The last thing I wanted to do was doll up and attend Zack’s charity event, but I couldn’t back out. Not after all my posts of the past couple of days, each one more self-satisfied and entitled than the last, shoving this relationship in everyone’s face, and setting the stage for first contact with Hybris.

I’d tried calling Baskerville but it went straight to voicemail. I put the tzitzit in my underwear drawer, then moved it to my T-shirt drawer because, nope, too weird.

Since I had to look my part for the evening’s festivities, I channeled my impending nervous breakdown into a total destruction of Billie’s fine unpacking.

“I have nothing to wear!”

“The mound on the bed suggests otherwise.”

I rounded on Rohan with a feral snarl.

“But you’re right. Also perfect the way you are.”

“Say it.” I jabbed him in the chest. “I killed Ilya. I’m a monster.”

“You didn’t kill Ilya.”

Demons disappeared when we killed them. Humans didn’t. I may not have had the firsthand visual of Ilya’s lifeless eyes like I did with Ethan, but I could picture his dead body all too easily.

Actually, what I couldn’t stop picturing was that damn bright pink pastry box that Mischa had brought for the two of them. They’d had their final birthday together and for the rest of his life, his twin would manifest as a phantom ache, a deep-seated loneliness Mischa would never be able to escape.

Stories liked to toss around the old “it takes a monster to stop a monster” trope. It sounded so guns-blazing and sexy. So very “I’m gonna be the biggest badass on the block.” The truth was that becoming a monster wasn’t a grand jump into darkness, but a small step sideways: walking past a homeless person asking for change, ignoring the food bank appeals while standing in line for your second latte of the day.

The scary thing about becoming a monster was that we all had the potential in us, and with Lilith trapped inside me, I had it more than most. If I needed to keep using her magic to help our side I would, but I was going to fight tooth and nail to keep my humanity.

Thing was, had it already changed how Rohan saw me?

“Everyone was too focused on finding Ilya to say anything, but it’s you and me now.” I laughed bitterly. “Don’t hold back.”

Rohan pushed my pile of dresses aside and sat down on the bed. He patted the mattress beside him, but I shook my head, rooted to my spot, my arms wrapped around myself.

“Six months ago, I would have agreed with you. You practiced magic on a fellow Rasha, magic that you didn’t have a handle on, and as a result, he’s dead or whatever they’ve done to him.”

I hoped for Ilya’s sake he was dead. “Now?”

He clasped his hands between his knees, elbows braced on his black tux pants. His tux jacket fell open and his tie was loosely knotted.

“Montague took down wards so Asmodeus could get to us. The head of my Brotherhood is planning to unleash the very creatures we’re sworn to kill on an unsuspecting public to feed some kind of messiah complex. Ferdinand tried to kill Drio and me, I almost lost my magic, and as a result, you’ve got the most powerful witch in the history of mankind locked inside you. I would have killed Montague if I could have, and I sure as hell tried to kill Ferdinand.” He pulled me onto the bed, drawing me into his side. “You’re not a monster, sweetheart. You’re fighting a war.”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “Our world is filled with shadows and we Rasha possess our fair share, but I’d have sworn that this shadow, harming a human, was one I’d never cloak myself in. I’d been so certain.”

“Ilya would have killed you at the cabin. That memory wipe was the least injurious self-defense you could have done and ultimately, Mandelbaum gave the order. Not you.”

“It was a lot easier to deal with moral quicksand when it didn’t involve actual loss of life.” I rubbed the heel of my palm against my chest. “How am I supposed to keep going?”

Ro kissed the side of my head. “Same as we all do. One breath at a time.”

Touching as it all was, his words didn’t solve the immediate problem that everything I owned was unwearable crap and in two hours I was supposed to magically transform from my oversized ratty bathrobe, snarled hair from running my fingers through it anxiously, and no make-up, into my half of Rolita to incite fans’ wrath and attract a demon’s attention.

I fell backwards onto my clothing. “I need a fairy godmother.”

“Oh. I have the next best thing. Mom’s stylist. Let me run up to the house and call her.”

“Wait.” I beckoned him closer until he stood over the bed, then pulled him down to me by his tie and kissed him. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed.”

