AI The door rattled under the third knock, each strike sharper than the last. Aurora tightened her grip on the chipped mug, the tea inside long gone cold. She wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all at this hour. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, arched his back from his perch on the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome set to *annoyed *.
The knock came again, this time accompanied by a voice smooth as aged whisky.
"Rory. I know you 're in there."
Her breath hitched. That voice—she’d know it in a crowd of a thousand, in a storm, in the dark. Lucien. The name settled in her chest like a stone dropped into still water.
The deadbolts clicked as she turned the first one, then the second, then the third. The door swung open before she could change her mind.
Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, his platinum blond hair slicked back, the heterochromatic gaze—amber and black—fixed on her with unsettling intensity . The tailored charcoal suit he wore looked as though it had been painted onto him, the ivory-handled cane resting against his shoulder like an afterthought. He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Just watched her, as if she were a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years.
"Luc," she said, the word slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice was steadier than she felt.
His eyes flicked to the mug in her hand, then back to her face. "Still drinking that swill Eva calls tea?"
The jab was familiar, the tone light, but the air between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. She stepped back, leaving the door open. An invitation. A challenge. "What do you want?"
He didn’t move. "Can’t a man visit an old friend?"
"Cut the shite." She set the mug down on the nearest stack of books, the porcelain clinking against the paper. "You don’t do *friendly *."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then, slowly , he stepped inside, the scent of sandalwood and something darker—something like gunpowder and old parchment—filling the space as he passed her. Ptolemy hissed from the windowsill, his fur puffing up.
Lucien ignored the cat. His gaze swept over the flat, taking in the towers of books, the scrolls pinned to the walls with red string connecting them like some mad scholar’s web. "You’ve been busy."
"None of your business." She crossed her arms, the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist catching the light as she did. "Why are you here, Luc?"
He turned to face her, the cane tapping once against the floor. "I need your help."
The words hung between them. Aurora’s pulse spiked. The last time he’d said those words, she’d ended up with a knife in her hand and a demon’s blood on her shoes. The last time she’d *trusted * him, she’d woken up alone in a Marseille alley with a bruised heart and a head full of questions.
She laughed, the sound sharp. "That’s rich. You need *my * help?"
His expression didn’t change. "There’s a job. Something… delicate."
"Delicate." She repeated the word like it was a curse. "That’s your word for *dangerous *."
"Semantics." He shrugged, but the movement was too precise, too controlled. "The point is, I can’t do it alone."
"And you thought of me because…?"
"Because you ’re the only one who’s ever walked away from me and lived to tell the tale."
The words hit like a punch. She wanted to slap him. Kiss him. Both. Instead, she turned away, putting the width of the room between them. The bookshelves loomed like sentinels , their spines a rainbow of worn leather and faded gold lettering. "That’s not an answer."
He followed her, his footsteps silent despite the cane. "You’re clever. Resourceful. And you don’t scare easily."
"Flattery won’t work on me, Luc."
"It’s not flattery if it’s true." He stopped just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. "I need someone who can think on their feet. Someone who won’t freeze when things go sideways."
She spun to face him, her shoulder brushing against a stack of books. They wobbled, and she caught them before they could fall. "And what makes you think I’d say yes?"
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Because you ’re still here, Rory. Because if you didn’t care, you ’d have told me to fuck off the second you saw me at the door."
She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she didn’t give a damn about him or his problems. But the truth was a stubborn thing. It sat in her chest, heavy and undeniable.
"Fine," she said, the word clipped . "What’s the job?"
A slow, knowing smile curled his lips. "Now *that * is the Rory I remember."
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. "Don’t push it."
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. The paper was yellowed with age, the edges frayed. "There’s a relic. An old one. Stolen from a collector in Whitechapel."
Aurora took the parchment, unfolding it carefully . The drawing was intricate —a dagger with a hilt shaped like a serpent, its mouth open as if ready to strike. The blade was inscribed with symbols that made her fingers tingle. "And you want me to…?"
"Retrieve it." His voice was low, serious now. "Before the wrong people get their hands on it."
She looked up at him. "And by *wrong people *, you mean…?"
"Demons. The kind that don’t just want to play."
A chill ran down her spine . She knew that tone. Knew the weight of what he wasn’t saying . "And why can’t *you * retrieve it?"
