AI The bolt slid back with a metallic click, then another, and a third. Rory Carter pulled the heavy oak door inward, bracing herself for the usual Friday night symphony of Brick Lane: the distant thrum of traffic, the sharper cries of vendors packing up, the clatter from the curry house downstairs. Tonight, however, the air outside carried a different scent – something sharp and clean, like ozone after a storm, cutting through the familiar spices.
And standing just beyond the threshold, silhouetted against the dim glow of the hallway bulb, was Lucien Moreau.
His platinum blond hair slicked back, glinting under the weak light. His tailored charcoal suit looked entirely out of place on the grimy landing, as did the ivory-handled cane held loosely in his hand, its smooth surface seemingly absorbing the surrounding grime without effect. Rory’s breath caught, a faint whisper lost in the sudden silence that fell between them, heavier than the weight of the three deadbolts she had just disengaged.
"Lucien." The name was a question, a statement, a plea. Her bright blue eyes, usually sharp and assessing, widened fractionally, searching his face. The heterochromatic gaze met hers – one eye a warm amber, the other a startling, dark obsidian.
He offered a slight incline of his head, a gesture that was less a greeting and more an acknowledgment of her surprise.
"Aurora." His voice, a low murmur that still managed to command attention, was laced with an accent she knew well, from Marseille. It had always held an intoxicating danger. "You look... surprised."
She blinked, a tiny movement that barely disturbed the frozen tableau. Surprised didn't quite cover the tremor that ran through her, the sudden chill despite the humid London evening . "What are you doing here?" The question was sharp, cutting through the politeness. This was Eva's flat, a sanctuary of sorts, crammed with ancient books and scrolls, smelling perpetually of cardamom and forgotten lives. It wasn't a place Lucien Moreau should be.
He stepped forward, his polished shoes barely disturbing the threadbare rug. He didn't wait for an invitation, but then, he rarely did. He moved with an inherent grace, a predator ’s economy of motion concealed beneath impeccable tailoring. His amber eye seemed to catch a stray glint of light from the ‘Curry King’ neon sign across the street, while the black one remained an impenetrable void.
"A matter of mutual interest, perhaps?" His gaze swept around the cramped room, taking in the overflowing bookshelves, the stacks of papers threatening to slide from every horizontal surface, the faded cushions on the worn armchair. Ptolemy, Eva’s ginger tabby, emerged from beneath a precarious tower of leather-bound tomes, blinked at Lucien with the languid disdain only a cat can muster, then curled back into his slumber. Lucien’s lips twitched, a barely perceptible upward curve. "Ptolemy approves. He has excellent taste."
Rory stood rooted to the spot by the doorway now, her hand still resting on the cool wood. Her scar, a small crescent on her left wrist, felt suddenly sensitive, a phantom echo of childhood scrapes. She pulled her hand back, tucking it into the pocket of her worn denim jeans. "Mutual interest? Lucien, I haven't seen you in-" She stopped herself . Months. Or was it over a year? Time blurred when she tried to pin it down. Especially time involving him. "This is Eva's flat. She’s not here."
His attention returned to her, that impossibly steady gaze fixed on her face. He saw the flicker of confusion, the deeply buried hurt she tried to mask with a steely composure she usually reserved for dealing with difficult customers at the Golden Empress, or worse, her landlord. "I am aware Eva is not present. I was rather hoping *you * would be."
The air thickened, charged with unspoken history. The attraction that had always hummed between them, a dangerous current beneath layers of caution and mistrust, seemed to surge in the confined space. He knew how to push her buttons, how to unsettle her carefully constructed calm. And she, in turn, knew how to meet his cool detachment with a defiance that usually amused him.
"And what exactly did you think this 'mutual interest' entailed, showing up on a Friday night without so much as a warning?" Her voice remained level, betraying none of the jolt that had gone through her at the sight of him. She stepped aside, a grudging concession. The door, left ajar, began to swing shut with a soft click.
"Perhaps I wanted to gauge your reaction." He took another step inside, the cane tapping lightly on the floorboards. The sound was soft but deliberate, like a heartbeat in the sudden quiet. He moved towards the back of the small living area, his eyes scanning a particularly dense stack of papers on a cluttered desk. "Or perhaps I have information that requires your immediate attention. Information, I might add, that could prove rather... illuminating."
"Illuminating." Rory scoffed softly , too low for him to— she suspected he heard everything. He always did. She closed the door, the lock clicking shut definitively behind her, trapping them both in the narrow space with the scent of old paper and the lingering aroma of spices. "Your brand of 'illuminating' usually comes with a rather hefty price tag. And a trail of very complicated consequences." She pushed off the door frame, moving to lean against a bookshelf, willing herself to appear composed. Her shoulder brushed against the spines of ancient texts.
