AI The first knock came just as Rory was wiping grease from her fingers onto her jeans, the scent of jasmine tea still clinging to her skin from the Golden Empress’ kitchen. She froze, the dishcloth dangling from her hand. No one knocked on Eva’s door. Not without calling first. Not ever.
Ptolemy, the tabby cat, uncurled himself from the stack of books on the coffee table and slunk toward the door, his tail twitching. Rory exhaled through her nose and set the cloth down. Probably a wrong address. Or a drunk stumbling up from the curry house below.
The second knock was sharper. Insistent.
She crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the worn hardwood, and pressed her eye to the peephole. The distorted fish-eye lens showed her a man in a charcoal suit, his platinum hair slicked back, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. Her breath hitched.
Lucien.
The name settled in her chest like a stone. She hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since that night in the back room of Silas’ bar, when he’d told her the truth about what he was—what his father was—and she’d walked away without a word. Not because she’d been afraid. But because she’d been *angry *. At him, at herself, at the way her pulse had still jumped when he’d touched her wrist, his thumb brushing the crescent scar there like it was something precious.
She unlatched the first deadbolt. Then the second. Her fingers lingered on the third.
“Rory,” his voice came through the door, low and smooth, the French lilt still there despite the years in London. “I know you’re in there. I can hear you breathing.”
She swallowed. Damn half-demons and their unnervingly sharp senses. With a sharp twist, she undid the last lock and pulled the door open.
Lucien stood in the dim hallway, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flicking over her face like he was memorizing it. He looked exactly as she remembered: impeccable, untouchable, the kind of man who belonged in a boardroom or a back-alley deal, not on the doorstep of a cramped flat above a curry house. The cane tapped once against the floor, a quiet punctuation.
“You’re blocking the door,” she said.
A smirk tugged at his lips. “And you’re still terrible at greetings.”
She should’ve slammed the door in his face. But the words died in her throat because, God, he smelled the same—bergamot and something darker, something like gunpowder and old books . It made her stomach twist.
“What do you want, Luc?”
His smirk faded. “To talk.”
She crossed her arms. “We talked. Six months ago.”
“And you left.”
“I had a reason.”
“Because I’m half-demon?” His jaw tightened . “Or because you were scared?”
“I don’t get scared,” she shot back, but the lie tasted bitter. She *had * been scared . Not of him. Of the way he made her feel —like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, leaning forward, *wanting * to jump.
Lucien’s gaze dropped to her wrist, to the scar she’d had since she was eight, when she’d fallen off her bike and scraped it against a rusted fence. He’d traced it once, a long time ago, and told her it looked like a smile . Now, his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for it again.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She hesitated. Ptolemy chose that moment to weave between her legs, purring. Traitor. With a sigh, she stepped back and gestured him inside.
The flat was a disaster—books stacked on every surface, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold on the coffee table, Eva’s research notes scattered like confetti. Lucien took it all in with a single glance, his expression unreadable . Then his eyes landed on the sofa, where the blanket was still rumpled from where she’d been napping earlier.
“Eva’s not here,” Rory said, filling the silence before it could stretch too thin.
“I know .” He shut the door behind him, the click of the deadbolts engaging making her shoulders tense. “She’s in Prague. Chasing a lead on that necromancer cult.”
Rory blinked. “How the hell do you know that ?”
“Because I make it my business to know things.” He leaned against the doorframe, his cane resting against his palm. “Including where you are.”
She bristled. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”
“Someone has to.” His voice was light, but his eyes were serious. “You have a habit of walking into trouble.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Can you?” He pushed off the doorframe, limping slightly as he moved toward her. The cane wasn’t just for show. She’d learned that the hard way. “Because last I checked, you were still working delivery for Yu-Fei, still living above Silas’ bar, still pretending you don’t miss the kind of work that doesn’t involve carrying takeout bags.”
She flinched. It was too close to the truth. Too close to the restlessness that had been gnawing at her for months. “I like my life the way it is.”
“Do you?” He stopped a foot away from her, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding,” she snapped.
“Then look at me.”
She was. God, she was. And it hurt, because she’d spent six months trying to forget the way his voice dropped when he was serious, the way his hands felt when they were on her skin.
“Why now, Luc?” she asked, quieter . “Why show up here after all this time?”
