If her attitude was what I could expect from the witches, any hope of co-operation was hooped. “It’s not just super powers. We can cast spells.”
Sienna and Dr. Gelman laughed. “Spells are the training wheels of magic,” Sienna said. “Cast a ward, do a ritual, glamor an object, big deal. Inherent magic is where the real power is and the only inherent magic you Rasha have is that little bit to kill demons.”
“Spells are like the channels you get with basic cable,” I said. “Got it.”
“My analogy was better,” Sienna said.
“No, because anyone with a TV can get basic cable. Just as anyone affiliated with the magic world can cast a spell. Rabbis cast spells and they have no inherent magic. Inherent magic are the specialty channels. The good stuff.” I appealed to the nice witch in the room. “Can you find out who’s behind the binding? Kind of a magic forensic chemist?”
Even Sienna looked to Gelman for her answer.
“No,” Dr. Gelman said. “That’s not possible. I’ll put out feelers about the binding, but it will take time.”
“It’s a fool’s errand.” Sienna toyed with the blue bead on the end of one of her short dreadlocks.
“Let’s go for a little optimism, shall we?” I squeezed Gelman’s hand. “I’ll come see you soon.”
“Try not to get yourself killed,” she said.
“Try not to cough up a lung.”
“Insolent child.”
I grinned and said she made me seem easygoing by comparison. “Don’t disappear on me again, okay?”
“I won’t.” She gave my hand a final squeeze and I left.
Rohan was going at this from the Brotherhood angle, I’d taken the witches. Neither were delivering any kind of immediate results. That left one other party: the demons. And one demon in particular who was powerful and plugged-in enough to possibly help me get some answers.
Malik.
The only problem with Malik was that the last time I’d seen him, I’d almost killed him. The marid was ancient and probably had perfected the art of holding grudges, so payback was pretty much inevitable. Not looking forward to it. Plus, it would freak Rohan the fuck out.
He wasn’t the only one.
The admissions desk had informed me that Naomi had checked out, and after a quick text to Christina to make sure both she and Naomi were doing okay, I headed back to Demon Club to get ready for my birthday dinner.
While I bathed, Ro, shirtless, shaved at my bathroom sink, singing along to the Motown playlist streaming off his phone to my speakers.
I rinsed out the last of my conditioner, a goofy grin on my face at our domestic coziness, and stepped onto the bathmat, drying off.
Ro tilted his chin up for me to inspect. “Did I miss a spot?”
I trailed my fingers over his skin then planted a kiss to his jaw. “Nope.”
He rinsed out his razor, washing away all the little hairs in the sink. What a keeper.
Make-up applied, underwear and bra on, and a bright orange towel wrapped around my head, I opened my closet to select my clothes. The jangling first notes of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” struck up. The Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell version, which Ro proclaimed to be the only version. I’d been getting quite the musical education dating this boy.
Ro struck a pose for Marvin Gaye’s opening line, then the two of us were grooving around, strutting in circles around each other, and striking poses on the bed, all while singing our hearts out in a sassy duet. I used my fist as a mic and Ro grabbed it, pretending to share with me. We built to the final crescendo, jumping up and down, belting it out.
As the last notes died away, Rohan spun me and dipped me.
Silence reigned. My towel fell to the ground, forgotten, our bond, intangible yet absolute, stretching between us to envelop me.
He set me back on my feet. “Get dressed. Don’t want the birthday girl to be late for her own party.”
Given the choice, I’d have blown it off, stayed here, and wrapped myself in him. Drunk him in like an elixir.
“Can’t have that.” I shimmied into a short-sleeved blue shirt dress, sweeping my hair up. “Zip me, please?” He zipped up my dress, and I straightened a bend in his stiff collar. “New shirt, just for me?” I teased. “Want me to pick your tie?”
“Tieless today.”
“Scaredy cat.”
He shrugged into a blazer. “First time seeing your parents as the boyfriend instead of just your co-Rasha. Need to find the balance between ‘make a good impression’ and ‘stop trying so hard.’”
I fiddled with the decorative buttons on my pockets. “You’re going to be fine.” Or run screaming, but what was a relationship without a few tense family moments here and there?
Rohan’s eyes narrowed, but Ari rapped on my door, interrupting further conversation.
“Ready?”
Rohan studied the lightweight pink sweater Ari wore and then my blue dress. “I’m guessing that’s not coincidence.”
“Nope.” Ari smoothed a hand over his V-neck.
“It was our rebellion at age seven at the gendered stereotyping of our clothing.” I pulled my damp hair into a high ponytail.
“More like Nava pitched a fit that year that she didn’t get to wear this red poufy dress our grandma had given her, because we were always put in blue and pink. Mom insisted we wear what she’d bought us, so Nava gave Mom exactly what she wanted.”
I grabbed my purse and led the boys out. “She didn’t specify who had to wear what.”
“We all know how you love your loopholes,” Ari said.
Rohan chuckled. I elbowed him and he caught my hand. “Your brother insults you and I get wounded. So unfair.”
I interlaced our fingers. “Ari looked adorable in the pink sundress Mom had chosen for me.”
My brother nodded. “I really did. Nava just looked like an ugly boy.”
“I really did.”
We snickered.
“This is going to be some party,” Rohan muttered.
He had no idea.
9
Cars clogged the curb in front of my parents’ house.
“Two o’clock,” Rohan said. “We’re being glared at.”
Mrs. Jepson’s curtains twitched, but not before we caught a glimpse of her trademark floral apron.
I nudged Ace. “Twenty bucks says she finally has an aneurysm about the cars blocking her curb.”
Ari snorted. “She’s been promising that for years. We’re not that lucky.”
The cedar and stained glass front door was ajar. We stepped inside, a loud hum of chatter and Céline Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” swamping us, and were immediately approached by a caterer bearing a tray of champagne.
“Why yes, thanks.” I helped myself to a flute. Ari, Rohan, and I clinked glasses. “Get Dad off music duty.”
Ari grabbed one more champagne flute. “On it.”
Two other servers circulated with hors d’oeuvres. I examined their offerings before committing to the order of appetizer consumption.
“Your birthday dinner is catered?” Rohan said.
“But of course.” My parents always used the same caterers. Their cheesy zucchini mini quiche were a special treat and I helped myself to two. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
“For what?”
“So many things.” I laughed bitterly. “Just remember that I have no expectations of you playing nice with my family.”