AI Rory twisted the last deadbolt, the bolt shuddering in its casing, before she gripped the cold metal doorknob. Ptolemy wound through her ankles, a purring shadow, his tail a question mark against her calf. She pulled the door inward, expecting to see nothing but the dim glow of the landing light and the stained wallpaper she knew by heart. Instead, Lucien Moreau filled the frame.
He stood there, a tailored charcoal suit a stark contrast to the peeling paint. His platinum blond hair, slicked back from his brow, caught the bare light bulb’s glare. One eye, amber, held hers; the other, a depthless black, gave nothing away. His ivory-handled cane rested against the doorframe, a silent sentinel . The scent of rain and an expensive cologne drifted into the cramped flat. Rory’s breath hitched. She had not seen him in four months, not since the incident with the cultists down in the sewers when he’d told her , with a chilling calm, that she was out of her depth and needed to disappear from his world.
"Lucien," Rory’s voice came out quieter than she intended, a husk of sound. Ptolemy, sensing the shift in her demeanour, stopped purring, rubbing his head hard against her shin, an attempt at reassurance.
He offered a curt nod, his gaze flicking past her , sweeping across the crowded space of Eva’s flat. Books piled high on every surface, scrolls unfurled over a map on the coffee table, research notes tacked to the wall beside the front door. The scent of old paper and lukewarm curry from the restaurant below hung heavy in the air .
"Aurora." His voice, a low rumble, wrapped around her , its familiar French cadence sending a shiver down her spine . "A pleasure, as always." The words were polite, almost dismissive, but the amber eye held a flicker she once knew. Or believed she knew.
Rory tightened her grip on the doorknob. "You have a remarkable sense of timing. Didn't think you favoured unannounced visits."
He stepped past the threshold, a sudden invasion of her personal space. The air in the narrow hallway thickened. Rory instinctively backed up, bumping against the stack of grimoires beside the coat rack. Ptolemy, startled, darted under a precarious tower of occult texts. Lucien did not comment on her retreat. His gaze landed on a framed photo on the top of a wobbly bookcase—Rory and Eva, laughing, beer festival. His lips, thin and precise, twitched.
"Circumstances dictate certain… deviations from my usual protocol," he said, turning back to face her , his height suddenly more imposing in the small space. His fingers idly trailed along the ivory handle of his cane, a familiar gesture that spoke of a suppressed energy.
"Meaning you needed something badly enough to forget your manners," Rory shot back, straightening her spine, pushing down the unexpected surge of old anger. "Or your concern for my safety. Last time we spoke, you felt I was too fragile for your world, if you recall."
A shadow crossed his sharp features, a fleeting expression she couldn't quite decipher . "My concern remains. It is precisely *because * of those concerns I find myself here." His voice remained level, devoid of the emotion that clawed at Rory’s throat.
Rory crossed her arms, a defensive posture. "What do you need, Lucien? Because I'm guessing this isn't a social call. You’re typically better at goodbyes than hellos."
His gaze dropped to her left wrist, lingering on the small crescent-shaped scar just visible beneath the cuff of her jumper. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "A specific piece of information. Eva’s research is… extensive. And she recently acquired a rare manuscript concerning a particular entity."
"Eva’s not here," Rory pointed out, her voice tight . "She’s at that conference in Edinburgh. I’m just looking after Ptolemy." She paused, then , "And the books."
"Indeed. I was aware of her absence." He took another step forward, closing the remaining distance between them . Rory could smell the crisp scent of his starched shirt, the faint spice of his cologne. His shadow enveloped her . "Which is why I addressed myself to you . You are … familiar with her methods. Her library. Her unique filing system, or lack thereof." The corners of his mouth lifted, a ghost of a smile, and for a terrifying second, Rory felt a warmth spread through her . The same warmth that had led her to ignore every red flag, every warning bell, four months ago.
"And you expect me to just… hand over whatever you want?" She shook her head, forcing the warmth away. "After you basically told me to get lost? That I wasn't cut out for ‘this’?" She gestured vaguely around the room, encompassing the occult chaos. "You made it very clear you didn't want my help."
"My priorities shifted," Lucien said, his amber eye holding hers, unwavering . "The current situation is… delicate. And time sensitive." He paused, his gaze softening, just imperceptibly . "I admit, my previous counsel was … blunt. Perhaps overly so."
"Blunt? That’s one word for it," Rory scoffed. "Arrogant, maybe. Condescending, definitely. But blunt works."
He dipped his head slightly . "I apologise for any distress my candour caused. My intention was to protect you ."
"From what? From *your * world? Or from *you *?" The words spilled out, raw with the hurt she had bottled up. She watched his expression for a crack, a flicker of genuine regret, but his face remained a mask of controlled composure.
"From the dangers inherent in my world," he clarified, his voice still low, measured . "Dangers I would never wish upon you . You are not equipped for that life, Aurora. Not as I am."
"And you think I don't know that?" Rory threw her hands up, then quickly brought them down as a stack of scrolls tottered precariously. "I’m a delivery driver, Lucien. I deliver noodles. I know full well I'm not a half-demon information broker with a secret blade in his cane." She gestured to the cane leaning against the doorframe. "You think I want to be? I just wanted to help. I *was * helping. Until you decided I wasn't worth the trouble."
He picked up his cane, turning it in his hand, his long, elegant fingers caressing the ivory handle. The gesture was both casual and intensely focused. "That was never my assessment. You are … capable. Resourceful. Your quick thinking has extricated us from difficult situations before. I simply wished to spare you further exposure."
