AI The brass of Silas’s door groaned in protest, a sound that sliced through the muted murmur of the bar like a shard of glass. Not a polite, hesitant creak, but a full-throated complaint, as if it resented being disturbed . I hadn’t expected a fanfare, not really , but the sheer volume of the noise startled me from the half-finished crossword puzzle sprawled across the chipped Formica table. Ptolemy, my tabby, launched himself off the worn velvet armchair with a disgruntled yowl, landing squarely on my lap and kneading his paws into my jeans. He glared at the doorway with the kind of profound disapproval usually reserved for particularly egregious puddles.
Then he stepped in. Lucien Moreau.
He wasn't a dramatic entry. No swirling cloak, no dramatic flourish. Just Lucien, clad in the eternally impeccable charcoal suit, the platinum blond slicked back with a precision that bordered on militant. The ivory-handled cane, usually a silent sentinel beside him, rested casually against his thigh, a miniature, menacing weapon disguised as elegance. He didn't announce himself, didn't even offer a cursory apology for the door’s suffering. He simply stood there, a sculpted statue of controlled intensity , surveying the cramped confines of my flat above Silas’s with an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Aurora,” he said, the word a careful articulation of syllables, each one precisely placed. It wasn’t a greeting. It wasn’t an invitation. It was an observation. Like identifying a particularly unpleasant specimen in a natural history museum.
Ptolemy, sensing the shift in atmosphere, retreated to the shadowed corner of the armchair, his tail twitching with agitation. I didn’t move, didn’t offer a word of welcome. I’d been anticipating this, dreading it, for the past six months, and the suddenness of his arrival did little to alter the knot tightening in my stomach . “Lucien,” I replied, my voice deliberately neutral. It felt brittle, strained, like a stretched piece of string. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He didn’t step fully into the room, remaining anchored to the threshold. The space between us felt vast, charged with a history I’d spent a considerable amount of time trying to bury. "A matter of urgency," he stated, his heterochromatic eyes – amber and black swirling in a disconcerting dance – fixed on me. “One that requires your… expertise.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow . My expertise? I was a delivery girl for a Chinese restaurant, not a wizard or a bloodhound. “I sell dumplings, Lucien. Not secrets.”
His lips curved into a ghost of a smile, a brief flash of something dangerously alluring beneath the carefully constructed façade. "Not dumplings, Aurora. Information. Specifically, information regarding a certain… acquisition.” He gestured vaguely towards the window with his cane. "A delicate transaction. One that's attracting unwanted attention."
The window overlooked Brick Lane, a chaotic tapestry of street food stalls, flashing neon signs, and the relentless, hurried pulse of London. The air, usually thick with the aroma of curries and exhaust fumes, felt suddenly colder, somehow. I shifted slightly in my chair, pulling my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. “Unwanted attention from whom?”
“Let’s just say individuals who prefer things to remain… discreet. Let's also agree to say this is confidential. An absolute non-negotiable. Three deadbolts on this door mean nothing, you understand? Not really ." He said it with an icy detachment that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing , and that I was, at best, a mildly interesting pawn in his game.
I took a slow sip of my lukewarm tea, stalling for time. “And why, precisely , do you need *my * assistance with this ‘discreet’ transaction? You always did have a penchant for dragging me into your… endeavors." The word hung in the air , laced with a particular brand of bitterness.
“Your instincts are sharper than most, Aurora. You have a way of seeing patterns others miss. And frankly, your previous… involvement with the subject matter is highly relevant.” He didn't elaborate, and I didn't press him. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the low thrum of the bar's music and Ptolemy’s increasingly agitated purr.
“The last time we worked together,” I said, deliberately sharpening the edge of the memory, "it ended with you in a hospital bed and me fleeing the country.”
A flicker of something – annoyance? regret? – crossed his face, quickly masked by a carefully cultivated expression of indifference. "A regrettable incident. A misunderstanding. I’ve learned my lessons.”
“Have you?” I asked, my voice dangerously low . "Because it seems to me you have a talent for attracting chaos, and a remarkable ability to leave me cleaning up the mess."
He moved further into the room, his steps deliberate, measured . The scent of expensive cologne and something darker, something faintly metallic, filled the small space. It was a smell I hadn’t encountered in years, a ghost of a past I’d desperately tried to forget. He stopped a few feet away, his amber eye boring into mine.
“This is different, Aurora. This isn’t about gambling debts or misplaced affections. This involves something… older. Something far more dangerous.” He paused, a subtle shift in his posture. "A piece of Avaros is coming to London, and I require assistance in securing it before it falls into the wrong hands. And frankly, you are the only one who might be able to understand what we're dealing with.”
I felt a sudden, unsettling chill . Avaros. He hadn’t mentioned Avaros in years. That name alone was enough to send a shiver down my spine , a visceral reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the veneer of London’s glamorous underworld. “And what exactly are ‘the wrong hands’?”
"Let's just say that if this falls into the wrong possession, the consequences will be catastrophic. And my source of funding, and a very important client, will not be pleased.” He was casually tossing words around like jewels, revealing only fragments of a much larger, more unsettling picture. “I need you to track down a Mr. Silas Vance. He’s been in contact with several known collectors.”
Silas Vance. The name was a punch to the gut. I hadn't spoken to him in six years, not since…
"Silas Vance is a collector, Lucien. Not a criminal."
"He *is * involved in some rather… unsavory dealings,” he said, his voice hardening . "And he's using a false identity. He goes by 'Mr. Thorne'. A small antique shop in Mayfair. He's got a surprisingly heavy security system, but don't let that fool you. He is expecting a delivery. A specific amulet. It’s ornate, dark iron, and pulsing with a… unstable energy. I want to know everything about it before it vanishes."
I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the protesting groan of the armchair. "And what's in it for me, Lucien? Besides a potential trip back to the hospital?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He simply watched me, his gaze unwavering , a disconcerting mix of calculation and something that felt dangerously close to… desire .
Finally, he spoke, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Let’s just say, Aurora, that bringing this to a close would erase certain… debts. Debts that extend back further than you might imagine.” He extended a hand, offering a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside, nestled on a bed of crimson velvet , lay a single, obsidian feather. "A token of my appreciation. For your cooperation. And, perhaps, a reminder of what we once shared. A truce, maybe?”
I stared at the feather, then back at Lucien. The scent of him, sharp and intoxicating, filled the small room. The past, dormant for so long, suddenly surged back to life, a turbulent current threatening to pull me under. I knew, with a sickening certainty, that stepping into this game would be reckless, dangerous. But something about Lucien – the darkness in his eyes, the subtle hint of vulnerability beneath his carefully constructed exterior – was undeniably compelling. And, perhaps, a touch of the old thrill, the familiar pull of the unknown, was impossible to resist.
I took a deep breath, meeting his gaze. "Tell me everything about Silas Vance," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil raging beneath the surface.
As I turned to face the window, a floorboard creaked beneath my feet. Ptolemy, sensing the shift in momentum, launched himself at my leg, his claws digging into my jeans. I scooped him up, burying my face in his warm, familiar fur, and knew, with a chilling clarity, that my carefully constructed life was about to be irrevocably shattered . And that Lucien Moreau, the man I'd spent the last six months trying to forget, was suddenly , undeniably, back in my life.
Just as a sleek black car pulled up outside, its tinted windows obscuring the faces of the occupants. And a sharp, insistent rap at the door. Not a polite knock. A demand.