Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ957H2RH5XAG49PK5VY7F58

The third deadbolt clicked into place with a heavy thud that vibrated through the wood. Rory leaned her forehead against the door, the scent of turmeric and cumin from the curry house below seeping through the cracks. Beyond the wood, the chaotic noise of Brick Lane—shouted barters and the occasional screech of a motorbike—muffled her own ragged breathing. She reached down to scratch Ptolemy’s ears. The tabby cat sat on a stack of ancient, leather-bound scrolls, his yellow eyes tracking a moth circling the dim overhead light. A rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoed from the other side of the door. Rory froze. Her hand tightened around the brass handle. That sequence—two sharp raps followed by a dragging pause—belonged to a man who lived in the shadows of the city’s supernatural commerce. She hadn't heard that sound in six months. Not since the rain-slicked docks of the Thames, where words like *collateral* and *mistake* had severed whatever fragile thread connected them. The tapping repeated. Rory reached for the first deadbolt. The metal felt ice-cold. She worked the locks in reverse order, the mechanical groans filling the tiny entryway. When the final latch retracted, she pulled the door back just enough to peek through the gap. Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow hallway like a jagged piece of midnight. His platinum hair caught the flicker of the hallway’s dying fluorescent bulb, glowing silver against the charcoal wool of his tailored coat. The ivory handle of his cane rested beneath a gloved hand. He didn't look like a man who had been missing for half a year; he looked like a king waiting for an audience in a tenement slum. "The locks took longer than usual, Rory. One might think you were expecting someone less persistent." "One might think the message I left on your voicemail in October was clear enough to keep you in Mayfair." Rory pushed the door wider, her shoulder bracing against the frame. She didn't invite him in. Her pulse hammered against the crescent scar on her left wrist, a phantom itch she refused to scratch. Lucien tilted his head. The amber eye studied her with a predatory stillness, while the black one seemed to swallow the dim light of the landing. "The voicemail was... evocative. Your command of certain Anglo-Saxon adjectives has always been a point of admiration for me." "I have a few more saved up if you don't turn around and walk back to the Underground." Lucien didn't move. Instead, his gaze drifted past her, scanning the cramped interior of Eva’s flat. He took in the precarious towers of books, the unwashed tea mugs, and the way the shadows pooled in the corners where the magical wards hummed under the floorboards. "You look tired. London hasn't been kind to you since you fled the Golden Empress shift this afternoon." Rory’s grip on the door tightened until her knuckles turned the color of parchment. "You’re stalking me now? That’s his trick, Lucien. I thought you had more original hobbies." The mention of her ex brought a brief, sharp flicker of movement to Lucien's jaw. He stepped forward. He didn't wait for permission; he simply occupied the space Rory occupied, his height forcing her to step back or be brushed by his sleeve. She chose the step back, a retreat that tasted like copper in her mouth. Lucien entered the flat, the tip of his cane clicking softly on the hardwood. Ptolemy hissed, fur rising in a ridged spine, and vanished behind a chest filled with counterfeit Victorian coins. "I don't stalk, Aurora. I monitor my investments. When a delivery girl with your specific... pedigree... starts ignoring the whispers of the Avaros syndicates, I take note." He turned to face her as she slammed the door shut, throwing the bolts back home with more force than necessary. The flat felt smaller with him in it. The air grew heavy, charged with the ozone scent of his demon heritage. "I’m not an investment. I’m a person trying to finish a degree and pay rent in a city that wants to eat me alive." "You were never just a person to me." The words dropped between them, heavy and unpolished. Lucien reached up, his fingers hovering near the lapel of his coat before he seemed to think better of it. He looked at a stack of Eva’s research notes on the coffee table, his expression unreadable. "You left the docks before I could explain the contract. You assumed the worst because it’s your default setting." "I assumed what I saw. You were shaking hands with the people who tried to sell my soul to a fractured mirror. Don't tell me I have a default setting when you have a price tag for every person in this zip code." Rory walked past him, her elbow brushing his arm. The contact sent a jolt through her that she masked by busying herself with a kettle in the tiny kitchenette. Her hands shook as she filled it with water. "Why are you here, Lucien? Truly. No riddles. No broker-talk." "The ward on your bedroom window is failing." The kettle hit the stove with a metallic clang. Rory turned, her eyes narrowed. "What?" "The perimeter Eva set up. It’s thinning. The silver thread is frayed at the corner of the sash. Anyone with a drop of Avaros blood or a grudge could peel it back like wet paper." Lucien moved toward her, his movements fluid and precise. He stopped just outside the kitchen’s narrow threshold. The amber of his left eye seemed to glow with a dull, subterranean heat. "Evan is in London, Rory." The name hit her like a physical blow. The water in the kettle began to hiss, a low, rising whistle that mimicked the sudden ringing in her ears. She leaned against the counter, her fingers digging into the laminate. "He doesn't know where I am. Eva’s place is hidden. The bar, the deliveries—I’ve been careful." "Careful is a relative term when a man is willing to burn down half of East London to find his missing property." Lucien took another step. He was close enough now that she could smell the expensive tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of his power. