The music stopped and a chime sounded. 

“Oh,” Jerry exclaimed, “Perfect timing. That’s dinner. Come along, my dears.” He ushered us into the dining hall, and the rest of the crowd began to trickle in through the series of double doors connecting the two rooms.

The tables were numerous and elegantly set over white tablecloths, a centerpiece of white peonies, carnations, jasmine, and baby’s breath in a tight bouquet with minimal greenery on each, in keeping with the established themes of the décor. Luckily, there were place markers, and between that and the delicate wrangling behavior of some of the staff, everyone seemed to have little trouble finding their seats. Jerry led me to the only rectangular table, set purposefully and prominently apart from the others on a raised dais we stepped up onto before he released my arm to pull my chair out for me. 

I sat as gracefully as I was able with a quiet, “Thank you,” as he pushed my chair back in.

To some mild surprise on my part, Dream found his seat at our table as well, three places down on my right, somewhat opposite the sideways “head” of the table, since we weren’t using the ends or the other side.

Asra and Julian arrived a few moments later, Julian sitting directly to my right with Asra next to him. 

Our host waited until everyone else was seated before taking his place on my left. 

I removed my gloves discreetly under the table, pulling them off by the fingers rather than peeling them like an awkward banana over my elbow, peering around the dining hall as I did. I noticed by the time I was folding my gloves and laying my napkin over them in my lap that not only was our table seated well for interesting conversation, but each table seemed to be similarly well-planned and -thought-out.

I made introductions, presenting Julian and Asra to Morpheus in recognition of his higher social standing or rank by virtue of his being immortal and all but omnipotent. I wondered idly why we seemed to be able to make eye contact fairly comfortably with each other, with none of that awkward neck craning that tends to come with same-siding situations, then I noticed the slight outward curve of the table on the edge we were using and supposed that probably explained it.

“How do you know Sora?” Julian asked the personification conversationally.

Morpheus glanced at me, pausing for a beat or two before answering mildly, “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her before tonight.” Another pause in which he raised an elegant hand, palm up in invitation, “And you?”

“That’s a bit of a long story,” I answered for him, the shake of slightly embarrassed laughter and tone of an excuse in my voice.

Julian glanced at me, then down at the table with a shrug and a sheepish chuckle of his own by way of agreeing. 

Morpheus looked between the two of us for a moment before saying, “Stories make up a large part of my domain of responsibility.” He paused, almost as though he expected that was enough to assure me or both of us that we shouldn’t reserve ourselves on his account. No one answered, and he continued, “Since it would appear that we’re about to share a meal together, it would also appear to be safe to assume that we have some small while yet in each other’s company.” He paused again. “I should like to hear the tale, should you care to tell it,” he finished, evidently resolving that his subtlety had been lost on us for some reason or another and getting explicit about it, finally. 

That was my guess, anyway. Humanoid, sure, but he was human like stardust is human, and therefore difficult to read, even for one who doesn’t necessarily need facial expressions to get a sense of what’s going on under the surface of a person’s skin. Besides that, on a scale from ‘boulder’ to ‘puppy’ in terms of emotiveness, he’d likely always fallen somewhere in the ‘stoic’ portion of the spectrum, and he’d lived a long enough time to make that ‘always’  literal, or close enough to it.

That was apparently all the invitation Julian needed, as he launched immediately and enthusiastically into said tale. His excitement and nostalgia were catching, and I found myself chiming in before long to add my own asides, or remind him of details he’d forgotten, but usually to laugh and make jokes, only some of which poked fun at the doctor. He paid me back for the good-natured ribbing, of course, when appropriate, and Asra helped the two of us tell the parts of the story he was in, too. We regaled Dream all through the appetizer and into the second course. 

“You remind me of the Death Arcana,” Asra decided, speaking to Dream, “Though I admit, their disposition is a bit sunnier,” he added, somewhat cheeky, and looking to Julian and me in turn for our agreement or argument.

“I am Death’s younger brother,” Dream said, “And I would agree that my elder sister’s temperament is markedly more blithe than my own, as you say.”

“Erm, which Arcana are you, then?” Julian asked.

“I am Dream,” Morpheus answered and corrected, simply and enigmatically.

Julian and Asra exchanged a confused, not quite wary look.

“Morpheus is probably most closely related with the Magician,” I supplied, coming to their rescue, I hoped. I grinned and darted a glance at the Endless in question. “Though, he’s not as much of a prankster as our fox-headed friend, either,” I added.

