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“You don’t know anything.”

“Then enlighten me.”

We stare each other down. Shadows are collecting around us as Des’s emotions get the better of him. The other patrons don’t notice it, thanks to the dim lighting and the night sky outside, but I do.

Just seeing him this worked should be satisfying, but under my anger I’m baffled by it. He left all those years ago, and now he’s insisting he didn’t. And it’s been so long that I’m wondering if I am remembering incorrectly.

But no, that particular night is burned into my brain.

I wait for him to explain himself, but as usual, it doesn’t come. I push away my drink and the last of my croissant, losing my appetite.

His eyes linger on the action. “Cherub, what happened last night?”

“You’re going to have to take a bead if you want any answers out of me,” I snap, annoyed. If he’s going to fight explaining himself, then I sure as hell will as well.

A little bit of the anger dies in his grey eyes, replaced by that curving smirk. This, he likes. My feistiness, my engagement.

He wraps his hand around my bracelet, and briefly my gaze flicks to his elaborate sleeve of tattoos.

“Tell me what happened last night,” he repeats, and this time there’s magic behind his words.

I shudder as it takes hold, and instantly I regret baiting him. “Nothing.”

I begin to feel pressure against my windpipe.

“My magic seems to disagree,” the Bargainer says.

I want to groan. “What else do you want me to tell you? After you left, I cleaned up my house, hung out with my friend for a few hours, and went to bed early. When I woke up, I found my bedroom exactly how you saw it.”

Des resumes stirring his coffee. “My magic isn’t releasing you, so you might try thinking a little harder.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “Or you can slowly suffocate. Your choice.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I wheeze. “I watched TV, I went to sleep, I woke up on a shredded bed.”

Still no relief. And now I feel like just another of the Bargainer’s clients, squirming under his power.

He takes a sip of his coffee. “What happened in the time between you going to bed and you waking up?”

I give him a bewildered look. “I slept.”

The magic presses down my chest.

“Soundly? Fitfully?” he probes. “Did you have nightmares?”

I remember the storm that shook the house, and the moaning wind that invaded my sleep.

“I did dream,” I say.

Is there a tad less pressure on my chest?

“About what?” Des presses.

I try to remember. It’s just out of reach.

“Since when do you read into dreams?” I say.