Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7XX4S54NZ2Z08247VEWCD

The chipped paint around the doorframe felt rough under Rory’s knuckles. Three deadbolts. Habit, mostly. Though after everything with Evan, she wasn’t taking chances. A hard rap echoed through the flat. Not the hurried tap of a delivery driver. Deliberate. She peered through the peephole. Lucien. Her breath hitched. He hadn’t changed. Still impossibly elegant, even on a drizzly Tuesday evening. Charcoal suit, slicked-back platinum hair catching the dim hallway light. Right down to the ivory handle of that cane. She hesitated. Unlocked the first bolt. Then the second. Her hand trembled on the final one. It slid open with a click. He didn’t bother with a greeting. Just swept his gaze over her—a slow, assessing burn—before his eyes snagged on the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Don’t just stand there staring, Rory. Let me in before I catch a chill.” She stepped back, granting him entry. The scent of rain and expensive cologne filled the small space. Ptolemy, her tabby, arched his back and hissed from atop a precariously stacked tower of books. “Charming as always,” she managed, her voice tight. “And you’ve made no effort to improve your housekeeping,” he observed, his gaze drifting over the organized chaos of Eva’s flat. Books littered every surface, scrolls unraveled like forgotten thoughts, research notes crammed into every available corner. “I live here,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “Not audition for *House Beautiful*.” He moved further inside, cane tapping a steady rhythm against the hardwood floor. Ptolemy, having decided Lucien wasn’t an immediate threat, resumed his grooming, pointedly ignoring him. “I need your help.” The words weren’t a request. More a statement of fact. She scoffed, walking past him toward the tiny kitchen. “That's a first.” “Don’t be obtuse.” He followed, leaning against the doorframe. “I rarely ask for anything, especially from you.” She busied herself with a chipped mug and a tea bag. “Considering the last time I ‘helped’ you, I’m surprised you’re even on my doorstep.” “That…was a misunderstanding.” “Oh, it was?” She turned, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. “Because I distinctly remember you conveniently leaving out a few crucial details about the…client.” “I protected you.” “By dragging me into a magical turf war with a centuries-old vampire?” He winced, the first chink in his polished facade. “He was going to expose your father.” The words hit like a physical blow. She gripped the mug tighter, knuckles white. Brendan, a barrister, hadn’t wrapped his head around Rory’s life in London, the shadow world she’d stumbled into. He’d worry himself sick if he knew. “You knew about my father?” “I do my research, Rory. It's how I operate." He pushed off the doorframe and slowly walked toward her, his amber and black eyes locking onto hers. “He’s a good man. And vulnerable. I underestimated Alistair Thorne’s reach.” “And decided the best way to protect him was to put me in the line of fire?” “I miscalculated the risk. I admit it.” His voice, usually smooth and controlled, roughened around the edges. “I thought you could handle it.” “You thought?” She laughed, a humorless sound. “That’s your go-to, isn't it? Just…*think* things will work out, consequences be damned?” “I have refined my assessments since then,” he said, a glint of stubbornness in his eyes. She turned back to the kettle, the silence stretching between them, filled only with the hum of electricity. The air crackled with unspoken accusations, regret, and something else entirely. Something she’d tried to bury months ago. “What do you need?” she asked finally, her voice carefully neutral. “Information.” He paused. “A grimoire. Someone stole a particularly nasty one from a collector. It’s…volatile in the wrong hands.” “And why come to me? Eva’s the occult expert, not me.” “Eva’s currently chasing down leads in Romania. Something about a rogue earth elemental and a stolen artifact.” He allowed himself a brief, sardonic smile. “She prefers field work. You, on the other hand, have a knack for finding things. And people.” “Flattery will get you nowhere.” “I’m not attempting flattery,” he said, his tone flat. “I’m stating a fact. You possess a certain…intuition. A talent for connecting dots others miss.” She stirred her tea, avoiding his gaze. He was right, damn him. She’d always been good at seeing patterns, at piecing together fragments of truth. It was why she’d excelled at law, why she was drawn to the puzzles of the supernatural world. “What kind of grimoire?” “The Liber Umbrarum. Book of Shadows. Bound in obsidian, silver clasps. Contains some rather…unpleasant summoning rituals.” “Unpleasant as in ‘destroy the world’ unpleasant?” “Potentially. Its primary function is binding. Not creation. But a skilled practitioner could adapt the rituals.” She finished her tea in one gulp, the warmth doing little to thaw the chill in her bones. “Who stole it?” “That’s where it gets complicated.” He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, disrupting its flawless arrangement. A small, surprisingly human gesture. “Alistair Thorne’s grandson. Caspian.” “Of course it is.” “He’s more subtle than his grandfather. More…refined. But equally dangerous.” “And you want me to find it before he decides to raise an army of demons?” “Something like that.” He paused, his gaze meeting hers once more. “I need you, Rory. This isn’t some academic exercise. This could have…far-reaching consequences.” “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Lucien.” She set her mug down, the ceramic clinking against the counter. “But why me? Risk me again? What's changed?” He stepped closer, his presence filling the small kitchen space. She could smell the rain clinging to his suit, feel the heat of his gaze. “I’ve been…regretting my choices, Rory.” The admission hung in the air, delicate and unexpected. She searched his face, trying to decipher the emotions hidden behind his carefully constructed composure. “Regret doesn’t fix anything.” “No,” he conceded, his voice barely a whisper. "But it can motivate action." He reached out, his fingers brushing against her wrist, over the faint crescent-shaped scar. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. “Let’s just find the damn book,” she said, her voice shaky. She quickly stepped back. “Then we can go back to pretending we don’t know each other.”