“So, just cryptic and mysterious, then,” Asra said over the lip of his wine glass, his eyelids heavy in that knowing, spritely mischievous way of his. 

I smiled back, my eyes very likely glittering, and answered, “Dreams are often heavy with symbolism and hidden meanings, aren’t they?” half playing along, half trying to save Morpheus from needing to defend himself from any perceived needling. 

“Indeed,” Asra agreed.

We passed a moment longer of playfully knowing smiling before the conversation moved on and shattered it gently.

Julian engaged Morpheus by asking about what it was he did, exactly, and Asra broke off his amused eye contact with me to listen and include himself in their discussion. 

Before long, plates and glasses were cleared by the staff, and champagne was served, in anticipation of dessert, I imagined. I found my attention wandering and noticed Jerry studying the table — but mostly me, I thought — with a cunningly tickled interest. I paid him back for the scrutiny, narrowing my eyes thoughtfully at him. 

When he noticed, he tilted his head at me and raised his eyebrows with a slow blink, adding ‘inquisitive’ to his expression rather than strictly changing it, lifting his glass and taking a sip as he waited for my answer to the non-verbal question.

“You know,” I remarked with some humorous consternation when I’d put my thought into words, “you don’t seem to have much in common with Heinlein’s Farnsworth at all.”

“What, I’m not allowed to modernize?” he asked defensively, still with that teasing half smile, and so quickly after swallowing his mouthful of wine that he made one of those little smacking sounds as his tongue disengaged from the roof of his mouth. “I can’t keep up with the times?” he sassed.

I blinked and gave a shrug, unsure what to say to that for a moment. “I didn’t say you weren’t allowed,” I amended, “I’m just wondering how you’re able, that’s all.”

He grinned and eyed me out of one corner of them as they glittered and made no other reply.

“Well,” I decided, “However you managed it, I think I’m relieved.”

“Oh?” he asked, eyebrows hiking up with his intrigue, “Why’s that?”

“His plots are genius, and it’s no wonder why they’re considered timeless classics, at least in their genre, but his characters are mostly terrible, and none of them have aged well.”

“Oh?” he repeated, this time containing an amused chuckle poorly.

I drew my lips into a thin, disapproving line for a moment. “Most women aren’t servile, sex-hungry sass monsters who end every sentence in “dear,”” I explained pointedly, “but you’d never know that reading any one of his novels.”

“Yes,” he agreed, one side of his lip curling up with regret. “That’s just the good ones,” he finished, equally pointed and looking at me.

I gasped, offended and amused. “You insult me,” I nearly shrilled, “I am not servile.”

“Of course not, you’re just incapable of doing anything for yourself, but have no problems doing things for other people.”

“I am not sex-hungry,” I protested, the beginnings of pouting and sullen.

“Come now, we both know you’re starved.” His sly, teasing half-smile stretched and grew in intensity, but that may just have been the slight and sudden heavy-liddedness of his eyes.

I fought to maintain my frown. “I’m not a sass monster,” I said finally, without conviction.

He laughed. “When was the last time you had a whole conversation without making a single sarcastic remark?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

I smiled in spite of myself. “Shut up, you are not allowed to turn sexism into flattery.” A beat, and then I remembered, “I don’t end every sentence in ‘dear,’” as though that validated my whole argument, eyebrows high, a finger pointed.

He shrugged dismissively. “Three out of four ain’t bad,” he intoned, a resentfully conciliatory sort of pensive, but went back to smirking about it as he brought his glass up to his mouth, even before he’d finished the thought.

I scoffed, rolling my eyes in mostly playful exasperation and let it drop. A moment later, my curiosity began to itch again, powerfully. I dropped my voice and tilted my eyebrows, leaning toward him. “What are you doing, Jerry?” I pleaded. “Huh? What are you up to?”

“Whatever could you mean?” He asked sweetly, playing dumb but mirroring my quiet conspiracy vibe and lowering his own voice.

I exaggerated my expression that just said, ‘Really?’ to which he shrugged in response as if to say, ‘Search me.’

I sighed. “You don’t bring a ballroom full of fictional characters and a writer together for a quiet, civilized dinner party and leave it at that,” I explained, still hushed, “You have something else in mind, and I want to know what it is.”

“Not comfortable operating on my time table, are you?” he asked pointedly at a grinning murmur.

