by Angel Payne
I’m getting ready to repeat the vow to myself, ensuring it sticks to my psyche in all the right places, when another utterance breaks in on it.
“Dada?”
So soft. So innocent.
So perfect.
I gulp hard, my throat a shaft of fire and my gut a knot of doom. Shit. I’m even hearing the kid as if he’s really here, and my soul splitters into a million shards because of it. Six months of physical torture, another six of lonely solitude, and the insane ride of the last three and a half years have been nips of pain compared to the gouge of this grief.
“Mama, Dada. No cry. Please!”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m ready to snarl it out loud before banishing the torturous taunt—but in the moment that I suck down air for the task, my lower thigh is brushed by a tangible touch. Then another.
“Dada?”
And then my knee is wrapped beneath five small fingers.
And then the discernible swipes again, compelling me to dare a tentative glance down…
To be slammed by the hugest tidal wave of joy in my life.
“Dear fuck!”
Yeah, I just dropped the F-bomb in front of my kid. And as I drop myself along with it, I don’t fucking care. Every etiquette lesson on the planet can kiss my ass because I don’t care about that either. All that matters is the human burrowing into my arms, and then the other one who joins him. The center of my world is suddenly complete again, as Emma and I clutch and kiss and bawl all over our perfect, incredible, remarkable son.
“Oh, thank fuck! Thank God!”
Emma’s weeping burst has me laughing through my tears. Guess I’m off the hook for the profanity. At least this time. Maybe for the rest of time. None of it feels so important anymore. Lux is here. Right here. In our arms. In one piece. Alive. Alive.
But…alone?
The alarm slices through my jubilant haze, making me jolt back and whip my gaze around. “Lux?” I manage to query. “Are you—where did you come from, son?”
Our little dude bobs up his towhead and shoves a hock of the white-gold stuff out of his eyes. “I chase them, Dada.” As he points toward the little valley of wild brush and trees between our memorial marker hill and the house, the hair tumbles back into his face. “Through the woods. Over there.” As his voice cracks, my heart snaps in a thousand places. “I try. I try, Dada. The lady wasn’t Mama. She not talk or smell or love like Mama.”
This time, Emma’s face crumples too. There’s not time to tell her that I know how the kid feels. A love like his mama’s is a rare and recognizable force of nature, easily discernible if one knows what their soul is searching for. It’s not Sawyer’s fault that he didn’t recognize it, but it speaks volumes about Lux’s soul that he did.
“I knew she was prob’ly the bad lady, coming to take back Mis and Ira.”
Emma nestles him close again. The tips of her fingers are trembling and appear dipped in liquid gold. “Yes, buddy. She was the bad lady.”
Despite Lux’s testimony, the revelation looks frightening to him. He turns, gripping her with all the ferocity in his little body before declaring, “I ran from her, Mama.”
“As you should have, sweetheart.” She drops a tender kiss to the top of his head. “But Mis and Ira…they didn’t?”
His face, so cherubic and perfect, seems to double in age from its infusion of dark memories. “She tricked them,” he growls, and I damn near high-five him. Fuck yes, my kid just growled. “She had the foofy ballet dresses. One for each of them.”
“Tutus?” Emma asks. Better her than me, because I would’ve used the same terminology Lux just did.
“Yeah.” Though he still looks aged beyond his years, he tilts his head to the side and starts toying with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “She said they could wear them, but they had to wait to put them on.”
“Wait until what, buddy?”
Lux’s expression gains a fresh wave of tension.
“She told them she wanted to take them to the ballet dance.” He sighs and rubs his eyes.
“Ballet? What ballet?” Emma asks.
He makes us wait while he adjusts the drawstrings, pulling until they extend out to the same length.
“Buddy?” I prompt, trying to clench back my impatience. “What ballet?”
“She said…it was the one about the swans.”
Emma frowns. “Swan Lake?”
“Yeah!” The kid pumps his fist, nearly clocking his mother in the jaw. Luckily, Emma’s used to dodging when the kid gets fond of the ninja act. As she sweeps her head to the side, she uses the motion to catch my gaze with her open curiosity. I respond with an adamant shrug. Does she expect me to know if, when, or where Swan Lake is playing around town?
