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“Cataflics!” someone shouted, pushing by. Police. Eliana leapt to her feet and bounded away, flashing through the crowd, using the chaos to her advantage to duck into a low access tunnel that was rarely used because of the treacherous, unmarked pits that would suddenly appear in the uneven floor, plunging down into darkness. She knew without looking that Demetrius followed not far behind. The prostitute was a blonde, as Silas promised, but not his favorite blonde, the one who screamed with such beautiful abandon, the one whose milky pale skin welted to the perfect berry pink, bruised to the most gorgeous mottled purple. She wasn’t his favorite, no. She wasn’t young, or pretty, or thin. She wasn’t moving at the moment, either. Standing at the end of the bed fully dressed, Caesar rega
- Writer
