AI The bell above the shop door jangled as Rory stepped in from the damp evening, rain streaking her cheek. She hung her jacket on the hook by the door—the same hook where she’d hung Evan’s coat last winter, before she’d cut the throat of his favorite tie with her pocketknife. The memory flickered , then dissolved. Outside, a pub radio blared, but here, in Yu-Fei’s back room, the air smelled of star anise and hot sesame oil. She dropped the delivery bag onto the worktable, and a pair of dumplings rolled out, landing in a puddle of soy sauce. *Great *, she thought, kneeling to scoop them up with a paper towel. The owner, Yu-Fei, grunted from behind the counter. “Still wet out, love.”
Rory tossed the dumplings in the trash, rubbing her hands on her apron. “Wet’s better than what’s underfoot otherwise.”
Yu-Fei snorted, but her eyes softened. “You’ll catch your death. Take the rest of the night off. I’ll send someone cover.”
Rory opened her mouth to protest—she needed the money for her electricity bill—but Yu-Fei raised a hand. “Done. Now go. Before the rain turns to ice.”
The door to Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress swung shut behind her, and Rory drew in a breath of cold air. The alley behind the restaurant was narrow, lit by a single flickering bulb. A cat darted past, and she flinched, her left wrist stinging—old habit, from when Evan used to grab her there. She flexed her hand, rubbing the crescent scar. *Stop *, she told herself. *He’s gone.*
Her flat was above a curry house, so the smell of cardamom followed her up the stairs. She fumbled with her keys, the lock sticking. *Silas must’ve leaned on it again *, she grumbled, jiggling it until it gave. The floorboards creaked as she stepped inside. “Ptolemy,” she called, setting her bag down. “Where are you —”
A shadow detached itself from the armchair by the window. The tabby cat padded over, tail twitching, and rubbed against her ankle. Rory laughed, bending to scratch his ears. “You’re supposed to be napping.”
Ptolemy meowed, a sound that was half complaint, half demand, and trotted to the desk, where a stack of scrolls and a half-empty mug of tea sat. Rory followed, pulling a chair out and dropping into it. Her legs ached—twenty trips up and down Brick Lane, plus the dumplings. She reached for her phone, intending to text Eva, her childhood friend who’d bailed her out of Cardiff, but the screen flickered black. *Of course *, she thought. The landlord had cut the power again for the third time this month.
A *knock *—sharp, deliberate, not the casual thump of Silas checking if she’d locked the door—made her jump. She spun, hand on the desk drawer where she kept a paring knife. The knock came again, slower this time. “Who is it?” she called, voice tight .
“Rory. It’s Lucien .”
Her chest tightened. *Lucien *. She hadn’t seen him in two years, since he’d shown up at her flat at three a.m., all sauge and cologne, with a case file from the supernatural underworld and a half-finished sentence about a demon who’d stolen a relic. Then he’d left, just as suddenly , without a goodbye. No note, no text. Just a voicemail that started with *“I’m sorry ”* and ended with static.
She slid the knife back, stood, and crossed to the door. The peephole was smudged , so she pressed her eye to it.
Lucien stood in the hallway, backlit by the light from the landing. He was taller than she remembered, his platinum-blond hair slicked back, as always, with a single strand falling over his forehead. He wore a charcoal suit, the cuffs twisted up to show a sliver of pale wrist, and his cane—ivory handle, carved with vine patterns—leaned against the wall beside him. His eyes, that heterochromatic pair, amber and black, locked onto hers through the hole.
She stepped back, heart pounding . *What does he want?* After two years of silence , he couldn’t just show up. Not here. Not now.
The knock came a third time. “Open the door, Rory. We need to talk.”
She hesitated, then turned the deadbolt. It clicked.
The door swung inward.
He didn’t move for a second, just looked at her. She did the same—at his face, the scar above his left eyebrow (new?), the way his suit hung on him like a second skin, the cane at his side. She noticed his hands, too: calloused, fingers short, a faint tattoo of a pentagram on the back of his wrist. *Demons *, his mother had been human, his father a demon from Avaros. She’d seen him fight once, years ago, when a werewolf had broken into her flat. He’d crushed its windpipe with one hand, eyes black as pitch, and then he’d looked at her, and the amber eye had flickered back. *Alive *, she’d thought, and *frightened *.
“Hi,” he said, finally .
She stared. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you .” His voice was lower, rougher, like he’d been smoking something pungent. He nodded at her wrist. “Still got that scar.”
She touched it, self-conscious. “Childhood accident. My dad was an idiot with a kitchen knife.”
He moved closer, and she stepped back, pressing her back to the door. The wall was cold. “I shouldn’t have left.”
The words hung in the air , heavy. She’d spent two years replaying them: *I’m sorry . I have to go. It’s not safe.* *It’s never safe with you *, she’d wanted to say. Instead, she crossed her arms. “You should’ve tried to send a text. Or… I don’t know. A carrier pigeon. Something.”
“I didn’t think I’d get the chance to.” He reached into his coat, pulled out a manila folder, and held it out. “Eva texted me. Said you were in trouble. Said Evan—”
“—is dead,” she said. It was quiet, too quiet. She’d heard it six months ago, from a bouncer at a pub in Camden. Evan had been drunk, arguing with a barmaid. He’d pulled a knife. Someone else had pulled a gun.
