AI The sharp, insistent rap against her door didn't sound like Silas, and it certainly wasn't the usual delivery driver dropping off the last of the day's Chinese. This was a precise, measured beat, like a hammer striking steel, repeated three times. Rory froze, mid-way through scrubbing a patch of stubborn grease from a frying pan. Her flat above the Golden Empress, usually a sanctuary of quiet after a long shift, felt suddenly exposed. Ptolemy the cat, usually curled asleep on the worn armchair, twitched his ears, green eyes narrowing in my direction from his perch.
She dried her hands on her apron, a cheap, food-stained thing, and moved towards the door. Three deadbolts, courtesy of Silas, clicked open, each one a small declaration of independence from whatever lurked outside. She peered through the peephole, her bright blue eyes widening just a fraction. The man standing there was a silhouette against the dim hallway light, but the impossibly tailored charcoal suit, the precisely slicked-back platinum blond hair, the subtle tilt of his head… there was no mistaking him. Recognition warred with a sudden, visceral unease that coiled in her gut like a cold serpent.
"Lucien." The name was barely a breath against the wood, a sound dredged up from a past she’d fought hard to bury.
The door swung inwards, not under her push, but under his smooth, almost imperceptible ingress. He didn't barge in, he simply *occupied * the space as if he’d always belonged there, his amber and black heterochromatic eyes taking in the cramped kitchen, the overflowing bookshelves, the general organised chaos of her life. The faint scent of sandalwood and something sharper, like ozone after a storm, clung to him. His ivory-handled cane tapped lightly against the linoleum floor.
"Rory," he replied, his voice a low, resonant rumble that bypassed her ears and vibrated somewhere deeper, a phantom echo of shared nights and whispered secrets. He didn’t smile. His expression was one of polite curiosity, the kind one might afford a particularly stubborn specimen under a microscope. "You seem… surprised."
"Surprised is an understatement," she managed, hooking a thumb in the waistband of her jeans, trying to project an air of calm she didn't feel. Her heart hammered an erratic rhythm against her ribs. "It's been… what? Three years?"
"Three years, two months, and seventeen days," he corrected, his gaze sweeping over her. It lingered for a fraction too long on the faint crescent moon scar on her left wrist as she shifted her weight . "You run a tight ship, it seems. For a delivery girl."
The jab, so typical of him, landed. It wasn't cruel, not overtly, but it was laced with the condescending familiarity of someone who saw her as a project rather than a person. "And you're still peddling information and looking like you stepped off a runway. Some things never change, Luc."
He inclined his head, a subtle gesture that acknowledged the barb without yielding ground. "One must maintain certain standards. Especially when navigating the less… savoury corners of this city." He took another step, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the worn rug. "Your current profession, however, is a slight departure from the legal aspirations we once discussed?"
"Life happens," Rory said, turning her back on him for a moment to deposit the frying pan in the sink. The gesture was deliberate, a small act of reclaiming her space. The water hissed as it hit the hot metal, a small, satisfying sound. "And some lives lead you down different paths. Didn't you once say something about destiny being a matter of perspective?"
"An observation I made shortly after you decided destiny involved a one-way ticket to London without so much as a forwarding address," he said, his voice losing none of its smooth cadence. He ran a gloved hand along the edge of her cluttered workbench, his touch impossibly light. "Eva's notes on abyssal cartography, if I recall correctly. You always were drawn to the dangerous unknowns."
He knew about Eva? And her research? A chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the ill-fitting window crept up her spine. Eva's flat was supposed to be a secret, a sanctuary for her occult studies, safe from prying eyes. "How do you know about Eva's notes?"
Lucien finally turned fully towards her, his heterochromatic eyes catching the meagre light. The amber side held a spark of something predatory, ancient. The black side seemed to absorb all light, all warmth . "My dear Rory, my business is knowing. It's about the whispers in the shadows, the threads that connect disparate points. And you and Eva, you’ve been leaving faint trails for some time now."
"What do you want, Luc?" she asked, pushing away from the sink. She walked past him, heading for the small living area where Ptolemy blinked imperiously from his armchair throne. The cat let out a low growl as Lucien’s scent permeated the air. "No pleasantries, no 'how have you been'. You don't do those things. So, what's the crisis that requires your particular brand of… intervention?"
He followed, his cane tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. "A rather significant one. It involves a missing artifact. A rather unique specimen, with a penchant for destabilising planar boundaries." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "And a rather significant group of interested parties who are willing to employ rather unsavoury methods to acquire it. Methods that are starting to attract the attention of certain… entities."
"Entities? Like demons?" The word felt ludicrous, absurd, coming from her lips. Yet, Lucien Moreau was standing in her tiny London flat, a half-demon himself, talking about artifacts and planar boundaries. Her carefully constructed reality, built on mundane deliveries and cheap Chinese food, felt like it was cracking at the seams .
Lucien let out a sound that might have been amusement, a low gurgle in his chest that didn’t reach his eyes. "That is a crude but not entirely inaccurate assessment, Rory. Your studies with Eva, while rudimentary, provided a foundation. You understand the risks better than most." He gestured vaguely with his cane towards the door. "Those who seek this artifact are careless. They stir things that should remain dormant. And when those things awaken, they tend to spill over. The ripples are already reaching the human realm with… unpleasant consequences."
He was talking about something she'd only read about in Eva's grimoires, dismissed as theoretical dangers. "And you’ve come to me because… ?"