"Oh, now I'm 'capable'?" Rory’s frustration bubbled over. "It’s a bit late for compliments, Moreau. A bit late for apologies, too, if we're being honest. What makes you think you can just waltz back in here and demand my assistance after… after what you said?"
He took another step, closing the space he had previously given her . Only an inch separated them now . Rory felt the heat radiating from his body, the faint, earthy scent that clung to him beneath the cologne. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the fragile peace she’d carefully constructed .
"Because the stakes are too high," he murmured, his eyes locking with hers, the amber one intense, the black one swallowing light. "And because , Aurora, you are the only one I trust to navigate Eva's… organisational chaos. I require a specific tome, a leather-bound volume with a silver clasp, detailing the summoning rituals of a succubus-class demon. One that recently became rather… inconvenient for a certain individual."
Rory stared up at him, her mouth dry. "A succubus-class demon? You're joking."
"I assure you , I am not," he stated, a hint of weariness in his tone . "The individual in question managed to acquire the summoning materials but neglected to secure the banishing rites. My client is… eager to reverse this oversight. And the timeline, I reiterate, is aggressive."
Her mind, despite the anger, despite the thumping heart, began to work, sifting through the mental catalogue of Eva's library. A silver clasp. Succubus summoning. That sounded vaguely familiar . Eva had been obsessively cataloguing texts based on magical classification for weeks.
"And if I find it?" she asked, her voice low, challenging him . "Then what? You take your book, you disappear again? Until the next time you need a glorified librarian?"
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name passing through his eyes . For a moment, the smooth façade of the unflappable fixer slipped. "My presence, Aurora, is not merely dictated by necessity. My estimation of you is… considerable. My concern, genuine. Even if my expression of it leaves much to be desired."
She searched his face, wanting to believe him, wanting to find the truth in his words. But the past four months had taught her to guard her heart, to remember the sting of his dismissal. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a physical echo of a childhood misstep, seemed to throb with a phantom ache.
"You're not exactly known for subtle expressions, Lucien," Rory said, a brittle laugh escaping her lips . "And you *are * here out of necessity. You just admitted it."
"Both can be true," he countered, his voice a silken thread, weaving around her . "One does not preclude the other. And I find myself, currently, in a position where I have both a necessity and… a hope."
Rory felt a dizzying flush creep up her neck. A hope? From Lucien Moreau? The man who had ice in his veins and kept emotions locked away like forbidden secrets. She tilted her chin up, meeting his intense gaze.
"A hope for what, exactly?" she pressed, needing to push him, needing to see if he would break, if he would finally give her something real, something more than the calculated words of a fixer.
He remained silent for a long moment, simply looking at her . His eyes, one amber, one black, seemed to penetrate her very core. The air vibrated between them , charged and heavy. Ptolemy, having emerged from his hiding spot, weaved curiously between Lucien’s impeccably shined shoes, batting playfully at the tip of his cane, oblivious to the human tension .
"For understanding," Lucien finally said, his voice dropping to a near whisper , intimate in the cramped space. "For an opportunity to explain myself, beyond the exigencies of a life… such as mine."
Rory’s breath caught. Understanding. Explanation. Those were words she had longed to hear, words that had echoed in her mind after he cut her out of his life. But he had chosen *now *, when he needed something from her . The timing, as she had pointed out earlier, was remarkably convenient.
"And you think *now * is the time?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "When a succubus is running rampant and your client is panicking? That’s when you decide you want to explain?"
He offered a small, almost imperceptible shrug, a very un-Lucien-like gesture. "Perhaps. Sometimes, urgency brings clarity. And perhaps I judged my own ability to… manage certain proximities, unfairly. To my detriment."
The admission, however slight, hit Rory with the force of a physical blow. *Manage certain proximities.* He meant *her *. He meant *them *. He meant whatever dangerous, compelling spark had flared between them , threatening to consume them both. He had been afraid of it, or for her , or both.
"You really expect me to believe that?" she whispered, her voice fragile, the anger momentarily eclipsed by a different, more potent emotion.
"I expect you to believe my sincerity in this moment, Aurora. The rest… the rest we can discuss once we are not under threat of a rampaging demonic entity." He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips, before swiftly returning to her eyes. "But first, the book."
He had not quite answered her, not truly . He had sidestepped the deepest part of her question, the part that asked if he felt anything, if he still felt anything for *her *, beyond her utility for his work. Yet, the way he looked at her , the sudden shift in his posture, the slight tremor in his voice – it was enough to make her waver. The faint scent of rain and him, unique and intoxicating, wrapped around her , pulling her close. The three deadbolts on the door, designed to keep danger out, felt suddenly flimsy against the force of his presence.
Rory bit the inside of her cheek. Ptolemy rubbed against Lucien’s ankle again, purring loudly, as if approving of the human interaction . She hated that she wanted to help him, despite everything. She hated that his mere presence had shattered her hard-won composure. But the stakes *were * high. And he was here.
"Fine," Rory conceded, crossing the small space to the stacked books. "But this is purely professional, Lucien. Got it? We find your book, and then we talk. Properly."
Lucien’s serious expression softened, just a fraction. A faint, almost imperceptible light entered his amber eye. He did not speak, but merely offered another of his curt, precise nods. He watched her as she began to navigate the labyrinthine shelves and precarious stacks of Eva's flat, hunting for the silver clasp among the towering spines.