As she glanced around for her purse, she heard the door creak open. She lifted her head, bracing for another fight—not that she could fight at this point. A silver-haired opera patron, dressed in a beige suit, stood in the doorframe. Ursula blinked through the fog of exhaustion, trying to make sense of this new player in the game.

Half-conscious, her first thought was What sort of knob wears a cravat? And her second was He’s going to call the police.

For a moment, his eyes locked on hers, and she recognized the horror in his face. “Good god!” He shouted. “What did you do?”

With a tremendous effort, Ursula sat up. Her eyes flicked to Zee, whose jaw hung open like a corpse’s. Of course the man was panicking. He’d just discovered two women on the bathroom floor covered in fresh blood, one of them apparently dead. It was a small mercy he couldn’t see Hugo’s corpse slumped over the toilet in the stall.

She imagined how the next twenty minutes would go down. First, Silver-Hair would alert security and call the police. They’d find Hugo’s carcass. None of the authorities would believe her when she described Abe’s death kiss, and as the only conscious person in the room, she could find herself accused of the pop star’s murder, as well as some sort of assault on Zee. Her heart thrummed.

“I’ll get the police,” he stammered. “Security.”

So much for staying in the bloody shadows. I’m getting sent straight to the inferno when Emerazel learns of this. In a few minutes the bathroom would be full of security guards. If she’d had any energy, she’d have lit the place on fire to give herself enough time to escape, but she could feel her embers dulled.

“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. She couldn’t let him leave.

There were two options: she could create a diversion using hellfire, or she could find some way to attack the man and get out of here with Zee. Only, she couldn’t manage either of those things without energy.

Shit. What would a normal woman do in this situation? Probably not thinking about lighting things on fire and stabbing people, for one thing.

A normal person would cry.

“Wait,” she repeated. She let her eyes fill with tears, and pouted, choking out a sob. “She wasn’t feeling well,” she sniffed, letting the strap of her gown drop again. “I told her not to order the salad. She didn’t have her EpiPen. Or her inhaler. And I tried to take her to the women’s room, but she said she couldn’t make it. So we came in here. And then she slipped on the tile and cracked her head. She’s my dearest friend. Please help us.” She let a tear roll down her cheek. Please, please, please, convince him.