Leo picked petal fragments out of his teeth and tried to salvage his dignity. He was three weeks into his apprenticeship—the first incubus apprentice in two centuries, which sounded impressive until you realized it was because no one else had been desperate enough to apply. But Leo had his reasons. Rent, for one. The existential dread of being a twenty-two-year-old barista with no direction, for another. When the Infernal Registry had posted the position (“Entry-level dream-weaving, benefits include immortality and dental”), he’d clicked apply before common sense could catch up.

Darith watched from the corner of the dream, invisible, and said nothing.

The first time Leo tried to slip into a dream, he tripped over the threshold and landed face-first in a meadow of screaming tulips.

But the tulips.