Eighty-odd years as a dream-eater has taught me a thing or two about how to handle tense situations. I've woken up in more strange circumstances than I can count, and more than once a client has decided that they've fallen in love with me Misery style, or wanted to add me to their macabre collection. I mean, sometimes there's a reason people are plagued by nightmares, you know.

If I've learned anything from these experiences, it's not to panic.

But when Damien says, 'I can't let you leave,' in that perfect imitation of a serial killer voice, I panic.

I hurl my bundle of sweaty clothes--cash and all--at his face and bolt for the stairwell door.

Predictably, it's locked.

"Alex--stop! I don't want to hurt you! I just want--"

"Then let me go!" I shout, backing away. There must be a fire-escape on the balcony. Maybe I can break a window, or--

"Be careful!"

The apartment has a multi-level floor, with the sitting area sunk down a few steps. I miss one of these in my backward retreat and fall.

My head strikes the edge of something hard--the coffee table, I think--and stars burst over my vision. I touch the back of my head and my hand comes away red. There's a loud ringing in my ears, and Damien is leaning over me, saying something I can't hear.

Then the darkness creeps in, and then the night.

~xxx~

When I open my eyes, my emotions rapidly escalate from mild confusion to terror.

At first, I only register that I'm lying in a comfortable bed and that my head really hurts.

 Then I remember whose bed, and then why I'm in it. Lastly, I realize that I am chained to said bed by a pair of fluffy handcuffs.

Fluffy pink handcuffs.

I should probably stay quiet, but like the guy who gets killed first in the horror movie, I can't help the whimper of fear that escapes me.

Right on cue, the door bursts open and Damien rushes in. He sees me, and something weirdly like pure relief lights his face.

"Oh, thank God you're awake."

I struggle ineffectively against the handcuffs and kick my legs at him.

"Stay the fuck away from me, you psycho!" Because what else does someone say in that situation? So much for not panicking.

"Whoa, whoa! Calm down!" He holds his hands out, fingers spread and eyes wide.

"Calm down!?" My voice is an octave higher than usual and slightly breathless. This body always did have weak lungs.

He takes a step closer and I kick at him again. He catches my ankles deftly and holds them down. I twist against my restraints, but it's no use.

To my shame, tears sting my eyes and my voice breaks.

"Let me go, please!"

"Alex. Alex stop." His voice is calm and quiet. I can't help looking at him. He appears concerned. He doesn't look like a psycho-murderer-rapist. But then they never do, right?

"Please...just listen to me. There's been a misunderstanding. If you just calm down and listen to me, I'll let you go. I promise."

My breath shivers past my throat, but I nod.

He holds my gaze for a moment and then nods slowly in return. He releases my legs and takes a small key from his pocket.

"I only did this because I was afraid you'd hurt yourself again."

Wait, so now this is my fault somehow? Way to blame the victim.

After a bit of fumbling, he unlocks first one cuff, then the other. I try to sit up but he puts a hand lightly on my chest.

"Alex. Please, just wait. You're hurt."

"You promised," I whisper.

"I know. But you haven't listened yet. Please, just give me a chance to explain. I fucked this up to high hell, but I swear I don't want to hurt you. I just want your help."

My head does hurt, I realize, and I'm a little dizzy. I close my eyes and sink back against the pillows.

"Hey, hey!" He touches my face. "Don't go back to sleep. You have a concussion, and I think that's bad. I read sleep is bad."

I blink up at him. There's something weird about my vision. It's like I'm viewing the world through a pinhole.

I can't help it. My eyelids feel like they're weighted with lead.

"Alex? Alex!" His voice is like an echo in a well of darkness, and I fall into it.

~xxx~

The next time I surface, I'm not in my body. I'm floating in the corner of the room, looking down. Damien is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands. His shoulders shake with sobs. My body is lying beside him.

At first, I think I'm dead, but then I see my chest rise and fall, slow and shallow. If I had physical eyes at the moment, I'd roll them. I will myself closer, and fall back home.

~xxx~

I open my eyes. Damien is still beside me, sobbing about how sorry he is.

"Stop," I croak weakly. "You're killing me."

He looks up, and I wonder how long I've been out. His face is gray, and there's at least a day's stubble darkening his jaw. His eyes look wild and a little scared.

"Alex? Oh, thank God," he gasps. "I thought you'd never wake up."

"What...How long...?" I mumble. My throat is dry and I can barely swallow.

"Like...a day and a half?"

Fucking hell. He didn't think the hospital would have been a good idea? Not that I have insurance, but he's got the cash to spare.

Seeming to read my mind, he says, "I would have called an ambulance, but I didn't know if they'd find out about you...or what."

Shit. Serves me right for spilling the demon beans. You never know who'll actually believe you.

"It's not like I've got the mark of the beast or anything," I rasp.

"What can I do?" He sounds a little frantic, and I realize he probably hasn't slept the whole time I've been unconscious.

"I'm thirsty."

He gets me water, and then some soup. For the next little while, he does a pretty good job of taking care of me, actually, for a psycho who owns fluffy handcuffs.

They're on the bedside table now, and Damien sees me staring at them with disgust.

"Those aren't mine," he says quickly. "They belong to the high-class call girl downstairs."

"Did you seriously ask your neighbor to borrow some handcuffs?"

He grimaces. "Not my finest moment. You were so freaked out, and I was worried you'd...I don't know, break something."

"Of course I was freaked out!" I yell, and instantly regret it as pain shoots through my skull. More quietly, I say, "I'm still freaked out. You better keep your promise and let me leave."

He sighs. "I will. Please, I just need you to listen. You're the only one whose been able to help me, and...Maybe the only one who can."

"Alright, I'm listening. So talk."

"I...I looked you up before, while you were in the shower. And I don't mean just Google. I did a deep search, and you're nowhere. Is Alex Shade your real name?"

I nod. "Yeah. Well, it was Alexander Schade, originally. Try that."

He retrieves his laptop and comes back. A moment later he glances at me over the top. "There's only one that matches you. But it's from the early twentieth century, and it's just a record of death from an old sanitarium."

I nod again. "That's me."

He rubs a hand over his face. "Two months--no, a day ago--I would have said that was insane. Now I'm not sure."

His well-manicured hands shake as he takes a drink of water from my glass.

"After I tried to look you up, I tried looking up myself, too, just on a whim. You see I don't really remember anything before about a year ago. It's like, I know where I went to school, where I grew up, who my parents were; but when I really think about it, there are no real memories--just the basic info. Now I think I know why."

He turns the laptop towards me, and I see a picture of a man standing next to a flashy red car.

"That looks like you," I say.

"It's not. That's Derek Nye. He was an architect from Britain, and he liked fast cars and fast women. About a year ago, he was driving home from some club, and he went off the road. Rolled down a hundred-foot drop and landed in a river. He was killed instantly. They declared him dead at the scene."

He swallowed.

"The only thing is, his body never made it to the morgue. They think someone stole it right out of the back of the ambulance. It's like he just got up and walked away. And a week later Damien Knight appeared, and bought this building, which Nye designed."

"Maybe you are him," I say, trying to be reassuring. "Maybe you just...injured your brain or something, and your memories got all messed up."

He shakes his head.

"I don't think so. Remember how you said you couldn't do any demon tricks?"

I nod.

"Are there other kinds of demons who can?"

"Sure. Lots."

"What about this?" he asks.

He snaps his fingers, and his hand bursts into blue flame.