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Rai had never encountered police himself, but he had watched many movies and television shows since falling in love with Poppy.

He knew they carried guns, which Buffy the Vampire Slayer had said were never useful—he could not discount the sage wisdom of the great hero Buffy—and wore uniforms with shining badges, which might sometimes be ripped away in a ritualistic sexual dance involving handcuffs and tight underwear.

They were sometimes great heroes and sometimes great villains, sometimes kindly and sometimes deadly, sometimes merely incompetent nuisances.

And while Jen spoke of them with respect, it had been nearly twelve hours—half a day!

—since she had first contacted them, and yet they had not located Poppy.

It was possible the police Jen had called were kindly heroes, but Rai was not willing to take the chance that they were instead the deadly or incompetent kind of police. “Jen,” he said, lightning crackling behind his voice. “I wish to see the note.”

She nodded jerkily. “It’s in the kitchen. In the… Would you like some tea? I should have offered you tea. Or coffee. You like coffee. Poppy said—”

“I will fix the tea.” Rai took her hands and guided her to her favorite chair.

“Do not worry. I am here. I will…” He trailed off, considering.

Would Poppy consider his assistance contacting her?

Perhaps. But it did not matter. She could be angry at him after she had been found.

“I will fix it,” he said fiercely, giving Jen’s hands a final pat and striding to the kitchen.

He was dizzy again. He filled the kettle and set it to boiling, then let the sink water run, placing one hand in the flow to replenish himself while the other held the note.

He furrowed his brow as he read it, forcing himself to focus on the meaning and not the pang in his stomach at seeing Poppy’s handwriting, the energetic flow of her letters, the affectionate sweep of the word love .

Things she needed to do. The only things Rai knew Poppy needed to do were care for her mother and work, and those were things she did at home.

That was no help. She had brought water and food, which meant she had gone to a place that would not have those things, nor a way to charge her phone.

Not the grocery store or the coffee shop, then.

And a place where there would be no phone service.

That had not been true of any place they had gone together, except…

Remembering who I am.

She had said those words to him, or words much like them. He could hear them in his head, see her sweet face, the bright sun casting one side in shadow, her hand pointing…

He dropped the note, turned off the water with a harsh jerk, and ran back into the living room. Jen was sitting stiffly in her chair, breathing deeply. He caught her hand, clasping it between his. “Did she take her paints?”

Jen blinked, eyes going unfocused for a moment. “She wasn’t in her studio. I looked there first. I—”

Rai did not wait for her to finish, dashing to the hallway, out through the Arizona room into the morning sun. The dryness again wrenched at him, tearing moisture from his flesh, but he paid it no mind, hurtling through Poppy’s door, down the hall, to her studio.

He skidded to a halt. Gasped. Trembled like a spiderweb in a gale.

The portrait stood on its easel, just as he had last seen it, except not at all as he had last seen it.

Not as he had ever expected to see it, either.

He had thought Poppy must despise him, that he had wounded her so deeply she would destroy the evidence of their doomed affair.

At best he had thought that when he had proven his worth to her and earned her forgiveness she might wish to paint him again.

Not once in his weeks of training had he imagined that she would return to the painting of her own accord, that she would pour her energy, her soul into it. Gazing at it now, his heart swelled with unexpected joy.

He did not understand what she had done, what magic she had worked, but now the painting was…

glorious. Glorious. It was not just that she had changed his appearance on the canvas, added a lilac cast to his skin and storms to his eyes, painted his wings glowing and crackling with lightning, filling the canvas with light.

He was all of his guises, all at once, and he knew she saw that.

It had never been about that. No, it was something else she had added, an ineffable energy to the brushstrokes, a freedom and spirit and joy that was entirely, magnificently Poppy.

She was there, in the painting, entirely there, and tears came to his eyes unbidden. If he had not known it to be impossible, he’d believe that all he had to do was touch the painting and she would take his hand, step out of the shadows, kiss him sweetly. And she would kiss him, he knew. She would.

