2: Midnight Masquerade
They turn their faces toward me like pale winter flowers before a new sun; all of them suddenly still, all of them watching me. I can feel their eyes on me, feel their gaze sweeping the length of my body, feel them feasting on the sight of me standing there frozen in the doorway. I can feel their hunger.
They are beautiful.
Terrifying, yes; but beautiful nevertheless. They wear a bizarre assortment of costumes as though they are lost players from a thousand distant theatres: ragged, patched and torn, most of them; but some are newer, brighter, their velvets still soft, the lace still white.
And the faces ... the faces are indescribable. All pale, all with dark shadows beneath their eyes, some of them with cheekbones practically pushing through the parchment skin ... but beautiful.
And hungry.
They move away to the edges of the room at von Krolock's unspoken command, bowing and curtseying and subdued. They break their silence and cry his name, some in fear, some in longing; and there they wait, some baring their fangs a little, others reaching out with bone-white hands, as though they are drowning and I the only one who can save them.
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