For a moment, I didn’t see them or that perpetual blackness. I was in a dream of my own creation, not theirs. The dream Nyx had sent to me over and over had been one of my future, with a home and a child—and a man. A man I loved whose identity remained a mystery. Nyx had never shown me the ending. Never shown me the man in the dream.

“You are so full of shit,” I said. “You claim Nyx shows the truth—the future. But how could that vision have been true if I’m also supposed to be locked here for all eternity? They can’t both be true.”

“The future is always changing,” said One. “That was true when she showed it to you. Your path shifted.”

“Oh, come on! What’s the point of having a vision of the future if it can change at any moment? That’s not a truth or a lie. That’s a guess. And I never believed her anyway. What she showed me was impossible—even if I wasn’t here with you two assholes.”

“You will never know if it was,” said Two. Then, he reconsidered. “Actually it was possible, but you will live with the knowledge that it’s a future that’s been taken from you.”

“You can’t take what I never had,” I growled. “Succubi can’t have children. I could never have that kind of life.”

What I didn’t add was that one startling thing had come from the dream. In it, I’d had two cats. At the time, I’d only had one—Aubrey. Not long after, I’d found Godiva, who was the other cat in the dream. Coincidence? Or had I truly been on the path to that future, only to have it ripped from me now? As always, the Oneroi could see into my heart and knew what I was thinking.

“Do you want to see?” asked One.

“See what?”

“The man,” said Two. “The man in the dream.”

It started before I could stop it.

I stood in a kitchen, in one of those dreams where I was both watching me and feeling me. The kitchen was bright and modern, far larger than anything I could imagine a non-cook like me needing. My dream-self stood at the sink, arms elbow deep in sudsy water that smelled like oranges. I was hand-washing dishes and kind of doing a half-ass job at it but was too happy to notice. On the floor, an actual dishwasher lay in pieces, thus explaining the need for manual labor.

From another room, the sounds of “Sweet Home Alabama” carried to my ears. I hummed along as I washed. I was content, filled with a joy so utterly perfect, I could barely grasp it after everything else that had happened in my life—particularly after this imprisonment with the Oneroi. After humming a few more bars, I set a wet cup on the counter and turned around to peek into the living room beyond me.

A little girl sat in there, about two years old. She was on a blanket, surrounded by stuffed animals and other toys. She clutched a plush giraffe in her hands. It rattled when she shook it. As though sensing my gaze, she looked up.

She had plump cheeks that hadn’t quite lost their baby fat. Wispy, light brown curls covered her head, and her hazel eyes were large and framed with dark lashes. She was adorable. Behind her on the couch, Aubrey lay curled up in a tight little ball. Godiva lay beside her.

A delighted smile spread over the little girl’s face, creating a dimple in one cheek. A powerful wave of love and joy spread through me, emotions that my raw and aching real self barely allowed to come through. Just like the first time I’d dreamed this dream, I knew with certainty—absolute certainty—that this girl was my daughter.

After a few more moments, I returned to my dishes, though I wanted nothing more than to go back to the living room. Damned manual labor. Neither my dream self nor my waking self could get enough of the girl. I wanted to drink her in. I could have watched her forever, taking in those long-lashed eyes and wispy curls.

Unable to resist—and bored with washing dishes—I finally gave in and glanced back again. The girl was gone. I pulled my hands out of the water, just in time to hear a thump and a crash. The sound of crying followed.

I sprinted out of the kitchen. Aubrey and Godiva jerked their heads up, surprised at my sudden movement. On the other side of the living room, my daughter sat on the floor beside an end table with sharp corners, a small hand pressed to her forehead. Tears streamed down her checks as she wailed.

In a flash, I was on my knees, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. Watching and feeling this dream, I wanted to weep as well over the feel of that soft, warm body in my arms. I rocked the girl, murmuring soothing, nonsensical words as I brushed my lips against the silken hair. Eventually, her sobs stopped, and she rested her head against my chest, content to simply be loved and rocked. We sat like that for another happy minute or so, and then, distantly, I heard the sound of a car’s engine. I lifted my head.

“You hear that?” I asked. “Daddy’s home.”

Mirrored excitement showed on the girl’s face as I stood up, still holding her and balancing her on my hip. It was an act of some coordination, considering how small I was.

We walked to the front door and stepped outside onto a porch. It was nighttime, all quiet darkness save for a small light hanging overhead. It shone onto a long stretch of unbroken white snow on the lawn and the driveway. All around, more snow fell in a steady stream. I didn’t recognize the place, but it certainly wasn’t Seattle. That much snow would have sent the city into a panic, putting everyone on Armageddon alert. My daughter and I were perfectly at ease, barely noticing the snow. Wherever we were, this weather was a common occurrence.

Down the driveway, the car I had heard had already parked. My heart swelled with happiness. A man stood behind it, a nondescript dark figure in the faint lighting. He took out a rolling suitcase and slammed the trunk shut. The little girl clasped her hands in excitement, and I waved my own hand in greeting. The man returned the wave as he walked toward the house. It was too dark, and I couldn’t see him yet.

His face. I had to see his face. We were so close. This was where the dream had stopped before, denying me its conclusion. Some part of me was certain this was a trick too—that the Oneroi were going to do what Nyx had done and end the dream.

They didn’t.

The man continued walking toward us, and at last, the porch light illuminated his features.

It was Seth.

Lacy snowflakes rested in his messy hair, and I could make out some wacky T-shirt underneath his heavy woolen trench coat. He left the suitcase by the stairs and sprinted up them to get to us that much more quickly.

His arms encircled us, and both my daughter and I snuggled against him. It might have been freezing elsewhere, but our little circle held all the warmth in the world.

“My girls,” he murmured. He took one of his gloves off and ran his hand over the fine silk of our daughter’s hair. He brushed a kiss against her forehead and then leaned toward me. Our lips met in a soft kiss, and when we pulled away, I could see mist in the air from the warmth of his mouth. He hugged us tighter.

I sighed happily. “Don’t leave anymore,” I said. “Don’t do any more traveling.”

He laughed quietly and gave me another kiss, this time on my cheek. “I’ll see what I can do. If it was up to me, I’d never leave.”

But the dream left, shattering like pieces of glass that were then swept away by a broom. Whereas before I’d counted the seconds for these dreams to go away, this time I wanted to cling to it. The hands I didn’t have in this insubstantial form longed to grasp those shards, bloodying my flesh, if only to have a few more moments of that perfect, content bliss my dream-self had held.

But it was gone. I was empty.

For a long time, I simply couldn’t get over the dream’s loss. I was a tangle of emotions: hurt and anger and longing and incompleteness. It was all feeling, no thought. When coherency began to return, even it was a jumble. Seth. Seth was the man in the dream? Of course he was. Hadn’t I felt it from almost the first time we met? Hadn’t I often said he was like a piece of my soul? Hadn’t I felt like something was missing when we’d split up?