I shrugged, playing along with the joke with a small noise of indifference. “The exposition is dragging a little. I just thought I’d help you get things moving.”

He chuckled, admiring or just amused by my persistence. “Alright, I’ll tell you something.” He motioned for me to lean in closer.

I did.

In my ear, he told me, just above a whisper, “I’ve put all this together for you.”

I gasped, delighted. “For me? Why?” I asked, eyes undoubtedly sparkling.

He shrugged as we both straightened. “I like you,” he said simply, “You write good smut.”

“Stop,” I giggled, grinning, flushing from my ears to my neck, and pawing daintily at the air, “You read my stuff?”

“I read everyone’s stuff,” he said with another shrug, elbows on the table. “Well, most everyone’s,” he amended after a moment of brow furrowed thought. “All the good stuff, anyway,” he decided finally.

“Well, I…” I stammered, at a loss for words. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he shot back. His smile turned crooked and his eyes glinted, and then he stood, picking up his champagne flute and a knife. Heads turned, then he tapped the glass gently with the silverware, making the crystal sing like a bell and the champagne bubble excitedly. The rest of the heads turned.

“Thank you all again for coming. I hope everyone is enjoying their meal.” He paused to let objections be heard. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he went on, raising his glass. A few others followed suit.

“Here’s to getting exactly what you always wanted, even though you’d never dare to hope it was possible, let alone ask for it.” He drew attention then to me. “And to our guest of honor, the lady of the evening, Sora Sullivan.” He turned toward me, an arm outstretched to present me. “Health and happiness to you, and may you get exactly what you always wanted.” He winked at me and took a sip from his glass. 

I looked around with a bashful, fond smile, touched by just how many of them drank to that. 

“Speech!” someone yelled. I didn’t look toward the noise quickly enough to see who, though judging by the sound of their voice, they were obviously quite drunk.

“Yeah, give us a speech!” Spike echoed, also quite drunk.

A chorus of agreements went up then, and my breath caught in my throat before I stammered wordlessly, looking around for a frantic moment.

“Go on,” Jerry said, encouraging me quietly and offering me the floor with a gesture.

“But I don’t know what to say,” I hissed, very near panic.

“You’ll figure it out,” he assured me at an amused mutter as he unbalanced my chair. I stood to avoid falling, and the chair settled without my weight to tip it over.

I stared out at my audience and my mind blanked for a heart-stopping eternity. Then I marveled sort of distantly at how strange it felt for them all to be watching me with interest instead of the other way around. 

“Um…” I began, eloquent as ever. “Pretty people make me nervous,” I apologized with an airy, self-deprecating chuckle and some exaggerated fidgeting. It won me a small ripple of laughter. 

After a moment, I drew myself up and smiled. “Thank you for your time and attention this evening. I never dared to hope that I’d be able to meet you all in a place like this. I am…” I couldn’t decide on an adjective even as each of them seemed to overcome me. “Overwhelmed,” I finished, emotion distorting my voice. I cleared my throat, attempting to dislodge the lump. “I can’t adequately express to you how much it means to me, to be able to see you, and talk with you, and shake your hands, and hear your voices like this. I never thought I’d see my reflection in your eyes.” I looked down as tears stung my eyes, then I sighed, forcing a cheery smile at the ceiling. “I just hope I remember it all when I wake up.”

I nodded, excusing myself, and sat down, dabbing under my eyes with the handkerchief Jerry handed me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he assured me, accepting the cloth when I handed it back and replacing it in his pocket as he rose to address the room again, pacing slowly as he spoke. “Now, I’m sure most of you are asking yourselves right about now, ‘Why am I here? What is this place? Who is this mysterious guest of honor? Why does she know so much about me, and what in all the world is she being honored for tonight?’” Jerry said, then paused, tucking the fingers of one hand under his lapel. “Well, I’m fixin’ to tell y’all about it.” He drew out the ‘all,’ suggesting he meant to double the word.

A murmur went through the crowd, then quieted as he went on.

“This place,” he said, gesturing absently around, “is just a little somewhere I cooked up to host y’all this evening. As to the exact geographical location, it… isn’t. Think of our little slice of Heaven as a place… in between.”

“Between where?” Harry asked.

“The world you come from, and every other world represented here.”

“Is this another alternate reality thing?” Thomas joked.

“Exactly,” Jerry congratulated him.

