Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTYK57X8S76MBSEBBVB46NW

The top deadbolt clicks loose under her thumb, the chain still looped through the metal eye above the doorknob because no one except Eva and the occasional Golden Empress regular dropping off extra ginger ever knocks here at 7:42 PM. She’d just finished tucking Ptolemy’s cream knit blanket over his curled-up form atop a stack of dog-eared 19th-century grimoires, and the chill of Eva’s scuffed linoleum seeps through the holes in her frayed delivery socks. The sharp, spicy tang of chicken vindaloo drifts up through the floorboards from the curry shop below, mixing with the faint, sweet mold of old paper that clings to every surface of Eva’s Brick Lane flat—every counter, every windowsill, even the armrest of the worn velvet couch, crammed between stacks of poetry books and loose research scrolls. When she yanks the door open an inch, ready to apologize for Eva running late with her teaching assistant shift, the face that stares back stops her mid-sentence. Lucien Moreau stands on the step, his slicked-back platinum blond hair slightly rumpled at the temples—unusual, for a man who prided himself on being as crisp and polished as the ivory-handled cane propped against his calf. His tailored charcoal suit is still immaculate, but the cuff of his left sleeve is frayed, and there’s a smudge of inky demon ash along the edge of his jaw. His heterochromatic eyes lock onto hers: one the warm amber of a sunset over the Seine, the other a deep, inky black that makes her skin prickle, just like it did the first time they met in a Soho alley behind a drag bar, when she’d dropped off a late-night delivery of dumplings and he’d asked her to help him track a stolen grimoire. Cedar and bergamot cologne wraps around her, the same scent that used to linger on her leather delivery jacket after they’d spent late nights huddled over his laptop, him explaining the rules of the supernatural underworld she’d never known existed, her head resting on his shoulder as she sipped bad office coffee. For a beat, neither of them speaks. She’s already reaching to slam the door shut, his name a sharp hiss on her tongue, but he shoves the ivory tip of his cane into the gap before she can seal it, the wood scraping against the painted wood frame. “Rory,” he says, his voice low, even, the same smooth baritone that used to make her forget about Evan, about the quiet dread of coming home to his angry shouts, about the way she’d hidden her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist under long sleeves for months after he’d grabbed her wrist and called it a “freakish little mark.” She tugs her left sleeve down harder, the cotton stretching across her bicep, and glares at him through the narrow gap. “What are you doing here?” He pauses, his amber eye flicking to the way she’s hidden her wrist, and for a second, she sees something flicker across his face—regret, maybe, or something just as raw as the ache she’s carried in her chest for the past year. “I need your help.” “No.” The word is out before she can think it. She’d blocked his number three days after she stormed out of his Soho office, covered in ghostly ectoplasm, her arm bruised where a wraith had grabbed her, after he’d sent her alone to retrieve a leviathan scale he’d promised was “harmless.” She’d found out later he’d sold her contact info to the same wraith coven to settle a debt to a demon lord from Avaros. She’d thought she’d left all of this—supernatural run-ins, the fear of trusting someone who could hurt her, the quiet thrill of being seen by a man who spoke four languages and knew more about London’s secret alleys than she did—when she’d grabbed her backpack and walked out of his office for the last time. “I know you’re angry,” he says, and his cane shifts, the ivory handle catching the faint streetlamp glow. “I deserve to be. But this isn’t about me. It’s about Eva.” Her blood runs cold. She hadn’t told him Eva’s last name, hadn’t told him where she lived, hadn’t told him anything about her life outside of the late-night Golden Empress deliveries and the bad coffee they’d shared at his office. How did he know— “Your ‘Delivery Jams’ playlist on Spotify,” he says, like he’s reading her mind, the corner of his mouth twitching into a dry, tired smile. “The one with the photo of you and Eva outside the Cardiff Bay Barrage. You tagged her in it. I tracked the IP address of your old delivery route, and followed the breadcrumbs to Brick Lane.” She’s so stunned she forgets to pull the door shut, and he pushes it open a fraction wider, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered flat behind her: the stack of Mary Oliver poetry books balanced precariously on the couch armrest, the whiteboard covered in messy purple marker scribbles about ley lines and spectral Thames sightings, Ptolemy lifting his head from the grimoires, his tabby tail flicking curiously at the end of Lucien’s cane. “Hey, kitty,” he says softly, and Ptolemy pads over, rubbing his head against the ivory handle, purring so loud Rory can hear it over the distant hum of the city traffic. “You didn’t come here to talk about my playlist,” she