I enjoyed the view of his fine ass walking away until he’d slipped out the front door, then I hauled myself off the bed. Buck up, camper. I padded into the living room and headed directly for the small liquor cabinet, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

The civilized thing would have been to pour the whiskey into a glass but there was barely two fingers left, so I put the bottle to my lips and gave ’er. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, shaking my head at the burn and raising the empty bottle in victory. “Fuck, yeah!”

“I’ve never seen Macallan consumed quite like that.”

The bottle hit the carpet, bouncing twice, and scattering tiny drops of sticky booze on my feet. I clutched my obscenely gaping housecoat. I’d envisioned every first meeting scenario possible, including one involving poodles and arson, and yet missed the one where I looked like the cover model for a Kid Rock album.

“M-Maya. I mean, Ms. Mitra.”

“Oh, good. You know who I am.” Her accent was even more SoCal than her son’s.

Rohan got his gold eyes from his mother. On him they were my barometer to his emotions. On Maya, they were as implacable and unreadable as the sun. Add that to the total picture of her purple dreads, bindi, nose piercing, and black studded leather tunic thing that made her so much cooler than I could ever hope to be, in addition to being the woman who birthed Rohan and probably had some definite opinions about the type of girl her son should date?

I was fucked.

“Lox!” I yelled like a crazy person.

Maya rightfully stepped back.

I gave a kind of strangled eep and ran to my suitcase, returning in record time with a vacuum-packed box of smoked salmon with a bow on it that I pressed into her hands.

“I brought you lox. Because you’re Jewish.” I laughed, flapping my hands like I was trying to fly. “Which you know. Did I say how much I respect your career?”

Maya flipped the box over, taking in the glossy photos on the back. “Were you trying to bribe me into liking you? With fish?”

“Is it working? Because if not, it’s a hostess gift. Contrary to how it seems, I wasn’t actually raised by wolves.”

I was getting nothing from this woman, except Baruch-worthy impassive blinks. I gnawed on a cuticle until it was ragged, contemplating my next move, but I’d just caused a man’s death. My ideas, unlike the whiskey I’d just slugged back, were not top shelf.

There were running footsteps and Rohan skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Don’t scare her, Mom.”

Maya didn’t even turn around. “Go check on your father, beta.”

“Dad’s fine.”

“Rohan.”

My badass, human-blade of a boyfriend nodded meekly and slunk away. “Okay.”

“Coward,” I yelled. Maya turned that look on me. “He’s a fine boy,” I amended.

She sank onto the arm of the sofa, all languid elegance and black nail polish. “Sit.”

I sat.

“Before you say anything, I have a few points to make on why I’m an excellent girlfriend for your son.” I reached into my pocket.

“Those are index cards.”

I pulled off the elastic securing them. “I wasn’t sure I’d remember all my points.”

“How many are there?”

I flipped through the cards. “One hundred and seven. Though I might have rephrased a few in different creative ways to pump up the content.”

Maya threw her head back and laughed. “Holy fuck, you’re even funnier than Ro-Ro said.”

Ro-Ro? Oh, revenge would be sweet on the scurrying bastard.

Cautiously optimistic, I stuffed my cards back into my bathrobe pocket. “Did you like the song he wrote you for Mother’s Day? I thought it was beautiful, but I’m not a professional.”

I was totally planning to claim all the points for being the one to convince him to write it.

Maya jabbed a finger at me. “This album mess is all your fault. I never would have worked with my stubborn-ass kid if he hadn’t written me that cute song. That’s on you.”

I reached for my cards again, but she snapped her fingers at me, stopping me.

“Did I say I didn’t love it? That I didn’t want my son writing music again?”

I eyed the door, mentally calculating how I could make a quick escape if need be, because she was scary. “Uh, no?”

“The depth and maturity of the songs on Ascending? It’s his best work.” She shook her head from side to side. “Or will be when he finishes it.”

I relaxed a fraction. “He’s punished himself for Asha long enough.”

“He has.” Maya slid off the arm so that she was sitting beside me. “Rohan is extremely proud and stubborn. He gets it from his father.”

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. “Uh-huh.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes his pride is a good thing, but sometimes…” Her face etched with sorrow. “My son went down some dark roads. But you keep bullying him back into the light.”

