AI The sound of claws on the other side scratched against the insistent knocking.
"Rory? It's open, you know."
The voice wasn't Eva's, not even close. Rory froze, hand on the three deadbolts, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew that silken drawl, the slight, almost imperceptible lilt that hinted at distant shores and dangerous secrets. It had ghosted through her nightmares for months.
"Rory, my patience wears thin," the voice continued, edged with an unexpected sharpness.
She cursed under her breath. Nobody knew she was staying at Eva's. Nobody human, anyway. A cold dread snaked around her stomach as she slowly , deliberately , turned the lowest deadbolt. The click echoed too loudly in the small, silent flat. Then the next. And the next. Each one a tiny surrender.
The heavy oak door swung inwards with a protesting squeal.
Lucien Moreau stood on the draughty landing, a dark, tailored silhouette against the gloom of the stairwell. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, catching the faint glow of the single bare bulb overhead. One of his heterochromatic eyes, the amber one, glinted mischievously. The other, black as coal, held a depth she couldn't fathom, a warning. His charcoal suit, as always, looked as if he’d been sewn into it, perfectly uncrumpled despite the journey. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, a casual pose that belied the controlled tension in his frame.
"A pleasant evening, *chérie *." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a predatory curve.
Her stomach churned . "You're not welcome here."
"Such hospitality." He straightened, moving with an effortless grace that seemed too fluid for a man. "A simple 'hello' would suffice." His gaze flickered past her into the cluttered hallway. "Eva isn't home, I presume."
"What do you want, Lucien?" She gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. The old familiar thrum of unease and something else, something dangerous and electric , pulsed between them.
"Must I always 'want' something to grace your presence?" He took a step forward, and Rory instinctively stepped back, creating a sliver of space. He filled it immediately, his scent – expensive cologne and something subtly metallic, like ozone before a storm – engulfing her.
"Considering our last interaction, yes." She closed the door behind him, the triple lock mechanisms booming into place again. The flat instantly felt smaller, hotter, infused with his potent energy.
He glanced around the cramped one-bedroom flat, his black eye taking in the stacks of books threatening to topple from every surface, the arcane scrolls spilling from cracked leather binders, the research notes pinned haphazardly to the walls. Ptolemy, Eva's chunky tabby cat, regarded him from atop a precarious stack of tomes, tail twitching, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"Eva's unique decorative flair endures," he observed, the corner of his mouth twitching. "A testament to her intellectual pursuits, or perhaps merely a disinclination for tidiness." His gaze settled back on Rory, sharp and assessing. "You look... well. Considering."
"Considering what?" she challenged, crossing her arms .
"Considering our abrupt parting." He paced slowly, his cane tapping a soft rhythm on the worn floorboards. *Tick-tock, tick-tock *. "Such a hurried farewell. I confess, I was quite put out."
"You were put out?" Her voice rose, indignation bubbling over. "You tried to—" She cut herself off, remembering the unspoken rules, the secrets of their world. Not here. Not now.
"I merely offered a proposition," he purred, stopping directly in front of a hand-drawn diagram illustrating various demonic sigils. "One you, quite foolishly, declined." One long, elegant finger traced the crude lines of a summoning circle. "Amateurish. Eva truly needs to refine her technique."
"Leave Eva's work alone." Her voice was low now, a warning growl. "And answer the question, Lucien. Why are you here? If this is about that 'proposition' again, you can turn right around."
He sighed, a theatrical puff of air that ruffled a stray strand of her black hair. "Always so direct, *mon chou *." He turned, his eyes locking onto hers, intensity burning there . "Very well. I require your particular talents."
"My talents?" She scoffed. "Last time you saw my 'talents', you were trying to offer me a job I very much didn't want."
"Indeed. A position that would have greatly benefited us both." He moved closer, invading her personal space. She stood her ground this time, though every fibre of her being screamed for her to retreat. "But today, the stakes are... different. Higher." He reached out, his gloved hand hovering inches from her face, then dropped to pick up a discarded delivery receipt from the floor. "*Golden Empress *. Still running errands for Cheung, I see."
The casual observation stung, a reminder of her mundane existence after the whirlwind he'd introduced her to. "It pays the bills."
"Bills. Such a human concern." He let the receipt flutter back down. "My concern is rather more pressing. A certain item has gone missing."
"Not my problem."
"But it is." His voice dropped, losing its playful edge, becoming gravelly, dangerous. "This item... it poses a significant threat to certain factions. Factions who, should it fall into the wrong hands, would not hesitate to exact their pound of flesh from anyone even remotely connected to its disappearance. Including, I fear, your dear friend Eva. And by extension, you."
Rory’s breath hitched. Eva. No. "What are you talking about?"