says, snapping back to herself, yanking the chain free and slamming the door shut again, this time locking all three deadbolts with a sharp, deliberate click—the same security measure Eva had installed after a group of drunk football fans had tried to break in last winter. She leans her forehead against the wood, trying to ignore the way her heart is pounding in her chest, the way the scent of cedar and bergamot is still clinging to her clothes, the way her body still remembers the way he’d held her after that first wraith attack, warm and steady, like he’d been waiting to catch her her whole life. “Ghost light doesn’t lie,” he says, his voice quieter now, and she can hear the strain in it, something she’s never heard before—fear, maybe, or the weight of his own mistakes. “I saw the wraiths marking the buildings down the block two hours ago. They’re going to move as soon as the sun dips below the roofs. If they find Eva’s research notes, they’ll take her to their coven’s stronghold in the Thames marshes, and they’ll drain her magic to recharge the scale.” Rory yanks the deadbolts open again, yanking the door wide this time, her bright blue eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. You just want me to help you get the scale back so you can pay off your debt.” “I don’t care about the scale anymore,” he says, stepping over the threshold when she lets him, his cane tapping softly against the floorboards. He’s a full five inches taller than her, she realizes, as she watches him run a hand through his rumpled blond hair—tall enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his amber eye, a feeling she’s not used to, but one she’d forgotten she’d liked before he’d betrayed her. “I care about not letting them hurt you. About not letting them hurt Eva. I made a mistake, Rory. A terrible, stupid mistake. I was scared, and I made a choice that hurt the only person who ever didn’t ask me to fix things for her. I’m sorry.” She stares at him, at the smudge of ash on his jaw, at the way his hands are clenched tight around his cane, like he’s trying not to show how vulnerable he is. She remembers the way he’d brought her a pint of her favorite Cardiff-made salted caramel ice cream after her mom had called to say her grandma was sick, leaving it on her doorstep above Silas’ bar with a note that said “You don’t have to talk about it, but I’m here.” She remembers the way he’d looked at her when she’d pulled up her sleeve to show him the crescent scar, finally, after months of hiding it, and said, “It’s not a freak mark. It’s a story. Just like every scar.” And then she remembers the way he’d lied to her, the way he’d sent her into a trap, the way she’d spent three hours hiding in a dumpster behind a kebab shop, shaking, because she thought she was going to die. Ptolemy jumps onto her lap, purring loudly, and she runs her hand through his tabby fur, trying to steady herself. “Fine,” she says, her voice tight, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I’ll help you. But you tell me everything. Every detail. No more lies. No more secrets. And if you so much as hint at using me again, I’ll break that cane over your back.” Lucien’s shoulders relax, just a little, and he offers her a small, genuine smile, the first one she’s seen on him in a year. “Deal.” She leads him over to the couch, where she pulls off her frayed delivery socks and sets them on the stack of poetry books, then grabs Eva’s chipped whiteboard marker from the kitchen counter. She shoves a strand of her shoulder-length straight black hair out of her face, and starts scribbling loops and arrows across the smooth purple surface, marking the secret back alleys she knew like the back of her hand from her Golden Empress deliveries. “The wraiths will take the most direct route,” she says, tapping a sharp X on the alley behind the curry shop. “But they won’t expect us to block the fire escape with these grimoires—they’re too heavy for even two of them to move fast. You’ll handle the front door,” she adds, nodding at his cane, “but if you pull that blade on anyone who isn’t a wraith, I’m gone. Got it?” He nods, his amber eye focused on her face, and for a second, she thinks he’s going to say something—something soft, something real, something she’s been waiting to hear since she walked out of his office. But then they hear the distant clatter of a garbage bin being knocked over down the street, and he tenses, his hand closing around the ivory handle of his cane. “Merde,” he mutters under his breath, the sharp French word cutting through the quiet of the flat. “They’re here.” She grabs a stack of Eva’s heaviest grimoires, hefting them over her shoulder, and follows him to the front door, her crescent scar peeking out from under her sleeve again—this time, she doesn’t tug it back. She can feel his gaze on her wrist, but she doesn’t say anything. Outside, the streetlamp glow flickers, and she can hear the faint, guttural growl of wraiths, scraping against the alley walls. For a second, she’s back in that dumpster, scared and alone, but then she feels Lucien’s hand brush against hers, steadying her, and she remembers that she’s not alone anymore.