Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB7A9SP3GP3MV29P6DK61C

The third deadbolt clicked, then the final one. Eva’s flat smelled, as always, of old paper, cardamom, and Ptolemy, the tabby currently winding around Rory’s ankles in a figure eight. Rory barely registered the cat. She hadn’t been back here in six months, not since she’d walked out on… everything. And now, she was standing on the threshold, feeling the weight of it all settle on her shoulders. Eva hadn’t looked surprised to see her. Just… tired. The bags under her eyes were darker than Rory remembered, and she’d traded her usual band t-shirt for a faded, oversized wool jumper. “You’re late.” Eva said, stepping back to allow Rory entrance without a word of greeting. Just a statement of fact. “Traffic,” Rory mumbled, knowing it was a pathetic excuse. London traffic was perpetual. It didn't explain why she’d spent a full fifteen minutes circling the block before forcing herself to knock. “Mm-hm.” Eva moved past her, already heading back to the desk that dominated the small living room, a chaotic landscape of open books and handwritten notes. "I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” “I said I would.” “You *say* a lot of things, Rory.” The barb hit its mark. Rory swallowed, the lump in her throat feeling enormous. “I needed to talk to you.” Eva didn’t look up from rearranging a pile of ancient-looking scrolls. “About?” Rory hesitated, her gaze sweeping over the room. The familiar clutter usually comforted her, but tonight it felt oppressive, a physical manifestation of the mess she’d made. “About Lucien. He… he wants to meet.” That finally got Eva’s attention. She straightened, turning slowly to face Rory, her expression unreadable. “Lucien? *The* Lucien?” “Yes.” “And he wants to meet with *you*? After… everything?” Rory nodded, avoiding Eva’s gaze. “He sent a message. Through a rather… roundabout source. Said it was urgent.” Eva’s lips thinned. “That’s rich. Urgent, is it? After ignoring you for months, conveniently reappearing when it suits him.” “It’s not about what he wants, Eva. It’s… a potential case. Something to do with Avaros.” Avaros. The mere name sent a chill down Rory’s spine. Lucien's demonic heritage. The source of so much complication, so much fear. Eva’s shoulders slumped. She ran a hand through her already tangled hair. “Of course it is. It always comes back to Avaros, doesn’t it?” She turned back to her desk, picking up a small, intricately carved wooden box and turning it over in her hands. “He knew you’d fall for that. He knows you can’t resist a puzzle, especially one involving… well, him.” Rory bristled. “I am perfectly capable of separating professional curiosity from… anything else.” “Are you?” Eva finally met Rory’s eyes, and the weariness she’d initially seen was replaced with a look of shrewd assessment. “Because the last time I checked, your professional curiosity had you practically throwing yourself at a half-demon who deals in shadows and secrets.” The heat rose in Rory’s cheeks. She hadn’t forgotten the looks, the lingering touches, the late-night conversations that had blurred the lines between investigation and… something else. “That’s unfair.” “Is it? You were fascinated by him, Rory. By his power, his danger, the mystery of him. And he was fascinated by you. Don’t pretend it was all just research.” Rory clenched her hands. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, not even to herself, but Eva was right. Lucien had awakened something in her, a recklessness she’d always kept carefully suppressed. “What does it matter now? He’s gone. I haven't heard from him in months. I moved on.” “Did you?” Eva’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “Because you’re here now, asking me about him. And you’re avoiding my eyes.” Rory couldn’t hold Eva’s gaze any longer. She walked to the small window overlooking Brick Lane, the vibrant lights blurring through the drizzle. The scent of curry hung heavy in the air. It was a comforting smell, a reminder of normalcy. Something she hadn't felt in a long time. “I just need to know if this is a trap,” she said quietly. “If he’s trying to use me.” “He probably is.” Eva was matter-of-fact. “He always uses everyone, Rory. That’s what he does. But wanting to know doesn't negate the potential information he has.” “And you think I should meet him?” “I think you’ll meet him regardless of what I think.” Eva sighed, placing the wooden box carefully back on the desk. “You always were stubbornly independent, especially when it came to things you shouldn’t be involved in.” Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. The only sound was the rhythmic purring of Ptolemy, who had abandoned Rory's ankles for the relative warmth of Eva’s lap. Rory flexed her fingers, tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist – a relic of a childhood attempt to climb a very tall tree. A small, permanent reminder of her own impulsiveness. “He sounded… different, in the message.” Rory finally said, the words barely a whisper. “Less… amused. More urgent. It’s why I came to you.” Eva raised an eyebrow. “Different how?” “I don’t know. Less… patronizing, maybe? He usually has this… air of superiority. This time, it was just… a plea for help. A cryptic one, but still.” Rory turned from the window, forcing herself to face Eva. “And it mentioned my father.” That stopped Eva cold. Her hand froze mid-stroke on Ptolemy’s fur. “Your father?” “Yes. He said… he said something about a debt. An old agreement. And that my father might be in danger.” Eva’s expression hardened. “He’s involving your family now? That’s a new low, even for him.” She stood up, pacing the small room. “Brendan shouldn’t be anywhere near Lucien Moreau, Rory. He’s a barrister, a man of the law. This world… it’s not for him.” “I know. That’s why I came to you. I don’t want to involve him. But if Lucien thinks he can use my father to get to me…” “Then we need to figure out what he’s up to. Before he does.” Eva stopped pacing and looked directly at Rory, her eyes filled with a familiar determination. “But Rory, listen to me. If you meet with him, you be careful. He’s playing a game, and you’re a very valuable piece.” Rory nodded, feeling a tremor run through her. She knew Eva was right. Lucien was dangerous. He was manipulative. But the thought of her father being hurt… it overrode everything else. “Where does he want to meet?” Eva asked, already reaching for her laptop. Rory hesitated, then forced the words out. “Silas’ bar.” Eva swore under her breath. “Of course he did. Neutral territory, but still… his territory. That man practically owns half of Soho.” A shadow fell across the doorway. A tall, impeccably dressed figure stood there, leaning against the frame, an ivory-handled cane gleaming in the low light. Rory’s breath caught in her throat. “Ladies,” a smooth voice drawled, laced with the faintest trace of a French accent. “Forgive the intrusion. I was merely ensuring my invitation hadn't been… overlooked.” Lucien Moreau. His eyes, one amber, one black, met Rory's, and a flicker of something unreadable passed between them. The same familiar pull, the same dangerous spark. “Luc,” Eva said, her voice tight. “What a… surprise.” He pushed himself off the doorframe, moving into the room with a predatory grace. “My dear Eva. Always a pleasure. I trust you’ve been keeping Ptolemy well-fed?” He offered a slight bow, then turned his attention fully on Rory, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. “Rory,” he said, his voice softening, “it’s good to see you again.” Rory didn’t return the sentiment. She just met his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. This wasn't a reunion. It was a reckoning. And she had a feeling it was going to be a long night.