Her form lay on a slab, swathed in linen, wires trailing from her porcelain fingers. She was a jigsaw of the dead, but Henry, corrupted by the sinister Pretorius, had given her the face of an angel. Alabaster skin. Lips the color of a dying rose. A streak of white lightning seared into her raven hair.
The wind howled across the desolate moor, whipping the bare branches of the lightning-scarred oak. Inside the crumbling tower laboratory, the air smelled of ozone, hot metal, and grave dust. The "-www.scenetime.com-" log flashed on a flickering cathode tube—a ghost in the machine, a timestamp from a world that no longer existed. -www.scenetime.com-The.Bride.Of.Frankenstein.1935
The Monster’s hand dropped. The hope in his eyes shattered into a million pieces of glass. He turned to the levers, the dials, the final switch. Her form lay on a slab, swathed in