Alexandria was suddenly aware of the brush of Thomas Ivan’s fingers against hers, aware of the strength in his arms, the width of his shoulders, the handsome angularity of his features. Her heart jumped hopefully. Was she actually responding to someone physically? It was amazing what having a passion in common could generate. She watched with pride as he openly admired her renderings of the creatures of his imagination.
But suddenly a cold draft streamed through the restaurant, bringing with it the taint of evil. It crawled over Alexandria’s skin like worms through a body. Revulsion welled up, and she sat back in her chair, pale and trembling. She looked around carefully. No one else seemed to notice the thickening air, the stench of evil. Laughter and the low murmur of conversation surrounded her. Its normalcy should have reassured her, but the trembling only increased. She could feel sweat beading on her forehead, running down the valley between her breasts. Her heart was thumping.
Thomas Ivan was far too busy going through her sketches to notice her uneasiness. He continued to murmer his approval, his head down, his eyes feasting on the richness of her drawings.
But something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Alexandria knew it; she always knew. She had known the very moment her parents died. She knew when a violent crime took place within her vicinity. She knew who was dealing drugs, when someone lied; she just knew things. And right now, while others in the restaurant enjoyed themselves, ate and drank and talked, she knew something evil was nearby, something so malevolent, she had never conceived of such a being.
Her eyes made a slow, careful circuit of the spacious room. Patrons were talking, eating, undisturbed. Three women seated at the table closest to her were laughing outrageously, toasting one another. Alexandria’s mouth went dry, her heart pounding. She was unable to move or speak, frozen with terror. On the wall behind Thomas Ivan, a dark shadow crept forward, began to loom over the room, a loathsome apparition seemingly seen by no one else as it reached out, claws extended, toward her, toward the three women talking with such animation. Alexandria sat perfectly still, hearing a horrible whispering in her head like the brush of a bat’s wings, issuing an insidious command, buzzing insistently, powerful.
Come to me. Be with me. Let me feast on you. Come to me.
The words beat at her until shards of glass seemed to pierce her skull. The claws on the far wall opened, extended, beckoned her.
A chair scraping to her right broke the spell. Alexandria blinked, and the shadow faded away on the echo of maniacal laughter. She was able to move, to turn her head toward the sound of two more chairs scraping back. She saw the three women rise as one unit, toss money onto the table, and walk in sudden eerie silence toward the entrance.
Alexandria wanted to scream at the women to come back. She had no idea why, but she actually opened her mouth to do so. Her throat closed, and she fought for air.
“Alexandria!” Thomas rose swiftly to help her. She was ashen, tiny beads of perspiration dampening her forehead. “What is it?”
Blindly she tried to shove her drawings into the portfolio, but her hands were shaking, and the sketches spilled across the table and onto the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ivan, I’ve got to leave.” She stood up so abruptly, she nearly sent him sprawling backward. Her mind felt sluggish and thick, as if some oily evil still clung to it, and her stomach rolled.
“You’re ill, Alexandria. Let me take you home.” Ivan tried to gather up the precious sketches and hold her by the arm at the same time.
Alexandria jerked her arm away, her only thought to get to Joshua immediately. Whatever the evil thing was, whatever creature was stalking the night, those women, Henry, and Joshua were in grave danger. It was outside. Out back. She could feel its presence like a dark stain on her soul.
She turned and ran, uncaring of the curious stares or Thomas Ivan’s bewilderment. She tripped on the stairs, caught the hem of her skirt, and heard the rip. Pain and terror sliced through her. Her chest felt as if it had exploded, her heart torn and bleeding. It was so real, she clutched her chest and stared down at her hands, expecting to see blood. No. Someone else’s blood. Someone was hurt—or worse.