Hades
They led us up the charming walkway, past the jack-o'-lanterns and flower beds that looked so perfectly normal it made my teeth ache. But as we approached the front door, I noticed things that didn't quite fit the suburban dream.
The porch boards didn't creak under our weight—they were solid, reinforced. The windows had the faint shimmer of bulletproof glass. And the front door, painted a cheerful red with an autumn wreath, was at least three inches thick.
"Huh," Eve murmured, and I shot her a look that said I'd noticed too.
One of our escorts—the one with winter eyes—stepped forward with what looked like a normal house key. Except when he inserted it into the lock, the entire door frame lit up with a soft blue glow. A retinal scanner dropped down from what I'd assumed was decorative trim.