The vampire’s smile fell.

“As to the who and the how,” Jerry went on, turning melodramatically toward me. “Are you sure this is a dream?” he asked coyly, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Positive.” I nodded decisively. 

“What makes you so confident?” he asked, almost conversationally, eyes narrowing with interest.

I scoffed a little laugh. “Are you serious? Look around.” I gestured toward the table and all its guests. “I’m the only person here who isn’t non-real.”

“Non-real?” he asked, clearly unfamiliar with the term, and quite possibly offended by it, since I was referring to him. 

I didn’t expect him to be familiar with it; I had kinda made it up. Having that pointed out so glaringly embarrassed me for some reason and I rolled my eyes, some of the wind going out of my sails. “It’s… what I call people who don’t have corporeal forms with which they can interact with the material plane of my native universe.”

Silence.

“You mean like dead people?” Sam Winchester asked, “Ghosts?”

“No, I mean like fictional people. Imaginary.”

“Oh.”

I felt the room take a chillier tone toward me. “I prefer non-real because in every way that matters, you are all real to me,” I assured them in a defensive panic. “You have always existed, just not in the same universe as me, so… Non-real. It’s stupid,” I said, drooping and growing softer as I spoke, “I know.”

“I think it’s rather sensible, actually,” Artemis chimed in.

“Really?” I asked, soft and high, eyes shining. “Oh, it’s so good to hear you say that,” I decided, relieved.

He smiled. “Even from me, a person who is, as you say, non-real?” he teased.

“Especially from you.”

He tilted his head curiously.

“You might be non-real, but you’re you,” I explained warmly.

He seemed to understand, which seemed to fluster him a little. “Yes, well… I’m a man of science, and I trust my own perceptions.” He stood and began to pace toward the head of the table. “If I’m non-real to you, then you are very likely non-real to me. Since we’re both here, I posit that either both of us are dreaming, or neither of us are.”

“Hm,” I said, pursing my lips thoughtfully. “How many people do you see in this room?” I asked.

He gave a very exact figure.

“Do you recognize any of them?”

“Should I?”

“You might, if this was our dream.”

“You mean to say you know everyone here?”

I nodded solemnly. “I’m the only common thread, in fact.” I shrugged, feeling sheepish and apologetic about it.

Jerry let out a short little laugh, giving a small shake of his head at the table. “Read any Heinlein lately?” he asked pointedly, eyeing me sideways with glittering glee, his tone dark and triumphant, his voice low, his smile knowing.

I gasped, the pit falling out of my stomach. I wasn’t sure Heinlein was the first ever to write about the particular multiversal theory in which the power of human thought, or belief, if you’d rather, makes everything, imaginary or otherwise, real somewhere, but I was sure that’s what he was alluding to. “You’re joking,” I accused. “It’s a theory,” I argued frantically, “Not even that, technically. More like a...a wish. Not based in anything scientific.”

“And yet…” He trailed off, gesturing toward the gathered guests. He was silent for a long moment, his pursed lips working through a thought. “What if I told you this wasn’t a dream?” he pressed.

“I’d be very suspicious that you were lying. Or making fun of me.”

“But you wouldn’t believe me?”

“No,” I confirmed gently but firmly.

He inhaled noisily, thinking face on. “What could I do to convince you?” he asked after a beat. “What if Morpheus weighed in on the issue, hm? Would you believe him if the Lord of Dreams said you weren’t having one now?”

I gave it a stunned, blinking moment of thought. “Maybe,” I answered. “If he says I’m awake, I’d believe that, at least. Not that any of this is real.”

“I have already said that this is no dream,” Morpheus interjected.

“Which is exactly what you would say if it were,” I pointed out stubbornly.

“Where is the backdrop of darkness?” Jerry hissed, clearly running out of patience, “The dull numbness? The sense of mutability, of intangibility, of shifting, fluctuating, timeless, spaceless reality? Isn’t everything clear, and bright, and sharp?” He flicked his wrist for emphasis, and a stinging pain followed the motion across my chest. Reflexively, I cried out and looked down to assess the damage.

Blood welled up over a neat cut across the flat of my chest and began to drip. I made a shaky sound of horror and grabbed my napkin from my lap, clutching it and pressing it into the wound. My breathing resumed, a little fast from relief. My voice came out high and squeaky as I said, “If you ruin this gown, I will never forgive you.”

