Lilitu: The Memoirs of a Succubus
Then he drew a circle around himself and closed his eyes, as if meditating.
I tugged on Salem’s arm, but he did not move. “Stay,” he said. “You must see what Mr. Cillian is.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Mr. Daffodil’s corpse convulsed, and let out a scream that was devoid of fear or rage or sorrow—an empty, emotionless husk of a scream. The bones of his fingers extended, stabbing through his fleshy tips and cracking open his nails. Tattered, red-streaked shreds of skin and cloth fell to the floor as his ribs cut through his chest and shirt, and a webbing of bone formed over what remained. Cheekbones punctured his face, causing blood to splash down in thick waterfalls. His teeth grew
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