His jaw tightened. "Because the collector who owned it? He’s dead. And the last person seen with the dagger was someone I… have history with."
Aurora’s stomach twisted. "History."
"Complicated history."
She exhaled sharply . "Of course it is." She studied the drawing again, the serpent’s eyes seeming to follow her. "And what’s in it for me?"
Lucien’s fingers brushed against the cane, the movement almost imperceptible. "Money. Enough to get you out of this flat. Out of London, if that ’s what you want."
The offer was tempting. More than tempting. But Aurora had learned the hard way that Lucien’s gifts always came with strings attached. "And if I say no?"
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, his fingers grazing the back of her hand. The touch was electric , sending a jolt through her that she refused to acknowledge. "Then I’ll find someone else. But I’d rather it be you ."
She pulled her hand away, but not before she felt the callouses on his fingers, the warmth of his skin. "You’re a bastard, you know that ?"
His smile was back, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. "So I’ve been told."
Aurora looked down at the parchment again, the serpent’s gaze seeming to bore into her. She could say no. Could shut the door in his face and go back to her quiet, complicated, *safe * life. But then, she’d never been one to play it safe .
"Fine," she said, the word heavy. "But I’m not doing this for you ."
Lucien’s eyebrow quirked. "No?"
"No." She met his gaze, unflinching. "I’m doing it for me."
For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression unreadable . Then, slowly , he nodded. "Fair enough."
She folded the parchment, tucking it into the back pocket of her jeans. "When do we start?"
His smile this time was genuine, if a little sharp. "Now."
Aurora didn’t have time to respond before the window behind them shattered . Glass rained into the room as a shadowy figure dropped from the fire escape, landing in a crouch. The intruder was tall, clad in black from head to toe, a mask obscuring their face. In their hand, a knife glinted under the flat’s dim light.
Lucien moved faster than she could track, the cane snapping open to reveal the thin blade hidden inside. "Seems we’re out of time."
Aurora didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the nearest heavy book—a first edition of *Dracula * Eva would kill her for using as a weapon—and hurled it at the intruder. The figure dodged, but the distraction was enough. Lucien lunged, the blade of his cane flashing.
The intruder hissed, swinging their knife in a wide arc. Lucien parried, the metal clanging as the two blades met. Aurora didn’t wait to see the outcome. She grabbed Ptolemy, tossing him onto the bed before snatching a letter opener from Eva’s desk. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
The intruder kicked out, catching Lucien in the ribs. He grunted, stumbling back, but didn’t drop his guard. Aurora saw her opening. She darted forward, the letter opener gripped tight in her fist.
The intruder turned, sensing her movement. The knife came up, but Aurora was faster. She slashed, the letter opener catching the figure’s arm. A pained hiss filled the air as black blood welled from the cut.
Lucien didn’t waste the moment. He drove his cane-blade forward, the tip catching the intruder in the shoulder. The figure staggered, then bolted for the window, diving through the broken glass.
Aurora rushed to the window, peering out. The figure was already gone, swallowed by the shadows of Brick Lane. She turned back to Lucien, her heart pounding . "Well. That was…"
"Expected?" He wiped the blade of his cane on his sleeve, then snapped it shut. "Perhaps not *tonight*, but yes ."
She glared at him. "You *knew * they’d come?"
He met her gaze, unapologetic. "I suspected. The dagger’s not just valuable. It’s *powerful *."
Aurora exhaled sharply , running a hand through her hair. "And you didn’t think to *warn * me?"
Lucien’s expression softened, just for a second. "Would you have believed me?"
She wanted to argue. Wanted to scream. But the truth was, she probably wouldn’t have. Not without proof. And now, the proof was smeared on her letter opener in the form of black, viscous blood.
Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the windowsill, his tail flicking as he stared at the broken glass. Aurora sighed. "Eva’s going to kill me."
Lucien’s lips twitched. "Priorities, Rory."
She shot him a look. "What?"
He gestured to the parchment still tucked in her pocket. "We have a dagger to find. And now, it seems, we have competition."
Aurora looked down at the blood on her hands, then back up at Lucien. The night was far from over. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very , very bad one.
"Right," she said, squaring her shoulders. "Let’s go."