"Because you have a particular knack for untangling knots others deem insoluble," he said, his gaze unwavering . "Because you possess a mind that sees patterns where others see chaos. And, perhaps," he allowed his gaze to drift, taking in the stacks of books, the faint glow of a laptop screen, the general aura of someone who *worked * with information, "because you have an uncanny ability to access places and people I cannot, or rather, with whom establishing direct contact would be… problematic."
"You want me to find this artifact. For you." The implication hung heavy. He wasn't asking ; he was stating . He was offering her a proposition, cloaked in the guise of necessity. "What if I don't want to be involved? What if I’ve moved on from all that?"
"You haven't," Lucien stated, his tone definitive . He stepped closer, the cane now resting by his side, the air between them charged with unspoken history. The subtle scent of ozone intensified. "I saw the reports. The uptick in unusual activity. The whispers you’ve been listening to yourself, from the periphery. You’ve been itching for something more, Rory. Something that requires more than a delivery route and a perpetually grumpy landlord."
He knew about the whispers. He *knew *. He’d always had a way of seeing through her defences, of unearthing the parts of herself she tried to keep hidden. His heterochromatic eyes seemed to see not just her, but the ambition and the fear tangled within.
"It's dangerous," she said, her voice barely a whisper , the words tasting like dust in her mouth. "The last time I got involved in your kind of 'business', it nearly broke me. You know what Evan did."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The scar on her wrist seemed to throb . Evan. An abusive ex, a ghost from her past. Lucien had pulled her out of that situation, slick and efficient , but with a cold detachment that had always unnerved her. He’d saved her, yes, but the cost, the methods, the way he looked at her afterwards… it was complicated.
"I am aware of your previous unpleasant entanglement," he said, his voice suddenly rougher, losing its polished edge for a fleeting moment. "Evan was a brute, a fool playing with forces he couldn't comprehend. This is different. This is… delicate. High stakes. And if this artifact falls into the wrong hands—hands that favour crude, violent acquisition—the damage would be catastrophic. Entire districts could be… re-arranged."
He held her gaze, and she saw it then – a flicker of genuine concern beneath the calculated facade . Or was it just another layer of his manipulation? With Lucien, it was so hard to tell. He was a puzzle box, intricate and dangerous, and she’d always been drawn to peeling back its layers, even when it meant being cut.
"Who are these 'interested parties'?" she asked, her mind already racing , replaying fractured memories of Eva's cryptic warnings, of hushed conversations overheard near Silas’ bar.
Lucien’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it tightened their corners, revealing a hint of something sharp and ancient. "That, my dear Rory, is where your unique talents come into play. The ones who operate in my shadows aren't always the best suited for light reconnaissance. And then there’s the matter of payment."
He reached inside his tailored jacket, pulling out a slim, unmarked envelope. He didn't offer it, just held it between thumb and forefinger. "Substantial. Enough to ensure you never have to worry about grease stains or early mornings again. Enough to… relocate. To start anew, somewhere far from the grime and the ghosts."
The offer was tempting. Terribly tempting. A clean slate, funded by whatever dark machinations Lucien Moreau was involved in. A life where she didn't have to constantly look over her shoulder. But the price… the price was always more than just money. It was getting entangled again, trading one set of dangers for another, likely far worse. And with Lucien, involvement always meant something more. A potent, destructive attraction that had simmered beneath the surface for years, a dark current she’d tried to dam up.
"And if I work with you," she began, trying to keep her voice steady, "what guarantee do I have that I won't end up another one of your… loose ends?"
He stepped even closer. The air grew thick, charged with an energy she hadn't felt since their last, explosive encounter . His heterochromatic eyes bored into hers, sharp and intense. "You don't have one, Rory. You never did. But you and I… we understand the risks. And you know, deep down, that this is the only path worth taking. The only path that matters, now."
His gaze dropped, his lips brushing provocially close to her ear. "Besides," he murmured, a hint of something wicked in his tone, "I find I miss your particular brand of chaos far too much to let you stay buried in anonymity."
A sudden crash from the street below, a screech of metal on metal, shattered the charged silence . Both their heads snapped towards the window. Distant shouts erupted, followed by the wail of sirens.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed , the flicker of the predator returning tenfold. "It seems," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, "that my associates have arrived prematurely. And they are not known for their patience. Or their subtlety." He turned back to Rory, his expression grim. "They are here for you, Rory. Or rather, for what they believe you know."
Rory’s blood ran cold . Not for her. For Eva. For the research. For everything she thought she’d left behind. The sounds from outside escalated – a guttural roar, a high-pitched scream, the sickening thud of something heavy hitting pavement. This wasn't just a negotiation anymore. This was an invasion.
"You said they were careless," Rory spat, her mind already shifting into survival mode . The apartment felt too small, too vulnerable. Ptolemy hissed, arching his back, eyes wide and fixed on the door.
"Indeed," Lucien said, his hand instinctively going to his cane, the ivory handle slick beneath his glove. His platinum blond hair seemed to gleam in the dim light. "And when a pack of starved hounds scents blood, they tend to make a rather… messy entrance." He met her gaze, the heterochromatic depths burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and undeniably magnetic . "Welcome back to my world, Rory. It seems the quiet life wasn't your destiny after all."
Another violent thud against the door, this time accompanied by the sickening sound of splintering wood. Then, a guttural, inhuman shriek echoed from the hallway, closer now, much closer. Rory braced herself, her gaze locked on Lucien's, the unspoken attraction now a cold dread laced with a primal instinct to fight. Silas's bar downstairs vibrated with the sudden commotion. The deadbolts wouldn't hold for long.