Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9FR8EJ3GB0MRT9VQE3YC6

The third deadbolt stuck, Rory’s left wrist aching as she twisted the brass key—she’d rubbed the crescent scar raw on her Golden Empress delivery bag strap on the walk over to Eva’s. The curry fumes from the ground-floor restaurant seeped through the window sills, thick and spicy enough to coat her throat, and Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, wove between her ankles, his purr drowned out by the persistent knock on the door. She’d assumed it was Eva, rushing back with more scrolls from the British Library, but Eva’s knocks were light, a three-tap staccato that matched her rambling train of thought. This was sharp, insistent, a demand that made Rory’s cool-headed resolve fray at the edges. She finally jiggled the deadbolt free, yanked the door open, and froze. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, platinum blond hair slicked back so neatly it looked painted on, and his ivory-handled cane planted firm between the floorboards. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one pitch black—locked on hers, and for a second, Rory was back in the rain-soaked alley six months prior, him shoving her behind a skip to hide her from Evan’s demon-powered goons, his cane clicking against the pavement as he lied through his teeth about not knowing Evan’s new allies. She’d found out the truth two days later: he’d been selling intelligence on Evan’s ties to Avarosian demons to rival underworld factions, a gamble that had put her in the crosshairs of three separate demon gangs before she’d fled to Silas’ bar rooftop to hide for a week. She’d yelled at him then, her voice cracking as she pointed to the scar on her wrist—“You’re just like him, using people for profit”—and told him to never come near her again. Now she reached for the doorframe to slam it shut, but he lunged, his cane wedging between the door and the jamb with a sharp crack. “Rory,” he said, his French accent thickening with urgency, “I don’t have time for your wrath. Evan’s back.” The name hung in the curry-scented air, and Rory’s hand stilled on the door. She’d spent three months working double shifts at Golden Empress to save up for a new lock on her flat door, to avoid the streets where Evan might find her, to pretend that the supernatural underworld Lucien had dragged her into didn’t exist. “Get out,” she said, but her voice was weaker than she wanted, and Ptolemy chose that moment to dart past her legs, rubbing his tabby flank against Lucien’s cane. Lucien’s amber eye softened—just a flicker, so quick Rory might have imagined it—when the cat curled around his ankle. He didn’t kick it away, didn’t even flinch; he just shifted his cane slightly to avoid stepping on it. “He’s aligned with a demon from Avaros,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper so the neighbors (or the curry house cooks below) wouldn’t hear. “My father’s realm. The same one that helped him track you to Silas’ bar last winter.” Rory’s throat tightened. She’d never told anyone but Eva about the night Evan had broken into her flat, his eyes glowing red as he’d grabbed her left wrist, his nails digging into the scar until she’d smashed a bottle over his head and run. Lucien’s knowledge of that night made her skin crawl—another reminder of how much he’d dug into her life without her permission. “You still trade in secrets,” she said, rubbing her wrist until the scar burned. “Why should I believe anything you say?” “Because I messed up,” he said, and for the first time, she noticed the faint dark circles under his eyes, the slight fray at the cuff of his suit sleeve—signs that he hadn’t been sleeping, that he’d been running too. “I sold the intel to get leverage, but I didn’t know they’d use it to target you. I spent the last six months cleaning up my mess, tracking Evan’s every move, and now he’s planning a ritual that will bind your father’s law files to a demon’s will—ruining his career, ruining your family, just to get to you.” Rory’s cool-headedness kicked in then. Her father’s law files—Brendan Carter’s most sensitive cases, including a few that had unknowingly tangled with supernatural elements—were his life’s work. If Evan bound them to a demon, Brendan would be disbarred, maybe worse. She glanced over Lucien’s shoulder at the landing, then back at the cramped flat behind her: every surface stacked with Eva’s research scrolls, a pile of ancient books teetering on the kitchen counter, Ptolemy now curled on the doormat, watching them like a judge. She hesitated, then stepped back, yanking the door open wide enough for him to enter. “One minute,” she said. “And if you so much as touch a scroll without asking, I’ll take that blade out of your cane and stick it in your suit.” Lucien’s lips twitched into a half-smile—his first genuine one since she’d opened the door. “Fair enough.” He stepped inside, and his shoulder knocked a stack of medieval demonology books off the hallway table. They crashed to the floor, scattering pages across the linoleum, and Rory sighed, bending to pick them up. Ptolemy darted over, pouncing on a loose page with a soft meow, and Lucien bent too, his fingers brushing hers as he grabbed a book with a leather cover. Rory flinched as if burned, but he didn’t pull away; he just handed her the book, his black eye locking on hers. