AI The knock wasn't Silas's usual heavy, impatient rap. It was softer, more deliberate, carrying an unfamiliar cadence that prickled the back of Rory’s neck. She paused, a damp dishcloth clutched in her hand, the smell of lemon and something vaguely of old grease clinging to the air in her small kitchen. Who could possibly be at her door this late? Not a neighbour—they usually just borrowed milk or shouted over the din from the pub downstairs. Not a delivery. Not a friend dropping by unannounced. Not this late.
Hesitantly, she padded down the short hallway, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. She peered through the peephole, her breath catching as shards of familiar , unsettling detail swam into focus. Platinum blond hair, perfectly slicked back from a forehead that seemed carved from marble . The sharp, tailored line of a charcoal suit. And then his eyes.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the deadbolts, their familiar metallic clicks echoing in the sudden stillness. Three of them. A clumsy, reassuring barrier. She turned the final lock, pulled the chain, and opened the door just enough to see.
Lucien.
He stood there on her landing, bathed in the dim, yellowish light of the hallway bulb, a stark , impossibly elegant silhouette against the peeling paint and indifferent wallpaper. It wasn’t just the expensive suit or the ivory-handled cane he held with practiced ease ; it was the sheer, audacious presence of him, shattering the quiet routine of her life. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a sudden, frantic rhythm that drowned out the distant thrum of music from Silas’s bar.
“Lucien?” The name was a breath, barely audible, lost in the sudden ache in her throat.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, but his gaze, arresting and intense, was serious. One eye blazed with a fierce, intelligent amber, the other was a deep, unnerving pool of black. “Aurora,” he acknowledged, his voice a low, resonant murmur that vibrated in the confined space.
She pulled the chain, the door swinging inwards a fraction more. “What are you doing here?” Her voice, though still shaky, managed to recapture a sliver of its usual cool edge. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of months, perhaps years, of silence and unanswered calls. “After… everything?” A vague sweep of her hand encompassed the chasm between them, the abrupt departure, the unanswered questions that had festered like old wounds.
“The space between us has only amplified necessity, not diminished it,” he replied, his words measured , deliberate. He took a small step forward, crossing the threshold without waiting for a formal invitation. His highly polished shoes made a soft, incongruous sound on the scuffed floorboards.
Rory retreated, pulling the door shut behind her. The triple thud of the deadbolts locking felt less like security and more like sealing herself in with a contained storm. His presence was an intrusion, his immaculate tailoring and the faint, sophisticated scent of his cologne cutting through the familiar , comforting aromas of stale beer and frying spices that inevitably wafted up from below. He surveyed her cramped living space – stacks of books migrating from shelves onto the floor, a vibrant half-finished embroidery project spilling from a basket, her worn delivery jacket slung carelessly over a chair. His gaze swept over it all, missing nothing.
“Necessity?” she echoed, turning to face him fully, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. The crescent scar on her left wrist, a faint white line hidden beneath her sleeve, felt suddenly prominent. “You just disappear for months, maybe years, then show up on my doorstep like some phantom from a past I’ve worked hard to outrun. What could possibly be so urgent?”
“This matter,” he began, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto hers, the amber flame seeming to deepen, “touches on the very roots of what you left behind in Cardiff. It touches upon the world I inhabit, and the promises I broke.”
“Promises you never bothered to explain,” she retorted, the old sting returning. She turned away, needing a distraction, heading towards the tiny kitchenette counter. “Can I get you something? Water, I think. I don’t exactly keep brandy for unexpected intruders anymore.” The barb hung in the air , sharp and intended.
He stepped closer, his movement surprisingly quiet, and reached out, his fingers brushing hers as she grasped a glass. A jolt, electric and immediate, shot up her arm. Rory’s breath hitched, her gaze snapping back to his. The amber pupil in his eye narrowed, sharp with recognition and something akin to regret . The black one seemed to widen, a dizzying vortex of hidden emotion, and she felt an involuntary tremor run through her. Her scar pulsed . He always saw too much.
