I shake my head, hard. Even just remembering those nightmares is unbearable. I check my watch—1300 hours, or close enough, which means I’ve had seven hours of something you couldn’t quite call sleep. It also means the gutterpunk elf who opened the lobby door when I pounded on it, and charged me entirely too much for a room, has had seven hours to rat out the celén in room 2LR to anyone who’s expressed an interest. The facts that my skin’s unpunctured and I’m still alone—not counting the multilegged creepy-crawlies—hints that I’m safe enough for the moment.