AI The brass tumbler of the top deadbolt ground into the frame. Rory twisted the second, the heavy iron latch dropping with a dull thud, before her fingers found the third, chain-linked slide. The metal bit cold into her palm, a sharp reminder of the rain-slicked London streets just three flights below Eva’s front door.
She jerked the wood inward.
Lucien Moreau filled the narrow frame. Rainwater beaded on the shoulders of his charcoal suit, turning the dark wool nearly black. His platinum hair, usually slicked back with military precision, had parted at the forehead, a single wet strand clinging to his temple. He held his ivory-handled cane in his left hand, his knuckles white against the carved skull.
"You always did take too long with locks," Lucien said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the floorboards.
Rory gripped the edge of the door, her knuckles matching his for paleness. The scent of him—bay rum, expensive tobacco, and the sharp, ozone tang of a thunderstorm—flooded the narrow entryway, instantly smothering the smell of turmeric and fried onions drifting up from the curry house downstairs.
"You’re dead," she said.
"Only to the tax authorities."
Lucien took a step forward, not waiting for an invitation.
She didn't budge. Her shoulder pressed against the jamb, blocking the narrow gap. Her bright blue eyes swept over him, cataloging the subtle differences since they last stood inches apart in the pouring rain outside the Cardiff docks. There was a thin, fresh purple welt running along his jawline, and the heterochromatic tilt of his eyes—one amber, one black—seemed darker, more nocturnal than usual.
"I’ve spent three months cleaning your apartment’s blood out of my memory," Rory said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper . "You don't get to just stand here looking like a rain-drenched ghost."
"A ghost would have the decency not to drip on your linoleum." Lucien tilted his head, his amber eye catching the flickering yellow bulb overhead. "Let me in, Rory. The street is crawled with people who don't share your appreciation for my absence."
She looked past his shoulder. The brick alleyway below was dark, save for the neon glare of the Indian restaurant’s sign splashing pink and green across the wet asphalt. A shadow moved near the iron fire escape opposite.
Rory stepped back, her bare feet cold on the linoleum.
Lucien slipped inside, his broad shoulders clearing the frame with a fluid, silent grace that defied his height. He leaned his weight onto the cane, the rubber tip clicking softly against the floor. As the third deadbolt slid back into place under Rory’s hands, a heavy, orange shape detached itself from a mountain of old manuscripts on the dining table.
Ptolemy, Eva's fat tabby, let out a demanding trill. He trotted over to Lucien’s leather oxfords, sniffing the damp trouser cuffs before rubbing his thick cheeks against the fabric.
"Traitor," Rory muttered to the cat.
"Animals have excellent instincts," Lucien said.
He didn't bend to pet the creature, but his gaze softened for a fraction of a second as he looked down. Then he turned his attention back to her.
The flat on Brick Lane was too small for him. At five-eleven, he wasn’t a giant, but his presence expanded to fill every corner of the cramped room. He stood surrounded by Eva's stacks of crumbling grimoires, bundles of dried lavender hanging from the exposed rafters, and the mismatched furniture Rory had tried to organize.
"You look thin," he said.
"And you look like you survived a meat grinder." Rory walked past him into the kitchen alcove, her movements deliberate, trying to put the laminate counter between them. Her left wrist twitched, her thumb automatically sweeping over the small crescent scar there. "What happened to Marseille? You said you were going back to your mother’s people. You said London was too hot."
"London is always hot when you owe the wrong devils." Lucien slowly peeled off his leather gloves, tucking them into his breast pocket. He set his cane against the counter. Without the support, he leaned slightly to the right, his jaw tightening. "Marseille was... loud. Unproductive."
"So you came to a flat above a curry house in East London."
"I came to you."
The words hung in the air , heavy and unadorned.
Rory gripped the edge of the sink. She looked down at the accumulation of dirty teacups. Six months ago, they had been a team. Or something close to it. He was the fixer with demon blood and a silver tongue; she was the girl who could think ten steps ahead of the law. Then a warehouse fire in the East End had gone sideways, and Lucien had pushed her into a cab, slammed the door, and disappeared into the smoke. No notes. No calls. Just three months of waiting for a body to show up in the Thames.
