I stuffed the paper in my pocket. "Uh. Okay. Why am I emailing a scientist about a fictional clay monster? Why don't you do it?"
"She doesn't like the Brotherhood." Well, we had that in common. "This isn't about the folkloric version of the golem," he said. "It's the meaning as it appears in the Tehilim. Psalms 139:16. An unformed body."
Like Ari in regards to being Rasha. Rabbi Abrams wasn't ignoring me. He was investigating a way to induct my twin that would not be sanctioned by the Brotherhood. "Way to work the loophole, Rabbi."
He gave me an enigmatic smile. "Ari remains my responsibility. I do not take that lightly," he said. "Get Esther to meet. She will know if there is a way."
"Who is she?"
"That is not for me to share." He pulled a tiny glass bottle out of his pocket, like one used for aromatherapy oils. It was half-full of some brown liquid. "I need your ring."
I held out my right hand with my Rasha ring worn on my index finger. It was a fat gold band with an engraving of a hamsa, a palm-shaped design with two symmetrical thumbs meant to ward off the evil eye. The single open eye etched into the middle of the design boasted a tiny blue sapphire iris. Standard issue. Trust an all-male Brotherhood to ignore the opportunity for a variety of gemstones that could be accessorized at will.
As a hunter, I was incapable of removing the ring. Believe me, I'd tried.
The first night I'd met Rohan, his identical ring had been the only proof that he wasn't a demon. Though if demon power was based on arrogance alone, Rohan would hands down be one of the most dangerous beings to ever live.
Rabbi Abrams unscrewed the cap, flipping the bottle upside down against the pad of his index finger. I tried not to flinch at the feel of his giant old man knuckles as he took my hand and smeared the liquid around my ring, speaking a couple words in Hebrew. The scent of cloves filled the air.
The gold warmed against my skin and from one blink to the next, the rich color leeched to a hard titanium. The hamsa engraving and sapphire iris disappeared, replaced by tiny diamonds encircling the band. "Can I touch it?"
He nodded so I brushed my thumb across the band. There was no sense of any of the diamonds, though I felt the hamsa and iris.
"You glamoured it," I said.
He returned the bottle to his pocket. "You need to be able to get close to Samson without him seeing the true ring. Just make sure he doesn't touch it. Anyone who does will see through the illusion."
"Got it. Is there a time limit on the glamour?"
"No. I'll remove it once you return from Prague." He picked up his tea, indicating our meeting was at an end. "And Nava?"
I paused at the doorway, half turning back. "Yes?"
"Do as Rohan and Drio command. Show the Brotherhood how well you fit in."
I had to unclench my teeth to answer him in the affirmative. Playing nice meant accepting the role of groupie that I'd been designated and that power dynamic did not sit well with me. But if the alternative would cause any trouble in terms of seeing Ari become Rasha, what choice did I have?
I had no idea what to do. Betray my principles or betray my brother? Either my gut-level certainty about what was best for my well-being or that of what was best for my twin's was in jeopardy. I had no idea how to win on both fronts.
I trudged down the hallway, passing airy open rooms with detailed crown molding and gleaming inlaid wood floors. Rohan and Drio were probably stewing in the library waiting for my tardy self to arrive. The faintest hint of furniture polish scented the air, lending a bright note to the decidedly bleak choice I had to make.
Ari had held my hair out of my face the first time I'd thrown up, covered for me when I'd snuck out, and before this Rasha mix-up, never once cut me out of his confidences. I may not have always been the perfect sibling, but I'd lucked into having someone who was always on my side.
Now that the tables had turned, could I really throw Ari to the wolves?
3
Lost in thought, I missed most of Drio's complaint about me taking my sweet time, even though the men were still in the TV room. Though I caught his sneered, "You look … sparkly," as he waved a hand at the glittery silver letters on my shirt.
"I exude sparkly, thank you very much. But in a deadly way."
Rohan cocked his head to read my shirt. "Fifty percent seems generous, Lolita. I'd say more thirty/seventy."
Lolita was the nickname Rohan had bestowed on me the night we met, when he'd learned I wrote self-insert fanfic in my teens about his band. Not him, mind you. Just the rest of them. It hurt Snowflake's terribly fragile ego that he wasn't included, and since those boys were a whopping three years older than me, Rohan had chosen the pet name he thought most likely to piss me off.