Forests of the Night by James W. Hall

for a better view of Jacob Panther. The name as haunting as the face.
    â€œJacob’s a Cherokee Indian,” Gracey said. “Aren’t you, Jacob?”
    He nodded and smiled at the girl and she answered his smile with a gesture so provocative not even Stanwyck would have dared to use it.
    Basking in Panther’s gaze, Gracey stroked a fresh marshmallow against her cheek and in her sauciest voice she said, “Wouldn’t it be nice for your lover to have marshmallow skin? So soft and powdery.”
    Charlotte flinched and spoke her name in warning, but Gracey ignored her.
    â€œYour skin’s already beautiful,” Panther said. “Better than any marshmallow.”
    With a sly smile, her daughter turned away, giving Panther a full view of her ample profile. She wore a tight gray top that left a five-inch band of flesh exposed at the rim of her black jeans. A dress code ordained by the reigning pop diva. She had Parker’s pale gold hair, which was parted on the side and hung straight to her shoulders. More Veronica Lake than Stanwyck. She’d inherited Charlotte’s nothing-to-brag-about hazel eyes but little else. Lately, Gracey had been making droll remarks about getting lucky in the boob department—taking after her daddy’s side of the family.
    It was true enough. In the past year Gracey had begun to assume the figure of Parker’s mother, Diana, a sinewy, athletic woman with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and inexplicably heavy bosoms. But the hormonal gush that was reshaping Gracey’s body had yet to touch her face. Her complexion was as flawless as warm crème brûlée. And her childish, pudgycheeks and trusting eyes seemed absurdly at odds with what was appearing below.
    Charlotte thought of her as treacherously beautiful, but still thankfully lacking in the vanity of most teenage girls who were so endowed. The boys at her school had gotten the message and were calling nightly. Polite enough when Charlotte answered, but in a hushed fever to get past the gatekeeper and whisper their secret charms in her daughter’s ear.
    â€œI noticed the plates on your truck,” Charlotte said to their guest. “I take it you’re from Daytona Beach?”
    He looked at her, but the question tripped nothing in his eyes.
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse Charlotte,” said Parker. “She’s a cop. Spends her days interrogating people, she comes home, can’t turn it off.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” Jacob said. “No, I’m not from Daytona. I move around. I’m a traveling man.”
    Gracey drew another marshmallow from the fire. She plucked at the shriveled black mess and pinched a bit into her mouth. Charlotte caught her eye and waved her back over to join in, but Gracey shook her head and resumed her scrutiny of the blackened goo in her hand.
    Pressing his beer bottle to his sweaty cheek, Panther smiled at Charlotte. Though there was nothing overtly wolfish in the grin, his eyes lingered too long, becoming familiar, challenging.
    â€œYou have anything in mind for dinner?” Parker asked her.
    â€œIf you mean am I cooking, the answer’s no. I’m done in.”
    â€œI was thinking of Norman’s. A little celebration. Wouldn’t need a reservation on a Thursday this early.”
    Jacob Panther turned from them and gazed out at the swath of moonlight on the polished water of the wide canal. The embroidery on the back of his shirt was red and black, a series of concentric circles, some interlocked, some broken, like a maze seen from high above.
    Charlotte stared at his broad shoulders, urging the recollection up through the murky depths.
    Nudging her arm, Parker gave her a quick “What’s wrong?” wave of his hand. But Charlotte just smiled and looked away.
    â€œWhen we go to Norman’s I get the yellowtail snapper with garlic mashed potatoes,” Gracey said to Panther. “It’s the