AI The doorknob jiggled.
Rory didn’t pause, didn’t even look up from the delivery box in her hands. The address on the slip was scrubbed , but the handwriting—loopy, deliberate—was familiar enough. *Silas’* bar below thudded with a bassline from a pub quiz; above, her flat smelled of Jane’s overcooked jasmine rice and Ptolemy’s catnip. She set down the glass jar of apricots, her thumb brushing the scar on her wrist—old, clean, a crescent moon etched into skin.
The door creaked open.
She turned.
Lucien Moreau stood there.
Not the Lucien she’d last seen, five months ago, in the rain outside her old flat in Camden—coat sodden, face stony, a blade half-drawn from his cane. Now he was *dry*: charcoal suit pressed, platinum hair slicked back, ivory cane propped like a crown at his hip. His amber eye glinted; the black one… *burned *.
“You’re late,” she said. It came out sharper than she meant. Her spine went rigid, but her hands didn’t reach for the knife on the counter. Not yet.
He stepped inside. The bell above the door clanged, and Ptolemy yowled from behind a stack of spell books. “Wine?” he asked, nodding at the chipped decanter on her table. “Or did you finish the last bottle before I arrived?”
“Jane’s got a tap in the hallway for free samples.” Rory shut the door, deadbolt snapping into place. “What are you doing here, Lucien? You didn’t call. You never *do *.”
“Ah, *Rory *.” He smiled, that slow, lazy smile that used to make her forget the way his phone never rang when she called, the way he flinched when she touched his cheek. “You sound thrilled.”
“Thrilled would be if you ’d died in a gutter. Let’s be clear.” She crossed her arms . The scar on her wrist itched, a trick from childhood, but today it felt like a warning . “What do you want? Money? Information? Eva’s hiding from the tax man again, and last time you ‘helped’ she ended up in a debtors’ prison in Kingston.”
“Eva’s flourishing. She sent you a plant, by the way. A *monstera *. Total cliché.” He moved past her, boots silent on the linoleum, and paused at her desk. A stack of library books—*Demonology for Beginners*, *Avaros: The Demon Realms *—sat under a half-finished crossword. He traced the edge of the volume, his nail catching on the spine. “You’re still into this nonsense. The *supernatural *.”
“Eva’s into it. I’m just… reading.” She stepped closer, keeping her voice low. “Lucien. I asked you to leave. You said… you said you weren’t going to come back.”
He turned. His amber eye was calm; the black one flickered . “You were *right * to ask that. About… *us *.”
A flicker . *Us *. Always *us*, when it suited him. When Evangeline wasn’t around, when the pay was good, when he needed someone who could read a room better than a Ouija board.
“What changed?” she asked.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a manila folder. The tab was bright red, sealed with wax. *Beware the Whispering Wren *.
Her breath hitched. That was the case. The one she’d been working on, alone, until she found out it was linked to a *demon *—not the half-breeds like Lucien, but the real thing, hungry. She’d found the clues: a grave in Islington, a list of names in Old English, a symbol carved into a church wall. She’d been closing in… when the leads dried up. When Lucien had shown up, drunk on something, and said, *“You’re not safe. Stop.”* And she’d said, *“You don’t get to tell me what to do .”*
“What’s this?” she asked, nodding at the folder.
“Your ‘case’ is getting… *noisy *.” He sat on the edge of her sofa, the leather creaking. “Someone’s killing the people you ’re tracking. One by one. Last night, it was Mrs. Hargrove. The herbalist in Whitechapel. Throat torn out. *Ripped * out.”
Her hands balled into fists. “I saw her at the market last week. She gave me chamomile for Ptolemy. Said his fleas were ‘demonic’.”
“Her shop’s been ransacked. Books, herbs—all gone. But not the *imports *. The *exports *.” He flipped the folder open . A photo: Mrs. Hargrove, her apartment in ruins, a single charred symbol on the wall. The same one Rory had carved into her kitchen table, when she thought she was alone.
“You were here,” she said. Not a question.
He met her gaze. “Demon doesn’t leave marks like that. Not unless it wants you to know it’s watching . And it’s *watching *. The Wren’s not the name of the creature. It’s a *calling card *. The Whispering Wren sings for those who listen . And it heard you .”
Silence. Ptolemy padded over, rubbed against Lucien’s calf. The half-demon didn’t flinch. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you ’re the only person I know who can track it. Who *dare * to track it. And because it’s after *you *.” He leaned forward, his voice lower. “Last week, it sent a message. To your bar. To Silas.”
Rory ’s chest tightened. Silas was her neighbor, her friend—had been since she moved in, when she was 22, fresh from Cardiff, fleeing Evan. He’d seen her cry in the stairwell, had let her stay when the rent was too high, had taught her to mix a mean gin and tonic. *“You’re family, Rory ,”* he’d said.
