The lobby is huge and shiny—lots of glass and metal—and filled with enough potted plants to deserve its own gardener. A fountain occupies the center, spouting water in cascades of diamond drops. I stare at it as we cross to the elevators.

I make for the big double doors, but the guy tugs my arm and leads me a few steps farther. He uses a keycard to open a smaller, private lift. Inside, there are only two buttons: L for 'lobby,' and P for 'penthouse.' He presses the P and the doors slide shut.

We ride up in silence, and I study our dual reflections in the mirrored wall.

We're a mismatched pair. He looks mature and well-groomed. I look young and like I could use a good meal. 

One of those things is true.

My body's actually over a hundred years old, though it still looks about twenty, which makes sense because that was my age when I died.

It was tuberculosis, and I was in a makeshift hospital filled with the dead and dying. Those still alive were lost in fever dreams, making it an ideal feeding ground for dream-eaters.

I don't know if he felt sorry for me, or just wanted to make a new demon, but this one old guy did something to my soul. When I died, I didn't go anywhere. I just stood there staring down at my dead self, and he looked at me like he could see me and told me to follow him. He stole my body from the hospital and took it home with him, and I followed, all lost and incorporeal. Then he showed me how to re-possess my body, and told me I was a dream-eater now.

Congratulations kid, you're a demon.

He disappeared after that, and I never saw him again.

The elevator doors open and we step out into a massive penthouse with an open floor-plan. Everything looks too expensive to touch. Damien leads the way, and I follow, not quite sure what to do with my hands.

He walks over to a long bar and pours himself a glass of something brown.

"You want one?" he asks, indicating the bar.

"Some water, please."

He brings me a glass with ice.

"So," he says, "how does this work?"

I shrug. "Simple. We sleep together."

He looks at me sharply. "No offense, but you're not my type."

I smirk.

"Oh yeah? Why's that? Too much man for you?"

He raises a brow. "More like not enough."

Ouch.

I run my hand through my messy brown curls.

"That's not what I mean anyway. I mean you go to sleep. I go to sleep. We go to sleep together, and then I fix your dreams."

Moving to sit on the sofa, he crosses his ankle over one knee. Even his socks look expensive. "I'm sort of a night owl," he says. "I don't know if I'll be able to fall asleep this early."

And I'm not hanging out in Awkwardsville until bedtime, no matter how uptown it might be.

"No problem," I say. "Take one of these." I pull the little box of pills from my pocket and hand it to him.

He doesn't take it.

"I don't do drugs."

"Good. Neither do I. These are herbs. Valerian root. It'll relax your muscles and make it easier to fall asleep."

He looks at me skeptically, but takes the box. Picking up one of the small brown pills, he sniffs at it and grimaces.

"It smells like shit."

"That's how you know it's the good stuff," I say.

He sets the pill on the coffee table next to his glass.

"Look," he says, locking his dark eyes on mine. "I don't believe in this hocus-pocus nonsense. But I'm desperate, and the reviews on your profile are all positive. So I'm willing to give it a try. But if you turn out to be a fraud, I will destroy you. Are we clear?"

Dinner and a threat. Lovely.

"Sure. We're clear."

He holds my gaze a moment longer, then picks up the pill and swallows it.

I take one too, partly to reassure him and partly because I'm too on edge to sleep otherwise.

He nods and stands. "In here," he says, and I follow him across the apartment to a set of dark wood doors.

They open on a bedroom the size of a small house. The color scheme is a masculine monochrome, with natural accents hinting at a winter landscape. It's sterile, severe, serene. Not my style, but I appreciate the taste nonetheless.

"God. What do you do for a living?" I ask, examining an abstract oil painting that looks like it cost a small fortune.

"I'm an architect. I designed this building."

"Oh." Makes sense he had the penthouse, then.

He crosses to the bed and starts to undress.

"Er. You don't have to take your clothes off," I say. I certainly didn't plan to.

"I'm not sleeping in a suit."

He strips down to an undershirt and a pair of boxer briefs, and I try not to stare. He has a swimmer's body--strong shoulders and narrow hips, and long, well-toned legs.

Not my type, I remind myself. Also kind of an asshole, which is not a trait I find attractive.

