“Probably more likely to find those at one of the four-star hotels in Morella. The problem has more to do with the lack of tech.”

“No TV,” I said, realizing. “Wait, no phone, either?”

“According to the German lady at the desk, it’s so you can leave the real world behind and relax,” he said, tossing a motel pamphlet onto one of the beds. “Let’s hope we get a mobile broadband signal.”

“What are we going to do if we don’t?” I said, digging out my phone. “Are there even electrical outlets? I need to charge this thing.”

“I have a signal,” he said. “Barely.

“I don’t.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged out of his thin leather jacket, revealing tightly muscled golden arms. Never in my life had I been around a man whose body wound me up the way Lon’s did. Not even salacious parts of him, either. Just everyday parts. His arms and hands. His feet, even—how absurd was that? And I couldn’t even bring myself to think about his bare chest without having a hot flash. I’d seen that chest, in my backyard, when we’d built my house ward. I had the strangest feeling I’d seen it other times, but the exact when, why, and how were a little fuzzy.

Why was I even thinking about this? Empath, hello! He could hear what I was feeling, so I might as well be whistling and catcalling as if he were some stripper for my own personal amusement. They were just arms, for the love of Pete. Every man had them.

“I brought some research material.”

“Oh?” I said, trying to sound terribly interested. Focus, Bell. Focus.

He opened his bag and rummaged around for two cloth-wrapped books. Both of them were moldering Goetic tomes, illustrated encyclopedias of demons, written by medieval magicians who painstakingly cataloged each demon’s attributes, seal, class, innate powers, bargaining favorability, and so forth.

“That’s one of the books you stole from the Vatican when you were in the seminary,” I said, walking over to the small writing desk where he had laid them both out. “You found the name of the albino demon in that. It’s . . .”

“A Goetia of female demons,” he said in a low voice, eyes flicking to mine.

“But—” Oh. Yes, I understood now. He was looking for me. Or the essence of whatever was inside me. The building block my parents had used in their conception spell. “Have you looked through it? Is there an entry for something called Mother of Ahriman?”

“I’ve run across plenty of demon classes with serpentine attributes but haven’t read the entire book. I was too busy worrying you wouldn’t wake up from your coma.”

“Oh.” I busily scratched my arm, feeling overwhelmingly grateful. “Thanks. You know, for everything. For looking out for me. No one’s ever done that before.”

A strange look passed over his face, fading as quickly as it began. He gave me a curt nod before turning away. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, pulling out the tent tarp and spray paint. “I need you to help me re-create the sigils I painted on the ceiling in the bedroom.”

I cocked my head. “Not getting it. What do the Goetias have to do with warding magick?”

He slowly shook the paint can and squinted at me. “I think it’s time we did a little experiment to see the real you, and those sigils are going to be your safety net.”

“Hold on. You want me to—”

“You can’t hide from her forever,” he argued evenly. “If she wants you so badly, and she’s powerful enough to murder an Æthyric demon like Chora, she’s going to find a way to get what she wants. Either you stand by and let it happen, or we find out what weapons you have against her. If you transmutate—”

“I can’t transmutate without getting her attention.”

“So says Priya. And he’s only basing that on what he’s seen in the Æthyr when you’ve done it in the past. He doesn’t have all the answers, Cady. I know you’re fond of him, but I’ve talked to him several times while you were in the hospital. And he’s trustworthy—I’ve got no doubts about that—but he’s . . .”

“What?”

“There’s an innocence in him. A . . . youthfulness. And his instincts lean toward passive. He’d encourage you to hide rather than fight, because that’s all he knows.”

“Not everyone can be a fighter, Lon. He’s a messenger. An adviser.”

“And you aren’t,” he said firmly, offering the can of spray paint.

“You’re suggesting . . . what, exactly?” I asked.

“Transmutate inside a protective ward.”

“So you basically want me to put up a flashing sign in the Æthyr to let her know I’m awake, so she can start hijacking my dreams.”

“No, I want you to see if you can tap into your power quietly, without getting her attention. And if she notices, then she does. We know she uses moon energy to connect to you, and you’re sleeping in the day, so she can’t get inside your dreams. If she’s found a way to cross the planes, she’d have already done it.”

True.

“You can’t learn something without practicing,” he said. “Better you master it while you can. And maybe you’ll find that you don’t have to light up the Æthyr when you shift. Just because I transmutate, that doesn’t mean I instantly turn on my knack.”