AI The three deadbolts clicked in rapid succession, each a small, defiant sound against the thrum of Brick Lane rising up from below. Eva hadn’t expected anyone. She’d told precisely no one she’d be home, buried in research for the Van Derlyn manuscript. She peered through the peephole and her breath hitched.
Rory.
Her Rory. Though that felt like a trespass, a claiming of something long gone.
Eva hesitated, a cold knot tightening low in her stomach . It had been six months. Six months since the slammed doors, the clipped words, the carefully constructed distance. Six months since Rory had walked away, a ghost already fading.
She opened the door.
Rory stood on the landing, small and solid in a faded denim jacket, the black of her hair a sharp contrast to the grimy yellow of the hallway. Her bright blue eyes met Eva’s, and for a heartbeat, the years between them vanished. Rory looked…tired. The lightness Eva remembered, the quick, easy smile, was absent. A small crescent-shaped scar, barely visible, peeked from beneath the cuff of her jacket where it pulled tight across her left wrist. Eva hadn’t noticed it before. Or perhaps she’d simply forgotten.
“Hi,” Rory said, the single word a little rough around the edges. She didn’t smile. Didn't offer an explanation. Just stood there, occupying space in Eva’s doorway.
Eva stepped back, gesturing vaguely into the flat. “Come in.” The words felt hollow, practiced . She hadn't imagined saying them again.
Rory moved past her without a touch, a ghost re-entering a haunted house. The smell of cardamom and cumin wafted up from the curry house downstairs, mingling with the scent of old paper and dust that permeated Eva’s flat. Ptolemy, the tabby, materialized from the depths of the room, arching his back and rubbing against Rory’s legs. Rory didn’t acknowledge him, didn't even look down, but didn’t shrug him off, either.
“It’s…a mess,” Eva said, unnecessarily, her gaze sweeping over the stacks of books threatening to topple from every surface. Scrolls were unfurled on the floor, open to brittle, yellowed pages. The flat was more chaos than home.
“Always was,” Rory said softly , finally looking around. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Comfortably chaotic ."
Eva wanted to ask *why *, to demand an explanation for this unexpected intrusion, but the words caught in her throat. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Rory’s presence, the way she seemed to absorb the energy of a room, grounding it, making it feel…full. It was a painful ache in her chest, a reminder of all she’d lost.
“So,” Eva said, settling for something neutral. “What brings you to Brick Lane?”
Rory didn’t answer immediately. She walked further into the flat, passing a precarious tower of books, and stopped in front of a small, cluttered table where Eva usually worked. She ran a finger along the edge, disturbing a thin layer of dust.
“I need a favor.”
The bluntness surprised Eva. “A favor? After…” She trailed off, unwilling to dredge up the past.
“After I left? Yeah.” Rory finally met her gaze, and Eva saw a flicker of something vulnerable in those bright blue eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
Eva crossed her arms, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Important to whom?”
“To Lucien.”
The name landed like a stone. Lucien Moreau. Half-demon, master manipulator, and a man Eva actively avoided. “What does Lucien want?”
“He, uh…he needs someone to do a delivery.” Rory shifted uncomfortably, her gaze dropping to Ptolemy, who had settled at her feet, purring loudly.
“A delivery?” Eva repeated, incredulous . “Lucien needs *you * to deliver something? He employs a network of…specialists. People who don't ask questions.”
“He needed someone discreet. Someone who’s…under the radar. Someone who can blend in." Rory’s voice was barely a whisper .
“And you think that’s me?” Eva raised an eyebrow . “I spend my days translating ancient texts. My idea of blending in is wearing muted colors.”
“You’re resourceful, Eva. And you 're good at getting around London. He knows you used to do deliveries.”
“That was before I dedicated my life to deciphering forgotten languages.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “Look, I didn’t ask why . I just…he asked me to find you .”
“And you came running.”
“I needed the money.” The admission was raw, stripped of pretense. Eva hadn’t known Rory was struggling . She hadn’t even known how to find Rory.
A wave of guilt washed over Eva. She’d been so consumed by her research, by the need to escape the wreckage of their past, that she’d completely shut Rory out.
“What is it?” Eva asked, her voice softer now . “What does Lucien want delivered?”
“I don’t know.”
Eva stared at her, speechless. “You just show up at my door after six months, asking me to take on a potentially dangerous errand for a half-demon, and you don’t know what I’m delivering?”
“He didn’t tell me. Just the address. And to make sure you get it to the right person.” Rory ran a hand through her hair, messing up the neat lines. She looked exhausted, defeated.
“And why couldn’t he deliver it himself?”
“Because it's sensitive. He says there are...complications."
Eva sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course there are.”
“Please, Eva.” Rory’s voice was pleading now. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. And… I could use the money. I’m a little behind on rent.”
The last sentence was like a punch to the gut. Eva remembered Rory’s independence, her fierce refusal to ask for help. The fact that she was now admitting to financial trouble…it painted a bleak picture.
“The address?” Eva asked, giving in.
Rory recited it, a warehouse in the Isle of Dogs, a part of London Eva actively avoided.
“And the recipient?”
“Just a name. Mr. Silas Blackwood .”
Silas Blackwood . Another name from the underworld, another red flag. Eva felt a knot of dread forming in her stomach .
“And what do I get if I do this?” Eva asked, wanting to hear something more than just relief in Rory’s voice.
Rory looked at her, her eyes searching, hesitant. “Lucien said…five hundred pounds. And… my gratitude.”
“Five hundred pounds?” Eva scoffed. “That’s it? For running errands for a demon?”
“He knows you don’t do it for the money.”
Eva’s breath caught. He was right. It wasn’t about the money. It was about Rory. It always had been. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the pull, the magnetic force that had always existed between them, a dangerous current she’d tried so hard to ignore.
“When do I need to deliver it?” she asked, already resigned to her fate.
“Tomorrow night. Before midnight.”
“And what am I delivering?”
Rory hesitated again, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I honestly don't know. He just said… a package. Small. Discreet.”
“Wonderful.”
A silence descended, thick and uncomfortable. Ptolemy meowed, demanding attention. Eva ran a hand through her hair, trying to organize her thoughts.
“Look,” she said finally, “I’ll do it. But you need to tell me everything you know. Everything Lucien said. No omissions.”
Rory nodded, relief washing over her face. “Okay. Okay, I will.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “He said… he said to tell you he hopes this might… mend fences.”
Eva laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Lucien mending fences? That's rich.”
“I know.” Rory offered a weak smile. “He’s Lucien.”
The silence returned, but it felt different now, less hostile. Eva studied Rory, the lines of tiredness etched around her eyes, the way she unconsciously fiddled with the silver ring on her thumb. She looked lost, vulnerable. And despite everything, despite the hurt and the betrayal, Eva felt a surge of protectiveness.
“You’ll stay for tea?” Eva asked, surprising herself.
Rory’s eyes widened , a flicker of hope igniting within them. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” Eva turned towards the small kitchen, the scent of cardamom and cumin still clinging to the air. “I think I’ve got some biscuits somewhere under all this.”
As she moved, she glanced back at Rory. The damage was done, the scars were there, but maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end of their story. Maybe it was a new, messy, complicated beginning. And for the first time in six months, Eva allowed herself to feel a sliver of hope. And a terrifying, undeniable flutter in her chest.