He moves to the bed, pulls back the covers and slides in. I walk over and sit gingerly on the edge, removing my canvas high tops and belt. I set them on the floor and lie back on top of the covers, keeping several feet between us.

He looks over and quirks a brow. "You have done this before, right?"

"Yes." I roll my eyes. "That's why I'm nervous. I've had too many bad experiences after falling asleep next to strangers not to be."

"And yet you make a business of it?"

I close my eyes.

"It's more of a necessity. Can we hold hands? The contact helps."

"I'm sure it does."

I can hear the unkind smile in his voice, but he humors me. His hand is bigger than mine and surprisingly calloused.

"You have artist's hands," he says, lacing his fingers through mine. "Do you paint or draw?"

"No. Shut up and go to sleep."

He says nothing more, and a few minutes later his breathing grows deep and even. It takes me a little longer, but eventually, the Valerian kicks in and I drift off.

~xxx~

I wake up screaming and in pain. Or at least I think I do.

After a moment of panic in which I don't know where I am, I realize that this is the dream--the nightmare.

Except it can't be, because you don't feel real pain in dreams.

Emotional pain, sure—and believe me, that's bad enough—but not physical pain. Not like this.

I'm lying on a stone table of some sort, and someone is standing over me, holding a bloody knife. I can't see his face, but I know I'm afraid of him, and that he knows it.

"Go ahead," he says, in a voice like gravel and breaking bones, "scream. It will not help you. It will not stop me. You should not have left, and now you never will again."

Then he starts to cut.

He cuts me to pieces, bit by bit, until it should be impossible that I'm still alive, still screaming, but I am. With mounting horror, I realize that I can't die—that I won't, no matter how little of me is left. 

My mind starts to break, and all I know is pain and terror, and the desire for death.

Then I wake up for real.

I'm drenched in sweat, crying uncontrollably, and my heart is racing fit to burst.

And I'm filled with energy from the dream, but it doesn't feel good. It feels wrong and sick, and suddenly I need to throw up.

I get to my feet and see that Damien is still asleep, looking peaceful and relaxed. Fucking bastard. What did he do to me? That was no normal dream.

In fact, that wasn't a dream at all, I realize.

It was a memory. Which is impossible, because— 

I'm shaking so hard I can barely walk, but I make it to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet. Fortunately, there's not much in my stomach beside the coffee and the water from earlier, and I sag against the toilet bowl, shivering like I have a high fever.

Minutes pass, and the shaking finally subsides. My sweat-soaked clothes cling to me, cold and damp, and for having just absorbed a massive amount of energy, I feel exhausted.

Eventually, I pull myself up and return to the bedroom on unsteady legs.

Damien is sitting up, smiling. Really fucking smiling, like he's just had wonderful news.

"That was amazing," he says. "Whatever you did, it worked. I haven't slept without a nightmare in months. I'd forgotten what it felt like."

He sees my face and his smile slips. "Are you all right? You don't look well."

"No, I am not all right!" My voice is embarrassingly close to a shriek. "What the fuck was that?"

He looks confused. Of course, he doesn't know I'm a demon—doesn't know I actually lived his dream and saw it through my own eyes.

"Are my dreams that much worse than the usual?" he asks.

"Worse than—" I gasp for breath, leaning on the door-frame. He stands and comes towards me, looking concerned, and I wave him back. "What are you?" I ask.

His perplexity increases. "I told you, I'm an architect."

"No, I mean, what the fuck are you!?"

He just stares.

"Are you Fallen?" That's the only thing that makes sense. That dream—that memory—could only have been of Hell.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Look, how about I pay you, and then we can discuss an arrangement. How many sessions do you think it would take to rid me of the dreams completely?"

I stare at him. If he thinks he's getting another session, he's insane. I wouldn't go through that again for anything.

"What do I owe you?" He stands and retrieves a slim wallet from the pocket of his folded pants.

Usually, it's a hundred an hour, and a glance at the clock tells me we've been asleep for two. "A thousand dollars," I say. He can afford it, and I fucking earned it.

He hands over ten hundreds without question.

I stuff them in my pocket and pull on my shoes and belt.

"I'll walk you out," he offers.

"No," I say quickly. "No need."

"All right," he says, but he looks unhappy. "I'll be in touch."

No, you won't, I think. In the lobby downstairs I get out my phone and pull up the job app. With a still shaking hand, I block his account.