“This entity,” Lucien said, his voice lowering, a rough rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor , “is ancient. It predates cities, laws, even most of the pacts that hold the supernatural world in check. It hungers for power, and it sees London, with its layers of history and its… vulnerabilities, as a ripe harvest. It knew my father, and through him, it knows weaknesses in me, in the veil between our worlds.”
“And it knows me because it knows you,” Rory finished, the pieces clicking into place with chilling clarity, like lock tumblers falling into place.
Lucien gave a curt nod. “Precisely. And because I made the mistake, the profound error, of leaving you unprepared for the edges of this world. You are a loose end, Aurora. Not because you did anything wrong, but because you have the intelligence and insight to see the truth, which makes you a danger to its plans. And because you are connected to me.”
Rory paced the small length of her living room, her bare feet padding on the worn rug. The bass from the pub downstairs pulsed a low, steady beat, a familiar soundtrack to her life. “Connected to you,” she repeated, the words tasting like ash. “You severed that connection with a clean cut, Lucien.”
“A cut I deeply regret,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the music . “I see the pain it caused you, and for that, I am truly sorry. I let my own fear and a misguided sense of protection override my better judgment. It was a failure of courage, on my part. And that is why I am here. Not to command, not to manipulate, but to offer you a choice . A chance to be safe. A chance to understand. And if you are willing, a chance to help me face this before it consumes everything.”
Her mind, always her sharpest tool, raced . The pre-law instincts, honed by a lifetime of circumstance. The out-of-the-box thinking she was known for. This was a threat, real and substantial, woven into the very fabric of London, the city that had become her refuge. And Lucien, the complicated, infuriating man who had both shattered and ignited her, was asking for her help. He was offering protection, true, but also a terrifying glimpse into a world she had tried so hard to forget, and a reconnection she desperately told herself she didn't want. But his gaze, steady and earnest, chipped away at her carefully constructed defenses. He was offering a truth, a purpose, and perhaps, a reckoning for them both.
“You expect me to just… jump back in?” she asked, the question sharp, laced with scepticism and a tremor of something that might have been fear, or maybe, a dangerous flicker of anticipation .
“I expect you to consider it,” he said. “To know that I *am * here. And that whatever comes, I will not abandon you again. That much is a promise this time.”
She stopped pacing, turning back to him. The intelligence in her bright blue eyes was sharp, analytical, assessing the man before her, the words he spoke, the implications for her future. But beneath the surface, something else flickered – a spark rekindled, a familiar , irresistible pull. The hurt was still there, a dull ache in her chest, but the raw attraction, the magnetic force he had always exerted, was undeniable. He was offering danger, yes, but also a connection, a depth, a terrifying partnership she hadn’t found anywhere else. A dangerous, profoundly complicated connection.
“I… need time to think, Lucien,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper .
“Of course,” he conceded, his gaze unwavering . “But I will not be far.” He reached inside his impeccably tailored jacket, his movements fluid, and produced a small, sleek silver card. “My secure line. It reaches me instantly.”
She took the card. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted it. The cool metal felt solid, a tangible link to the unseen world he inhabited. Her scar tingled again. “You always did know how to make an entrance, didn’t you?”
He offered a ghost of a smile, a hint of the charm that had once disarmed her so completely . “And you, Aurora, always knew how to keep me guessing.”
He turned then, the ivory of his cane tapping lightly on the floorboards as he walked towards the door. He paused, one hand on the knob, looking back at her. “The pieces of the past have a way of resurfacing, Rory. It’s best to face them when they do.”
He opened the door, stepping out into the cool London night. Rory stood in the sudden quiet of her flat, the silver card cool against her palm. The air still hummed with his spectral presence, the echo of his voice. The thrum of the bar downstairs seemed to recede, its familiar rhythm momentarily lost as the door clicked shut. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a chaotic tempest of fear, anger, and a dangerous, undeniable hope. He was back. And the past, indeed, had come knocking.