AI The insistent rapping echoed through the flat, a jarring counterpoint to the ambient hum of the refrigerator. Aurora stared at the door, a knot tightening in her stomach . She wasn’t expecting anyone. Yu-Fei needed the delivery by six, and she’d promised Silas she’d be by to help him restock the bitters before the evening rush. Neither errand involved door-to-door visitors.
She padded across the worn Persian rug, the familiar chill of the hardwood floor seeping through her socks. Three deadbolts. Eva always insisted on three deadbolts. Paranoid, Rory used to tease, but Eva had a point about Brick Lane after dark. She reached the door, her hand hovering over the first lock.
Another rap, sharper this time, followed by a voice, smooth and faintly accented. "Aurora? It's…Lucian. I need a word."
The air whooshed from her lungs. Lucian. *Lucien Moreau.* He shouldn’t be here. He *couldn’t * be here. He was a phantom limb, a sharp ache she’d learned to ignore, a reminder of a messy entanglement she’d desperately tried to bury.
She didn't answer, just fumbled with the first lock, the cold metal biting into her palm. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a souvenir of a childhood climbing accident, pulsed faintly with a dull ache.
"Please, Aurora," he repeated, his voice softening, losing some of its usual polished edge . "It's important."
Ignoring the internal scream that urged her to pretend she wasn't home, she released the second lock. The click seemed impossibly loud in the stillness of the flat. The final deadbolt required a deliberate, almost violent twist.
He didn't rush, didn’t push. He simply stood there, the dim hallway light catching the silver of his slicked-back platinum blond hair, the sharp angles of his face. He’d traded his usual tailored charcoal suit for a dark gray cashmere coat, but the impeccable cut was undeniable. He exuded an aura of controlled power, a quiet confidence that had always both intimidated and captivated her. His eyes, that unsettling, mismatched pair – one amber, one black – locked onto hers, a silent interrogation.
“Lucian,” she said, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. She kept her voice even, betraying none of the turmoil churning within her. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t immediately answer, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered hallway, finally settling on her. There was a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher in those heterochromatic eyes—regret, perhaps ? Or something that resembled…concern?
“It’s a long story,” he said finally, his French accent more pronounced than she remembered. It had always been subtle, woven into the fabric of his impeccable English, but now it was a tangible thing, a reminder of the world he inhabited, a world so profoundly different from her own.
Before she could formulate a reply, a tabby cat, a fluffy orange whirlwind named Ptolemy, wound around his legs, weaving between his polished shoes. He paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he reached down to scratch behind the cat’s ears. The gesture was surprisingly gentle, a vulnerability at odds with his usual air of detached authority.
“He seems to approve,” she said, a wry amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Ptolemy has excellent judgment," he agreed, his eyes meeting hers once more. “May I come in, Aurora?”
She hesitated, her hand instinctively drifting to the small silver pendant she wore beneath her shirt – a simple Celtic knot, a gift from her father. It was a grounding talisman, a reminder of the ordinary life she’d been trying so hard to rebuild.
“I’m in the middle of something,” she said, a flimsy excuse, but the best she could manage.
“I’m aware,” he replied, his tone politely dismissive . “I wouldn’t have interrupted otherwise. It will only take a few minutes.”
He didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped past her, his movements fluid and silent, and into the flat. Aurora followed, closing the door behind him , the three deadbolts clicking into place with a finality that felt both reassuring and suffocating.
The flat was exactly as he would expect it to be— a controlled chaos of books stacked precariously high, scrolls spilling from overflowing baskets, and research notes covering nearly every available surface. Eva, her childhood friend and current co-conspirator, was a collector of obscure knowledge, and the flat reflected that obsession .
“It’s…cozy,” Lucian remarked, his gaze sweeping over the room with a detached amusement .
“It’s lived in,” Aurora corrected, bristling at the implied criticism. She gestured towards a worn armchair piled high with cushions. “Sit. And tell me why you’ve materialized in my life after…three years.”
He settled into the armchair, his posture impeccable, his hands clasped lightly on the ivory handle of his cane. The cane, she knew, concealed a thin, razor-sharp blade. Beautiful and deadly, much like the man himself.
He paused, considering his words. "There's been a development. Something that concerns you. Something…familiar ."
Aurora’s breath hitched. “Familiar how?”
He ignored her question, instead focusing on a point just beyond her shoulder. “A ritual. Resurfaced. The binding spell. It’s been reactivated.”
The words slammed into her, a cold wave of dread washing over her. The binding spell. The reason she’d run. The reason she’d severed ties with the supernatural world, with *him *.
“That’s impossible,” she said, her voice trembling, despite her best efforts to control it . “It was broken. We destroyed the artifacts. We made sure—"
“Someone has recreated them,” he interrupted, his voice low and grave . “Or found another way. The energy signature is identical. It's centered...in London.”
He looked at her then, those mismatched eyes burning into her. “And it’s calling to you, Aurora.”
She shook her head, denial rising in her throat. “No. It can’t be. I’ve done everything I can to…” She trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air: *to forget you. To forget this.*
He seemed to anticipate her thoughts. "The magic binds to the bloodline, Aurora. You can't simply walk away from it.”
Ptolemy, sensing the tension , rubbed against his leg, purring loudly. Lucian stroked the cat absently, his gaze fixed on her.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, the question a hesitant accusation. "Why now, after all this time?"
He finally met her gaze, and for a moment, the carefully constructed facade of detachment crumbled, revealing a raw vulnerability she hadn’t seen in him before.
“Because, Aurora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper , “I need your help. And because,” he paused, a flicker of something— pain?— crossing his face, "I’m not entirely sure I can do this without you.”
The admission hung in the air , a fragile bridge across the chasm of hurt and regret that had separated them for so long. She stared at him , at the man who had once been the center of her world, the man who had promised her everything and then taken it all away.
The delivery for Yu-Fei, Silas’ bitters, her carefully constructed ordinary life—all of it seemed insignificant now, swallowed by the sudden, urgent return of the supernatural, and the unwelcome resurgence of a past she thought she had buried.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, the words escaping her lips before she could fully process them.
He allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible nod. "First," he said, rising from the armchair, his tailored trousers impeccably pressed, "we need to assess the situation. And for that, I require a map. Eva’s map, specifically. I believe she has one that might prove…useful.”