AI The third deadbolt clicks back before Rory’s brain catches up to the sound.
She’s hunched over the dining table, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug of spiced chai, the kind Eva brews with far too much cardamom and a dash of honey she swears is from her aunt’s hive in Wales. The table is a cluttered mess: stacks of dog-eared folklore paperbacks, handwritten scrolls covered in looped Cornish script Eva swears dates back to the 12th century, a half-eaten vegetable samosa from Golden Empress, and a tabby cat named Ptolemy who’s claimed the edge of a scroll as his new scratching post. She’d locked all three deadbolts herself two minutes prior, after chasing the cat off and swatting his tail when he tried to knock over a jar of dried lavender. Her fingertips still hum with the chill of the mug, and she freezes, spine straightening as she slowly lifts her head toward the door. Her shoulder-length straight black hair falls over one shoulder as she lifts her head, a stray strand sticking to the sweat on her forehead from the evening heat.
The door creaks open a scant six inches, then pauses. A slant of evening light from Brick Lane’s streetlamps cuts through the gap, gilding the edge of a tailored charcoal suit jacket, and then she sees him.
Lucien Moreau.
Platinum blond hair slicked back so tight it pulls at the corners of his jaw, ivory-handled cane propped against the doorframe, one amber eye and one pitch-black eye locking onto her with the same sharp, unblinking focus he’d had the first time they’d met, when she’d stumbled into his office off Brick Lane, covered in the black slime of a glamoured street vendor who’d tried to steal her delivery bag. A faint smudge of charcoal ash streaks his left lapel, and his dress shirt collar is unbuttoned at the neck, like he’d ripped it loose in a hurry. Black dress gloves cover his hands, and a faint serpentine tattoo peeks out from the cuff of his shirt sleeve, winding up his forearm like it’s alive.
Rory’s throat goes dry. She’d thought she’d erased every trace of him from her life after he’d slipped out of her flat above Silas’ bar at 3 a.m., left a crumpled paper napkin on the kitchen counter with a single, scrawled “Sorry” scrawled across it. No phone number, no explanation, no note saying why he’d ghosted the only person who’d ever made her feel like she wasn’t running from something. She’d carried that napkin in her pocket for three weeks before she’d thrown it into a London canal, staring at the water until her eyes burned. She’d changed her phone number two days later, just to make sure he couldn’t reach her.
She doesn’t speak first. That’s her go-to when she’s caught off guard: hold her ground, wait for the other person to break. Lucien’s jaw tightens, and he shifts the cane in his hand, the ivory handle catching the streetlight, casting a sharp shadow across his cheekbone.
“Rory,” he says, and his voice is lower than she remembers, rough around the edges, like he’s been shouting over the roar of a crowd or running for miles. “I need your help. Something’s come up, and—”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she cuts him off, her voice steadier than she feels. She’s already reaching for the deadbolt, her fingers brushing the cold metal, ready to snap it back into place. “You said you’d leave me alone.”
Lucien’s eyes flick to her left wrist, where the crescent-shaped scar she got when she was seven, when she’d fallen off her bike and scraped her wrist on a rusted bike rack, peeks out from the cuff of her oversized cream sweater. She tucks her wrist behind her back immediately, the raw edge of the scab still stinging from when she’d picked at it the night before, after a nightmare about Evan, about the way he’d grabbed her wrist and twisted it until the scar split open. She’d forgotten that Lucien had noticed that scar, had traced it with his finger once, while they’d sat on her fire escape and watched the London skyline light up.
Ptolemy, who’d been napping on the arm of the threadbare sofa, pads over to the door and rubs his tabby head against Lucien’s cane, purring loud enough that Rory can hear it over the hum of the curry house below and the distant chatter of Brick Lane’s evening crowds. Lucien’s jaw relaxes, just a little, and he reaches down to scratch the cat behind the ears, his gloved fingers moving gently , like he’s afraid to startle the small animal. Ptolemy curls around his wrist for a second before trotting back to the sofa, leaping up onto the armrest and curling into a tight ball again.
Rory’s resolve wavers for a split second. She hasn’t seen anyone besides Eva and Yu-Fei from Golden Empress in three months, not since she’d blocked Lucien’s number and thrown away every scrap of paper he’d left her. But then she remembers the way he’d left in the middle of the night, the way she’d woken up alone, the sheets still warm on his side of the bed, and she snaps back to herself.
“Get off my property,” she says, and her voice is sharper than she intends. She steps forward, reaching for the door to slam it shut, but Lucien’s free hand shoots out, catching the edge of the door before it can move. His hand is warm, even through the thin fabric of his dress glove, and she yanks her own hand back like she’s been burned .
“Wait,” he says, and his voice is urgent now. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came here because you’re the only person who can help me. The only person who doesn’t think I’m just a freak for being half-demon.”
She pauses, her hand still on the door. That’s true. When they’d met, she’d been covered in the black slime of a glamoured street vendor who’d been stealing the life force from delivery drivers, and instead of running, Lucien had laughed, a dry, sharp laugh, and said, “Most people would have handed over their wallets before they saw that your attacker wasn’t human.” Then he’d offered to help her track the vendor down, and they’d spent three days going through delivery logs, talking to other drivers, until they’d found the vendor’s hidden flat in Shoreditch. After that, he’d stayed at her flat above Silas’ bar for a week, and they’d spent their nights talking, sharing takeout from Golden Empress, watching old movies until the sun came up. She’d let herself think, for the first time in years, that she could stop running, that she could let someone in.
