WESTLYN
“Not a fuckingchance.” Draegan’s claws burst free, and he crosses the room in three long strides, stopping just before me. With the lightest touch of a claw beneath my chin, he tilts my face up, his voice a deadly whisper. “You areours, Westlyn Avery. I told you that from the start. We’re not going to let anyone—or anything—take you from us. Not some demon prince. Not the Archmage and his minions. Not the fucking dark fae.Noone.Thatis a promise you can take to the fucking bank.”
Fury flashes through his eyes, vibrates through his chest and arms, yet still his touch remains gentle. Gentle as he moves from my chin and traces that same claw along my jaw. Gentle as he cups my cheek. Gentle as he lowers his mouth to mine.
But then, all too soon, he’s closing his eyes and muttering a curse. Releasing me. Turning his back and walking toward the door.
Confusing and frustrating me yet again.
“Wait! I mean… Take it to the bank?” I force out a laugh, if only to make him turn around and look at me with the ocean in his eyes again. To make him stay, just a little longer. “No one goes to the bank anymore.”
“For fuck’s sake, little mortal. Sometimes I forget how young you really are.” He finally turns around, an actual smile gracing his grim face, vanquishing some of the weirdness between us. Running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, he says, “It’s an old idiom that basically means you can absolutely count on whatever’s being said, just like you can redeem a bank check at face value.”
“No, I get that. I just think it’s aweirdidiom, is all. People do most of their banking on apps or online these days. Idioms should be updated for modern usage so that the shared meaning isn’t lost.”
Another smile. A sparkle in his eyes rather than darkness, rather than fury. “Channeling Rook, are we?”
“He’d totally have my back on this. You can takethatto the bank.”
“I’m sure he—”
“Wait!” I gasp, the realization hitting me hard. “Draegan. That’s it! The bank!”
“Are we… still talking about idioms?”
“My father left something for me at the bank!” In a frantic, fevered rush, I tell him about Shoot the Messenger and the mysterious note on the photo. The key. Renni. My father’s random errands. “I told Rook my father never said what the errands were, but now I remember—hedidsay something. Right before he left, he’d say, ‘I have to take something to the bank.’”
“Every time?”
“Yes! Goddess, it’s coming back to me now. Her building was right next to the Bank of New Amsterdam’s main branch. That’s where he’d go. And he always made a point of telling me, too. He’d put his hand on my shoulders, look me in the eyes, and say, ‘Be good for Renni. I have to take something to the bank. Do you understand?’ I always thought it was weird how he was so adamant about it. Like, I remember thinking, um… okay? Go to the bank, then.”
“Miss Avery, I’m still not sure what you’re getting at here.”
“The key, Draegan,” I say, pacing as a flood of nervous energy zips through my veins. “It was taped inside the frame of one of the only photos I have of the two of us together—me, my dad, and the horse, Shoot the Messenger. A losing horse he bet on time and again, leaving the ticket stubs around the brownstone for me to find, just so I’d subconsciously realize the importance of that photo. No, not the horse. Not some special moment we shared. The key! It was always about the key. Then he wrote that random note about Renni—a witch healer we didn’t even keep in touch with—all so I’d make the connection about the bank, which I only made because he said it so many times like a freaking robot. There’s no other explanation.” I stop pacing and turn to look at him again, my heart thundering, my words coming faster than I can even process them.
Draegan looks like his head is about to explode. Forcing myself to slow down, I say, “Draegan, that key belongs to a safe deposit box at the Bank of New Amsterdam, and my father left something for me there. I’m positive.”
He considers me a few moments, still trying to piece together my mile-a-minute ramble, then says, “All right, then. If it’s a safe deposit box key, and the box is located in that bank, perhaps we could—”
“Itis,” I insist. “I can feel it. But…” My heart sinks. “What am I saying? I can’t exactly walk in there like, ‘Hey! I’m Westlyn Avery! I’m pretty sure my deadbeat dad left me some sort of clue about my whole witch-fae-demon-bride destiny before he skipped town with my evil stepmother, never to be heard from again. I don’t know the box number or anything, and I’m not even sure it’s listed under his real name, but could you maybe just breakeverysingle one of your security protocols and allow me to—”
Draegan presses a clawed finger to my lips, new mirth dancing in his eyes. “As much as I enjoy your legendary rants, I might actually know someone who can help.”
I roll my eyes, and he removes his claw from my lips.
“Who?” I snark. “The bank president?”
“Vice president, actually, but he’ll do. Kevin Klaiburn, he’s called. A longtime associate of the men of shadow and stone.”
“You’re… serious? Wow. You’ve got a bank VP in your back pocket, just hanging around waiting to break the rules for you?” I laugh, because, ofcoursehe does.
Draegan shrugs. “Bendthe rules, more like. It’s not as if we’re trying to commit a heist.”
“No, but whatever we need to do to get into that box is probably illegal. Why would he stick his neck out like that?”
“In addition to serving as the bank’s VP, Klaiburn also owns a number of high-end underground sex clubs throughout the city. That in itself is rather unremarkable, but—”
I laugh. “That’s unremarkable? I can’t wait to hear the remarkable part, then.”
