AI The glass in my hand rattled against the mahogany surface of the bar as the double doors of the Raven's Nest groaned. Rain-slicked boots hit the floorboards with a rhythm I hadn't heard in five years.
"Make it a double, Silas. The cheap stuff."
The voice hitched, a jagged edge of gravel where smooth, melodic confidence used to reside. I didn't look up from polishing the brass rail, but the air in the small room shifted, growing thin and static-charged .
"We don't serve cheap here, Eva. You know that."
"I know a lot of things, Silas. I know you hide your best cuts of beef in the back and your best secrets in that bookshelf of yours. Just pour."
I finally turned. Eva leaned against the counter, her frame draped in a long, charcoal-grey wool coat that held the damp chill of a London night. Her hair, once a vibrant shock of deep chestnut, was cropped into a severe, chin-length bob, dyed a stark , uncompromising raven black. She looked like a silhouette cut out of a brighter life. Beneath the harsh neon hum of the green sign outside, her skin appeared translucent, stretched tight over cheekbones that felt as if they might cut glass.
She threw a crumpled twenty-pound note onto the wood. It was damp too.
I poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler and slid it across. She knocked it back without a grimace.
"Rory's upstairs," I said, keeping my tone flat.
Eva stared into the bottom of her empty glass, her shoulders stiff. "I didn't come for her. Though I assume she’s still collecting tips and dodging ghosts."
"She’s doing better than both of us."
"Better is a relative term in this city." She tapped a manicured nail against the rim of the glass. The sound was rhythmic , insistent. "I saw Evan yesterday."
My hand froze on the cloth. The silence between us became a physical weight , pressing against the old maps tacked to the walls.
"He’s asking questions about Cardiff," she continued. Her voice dropped, taking on a conspiratorial rasp. "Apparently, the barrister father of yours hasn't been as quiet as you hoped. He’s looking for the ledger."
"He has no right to that."
"Rights evaporate when you ruin a man's reputation, Silas. You know the drill."
I walked around the bar, my left leg dragging slightly across the floorboards. I stopped at the bookshelf, pulling a specific, weathered spine. The mechanism clicked, a heavy, familiar groaning of iron teeth sliding against iron gears. The wall sighed open to reveal the dim, cramped back room. I gestured for her to enter.
She followed, her posture rigid. The room smelled of old paper and stale tobacco. Outside, the muffled low-thrum of Soho traffic bled through the walls, a reminder of the world we were currently standing outside of.
"He thinks she’s still there," Eva said, not waiting for me to close the door . "He thinks she’s still playing the dutiful daughter, studying law, waiting for the weekend to go home for Sunday roast."
"She isn't, but she carries the scars of it."
"We all carry things, Si. That’s what kills us." She stepped into the sliver of light filtering from the bar. Her eyes, once bright and clear, were clouded with a restless, amber-hued intensity . She reached for the edge of the table to steady herself, her gloved fingers trembling. "He’s coming here tonight. He thinks I’m still on his side. That I’m still the girl who fetches his coffee and keeps the books."
"You aren't. Not anymore."
"I am as long as he thinks I am." She opened her coat . A leather shoulder holster peeked out from under a tailored black silk blouse. She didn't flinch. "I need you to tell Rory to go. Not upstairs. Not back to the restaurant. Somewhere far from here. Tell her the Golden Empress is closed for good."
"She won't listen to me. You know she’s as headstrong as they come."
"Then lie."
The front door chimed again. Heavy, deliberate footsteps vibrated through the floorboards. Eva went still, her gaze locking onto the back of my head. She pulled the flap of her coat closed, concealing the weapon, and leaned back into the shadows of the alcove.
"He’s fast," she whispered.
"Go to the service exit," I said, pointing toward the heavy metal door at the back.
"And leave you to him? With that knee?" She let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. "You’re an addict for the old ways, Silas. That’s why you never left this hole."
"I am the man who keeps the peace, Eva. You’re the one who breaks it."
The footsteps stopped just on the other side of the bookshelf wall. A shadow fell across the threshold, long and imposing .
"Silas?" A voice called out. It was smooth, honeyed, and utterly devoid of warmth . "I heard you were hosting guests tonight."
Eva’s hand drifted toward her waist. She looked at me, her face pale, her jaw set in a line of cold resolve . The regret wasn't in her eyes anymore. It had been replaced by a singular, sharp-edged desperation.
The book wall began to nudge inward, an inch at a time. The visitor had found the catch.
"Don't," I breathed.
Eva didn't listen. She shifted, her body turning toward the seam of the moving wall, her hand emerging from her coat with the weight of cold steel.
The shelf swung wide, revealing a tall man in a sharp, grey tailored suit. His smile was narrow, predatory. His gaze scanned the dark room, ignoring me, searching for the person who had finally decided to act.
"Eva," he noted, his tone mild as he stepped over the threshold . "I wondered when you’d finally stop running."
He raised a compact, silenced pistol, but he hadn't accounted for the fact that Eva wasn't standing where she had been a moment ago. She had dropped to the floor, sliding under the heavy oak desk that occupied the centre of the room.
The first shot shattered the stillness, a dry, popping sound that echoed against the bookshelves. Dust rained from the ceiling. Silas lunged forward, his bad leg seizing, but he ignored the white-hot flash of pain, tackling the intruder into the far wall. The man grunted, his aim swinging wildly as they collided with a display of fragile spirits, shards of glass showering them like diamonds.
"Get out, Rory!" I roared, knowing she had been lurking by the kitchen door.
"Not without you!" A voice shouted back—sharp, defiant, and entirely too close to the fray.
The man in the grey suit bucked, throwing me off balance with a brutal jab to my ribs. He pointed the weapon toward the kitchen alcove, his thumb finding the safety. Eva sprang from under the desk, her own blade flashing in the dim overhead light, catching him across the arm. He screamed, the gun clattering against the floorboards, sliding across the room toward the opening in the wall.
It skidded to a halt at the feet of a woman gripping a heavy, black leather satchel, her bright blue eyes wide with shock.
Rory stared at the weapon, then at the two men struggling in the corner, and finally at Eva, who stood panting, blood dripping from her knuckles. The gun was inches away. Rory bent down, her fingers twitching near the cold, black barrel.
"Don't touch it!" I yelled, pinning the man’s head against the shelf.
Rory ignored me. She picked up the gun, the weight of it changing her entire bearing, the small, crescent-shaped scar on her wrist standing out bright against her pale skin. She didn't aim it at the intruder. She aimed it at the door.
Sirens wailed in the distance, cutting through the heavy, suffocating silence of the room. The man beneath me went limp, his eyes focusing on the gun in Rory’s steady hand.
"It’s empty," he gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as he gestured to the floor where the magazine lay loose. "You think you’ve won? They’re already at the perimeter."
"Let them come," Rory said, her voice steady enough to crack glass .
The front entrance shattered . Glass flew in a glittering cloud, and the green neon sign above the door flickered , buzzed, and died.