Because he could see it now.

Poppy loved him .

He could feel it in the way her brushstrokes caressed his angles and curves, the play of light over skin.

The sly expression on his face, the way the drapery now seemed to cradle his form as a lover where before it had seemed as a rigid prison.

She loved him, had loved him when she had sent him away, had poured her love into this painting like a poem, a song, the rushing sound of a waterfall.

And he did not have time to bask in it. He shook himself and examined the room he had come to know so well.

Many things were missing from the dusty corners and shelves.

He cataloged the empty spaces swiftly, imagining what had been there before, the shapes and colors, Poppy’s smiling face explaining the arcane materials of her craft.

That space had held the canvas umbrella she had said did nothing for rain but much for sun, that corner the plastic box she’d said kept drinks cool, that shelf the small canvases she’d used to demonstrate to him the process of preparing the larger one.

And though the large palette she had worked from for his portrait sat beside the easel, still smeared with bright slashes of paint, her tubes and brushes were gone, as was the wooden box she had explained was for travel.

He dashed back into the house. Jen was not in her chair, but he could hear noises from the kitchen; he followed them, skidding to a stop in the doorway.

Jen was pouring from the kettle into two mugs with teabags in them.

Her shoulders were quivering, but not as harshly as before.

She looked up at his appearance, a wan, brave smile on her face.

“It went off,” she said. “I—I can fix the tea. I can—”

“I know where she is.” The words burst from his chest like thunder.

Jen nearly dropped the kettle, at the last moment fumbling it onto the counter. “Oh, god. Where is she?”

Rai scowled in frustration. “I cannot explain. It is the place of her father.” He waved his hand in the direction. “I will know when I see it. I will have to go to where she showed it to me. I must—”

He broke off.

Jen had started to babble in response, but Rai could not hear her. A hurricane was spinning in his ears, a whirlwind of bitter comprehension and pain and terror, but in the center clarity.

“I must save her,” he whispered, half to himself.

And he knew what to do. The broad strokes of Poppy’s rescue. He must go to where Poppy was, find her, and return her to her mother. And though he was a fool, he was not such a fool as to think he could simply do it, simply burst out the door and fly to the rescue. He needed a plan.

Fortunately, he had learned much about planning of late.

The first step was water. He could not save her without water.

And he would need more water than he could carry, enough to sustain him far into the desert, much farther than fourteen circuits of the motel parking lot.

Even if he had been skilled at math, he would not have been able to calculate how far it would be.

He did not even have enough containers for the vast distance he could see in his head.

Well, that was solvable. He swirled his phone out of his hoard and scrolled to the app he needed, the one that summoned servants to deliver one’s needs.

Jen fluttered about him. “Are you calling the police? We should call the police. You can tell them—”

“I cannot tell them,” Rai said as he searched on the app. “I cannot explain it. But do not be afraid. I will save her.” He felt her quivers intensifying, caught her hand. “Jen. I will save her. Drink your tea and trust me.” He turned back to his phone.

Jen nodded slowly, then stepped back, leaning against the counter. After a moment, she picked up one of the mugs of tea.

Rai felt her eyes on him, but he paid them no mind.

He was too busy selecting bricks of water bottles, adding them to his cart, increasing the quantity as high as it would let him.

Adding more, more, more. He checked out, growling when the app told him he could not have so many, furiously agreeing to as many as it would allow, tapping the checkbox for the fastest delivery, adding tips that might encourage greater speed.

And he searched for more, added more, paid for more.

More. More. He did not stop until he had exhausted the nearest stores and some that were farther, until the app no longer predicted delivery times soon enough to satisfy his urgency. That was all, then. The first step.

He stuffed his phone in the pocket of his jeans, mind racing on to the next step. However much he paid, his deliveries would take time. He must make best use of it. He would be no good to Poppy if he died before reaching her.

He strode to the sink, turned on the water, and plunged his hands into the flow.

“What are you—” Jen gasped, peering over his shoulder, watching as the water was absorbed into his hands.