can talk to subconscious

It was more like I felt myself putting together some kind of awareness, the way a stagehand constructs a set. Evidently I was a minimalist, because the reality I awoke to was a bare black floor, a single hanging lamp overhead, and three chairs.
I walked forward into the light and stared at the chairs.
In one sat Lasciel, again in her angelic, blond, wholesome form. She wasn't wearing the white tunic, though. Instead, she was clothed in an Illinois Department of Corrections prison jumpsuit. The orange suited her hair and complexion quite well. She wore prison shackles, wrists and feet, and sat primly in her chair.
In the second chair was me. Well. It was a version of me, some kind of subconscious alter ego of mine. His hair was clipped shorter and neater than mine, and he wore a dark beard that was kept in similar fastidious order. He wore a black silk shirt, black trousers, and his hands (both of them) were unmarred, his fingertips held together in a steeple that rested on his chin.
"Another dream," I said, and sighed. I slumped down into the third chair. I looked more or less as I had when I woke up that morning. My shirt was slashed open, though there wasn't any blood on my torso, and my skin hadn't been pounded and ripped with a chain. Wishful thinking.
"Not precisely a dream," the subconscious me said. "Call it a meeting of the minds."
Lasciel smiled, very slightly.
"No," I said, and pointed at Lasciel. "I've said everything I intend to say to her." I turned to my alter ego-though on thinking about it, maybe alter id was more accurate. "As for you, you're sort of a jerk. And the whole look you've got going there says 'evil wizard,' which I am now professionally opposed to."
Alterna- Harry sighed. "I've told you before. I'm not some sort of dark demon. I'm simply the more primal essence of yourself. The one most concerned with such matters as food. Survival." His dark eyes flickered idly over Lasciel. "Mating," he said, a lazy growl to the tone. He looked back to me. "The important things in life."
"That I am even having this dream probably means that I need a good therapist," I said. I stared at my other self and said, "It was you, wasn't it? You wanted to pick up the coin."
"Make sure you remember that I am a part of you before you point any fingers," he said. "And yes. The potential for power in an alliance with Lasciel"-he inclined his head to her, a courtly, gentlemanly gesture, damn his chivalrous eyes-"was too great to simply ignore. There are too many things out there determined to kill you. So long as you keep Lasciel's coin, you both have the option to seek more power if necessary to protect yourself or others, and you prevent the coin from being used by unscrupulous sorts like Cassius."
I grimaced. "So?"
"So," he said. "This is a time to consider employing a portion of that power."
I stared at him and said, "You've been talking to her behind my back."
"For months," he said calmly. "It was only polite. After all, you wanted nothing to do with her."
"You asshole," I said. "The whole reason I wasn't talking was that I didn't want the temptation."
"I did," my subconscious said. "Honestly, you should listen to me more often. If you'd taken my advice about Murphy, she wouldn't be in Hawaii. In bed with Kincaid."


Dead Beat Chapter 38, Page 339-340