Upstairs, René stands, eyebrows arched, looking down at the small guests sitting on top of table 9. A pair of dream guides, scowling, he was sure, despite their respective beak and skull face not lending themselves well to interpretation.

“Young Mr. Akereggi,  I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” greets Mythos.

The devil smiles politely, unsettled. Dream guides are unreadable. If they have a desire outside of the Veil’s bidding to balance fear and woe and protect the vulnerable from those who would consume them with both, no one could say. It was extremely rare to meet one, let alone two. “It’s an honor, sirs,” he answers with a bow.

“Mythos and my associate, Fable,” says the small hooded skeleton.

The crow bobs his head once and turns it to give him a better look. René shivers in his gaze, not used to being younger than anyone. Two elders at once! As far as he was aware, there was only one older than him in Melitown. She’d never shown any concern over his presence, and they got on just fine. He cannot recall doing anything that would ruffle the Veil. At least not recently.

“What do you make of those girls?” asks Mythos.

“Ah! The little diviner and … hmm … can’t say I recognize the other.”

Mythos nods, “The little diviner is my charge. The other is his,” he tips his head in Fable’s direction as the crow puffs up his feathers, their purple and navy sheen illuminated by the lighting.

“If you’ve got any plans for them, no, you don’t,” the skeleton says, rising to his feet with the aid of a bronze sickle materializing in an instant that he taps once to punctuate his sentence before it vanishes again.

“You wound me, good sirs,” says the devil. His grip on the Veil loosens, and two long floppy ears and three sets of horns wing back from under his shaggy, now lengthier hair, one straight, one scimitar, and another lyre-shaped. His newly pale amber irises making his slit-shaped pupils prominent; this sudden lapse makes clear the sincerity of his hurt.

“Then what say you to a proposition?” Fable asks.

Mythos continues, “As they’ve clearly been ensnared in your temptations, I’m sure you will be seeing them quite frequently. We three are all creatures of inspiration, yes? We’re going to guide a little more forcefully than we tend to prefer, plant the seeds, as it were. What do desires look like to you, young one?”

“They don’t… I don’t see them. You see them?” René says, having brand new thoughts for the first time in decades. Unconsciously, his dark blue arrow-tipped tail forms a questioning curl. This is different. Something new is happening!

Fable hums, thinking. “Dreams are a tapestry of the Veil’s threads. To us, they look like floss. Little bits linger through waking, and we mend and enhance them each night. A spell to guide them, encourage them, and protect them until they’re strong enough to mend themselves. But wishes come from dreams. I always imagined they’d look like fragments of them.”

René looks down at the vivid pattern of encaustic tiles on the floor and his unexpected cloven hooves. His pointed tail wraps around his black-furred leg, alerting him to its presence, and his cheeks grow hot and lavender with embarrassment. He tries to brush it off as if it’s perfectly normal for one centuries-old to lose their hold on the Veil unintentionally. Older than most, he is young for a devil—a notion he’d not considered much, being so far removed from his kind. “I don’t have a seer’s eyes, so I’ve never seen it directly. But I suppose I’ve tasted it.”

The two guides look at each other. “You’ve tasted the Veil?” Mythos asks.

“Desires are delicious,” he shrugs. “If they’re parts of dreams and dreams are woven from the Veil, then the Veil has got to be the most delicious thing one can imagine,” he says, eyes closing, contemplating how one goes about sampling it directly.

“Fascinating,” says Fable. “How do you know which desires to instigate?”

“Really depends what I’m in the mood for—sweet, citrusy, savory, herbal, spicy… I don’t have much of a stomach for spoiled things, so I steer clear of the foul wishes. Very average taste preferences, from my understanding of the rest of society.”

“You can smell wishes,” the small skeleton states, plunking a bony fist into the other hand’s metacarpals. “How interesting! I suppose it’s not that different than the fear-eaters smelling fears.”

The blue-tinged devil’s brow crumples at this. “Not really a fan of this comparison. I don’t create desires for my own benefit. I don’t farm wishes by depriving anyone of anything until they are a feast of wants. Needs are not appealing. Plus, I’m not cruel.”

The dream guides look at each other again. “We’re terribly sorry, young one. It was very rude of me to casually say that without realizing it would seem like I was conflating two very different kinds.”

The service panel lights up for a table downstairs, and René regains his glamour. He reaches up to check his hair and, finding no horns looks down to confirm he’s back to boots and tight black pants.  The crow looks him in his now-brown eyes, pupils blending well enough to keep their shape hidden and nods approvingly.

“Our hope is that friendship with the diviner will be a charm against gloom and despair. Life’s circumstances have her at risk of attracting enough for a swarm.”

Mythos adds, “And the two will need companionship as they pass from the Obvious to the Obscure. His little one is all alone, and mine is an egg in a clutch of stones.”

“A cowbird’s child?” the devil asks, surprised at the thought of brood parasitism in this day and age, especially in those who would fit with human hosts.

Small phalanges wave away the idea, “No, but a powerful seer in her family line, I suspect, for it to resurface this much later.”

“I need to,” he tilts his head toward the stairs, “go take care of a table. A moment, gentlemen?”

“We won’t keep you,” says Fable.

Mythos says, “They dream of companionship but I’m afraid they’re timid. Will you work with us, Mr. Akereggi?”

“It would be my pleasure,” René answers with a bow before turning and heading downstairs.