Chase rolled his head toward the voice and saw, finally, the man he'd come to see. Tall and lean as ever, but with a presence no flesh body could ever muster, the man stood a short distance away. His hair was short, layered, and as fine as spun silk. His features were those Michelangelo had failed to perfect in stone, and his clothing was sharp, black, and perfect. And he was young. As young as Chase could ever remember him.