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. “For the lies. For the betrayal. For making you feel like you were just a pawn.” Rory stared at him, her hands still clutching the book. She’d spent six months hating him, but now she saw the guilt in his eyes—the same guilt she’d felt when she’d left her parents without a goodbye, when she’d lied to Eva about how she’d got the new scar on her wrist. “Why now?” she asked. “Because you’re the only one who can stop him,” he said, standing up and gesturing to the pile of Eva’s research scrolls on the bed. “Evan’s ritual requires a personal tie to you—your blood, your memories, your scar. You’re the only one who can unravel the binding before it’s too late.” Rory walked into the main room, the book still in her hand, and leaned against Eva’s desk. The curry fumes were thicker now, mixing with the smell of old paper and Ptolemy’s cat litter. She glanced at the delivery hoodie she was wearing—stained with soy sauce from a lunch order, the Golden Empress logo faded—and then at Lucien’s tailored suit, and she wondered how two people so different could have ever found themselves tangled up together. Six months prior, they’d sat on the rooftop of Silas’ bar, watching the London skyline, and he’d told her about his mother in Marseille, about how he’d learned to speak four languages just to hide his demon heritage from the human world. She’d told him about her childhood in Cardiff, about the bike crash that had left the crescent scar on her wrist, about how her mother had wrapped it in a Welsh flag bandage and told her to “outthink the pain.” It had been a quiet moment, a rare one, and she’d thought for a second that he might be someone she could trust. Now he stood in Eva’s flat, his cane resting against the desk, his eyes locked on her wrist. “I kept track of you,” he said, his voice soft. “I saw you delivering dumplings to the old lady on Baker Street every Tuesday. I saw you sitting on the bar rooftop reading your father’s old law books. I wanted to help, but I didn’t think you’d let me.” Rory’s throat felt tight. She’d thought she was alone, that no one was watching, but he’d been there, quiet and unseen. She rubbed her wrist again, and this time, she didn’t try to hide the scar from him. “What do you need me to do?” she asked. Lucien’s face relaxed, and he reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a crumpled scroll—one that looked exactly like Eva’s research scrolls. “This is a blueprint of the ritual,” he said, laying it on the desk. “We need to get to the abandoned church in Camden tomorrow night, before he starts. You’ll distract him with a memory of your childhood—something he doesn’t know about—while I cut the demon’s tie to the ritual with my cane’s blade.” Rory stared at the scroll, her fingers brushing the inked symbols. She’d never been a fighter, but she was quick-thinking, and she knew her childhood in Cardiff better than anyone. She could tell Evan about the time she’d hidden her father’s missing case files in a hollow oak tree in the backyard, a secret even her parents hadn’t known until she was sixteen. It would throw him off, make him rush to find the files instead of focusing on the ritual. She glanced at Ptolemy, who was now curled on the scroll, purring so loud the paper vibrated, and then at Lucien, who was watching her with a mix of hope and fear. “If this is a trap,” she said, “I’ll make sure you regret it.” Lucien nodded. “I know.” For a minute, they stood in silence, the curry fumes wrapping around them, the books crashing in the hallway a faint memory. Ptolemy stretched, knocking a tea cup off the desk—Eva’s favorite chipped one, painted with Welsh daisies—and it shattered on the floor. Rory sighed, bending to pick up the pieces, and Lucien bent too, his fingers brushing hers again. This time, she didn’t flinch. She let her hand rest there for a second, feeling the callous on his thumb (from holding his cane for so long) and the warmth of his skin, and she realized that the hurt between them wasn’t gone—but maybe, just maybe, there was a way to fix it. “I’ll meet you at the church at midnight,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands on her hoodie. “Don’t be late.” Lucien stood up too, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the flat. “I won’t.” He grabbed his cane, nodded at Ptolemy, and walked to the door. Before he left, he turned back, his amber eye locking on hers. “Thank you,” he said. Rory didn’t answer. She just watched him leave, undoing the deadbolts one by one as he walked down the stairs, the sound of his cane clicking against the steps fading into the curry house’s clatter. She looked at the scroll on the desk, at Ptolemy curled on the broken tea cup pieces, and at her left wrist, where the scar was now tingling with a faint, unknown warmth. For the first time in six months, she didn’t feel alone. She felt ready—ready to outthink Evan, ready to fix her father’s life, and maybe, if she was brave enough, ready to untangle the mess she’d made with Lucien. She knelt down to pet Ptolemy, his purr vibrating through her palm, and smiled to herself. Tomorrow night would be dangerous, but for the first time in a long while, she had a plan.