AI The knock came at 11:17 p.m., sharp and insistent. Rory Carter paused mid-cup of tea, the chipped mug clinking against the saucer. Silas’ bar below hummed with laughter, but the knock wasn’t drunk guests testing the intercom. She set the mug down, wiped her palms on her apron—still stained with last night’s chili—and crossed to the door. To her left, the peephole fogged where she’d exhaled, but she didn’t need to check. Only one person in London had a cane that tapped like a metronome on her floorboards.
*Bastard.*
She turned the deadbolts, each click a sharp punctuation, and yanked the door open.
“Rory .” Lucien Moreau. His voice was a low purr, the kind that used to make her knees weak. *Used to * being the operative word.
He stood there, as he always did—too tall, too put-together. Platinum-blond hair slicked back, charcoal suit pressed so sharply it could cut, ivory cane propped at his side. His heterochromatic eyes—amber, black—locked onto hers, unblinking. A scar ran diagonal across his left cheek, new, angry red.
“You ’re late.” The words came out sharper than she meant. She stepped back, letting the door swing open. “Get out.”
He didn’t move. “I need your help.”
“*Need *,” she echoed . A laugh, cold and bitter. “You haven’t *needed * anything since you skipped town three years ago. Or did you just forget how to knock?”
He tilted his head. The cat, Ptolemy, stirred from the armchair, tail flicking. The tabby regarded Lucien like he’d just spat at its mother. “Ptolemy remembers you,” the Frenchman said, as if that explained anything. “He still hisses. Not often, but when he does, it’s *personal *.”
Rory ’s jaw tightened. She folded her arms, the scar on her left wrist—crescent, childhood—itching. “He also hisses at the postman. Don’t take it personally.”
“Postmen don’t have… *reasons *,” he said. His gaze flicked past her, to the stack of books on the coffee table—John le Carré, a dog-eared copy of *The Prince *, a journal she’d been translating from Welsh. “Still diving into the old tongue, then?”
“Still *surviving *,” she shot back . “Unlike some people I know.”
His cane tapped the floor once, twice. “You know why I ’m here . The boy from Cardiff—Evan . You told me he was trouble. Told me to keep an eye on you.”
Rory ’s breath hitched. Evan . *Evan *, whose hands had bruise-marked her thighs and who’d laughed when she’d cried. *Evan *, whom she’d left with a broken nose and a note that said *Stay away * written in his own blood. Lucien had found her after that, pacing the canal, eyes dark with something she’d learned to recognize—*grief *. For what , she’d never known. Until he’d vanished. “You weren’t watching. You were *running *.”
“I was *protecting * you.”
“*Protecting * me ?” She stepped closer, so close she could smell his cologne—sandalwood, smoke, something metallic. “From *what *? From your bar bets? From the fact that you’re half-demon and you’re too much of a coward to tell me ?”
He flinched. Just once, a fraction of a second. But Rory saw it. She’d seen the way his eyes turned pitch-black when he was angry , the way his skin rippled like water when he laughed too hard. Evan had never hurt her *badly *. Never *permanently *. But Lucien… his kind didn’t forgive. Or forget.
“You think I wanted to go?” His voice was quieter now, the purr gone. “My father came to London. Avaros doesn’t take kindly to half-breeds meddling. They sent *him * to bring me back.”
“Your *father *.” Rory ’s throat felt tight. She stepped back, hitting the doorframe. “And you left. Just like that. Left me to… to wonder what I ’d done wrong.”
“Everything,” he said. The words hung in the air , heavy. “Because if you’d never opened your mouth about Evan , if you’d never *seen * me … I could have kept you safe. But you *saw * me . All of me . And now they know. They’ll come for you.”
Rory laughed, but it came out as a sob. “They’re already here , aren’t they? That’s why you’re here . You need me to fix something you broke.”
“No,” he said, taking a step forward. She didn’t move. “I need you to *listen *. The journal you’re translating—*Y Gogyn Seintiau *—it’s a key. To a vault. Somewhere in the Welsh mountains. Avaros wants it. To open a rift. To cross.”
