Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VFEMG7S43T19DZ1MTK36S

The smell of turmeric and cumin seeped through the floorboards, a constant spice-laden haze in Eva’s cramped Brick Lane flat. Aurora Carter—Rory to almost everyone who mattered—was curled in the window seat, a heavy tome on Celtic warding symbols open on her lap. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, was a warm, purring weight on her feet. The evening was quiet, save for the distant hum of Whitechapel Road and the occasional rustle of pages. Eva was out, chasing a lead on some obscure spectral manifestation in Highgate Cemetery, and Rory was babysitting the cat and the research. The first knock was soft, almost hesitant. Rory froze, her finger halting on a line about iron nails and oak thresholds. Eva wasn’t due back for hours. The second knock came, firmer, a precise triplet of raps. Ptolemy lifted his head, ears twitching. Cool-headed, she reminded herself. She marked her page with a scrap of paper and slid off the seat, her socks silent on the cluttered floor. She passed towers of books, scrolls cascading off the kitchen table, and approached the door with its three heavy deadbolts. She didn’t bother with the peephole; its glass was smudged beyond usefulness. Instead, she put her mouth close to the wood. “Who is it?” A pause. Then a voice, smooth as aged brandy, with that faint, unmistakeable Marseille accent. “It’s Lucien, Aurora.” Her heart did a hard, painful slam against her ribs. The sound of his voice was a physical thing, a hook in her gut pulling her back six months. Back to dimly lit bars and whispered secrets, to the scent of his cologne and the dangerous warmth of his smile. To the last time she’d seen him, standing in the rain outside Silas’s bar, his expression unreadable as she’d told him it was over. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her left wrist, where the small crescent-shaped scar shone pale, tingled. “I know you’re in there,” he said, a thread of amusement now. “Eva’s wards have a particular signature. And they’re currently… unattended.” Damn. Eva’s wards were subtle, keyed to her own energy. If Lucien could sense their dormancy, he knew she was alone. Rory’s mind raced, options flickering. She could pretend she wasn’t home. But Lucien Moreau was not a man you could easily fool. He was a fixer, a broker of truths and lies in a world most people didn’t know existed. He’d find a way in if he wanted to. With a steadying breath that did nothing to calm the tremor in her hands, she slid the first deadbolt. Then the second. The third clunked back with finality. She opened the door just enough to see out, the chain still engaged. He filled the narrow frame of the landing perfectly, as if tailored for it. Charcoal suit, immaculate. Platinum blond hair slicked back from a sharp, handsome face. And those eyes: one a warm, predatory amber, the other a bottomless black. Heterochromatic. Half-demon. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, a picture of casual elegance, but she knew the blade hidden within. His gaze swept over her, taking in her old Cardiff University hoodie, her black hair tied in a messy knot, her bare feet. “Rory,” he said, and her name in his mouth was a caress and a reprimand all at once. “Lucien.” Her voice was tighter than she wanted. “What do you want?” “A conversation. May I come in? The hallway smells rather strongly of vindaloo.” “Eva’s not here.” “I’m not here for Eva.” The directness stunned her. She stared at him, at the faint smile playing on his lips. The chain felt flimsy, pathetic. Every instinct screamed to shut the door, to retreat behind her walls. But another part, a part she’d tried to bury, was leaning forward, drawn to the magnetic danger of him. With a click that sounded like surrender, she disengaged the chain and stepped back. He entered with a fluid grace that belied the cane, his presence immediately making the flat feel smaller, more intimate. He glanced around at the chaos of knowledge, a slight frown of distaste for the disorder. Ptolemy, traitorously, padded over and rubbed against his tailored trouser leg. Lucien absently scratched behind the cat’s ears. “You look well,” he said, turning his gaze back to her. “You look the same.” Polished. In control. Untouchable. “It’s a professional requirement.” He took a few steps further in, his cane tapping softly. He stopped by the kitchen table, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of a scroll. “I heard you left your delivery job. Briefly.” “I went back to it. It pays the rent.” She crossed her arms, a defensive gesture she hated. “Why are you