On the street, I take stock.

I've got a thousand dollars cash in my pocket, I'm full up on energy but I feel awful, and my physical body is hungry and tired.

That's right. Even though I'm a badass immortal demon, if I want my physical body to survive I still have to take care of it.

And I do want it to survive.

Most demons are Incorporeals, or Shadow People--especially the low-level ones like me. Having a body is a privilege, and I don't intend to give it up.

The rarest thing is that this body was always mine, which means no one else can claim it.

If it dies, I might be able to repossess it as long as it's not too damaged, like I did when I first became a dream-eater; but if it's hurt beyond repair or destroyed, I'd have to look for another, and the competition is fierce.

A lot of demons end up having to share, like flat-mates, or a bunch of people in a van taking turns at the wheel.

No thanks. I have a hard enough time getting along with myself.

There's a bank on the corner and I go in to see if they'll give me change for one of the hundreds.

The teller looks at me with open suspicion and takes a long time checking the bill with her special blue-light thing.

She finally decides it isn't lying to her and counts out a hundred in small bills.

On my way out I catch sight of my reflection in the glass door and understand her misgivings.

My hair's a mess, my shirt is stained with sweat, and my face has the drawn, haunted look of someone who's recently experienced being cut up into little pieces and disemboweled.

She probably thinks I'm on drugs, and I don't blame her. I'm lucky she didn't call the cops.

Outside, I consider my options. Honestly, they're a little limited. The money in my pocket is all I have, and while I left a few things at Max's, it's nothing worth going back for.

You know how in movies and stuff the immortal people are all wealthy and shit, because they've had all that time to invest in the right things and become super powerful and rich?

Well, that didn't happen to me. Becoming a demon did nothing for my financial sense.

It was actually easier in the beginning.

With the advance of technology, it's become harder and harder to have a legitimate place in the world. Fingerprints, background checks, digital ID verification--all that crap makes it really hard for a guy whose last official record is a death certificate get by above-board.

Fortunately, even I've managed to make a few connections over the years.

I make my way across town to the Riverfront District. There's an old warehouse that a bunch of artsy-types have converted into apartments and studios. My best friend lives in the nicest one.

Dante answers the door, looking divine as usual--all high-cheekbones and flawless dark-chocolate skin. Dante is a sex-demon--the high-level type.

They prefer 'sex-demon' because 'incubus' and 'succubus' are gendered terms, and Dante is non-binary and fluid.

Their amethyst eyes widen as they take in my appearance.

"Alex? Honey, what in Hell happened to you?"

I don't know why--maybe I'm feeling vulnerable--but those words and the fact that I know Dante cares is all it takes to make me cry.

"Hey now!" Dante pulls me into a hug. They're taller than me by half a foot, long-boned and graceful.

"I broke up with Max, I have nowhere to go, and I had a really bad dream," I say pathetically, trying not to get tears or snot on their chiffon blouse.

"Oh, honey." Dante's precisely articulate voice is full of sympathy. "Come in and tell me all about it."

They let me go and lead the way inside.

Dante's apartment is long and narrow, and runs half the length of the warehouse. One wall is all window, and most of the space is taken up with art supplies. Finished works line the other walls.

Like everything about them, Dante's paintings are elegant, refined, and classically inspired. Most feature nudes, but none are obscene--which is surprising, coming from a sex-demon.

I've modeled for them in the past, and my own face stares back at me from more than one place on the wall.

I look up at the largest example. The guy in the painting has pale skin smooth as cream, eyes like liquid emeralds, silky brown curls, and a mouth like ripe fruit.

Dante says they only paint the truth, but the guy in the painting is not who I see in the mirror.

I glance over at the full-length one Dante uses for self-portraits. The guy in the mirror looks like--well, he looks like he could use a shower and a warm meal; which, honestly, is why I'm here.

Dante's 'living room' is a collection of mismatched furniture arranged in a semi-circle against one corner. I drop into a chair, and they recline elegantly on a low sofa.