She stared. The journal. She’d been working on it for weeks, a fragment of her mother’s old books, never suspecting it was more than a ghost story. “Why me ?”
“Because it’s *yours *. Your mother wrote it. She was a scholar. A *warrior *. She found the vault. She *stopped * them once. If anyone can find it again… it’s you.”
“Why? Why not go yourself?”
“Because if they see me , they’ll kill you. Using you as a bargain. I can’t let that happen.” He paused, then added, “I never stopped .”
Rory closed her eyes. For a second, she was 22 again, sitting on her parents’ couch, crying because Evan had called her a *slut * and Lucien had shown up, silent, holding a bottle of whiskey. *“You don’t have to stay,”* he’d said. *“I ’ll take you anywhere.”* And she’d said yes. Because she’d thought—*finally*—someone was taking her away from the dark.
But the dark had found her anyway.
“You should leave,” she said, opening her eyes. “And don’t come back. I ’m done with your games.”
He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a key. It was brass, engraved with a dragon—her mother’s symbol. “This unlocks the vault. But you need to know the rift’s not just magic. It’s *hunger *. It’ll eat you alive if you touch it. Especially if you’re human.”
Her hand flew to her throat. Her mother had died in a house fire when Rory was 14. The insurance company called it an accident. Rory had never believed them.
“You knew ,” she said. “You *knew * and you didn’t tell me .”
“I was trying to protect you!” He stepped closer, and this time, she didn’t move away. “I loved you. God help me , I *loved * you. And loving you was the easiest thing I ’ve ever done. The hardest… was walking away.”
The words hit her like a fist. *Loved *. Not *love *. Past tense. She pressed a hand to her chest, over her heart. It was racing . *Stupid *, she thought. *Stupid , stupid, stupid*.
A crash from the street below made them jump. Sirens. Closer.
Lucien’s head snapped toward the window. “They’re here . Now.”
Rory followed his gaze. A black van idled across the road, its windows tinted. Shadows moved inside—too many shadows, too still.
“Lock the door,” he said. “Now.”
She fumbled for the deadbolts, her hands shaking. Ptolemy hissed, leaping off the armchair. Lucien unsheathed the blade from his cane, the ivory handle glinting in the streetlight.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
“Collectors. Avaros sent them to clean up loose ends.” He turned to her, his amber eye blazing. “And you’re the loose end I should have never let go.”
The van’s doors slamed open. Boots hit the pavement. Heavy, deliberate steps.
“Rory ,” Lucien said, taking her hand. His skin was cold, like marble . “I ’m sorry. For everything. But you have to trust me . The vault—”
“*Run *,” she said.
He didn’t move. “Stay close. Keep the key safe. And if they touch you—”
“*GO!*”
The first window shattered .
Rory shoved him backward, fumbling with the chain lock. Lucien stumbled, then caught his balance, the blade still in his hand. The second window blew out. A bullet pinged off the wall beside them.
“Take the fire escape!” he yelled. “It leads to the roof—”
“*You * take it!” She fumbled the chain, yanking it loose. “If I die, at least you don’t have to carry this guilt anymore. Jesus Christ, Lucien—*run *.”
He hesitated, then turned. The third window exploded. A shadow filled the doorway—tall, lean, faces hidden in hoods. One of them raised a gun.
Rory didn’t think. She grabbed the key from his hand, jammed it into the lock, and pulled. The door flew open, and she ran.
The fire escape ladder groaned under her weight . She climbed, her breath ragged, her heart pounding . Below, she heard Lucien’s cane hit the pavement, then a *shriek *—not human. A bullet grazed her arm. She fell, catching herself on the rungs, and pulled herself up, gasping.
The roof door was locked. She fumbled for her keys, found the tiny lockpick she kept in her pocket, and jimmied it open. The door swung inward.
Behind her, the ladder creaked. She turned.
Lucien was there, blood trickling down his cheek from the scar. His amber eye was black, the skin around it shifting, rippling. He raised his cane—the blade still extended.
“Run ,” he said. “To the vault. Now.”
A gunshot.
