to their shoulders. Teri was still wearing the necklace she’d picked up at the thrift store, finding the turquoise oddly yet pleasantly warm against the hollow of her neck. She’d managed to find some black and silver earrings in her jewelry box that, while they didn’t match the necklace, didn’t clash with it either.
Under it all, she wore the chainmail bikini. She’d tried it on again when she went to her apartment, the magic in the links seeming to smooth out even more imperfections in her short frame. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it didn’t feel heavy, and for some reason she looked downright svelte under the shimmering metal. She simply liked it—no, loved it, was admittedly obsessed by it—and decided to keep it on. Hell, maybe she’d even sleep in it.
“Doesn’t look German,” Lang said, staring at his plate. He dropped his left hand beneath the table and brushed Teri’s leg. He hesitantly picked up his fork with his right. “You’re looking good tonight. Seriously good. You been working out? And your face . . . you’re glowing.”
“It’s not German. It’s French. Mediterranean pasta.”
He idly stirred it, separating the asparagus and olives and wrinkling his nose when he came to the mushrooms. After a moment, he speared a piece of tomato and firmly rested his hand on Teri’s knee.
She grew warm at the contact, and conjured up an image of Bob splayed out under the museum’s dinosaur skeleton, a sugar cookie stuffed in his mouth.
“It’s instead of salad, this pasta.” Teri tried it and found it acceptable, but not wonderful. “The main course, according to the program, will be Shrimp Crêpe Florentine with green beans almandine and garlic mashed potatoes.”
“I’d rather go out for pizza and beer,” he whispered. “Let’s go out for beer and pizza tomorrow night, Teri. And after this . . . we could go back to my place. I’ve got a widescreen TV.” He gave her knee a gentle squeeze, then swallowed the tomato and speared another one. His fingers drifted higher. “You really are looking sweet, toned, like you’ve been hitting the gym, and—”
“Sorry, Lang. I have to go back to the paper and write this up.” She scooted farther away.
Lang abruptly brought his hand back up to the table. He sighed and stared at his plate.
The sounds of soft conversations and glasses clinking took over, and Teri nibbled at the pasta.
She took another forkful and held the mushroom on her tongue, letting its flavor seep in. Then she took out her notebook as the first speaker came to the podium. Teri stared at her hands—the fingers were thin, the nails long, manicured and polished; they glittered all silvery, like Bilbo’s magic mithril shirt.
She’d had a nice time, but she was a tad pissed about it. Lang hadn’t shown any interest in her before this evening—but shed some weight because of her chainmail underwear, give herself an updo, and . . . why couldn’t he have been a little friendlier before her thrifty Second Hand’s renovation?
It was 10:55 when Teri drove back to the paper, parking under a lamppost on the street between the Journal offices and a hotel under construction. She would’ve parked in the paper’s lot, but the attendant at the gate was nowhere to be seen, and so she couldn’t get in. Probably taking a break or making the rounds, she thought. The hairs on the back of her neck itched again, and she glanced around. No one out on the street. She dismissed the odd feeling, ducked under the gate, and wove her way through the cars scattered in the lot, mentally going over options for her lead on the fundraising piece and finding the words coming slow because she was preoccupied . . . alternately brooding about Lang and wishing foul things upon Bob.
She didn’t see the creature across the street skulking in the shadows of the half-finished hotel. She didn’t know that it had ventured into this very lot several minutes ago and grabbed the parking lot attendant, dragging him back to the construction site, where it devoured most of him.
But she did see the beast a few minutes after midnight, while leaving after writing her story, and fumbling with her keys at her car door. The hairs on the back of her neck were at attention.
“What the hell is that?” She stared across the street, trying to squint through the shadows.
It looked like a cross between a toad and a wolf, about the size of the latter, thickset around