Misha watched in growing alarm as Her Majesty approached along the red carpet, shaking hands with cast and crew. There was a slight circular depression in its surface, and the more he looked the more he was convinced it was the right size for a man-hole cover.
The kind of man-hole from which the elopus - an ambush predator with a taste for royal blood – loved to attack.
Then she was before him, offering her hand, and he took it just as the carpet beneath her collapsed and she hung suspended over a gaping hole. Pivoting, he swung her to the safety of a bodyguard, overbalanced, and plunged in – but grabbed the guard’s gun as he fell.
Tentacles slithered away from him in the gloom.
‘Goddammit,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just like Cannes all over again.’
And set off in pursuit.