Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8GDHB9R9T3BE1YZ2AN32M

The hallway smelled of stale beer and simmering spices—a familiar comfort. Rory unlocked the flat door, jingling the keys unnecessarily. Habit. She hadn't expected company. Not tonight. Not ever, really. He stood there, framed in the doorway, a stark silhouette against the dim hallway light. Lucien. Tall, impossibly elegant even with a smudge of rain darkening the lapel of his charcoal suit. Rain she hadn't heard. Her hand tightened on the doorknob. "Lucien," she stated, voice flat. A deliberate neutrality she hoped conveyed the distance she’d carefully constructed between them. He didn’t smile; he rarely did. His amber eye, the one that perpetually seemed to assess and dissect, locked onto hers. “Aurora.” The sound of her full name on his lips sent a tremor through her, unwelcome and insistent. She shifted, letting the door swing wider. "What are you doing here?" He stepped inside, shedding raindrops onto the worn rug. The scent of rain and expensive cologne mingled with the lingering aroma of tonight’s takeaway. “A rather long story. One that involves a disappearing grimoire, a disgruntled djinn, and a generous amount of paperwork.” Rory raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Paperwork? That’s your excuse for showing up unannounced at my flat?” “Not an excuse, an explanation.” He moved further into the room, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered space. Books overflowed from shelves, spilling onto tables and the floor. Scrolls lay haphazardly stacked beside chipped mugs and forgotten deliveries. “It appears you haven’t redecorated.” “It's functional.” She bristled at the implicit judgment. “Are you going to stand there critiquing my interior design or are you going to explain why my evening has suddenly taken a decidedly complicated turn?” He leaned against a bookshelf, the ivory handle of his cane glinting in the lamplight. “The grimoire in question—the 'Liber Umbrarum'—was last seen in your possession.” Her stomach dropped. The Liber Umbrarum. She’d thought she’d buried that memory, along with a great many others. "I gave it back." "To whom?" “To… a client.” The lie tasted like ash. Lucien’s black eye narrowed. “A client who happens to be a centuries-old djinn with a penchant for chaos?” She didn’t respond. There was no point denying it. He always saw through her. That was part of what had been so infuriating—and, she reluctantly admitted, so captivating—about him. He pushed off from the bookshelf, moving closer. “Aurora.” His voice deepened, losing some of its usual detached precision. “You know better than to traffic in such things. Not after…” He trailed off, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Not after what?” she challenged, her voice sharper than she intended. He ignored her question. “This djinn, Marduk, intends to use the 'Liber' to rewrite a binding contract. A contract that protects London from…certain destabilizing influences. You interfered.” “I didn’t interfere,” she retorted. “I simply facilitated a transaction.” “A transaction with potentially catastrophic consequences.” He stopped a foot away, close enough she could smell the faint, metallic tang of his cologne. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. Gods, it was distracting. “Why, Aurora? Why would you do this?” She averted her gaze, focusing on a chipped teacup on the table. "I needed the money." The words were a weak defense, even to her own ears. “Always the practical explanation.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “You haven't changed.” “And you have?” she snapped, finally meeting his gaze. “Still playing the brooding, morally superior fixer?” His smile vanished. "Someone needs to." He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Tell me you didn’t know what you were getting into.” She didn’t. And the admission felt like a betrayal. “I had no idea.” The lie hung heavy in the air. “Marduk is not a creature to be trifled with.” He tapped the ivory handle of his cane against the floor. The sound echoed in the small flat. “He is volatile. Dangerous. And now, thanks to you, he's about to unleash a whole host of problems on this city.” "What do you want me to do?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. She hated asking for help, especially from him. But the thought of Marduk running rampant through London…it was a far greater threat than her pride. He studied her for a long moment, then sighed, a sound like air escaping a punctured tire. "I want you to help me retrieve the 'Liber'." "And if I refuse?" He shrugged, the movement elegant despite the rain-soaked suit. "Then I'll retrieve it myself. But it will be considerably more difficult—and more dangerous—without your assistance." He paused. "And I’d rather avoid having to involve the Wardens.” The Wardens. The enforcement arm of the supernatural community. Involving them would be a bureaucratic nightmare, to put it mildly. And it would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention to Rory. She grudgingly nodded. "Fine. I'll help you." "Good." He didn't offer a smile, but there was a subtle shift in his expression, a flicker of something that might have been relief. “Marduk is currently residing in the old Blackwood Theatre on Drury Lane. He's using its ley lines to amplify his power.” “And how do you propose we get past a centuries-old djinn holed up in a haunted theatre?” “We don’t.” He paused, his gaze locked on hers. “We outsmart him.” Ptolemy, Eva's tabby, chose that moment to leap onto the table, weaving between the stacks of books and scrolls. He rubbed against Lucien’s leg, purring loudly. Lucien barely registered the cat’s presence. His eyes remained fixed on Rory's. “This isn’t going to be easy.” “Nothing with you ever is,” she muttered, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent another unwelcome tremor through her. "You always did have a knack for understatement.” The air between them crackled with a familiar tension, a mixture of animosity, attraction, and a shared history that refused to be ignored. It had been two years since they parted ways, two years of carefully constructed boundaries. Now, standing in her cluttered flat, the scent of rain and unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, Rory wondered if she’d ever truly managed to escape him.