By the time I finish my story, they're sitting up, leaning forward with interest. Even without recounting too many details, recalling the dream has me shaking again at the memory of so much fear and pain.

"And this guy has these dreams every time he sleeps?" Dante asks, incredulous.

I nod. "There's no way he's human. I mean, I'm a fucking dream-eater, and one time was too much."

"You really think he might be Fallen?" Dante's deep purple eyes are bright with fascination.

Human religions are a mix of vague truths and fairy-tales. Angels and devils, asuras and devas, Aesir and Vanir, gods and titans; all are names for the same thing.

Basically, a long time ago there was this fight between two kinds of powerful beings, and one side lost.

They are the Fallen.

They're dangerous, and they're not supposed to be on this plane.

"I don't know how he could be," I say. "I mean, he didn't know I'm a demon, and he seems to genuinely thinks he's an architect. But that dream..."

I shudder.

I can always tell when a dream is a memory, or at least based on one. Things are clearer. Sometimes I can pick up smells and tastes, remembered sensations. But nothing as strong as what I experienced with Damien Knight.

That shit was real.

"It sounds like one of the Hell realms, alright," Dante muses. "But if he somehow managed to escape from that, he's either very clever, or one badass motherfucker--or both. Whatever he is, he's trouble. I'd stay away if I were you."

"Don't worry," I laugh and rub my hands over my face. "If I never see him again it'll be too soon."

~xxx~

Dante agrees to let me stay with them until I can figure out my next move. In exchange, they ask that I sit for them, as often and for as long as they ask.

This means hours of posing naked and motionless while Dante paints. It's not my favorite thing, but it beats the alternative.

By the end of the week, the thousand dollars is almost gone, and I haven't had much luck with new clients.

I got two, but they were both pretty weak.

One guy dreamed his checkbook wouldn't balance, and he had to go through about ten thousand receipts to make sure they all added up.

The boredom wasn't worth the small amount of energy he gave me.

The other was a woman whose worst nightmare was that she came second in a marathon. I mean, if I could finish a marathon at all, I'd be happy.

There was a lot of running, and I woke up feeling like I'd lost energy rather than gained any.

Dante is generous, but I can't stay with them forever. I give myself two days to come up with new clients or a new plan. After that...

I don't want to prove Max right, but I've done worse to survive.

I'm in the middle of redesigning my profile page on the job site, when a message from another social media platform pops up.

It's from Damien Knight.

Fuck.

Of course I used my real name on the job app, and he must've traced it.

I open the message.

Alex,

Since you haven't responded through the other site, I'm reaching out here. I'd like to schedule another session with you for my dreams. When can we meet?

Damien

I hesitate, but then reply.

I'm booked. Not taking clients.

There. Short and sweet.

He replies immediately.

I'll pay double your rate. $2,000 for two hours.

Ha. That's not double. That's ten times my rate. But he doesn't know that.

Proud of my resolve, I type: Sorry. No can do. I hit send.

Minutes tick by, and I start to feel hopeful that he got the message and gave up.

I go back to editing my profile, when another message pops up.

I'll pay anything. Name your price.

Jesus. Will this guy not take a hint?

On a whim, I answer.

$25,000.

His reply is immediate.

Done. When?

Shit.

I stare at my screen. You how people say stuff like, 'I wouldn't do that for any money?' Well, most of the time they don't mean it, and most of the time neither would I.

Not this time.

I'm sorry, I type. I can't help you. Please stop contacting me.

I let out a long breath and fall back on the couch where I've slept for the past week. My energy's low, and I need to find a nightmare soon--paying client or not. There're always the hobos by the docks, if I get really desperate.

I'm frowning at that unpleasant thought, when another message pings. Reluctantly, I reach for my phone.

Once again, it's from Damien Knight.

I just turned down twenty-five grand, but somehow I find these words harder to refuse.

I'm begging you. Please help me.

I stare at the message for ten minutes.

Finally, I type my reply.

Tomorrow 6pm

My finger hovers over the button. I close my eyes and hit send.