The silence that reigned over the circular platform of the tower was heavy, broken only by the viscous lapping of the sea of blood that covered the floor. Klein stood upright, his gaze fixed on the silhouette facing him. It was Dyana Donoghan, or at least the fleshly envelope that had once belonged to her.
The duchess was magnificent in a terrifying way. Her black hair, usually so well styled, floated around her like strips of shadow with four large horns while her jet-red dress highlighted the provocative curve of her wide hips and the firmness of her generous chest. However, the aura emanating from her no longer had anything noble or maternal about it. It was a psychotic pressure, a mixture of sulfur and corruption that made the air vibrate.