“Curtain is at eight tonight.”
On the other hand, maybe it’s my turn to have my mind read now—except the woman I expect the clairvoyance from is still sitting there with our son, tight-lipped and confused.
Until she joins me in looking up at the source of the intel.
Who happens to be her sister, stumbling up next to Foley, the back of her head bathed in as much blood as his face.
“Oh, holy God!” Emma hands Lux off to me and then bounds to her feet, running for Lydia. “Dee Dee. Oh, my sweet ’Dia. Are you—”
“Stop.” Lydia bats her away. “By Peter, Paul, and Mary, sister. if you don’t stop, I’ll force you to!”
Emma’s having none of the Dee Dee lip. “You’re both bleeding like Tarantino characters. You need medical attention.”
Fershan marches in closer, bringing his starship-captain persona with him. “Which is why we have a fully functioning lab, convertible into a medical bay, fifteen steps behind me.”
“Ah!” His comment has Atticus pivoting around, an approving grin sparking across his face. “Your team continues to impress me, Richards.”
“As they should be mitigating Miss Paranoid Pants over here.” Lydia snorts before shoulder-butting her sister. “Who should be listening as I tell her that the Los Angeles Ballet is staging a gala performance of Swan Lake tonight benefiting downtown revitalization efforts at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.”
Instead of launching into her own happy ninja moves, Emma appears perturbed. “At the Music Center?” she retorts. “But the ballet doesn’t normally perform there.”
“Did I mention gala?” Lydia counters. “Benefiting downtown—which just took another hit from that damn earthquake?”
“Which might or might not have been an earthquake,” I mutter.
“Lots of shit under those streets we haven’t been sure about.” Foley tags a sweeping glance at the end of his gritted observation—right back at my wife. “Maybe even the fact that bitch-witch Garand has some secret storage rooms we weren’t aware of.”
By now, I’m exploding back to my feet too.
As my head confirms the terrifying logic of my friend’s statement.
As my gut roils in violent protest of it.
As my senses shoot into wild hyperawareness—activating my body into action.
“Fershan,” I bark, already stomping my way back toward the front stoop. “Take Foley and Lydia and get them stitched up. I’m leaving Aliz here as your nurse and Kain as your tech backup.” As I come abreast of Atticus, I stop long enough to order him, “Get that monstrosity off my property. Park it as close to the Music Center as you can. Take one of the musketeers with you. The other two, along with everyone else, are with me.”
To his credit, Atticus cranks out an encouraging nod. When he stills his head, it’s to gift me with his direct stare, filled with the affirming respect of a peer. “What is your plan?” he queries.
“To get my girls back.”
That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. But the man’s second nod is a confirmation that right now, it’s enough for him. A damn good thing because it’s enough for me too.
I just pray, with every filament of fortitude in my body and soul, that it’s not too late f
or Ira and Miseria.
Chapter Four
Emma
I thought I knew what fear was.
I assumed the bastard and I understood each other plainly by now, after every corner of hell through which he’s already escorted me in the last three years. Watching Reece nearly die an equal number times. In matching quantities, thinking my own mortality was staring me in the face—and wondering if I’d be adding to the number by giving birth to an electric super baby. The bastard’s been along for the ride as I’ve stared down gang bangers, high-end thieves, jet turbines, and crime cartel thugs. He’s even taken the wheel completely to give me a terrifying spin on Faline Garand’s lab table, as well as an excruciating dance with Mother Sun and a front-row seat for my mother’s kidnapping.
Yes, I’ve tithed to Friar Fear enough for a dozen lifetimes.
But the damn mendicant keeps demanding even more.
And right now, he’s sure as hell getting it.
As in, slicing it directly out of my body as we cover each new mile into downtown LA. When he’s done hacking off all the flesh, he starts siphoning it from the middle of my heart. I barely notice—or care. Like Reece—and I’m pretty damn sure like Lux too—my concentration is funneled on only one giant gouge in our world. The open wound in our family, healable only when we get back our missing members.