He exhaled, slow and controlled. “Because there’s a job. One that needs both of us.”
She barked a laugh. “You expect me to just *fall in line *? After everything?”
“No.” His voice was rough. “I expect you to be angry . To yell at me. To throw something, if it makes you feel better.” He gestured to the stack of books on the table. “But I also expect you to listen.”
She wanted to throw something. She wanted to shove him out the door and slam it behind him. But the truth was, she’d missed this—the push and pull, the way he challenged her, the way he *saw * her, even when she didn’t want to be seen.
“Fine,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Talk. But if this is some half-baked scheme to get me back into your world, save your breath.”
Lucien’s lips quirked. “It’s not half-baked. And it’s not *my * world, Rory. It’s yours, too. You just keep pretending it’s not.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.
“Three nights ago, a man was found dead in an alley off Fleet Street. No wounds, no signs of struggle. Just… empty. Like something had reached inside him and *taken * everything that made him human.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She knew that kind of death. She’d seen it before.
“And you think this is supernatural,” she said.
“I *know * it is.” Lucien’s grip tightened on his cane. “The man was a low-level sorcerer. Worked for a collector named Victor Kaine. And before you ask—yes, *that * Victor Kaine.”
She cursed under her breath. Victor Kaine was a name that carried weight in London’s underworld. A man who dealt in rare artifacts, dark magic, and things best left untouched.
“Kaine’s been looking for something,” Lucien continued. “Something old. Something powerful. And if he’s willing to kill to get it, then it’s not just sorcerers who are in danger.”
Rory rubbed her temples. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“Because Kaine’s not the only one looking.” His voice dropped. “And the others? They’re worse.”
She looked up at him. “You’re saying we’re the good guys in this?”
“We’re the only ones who can stop it.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to her. “This was on the body.”
She unfolded it carefully . It was a symbol, drawn in what looked like dried blood . A crescent moon cradling a dagger, the blade pointing downward. Her breath caught.
“That’s—”
“A sigil from the Court of Avaros,” Lucien finished. “My father’s realm.”
She looked up at him, her pulse hammering. “You think your father’s involved?”
“I think someone from his court is.” His jaw was tight. “And if they’re here, it’s not for a friendly visit.”
Rory stared at the sigil, her mind racing . The Court of Avaros was one of the nine demonic realms, a place of shadows and bargains and things that didn’t play by human rules. And if one of its denizens was in London, hunting for the same thing as Victor Kaine…
“What’s the job?” she asked.
Lucien’s eyes gleamed. “Find out what Kaine’s after. Before the demons do. Before more people die.”
She wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him to take his job and his secrets and his *smell * and walk out the door. But the truth was, she’d been bored . Restless. And this—this was the kind of thing that made her blood sing.
“And if I say yes?” she asked.
“Then we start tonight.” He reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took the paper back . The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and electric . “There’s a warehouse in Shadwell. Kaine’s been using it as a staging point. We hit it, find his notes, figure out what he’s after.”
She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve put distance between them. But she didn’t. “And if we get caught?”
His smile was slow, dangerous. “Then we improvise.”
She laughed, despite herself. “You always say that .”
“Because it’s always true.” He tucked the paper back into his coat. “So. Are you in?”
Rory looked around the flat—at the books, the notes, the life she’d built for herself. Safe. Predictable. *Boring.*
Then she looked at Lucien. At the man who’d lied to her, who’d frustrated her, who’d made her feel more alive than anyone else ever had .
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m in.”
His smile widened, and for a second, it was like the last six months had never happened. Like they were still the two people who’d worked together, laughed together, *almost * kissed in the back room of a bar before the world had come crashing down.
Then his cane tapped against the floor, and the moment passed.
“Good,” he said. “Because we’ve got a lot to do before nightfall.”
She nodded, already mentally cataloging the things she’d need—her lockpicks, her knife, the charm Eva had given her for warding off dark magic.
Lucien turned toward the door, then paused. “Rory.”
She looked up.
“For what it’s worth…” His voice was quiet. “I missed you.”
The words hung between them, heavy and raw. She wanted to say it back. Wanted to tell him she’d missed him, too—that she’d thought about him every damn day, that she’d hated herself for walking away.
But she didn’t. Because some things were too complicated to say out loud.
Instead, she just nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
And for now, that was enough.