Delivery is always at midnight. And my favorite spot is by the river where city lights glow into dark water. I lean against the cold stone balustrade and gaze into the depths as if I'm just another tourist enjoying a night out in this beautiful and romantic city. But I'm not here for that. This is the spot where I meet my clients, work my magic, fulfill their dreams and my destiny. Even though I've been doing this since I was kid, I didn't go professional until I turned twenty-one. That was five years ago.

A silhouette in a long dark coat limps closer. I shiver a little and tell myself it's the cold January air, but inside I know it's the rush I get from the job -- a far cry from my daily gig, my cover in this ordinary world where no one would accept or believe my reality. No time to think about petri dishes at the university lab right now though.

"Do you have it?" he hisses into my ear.

"Of course." My voice is firm, confident, badass.

His hood masks his face as he turns to me but keeps his distance. I reach out and press my fingers to his temples. Almost automatically, a scene pops into my mind. The Alps, thick with cottony snow, rise into the sky, and the icy freshness of the air fills my lungs, almost making me gasp. A man about my age is at the top of one of the most difficult slopes, and then he sets off, every line of his body perfection – until the accident. I shiver as I see it coming, then watch the crash with another skier unfold.

"Do you feel it?" I murmur.

"No."

"I mean is the memory coming through?" I insist.

"No. It is not." His words are sharp, cutting me like a knife.

Even though this has never happened to me before, I don't panic. Instead, I search for my mother's voice, and from some faraway place, she guides me. But even as I listen to her advice -- slow down the release of the memory, she says – my client shakes his head, pulls my hands away, and his voice becomes a growl.

"This is what I'm paying for? Some sort of charade? I need the ski accident memory to explain this, what's happened to me."

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to figure out what's happening. Quickly, I analyze the situation and realize I'd copied the memory – from a former ski champion – perfectly well. The problem is I can't transmit it to someone else. I feel it sticking in my mind, lingering there when it should be flowing out. What to do? What to do? Now the panic starts rising from the pit of my stomach.

Before I can come up with any sort of answer to my own question, he grasps my shoulders. I look up with a start, but his hood still hides his face. And then he pushes. I shriek and stumble backwards, and it's as if time stops for one brief second and I see another man, a familiar face, but then time lurches forward again. It's too late to call for help. I'm falling, a rush of frigid air forcing me into icy waves.

"I can't swim!" I scream, but every bit of voice stays in my head as the movement of water drags me under.

**

"Cass, what the hell?"

I feel as if I'm having an out-of-body experience, gazing at this super weird scene from above: Logan is studying me like I'm some kind of strange bug while I stare up at the ceiling through saucer eyes. Sweat is dripping down my temples, drenching my hair and pillow.

And then I'm back in control and sitting up to face him.

"A bad dream, that's all."

"What happened?"

"I can't remember." I answer a little too quickly, but Logan doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he hands me the bottle of water from the nightstand, and I take a swig. Not because I'm thirsty but because I'd rather drink than spend those extra seconds explaining the whole situation to Logan. Because this is in fact a situation. I didn't wake up freaked out over the drowning. It's more like I'm freaked out over the part of the dream that echoed reality. I'd been struggling to copy and transmit memories. It all began a couple of weeks ago. Without any warning or reason, the power was... well... fading. So far, I've managed to do the job, but the close calls have been piling up, and the idea of totally losing it with a big customer – like what happened in that nightmare – terrifies me. And there's something else about the dream that's raising more than a few goose bumps along my spine. I replay the scene over in my mind and draw in a sharp breath when I glimpse the familiar face at the end. Where have I seen that person before?