AI The brass knob protested with a rusty shriek as Lucien Moreau pushed it open, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the overflowing chaos of Aurora’s flat. Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light filtering through the grimy window overlooking Brick Lane, illuminating stacks of books threatening to topple, a half-disassembled music player lying on a velvet armchair, and a disconcerting number of porcelain skulls arranged haphazardly on a shelf. The air hung thick with the scent of Earl Grey tea, something vaguely metallic, and a lingering, almost feral, warmth . He didn’t bother to knock. He’d learned, after a particularly disastrous attempt at a polite “hello” six months prior, that Rory Carter preferred to operate on a system of calculated intrusion.
He stepped inside, the worn Persian rug muffling his movements, and immediately registered the disconcerting absence of Ptolemy, Rory’s tabby. A single, meticulously placed origami crane sat on the coffee table, constructed from a sheet of deep crimson paper – an absurdly elegant gesture in this environment. He ran a gloved hand over the cane resting against the leg of the table, the ivory cool against the dampness of his skin. Six months. Six months of carefully constructed silences, deliberate avoidance, and a persistent, unsettling feeling that he was perpetually teetering on the edge of something precipitous.
The door swung shut behind him with a soft, decisive click, and a voice, low and laced with an almost painful weariness, sliced through the quiet. "You’re early.”
Rory stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a single, bright blue eye fixed on him with an expression that could generously be described as glacial. Her black hair, usually pulled back in a practical braid, had been allowed to cascade down her back in unruly waves. A smudge of charcoal dust adorned her cheek – a testament to her latest project, he presumed, involving a rather intricate rendering of a gargoyle. He hadn’t seen her properly in months, hadn’t deliberately sought her out. His presence here was a cold, calculated maneuver, fueled by a creeping suspicion that he was losing something vital.
“Traffic was… persuasive,” he offered, his voice carefully neutral, attempting to mimic the detached elegance he’d cultivated over the years. He didn’t bother to preen. He knew, instinctively, that Rory wasn't interested in appearances. “And, honestly, I wasn’t sure if you’d even *let * me in.”
She pushed herself away from the door, moving with a fluid grace that hadn’t diminished with time. She crossed the room, bypassing the coffee table and the skulls, and began to methodically straighten a precarious stack of books. “You’re a delightfully predictable man, Lucien. That’s… almost endearing.” Her tone held a sliver of something akin to amusement .
“Predictability is a useful survival mechanism,” he replied, taking a measured step further into the room. “Especially in your line of work.” He gestured vaguely at the clutter, a subtle reminder of the shadowy world they’d both navigated .
“It’s a rather messy profession,” she admitted, her fingers tracing the spine of a particularly ancient-looking tome. “Dealing with echoes . Whispers. And occasionally, desperate clients.”
“Desperate clients often have underlying truths,” he observed, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist – a fragile reminder of a past she’d worked tirelessly to bury. “Truths worth uncovering.”
She didn't acknowledge the scar. Instead, she pulled a small, silver flask from her pocket and poured a dark liquid into a chipped mug. "Earl Grey. Your usual.”
He hesitated, then moved to stand beside her, allowing a respectful distance. "You remembered.” It wasn’t a question . It was a statement of fact, tinged with a hint of something he couldn't quite decipher .
"Memory’s a peculiar thing, isn't it?" she said, taking a slow sip of the tea. “It tends to cling to the things that matter most.” Her eyes, so startlingly blue against her dark hair, seemed to pierce through him. "Like a persistent ghost."
A silence descended, thick and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the rhythmic tick-tock of a grandfather clock tucked away in a corner – a sound that seemed abnormally loud in the confined space . He could smell the faint, metallic tang again, stronger now. Blood.
“I received a rather intriguing message,” he said, breaking the silence . “Regarding a certain… missing person.”
Rory’s hand tightened around the mug, the knuckles white. “And you’re investigating?”
“It’s a regrettable necessity,” he replied, his voice carefully controlled . “The nature of my business, you see. I have a… vested interest in solutions.” He tapped the ivory handle of his cane, a subtle display of authority.
“Vested interests rarely involve sentimental attachments,” she pointed out, her voice dry .
“Sentimental attachments can be… surprisingly effective,” he countered, letting his gaze meet hers directly. The silence stretched again, heavier this time, laced with the unspoken history between them. He could feel the pull, the magnetic tension that had defined their brief, explosive affair six months ago – an affair cut short by a misplaced word, a shattered trust, and a desperate need to escape.
Suddenly, a sharp, insistent rapping echoed from the front door. The sound startled them both.
“That’ll be Eva,” Rory said, her voice barely a whisper . “She’s expecting me for a ‘study session’.” She used the word ‘expecting’ with a noticeable edge.
Before he could respond, the door burst open, revealing Eva’s chaotic frame, framed by a tangle of dark hair and a laptop precariously balanced on her knee. Ptolemy, her tabby cat, sauntered in behind her, weaving through the clutter with infuriating nonchalance.
“Sorry to barge in!” Eva exclaimed, her face flushed with excitement. “I’ve just found something… fascinating . It’s about the Harwood case. There’s a connection to the ritual site near Hampstead Heath.” She thrust a glossy photograph at Rory. “Look! A symbol. The same one we’ve been tracking.”
Rory took the photograph, examining it with a professional detachment. “Intriguing,” she murmured. “But decidedly messy.”
As she turned back to Lucien, her eyes flickered momentarily, a flicker of something that could have been regret, or perhaps irritation. "Lucien," she said, her voice low and urgent, "I need to talk to you about something. Something important."
He stepped closer, deliberately closing the distance between them. The scent of Earl Grey mingled with the metallic tang, creating a heady, unsettling combination. “I imagine you do," he said, his voice a low murmur, his eyes locked on hers, a subtle, dangerous glint in their amber depths . "That's why you summoned me, after all."
The ticking of the grandfather clock seemed to accelerate, each tick a measured pulse in the growing tension . The origami crane on the coffee table seemed to watch them, a silent, crimson witness to the rekindling of a dangerous, forbidden flame. And in that small, cluttered flat above Silas' bar, surrounded by the detritus of Rory's research and Lucien's carefully curated darkness, something old, something undeniably captivating, was about to ignite once more.