-www.scenetime.com-the.bride.of.frankenstein.1935

The Bride recoiled as if burned. A low, hissing sound escaped her throat. Not a scream. Not a word. A hiss of pure, primal rejection. She turned her head away, staring instead at the flickering cathode screen, at the "-www.scenetime.com-" address still pulsing like a digital heartbeat.

Her eyes opened. They were not the wild, yellowed eyes of the Monster. They were sharp. Intelligent. And utterly terrified. -www.scenetime.com-The.Bride.Of.Frankenstein.1935

"It is the spark of life," Pretorius whispered, his voice like dry leaves. "And nothing more." The Bride recoiled as if burned

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. Not a word

The Jacob’s ladder crackled to life, a jagged river of pure energy leaping from the copper coils to the iron crown encircling her head. The room screamed with light. The Bride’s body arched off the table. Her bandages tightened, then loosened.