Lucien nodded. “I’m sorry .”
“Again?” She laughed, bitter . “Save it, Lucien . What do you want? The folder? Yu-Fei’s gonna be mad if I don’t deliver the rest of the orders.”
He didn’t hand over the folder. He just stood there, looking at her, like he was trying to memorize the way her hair fell over her cheek, the way her blue eyes narrowed when she was angry . “I’m not here about the orders.”
“Then what are you here about?” She took a step toward him, crowding into his space. He smelled like rain and sandalwood, the same as always. “You left, Lucien . You *abandoned * me. And now you show up, and it’s ‘we need to talk’? What, you got bored of your demon fixer games? You miss me?”
He didn’t flinch. “I miss *you *. The woman who once outsmarted a vampire by hiding in a coffin full of garlic. The woman who laughed when I told her I couldn’t feel pain, because ‘at least you ’re honest.’” He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and she didn’t pull away. “I made a mistake. A big one. But I need your help. There’s a demon in Whitechapel. It’s stealing souls . And it’s… it’s mine. Well, not mine. But it’s from Avaros. And it’s hunting me.”
She pulled back, staring. “A demon hunting you ? Since when does *your * kind get hunted?”
“Since I stole a relic from its master. A relic that belongs to them, but… it was also mine.” He tilted his head, the amber eye glinting . “My father. He gave it to me before he died. Told me not to trust it. But I needed it. To protect you .”
Silence. She thought of the voicemail, the *I’m sorry *. *He was trying to protect me *, a voice in her head said. *But he should’ve asked.*
“You could’ve called,” she said, softer .
“I did. Once. Left a message. You didn’t call back.”
“You said it was ‘not safe’! I didn’t know if it was you or—”
“A demon? Yeah. I know.” He stepped closer, the cane clinking against the wall. “But it’s gone now. Or it was. Until three days ago, when it showed up at my office. Attacked one of my clients. And it *smelled * you . Like you were…” He stopped, swallowing. “Like you were close. And I need to know if you ’re in danger. If it’s coming for you .”
She touched his chest, felt the steady thump of his heart. “You shouldn’t have come here. I’m not the same girl you left.”
“I know.” He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed the inside of her wrist. The scar. “You’re smarter. Harder. And that’s why I need you . The relic’s power—”
“What relic?”
“—it can keep the demon away. But it’s dangerous. It’s been in my family for centuries, but it feeds on emotion. On *souls *. And the last time it was used, it…” He paused, his black eye darkening . “It drove a man mad. He killed his wife. His kids. I couldn’t let that happen. So I hid it. But the demon’s after it. And it thinks you have it. Because you heard me talking about it once. When we were… when we were together.”
She frowned. “I never told anyone about that. Not even Eva.”
“I know. But the demon can track magic. And you … you have a little. From your mother. The Ellis family. They were witch hunters, centuries ago. Strong magic.” He let go of her hand, took a step back, and opened the folder on the desk. Inside, there was a vial of liquid silver, and a leather-bound book, the cover etched with runes. “You need to use it. To hide the relic. To keep the demon away. But you ’ll have to let it into your magic. Let it feed a little. Just enough to make it think the relic’s not here.”
She stared at the vial, then at him. “You want me to play bait?”
“I want you to be safe. And if that means I have to watch you risk your life… well, that’s an old pain, but I can live with it. If it means I get to keep you —” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “If it means I get to *try * to make this right, then I can do it.”
A car horn blared outside, but they didn’t move. The cat purred on the desk, watching. She thought of Evan, of the way he’d made her feel small. Of Lucien , of the way he’d crushed a wolf’s windpipe like it was a grape, and then looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
“You’re an idiot,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice.
He cracked a laugh. “You’ve always said so.”
She reached for the vial, picked up the book. “How do I use it?”
He stepped closer, guiding her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers. “Like this.”
His voice was warm against her ear, and she shivered. The cat mewed, jumping down from the desk. *Cover for us, you little shit *, she thought, but she didn’t mind. Not with him here. Not after two years of silence .
“Lucien ,” she said, turning to face him . “If this goes wrong—”
“I know. I’ll fix it. I always do.” He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “I’m sorry I left you . I’m sorry I took so long to come back. But I’m here now. For as long as you ’ll let me.”
She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
“I’ll try .”
The rain pattered against the window, and somewhere down the alley, a dog barked. They stood there, in the dim light of the flat, the folder on the desk, the cat asleep by the radiator, and for a moment, the world felt right.
The doorbell rang.
Rory tensed. “Did you bring guests?”
He pulled back, a faint smile. “Probably Silas. He’s been asking after you . Said you owed him a drink.”
She laughed. “I’ll kill him. Tell him I’m tied up.”
“Be sure to leave the door open. I’d like to hear how it goes.”
He turned to leave, then paused, looking at her over his shoulder. “Rory?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, answer the phone. Please.”
She opened her mouth to tell him he was a fool, but he was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Ptolemy yawned, stretching across the papers. She set the vial and book on the desk, sat down, and picked up her phone. The screen still didn’t work, but maybe Silas would bring over a charger. Or maybe she’d just call Yu-Fei. Or Eva. Or…
She smiled, reaching for the folder. Whatever. For once, the future didn’t feel like a storm. It felt like a door, ajar .
And on the other side, there was Lucien .
Alive .
Here.
For now.