AI The screech of the lock yielded, and the door swung inward.
Aurora Carter stood framed in the narrow opening, her expression pinching at the sudden intrusion. The dim light from the hallway spilled over the chipped paint of her doorframe, illuminating the stark disbelief hardening her bright blue eyes.
Then her gaze cleared, sharpening into something far more dangerous. Lucien Moreau stood on her doorstep, a silhouette against the muted glow of the London night. He was, as ever, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that seemed to drink the scant light . His platinum blond hair was slicked back, glinting under the solitary bulb. And his eyes, one amber, one black, held hers with an unnerving stillness. He didn't look like he belonged in this cramped hallway above Silas's pub. He looked like he belonged on a different plane of existence entirely.
***
"Lucien." The name was a tight exhale, barely a whisper , yet it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken arguments.
He offered a semblance of a smile, a fleeting , predatory curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Aurora. Or should I say Malphora? The delivery girl business suits you, though hardly the grand title your lineage commands."
Her hand clenched on the doorframe, knuckles whitening. "What are you doing here?" It was a demand, stripped of any politeness. The familiar scent of stale ale and fryer grease wafted up from the bar below, a stark contrast to the subtle, sophisticated fragrance that clung to him – something like dark leather and expensive absinthe. "It's been three years."
"Has it?" He tilted his head, the ivory handle of his cane tapping a soft, impatient rhythm against the grimy linoleum. "Time flies when one is... otherwise occupied." His gaze swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the worn fabric of her jumper, the smudge of grease on her cheek. "You look well, Rory. Still running. Still hiding in plain sight."
"I'm not hiding," she retorted, her voice low and steady, a carefully constructed dam against the surge of chaotic emotions his appearance provoked. Relief, anger, a treacherous flicker of something far older and more dangerous. "Unlike some, I don't deal in shadows. I deliver parcels."
"Ah, yes. Parcels. How quaint." He stepped forward, and whether intentionally or not, his presence seemed to expand, filling the narrow space. His heterochromatic eyes narrowed slightly , assessing her. "But shadows find us all eventually, don't they? Especially when one carries as much baggage as you do."
The jab landed, sharp and precise. Her childhood friend Eva always said Rory thought too much, that she over-analysed everything. But Lucien's barbs were never accidental; they were surgical strikes aimed at her most vulnerable points. "What do you want, Moreau?"
"To settle a debt," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that vibrated with an undercurrent of something akin to threat . He took another step, his polished shoe nearly touching her worn trainers. Her small crescent scar, usually hidden by her sleeve, felt suddenly exposed, thrumming with a phantom ache. "Or perhaps, to collect one."
Aurora's breath hitched. His proximity was unnerving. His half-demon heritage was a rumour mostly, whispered among those who dealt with him, but she knew enough of the world he inhabited to recognise the subtle wrongness, the unnatural stillness, the predatory grace. It had once set her teeth on edge, and now, it made her blood sing with a dark, unwelcome thrill.
"I don't owe you anything." Her words were a defiance, a lie she needed to believe.
"Don't you?" He chuckled, a low, resonant sound. His gloved hand reached out, not quite touching her, but hovering inches from her face . She caught the scent of ozone, faint but distinct, like the air after a lightning strike. "You left. Without a word. You vanished, taking secrets with you that weren't entirely yours to carry."
Her jaw tightened. He was referencing Evan, her abusive ex, and the mess she'd fled. But he'd been out of the picture for a long time. Lucien knew about that? He always knew too much. "That has nothing to do with you."
"Everything has to do with me, Malphora," he corrected, his tone silken . His eyes gleamed. "You were meant to stay. You were meant to play your part. And then you ran. Like a frightened sparrow from a hawk."
"And you're the hawk now?" she scoffed, trying to regain footing, trying to push him out of her space, out of her life. She reached for the door, intending to slam it shut, but he anticipated the move. His hand, cool and immaculately dressed in stretched grey leather, shot out, clamping onto the edge of the door just before it closed. The force of it was surprising, solid and unyielding.
His body blocked the gap entirely. She could feel the subtle warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool night air seeping in. He was taller than she remembered, his presence more commanding. He looked utterly undeterred, settled in as if he intended to spend the night.
"Your little act of rebellion cost me," he continued, his voice dangerously smooth . "And now, the powers that be are most displeased. Apparently, my discretion comes at a price, and you, my dear Rory, represent a significant outstanding balance."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs . She hated this feeling, this helplessness. She'd spent years building a life where she wasn't defined by others' debts or manipulations.
"Oh, but you do." His thumb traced the grain of the wood on the door. "Remember what I told you about the tapestry ? And the threads that bind us all? You pulled one, Aurora. A rather crucial one."
