This is her stripped down, at her most natural and lovely. But I know she doesn’t want anyone to see her like that, least of all me. So I don’t let my eyes roam over her like they want to.

Instead I strip off my own dirty clothing, relieved to have the pungent smell of smoke away from me.

It’s a shitty little bathroom, the shower cubicle barely large enough that I can close the glass door while standing inside. But the hot water feels incredibly relaxing after the insane night we had. It beats down on my shoulders, making me realize how sore I am from the climb down to the lower balcony with Riona on my back.

I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced a more desperate moment. I could hear the glass of the balcony doors cracking above us. I could feel the fragile sheet tearing in my hands under our combined weight. I could feel Riona’s arms slipping from around my neck.

I thought I was going to drop her.

I thought we might both burn in the inferno.

I’m fucking furious at this Djinn, this boogeyman stalking us. Part of me wants to stay in Chicago and track him down, even if it means setting a trap and staking it out for days. But I can’t do that with Riona—my number one priority has to be keeping her safe. And that’s what I’m going to do.

I finish cleaning up, and I brush my teeth with one of the cheap little disposable toothbrushes provided by the motel.

When I go back out into the room, Riona is wearing the clothes from the outlet store—jeans, a pair of cowboy boots, and a western-style button up shirt. Her hair is damp around her shoulders—bright red and wavy. I didn’t realize it was wavy. She always styles it so straight and smooth. I’ve never seen her in jeans before, either. The denim clings to her long legs. She looks pretty fucking hot, actually.

I try to keep my thoughts professional, but I’d have to be blind not to notice.

Riona gestures at the entirety of her person.

“Seriously?” she says.

“What?”

“They didn’t have any normal shoes?”

I laugh. “Those are normal shoes. Normal enough. What’s the problem? You look good.”

“I look like my new country album is dropping any day now.”

“Well . . . we’re not far from Nashville. So if that’s a dream of yours . . . ”

“It’s not.”

I grin, imagining Riona onstage with a guitar slung around her neck. I really can’t picture her singing for other people’s enjoyment. Or doing anything for other people’s enjoyment.

“Trust me,” I tell her. “You’ll blend in better wearing that than one of your Ally McBeal suits.”

Once we’re both dressed, we go across the street to the run-down 50s style diner that promises “Breakfast All Day!” on its faded sign. Since it’s currently 7:20 in the morning, I assume we were getting breakfast either way.