Meanwhile, outrage went up around the tables, and several hero types rose from their seats with it, a few to rush to my aid. In my haste to protect the fabric and embroidery, I had only barely noticed Asra and Julian nearly jumping out of their chairs. They were closest of the hero types, and so reached me and started helping me to my feet just as Jerry began to laugh.

“Relax,” he said, “I made it. I can unmake it if I care to.” Another casual flick of his wrist, and the gown itself disappeared.

I gasped in abject terror, looking down at myself again. “Oh,” I said, instantly relaxing with a nervous smile, “Right. I still have, like, two or three layers on.” I gave the undergarments a cursory inspection. “Of course the combinations are gorgeous, too,” I muttered.

“Come on, Sora. We’re leaving,” Asra said, glaring at Jerry and hugging me protectively to him, his hands on my shoulders, my back to his chest.

“How is it? Let me see,” Julian fussed, taking the napkin gently from me.

“It’s not serious,” I assured him, “It just hurts.”

“Here, let me,” Asra said, moving around to my side and his hands between Julian’s and my chest. I was too busy experiencing shock to pay attention to his healing.

My eyes widened, my heart pounding in my ears, and my vision narrowed to a pinpoint. “It hurts,” I repeated, stunned.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m working as fast as —” 

“This is real!” I cried, cutting Asra’s apology off and staring, awe-stricken, at Jerry’s self-satisfied expression.

“What? How do you know?”

“I don’t feel pain in dreams,” I answered absently, my feet carrying me toward Jerry without my directing them and I began to chatter excitedly. “This is really real. Why? How?” I degenerated into wordless babbling before I laughed maniacally, facing skyward in maddened joy. “I’m standing in the Devil’s dining room in my underwear with, like, a hundred of my favorite imaginary people. How? Why?” I repeated, “Why would you do this?”

“I can’t do something nice for one of my loyal followers?” he asked, feigning innocence and teasing my pentacle out from under what was left of my bodice by its chain with a hooked finger. I hadn’t remembered having it on, but perhaps I just hadn’t noticed it before.

I gave him the pointiest of pointed looks. “You know full well I haven’t made my dedication,” I said, folding my arms stubbornly. “I’m undecided.”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, dropping my necklace in a kind of exasperation. “Oh, come on! What’s Kernunous got that I haven’t? It’s the horns, isn’t it?”

“They’re antlers,” I corrected, “Pan is straight-forward, doesn’t ask much. I admire him. You, I’m cautious of. Even as a concept rather than a deity, you aren’t to be trusted. I like to have a little faith in my faith. At least know where I stand.”

“Other than ‘up against a tree?’” he prodded, raising a knowing eyebrow.

I was sure I blushed, but I said nothing and adjusted my hair while batting my eyelashes sweetly.

“Sounds to me like you’ve had more than faith in your… faith,” he said, slick with euphemism, looking me up and down with a lascivious set to his jaw.

I feigned primness, but did nothing to hide my smile. “That,” I replied, “is none of your business, messir.”

“Hm,” he said, considering me through narrowed eyes over the end of his nose. “That doesn’t work as well without the gown,” he muttered as if to himself, then waved his hand, and I was dressed again. “There.” He clapped his hands once by way of clasping them. “Alright, you caught me. Think of it… as an experiment. A test.”

I raised a stubbornly uncomprehending eyebrow.

“I’ve invited y’all here to play a little game,” Lucifer said, addressing the room at large again with the beginnings of a smarmy grin.

A few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats, or looked nervously around their tables. The hero types had all resumed their seats.

“Not to worry,” Jerry placated, hands up to show they were empty. “It’s not that kind of game.”  

A few people relaxed.

“You are all my treasured guests, of course,” Jerry went on, “and you’re welcome to leave at any time. Participation is not compulsory, and should you decide to try your luck tonight and regret it tomorrow, I’ll still be happy to grant you safe passage home.” I made to interrupt him, but he held out a hand. “Once you’ve all heard my proposal.”

“So, what’s the game?” Dean Winchester asked.

He grinned. “That will become evident once you know the prize.”

“Okay, what’s the prize?” Sam followed up.

“Only the most coveted in all the multiverse,” he answered with a snobby melodrama, nose in the air.

Curiosity and eagerness washed over the room like physical waves. All eyes watched with glittering attention in the low light.

