The demon shrugged, which looked really ridiculous considering the refugee-from-Margaritaville look he was wearing, which included sequined palm trees no less."It's all anybody could talk about after you left, babe.(Sorry, your friend made quite an impression.) Much smarter than Darla's usual brand of boy toy. And between you and me, more than a skosh gloomier, not that there's anything wrong with that. It's not my style,but whatever blows his skirt up. I'm not here to judge. But you must know that...it's why your dreams brought you here."

"Dream," I say, thinking "Ha! You don't know everything!" but finishing with "There was just the one."

"Tonight, yeah. But they could come back."

"I'll stay out of the Scotch then. Problem solved".
He starts cleaning the countertops, acting fascinated."Cupcake, how do you know when somebody's gonna kill again?"

It seemed random, but I wasn't fooled. Acting interested in one tiny detail is an old detective's trick...I've used it myself. The Box is too hot...the Box is too cold, the Box is just right. Where was he going with this?

"You don't." I say, "But most people leave signs. And when you've seen enough of 'em, your gut tells you, huh?"

"Well, my gut tells me you aren't through with those dreams. Not yet."

No, smonster, I'm glad of the catch, cause Lorne speaks French and I took Spanish. And Kay wasn't really vamped...was a dream/fantasy.

Why didn't I notice the n'est-ce pas the first time I read it?

Huh.

Blinded by the fangs, I bet. I do that stuff on purpose.

"Vampire. Yeah, I know, peaches. And if I had a dollar for every confused woman who came in here every Saturday night with that particular upsetting story, I could special-order a new wardrobe, at least. And it is always women...men have this thing about beating up what they don't understand."-

My impression was that Lorne was saying that women come in and talk about their men getting vamped, but men whose women get vamped just beat them (the women) up. Or something. I got that Kay hadn't really been vamped...

I read it as the fact that the men whose women have got vamped just go out and smash things, rather than talk about how they feel - that the people coming in wanting to talk about it would be the women.

Seemed really straightforward to me.

Well, I guess what I meant to say is that a guy doesn't care about figuring it out...he wants to kill the monster. Or, you know, what Deb said. But I guess it didn't come off quite right. And I'm glad you're thinking about renting H:LOTS.

I read it as the fact that the men whose women have got vamped just go out and smash things, rather than talk about how they feel - that the people coming in wanting to talk about it would be the women.

Except Justine.

Justine would not—could not—escape the pain of losing her sister. The pain never went away.

She was always there.

In every mirror, in every reflection off a store window, Justine saw not herself, but the face of her twin. She would always be alone, and never be alone.

Nothing much, but an end to the scene. My first instinct was to shrug off what he told me. But deep down, I knew it was true. He read me. He could probably tell what kind of dreams they were too, in which case it was real decent of him not to say anything. Not like what a cop would do.

"Thanks," I say, " You've been a real pal. But don't call me 'cupcake'." I shake his hand, flipper, whatever. I'm surprised by how warm and not-scaly it is.

"I live to serve...pumpkin?"

"My dad called me pumpkin till I was twelve! Could you read that off me?"

"No, just took a shot. It's more an art than a science."

"Hey, what'd you give it away for? You could've had me going, convinced me we had this deep, psychic, bond. Beverly Hills gals could be lined up for that."

"I'd never try to run a con on you. You'd get ticked off and then you wouldn't come sing anymore. Not sound business practice, precious."
"You know that redhead-with-a-temper stuff? Mostly urban legend."

"Now, who's not telling everything?"

"Ok, so I have my moments, huh?"

"You keep in touch, dumpling. I mean it. "

"Dumpling?! You are too much."

"Maybe. But you have better hair." And he hugs me briefly...I don't go in for that, but from him it sort of felt natural, even with the horns.(They still creeped me out a little bit.) It was very early morning now...I'd made it. And if I remembered Fright Theater correctly, Munchkin was about to call it a day.Him and Darla...I had her number. Blonde, pain in the ass, maybe, maybe not, big breasts. Catnip for Munchkin.

Oh, man. I love her being OK with hugging Lorne, but still being creeped by the horns. That's so - damn.