Lucien staggered. The cane clattered to the ground. He fell to his knees, his suit torn, a bullet hole in his shoulder.
Rory lunged to him , catching him before he hit the roof. “Jesus Christ, are you—”
“*Vault *,” he said, pressing the key into her hand. His voice was weak, but urgent. “The rift—its core is in the vault. Destroy it. Before they do .”
Another shadow on the fire escape. A man, tall, with horns. Horns that *bled *.
Rory looked down at Lucien. His hand was on her wrist, his fingers cold. “Why?” she said. “All of it. Why did you come back?”
He smiled, a roguish thing, and for a second, she was 22 again, sitting on that rooftop in Cardiff, watching the stars. “Because even demons have hearts,” he said. “And yours … it’s the only one that’s ever stopped mine from burning out.”
The man on the ladder drew a knife.
Rory stood, tucking the key into her pocket. She pulled Lucien to his feet, half-carrying him toward the roof door.
“*Rory *,” he said, his voice breaking . “Don’t—”
“I know,” she said. “You ’re going to tell me I ’m being stupid. That demons don’t have hearts. That love is a weakness.”
He laughed, a wet, hacking sound. “You *do * know me .”
The man reached the roof.
Rory pushed Lucien through the door. “Lock it. And for God’s sake, *run *.”
He didn’t move. “Stay—”
“*GO!*”
The man was on them. Rory ducked, grabbing a rusted pipe from the corner. The blade sliced through the air. She swung, hitting the man in the arm. He grunted, but didn’t fall.
“Go!” she yelled again, louder .
Lucien hesitated, then turned. The door slammed shut.
Rory fought. She kicked, she bit, she swung the pipe until her arms ached. The man fell, but another climbed the ladder. She didn’t see him come. A blow to the back sent her to her knees.
The taste of blood filled her mouth. She looked at the key in her pocket, its brass warm against her skin. *Her mother’s symbol *. *Her fight *.
The man raised the blade.
A roar split the air.
Rory looked up.
Lucien stood at the roof door, his cane in his hand, the blade extended. His face was no longer human—black eyes, horns, skin like cracked obsidian. The man froze.
“Get out,” Lucien said, his voice deep, *demonic *. “Before I change my mind.”
The man backed away, the other demons following. He reached the ladder, then paused, looking back. “You ’ll pay for this, half-breed. For the vault—”
“*I * am the vault,” Lucien said. “Go tell your king. If he wants it, he’ll have to come through me .”
The ladder creaked as they climbed down. The van roared away.
Silence.
Rory collapsed, the pipe clattering from her hand. She looked up at Lucien. His eyes were amber again, his horns and black skin gone. His shoulder was bleeding through his suit, but he was standing.
“Are you…” she said.
“Fine.” He staggered, but caught himself. “Now. The vault. You need to go. Tonight.”
She shook her head. “You ’re hurt. You need—”
“Later.” He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His thumb traced her lower lip, slow, deliberate. “I need you to know something. I never left. Not really . I ’ve been watching. Waiting. For you to be strong enough to handle the truth. To handle *me *.”
Her hand went to his cheek, the scar still raw. “I ’m still here ,” she said. “Stupid , stubborn, *here *.”
He smiled, then kissed her. It was hard, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. She kissed him back, her arms around his neck, her key digging into her palm.
The siren wailed again, but they ignored it. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Only the two of them, and the key in her pocket, and the vault in the Welsh mountains, and the end of the night—finally , *finally *—beginning.
A noise from the street below made them pull apart.
Lucien grabbed his cane. “They’re not done. But they will be. Now go. Take the 11:47 to Cardiff. I ’ll meet you there. By dawn.”
She hesitated. “What if I can’t—”
“*You can*.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Because you’re Rory Carter. And you always have been.”
She nodded, then ran to the fire escape. She climbed down, the key in her pocket, the wind in her hair. Behind her, the roof door locked.
Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight.
Rory smiled.
It was time to finish what her mother had started.
And this time, she wouldn’t need anyone to save her.
She’d save herself.
And the man who’d come back to her.
The man who, for once, had stayed.