contract." "They are the same story. You just haven't read the ending yet."