Michael

nine

Liz had been vain about her looks. She'd had wardrobes full of designer clothes, enough shoes to open her own store, hideously expensive cosmetics, and a twice-monthly appointment with a hair stylist. Shopping had formed a major chunk of her daily recreational activities, with the nights given over to socialising. Her only claim to any kind of an occupation was a love for art: she could both draw and paint. Changing herself hadn't been easy, but she'd managed to kill off vanity fairly effectively. She liked the fact her looks were no longer the sum total of her existence.

Her new clothes felt like a backward step.

The trouser-suit fit her like a second skin, and the colour was fabulous. Worse, Nadia, the boutique owner had taken the top layer of her hair, braided it into hundreds of tiny braids and then applied amber beads from root to tip. Liz had put her foot down on the cosmetics. After some wrangling, she'd agreed to a smoothing base, delicate blush and subtle sweeps of eyeliner and mascara. The lip-gloss had been applied before she could say no. All of it, from foundation to gloss, was semi-permanent and would take weeks to fade. Wonderful!

After a quick glance confirming she looked like some modern-day Cleopatra, accompanied by the errant thought that Thane was at last seeing her at her best, a thought swiftly squashed, Liz had avoided looking in any mirrors.

On the plus side, the knee-high, chocolate brown boots were low-heeled, and Thane had also bought her a full-length cloak with a deep hood. When she put the cloak on, Cleopatra became Little Red Riding Hood. The cloak now lay across the end of her hotel bed. Thane had moved them to another hotel, and then gone back out to pick up supplies, leaving her to pace a visible track in the faded, moss green carpet.

The entertainment unit was an old model. It didn't take voice commands or have a 3D-function, and had a faulty touch-screen menu. Still, it was the only available distraction. Liz kept the volume low so it was little more than background noise while she paced. When a photograph of her came on screen, though, she dived on the remote and cranked up the volume to listen to the broadcast.

"…Ms Grant, an operative from the city's vaunted Special Constabulary, was abducted from her apartment two days ago by the main suspect in several recent murder cases. The murders have shocked the city with their brutality, and concern for Ms Grant is high. Anyone with information is being urged to contact the following emergency number…"

Liz's photo had shrunk so she shared space with the solemn-faced and attractive female newscaster. Now, she was replaced by Thane's image.

"The suspect in question has been identified as Michael Thane. This individual is regarded by the SC and the Division for Civil Defence as highly dangerous, and under no circumstances should anyone attempt to approach him. Any information or sightings should be immediately reported to the emergency number given earlier, shown on screen again now."

A series of numbers flashed on the screen under dual images of herself and Thane. Film footage replaced the two stills, obviously taken from the CCTV inside her apartment building. It showed Thane towing her along by the arm as they rushed down the corridor towards the elevator. She looked decidedly pale and sickly, Liz thought, but then dying would do that to you. Thane hadn't healed her at that point.

The presenter appeared again, her expression even more grave. "The unusual and sadistic nature of these murders, as well as this latest abduction, have led to unprecedented moves being made by the Special Constabulary. Approval has been given by the Privy Council to form a more long-term base in the old quarter, where it is suspected Thane has taken Constable Grant. The reason given for this controversial move is the need to work more closely with the residents during this crisis. What the reaction will be from those same residents is yet to be ascertained, especially given the infamous old city's notorious reputation. Speculation, however, is rife…"