I dropped my phone into my pack and pulled out my garters, gloves, and shoes. I stripped down, avoiding the sight of myself in the mirror, of the claw marks across my stomach that Sil had given me the last time we met. He’d been small and weaselly, but fast. Deadly fast. And merciless. I’d barely gotten away, and even then, I would have died if Raphael hadn’t healed me.

The flowing fabric of my burgundy dress slid over my skin, light and comfortable, fitting me perfectly. The matching garters were snug at the tops of my thighs; the narrow, sharpened blades, their curves catching the light, slid snugly into their sheaths and were concealed completely by the skirt. I pulled on my weaponized shoes and put on the gloves. Ready.

A knock at the door. “Lela? They’re here early. So is Diane. She and my mom are dying to take pictures, so you’d better get out here.”

I looked down at my beautiful disguise. “Coming.”

With my heart beating a rolling rhythm against my ribs, I walked down the long hallway and entered Tegan’s living room, which could have comfortably housed Diane’s entire split-level. Jillian and Levi were by the window, their heads together, breathing on each other. Tegan was introducing a nervous-looking Jim to her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Murray. Alexis and Greg were lounging against the piano, where Tegan’s little sister, Greta, a ten-year-old prodigy, was showing off.

Laney was on the couch, looking luminous and angelic and fragile in deep-green silk, jabbering at Malachi, who was standing next to her and staring at the arm of the couch like he was about to kill it. He looked up as I walked in, and our eyes met, long enough for me to feel it like a rusty poker through my chest. His posture changed subtly as we stared at each other, like some of the air had leaked from his tires, but he kept a straight face. I fought to as well, but it was hard. He always looked good, but tonight he looked amazing. Like a young, olive-skinned James Bond or something. I’d never seen anyone look so good in simple black.

Then Ian came out of the kitchen with a sandwich in his hand, which he raised in Mrs. Murray’s direction with a smile. She nodded back indulgently; clearly, she was no stranger to Ian’s compulsive eating habits.

He took a few steps into the living room, and then stopped dead. “Whoa,” he mouthed, his green eyes sliding from the top of my head down to my feet. He looked down at his sandwich like he had no idea how it had come into his possession, swallowed hard, and then set it on an end table. “Hey,” he said, walking toward me, wiping his hands on the side of his tux. “So Tegan wasn’t kidding about this dress.”