"I don't do this anymore, Luc," she said, her back still turned to him. "I deliver noodles for Yu-Fei. I pay my rent. I sleep at night without checking the window frames for silver chalk."
"A peaceful life."
"It was."
"You lie poorly, Rory."
She spun around. "I lie perfectly . I lied to my father for three years about my grades, and I lied to the Metropolitan Police about where you were the night the dock warehouse burned down. Don't tell me what I do poorly."
Lucien took a slow, deliberate step toward the kitchen counter. The limp was more pronounced now. He reached out, his long, pale fingers hovering just above the Formica. His skin bore the faint, shimmering quality of his Avaros heritage under the cheap kitchen lighting—not quite human, slightly too perfect, like polished marble .
"The police were never going to find me," he said. "But you did. Every night you sat here, looking at the door, waiting for the locks to turn."
"That was fear."
"Was it?"
He was too close now. The heat off his body was a physical weight . Half-demons ran hotter than humans, a constant, low-burning furnace that made him a sanctuary in the damp London winters. Rory felt the warmth radiating across the small gap between them, drawing her in like a moth to a candle.
She looked at his chest, at the charcoal silk of his tie, refusing to meet his eyes. "You left me in that alley."
"I kept you out of a cell in Belmarsh."
"You didn't ask what I wanted."
"I knew what you wanted," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rough caress . "You wanted to stay. And if you stayed, you died. The people I deal with don't take hostages, Rory. They take souls."
"I have my own protections."
"A crescent scar and a sharp mouth are not protections against the dark."
He reached out. His fingers, cool at the tips but burning at the palms, brushed the inside of her left wrist. He traced the small, pale crescent of her childhood scar.
Rory froze. The contact sent a jolt straight up her arm, settling deep in her chest. Her breath hitched. She wanted to pull away, to slap his hand down, to tell him to find another harbor in his storm. But her fingers curled inward, her hand trembling slightly against his palm.
"Why now, Lucien?" she asked, her voice cracking .
"Because the warding on this flat is the only thing keeping my blood from boiling out of my veins," he murmured.
He leaned his forehead against hers. He tasted of rain and copper. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling against hers.
"The hand," Rory whispered, her eyes finally locking onto his heterochromatic pair . "The one that's holding me. It’s shaking."
"A temporary instability," he said, though his grip tightened, his fingers wrapping around her wrist like an iron band . "I require your assistance, Carter."
"My assistance," she repeated, her heart hammering against her ribs . "Or a place to hide?"
"Both."
She felt his weight shift, his shoulder pressing more heavily against her as his leg gave out slightly . With a muffled curse in French, he leaned into her, his head dropping into the crook of her neck. The heat of his skin burned through her cotton shirt.
"Lucien," she said, her hands coming up to grip his wet shoulders .
"Let me stay for the night," he murmured against her throat. "And tomorrow, you can throw me back to the wolves."
Her fingers sank into the damp wool of his jacket, feeling the hard muscle beneath. The cat let out another soft mew from the dining table, watching them with wide, golden eyes.
"You’re an idiot," Rory whispered.
"Undoubtedly."
She shifted her weight , bracing herself against the counter to support him. His breath was warm against her collarbone, and for the first time in three months, the cold, empty ache in her chest began to fade, replaced by a dangerous, familiar fire.
"We need to get you onto the sofa," she said, her voice steadying as her brain began to run through the logistics of hiding a half-demon in a one-bedroom flat above a curry shop. "But if you bleed on Eva's rugs, you’re buying her new ones."
Lucien chuckled, a low, dry sound that shook his entire frame. "An expensive proposition."
He didn't move. He simply held her, his hand still locked around her scarred wrist, the heat of his palm seeping into her bone. She let him lean, her shoulder absorbing his weight , her eyes fixed on the rain hammering against the dark windowpane.
"The locks," Lucien muttered, his voice fading slightly . "Are they all turned?"
