He was a tall man, gaunt and pale. Though not old, his hair was pure white and floated about his face like fine cobweb caught in an updraft. He stood with utter inhuman stillness. No breath or movement disturbed the strange, theatrical clothing worn carelessly over his wiry frame. He looked like a courtier turned torturer. Or a seventeenth century executioner with a taste for finery. The final bizarre touch was the red velvet hood tucked into his thick, black belt along with calf-skin gloves, a tapestry purse and a thick length of ribbon.

She noted the pallor of the skin where it showed at the cuffs and above the high black collar that framed his face in small ruff. Rice powder, right? Cadmium white theatrical make-up maybe. The only sign of life or color were the eerie gold eyes that studied her like a hungry cat from across the dusky room.

For a moment he lost substance. His face seemed to flatten and indent into a weird chiaroscuro. He might have been a painting, Karo thought, for all the life he showed-- except for those eyes! They were wickedly alive, and she sensed that they looked upon her with presumptuous familiarity that warranted a sexual-harassment complaint. And maybe even a smack to his leering chops, if one could find the courage to move a single quivering muscle.

"Please tell me you're not Tristam English," she whispered, not realizing that she had spoken aloud until she saw the cloud left by her breath. She stuffed her numb foot back into her wet shoe and got ready to run. Her muscles liked the idea and complied with alacrity. Her knees tensed, her calves coiled.

The liquid, yellow irises blazed briefly with what might have been amusement. His mouth opened. The lips peeled back showing a lot of pointy teeth that looked like they belonged on a vampire.

No-no-no-no she thought, her own scalp tightening.