AI
The chipped porcelain felt cool against my lips, the Earl Grey doing little to thaw the chill that had settled in my bones long before the November rain started. I'd just settled into the worn armchair, Ptolemy already kneading his paws into my thigh, when the insistent rapping came. Three sharp knocks, precise, deliberate. Not a friendly visitor.
I knew who it was before I reached the door.
Three deadbolts clicked open, each a small act of defiance against the impending disruption. I pulled the door inward, bracing myself. He filled the doorway, a charcoal silhouette against the dim hallway light of Silas’s building, impeccably dressed as always. Lucien.
“Rory.” His voice was smooth, a low current that still had the power to disrupt my equilibrium.
“Lucian,” I replied, keeping my tone even. No welcome, no invitation inside. Just a statement of fact.
He didn’t comment on my lack of hospitality, merely shifted his weight , the movement subtly revealing the expensive cut of his suit. Rain beaded on the shoulders of his tailored overcoat, and a trace of the city’s grit clung to the polished leather of his shoes. He hadn’t changed. Still the epitome of dangerous refinement.
“May I?” he asked, tilting his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It was a calculated gesture, designed to unsettle.
I stepped aside, reluctantly allowing him entry. Ptolemy, assessing the newcomer with a disdainful flick of his tail, moved to sit beneath the coffee table as far from Lucien as possible. The flat immediately felt smaller, the air thicker with unspoken history.
“Charming,” he commented, surveying the chaotic beauty of Eva’s flat. Books stacked precariously on every surface, maps unfurled across the floor, research notes pinned to a corkboard that spanned an entire wall. “Still living amongst the relics, I see.”
“Someone has to protect knowledge from the barbarians,” I said dryly, placing the tea cup back on the side table. It clinked, the sound amplified in the small space.
He ignored the barb, turning his gaze back to me. His eyes, that unsettling combination of amber and black, held a question, a searching quality that I refused to meet directly. I busied myself with straightening a stack of papers on the coffee table, anything to avoid his scrutiny.
“I need your help.”
The words were laced with an urgency that barely concealed his usual arrogance. It was an odd combination, and oddly compelling.
“I’m swamped with deliveries for the Golden Empress,” I said, deliberately obtuse . "Yu-Fei will kill me if I disappear."
“This isn’t a request you can refuse, Rory.” He wasn’t asking anymore .
I finally met his gaze then, challenging him. “Oh? And what makes you think that?”
He moved further into the flat, not invitingly, but with a sense of ownership, his presence dominating the room . He reached inside his coat and produced a small, intricately carved wooden box. He set it on the coffee table between us.
“This was delivered to my…associates, last night. Addressed to you.”
I frowned, examining the box. It was old, the wood darkened with age, symbols carved into its surface that I didn’t recognize. Just looking at it sent a shiver down my spine . “I’ve never seen this before.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was dangerously soft.
“I’m not,” I snapped, bristling at his accusation. “I receive packages all day. I don't memorize every single one."
He raised an eyebrow , unconvinced. “This isn’t a takeaway menu, Rory. The symbols are Avarossian. Old dialect. I had to pull a favour to get a translation. It speaks of a summoning. A… retrieval.”
Retrieval. That word struck a chord of dread. It was the language used by the collectors, the ones who dealt in forbidden objects and dangerous magic. The ones I’d spent the last five years trying to avoid.
“What kind of retrieval?”
Lucian’s lips thinned. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment from his inner pocket, handing it to me. The ink was faded , the script elegant and archaic.
“The translation. It references something called ‘The Obsidian Shard.’ Apparently, your father was… interested in it.”
My breath hitched. Brendan Carter, my father, the respected barrister, had a past he rarely spoke of, a past filled with whispers of antiquarian societies and esoteric research. I’d always dismissed it as idle tales, stories to explain his absentmindedness, his habit of losing himself in ancient texts.
“My father died ten years ago,” I said, my voice barely a whisper . “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Someone believes the Shard is connected to him. To you, perhaps. And they want it back.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “They’re not…gentle people, Rory.”
I traced the symbols on the parchment with my finger, a knot of fear tightening in my stomach . “Who sent this?”
“I’m working on it. But they’re careful. Experienced. They've erased their trail, but I noticed a unique signature in the delivery – an herbal blend unique to a particular trader in Marrakech. A favour owed to an old contact means I know he's been hired.”
"And you came to me why? You usually favour doing things yourself."
He let out a low, humourless chuckle. "Oh, I could handle this. Easily. But this isn't about handling. It’s about what comes *after *. The Shard…it’s dangerous. It attracts…attention. Attention we both could do without."
He was right. I’d skirted the edges of that world long enough to know that “attention” in this context meant power, and power inevitably meant conflict. A conflict I was determined to avoid.
“So, what do you want me to do?” I asked, resigned. It was a loaded question: *Why are you here, Lucien? What do you really want?*
“Your father kept meticulous records. Journals, letters, notes. I suspect he hid something relating to this Shard within them. You know his system. You know where to look. I need you to find it.”
I stared at him, a wave of anger washing over me. “You want me to sift through my father’s history, a history he purposefully kept hidden from me, because you’re too lazy to do it yourself?”
“Don’t pretend you’re offended, Rory. Self-preservation, remember? Because if they find the Shard, and they find out about your connection to your father’s research…” He trailed off, letting the threat hang unsaid.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. Ptolemy, sensing my distress, rubbed against my leg, offering a small measure of comfort. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to think rationally.
“And what happens when I find this…Shard information? You’ll swoop in and take it?”
“We’ll deal with it together. I’ll provide protection, resources.” A flicker of something that might have been concern crossed his face. Or it was just a trick of the light. “You’re not equipped to handle this alone, Rory. Not anymore.”
His words were a subtle reminder of our past, of the mess we’d made, of the reasons we’d gone our separate ways. The memories surfaced, unwelcome and sharp: stolen moments in smoky bars, whispered secrets, the broken promises. I hadn’t seen him in three years, not since…
“Don't,” I said, cutting him off before he could offer any hollow apologies or justifications. "Just don't."
“I’m not asking for forgiveness, Rory, I'm asking for your assistance.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing against my arm. It was a fleeting touch, yet it sent a jolt through me, a ghost of the connection we once shared. I flinched away, pulling my arm back.
“I need to think.”
“You don’t have time to think.” He was right, of course. The urgency in his voice wasn’t manufactured. Whatever was happening, it was happening quickly .
Suddenly, a crash from the hallway. The sound of splintering wood, followed by a muffled curse.
Lucian’s hand moved to the ivory handle of his cane, his knuckles whitening. His eyes, that impossible combination of amber and black, narrowed in warning.
“We have company,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion . “And I doubt they’re here to borrow a cup of sugar.”