Page 7 of Every Eligible Man

Slade is the last to strip, and of course he makes a whole production of it. He unties his breeches slowly, lets them drop with grace, and stands there with the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly what he looks like naked.

Lean. Toned. The kind of body that suggests flexibility and stamina in equal measure. His cock is elegant, like the rest of him. I don't know how a cock can be elegant, but his manages it.

Bastard honks something that sounds almost impressed.

"I'm a grower," Slade announces to no one in particular.

"No one asked," Ash says.

"You were all thinking it."

"I wasn't," I say cheerfully. "I was thinking about how Susan still has that human tooth and I really should ask her where she got it."

"We don't ask about the tooth," Ash and Slade say in unison.

See? They get it too.

One-Eye flaps down from the rafters, landing heavily on an overturned bucket. He looks at the three of us, naked, chaotic, surrounded by criminal animals, and makes a sound like his soul is actively departing his body.

"I hate every single one of you," he announces. "Let's begin."

He pecks at the pile of magical components, muttering something ancient and deeply profane. The cracked mirror shimmers. The broken jewelry rattles. The curtain twitches like it's possessed.

Which, technically, it's about to be.

"Hold still," One-Eye commands. "This is going to feel like being punched by sparkles."

"That doesn’t…” Ash starts.

The magic hits all three of us at once.

It feels exactly like being punched by sparkles.

Light explodes through the barn, cheap, chaotic, like discount fireworks mixed with barn dust. The animals scatter with various shrieks and honks and war dances. Susan digs into my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Gerald screams from somewhere under the hay bale.

When the sparkles finally settle, I look down at myself and promptly lose my mind.

"Holy shit."

My body is wrapped in a blood-red doublet, fitted close to my frame, with black embroidery that looks vaguely threatening if you stare at it too long. The fabric feels like sin. The trousers are tight in all the right ways. I have boots. Actual polished boots that don't have a single manure stain on them.

My hair, which I'm pretty sure had pig shit in it an hour ago, is now artfully disheveled in a way that looks deliberate instead of homeless. And there's a mask. Black leather, covering just enough of my face to make me look dangerous instead of unhinged.

Well. Dangerously unhinged. Best of both worlds.

"I look like a fancy murder," I announce, delighted.

Susan emerges from my collar, examines the new outfit, and chirps with approval. Gerald rockets out from the hay bale to investigate, sniffing the embroidery before trying to steal one of the buttons.

"Not yet," I tell him. "Steal things at the ball. Higher quality."

He chitters his understanding. Good ferret. Smart ferret.

Ash rolls his massive shoulders, testing his new clothes. His doublet is midnight blue with silver thread, and it fits like sin, hugging every muscle, leaving nothing to the imagination. The black half-mask makes him look like something dangerous pretending to be civilized.

"Holy shit," he mutters, looking down at himself.

"Boss." Squeak is vibrating so hard he might achieve liftoff. "You look like sex dressed up as a threat!"