here, Lucien? Really.” He turned to face her fully, leaning both hands on the cane. The amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light from Eva’s desk lamp. “I need your help.” A laugh burst from her, harsh and brittle. “You need *my* help? The great Lucien Moreau, who has a finger in every supernatural pie in London? You’re joking.” “I rarely joke about business.” His expression was serious now, the amusement gone. “It concerns a binding contract. A soul-tithe, to be precise. The wording is… archaic. Legalistic. I need someone with a pre-law mind, a talent for finding loopholes in seemingly airtight text. Someone who thinks outside the box. I thought of you immediately.” She felt a traitorous flicker of pride, quickly doused by anger. “You thought of me. After six months of silence. After you walked away without a word when I ended things.” “You ended things,” he echoed softly. “You said you couldn’t be with someone whose world was built on secrets and shadows. You said I was… too much like the darkness you’d just escaped.” The mention of Evan, her abusive ex, was a low blow. It tightened her throat. “It was the truth.” “Was it?” He took a step closer. The spice in the air was now mixed with his scent—sandalwood, ozone, something metallic and cold. Demon blood. “Or were you just scared? Scared that you felt something real for once, and it was for a monster?” “Don’t,” she warned, her cool composure cracking. “Why not? We never said the things that mattered, Rory. We had… an arrangement. Pleasant. Physical. And then it became something else, and you ran.” “I didn’t run. I left. There’s a difference.” “Semantics. A specialty of yours.” Another step. He was close enough now that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the absolute void in the black one. “I let you go. I thought it was what you needed. But I have not… moved on. It seems you have not either.” “How would you know?” “Because you haven’t thrown me out yet.” He had her there. Her body was humming with awareness, every nerve ending remembering the feel of his hands, his mouth. The hurt was there, a dull ache, but it was woven through with a longing so sharp it was painful. “This contract,” she said, forcing her voice to work. “Why is it so important to you?” A shadow crossed his face. “The soul in question is not a client’s. It’s my mother’s.” The revelation hit her like a punch. His human mother. The one he’d spoken of only once, in a rare unguarded moment, with a tenderness that had shocked her. She’d made a deal with a demon—not Lucien’s father, but another—decades ago. The payment was coming due. “Oh, Luc,” she whispered, the old nickname slipping out. He heard it. His jaw tightened. “I have the document. It’s in Aramaic, with clauses in Enochian and Latin. I have translations, but the intent… the legal intent is what matters. I need you to look at it. Tell me if there’s a way out.” “And if I say no?” “Then I will thank you for your time and leave. And you will never see me again.” He said it simply, a statement of fact. But his eyes held a challenge, a question. The flat was silent. Ptolemy had jumped onto the bookshelf and was watching them with feline indifference. Downstairs, the curry house erupted with laughter. Rory looked at Lucien—really looked. Past the impeccable suit, the demon’s eyes, the cane that was a weapon. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes. He was afraid. For his mother. And he’d come to her. The hurt was still there, a bruise on her heart. The things unsaid between them were a chasm. But her mind, her damnable, quick, out-of-the-box mind, was already turning over the problem. Aramaic. Enochian. Legal loopholes. A soul-tithe. And her heart… her heart was still his, despite everything. “Show me the document,” she said. Something raw and vulnerable flashed in his heterochromatic gaze. He didn’t move for a moment. Then he reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew a slender, leather-bound folio. He held it out. As she reached for it, his other hand moved, faster than she expected. His gloved fingers closed gently around her left wrist, his thumb brushing over the crescent-shaped scar. The touch was electric, a bolt of memory and sensation that stole her breath. “I missed you,” he said, the words low, almost inaudible. “Every damn day.” The folio was in her hand. His touch lingered. The space between them crackled with everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d felt and feared. The past was a ghost in the room, but the present was here, in the touch of his hand on her wrist, in the desperate hope in his strange, beautiful eyes. She didn’t pull away.