Then he’d left.
“I don’t help fixers,” she says, turning away from him, grabbing the empty samosa wrapper from the table and balling it up in her fist. “Especially not fixers who ghost their only friends.”
Lucien shifts, pushing the door open a little farther, and steps into the flat. The door creaks shut behind him, and for a second, Rory thinks she hears a faint click of magic as the deadbolt locks itself back into place, like the faint supernatural energy he carries around with him is seeping into the woodwork. Her stomach twists. She’d forgotten how easily he moves through spaces, how the air seems to crackle around him, like he’s always carrying a storm with him. He sets his cane down by the door, leaning it against the baseboard, and runs a gloved hand over the ivory handle, like he’s habitually checking the blade hidden inside it.
“Fixer’s not what I am anymore,” he says, his voice quiet now . “My father’s been called back to Avaros. He’s taking over the realm, and he’s using someone to hunt down half-demons who’ve gone rogue. People like me.”
Rory turns back to him, her brow furrowed . “So what does that have to do with me?”
“Because you’re the only person who’s ever been able to think outside the boxes the supernatural world puts you in,” he says, and he steps closer, his amber and black eyes locking onto hers. “When we met, you didn’t care that I was half-demon. You just cared about solving the problem. You talked to delivery drivers, checked the garbage bins, did things no self-respecting supernatural fixer would ever think to do. And right now, the problem is that my father’s men are coming for me, and they’re going to kill anyone who gets in their way. Including you. They already tried to take me out last night, in my office. I barely made it out alive.”
Rory’s blood runs cold. She’d heard about the attacks in Shoreditch last night, about a half-demon who’d been gunned down by a group of men in black suits. She’d thought it was just another gang war, but now she realizes it’s worse. “Why are they coming for you?”
“Because I refused to help him recruit half-demons to his army,” Lucien says, his voice tight with anger . “My father’s a monster, Rory. He’s been using his power to take over realms for centuries, and now he’s set his sights on Earth. I can’t let him do that. I can’t let him hurt anyone else.”
She pauses, looking at the smudge of ash on his lapel, the way his suit is slightly wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it for days, the faint bags under his eyes. She remembers the night they’d spent together, when he’d stayed up with her until 5 a.m., talking about his mother, about how she’d taught him to speak French, about how he’d left Marseille to get away from his father. He’d told her about the way his father had used his powers to scare his mother, about how he’d finally had enough and run away to London. She’d held him while he cried, something she’d never done for anyone else.
Then he’d left her, too.
“I don’t trust you,” she says, but her voice is weaker now . She steps away from the door, walking back to the dining table and sitting down, picking up her chai and sipping it, even though it’s gone cold. “You left me without a word. You think I’m just going to drop everything to help you?”
Lucien sits down across from her, his posture slumping a little, like he’s finally letting himself relax now that he’s inside the flat. “I know I didn’t give you a good reason. I was scared . Scared that if I stayed, I’d put you in more danger than you were already in. Scared that you’d see what I really am, and you’d run away like everyone else. Like my mother did.”
Rory’s heart aches. She knows what it’s like to be scared, to run away from the people who love you, to be afraid that you’ll hurt the people you care about. She’d run away from Evan, from her parents, from the life she’d been supposed to live, all because she was scared . She’d thought that Lucien was different, that he wouldn’t leave her, but he had.
“I’m not like everyone else,” she says, looking up at him. “I’m not going to run away. Not this time.”
Lucien’s eyes soften, and he reaches across the table, taking her free hand in his. His gloved hand is warm, and she doesn’t pull away this time. “I know. And I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m just asking you to help me. Because if my father wins, no one in London’s supernatural underworld will be safe. Not even you. Not even Eva.”
Rory thinks about Eva, her childhood friend, about the flat full of books and scrolls, about Ptolemy the cat, about the life she’d built for herself in London, away from Cardiff and Evan and her parents’ expectations. She thinks about how she’d spent the last three months running, trying to forget about Lucien, trying to forget about the way he’d made her feel like she could finally be home.
“Fine,” she says, after a long pause. “I’ll help you. But only if you tell me everything. No more secrets. No more ghosting. You have to be honest with me, Lucien. All of it.”
Lucien nods, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Deal. But first, let me get us a drink. I owe you one. A lot of them, actually.”
She laughs, a short, sharp laugh, and gestures to the cabinet under the sink. “Eva keeps a bottle of Irish whiskey in there. She says it’s for ‘emergencies only.’ This definitely counts.”
Lucien stands up and walks over to the cabinet, pulling out the bottle of Jameson and two shot glasses from the shelf. He pours two shots, hands one to Rory, and raises his own. “To not running away.”
Rory raises her shot glass, clinking it against his. “To not ghosting.”
They both take a sip, the whiskey burning their throats, and for the first time in months, Rory doesn’t feel like she’s running. She feels like she’s home.