Ah, yes. He was talking to Amelia through the bond. Two bodies, one soul. Dorian, his boss, his big brother for all purposes and intents, the only other Tulpa demon in existence, had foundit. His fated mate. The soul-deep bond they never even knew they could have. Dorian was still the same cold-blooded terror that could drive an entire country to madness through nightmares with nothing but half a thought, but now he smiled more. Moved like the weight on his chest wasn’t so damn heavy anymore. Sharing his heart and soul with someone else hadn’t made him weaker; it had made him whole.
And Hunter had discovered he wanted that. He hated how much he wanted that. To be seen. Known. Bound to someone by more than fun or sex. To get lost inside another soul and never claw his way out. He didn’t move when the feeling crept in, unwelcome and familiar. Envy. Not ugly, but envy, nonetheless. He swallowed it all and asked, “She making pot roast?”
“I believe so.”
“Then I’ll be there.” To move away from the uncomfortable emotion, he leaned forward and steered the convo back to work. “So, what’s up? I don’t think you called me here to invite me to a Sunday roast.”
Dorian took a file from a drawer, set it on the desk, and pushed it toward him. “We have a lucid dreamer.”
“Uh. Okay.” Lucid dreamers were anomalies in the Dreamscape and tricky to deal with. Most sleepers were passive; they experienced dreams–period. Lucid dreamers were aware. They could think, choose, and interfere with the delivery of nightmares. See through the illusion, thus nullifying the therapeutic side of it. Definitely a dent into the controlled balance that Dream Devils like himself enforced. “She human?”
“Indeed.”
Hunter took the file, opened it, and read the info.
... cognitive scans suggest strong emotional resonance originating from childhood trauma and long-term repression. Current threat level iscontained. Recommend immediate field evaluation by high-tier operative....
“Childhood trauma,” Hunter muttered, skimming the rest of the file. “Always fun.”
Most Dream Devils weren’t cut to handle those. Not because they weren’t powerful enough, but because it meant walking into a dream built by a child who never got to feel safe. And no matter how grown-up the dreamers were in real life, inside the dream, they were still eight years old, hiding in a closet, waiting for the rescue, the comfort, or the way out that never came.
It took finesse. Patience. A brutal kindness most demons weren’t wired for.
And the ones whowerewired for it never liked it, but they did it anyway. Because if done right, they could give that kid the ending they never got. Even if it tore something out of them in the process, no matter how often they did it. “You want me to take a look,” Hunter said, closing the file.
“Well, it calls for a high-tier operative. You’re the highest.”
“I mean.” Hunter leaned back again. “Technically, you’re a step above.”
Dorian leaned on his side and sighed. “Do you want to switch chairs?”
Only he could say something so casual and still radiate pure menace. And of course, Hunter laughed, because he was the only one who could get away with it. Except for Amelia, obviously. “Nah. I’ll take a look and let you know.”
~*~
Hunter snuck into her subconscious without trouble.
Daphne Claire Quinn.
Thirty-two now; barely seven in the nightmare.
He’d read her file, knew what he would find and like clockwork, he felt it as soon as he was in.
Tight but not claustrophobic, her mind was more like a sealed vault holding every emotion neatly filed away and strictly supervised. Her subconscious had been clean to the point of unease, and that only underscored the fragility of it, the feeling that if you pulled the wrong thread, the whole thing would unravel. He couldn’t know what the thread was. Finding it might be the point, what she needed to deal with.
Pushing and jerking the dream wouldn’t accomplish anything, especially for lucid dreamers. So he softened, let her mind take him in, surrendered to it until he wasn’t just standing in her mind, he was part of it.
The shift was, like usual, subtle at first. As Daphne’s sleep deepened and her brain activated, her emotions stirred, the vault flexed, and the light changed.
And the dream became.
She was in her childhood house. In her bed. And while nothing in the room looked threatening, the unease was immediate, thick as fog, and familiar.
It was too quietly tense, the control brittle, like she was bracing for something she knew was coming. It was always like this, with trauma. The dream wouldn’t explode into a nightmare. It wouldunfold unhurried, like it had all the time in the world to torture you.
Hunter steadied, waiting to see which version of hell he would have to be.
The room looked normal at first, but some walls were missing entirely, eaten out by darkness because they were useless to the dream. The window didn’t show a world outside; it didn’t show the night. Only a wrong blackness. From underneath the door, the lighting flickered like an old film reel, never settling, never right.