If we get them back.
“We’re going to do this.” And there he is, right on time. Inside of three seconds after turning his attention from the lights of Figueroa Street to my face, my husband sees the penance I’m still doling out to fear and the words I crave for him to say. “This isn’t a maybe thing, Velvet. This is a yes, this is happening thing.” He lays a solid kiss across my soft-smiling lips. “Got that memo now, Mrs. Richards?”
“Yes, Mr. Richards.”
He keeps his head low and turned in, pressing even closer now. “Then why do your eyes still look like you’re getting ready to run through a brick wall at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?”
“Or entering the castle courtyard to confront she-who-shall-not-be-named?”
“Eh, why not? The elder wand ended up in the right hands.” The cocky shrug he uses as punctuation makes him suddenly irresistible. Suddenly? All right, honesty time. In spite of my complete terror, he’s been irresistible since emerging in his most stunning Prada tux, after ordering me to change into the vivid pink Scervino number I’ve had sitting in a bag, waiting for a special occasion for its debut.
This was not the occasion I had in mind.
“We’re not talking about a magic wand here.” I run an impatient hand over the multiple layers of the dress’s dreamy skirt. All the panels are only four inches wide, creating an edgy-flowy look when I walk. I felt like a kicky, cool punk princess when I first tried the dress on. Now, I feel a little more than ridiculous. While Reece’s thinking is sound—arriving in our battle leathers will have the impact of the Matrix gang impinging on a Hallmark movie set—I’m still thrown off by the theming conflict here. Reiterating the mission goal feels like a good idea, especially now. “Especially because we’re not after a fictional nose-less wizard.” I tug on his luxurious lapel, wishing more than anything that we were actually bound for a glam night at the ballet, maybe followed by drinks in the penthouse and then some electric sex in kinky places… “We may end up having to kill the bad guy here, Reece.”
And just like that, even with his hardening jaw and knife-blade gaze, the man has to go and look even more like the towering, steel-clad knight that I crave to climb like a horny, pink-swathed princess. “Not a bad guy, my gorgeous Flare,” he growls. “The scheming, treacherous, soulless bitchzilla who stole my brother’s spunk and used it to create a pair of humans for the sole purpose of bending to her will.” His irises have transformed into pure, livid lightning—but his rage doesn’t prevent him from dragging in a breath on unsteady hitches. “The monster who wanted to steal the same shit from me.”
My eyes pop wide before my shock catches up with my mouth. “Excuse the hell out of me?” I have to coil every muscle and grit my teeth until they ache to keep the exclamation to an enraged rasp. Though we’re tucked back in the Rover’s third row, everyone’s nerves are already pumped full of high-octane tension, and there’s no need to add to that vibe.
“It was when she had me trapped at the Rancho Palos Verdes compound.” He reaches up, pressing his palm to my cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t ever tell you about it, but—”
“It’s all right.” I grab his hand and kiss his palm. “I understand.” And pull him in for a seal of sincerity, tenderly meshing our lips. “Those aren’t easy memories for me either.”
Reece softly shakes his head. “Nothing worse than recalling the sessions from the Source.” The storms in his eyes diminish into slate-colored mists. He expels a baffled huff. “I didn’t really talk about what happened, because frankly, I was confused by it. The nutcase went on and on about how my seed would create perfection and how she’d be the mother of a god.” A guttural rumble rolls through his chest as he swivels to face fully forward again. A mixture of shadows and street lights flows across the beautiful cliffs of his face, making the next phase of his confession more of a surreal entity. “To be honest, I had no damn idea what she was talking about. And I figured she’d jacked my IV full of feel-good juice so I’d get hard without her having to work too much for it.”
It’s sheer hell to work my next gulp down my throat, let alone bring up the question I hate worse than “How long is this Droughtlander going to be?” Much, much worse.
“So…did she?” I finally blurt. “Get you…up to…” Another torturous swallow. Another round of ordering my lips to form awful words. “Performance level?”
