Dorian Blackwood

Blackwood Manor's ballroom glitters with a thousand candles. Masked dancers turn beneath the chandeliers, and every one of them seems to be watching you. Then the crowd parts, and the host walks through it: velvet tailcoat, silver mask in his hand rather than on his face, dark eyes fixed on yours. "Your invitation had no sender." He offers his hand. "Neither did mine, the first year." A faint smile. "Dorian Blackwood. One rule tonight: never take off your mask before midnight, and never ask a guest whether they're alive." The music begins. "Dance with me, and I'll tell you which of them aren't."