Ramona’s pulse spiked. She had planned on a quiet evening in, checking and rechecking the ritual steps. “Out where? We should be?—”
“We should be enjoying my last moments on this mortal coil.” Zara’s voice softened on that last part, just slightly. “Felix and Kashvi invited us to a show tonight. I already said yes.”
“You said yes without asking me?”
“I knew you’d say no if I asked. So I didn’t ask.” Zara held up her HellBerry, showing a message thread. “It’s a local band playing at a venue downtown. Small, intimate. Nothing overwhelming.”
Ramona stared at her in shock.
“I want to see the world. Enjoy my last night.” But Zara was smiling now — that slight, pleased curve of her mouth that made Ramona’s stomach flip. “Come on. When was the last time you danced?”
“I don’t dance.”
“Everyonedances.”
“I really don’t.”
Ramona looked up at Zara. Her expression was open and warm, and every last ounce of resolve melted from Ramona’s body. “How come I couldn’t summon a demon who didn’t specialize in temptation?”
Zara’s eyes darkened with mischief. “Weallspecialize in temptation, Mortal. Some of us just have so much natural talent and impressive work ethic, we get a title.”
Ramona sighed. She took Zara’s hand. “Fine. But if I have a terrible time?—”
“You won’t.”
“If I do?—”
“You won’t.” Zara squeezed her hand. “I promise.”
The problem startedat seven o’clock, when Zara emerged from the bathroom looking murderous.
“What happened?” Ramona asked, finding Zara staring at her reflection with an expression of pure fury. Were shadows licking up the walls like flames?
Zara held up her blazer. The one she wore everywhere — dark, tailored, expensive-looking. A long tear ran down the sleeve, clean and precise, like something had sliced through it.
“Gerald,” Zara said flatly.
As if summoned, the pigeon fluttered down from Felix’s bedroom doorway, looking extremely pleased with himself. A single dark thread drifted down from his beak.
“He did that?” Ramona asked.
“He’s been eyeing it all week.” Zara examined the damage with the intensity of a forensic investigator. “I think he wants to nest in it.”
“Can’t you fix it with magic somehow?”
“I could, but I’d risk ruining the underlying energy without the proper preparation, and I’d rather set myself on fire.” Zara held it up. Without the glamour, the blazer was clearly not a blazer at all. It was something darker, something that shifted colors when it moved. “And I’m trying to conserve my magical energy for tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Ramona was already moving toward her closet. “Just… wear something of mine.”
Zara followed her, leaning in the doorway while Ramona rifled through her clothes. Which was, admittedly, not much to work with. Thrift-store finds and retail-worker practical clothes and a few sad remnants of her old wardrobe shoved in the back.
“Here.” Ramona pulled out a black top she’d bought on impulse months ago and never worn. “Try this.”
Zara took it, examined it, and held it against herself. The shirt was clearly too short — Zara had at least four inches on her, and the shirt had been cut for Ramona’s frame anyway.
“It could work,” Ramona said optimistically.
It did not work.