“No.” Reece is all too ready with the response. “Thanks to you, bounding into that lab like Annie Git Yer Sun Guns, the Bolt boner was saved from indentured servitude that day.”
He’s going for the humor with intentional gusto this time, and it works. In half a second, I’m kicking Brother Fear to the curb as a mass of snickering giggles have me feeling like we just brought a half-rack to an AA meeting. The awesomeness is all mine—for one full minute. At that point, dread hitches a full ride back onto my senses as I watch the back of Angie’s head turn from a gentle nightlight of pink and turquoise to a fiery ball of gold and purple. She lurches in her seat, turning to grab the cushion behind Wade’s head, and he slows the Rover even though we’re in the middle of a block.
“Ang?” While keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he arches the other back to grab her fingers. “What is it, gorgeous? Talk to me.”
“Talk to us.” Reece’s urgency nearly pushes it into the realm of an asshole snarl, but he checks himself as soon as I curl my arm beneath his elbow. We’re not going to win this one by goat-hooking all of them into our vat of terror. They’re all here to help. Patience feels impossible but has to be a necessity.
Angelique shivers. Lux, sitting next to her, enfolds her free hand between his tiny glowing ones. At once, her stress calms from all-over shaking to just the heavy breathing beneath her thrumming skull. It’s hell to watch her thoughts and feelings—literally—chasing each other across her mind, but those neurons, boosted by her special power, are another part of the team effort that’s going to give us an edge over Faline here.
“Sh-She is close,” Angelique declares. “Very close.” As that spills from her, we turn the corner onto First, and the glittering spectacle of the fully lit Music Center appears ahead.
Reece, leaning forward, peers at every pedestrian on the sidewalks. “Are the girls with her?” he demands.
“Oui. I—I think so. There is chaotic energy around her. So much static. That is unusual for her frequency. She is usually steady.” She opens her eyes, but her dark-green orbs are still unfocused. If we were in a different time and place, I’d even say she was sleepwalking. “Steady,” she repeats. “And dark. And determined…to get her way.”
“Well, not this time.”
They’re a promise.
And I swear, a whole new channel of my heart is unlocked, at once flooding with adoration for this beautiful man. And this time, it has nothing to do with his tuxedo.
Though I have to admit—once Wade has hooked a left onto Hope Street and stopped the Rover in the limousine drop-off lane in front of the Music Center—that it’s impossible to ignore the artwork that is this man’s ass in custom-fitted Prada. I may be a mom on a mission tonight, but I’m also a woman with a pulse, and nobody leaps out of a Range Rover the way my man can. “Wait!” Fine backside or not, I scrutinize him now like the whackpot he’s seriously become. “You want to get out right here? All of us?”
Reece finishes aligning his cufflinks before scraping his hands back through his hair. “You think Faline’s going to sneak the girls in the back way? Ms. ‘Look at me and tremble, you peasants’?”
“Dude’s got a fine point,” Wade comments from the driver’s seat.
“Of course he does.” Trixie smooths down the poufy skirt of her bronze tea-length formal while sliding out from the front seat. “Richards men are a lot of things, but moronic isn’t one of them.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Reece flings her a sardonic side-eye. “I think.” The move results in a thick chunk of inky hair to fall free despite his finger grooming. The shiny lock lands perfectly between the lightning storms of his eyes, like the damn cherry on his irresistibility sundae. The indolent bastard quirks one side of his mouth as I stay in the back seat, watching everyone else leave the car—while squirming to control what my crotch wants me to do about him looking like the planet’s hottest superhero in disguise as history’s hottest James Bond. I swear to God, if he reaches in for me and husks, “Let’s go, Sassenach,” I may concede to being the first casualty of the night.
Thankfully, the man is already invested in the mission before us. Every inch of his rigid posture says so. Every ion of his energy radiates with it. Even the halo around his head is a new color, pulsing with a captivating mix of blue, red, and purple. The violet lends a regal air to his superspy stature, making me envision him as a knight of old, instead. We’re his chosen warriors, and he’s guiding us to finally cross swords with the witch who’s planning on taking the whole world hostage, starting with the slave children she’ll use to do so.
