Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY97T53TGGATTE314NESBC9

The rain was a greasy film on the windows of Eva’s flat, mirroring the feeling in Aurora’s stomach. It wasn’t a pleasant rain, the kind that washed clean; this was the London rain that clung, bitter and insistent. She’d been lost in a particularly dense chapter of a grimoire – a study of ancient warding rituals she’d picked up from a dusty stall in Camden Market – when a sharp rap echoed through the small space. Three insistent raps. “Eva?” she called out, already knowing the answer. Eva hadn’t spoken to her in six months, not since the fallout with Evan and Aurora’s desperate flight to London. The door swung inward before she could fully process it. Standing there, illuminated by the weak glow of the hallway light, was Lucien Moreau. He was, as always, an unsettlingly perfect embodiment of expensive trouble. His tailored charcoal suit seemed to absorb the light, and the slicked-back platinum blond framed a face that was both sharp and utterly captivating. He held a single, perfect crimson rose, a jarring splash of colour against the grey backdrop of the room. “Carter,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the drumming rain. “I trust I haven't intruded.” Aurora straightened, pulling her black hair back from her face. The scent of sandalwood and something distinctly…metallic clung to him, a familiar, unsettling aroma. “Lucien,” she acknowledged, her voice tight. “You have.” He stepped inside, his movements fluid and deliberate, and surveyed the chaos of Eva’s flat with a detached, almost clinical expression. Books spilled from shelves, scrolls lay stacked on the floor, and a half-eaten plate of curry sat precariously on a precarious pile of research notes. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, regarded him with feline suspicion from his perch atop a towering stack of occult texts. “It’s…organized chaos,” Aurora observed, gesturing vaguely. Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes, one amber, one black, scanned her up and down. “A reflection of its occupant, I presume.” He placed the rose on the table, its velvety petals a fragile counterpoint to the room’s general disarray. “I require your expertise.” “I deliver food,” she stated flatly, returning to her grimoire. “Not exorcisms.” “This is slightly more complicated than a delivery,” he countered, his tone devoid of any discernible humour. “It involves a misplaced talisman, a disgruntled djinn, and a surprisingly wealthy collector with a penchant for suffering.” Aurora finally looked up, intrigued despite herself. “And you need me to find it?” “You have a…unique skillset,” Lucien said, carefully choosing his words. "Your ability to decipher archaic languages and your, shall we say, pragmatic approach to problem-solving are remarkably valuable.” He paused, a subtle shift in his expression that she couldn’t quite decipher. “And frankly, dealing with this particular djinn requires a certain…discretion. A discretion I’m not entirely equipped to provide.” The air thickened, charged with a tension that had been dormant for far too long. Six months. Six months of carefully constructed walls built between them, each brick a deliberate attempt to bury the lingering attraction, the ghost of a shared past. She’d told herself it was simply a professional association, a mutually beneficial arrangement born from a shared interest in the supernatural. But looking at him now, the scent of sandalwood and metal swirling around her, she knew it was so much more. “What exactly did you have in mind?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral. “The talisman was taken from a private collection in Mayfair,” Lucien began, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a small, silver pendant depicting a stylized raven. It’s…volatile. Left unattended, it can induce a rather unpleasant bout of spontaneous combustion.” Aurora snorted. “Spontaneous combustion. Charming.” “Indeed. The collector, Mr. Alistair Finch, is...difficult. He believes he’s entitled to possess all things magical, regardless of their provenance.” He took a step closer, and the scent of him intensified. “I’ve located a lead. A former associate of Finch's, a retired antiquarian named Silas Blackwood. He’s residing above this establishment.” Her gaze flicked to Silas’ bar across the street, a dimly lit haven for late-night drinkers and whispered secrets. She hadn't thought of Silas in months. He’d always been a comforting presence, a reliable anchor in a city that often felt relentlessly chaotic. “Silas won’t give up information easily,” Lucien continued, sensing her hesitation. “He’s a creature of habit, and a rather stubborn one at that. I believed that a…personal touch might expedite the process.” He smiled, a brief, unsettling flash of teeth. “You, Miss Carter, have a reputation for being persuasive.” A blush crept up her neck. It had been a long time since anyone had called her “Miss Carter.” And certainly not with that implication. “You’re asking me to work with you,” she stated, the words feeling surprisingly unfamiliar on her tongue. “I'm requesting your assistance,” Lucien corrected, his voice smooth again. “And offering a considerable sum, naturally. Transportation, accommodation, and a generous donation to your preferred charity.” She knew he was offering more than just money. He was offering a connection, a sliver of something lost and desperately missed. The rain outside intensified, a relentless drumming against the windows. “What do you want me to do?” she finally asked, her voice softer now, laced with a vulnerability she hadn't intended to reveal. Lucien’s amber eye gleamed with an unreadable emotion. “Let’s start with Silas. He’s currently nursing a brandy in his bar. I believe a brief conversation, accompanied by a certain…compelling argument, might prove fruitful.” He paused, extending a hand towards her. “Shall we?” Aurora stared at his hand, then at his face, at the way the platinum blond shimmered in the weak light. The past, sharp and painful, threatened to overwhelm her. But beneath the hurt, beneath the carefully erected defenses, a spark of something undeniable flickered to life. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, not by a long shot. It was a dangerous, intoxicating pull that she knew, with a growing sense of dread and exhilaration, she couldn't resist. She took his hand.