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And there weren’t at least ten pairs of eyes watching us. Including those of our son.

I push upright, not ashamed of using the grips along the wall in order to regain my feet. Wait a second. Climbing grips? Along a hospital-white wall? Wait another second. Why does this place look like a hospital? All this way under downtown Los Angeles?

“What…the…”

My impressions are solidified as I straighten with a labored groan. Emma, who’s already waiting for me, brings some solace as she rolls a palm along the side of my face. “My Zeus,” she whispers.

“My real jumping bunny.” I attempt a wry laugh along with my stupid humor, but everything hurts. Fuck.

“You all right?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“That’s all that matters, then.”

She’s getting ready to give me the best wound care in the world by rolling her eyes and calling me something like a sappy ox or a reckless rogue, but here comes Lux to my rescue.

“Dada!”

Or not.

“Oof!” I choke it out as my son flies into my knees, which feel like they just braved every black-diamond ski run in France—on the same day. “Heeeey, buddy. You’re safe!” Thank fuck.

“Uh-huh. Yep.”

He jabs a thumb up at me, easing the tension in my chest a little more. I complete our ritual by grabbing his gung-ho digit and then gently nibbling it. But unlike every other time we’ve done it, there’s no ensuing giggle from my son. Instead, I respond to his insistent pull, descending to his level despite the black-diamond disasters still connecting my upper and lower legs. Once I’m there, Lux frames my face with his hands. Pulls at the hair along my temples, compelling me to keep taking in his handsome yet solemn face—as he pulls in a breath too damn serious for a kid of his mental age, much less what he appears to be on the outside.

“Dada.”

I purse my lips and hone my stare. “What do you need, son?”

His little mouth tightens, as well. “We need to help ’em.”

I don’t bother issuing the obvious follow-up. It’s given to me already, in the form of the twins’ reappearance. Emma flicks her confused glance between them and me, and I admit to sharing her mystification. Now that the girls have lured—if I can call it that—Lux down to their lair, they should be strutting like queens of the castle. Or whatever the hell this place is. But no, they’re back to their fidgeting uncertainty from the elevator, as if we’ve dropped in unannounced to their home.

Have we?

If that’s the case, why did they deliberately haul Lux down their goddamned rabbit hole? What’s the wonder twins’ game here?

Which, goddamnit, leads to my most eerie question of all.

Why the hell am I so sure there’s a “game” here?

Christ. What kind of a cynic have I turned into? Have I gotten so used to Faline’s hijinks that I’m instantly mounting the worst-case scenario here? About a pair of nervous little girls who clearly worship my son already?

Oh, fuck that mush.

I’m close to a mile beneath Los Angeles, standing in some pseudo-psych ward with no physical backup or method of contacting help—because I’m damn sure AT&T hasn’t thought of reaching out and touching someone down here—meaning we’re on our own in this stark white weirdo-land. Facing off, once again, with a pair of creatures that share too many traits with my son for any kind of decent comfort level. So yeah, as far as I’m concerned, this is all on the shiny-shiny girls. They’ve got to prove why my guard shouldn’t be hiked higher than a Starfleet force field and why my suspicions don’t have to stay pegged at a glaring level ten.

But I’m willing to take the first step—at least for Lux’s sake. “We need to help who, buddy?” I prompt him.

He steps back but doesn’t look away from me. At the same time, the girls shift forward, flanking him. It’s a chore not to let my jaw plummet at the ethereal beauty of the sight. The two dark princesses are like heaven’s perfect completion for Lux’s gold gorgeousness. I have to fight all the instincts that keep telling me this is right, instincts that keep prodding me to be as protective of the girls as my boy. But for all we know, maybe they’re a couple of fabricated automatons in Faline’s fucked-up forces. It’s disgustingly possible that they’re not real. Has the witch perfected holograms along with every other sick trick up her demented sleeve? We don’t even know their names!

“They are called Ira and Miseria.”

And I had to go there.