“Amir, you look hideous.” My fiancée, Samirah al-Abbas, stared at my outfit in horrified disbelief.
“Really?” I looked down at myself. “But it’s a tux!”
“A baby-blue tux!”
“With a matching ruffled shirt and floppy bow tie,” I said defensively. “My uncle loaned it to me. I think it’ll impress your grandparents, don’t you?”
“It’s Jid and Bibi’s fiftieth wedding anniversary!” Sam sputtered. “You can’t wear—”
“Samirah.” My father emerged from the kitchen. “He is pulling your leg.”
Sam’s reddish-brown eyes blazed dangerously, and I suddenly realized that playing a practical joke on a Valkyrie might not be the best idea I ever had.”