He walked to the small kitchenette area, surveying the overflowing sink. "A rather powerful artefact. A relic, you might say, from the old world. It amplifies magical energy. In the wrong hands, it could tear a hole between realms." He turned back to her, all charm evaporated, replaced by cold, hard purpose. "Or unleash something far worse upon this dreary London of yours."
"And what makes you think I have anything to do with it?" Her voice was steady, despite the tremor starting in her hands.
"You have a distinctive way of finding things others cannot." He raised an eyebrow . "A knack for seeing patterns in chaos. For thinking... outside the usual parameters . I value that." He took another slow step toward her. "Also, the last known location of this artefact was... surprisingly close to your current, temporary residence."
A chill slithered down her spine . "Eva?"
"Perhaps." He leaned against the kitchenette counter, crossing his arms. The movement pulled the fabric of his suit tight across his broad shoulders. "Or perhaps a third party. But the whispers on the wind suggest a connection to Eva's recent, shall we say, *enthusiasm * for forgotten rituals."
"She'd never steal anything like that."
"Steal? Ah, *chérie *, you wound me. I never implied theft. Merely... misplacement. A misunderstanding. The artefact was under the... supervision... of someone rather particular. Someone who now believes Eva may have liberated it. And he is most displeased."
Rory pictured Eva, head buried in ancient texts, ignoring the world. It was entirely possible she'd stumbled upon something and, in her academic fervour, ‘liberated’ it without understanding the ramifications. God, what had she done?
"Who is 'he'?"
Lucien's amber eye flashed. "A name best not spoken too loudly in certain circles. Suffice to say, his displeasure manifests... destructively. And swiftly."
"And you just happened to know I was here?" she asked, her suspicion returning .
"A few well-placed enquiries," he shrugged, dismissing it. "Information is my currency, remember? And you, Aurora Carter, are a valuable asset in this particular transaction."
"I'm not an asset." The word felt like a brand .
"Of course not." He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between them again. This time, when he stopped, he was so close she could feel the heat radiating from him. His black eye was hypnotic, drawing her in, stripping away her resolve . "You're a force. A storm. Untamed." His voice was a low murmur, a caress. "Which is precisely why I need you."
The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken history, with the ghost of touches and whispered promises that had led to their bitter separation. Rory remembered the intoxicating danger of working with him, the thrill of stepping into his shadowy world, and the abrupt, painful crash when it all fell apart.
"There are others," she said, her voice a little breathy . "Fixers like you. More compliant."
"None with your particular brand of brilliance. Or your... fire." His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then returned to her eyes, leaving her breathless. "This isn't negotiable, Rory. If I don't retrieve this artefact, London becomes a very unpleasant place for many. Including Eva. And, should you continue to impede me, perhaps even you." His hand, cool despite its proximity, reached out and gently brushed against her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. "You wouldn't want to risk more scars, would you?"
The implied threat sent a shiver down her spine, but it also ignited a spark of defiance. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" He smiled, a genuine, unsettling flash of white teeth. "Try me." Still watching her, he reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal jacket and pulled out a small, ornate silver locket. It wasn't modern, its surface intricate with filigree and what looked like tiny, ancient runes . "This was found in Eva's flat, just hours ago. A gift, perhaps? From the man whose artefact has gone missing." He popped it open. Inside, a swirling, inky blackness pulsed , a tiny, contained void. A wave of cold, desolate energy washed over them, making the air in the flat suddenly heavy, oppressive .
Ptolemy hissed, flattening himself against his book tower, fur bristling.
Rory stared at the locket, at the palpable darkness within. This wasn't some trinket. This was *active *. And it was definitely not Eva's. Her throat tightened.
"He's been here," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sudden, frantic pounding of her own heartbeat. "He's already been in Eva's place."
"Indeed. And he left a calling card." Lucien closed the locket with a soft click, and the oppressive cold receded, leaving only the memory of its chill . "He knows what he's looking for. And he believes Eva has it." He took another step back, creating space, but the intensity in his eyes remained. "Now, are you with me, *Malphora *? Or will you allow your clever friend, and perhaps your entire city, to face his wrath alone?"
The silence stretched, broken only by Ptolemy's nervous chirps. The choice was a bitter pill. Work with the man who had burned her, or watch her friend and her fragile new life crumble. There was no real choice at all.
"Fine," she grit out, the word tasting like ash. "What do we do?"
His smile returned, sharper now, triumphant. "First, we must determine precisely what Eva has been dabbling in." He gestured towards the overflowing shelves. "And I suspect the answers lie somewhere within this... veritable bibliothèque of questionable academic integrity." He took one step towards the nearest stack of books before a sudden, ear-splitting crash from directly below them rattled the floorboards under their feet. The old building groaned, and a fine dust of plaster sprinkled down from the ceiling like corrupted snow.
Rory's eyes snapped to his. "What was that?"
Lucien's expression darkened. "It appears our friend is rather impatient." He reached for the ivory handle of his cane.