Run: 2026-09-23-01M36RCKWJ67CGYR23HFA9Z9KT

The door opened on Lucien Moreau, rain darkening the shoulders of his charcoal coat. Rory kept one hand on the brass knob and the other braced against the door. Three deadbolts had clicked behind her. She had not opened them for anyone. Lucien’s amber eye caught the hall light. The black one fixed on her face. “You’re not welcome here.” “I know.” He held up an ivory-handled cane, not as a threat but to show its polished grip. A thin line of blood ran over one knuckle. Rory glanced at it. Then back at him. “Did you come all this way to bleed on Eva’s floor?” “I came because someone was watching the flat.” The tabby cat pushed between Rory’s ankles, tail upright. Ptolemy sniffed at Lucien’s shoes and sneezed. Rory did not move from the doorway. “Who?” “I didn’t recognise them. One across the street, one at the mouth of the lane. They followed me from the restaurant.” “Your admirers have dreadful timing.” “They weren’t looking at me.” Rain tapped the glass in the stairwell window. Behind Lucien, the hall stood empty, its wallpaper bubbled from damp. Rory’s fingers tightened on the knob. “What did they want?” “To see whether I came here.” The words struck harder than she let them. Her gaze dropped to his hand again. The blood had gathered at the crease of his thumb, bright against his pale skin. “You came unannounced, followed by strangers, and expect me to believe this was a favour?” “No.” His jaw set. “I expect you to shut the door before one of them sees you.” Rory studied his face for a lie. Lucien had a talent for dressing lies in clean lines and leaving the seams where only she could find them. Tonight, his collar sat crooked. A rain-soaked strand of platinum hair had fallen against his temple. He looked less like the polished fixer who used to meet her at candlelit bars and more like a man who had run up three flights of stairs. That didn’t make him safe. “Give me a reason.” His eyes flicked past her, toward the book-choked living room. A curl of old paper showed beneath the sofa. Eva’s research covered every surface. “Because you’re standing in the light.” Rory pulled him over the threshold by his lapel. He stumbled one step inside. She shut the door and worked the deadbolts, each turn loud in the cramped hall. Lucien waited until she had set the last one. “Now explain.” He lowered his cane against the wall. Water beaded on its silver collar. “A listening charm was fixed beneath the brass plate outside.” Rory looked at the door. “Was?” “I removed it.” “With your bare hand?” “With a knife.” “Of course.” She walked past him into Eva’s living room. The flat smelled of curry spices, old books, and the tea she had forgotten on the table. Ptolemy followed, then hopped onto an open volume with a thump that shook loose a paper slip. Lucien came in after her. The cane’s ferrule clicked against the floorboards. “You could have called.” “Your phone was off.” “So you decided my front door was the next best option.” “I decided the people outside were.” Rory picked up her cold mug and set it down again without drinking. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.” “I’m aware.” “Are you? Because the last time you made that choice, I spent two days thinking you’d sold me to the first demon with a good offer.” His gaze held hers. Nothing moved in his face, but his hand closed around the cane’s handle. “I never sold you.” “You let me think you had.” “I thought distance would keep you out of it.” “You told me that after I found your notes with my name in them.” “I didn’t know you’d read them.” “You left them in your coat.” “I’d been shot.” “And I was supposed to guess that from the blood on your cuff?” A scrape sounded outside the flat. Both of them turned toward the hall. Ptolemy’s ears flattened. He sprang from the book and vanished beneath the sofa. Lucien crossed the room without a sound and leaned near the window, keeping clear of the curtain. He lifted one edge with the tip of his cane. “Don’t.” “I’m not exposing myself.” “You’ve never had much sense of what counts as exposure.” He let the curtain drop. “They’re still outside.” Rory came to stand beside him. The glass reflected her black hair, blunt at her shoulders, and the bright blue of her eyes. Lucien’s reflection stood close enough that the seam of his sleeve brushed hers. “Which one?” “The one in the grey scarf. He’s by the bookshop.” “You could have started with that.” “I could have started with a lot of things.” The small admission