The effect is pathetic. It gives me a pang of guilt. I feel like I should have protected her better. It was my job to be her bodyguard, and I let her whole apartment burn down around her.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Riona sighs. “You don’t have to apologize,” she says quietly. “You saved my life.”

“Well,” I say, “keep that spirit of gratitude. ‘Cause I am taking you to Silver Run. Even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there.”

That green fire flares up in Riona’s eyes again. “You think you always know best, don’t you?” she says.

I shrug. “Any idea’s better than no idea.”

Riona frowns, crossing her slim arms over her chest. “We’re going to have to stop somewhere,” she says. “I need clothing. Also, I’m starving.”

“Me too,” I say, smiling a little. “At least we can agree on that.”

We stop in Seymour and pay for a room at the Motel 6 so we can both shower and clean up. While Riona is in the shower, I go to the outlet store next door to buy clothes for both of us. The clerk gives me a bland stare as I walk through the door, filthy dirty, in my boxer shorts, boots, and an oversized hoodie I found in the trunk of Dante’s car.

“I need a shirt,” I tell him.

“You want pants, too?” he says.

The women’s section doesn’t have a whole lot of selection, but I pick out a few things for Riona that I think will fit her. I don’t bother with coats, because even after a few hours driving south, I can already feel the temperature warming up. November in Tennessee is nothing like November in Chicago. It’ll probably be seventy degrees.

The clerk bags up my purchases, and I carry them back to the motel, not wanting to be gone too long.

I lay out Riona’s stuff on the cheap, scratchy bedspread. Then I trade places with her once she comes out of the shower. I try to give her room in the confined space, and not look at her with just a white towel wrapped around her body, her wet hair dark around her shoulders. It’s hard to keep my eyes on the floor. This is the only time Riona looks vulnerable—without the armor of her professional clothing, her sleek hair, and her classy makeup.

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.

Riona and I slide into one of the vinyl booths. She wrinkles her nose at the laminated menu and the wobbly Formica table.

“Coffee with cream, please,” she tells the waitress.

“Same. Also pancakes, bacon, ham, scrambled eggs, and hash browns, please,” I say.

Riona shakes her head at me. “Nothing can dampen your appetite, huh?”

“I think that whole experience made me hungrier,” I say. “I probably burned a lot of calories, running and climbing. Plus driving all night. Probably should have ordered an omelet, too.”

Riona snorts.

Despite all that, when the food comes out—greasy and crispy, and smelling delicious—I can see her eyeing my bacon. I shove the plate toward her.

“Go ahead,” I say. “There’s plenty.”

Riona picks up a fork tentatively and takes a bite of the hash browns. The potatoes are nicely browned, covered in salt and pepper.

“See? Pretty good, huh?” I say.

I know she’s hungry. I know she wants more.

“Not terrible,” she admits.

“Have as much as you want.”

She eats half the plate in the next two minutes. Much as she doesn’t like to admit it, the craziness of the night had its effect on us both. She’s starving, too.

“So where is Silver Run, anyway?” Riona asks me.

“Right on the foothills of the Smoky Mountains,” I tell her. “Close to Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Not far from Gatlinburg or Knoxville.”

Riona stares at me like I’m speaking Mandarin.

“Never heard of any of that?” I tease her.

“I know the Smoky Mountains, obviously,” Riona says defensively. “And Knoxville.”

“Oh yeah? What do you know about Knoxville?”

“Well . . . ” she blushes. “That it’s in Tennessee.”

I laugh. “Don’t get out of Chicago much, huh?”

“I’ve been places,” Riona says stiffly. “New York. Paris. London. I’ve traveled.”

“Not down to the heartland, though.”

“No. I never had a reason to.”