AI Three deadbolts scraped their protest as Rory eased the door open, the sound echoing a familiar unease. She peered into the dimly lit hallway, the scent of stale curry spices clinging to the air from the restaurant below. A silhouette, tall and unnervingly composed, stood waiting.
Lucien Moreau.
His platinum hair, usually slicked back, caught the faint glow from the landing light, shining like polished metal. One amber eye, the other a void of black, fixed on her, an unreadable depth in their heterochromatic gaze. He wore a charcoal suit, precisely tailored, a stark contrast to the threadbare carpet beneath his polished shoes, and rested a hand on the ivory handle of his cane. His presence felt too large for the narrow space, too sharp for the soft edges of the building.
Rory’s breath hitched. She had not seen him in eight months, not since the rain-slicked night they parted ways, words like daggers still twisting in her memory.
“Fancy seeing you here, Carter,” he offered, his French accent a low purr, a sound that always managed to settle deep in her bones, whether she wanted it to or not.
His lips twitched, a hint of a smile she saw for the first time or the thousandth. Rory’s fingers whitened on the doorknob, knuckles popping. A small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist pulsed with an phantom ache she always attributed to old wounds, but in this moment, it felt like a fresh one .
“Lucien.” Her voice came out flat, hollow. She felt the heat rising in her face, a mix of old anger and something else, something she refused to name. “What do you want?”
He pushed past her, not waiting for an invitation. The heavy click of the door closing behind him seemed to seal them in, the flat’s cramped space suddenly shrinking. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, blinked from his perch atop a leaning tower of arcane literature, then stretched, unconcerned by the sudden intrusion. Lucien’s gaze swept the room, taking in the precarious stacks of books, the scrolls unfurled across every available surface, the general air of organised chaos. His expression remained neutral, yet Rory felt the weight of his silent judgment, the unspoken comparison to his own meticulously ordered life.
“An urgent matter,” he announced, turning back to her. He came to a stop a few feet away, close enough for the faint scent of expensive cologne to reach her. It was the same scent he always wore, a subtle blend of sandalwood and something sharper, reminiscent of forgotten spices. “It requires your… unique talents.”
Rory scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, a defiant stance. She remembered the last time he’d asked for her ‘unique talents’, how that had ended. “My unique talents are currently dedicated to not having you standing in my friend’s living room.”
Lucien’s gaze flickered to the scar on her wrist, partially visible where her sleeve rode up. He did not comment, a practiced silence that only served to grate on her nerves further.
“Charming as ever,” he allowed, a dry note in his tone. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieving a folded piece of parchment. It was old, yellowed, crisscrossed with unfamiliar symbols. “A contact of mine came across this. He believes it points to a ritual, one with potential for… significant disruption.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, a silent threat. “And you, Carter, have always possessed a knack for understanding things others do not.”
She stepped forward, plucking the parchment from his outstretched hand. Her fingers brushed his, a spark, or perhaps just a phantom memory of one, tracing a path up her arm. She ignored it, focusing on the script, her bright blue eyes scanning the intricate lines. Eva’s flat, with its endless supply of dark arts references, often meant Rory picked up more than she intended. This looked like something pulled straight from one of Eva’s ancient texts.
“And you think *I * can decipher this?” Rory asked, tapping a challenging fingernail against one of the symbols. “You forget, I ’m a delivery girl. Not some occult scholar.”
“You are more than that, Aurora. You always have been,” he replied. The use of her full name, a rare occurrence with him , sent a tiny shiver down her spine . It felt intimate, a label from a past life.
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice dropped, a warning. “Don’t you dare come here, after all this time, and pretend like you know anything about me.”
He tilted his head, his slicked-back platinum hair catching the light again. The movement was imperceptible, yet it felt like a deliberate challenge . “I know enough.”
“You know nothing,” she shot back, the words laced with a bitterness she hadn’t realised still festered so close to the surface. “You know how to use people, how to twist situations to your advantage. That’s what you know, Lucien. And that’s all you’ve ever known.”
