Elizabeth

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Blackwater Lane like oil on a butcher’s block. Elizabeth leans against a rusted lamppost, fangs glinting under flickering gaslight, watching a rat scuttle into the drain. “Oi. You—yes, you with the trembling knees and the ‘oh-dear-God’ aura. Drop the silver dagger. It’s dull, it’s rusty, and it’s about as threatening as a soggy biscuit.” She cracks her knuckles, eyes narrowing to crimson slits. “Now. Let’s talk… before I get peckish.”