His lips curling in a sleepy smile, George stared at me and murmured, “Wow, you’re real. I thought I was dreaming.” His comb-over had fallen across one eye; he pushed the hair back in place with stubby fingers.

“You were dreaming.” Realizing what he was staring at, I crossed my arms over my chest. My shirt was still wet, and the bedroom was cold. “Tina, can you hand me my jacket, please?” I glanced in the mirror over the dresser to make sure everything else was back to normal. Strawberry blonde hair that I kept short because no matter what style I tried, it reverted back to this one after a shift. Heart-shaped face, amber eyes. Yep. That was me. Victory Vaughn, scourge of demons.

Tina, stationed in a chair by the window, tossed me the jacket and I put it on. The wet T-shirt remained clammy against my skin, but at least there was a nice, thick layer of leather between my nipples and George’s leer.

“How are you feeling?” I asked him.

“Fine.” He sat up in bed and stretched. Then he put his hands behind his head and regarded me. “I’m just sorry to wake up. I was having a great dream—first good one I’ve had in weeks.” He waggled his eyebrows.

The best way to deal with this guy was to ignore the innuendo. Be professional. I opened my duffel bag and started packing my equipment. I unplugged the dream-portal generator (it shuts off automatically when a client wakes up) and wound the cord around its base. That went into the bag, followed by my InDetect, my utility belt, my pistol, and my extra bronze ammo. As I packed, I talked.

“Only sweet dreams for you from now on, George. You had about two dozen Drudes in there, but I got rid of them all.”

“Hey, I helped.” Tina sat up straight in her chair. Next to her loomed a small mountain of empty food containers: frozen pizza boxes, candy wrappers, an empty cellophane Oreo package, a squashed-flat potato chip bag. While I’d been putting out fires, she’d been cleaning out my client’s kitchen. George glanced at her, then his eyes widened. Confusion etched lines across his forehead.

“Weren’t you . . . ? I mean, didn’t you . . . ?” He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.

Holding up a warning hand to keep Tina quiet, I watched George as he struggled with the wisp of a memory of Tina invading his dreamscape. “What is it, George?”

He shook his head again. “Nothing. I thought I dreamed about a zombie, but I can’t remember. It must be I saw her here, before I fell asleep, huh?”

“Must be.” I needed to make sure the reboot had taken hold. “Do you remember anything else about your dreams tonight?”

His eyes returned to my chest, like he had X-ray vision through leather, and he smiled again. “You were there. In a disco.”

“Anyone else?”

“Oh, um. My, uh, my mother.” Poor George’s cheeks couldn’t have been redder if I’d given him the slap he deserved.

I shot Tina a look. She was scraping the bottom of a carton of butter pecan ice cream. She had no clue what a huge problem she’d caused. She dropped the empty carton on the floor, then ripped open a box of Twinkies. She’d popped two into her mouth before I caught her eye. She shrugged, then unwrapped another Twinkie.

I was feeling confident that George’s dreamscape was whole and functioning, so I walked him through the usual post-extermination procedure. I read down the list of fears he’d provided at our first meeting: clowns, heights, elevators, falling, big dogs. With each item, he shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “None of that stuff bothers me now. Amazing. I’ve been scared of clowns since I was two years old.” He scooched down in bed, closed his eyes, and started humming in a nasal falsetto. “Stayin’ Alive”—the song from his dream-disco. Well, if he was picturing himself as a young John Travolta, he was stilldreaming.

I sat on the edge of the bed and held out a list of instructions, rattling the paper in his face. He blinked and sat up again.

“Follow these post-extermination instructions. You’ve already arranged to stay home from work tomorrow, right?” He nodded. “Because you need a full day’s rest. For the next week, no alcohol, no spicy food, no caffeine. And don’t eat sugar or sugary foods after nine P.M., either.” That last part shouldn’t be hard, since Tina had scarfed down every speck of sugar in the place.

George nodded again, still humming. He shimmied his shoulders and made little pointing gestures that were almost in time with the song.

“George, knock it off for a minute and listen to me.”

He blinked, slapped his own hand, and said, “Naughty Georgie.”

Tina’s bark of laughter sprayed Twinkie crumbs across the room.

I sighed and went on in my most businesslike tone. “It’s important for you to understand that Drude extermination is a temporary measure. I can offer some relief, but only you can slay your personal demons once and for all. That’s why I’ve included a list of local therapists who specialize in conquering phobias. Drudes feed on fear; unless you overcome your fears, the demons will return.”