"Every single one," Rory said.
She looked down at him, her thumb brushing the wet platinum hair from his forehead. The welt on his jaw was angry and red, but his closed eyes looked peaceful, his dark lashes casting long shadows down his pale cheeks.
"Then we have time," he said.
Rory steered him toward the small sofa, her bare feet sliding over the worn floorboards. He moved heavily, his usual grace replaced by a sluggish, forced effort. His hand remained wrapped around her wrist, the grip tight enough to leave a mark, though she didn't complain.
"Sit," she commanded as they reached the edge of the velvet cushions.
Lucien sank down, the springs groaning under his weight . He leaned his head back against the grease-stained floral fabric, his eyes closed. The platinum hair was a stark contrast to the dark velvet of the sofa.
"There is a bag," he said, his voice barely a whisper now . "In the alley. By the green bin."
"I'm not going back down there," Rory said. "Not with those shadows hanging around."
"It contains the warding stones," Lucien said, his amber eye cracking open, glinting with a sudden, sharp intensity . "If they find them, the flat won't protect us for long."
Rory looked at the door. The three deadbolts suddenly felt very thin, very fragile.
"You should have mentioned that before I locked up," she said.
"I was distracted," Lucien murmured, his heterochromatic eyes tracking her as she stood up . "By the welcome."
Rory crossed her arms, trying to ignore the way her heart thumped. "That wasn't a welcome, Moreau. That was a stay of execution."
She walked to the window, pulling the heavy velvet curtain aside by an inch. Below, the rain was coming down harder, turning the neon lights of Brick Lane into blurry, smeared streaks of pink and yellow. A figure in a dark trench coat stood under the awning of the closed bookshop across the street, his head tilted upward toward their window.
Rory let the curtain fall back into place, her heart hammering in her throat. She turned back to Lucien.
"We have company," she said.
Lucien didn't answer. His head had slumped to the side, his breathing heavy and even.
She walked back to him, her hand going to his forehead. He was burning up, the demonic heat in his blood running wild without the proper wards to balance it.
"Great," Rory whispered, her hand dropping to her side . "Just great."
She looked at his ivory-handled cane, then back at the door. Her fingers found the crescent scar on her wrist again, tracing the curve.
"Three months," she muttered to the sleeping Frenchman. "And you couldn't even bring me flowers."
She walked back to the door, her hands reaching for the top deadbolt. She needed that bag . And she needed it before the man in the trench coat decided to come up the stairs.
As her fingers touched the cold brass, a low, scraping sound came from the other side of the wood. A key, turning slowly in the lock.
Rory froze, her breath catching in her throat as the first deadbolt gave a soft, ominous click.
The handle began to turn.
"Luc," she whispered, her eyes darting back to the sofa .
Lucien didn't move.
The door budged open an inch, casting a long, dark shadow across the linoleum. Rory stepped back, her hand reaching for the nearest heavy object—a thick, leather-bound volume of medieval law.
"Who's there?" she called out, her voice hard, betraying none of the terror clawing at her throat.
The door swung wider, the damp air of the hallway rushing into the warm flat.
A figure stood in the opening, his face obscured by the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
"I believe you have something of mine," the man said, his voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
Rory gripped the heavy book, her muscles tensioning as she prepared to throw it.
"You've got the wrong flat," she said.
The man smiled, his teeth unnaturally white in the dim light of the hallway. He took a step forward, his boots clicking on the floorboards.
"I don't think so, Miss Carter."
Rory hopped back, her heel hitting the edge of the sofa where Lucien lay motionless. Her hand reached down, searching for the ivory handle of the cane, her fingers closing around the cold metal.
"Get out," she said.
The man didn't stop. He raised his hand, his fingers curling into a claw-like shape as a faint, greenish light began to pool in his palm.
"Give me the Moreau boy," he said. "And perhaps I'll let you keep your soul."
Rory's grip on the cane tightened, her thumb finding the small lever near the hilt. She felt the hidden blade release with a soft, metallic slide.
"I don't think so," she said.
She lunged.