“Love,” Jerry clarified, pausing to let the thought sink in and build suspense, I was sure. “Power.” He held his arms open as one inviting applause. “Immortality,” he finished, lifting his chin and injecting a breathy, awed quality to his voice, grinning all the while.

Nervousness and anticipation broke out in little fissures over the crowd, dancing and darting between tables.

“You can’t do that,” I argued, then lost my confidence. “Can you?”

His grin held worlds of mischief, but he said nothing. Instead, an attendant approached carrying a silver tray. Jerry took the tray, holding it out to me balanced on the flat of one hand. On it was a single long-stem rose. Red, of course. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, voice low with more melodrama, increasingly smug this time, “Why don’t you tell us who made the best first impression this evening?”

I spluttered, barely managing to control myself for a moment, then I burst out laughing. I doubled over, at the hips rather than the waist as a result of the stays I wore, which I now knew were also covered in exquisite embroidery. When I stood up again, fanning myself with my hand, I caught his displeased expression, and the laughter stopped just as quickly. “Oh, you were serious?” I asked, blinking owlishly and choking down more laughter.

He stood from his theatrical bow and adjusted his jacket testily with his free hand by way of confirming.

I let out a shaky, pained breath, my eyes closing, suddenly stricken by something akin to terror. “Oh, Maker’s breath,” I cursed softly.

“I don’t understand,” someone volunteered. “What’s the significance of a flower?”

“Not just any flower,” Jerry said, setting the tray down and picking up the rose delicately by its stem. “A rose.”

Someone else burst out laughing, boisterous, a little musical, and genuinely amused. I looked toward its source. It was Sam. “What is this, some kind of… supernatural Bachelorette?”

Jerry all but whirled to face him, brandishing his rose. “Interdimensional Bachelorette,” he corrected, grinning with playful indignation, “if you please.”

“Hey, isn’t that the new show where they get a bunch of men together and put ‘em in a mansion with a woman?” Willow asked. “With all the roses and cocktail parties?”

“That’s the one.”

“Then why are there, like, a sizable handful of women here?” she asked the answerer, who gave her a pointed look. “Oh,” she said, eyes widening with her realization, “Oh!” She looked at me with her big, charmingly crooked smile, and gave me a once-over. “Oh,” she repeated, eyebrows waggling knowingly.

I wrapped both my lips around my teeth and bit them, closing my eyes. I was containing a scream and the thought that ‘Willow Rosenberg is checking me out!’ but it could have easily been interpreted any number of ways, including mistaken as an expression of irritation.

“Oh,” she repeated, clearly at least mildly mortified and averting her eyes.

There was a pause in which we all contemplated the horror of our existence. Or I did, at least.

“You’re kidding,” I pleaded with Jerry, “You have to be kidding.”

“I’m quite serious,” he assured me, unconcerned.

I stared at him for a beat, blinking and stunned. “Don’t embarrass yourself,” I said finally, changing tacks snootily. “You have the entire multiverse to choose from, and the best you could find was me?”

“Come now, Sora,” he chided gently, “You give yourself far too little credit.”

I leveled him with my most skeptical scowl.

Rather than trying to convince me alone of my eligibility as a bachelorette, he put an arm around my shoulders and turned to the room at large, addressing everyone as he spoke. “Imagine for a moment, if you will, meeting an entity that is something better than just about anything you could imagine,” he said, “A being so great and terrible as to make your enemies weaker than children and your potential experience literally limitless.”

“Jerry, you’re a salesman, not an army recruiter,” I reminded him only a little shrilly, eyes wide, “Stick to mild exaggerations, please.”

“I’m not exaggerating,” he protested, letting go of my shoulders to go back to talking with his hands.

I scoffed. “I’m just a human,” I argued, “Not even a very good one, all things considered.”

He gave me a half-smile. “For all appearances, sure. But think about where you come from,” he continued cryptically, “And where they come from.”

Every hair on my body stood on end and I suddenly felt a chill. “What does that have to do with anything?” I demanded, playing dumb and hoping that I was wrong.

He chuckled. “You said it yourself,” he answered, “You’re the only real person here.”

“That doesn’t make me some kind of god,” I protested, fear and anger stirring and mixing in a conspiracy to turn my insides to liquid and make my limbs go numb.

“You haven’t reached your full potential, to be sure,” he agreed with a conciliatory nod, then turned sly mid-sentence, “but what makes you so certain?”