loosened something in her chest. She resented him for it. She stepped away from the window. “What did the charm do?” “Listened. Whoever placed it wanted to hear who came through this door.” “Then they know you’re here.” “They know someone came in. They may not know who.” “And if they did?” Lucien turned the cane in his hand. A hidden catch clicked beneath his thumb. The handle shifted, revealing the dark line of a narrow blade. “Then they’ll wait.” Rory looked at the weapon. “You brought that to Eva’s flat?” “I bring it everywhere.” “Comforting.” “It wasn’t intended to be.” He slid the blade back into the cane. Rory watched his hands. She remembered those fingers at her waist, steadying her on a wet pavement after a late shift at the restaurant. His mouth near her ear, asking whether she trusted him. Her answer had been a kiss. His answer, two days later, had been silence. She turned to the table before the memory could settle. “Could the charm have been aimed at me?” “Not likely. It was fixed to the plate, not your coat or your bag.” “Not the same as no.” “No.” “Why were you at the restaurant?” “I wasn’t.” “Then how did you know about the charm?” His eyes sharpened, amber catching the lamplight. “I followed the men who were following you.” “You just told me they followed you from the restaurant.” “I said they followed me from there. I didn’t say I’d been working.” “You watched me?” “I watched the delivery entrance.” “That’s not better.” “I know.” Rory drew a breath through her nose. She wanted him to argue. It was easier when he did. “How long?” “Since yesterday.” Her chair scraped back. “You watched me for a day and only decided to show up now?” “Yesterday, they were checking your route. Tonight, one of them came to this building.” “You could have told me.” “I came to tell you.” “After you’d made the decision for both of us again.” Lucien looked down at his bloody knuckle. He took a handkerchief from his inner pocket, folded it over the cut, and pressed. The cloth came away red. “I have no defence that won’t sound like another decision.” “Good. Don’t make one.” Silence filled the room. Outside, a vehicle hissed through the wet street. Ptolemy’s tail appeared under the sofa, twitching once. Rory went to the kitchen alcove and found the first-aid tin behind a stack of Eva’s dictionaries. When she returned, Lucien had taken off his coat. His suit jacket lay over the back of a chair, neat even with rainwater darkening its cuffs. “Sit down.” “I can manage a cut.” “I didn’t ask what you could manage.” He studied her, then sat. His knee nearly touched hers as she pulled a chair opposite him. She opened the tin and set it between them. “Hand.” He offered it palm down. Rory turned it over. The split crossed the knuckle, shallow but ragged. She cleaned it with antiseptic. Lucien’s fingers flexed once under her grip. “Still hate that stuff?” he asked. “I never liked it.” “You used to pretend it didn’t hurt.” “I used to think you admired that.” “I did.” She kept her eyes on the cut. “That was the problem.” He went still. The antiseptic stung; she felt his hand tense against her palm. “Do you want me to leave?” The question landed without its old polish. Rory wrapped gauze around his knuckle and tied it snug. “If you leave, they’ll follow you. If you stay, they may be watching the door.” “That wasn’t what I asked.” “No. It wasn’t.” She released his hand. The warmth of his skin lingered in her fingers, a small betrayal. Lucien studied the bandage. “There’s another problem. The charm may have left residue.” “Where?” “On the doorframe. I couldn’t tell in the hall.” “And you didn’t mention that?” “I wanted to make sure you were inside before I explained.” “That sounds suspiciously like a decision.” “It was.” Rory reached for Eva’s notes, spreading a bundle of scrolls across the table. “Then you can help me find the section on residue charms.” “I can identify it without the book.” “Then why did you bring the book’s owner’s flat into this?” “Because the charm was built with a language I don’t recognise.” She stopped unrolling a page. “You speak four languages.” “Not every language.” “I thought you liked being impressive.” “Only when it works.” Their eyes met across the cluttered table. His expression had softened around the edges, which she found more dangerous than any weapon. Rory placed the scroll between them. “Show me what you saw.” Lucien leaned forward. His sleeve brushed her wrist, just above the crescent scar. Neither of them moved away.