Gwennon Shimmerdove snaps her fingers, and racks of clothing appear out of thin air, the bus expanding around us to accommodate the sudden influx of fabrics and frills. Khol snorts from his corner, muttering something about ‘practically perfect’ nonsense, and gets the bird from Revelin for his trouble.
“Ooh, what do we have here?” Rev pulls out a garment so shockingly flamboyant it could blind someone. He slips into it with a grin that dares us to comment.
No fucking way am I walking around with him looking like Elton John.
And comment we do, because when Rev struts down the center aisle, seams pop and fabric tears in places the public shouldn’t see. Laughter tinged with secondhand embarrassment erupts, but I simply narrow my eyes. I refuse to let him give a peep show to all those ridiculous groupies and Amethyst.
“Maybe something less... pornographic?” I suggest icily, and eventually, he settles on an outfit with enough flair to satisfy his ego but not scandalize the evening’s attendees.
Khol’s turn is less about theatricality and more about stubbornness. “I’m not wearing this,” he growls, holding up the chosen ensemble like it’s poisoned. He’s half out of his clothes, unhappy with everything Gwennon suggests.
“Come on, Khol,” I chide, standing up to join them. “You can’t hide behind scales and fangs tonight.” His glare softens at the edges, andhe concedes to trying on another suit, though his mutterings continue to draw smirks from everyone involved. “Besides, I have to wear a fucking dress.”
That gets all their attention, and I groan.Making them behave is going to be a pain in the ass.
Dezi stands apart from the chaos, a picture of undead stoicism. When presented with his attire, he runs his fingers over the material of a shirt that’s more shadow than fabric, pairing it effortlessly with trousers that stress the cold elegance only a vampire can own. “No need for those,” he says, dismissing cufflinks and shoes with a wave of his hand. “I have my own accessories in my things.”
Probably all more expensive than our house and a bazillion years old.
Tiernan, ever the peacekeeper, finds a shirt—a blue so deep it mirrors his sky-colored eyes—and pants that trace the lines of his form. A collective approval fills the bus, and my heart does a strange little skip that I blame on the lingering effects of adrenaline from the fight club earlier. He looks hot as hell and he barely did a thing besides changing his damn clothes.
“Alright, you bunch of divas,” Gwennon claps her hands, magically clearing the space of the rejected options. “Get dressed, and let’s make miracles happen.” She turns to me with a twinkle in her eye, holding up a dress that promises to be both my armor and my curse for the evening.
“Time for makeup and hair, boys,” she directs, and as they disperse, I’m left holding the sleek silhouette of what I’m about to become—a reluctant contestant onDrag Race.
The invasion is swift and absolute; the makeover brigade arms themselves with an arsenal of brushes, palettes, and potions. I’m shuffled off to don a silk robe that feels like a betrayal against every fiber of my combat-ready being. As Orchid and Basil Tangleberry circle me like birds of prey, I scowl at my reflection in the mirror, protesting each stroke of eyeliner, each curl wrapped around a heated wand.
“Must you really pile it on?” I snap, as Orchid fluffs my hair to impossible heights.
I’m going to look like a fucking country singer at this rate.
“Darling, we’re sculpting a masterpiece,” she retorts, her fingers dancing through my tresses with irritating finesse.
“More like slathering over a perfectly good canvas,” I mumble, but my words are lost beneath the hum of activity and the scent of hairspray.
Across the room, Dezi leans against a wall, his eyes half-lidded, the picture of undead nonchalance amidst the bustle. His shirt clings to him like moonlight on a marble statue, untouched by chaos.
“Easy for you to say. You’ve been dressing up for centuries and this is the least fancy one,” I grumble, catching his eye in the mirror.
“Patience, Fiadh,” he replies, a hint of amusement in his cool voice. “The night is long.”
Meanwhile, Tiernan sits quietly, a placid observer as hands flutter around him, smoothing lines, fixing collars. The blue of his shirt makes his eyes seem like twin aquamarines—calm, deep, unfathomable. He catches my glare in the mirror, offers a small, reassuring smile, and something in my chest eases just a fraction.
“Think of it as armor,” he says softly. “A different battle requires a different armor.”
I huff, unconvinced, but fall silent as Gwennon’s team continues their work, transforming us into polished versions of our rebellious selves.
As the finishing touches are applied, a hush falls over the group. Glancing around, I see them: Khol looks like trouble with a capital T in his leather get-up, Revelin smirks with that rockstar edge softened just enough to be society-appropriate, and even Dezi’s suit seems to smirk with him.
Then there’s me, standing in the storm's eye, swathed in a dress that fits like a second skin, dark as midnight and shimmering with a subtle defiance. I turn slowly, taking in the plunging neckline, the way the fabric clings and releases with each movement.
It’s both a gauntlet thrown, and a banner raised.
“Fiadh, you look—” Tiernan starts, but I hold up a hand.
“Save it. Feray would piss herself laughing right now,” I say, a wry smile touching my lips. She’s somewhere out there in jeans and a tee, probably covered in campfire soot or engine grease, while I’m here, decked out like some Fae-touched fashion doll.
Our life since the Ascension is absurd. Me hanging out with a band of misfit dudes turned reluctant celebrities, strutting into a charity dinner like we own the place. A part of me wants to bolt, to rip off the heels that are practically weapons in their own right, but another part—a new, strange part—can’t help but wonder what the night will bring.