“I wouldn’t call it bullying. A gentle encouragement.”

Maya snorted. “I know the two of you haven’t had it easy, but you’re good for him. Is he good for you?”

As evidenced by Exhibit A, the index cards, I’d been ready for Maya to hate me. The woman had a fierce reputation and didn’t suffer fools. Best case, she’d be indifferent. But this? This wasn’t just expectations of me, it was expectations of her son for me.

“He really is.”

“Okay then.” She stood, the salmon tucked under one arm.

“Out of curiosity, did the bribe help?”

“I’m deathly allergic to salmon.”

“Next time don’t lead with the lethal toxin. Got it.” I picked up the whiskey bottle, checking if by any miracle, some booze had survived.

There was a sharp rap on the door.

“Hello?” said a French-accented female’s voice. A tiny bird of a woman, with a severe jet-black bob, her arms full of garment bags and a massive make-up kit, edged inside the bungalow.

“Cristianne.” Maya rose, kissing her friend on both cheeks. “This is Nava.”

Cristianne carefully lay the garment bags over a chair, then crossed the room and pulled me to my feet. “Oui. I can work with this.”

“Merci de m’aider si rapidement,” I said.

“Vous êtes Francaise?”

“Canadian, but educated in French.”

The stylist beamed at me, chattering away in French about how she’d hadn’t been certain but now she had the perfect dress.

The next hour was a whirlwind of pinning and hair and make-up. Maya had left ages ago, mumbling some excuse about a pressing issue in the studio.

Cristianne sprayed hairspray on my wave of hair falling over one eye and pinned a large crimson flower behind my left ear. “Et voilà.”

I turned to the full-length mirror she’d had brought in and beamed.

She’d put me in a midnight blue, satin, retro glam number with a sweetheart halter, fitted to my every curve and then sweeping out at the bottom in a fishtail. I looked like I’d stepped out of the 1940s.

Someone wolf-whistled. “My son has excellent taste,” said a man with an Indian accent.

“Dev!” I shuffle-hopped over and hugged Rohan’s dad. “I’m so glad to meet you properly. How are you feeling?”

He danced a couple of jig steps. “Never better. Cristianne, exquisite work as always.”

She gave a very Gallic half-shrug, her arms full once more with all her supplies. “Mais, bien sûr.”

After some last-minute instructions and an order to dazzle, she winked at me and left.

Dev and I chatted for a bit. His recovery was going well, though he was frustrated with everyone handling him with kid gloves. I thanked him for his hospitality with the bungalow and after five minutes, inexplicably found myself invited to a cricket match, a sport I always confused with croquet. I had the good sense not to ask which one Alice had played in Wonderland using flamingos.

“Look at you.” Ro stepped inside and motioned for me to turn.

“I’ll leave you kids alone.” Dev clapped his son on the arm and left.

Ro swept a very slow, very thorough gaze over me and I preened.

“Lox?” Ro said.

“Thank you, I feel beau–Wait. What?”

“You gave my allergic mom salmon?”

I planted my hands on my hips. “And thanks for the heads up, Ro-Ro.”

He grinned at me, his white teeth gleaming. “Only Mom calls me that, so if you’re ever planning on having sex again?” He made a slashing motion across his throat.

“Noted. Do I look good enough for a demon?”

“You look beautiful, but you’re missing something.” He pulled a robin’s egg blue box out of his pocket.

“That’s from Tiffany’s.”

“If you say so.”

I grabbed the box and opened it. “Tell me that goose egg isn’t real.”

The oval sapphire on a long, slender gold chain could have been used as a weapon.

“It’s real.” He slid the chain over my head. The jewel nestled in my décolletage, catching the light in a million fiery prisms. “You want to attract a demon, right? Go big.”

He slid his arms around me, turning us to face the mirror. While there was no doubt this couple could stand on any celebrity stage, truthfully, I liked the private version of Ro and me best. The one where he was wearing one of my tap T-shirts, or we were dancing around and singing, being goofs.

“This isn’t us,” I said.

“I know.” His arms tightened, his chest rising and falling in tandem with my heartbeat. “Speak now or forever hold your peace, because there’s no going back. You ready to step into the spotlight?”