“Yes you can,” Raylan says. “One more time—grab it tight.”

He swings us again, harder this time. I hear the awful purring sound of the sheet ripping apart. I grab the railing with all my strength and pull us toward it. Raylan throws his arm over, too. The railing hits me in the ribs and it fucking hurts, but I get my arm around it and hold on tight. Raylan shoves me over it, and we tumble down onto the cement. My heart is thundering in my chest. I’m panting and coughing harder than ever.

The apartment itself is dark—nobody inside. Either they already evacuated the building, or they were never home to start with. I pound on the glass door, but it’s pointless. The door is locked and nobody’s coming to open it.

“Stand back,” Raylan grunts.

He kicks through the glass with the toe of his boot, then reaches up through the hole to unlock the door.

Smoke billows out in our faces. Even a floor down, the heat and smoke and noise are intense. It radiates down from my apartment above. I can see the ceiling sagging.

“Hurry,” Raylan says. “That could collapse any second.”

We run through the apartment, which is the exact same layout as mine above. We shove through the door into the hallway, where I can finally hear the steady blare of the fire alarm. Several other residents are stumbling down the halls, trying to carry out reluctant pets, or belongings they don’t want to risk losing.

“Don’t take the elevator,” Raylan tells me unnecessarily. There’s no way I was going to risk trapping myself anywhere else.

We run to the stairs instead, my bare feet soon filthy from the endless descent down twenty-seven flights of concrete steps.

The stairs are choked with other tenants. The descent is tediously slow. Some of the people from lower floors are complaining, thinking the whole thing was only a drill. That is, until they see Raylan and me, black with smoke and Raylan burned down his right arm from forcing my balcony doors closed.

Everything I own is burning up, over my head. Should I have tried to grab something before we ran out to the balcony? Stupidly, I think of my brand-new electric toothbrush that I only used twice. Now it’s melted plastic. Or maybe just ash.

I think I’m in shock.

I feel numb. My head is a balloon, floating above my shoulders, barely tethered.

If it weren’t for Raylan’s arm around my shoulders, leading me on, I think I might pass out.

Raylan takes me all the way down to the parking garage. He pulls the car keys out of his boot. That impresses me. I don’t know how he had the presence of mind to grab them. I don’t know how he kept his calm through any of it.

I feel like I’m barely clinging to my last shred of self-control.

“How did that happen?” I croak, my throat still raw with smoke. “How did the fire spread so fast?”

“I think he must have poured an accelerant under your door,” Raylan says, grimly. “I woke up to this whooshing sound, and in two seconds that whole half of your apartment was on fire.”

I can hear more and more sirens wailing on street level—fire trucks and police cars, coming to the building from all sides.

“We need to get out of here,” Raylan says. “We’re exposed. That might not be all he had planned.”

I nod, numbly, and climb into the passenger seat.

Raylan does a sweep of the vehicle to make sure there’s nothing planted inside or underneath. Then he gets in the driver’s side and starts the engine.

My head is still throbbing from the smoke. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.

12

Raylan

Riona sleeps for several hours.

I drive through the dark night, taking us out of Chicago.

I look over at her from time to time, reassuring myself that she’s just dirty from the smoke, that her pale, delicate skin wasn’t burned by the flames.

I’ve never seen a fire spread so fast.

I ran into her room, afraid that by the time I pulled her out of there, we’d be completely engulfed.

I don’t know how the fuck to protect her. When you’re constantly in a defensive position, you’re at a disadvantage. It’s too easy for your opponent to choose the time and place of his attack. You can’t be prepared for everything at all times.

So it’s up to me to shift the battleground.

I’m taking Riona out of Chicago. Taking her away, somewhere this so-called Djinn can’t find her.

Tracking down this motherfucker and protecting Riona can’t happen in the same place at the same time. Let Dante and Cal do the searching—I’m going to take Riona somewhere far away.

By the time Riona wakes up, we’re already halfway to Louisville. She sits up, rubbing her sore eyes, and blinking in confusion at the long, empty stretch of highway in the early morning light.

“Where . . . where are we?” she says.

“I-65,” I tell her. “We passed through Indianapolis, but you were sleeping.”

“WHAT!?” she shouts. “Where the hell are you taking me?”

“I’m taking you to Tennessee,” I tell her calmly.

“To Ten—I’m not going to Tennessee!” Riona shouts.

“You definitely are,” I say.

“Raylan,” Riona says, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. “Turn the car around right this second.”

I keep on driving. “I’m not going to do that,” I say.

“Stop the fucking car!!!” she shouts.

I can tell she’s pretty pissed, so I keep my eyes on the road. I try to explain my thought process to her.

“If we stay in Chicago, it’s only a matter of time until this guy hits us again,” I tell her. “I’m going to take you somewhere he can’t find you. Your brother and Dante will track down the Djinn. And in the meantime, you’ll be safe.”

I can feel Riona’s furious gaze fixed on me. She’s radiating almost as much heat as that apartment fire. If looks could combust, I’d be a charcoal briquette.

Still, she tries to keep her voice calm.

“I can’t go to Tennessee, Raylan,” she says. “I have work. I have meetings. I have responsibilities.”

“You can’t do any of that if you’re dead,” I tell her bluntly. “We’ve got internet at Silver Run. I’ll get you a laptop, and you work from the ranch.”

“The RANCH!?” Riona cries. “I don’t want to be at a ranch! I don’t have any clothes. Or a toothbrush. Or my files . . . ”

Her voice trails off as she realizes that she wouldn’t have those things at home, either. Because they all just went up in flames.

“Fuck,” she says. “My briefcase . . . ”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I couldn’t get anything out.”

Riona sits silent for a minute. I know she’s mentally tallying up everything that was in that apartment. Every fancy pair of shoes or favorite book or keepsake that she loved. All gone.

Finally, she says, “You got me out.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It was pretty fucking close, but we got out of there together.”

Now I do hazard a look in her direction, and I see her pale green eyes looking large and sad in her filthy face. The sooty streaks make her look very young, like a kid that was playing in the dirt. Her hair is so tangled and smoky that it looks closer to brown than red. There’s no telling what color her silk camisole set used to be.