AI The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of Silas’ bar, a relentless rhythm mirroring the thrum in Aurora’s chest. She scrubbed furiously at a particularly stubborn stain on the counter, the smell of stale beer and fried onions clinging to her apron. A handful of crumpled notes lay scattered across the worn wooden surface – a meager collection from a slow Tuesday.
A sharp rap sliced through the ambient noise. Not the polite knock of a regular, but a deliberate, insistent pounding . She glanced up, straightening her back, pulling her black hair into a tighter braid. It wasn’t a welcome sound.
“Silas,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmur of the remaining patrons. “Check the door.”
He grunted, already turning towards the entrance, his face etched with a weary skepticism that mirrored her own. The door swung inward with a groan, revealing a figure shrouded in dripping charcoal. Lucien Moreau.
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. His gaze, a disconcerting blend of amber and black, swept over the bar, lingering on her for a beat too long. Rain plastered his platinum blond hair to his forehead, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. The tailored charcoal suit, impeccably clean despite the weather, seemed almost out of place in Silas’ dimly lit establishment.
“Rory,” he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble.
She wiped her hands on her apron, the movement deliberate, controlled. “Lucien. What are you doing here?”
“A rather inconvenient alignment of circumstances,” he replied, stepping further into the bar, his ivory-handled cane tapping a measured beat against the floorboards. “And a need for information.”
Silas grunted again, pushing a stool toward him. “Information costs, Moreau. Don’t expect me to deliver it on good tidings.”
Lucien ignored him, his eyes fixed on Aurora. The air thickened, charged with a residue of shared history, of unspoken words and painful silences. “You haven’t changed,” he observed, the statement carrying a weight she didn’t bother to dissect.
“Neither have you,” she retorted, immediately regretting the sharpness in her tone. Silas’ gaze flickered between them, a silent acknowledgment of the simmering tension .
“I’m here about the shipment,” Lucien stated, his voice pragmatic . “The one diverted through Dover last week.”
Her pulse quickened . “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He didn’t flinch. “Don’t insult my intelligence. The obsidian shards. The markings. They’re distinctly linked to your…interests.” His gaze drifted towards the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a ghost of a memory she’d spent years trying to bury.
The rain intensified, drumming a frantic tattoo against the windows. She turned back to the counter, resuming her scrubbing with renewed vigor. “I told you, I’m just a delivery girl. I deliver food. That's it.”
“You deliver trouble,” Lucien countered, stepping closer. The scent of rain and something indefinably exotic – something ancient and dangerous – radiated from him. “Trouble that seems to attract…attention.”
She stopped scrubbing, letting her arms fall to her sides. His proximity was unsettling, a familiar discomfort that simultaneously ignited a spark she’d desperately tried to extinguish. “Leave it, Lucien.”
“I can’t,” he said, his voice softening slightly , a ghost of the laced-with-steel tone she remembered. “Not entirely. There’s a complication. A variable I wasn’t expecting.” He paused, studying her face . “Someone is actively hunting the shipment. Someone who knows about your…connections.”
Her breath hitched. Hunting. The word shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. She’d believed, foolishly, that she’d successfully erased herself from the circles she’d once inhabited.
“Who?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper .
Lucien hesitated, his heterochromatic eyes shifting, as if grappling with a difficult decision . “A collector. A particularly ruthless one. He operates outside the usual channels. He prefers…direct methods.”
He gestured with his cane toward the small, cluttered space above Silas’ bar. “I need you to meet me. At my place.”
Her gaze flickered toward the doorway, then back to Lucien. Eva’s flat. It had been years since she’d last set foot inside, since she’d fled the wreckage of her old life. The thought of returning, of confronting the ghosts that haunted those walls, was terrifying.
“Why me?” she asked, the question laced with a bitterness she couldn’t entirely suppress.
“Because you possess something he wants,” Lucien replied, his voice low and insistent . “And because...I owe you a debt.”
The word ‘debt’ hung in the air , heavy with unspoken history. She remembered the nights spent huddled in Eva’s flat, the whispered conversations, the shared anxieties, and the undeniable attraction that had simmered beneath the surface of their strained friendship. A debt stemming from a betrayal she’d committed, a debt he’d never fully forgiven.
“I don’t want anything to do with you,” she said, the words sharp, defensive.
Lucien tilted his head, a flicker of amusement in his amber eye. “That’s not entirely true, is it, Rory? You’ve been quietly observing my movements for the past few weeks.”
She flushed, acutely aware of his scrutiny. He wasn't wrong. She hadn't been able to avoid him, not entirely. His presence, a constant reminder of a past she desperately wanted to leave behind, had been a low-level hum in her life.
“It’s an inefficient use of my time,” she conceded, trying to regain control of the situation .
“Time is a luxury you can rarely afford,” he countered. “Especially when danger is involved." He paused, then added, almost reluctantly , "And I find myself… intrigued by your resilience.”
She met his gaze, testing his words, searching for a flicker of genuine interest beneath the carefully cultivated facade . She saw it, a fleeting glint of something—recognition, perhaps even a touch of regret—in his eyes. It was gone before she could fully process it.
“Let’s go,” she said finally, turning away from the counter, walking towards the door.
As they stepped out into the relentless rain, Lucien’s hand brushed against hers, a brief, electric touch that sent a jolt through her. She didn't pull away.
“You’re surprisingly difficult to dissuade,” he murmured, his voice a low murmur against the drumming rain . “Just remember, Rory…some debts demand repayment.”
He adjusted his cane and started walking, his tailored charcoal suit a stark contrast to the grimy streets of Brick Lane. She followed, a reluctant shadow trailing behind him, the scent of rain and something profoundly, unsettlingly familiar clinging to the air.
The door of Eva’s flat closed behind them with a soft click, sealing them within the cramped confines of her cluttered sanctuary . A tabby cat, Ptolemy, emerged from beneath a pile of scrolls, regarding them with disdainful amber eyes.
Lucien ignored the cat, his gaze sweeping over the familiar chaos of the flat. "I've secured a temporary truce with the building's security," he announced, his voice effortlessly casual . "Three deadbolts aren't a match for my…resources.” He glanced at her pointedly. "Though I would prefer a little cooperation."
Aurora took a deep breath, the smell of old paper and mildew momentarily displacing the scent of rain and something far more potent. She stepped further into the flat, her eyes scanning the stacks of books, the maps, and the strange, unsettling artifacts that littered every surface.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, the question a brittle shield against the rising tide of emotion.
Lucien moved with a quiet grace, heading straight for a battered mahogany desk piled high with documents. He pulled out a small, intricately carved box, opening it to reveal a collection of obsidian shards.
“Trace the provenance of these,” he instructed, his voice devoid of emotion . “Find out who commissioned them, and why. Don't broaden your search. Focus solely on this shipment.”
He paused, turning to face her, his amber and black eyes unwavering . “And Rory,” he added, his voice hardening slightly , “don't think about running. This time, there’s nowhere left to hide."