I stand in front of the inn, this time without the threat of universal Armageddon, and destruction of this hotel we all call home.
Its iconic green and white paint looks different. Darker green and off-white. Somehow, there's a faint Gothic feel to the structure, but it presents as cheerful a face as usual, like a Japanese Goth Lolita cosplay--cute and edgy at the same time.
A feline, lithe arm wraps around my waist, while a fox tail loops around my body. I feel like a trussed-up pig, and I suddenly have the desire to go inspect the road to make sure there are no more political canvassers coming. The last one, for a congressman I've never heard of called Santana, seemed immune to the subliminal "go away" suggestions from the invisible fence.
"You seem jumpy," Lamashtu's velvet voice says.
"She's just fine," Daji says.
"Who?" My brain links "she" with Lamashtu.
