A door slams, and I hear footsteps running after me down the sidewalk.

"Alex—Alex, wait! It didn't mean anything, okay? Wait!"

Max catches up with me and grabs my arm. I shake him off and keep going.

Up and down the busy, shop-lined street, people stop and stare, like spectators at the theater, enjoying the free show.

Max begins to lose his patience.

"Alex, seriously! You're being a bitch; it's not like you never slept with anyone else!"

My boyfriend—scratch that—my ex-boyfriend is making a scene because I just broke up with him over a dream.

I know that sounds stupid, but let me explain.

I'm a dream-eater: a kind of low-level incubus, only instead of sexual energy, I feed off the energy of people's dreams.

We're the poor cousins of the demon world.

I'm doubly cursed. Not only am I a lowly dream-eater, but my affinity is for nightmares.

You see, dream-eaters experience a person's dream as we consume its energy. Which means I have to live out other people's nightmares just to eat.

Max's most recent nightmare was about me finding out he's been sleeping with some other dude named Carl.

Now, sometimes dreams are just dreams, right? But when he woke up and I asked him who Carl was, I knew that in this case, it was more.

To make matters worse, he then decided to pull out the whole "you sleep with other people, too," argument.

And now, when I don't respond to his charming entreaties, he brings it up again as he trails behind me past a crowded café, drawing the interested attention of a group of octogenarians dining on the patio outside.

"You know what? Fine. You can sleep around with other people, but I can't. I get it. Because for you it's business, isn't it? Well you know what that makes you, Alex? A whore."

He spreads his arms wide and addresses the impromptu audience of his self-made soap opera.

"You hear that, fuckers?" he yells. "Alex Shade is a whore!"

I turn around and punch him in the face. Then I keep walking.

~xxx~

First of all, it isn't true.

I mean, yes—I sleep with people. And it is for business. But that business isn't sex. It's dreams.

More specifically, it's nightmares.

The more powerful, the more unpleasant the dream, the more energy it gives me. So in that way, it's worthwhile to seek out the worst of the worst: the minds so tortured they'll pay anything to be rid of the nightmares making life unlivable and turning sleep into hell.

The downside is—as I said—I have to live the nightmare to absorb its power. Which is why I figure it's fair that people pay me to rid them of their awful dreams.

It's a living.

Except for the last few months I'd given that up, and been perfectly happy to do so.

I'd met Max at a club, and we'd connected instantly. He told me about his nightmares, and I listened with understanding and sympathy. Later, I ate his dreams, and he felt better. Somewhere along the way, I guess I mistook our mutual co-dependence for something more, and when I'd seen that latest dream, it had hurt a lot more than I'd expected.

I don't know why it came as a surprise. I mean, it's not like he ever said he loved me; and he's clearly not the long-term type.

Still, even a low-level demon likes to think he's something special to someone.

So much for that.

I walk a few more blocks before slowing my pace. My physical form tires easily, especially after I've been upset. Emotions take a lot of energy, after all.

Belatedly, I realize that walking away from Max means I've also walked away from the one, tiny piece of security I had in this world. I have no job, no home, and very little money... But at least I have a plan.

There's a coffee shop across the street with free Wi-Fi advertised in the window, and I make my way over and go in.

I dig in the pockets of my jeans and come up with just enough change to buy a small coffee. The girl behind the register gives me a look as she takes my crumpled dollar and handful of mixed coins. Clearly, this is the sort of place that expects customers to actually put something in the tip jar.

I give her a crooked smile instead. I may not be a super-sexy, high-level incubus, but I'm damned cute, and I know it.

She smiles back uncertainly and hands me my coffee.

Oh well. My appeal has always been stronger with male humans anyway.

I take my cup of coffee and find a seat near the windows. After a frustrating struggle connecting to the Wi-Fi, I log into my old profile on the job app I use and update the status to 'active.'

I bill myself as a 'dream doctor: guaranteed to end your nightly torment!' Not the most elegant advert, but it seems to work well enough.

Before I finish my coffee, my phone pings with a notification. A hit—and it's close.

I open it and read the note.

Hello,

I'm interested in meeting and discussing your services. Please reply promptly.

~Damien Knight

Interesting. I touch the reply icon and start to type.

Hi—I'm free this afternoon. Where would you like to meet?

I wait, and a few seconds later another message pings.

Can you come to my home? The address is 1665 Greenwood Dr.

Hmm.

Usually, I like to meet in public first. I mean you never know these days. I might be a demon, but my physical form can still get murdered as easily as any mortal. Only instead of whatever happens to humans, my spirit would have to roam around searching for a new vessel. Probably for years, if not decades.

Been there, done that. No thanks.

Still, he had good grammar. That had to count for something, right?

I hesitate, then tap reply again.

Sure. What time?

The answer comes almost immediately.

As soon as possible. I'll be waiting.

Okaaay. This guy is desperate. Hopefully only to be rid of his nightmares.

I stand and toss my empty coffee cup in the trash. While I'm still on the café's hard-won Wi-Fi, I pull up a map and type in the address. Two blocks south and one east. Easy-peasy.

Pocketing my phone, I head back out onto the street. As I go, I cast one last hopeful wink at the girl behind the counter.

She rolls her eyes.

Sigh. It's always the normal-looking ones who have the worst dreams, too.

I set a brisk pace up the street.

1665 Greenwood Dr. turns out to be a luxury apartment complex.

Great. I don't have a real service plan, and my phone is useless without Wi-Fi. Was this a joke, or did 'Damien' expect me to let him know I've arrived?

As I search the nearby shopfronts for the ubiquitous Free Internet lure, the tinted glass doors to my left open, and a man steps out.

He's tall and athletic, about thirty-five, with pale skin and dark, stylishly cut hair. He's handsome in a clean-cut, upper-class kind of way. Not exactly my type, but his eyes are deliciously dark and haunted. Definitely my nightmare guy.

"Are you the dream doctor?" he asks. His voice is deep and smooth.

I nod "That's me."

He looks me up and down like I've come to Fashion Week in an outfit I found at the Goodwill.

He shrugs but holds out his hand.

"Damien Knight. Pleased to meet you."

"Alex. Alex Shade," I say.

His eyes narrow slightly, and I know he's wondering if the name's real.

It is, by the way.

"Well then, come inside."