“You should’ve told me.”
“Told you what? That monsters slip into East End bars, leave notes on coasters? Silas thought it was a prank. Said I’d been drinking the sherry he stashed.” He stood, tucking the folder under his arm. “I came to warn you . To burn the files. To… fix what I broke.”
“What did you break, Lucien?” She took a step toward him, the scar on her wrist burning hotter. “You walked away. Said I was too *human * to understand. That I was… *dangerous *.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing her jaw. *“You *are* dangerous ,”* he’d said, that night in Camden. Rain on the fire escape, his breath hot against her ear. *“A little spark, and the whole world burns.”* And then he’d kissed her , hard, like he meant it, like he *needed * it, and then he’d left.
Her pulse raced . “You think I don’t know why you ’re here? You need me to find this thing so you can… *exploit * it. Sell the information. Line your own pockets.”
“God, you ’re naive.” He laughed, low, bitter. “You think I came all the way to Brick Lane to *sell * something? I came to *save * you .”
“Save me? From what? From *you *?” She stepped back, slamming into the counter. The jar of apricots fell, glass shattering. Juice spread like blood across the floor. “You didn’t *save * anyone when you left. You left me to drown in a city that doesn’t care. And now you expect me to… *forgive * you ?”
“I never asked you to forgive me.” He took another step, closing the space. His cane clattered against the wall. “I asked you to *listen *. The Wren’s not a demon . It’s a *hunter *. And it’s been hunting me for years. For *her *.” His hand fell to his side, and for a second, Rory saw it: a faint, glowing rune on his neck, like a brand.
Her breath caught. “Her? Who’s her ?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat again, pulled out a locket. Silver, engraved with a rose. The same rose he’d given her , on her 24th birthday. *“For when you need to remember who you belong to,”* he’d said. She’d lost it, three months later, in Camden. Thought it was just a cheap trinket.
“You still have it.” It came out a whisper .
“Of course I do .” He opened it. A photo inside: a woman with dark hair, amber eyes, and a smile that was too wide, too bright. *“My mother,”* he said. “She was a human . A witch. She loved a demon . And he loved her . But the hunters came. They killed her . And he… he’s been trying to kill them ever since.”
Rory stared at the photo. The woman looked familiar , somehow—like Lucien, but softer, warmer. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Because the Whispering Wren is one of them. One of the hunters. And it’s found you . Because you ’re the only one who can stop it. The only one who knows its tricks.” He held the locket out, his fingers brushing her wrist. “Please. For me. For *her *.”
A noise from below: a crash, a shout. Silas.
Rory ’s head snapped to the door. “Silas. He’s—”
“Fine.” Lucien’s voice was sharp. “He’s alive. But the Wren was there. Watching. It left a calling card .”
He turned, walked to the window. The street below was empty, except for a single black car, idling. A man in a trench coat stood at the curb, smoking a cigarette. His eyes were glassy, milky—*not * human .
Rory ’s hand drifted to the kitchen knife. “Who is he?”
“Someone who thinks I’ve been hiding. Who thinks I’m the one who killed your cousin in Dublin. Who thinks you ’re here to clean up my mess.” Lucien looked at her , his black eye blazing. “I need your help. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Either way, he’s coming back.”
She stared at the knife, at the way its handle fit her hand, familiar as a second thumb. “Why me?”
“Because you ’re a *hunter *, Rory . You’re not just some delivery girl or a scared kid from Cardiff. You’re *fearless *. And the Wren feeds on fear. It’s been feeding on me for years. But it can’t feed on you . Not if you don’t let it.”
The car in the street started. Headlights flickered through the window.
Silas’ voice, muffled: “Rory ? You in there? You okay?”
“Fine!” she yelled back, her voice steady now . “Just… dropped a jar!”
Lucien handed her the locket. “Keep it. As a reminder . Of everything you are. Of everything we can be.”
She gripped the locket, its weight a promise.
The doorbell rang.
Rory tensed. The knife in her hand felt heavier.
“Stay behind me,” she said, but it wasn’t a question.
She opened the door.
Silas stood there, a bruise blooming on his cheek, a baseball bat in his hand. “Told you I heard something. Thought—”
A shadow moved behind him.
Rory pushed him inside. The door slammed shut.
Lucien was already moving, his cane sliding from his hand, the blade extending with a *snap *.
“Not today,” he said.
The shadow stepped into the light. It was a man, but not a man—gaunt, with wings like crows’ wings, eyes like embers.
The Whispering Wren.
Rory raised the knife.
And let out a scream.
---
The chapter ends with Rory and Lucien confronting the Wren, tension at its peak. The shadowy figure's appearance sets up immediate conflict, leaving readers wondering how Rory will use her skills to survive— and if her history with Lucien will help or hinder her .