Like most clients, George didn’t seem worried about that now. The demons were gone, and that was all they cared about. For the first time in weeks, months—even years, for some clients—they’d be able to get a good night’s sleep. And George was looking ready to snuggle back in for another round. His eyelids drooped and he leaned sideways on the pillow. His humming slowed to the tempo of a ballad, then faded out mid note.

“Hang on, George. We’ve got some paperwork to take care of.”

I made Tina clean up the debris from her pig-out while George signed the standard forms and—my favorite part—wrote out a check. As he handed it to me, a shadow darkened the room, like a huge, fast, pitch-black cloud flying across the face of the sun. The temperature plummeted about twenty degrees; the sudden chill prickled the back of my neck and raised goose bumps all over. I was glancing at the window to see if Tina had opened it to the October night air, when pain shot through my head and gut like a million-volt shock, doubling me over. My right hand clenched into a fist so tight I thought my fingers were breaking. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even begin to remember how.

And then it was gone.

When I could speak, I said, “Holy—Did you feel that?”

“You know”—George scooted closer—“I’ve been feeling something ever since I woke up and saw you here. What do you say you and I have dinner tomorrow night?”

From the doorway, Tina made a sound halfway between a snort and a squeal.

I felt too shaken to glare at either of them. “Sorry. I don’t date clients.” The trembling in my voice surprised me. Physically, I felt fine. Now. A slight tingle in my right forearm was the only trace of whatever the hell had blown through that room.

“Too bad.” George yawned. “Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’m feeling kinda tired.”

“We’ll let ourselves out. You get some rest. Come on, Tina.” I hoisted my duffel bag to my shoulder and walked to the doorway. Another chill hit me, and I looked back at George. He was already asleep, his mouth hanging slack like a child’s.

“DID YOU NOTICE ANYTHING STRANGE BACK THERE?” I tried to keep the apprehension out of my voice as we cruised through predawn suburban streets toward Boston. My right arm still tingled from whatever I’d sensed—if it was anything more than my imagination. Sometimes a strong dreamscape can make the outside world feel surreal for a while.

Tina laughed. “Strange? Are you kidding? This has been the strangest night ever.” She held her arms straight out in front of her, pretending she was turning a steering wheel. “Even sitting on this side of the car is kinda weird.”

We rode in my baby, a 1964 E-type Jaguar in classic racing green. My father had shipped it across the Atlantic when he moved here from Wales in 1975. Because of its right-hand drive, I sometimes got puzzled looks from other drivers. But Dad had taught me to drive in this car, and I loved it.

“I don’t mean ordinary strange,” I said. “I mean, did you feel anything creepy right before we left?”

“I can’t think of anything creepier than Georgie-poo asking you out on a date. He had snot in his moustache—did you see? Eww.”

If Tina had felt the force that swept through that bedroom, she wouldn’t be thinking about George Funderburk’s snotty moustache. Whatever it was had felt—there was only one word for it—evil.

But Tina hadn’t noticed. George hadn’t seemed to, either. I relaxed a little, feeling like I’d been holding my breath since Concord. I rubbed the tingling spot on my arm. The sensation was fading. It must’ve been the aftereffect of spending all that time in George’s dreamscape; I’d never been inside someone’s dreams for so long.

“So anyway,” Tina asked, “what happened in the big top after I got out of Weirdoland? I mean, you came through the portal looking like the third runner-up in a wet T-shirt contest.”

I ignored the third-runner-up crack. So what if Tina, zombified at fifteen, had a couple cup sizes on me? Slender but strong—that was how I liked to think of myself. Besides, it was time to tell her off for the trouble she’d caused.

“I had to extinguish the fire you started, remember?”

“Yeah, right. Uh-huh.” Tina’s smirk was just visible in the light from the dashboard. “You sure lit Georgie’s fire. Burn, baby, burn.” She launched into “Disco Inferno” in an earsplitting soprano.

Was I going to have to spend the entire night listening to Disco’s Greatest Hits for the Tone-Deaf ? I clicked on the radio, set to my favorite classic rock station, and turned it up loud. “Born to Run” blared from the speakers. No way Tina could compete with The Boss at full volume. After a minute of trying, she shut up. I reached over and turned the volume back to a level that didn’t threaten hearing damage.

“So when’s our next job?” Tina asked.