He pushed the door open further, stepping inside without invitation. The scent of old books and cheap brewing coffee filled the air, a domestic aroma that seemed to offend his refined senses . He moved with a liquid grace, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the worn furniture and overflowing bookshelves. Rory backed away, her senses on high alert. The small crescent scar on her left wrist pulsed , a reminder of a past she tried to outrun.
Lucien paused beside a precarious tower of ancient tomes, his gloved fingers brushing against a leather-bound volume. "You thought you could simply disappear, Aurora. Shed your skin like some common reptile, and leave the consequences behind. But you owe more than just a mundane favour. You owe the balance of existence."
She finally found her voice, a raw edge to it. "What the hell are you talking about? Evan?"
His laugh was a quiet, chilling sound. "Evan was a storm in a teacup, darling. Your true storm, the one that's been brewing, is far larger than you comprehend. And the time for reckoning has arrived." He turned, his gaze sweeping over her again, more scrutinising this time . "You ran from an abuser, Rory. A common, pitiable human abuser. But you ran from so much more. You ran from *us *. From what you are."
"I don't know what you mean," she said, though a cold dread began to coil in her stomach . He’d always had a way of striking at the heart of her unease, of her carefully constructed denial.
"Of course you do." He closed the distance between them, his amber eye glinting in the dim light. "That little scar on your wrist. A childhood accident, you tell people. But was it?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek, carrying the hint of aged spirits. "Or was it a warning? A first inkling of the power you kept suppressed, the power you inherited along with your… certain delicate sensibilities?"
Aurora recoiled, bumping against a cluttered desk. Her hand, reaching for purchase, knocked over a pile of papers. They scattered across the floor, obscuring the already precarious footing.
Lucien didn't flinch, his eyes unwavering . "You can't outrun your heritage, Malphora. It's woven into your very soul, a part of the grand design." He paused, his gaze flicking towards the window, then back to her . He seemed to be listening to something she couldn't hear, a faint tremor passing through him. A subtle shift, like the air before a storm.
"They're coming," he stated, his voice suddenly devoid of its smooth charm , sharp and urgent. "And they won't be as… patient as I am."
Aurora stared at him, bewildered, her mind struggling to process his words, his sudden, terrifying presence. "Who is coming?"
He ignored her, his attention fixed on some unseen threat. He glanced at the door, then back at her, his expression hardening. "We need to move. Now." He reached out, his cool, gloved fingers brushing her arm, sending a jolt, not of fear, but of something electric straight through her . "Unless you wish to explain to them why a half-demon fixer is lingering in your flat."
The implication hung heavy in the air , crackling with unspoken danger. The history between them, the unresolved pain and potent attraction, the secrets they both guarded, all coalesced into this single, terrifying moment. He wasn't just asking for something; he was bringing trouble to her very doorstep. And the trouble was already here.
"What do you mean, 'they'?" Rory demanded, though her voice was losing its earlier conviction . The calm facade was beginning to crack under the pressure of his unnerving arrival.
"The ones who keep score," Lucien said, his gaze flicking towards the window again . "The ones who don't like loose ends. And you, my dear Aurora, are a very loose, very valuable end." He grabbed her hand, his grip surprisingly strong, the ivory handle of his cane digging into the palm of his other hand. "Come. We have no time for pleasantries. Or for explaining the arcane machinations that led you to this point. Your past, it seems, has finally caught up. And it brought friends."
The floorboards above their heads creaked. Not the familiar shifting of a neighbour, but a heavy, deliberate tread . Lucien’s head snapped up, his casual demeanour vanishing entirely. His grip tightened on her arm, his pupils dilating as he scanned the ceiling.
"Too late," he hissed, his voice shifting from silken menace to something far more primal. "They found us already."
A deafening crack shattered the quiet, and the ceiling above them groaned, plaster raining down into the room. A jagged hole tore open, widening with alarming speed as something heavy, metallic, and unmistakably dangerous plummeted through. Rory screamed, instinctively pulling back, but Lucien held her fast, his amber eye fixed on the descending object. "Get down!" he roared, shoving her roughly behind a sturdy , albeit dust-covered, oak desk. Just as her back hit the worn wood, the object crashed onto the floor where she had been standing moments before, obliterating the carpeted floorboards with a deafening impact. Hot metal fragments sprayed in every direction, and the air filled with the acrid smell of scorched earth and something alien. The sound was deafening , the shockwave rattling the very foundations of the building. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs, trapped not just by Lucien’s grip, but by the sheer terror of the world collapsing around her . This wasn’t just a visit; this was an invasion.