Lucien turned from the desk, his gaze snagging on the small, faded crescent scar visible just above the cuff of her sleeve where it had ridden up slightly . He didn't comment, but she saw his eyes linger for a fraction of a second. A ghost of something – recognition? Regret? – flickered across his features, gone before she could properly register it. He straightened, his posture effortless .
"Consequences are inherent to action, Aurora. You, of all people, should understand that. Particularly when certain... boundaries have been crossed." His tone was even, measured , carrying the weight of unspoken grievances. The air crackled. What boundaries? What had she crossed? Or had he?
"Boundaries?" She met his gaze directly, her intelligence kicking in, dissecting his words, searching for the lie, the manipulation. "You’re the one who likes playing in the greyest of shadows, Lucien. I just deliver parcels and try to keep my head down."
"And sometimes," he countered, his voice dropping almost to a whisper , "those parcels contain more than the customer expects. And keeping your head down doesn't shield you from the storm when the storm comes looking." He gestured with his cane towards a small, empty mug on a side table. "May I?"
It was a polite request, utterly at odds with the electrifying tension that still thrummed between them. She gave a curt nod, turning back to Eva's overflowing bookshelves, needing something to ground her. She picked up a heavy, leather-bound volume, its title too faded to read, and pretended to examine it.
Lucien moved to the small kitchen counter that served as Eva's workspace, peering at a heavily annotated map of London spread out amongst arcane diagrams. He poured water from a cheap kettle into the mug. His movements were precise, economical. He did not touch any of Eva’s notes, though his gaze lingered on them.
"The information I possess pertains to unusual currents stirring within the city's underbelly," he began, speaking with his back still to her. "Elements that ripple outwards, affecting more than just the usual players. Elements that, I believe, have already brushed against your own particular... deliveries."
Rory lowered the book. The Golden Empress. Her deliveries. She’d noticed odd things lately. Packages that seemed heavier than they should, clients who asked too many questions about the contents, routes that felt ... watched. She'd dismissed it as paranoia, the natural consequence of living above a bar in this part of London. But Lucien was never one for coincidence.
"You think my job has suddenly become dangerous?" She stepped away from the bookshelf, moving closer to the kitchen counter, closer to him. The cramped space felt smaller than ever. The faint scent of sandalwood and something else, something exotic and faintly metallic – Lucien’s personal scent, she realised – filled her senses, a disconcerting counterpoint to Eva’s incense.
He turned, holding the mug. He didn't drink. His heterochromatic eyes assessed her, a subtle appraisal that made her skin prickle. "Dangerous is a relative term, Aurora. You have a knack for finding yourself in the eye of the storm, whether you seek it out or not. You always have. And this storm brewing," he took a step towards her, closing the distance between them until they stood mere feet apart, the space between them humming with an almost visible energy. "This one is particularly potent. It touches upon ancient lineage. Things Avaros would deem… problematic."
Avaros. The realm Lucien’s father hailed from. A place neither human nor demon fully understood, a nexus of raw, untamed power. Rory swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. He rarely spoke of his heritage, and never so directly, never with such implication .
"My deliveries are for Yu-Fei Cheung. Nothing arcane," she stated, her voice firm, a deliberate grounding in mundane reality.
Lucien’s lips curved upwards, a genuine, if fleeting , smile that did little to soften the intensity of his gaze. "Are they? Or do you merely handle the final leg of a much longer, much older journey? Information, Aurora, travels on many routes. And sometimes, the delivery person becomes… integral to the package." He shifted his weight , leaning his hip against the counter, the ivory handle of his cane resting against his palm. The metal inlay on the handle gleamed faintly. "I came because *you * are integral. And because whatever this is, it’s too dangerous to navigate alone. And you , my dear Rory, tend to be rather stubborn when you believe you are in the right."
"And you 're offering your 'help'?" The sarcasm was thick, but beneath it hummed a dangerous curiosity. His offer; her history with him. It was a potent, volatile mix. She remembered the way he looked at her, the way he moved, the way he made her feel – seen, challenged, utterly captivated. And the crushing disappointment when that fascination curdled.
"I am offering counsel. And a way out. Or perhaps, a way *through *. The choice, as always, is yours." His amber eye held a challenge, the black a silent plea. This was Lucien. Always leaving her with impossible choices, always making her want what she knew she shouldn't. The air in Eva's cramped flat felt charged , heavy with the past and the volatile present he had so carelessly, deliberately , injected into her life.