Lucien leaned against the doorframe separating the small living area from the even smaller kitchen, a picture of casual elegance amidst the clutter. He looked utterly unaffected by her venom, which only infuriated her further.
“If you recall, Aurora, the last situation, as you put it, worked to our mutual advantage. Or did you forget the rather pressing danger we averted?” His tone remained even, infuriatingly calm.
“I remember the aftermath ,” she countered, her voice dropping to a near whisper , filled with an ache that still lingered. “I remember the quiet. I remember the missing phone calls. The empty space you left.” She finally met his gaze, holding it, letting the raw hurt show for a fleeting moment. “You just disappeared. No explanation, no goodbye.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle tensing beneath his smooth skin. It was a subtle shift, barely visible, but Rory saw it. A rare crack in his impenetrable facade .
“Sometimes, not saying goodbye is the greatest kindness,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor, then back to her . The amber eye seemed to flicker , a momentary spark of something unreadable . “It avoids prolonging the inevitable.”
“The inevitable?” Rory laughed, a low, humorless sound. “What, were we an ‘inevitable’ mistake, Lucien? Is that it? Just another loose end you tied up and swept under the rug?” She gestured around the cramped flat. “Because I distinctly recall a promise, on a cold London night, that we were… more than that.”
Ptolemy, sensing the shift in atmosphere, leapt from his perch and weaved between their legs, his tail brushing against Lucien’s immaculately tailored trousers. Lucien glanced down, a flicker of a smile, almost gentle, gracing his lips as he avoided stepping on the cat. The unexpected softness made Rory’s stomach churn .
“Promises are complex things, Aurora,” he finally said, his voice regaining its usual controlled cadence . “They are made in moments, but tested over vast stretches of time and circumstance. There were… factors at play.”
“Always factors with you, aren’t there?” she challenged, her voice rising . “Always some grand, mysterious plan that justifies everything, even abandoning someone you supposedly cared about.” She gripped the parchment, crumpling the edge slightly . “So, what, some demonic ritual shows up, and suddenly the ‘factors’ allow you to resurface? Convenient.”
His heterochromatic eyes narrowed , a glint of something sharp emerging. “This is not about convenience, Aurora. It’s about survival. For both of us. The symbols on this parchment… they speak of Avaros. My home realm, remember? My father’s world. This isn’t some minor blip on the magical radar. This could mean war.”
Rory felt a cold dread seep into her. The word ‘Avaros’, the realm of demons, was not one thrown around lightly in their world. She hadn't wanted to think about Lucien's heritage, not since things had gone south. It was too tied up with *him *. Her anger warred with a primal fear. If he was right, if this was truly serious, then her personal feelings, no matter how potent, might have to take a back seat. He never came to her unless it was dire. That, she knew.
She looked at the parchment again, tracing a finger over a particularly intricate sigil. “And Eva? She’s the expert on obscure demon lore. Why me?”
“Eva is currently chasing a lead in Wiltshire,” Lucien responded, a hint of impatience coloring his tone now . “A fae enchantment, something about a missing flock of sheep and sudden, uncontrollable dancing . She is… indisposed. You, however, are here. And despite your current occupation, I know your mind, Carter. It discerns patterns where others see only chaos.”
His words, a reluctant compliment, softened her posture, if only for a fraction of a second. She hated how easily he could disarm her, how a sliver of praise from him still felt like a valuable currency .
“So, what’s the plan, then?” she asked, the fight draining from her voice, replaced by a weary resignation. She knew, deep down, she wouldn’t – couldn’t – turn her back on something that threatened London, or, judging by his expression, something much larger. “You drop a potentially world-ending artifact in my lap, remind me of everything I ’d tried to forget, and then what? We just… pick up where we left off?”
Lucien pushed off the doorframe, taking a step closer. The air between them crackled with unspoken history, with the ghosts of nights too passionate to forget, and mornings too silent to ignore. His heterochromatic eyes held hers, a silent challenge, an open question.
“We start with the parchment, Aurora,” he murmured, his voice low, resonating through the cramped flat . “We ascertain its true purpose. And then, we decide what comes next.” He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fleeting moment, before returning to her eyes. “Whatever that may be.”