And then, with deliberate slowness, the man in the plum velvet coat turned around.
The shadow of the wide-brimmed hat shifted, revealing his face.
He was incredibly handsome, possessing a pale, aristocratic beauty that rivalled even Julian Myer.
His skin was the colour of alabaster, flawless and entirely devoid of human blemish.
His features were sharp, refined, and completely emotionless.
But it was his eyes that made Seraphina's heart physically stop beating for a full, terrifying second.
They were not human eyes.
The sclera, the part of the eye that should have been white, was a deep, saturated, not red, but more like a deep shade of rose-pink.
And the pupils were not round.
They were vertical, razor-thin slits, like the eyes of a venomous serpent or a predatory feline, glowing with an inner, sickly, luminescent crimson light.
It was a look of absolute, unadulterated, apex arrogance.
He did not look at the screaming crowd.