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering near her cheek before he settled it on the counter beside her. "I’ve spent the last six months making sure he looked in the wrong places. Every lead he followed, I planted. Every contact he bribed, I bought first." Rory looked up at him, her black hair falling over her face. "You did that for me? After how I talked to you? After I told you to go to hell?" "I'm half-way there on a good day, Rory. The scenery is familiar." He didn't smile. Lucien didn't do something as vulnerable as smiling. But the tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction of a millimeter. "I didn't come here for gratitude. I came because the diversions are failing. He’s closing the gap." "And you think I need you to save me?" Rory’s voice was a low rasp. She stepped into his personal space, her chest nearly touching the fine wool of his waistcoat. She looked up at him, her blue eyes defiant despite the tremor in her ghost-pale hands. "I spent twenty years being 'protected' or 'managed.' I came to London to be my own disaster." "Then be a disaster. But be a living one." Lucien’s hand finally moved. He stripped the glove from his right hand, revealing skin that looked human but felt like heated marble. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing the line of her jaw. The heat of him poured into her, a seductive, dangerous warmth that made her want to lean in and scream all at once. "He’s at the Ten Bells, Rory. He’s asking about the girl from the Golden Empress." Rory’s breath hitched. The mundane world of delivery bikes and takeaway boxes slammed into the terrifying reality of her past. She felt the apartment’s walls closing in, the smell of curry now sickeningly sweet. "He found me." "Not yet. He’s found a ghost. I can make sure that ghost vanishes for good, but I need you to stop running from me long enough to listen." Lucien’s fingers lingered on her neck, his pulse a steady, rhythmic thrum against her skin. Rory reached up, her hand closing around his wrist. She felt the strength there—the inhuman power held back by nothing but a tailored suit and a silver-topped cane. "Is this another contract, Lucien? Another deal where I find out later what I’ve traded away?" "No deals tonight. Just a reminder." He leaned down, his face inches from hers. The heterochromatic eyes locked onto hers, demanding she look at the truth of him. "You think I’m the monster at the door. You’ve forgotten I’m the one who keeps the other monsters out." Rory didn't pull away. She tightened her grip on his wrist, pulling him a fraction closer until their foreheads touched. The air between them vanished, replaced by the crackling energy of a storm about to break. "I haven't forgotten anything, Lucien. That’s the problem." The kettle began to shriek, a high-pitched alarm that shattered the silence. Neither of them moved to stop it. The sound filled the cramped flat, drowning out the noise of the street, the ticking of the scrolls, and the heavy, ragged sound of two people breathing in the dark. Lucien slid his hand from her jaw to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her straight black hair. He didn't kiss her, but the threat—or the promise—of it hung in the air like a bared blade. "You should have stayed in the shadows, Rory. It was safer there." "I don't want safe. I want to be able to walk down Brick Lane without looking over my shoulder." "Then let me handle the Ten Bells." Rory pulled back just enough to look at him, her blue eyes searching his face for the broker, the liar, and the man who had sat with her on a pier six months ago and told her about the stars in Marseille. "If you go there, you start a war. The Avaros won't like you interfering with a human dispute." "Let them dislike it. I’ve always found their disapproval to be a mark of good character." Lucien straightened, pulling his hand away and reaching for his discarded glove. The sudden absence of his heat felt like a physical chill. He tapped his cane once on the floor, the sound sharp and final. "Stay inside. Lock the three deadbolts. And for the love of whatever gods you still pray to, fix the ward on the window. I left a vial of crushed obsidian and salt on the doorstep. Use it." "Lucien." He paused at the door, his hand on the final lock. He didn't turn around. "If you die because you’re too stubborn to use my salt, I’ll never forgive you for the wasted potential." "I was going to say thank you." He didn't respond with words. He simply opened the door, the cool, spice-laden air of the hallway rushing in to meet the demon-heat of the flat. He stepped out into the shadows, his charcoal coat blending into the gloom, leaving Rory standing in the center of the room with the screaming kettle and the weight of everything they hadn't said still pressing against her chest. She walked to the window and looked down. The street was a blur of neon and movement, but she caught the silver glint of a platinum head moving through the crowd, parting the masses like a shark in shallow water. She reached for the latch, feeling the fraying energy of the magic he’d warned her about. Rory didn't fix the ward immediately. She watched him until he vanished around the corner toward the Ten Bells, her hand resting on the glass, her heart beating a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like a name. Across the room, Ptolemy hopped onto the stack of scrolls, his tail twitching as he watched his mistress. Rory finally turned off the stove. The silence that followed was louder than the kettle’s scream ever was. She walked to the front door, picked up the small glass vial left on the threshold, and held it to the light. The black salt shifted like sand in an hourglass. She had six months of hurt to settle, a demon-hunter at her heels, and a half-demon broker fighting her battles in a pub three blocks away. She didn't feel safe, but for the first time since she’d arrived in London, her lungs felt like they finally had room to expand. She began to pour the salt.