The Siren's Scion
she stammered, her voice hoarse with sleep and fear.
But before she could call out again, another sound.
RIP. RIP. RIP.
It was a storm of destruction. Her dresses, her blouses, her soft, tailored trousers—one after another, they shredded. Fine silk fluttered to the ground like dead, colorful leaves. Sturdy linen tore with a sound like a gasp. Within seconds, her entire perfect wardrobe, her armor of normalcy and beauty, was a heap of useless rags.
She screamed and screamed, scrambling backward on the bed until she hit the headboard, drawing her knees to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.