“A bunch of things,” I answered, incredulous and nervous laughter in my voice, “but my favorite is the fact that you’re the Devil,” I added to elaborate emphatically, “I’d be an idiot not to see the huge price tag on this one, and I’m telling you, no one here with an ounce of sense is going to agree to this insanity,” I assured him, both my head and my voice shaking with my continued amusement at the absurdity.

“Oh, I’m not asking for anything in return,” he dismissed blithely.

“Of course you aren’t.” I folded my arms petulantly.

“If you mean to sell this human,” Pharaun interjected, standing with his fingertips resting on the table, “I’m sure we could negotiate a fair price.”

I wilted, incredulous, my shoulders sagging and my spine drooping forward. Clearly he understood what was happening even less than I did and in an even more narrow context than most anyone else in the dining hall.

Quark stood hurriedly, finger held aloft. “Whatever he offers you, I’ll double it.”

I sighed gutturally. “Charming,” I lied with a forced smile. “This isn’t an auction, and I’m not for sale.” I turned an impatient leer on Jerry. “I’m not into that anymore. Besides, I don’t belong to you,” I reminded him, looking him up and down in an emphatic sort of haughtiness.

“Don’t you?” he asked, far too self-satisfied for comfort.

Suddenly I wasn’t sure. My mouth worked dumbly for a second or two.

“Look,” he said, changing tacks with a gentler tone, “You don’t have a choice on this one, I’m afraid.”

“What?” I demanded a little breathlessly.

“You’re in my debt, if you recall. Until you give me what I’m owed, you are mine.” He explained, matter-of-fact, calm, but too warm to be cold.

That hit me like a bath of ice water. There was a long moment of stunned silence in which I felt more outrage on my behalf ripple around the room in waves. It intermixed with the lingering anticipatory tension and hungry curiosity, creating a heady blend of activating energy. I was sure that my pulse would have started racing even if I’d been calm and none the wiser and had just walked in on the scene at that moment.

I blinked rapidly and resumed breathing, likely seeming to return to life and animacy. “Hang on,” I protested, returning to impassioned, “Indebted isn’t the same as owned.” 

“Isn’t it?” he challenged nonchalantly.

I swallowed, my jaw working nervously. “No,” I answered, my voice going so far as to not just quaver but crack as well, demonstrating clearly my uncertainty and lack of confidence.

He laughed, high and musical. “Remember who you’re talking to, honey,” he condescended with an amused sort of pity. “What, precisely, is the difference?” he asked pointedly, somehow both casual and emphatic, clenching both his jaw and his fist.

A curious sensation bloomed around my wrists, not quite an itch, not exactly a zap of electricity or the snap of an elastic band, but it was there and gone before I could really place it, and when I looked down, I realized it had served its purpose in getting my attention. I brought my right arm slowly up to get a closer look. I stood, shocked and staring, transfixed, as I inspected my wrist, the left following shortly after the right, all fairly thoughtless and reflexive. 

A series of runic-looking symbols and sigils glowed red hot around both my wrists, spinning slowly around them rather than appearing there statically as any simple, mundane brand might. They sizzled and smoked as though constantly smoldering without ever actually burning my skin.

I gawked, goosebumped and smelling sulfur, for another short moment that seemed to stretch indefinitely before the glowing handcuffs disappeared again, all evidence of their presence vanishing with them. They were still there, I knew, invisible, but I focused on breathing shakily and steadying myself. My eyes felt too wide, my breathing too shallow and quick, my jaw slack, and my heart was trying to escape through my throat.

I cast a worried expression around the other tables and guests, embarrassed suddenly, like they’d walked in on me in the shower, or doing something infinitely more stupid and shameful than bathing that left me even more extremely naked. I couldn’t read the mood of the room; it was too chaotic and varied at that particular moment. Or maybe my own emotions were just too heightened for me to sense past.

“Fine,” I said, turning my attention back to Jerry and our ongoing conversation. My voice came out a little breathy and thready, but it didn’t shake as much as it could have. I cleared my throat. “Fine,” I repeated, “That’s fine.” I lifted my head and smoothed my hands over the front of my gown, attempting to salvage some decorum, if not some dignity. “You still can’t prove your claims about me, and I doubt anyone will agree to play your game…” I lost momentum. “just…” I licked my lips. “...to try to save me. Damn it.” I cursed at the floor, the sentences running into each other as I practically cut myself off. I sat down, my face burning, my stomach churning in a decidedly threatening manner.