The Duchess's laughter slid through the corridors of Arven Manor like an invisible blade.
It wasn't loud.
Nor hysterical.
Worse.
It was controlled.
Elegant.
Almost affectionate.
Like someone watching a carefully rehearsed piece finally reach its expected climax.
The sound traveled up the upper staircases as lightning briefly illuminated the stained-glass windows of the central corridor, casting bluish flashes on the mutilated bodies scattered across the floor. The rain continued to beat violently against the mansion's enormous windows, and for a moment the entire property seemed alive—breathing along with that voice.
Morgana remained motionless.
Completely motionless.
Damon immediately noticed the change in her. It wasn't fear. Nor hesitation.
It was profound recognition.
Memory.
