A car will meet you when you exit the bank.
She halted, stared at the back of the manager's jacket, able to smell his fear. "Who exactly did you call a few minutes ago?"
When he glanced at her, his eyes were panicked, a rabbit's. "No one, Ms. Deveraux."
She gave him a cold smile that made it clear he'd pissed her off well and good. "Show me the box."
Clearly surprised by the reprieve, he did as ordered. She waited until he'd placed the long, metal box on a viewing table before waving him off. He was nothing, an ant in Raphael's army. Alone, she stared at the opposite wall. "Raphael?"
Nothing.
Lips pressed tightly together, she unlocked the box and took off the lid, expecting . . . she didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't what she found. Jewelry boxes, letters bound with ribbon, photos, a receipt for a small storage locker. On top of it all was a black leather notebook, the edges embossed gold. She reached out her finger, touched, then drew back and slammed the box closed. She couldn't do this. Not today. Calling the bank manager back after she'd relocked it, she had him return the box to its place in the vault. "How long has this been here?"
He glanced at the file in his hand. "It looks like it was opened almost fifteen years ago."
She grabbed the file before he could stop her, staring at the signature on the bottom of the first page.
Jeffrey Parker Deveraux.
Fifteen years ago. The summer he'd wiped her mother and older sisters from the face of the earth. Except this box told another story. Damn him! Shoving the papers back at the manager, she strode out through the moneyed opulence of the bank and toward heavy glass doors a security guard reached out to open. "Thanks."
His smile turned into shock an instant later. Elena followed the direction of his gaze to find an amazingly beautiful man with blue wings leaning nonchalantly against a lamppost directly outside. The stream of traffic had disappeared from this side of the street, but the other side was so full, it was as if the entire population of New York had decided to walk by.
She stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Illium."
"At your service." He waved his hand at the low-slung Ferrari behind him. It was fire-engine red. Of course.
She raised an eyebrow. "How do you fit the wings inside?"
"Alas, I can only watch." He threw her the keys.
Catching them reflexively, she scowled. "Whose million-dollar car is that and what did he do to you?"
"Dmitri's. And just because."
It almost made her laugh and that, she couldn't have predicted. "The map?"
His eyes-a vivid, shimmering gold, startling against black hair dipped in blue-shifted to the car. "In the glove box."
Not that she wouldn't enjoy needling Dmitri by taking his prized possession out for a run, but . . . "I need a vehicle that won't stand out."
"There's an underground garage two blocks east. Pull into it and switch." He stepped away from the post, flared out his wings.
"Showing off?"
"Oui, oui." A smile full of pure male charm.
"Is the hair real?"
A nod. "So are the eyes. In case you were wondering." Another teasing smile.
She saw a single feather drift to the curb. "You'll cause a riot if you don't pick that up."
He followed her gaze. "I'll take it and drop it from the sky. Someone will find magic."
Snorting, but oddly touched by the idea, she unlocked the car and got in. Across the street, camera phones continued to snap at insane speed. She rolled her eyes. "Fly off before they mug you."
"I may look pretty, Elena, but I'm rather dangerous." The finest hint of a British accent whispered through.