• Amaury could hear his footsteps resound throughout the neighborhood. So Street was completely empty of anyone who might get in his way. But that didn't mean they weren't watching. The abandoned buildings on either side of the street could contain countless inhabitants that watched him with fear and hatred, hiding in the shadows. The ground was damp from rain, and the streetlamps shone dimly on each corner. All he wanted to do was get the hell back home before he ran into anybody.
    But that was too much to hope for.
    As he reached Jack Nimble Avenue the sounds of a scuffle reached his ears. Probably the Bloods out Pack bashing, or the Pack out Blood bashing, Amaury thought. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered to break it up. He couldn't care less about what went down between the Bloods and the Pack. But the pained cry of a girl ringing out in the silence of the night stopped him in his tracks. His human conscience kicked into gear, screaming at him to lend the girl a hand.
    "Aw, s**t," he swore. And with that he appeared at the scene of the bashing.
    It was in a dead-end alleyway, Bloods bashing what looked to be a human girl. Fury boiled in his veins. If anything angered him, this had to number one on the list. A man beating a woman. What was worse, this was five "men: beating one woman. And it looked as if she had lost consciousness.
    If his heart could beat, it would have been pounding furiously. Instead, he simply leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and spoke these words:
    "Well, that’s not very nice."
    The words were barely a whisper, but his voice was low and threatening, carrying easily in the cold night. The Bloods looked up from their fun to see who had spoken. Every one of them an elf, they were stronger than your average human. Each sported his own Bordertown look: torn jeans and ripped band tees from the 1990s and early 2000s, died hair cut at odd angles, and piercings galore, none of them was special. Silver eyes glinted with menace as they fell on the form that challenged them. One decided to speak up.
    "Why don’t you go home, pretty boy," he said, mockery dripping from his mouth like venom. "You're out numbered, so 'less you want your a** kicked, get it outta here while you can still breathe."
    Amaury smiled coolly. The only thing that showed his anger was that hard glint in his eye, pinning the speaker like a dagger.
    "Too late," he growled. And with that, he threw himself into the one who had spoken, who seemed to be the leader, and began the brawl. He may have been outnumbered, and they may have been good fighters, but they were no match for him. He blocked every blow they threw at him, and one by one tossed them against the far wall. Finally, only the leader remained conscious.
    "You’ll regret this, pretty boy, mark my words. No one gets the best of Frazer Fluegel, you hear? No one." And with that, the coward ran from the alleyway into the night, abandoning his fallen comrades. Smirking, Amaury turned to the girl.
    She was pretty, with long, dark brown hair, and a curvy figure. Her pale skin made her hair look almost black, and her black clothes made her skin look even paler. Her lips looked perfect, begging to be taken. And yet she looked so innocent, so fragile. Bruises were already accumulating on her face, and a cut on her cheek was bleeding. Amaury quickly wiped the blood away before he gave into temptation.
    "Damn." Knowing what he was about to do, he already regretted it. But his human conscience was still in working motion, and he knew he had to do it. With a sigh, he picked up the girl and headed for home.



    Sarah woke up with gasp, drenched in cold sweat. Just breathing was excruciating to her aching lungs. The first thing that registered in her mind was: It's too dark. She couldn't see a thing in the engulfing darkness. The second thing was: I shouldn't be here.
    This was not her room, and this was not her bed. Where was she? All she could tell was that she was on a comfortable bed with soft, velvet covers. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she could just make out a splinter of light trying to squeeze through a crack by the floor. Her escape route had been laid out. A door.
    Slowly and carefully, she crept off the luxurious bed, onto the soft, supple carpeting, and to the door. Pressing her ear against the hard oak, she listened for any movement. Not hearing anything, she began to panic. If there had been even the slightest sound, she would have known an escape was possible. If someone came to the door, she could run for it. But if no one was there...
    Shaking the thought from her head, she began to search for a light switch.
    Suddenly a low, smooth voice resounded throughout the room, making Sarah jump and spin, ready to defend herself, blind in the darkness.
    "You won't find what you're looking for, little mouse." His voice held no emotion. So how was she to tell if he meant harm? "Calm yourself," he said. His voice was on the other side of the room now. "Your human heart beats faster than is good for it." There was a presence at her back. "I can smell your fear." It was a whisper. She could feel his breath on her ear, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Spinning around, she tried to shove him away. But she only felt air. No one was there.
    The room was suddenly illuminated in a light blinding to someone who and been in the dark so long. With a gasp, she reached up to cover her eyes. Slowly lowering her hand, Sarah saw her surroundings for the first time. She was in a rather large room, with no windows whatsoever. The plush carpeting was a blood red that made her wonder in it was stained with actual blood. The walls were stone and, surprisingly, covered with band posters. The bed she had been lying on was magnificent. It was decked in black, and a canopy was raised above it. With velvety black comforters, silken Chinese pillows, and a magnificent mahogany headrest scattered with candles, it was the bed she had always wanted. The shear size of it took her breath away.
    There were several bookshelves, filled with books longing to be touched, read. And sitting in a lone armrest by the fireplace, sat one of the most handsome men she had ever hoped to lay eyes on.
    He was fully dressed in black, with mid-length black hair that was chopped in an odd, Bordertown manner. His shirt was black, and so tight it could have been under armor that had once been used for men’s football, some fifty years back. He wore elegant, black jeans to match, and a sweeping trench coat that came all the way down to his black combat boots. His face was sharp and angled, with high cheekbones and a handsome nose. His skin was so pale, she would have thought him dead had he not spoken only a moment before. But what really caught her attention, what froze her to the core, were his eyes. It was as if a ruby had been melted, and the liquor of it had dropped into his eyes, staining them a bloody red. But they were not fiery. On the contrary, they were as cold as ice, condemning her to the depths of hell.
    "Welcome, little Runaway," he said with a mysterious smile. "Welcome to Bordertown."