Page 9 of Every Eligible Man

"They're Murder and Violence now," I declare. "No take-backs."

Murder, the one on the left, tosses his magnificent head like he approves. Violence stamps his hoof in agreement. We have an understanding, the three of us. A bond forged in this moment.

One-Eye flaps weakly up to the driver's bench, settling there with exhausted resignation.

"Get. In. The carriage. We have six hours before you all turn back into shit-stained disappointments."

Ash climbs in first, the rats immediately spreading across his shoulders like tiny scouts. Slade follows, Bastard somehow folding himself into the space beside him with surprising grace for a creature made of pure spite. I throw myself in last, Susan and Gerald already fighting over who gets the window seat.

"Final check," Squeak announces, taking his role as tactical commander very seriously. "Ash, brooding and massive. Good. Slade, pretty and annoying. Perfect. Wreck, unhinged and feral. Excellent. We're ready. We're going to get the lady. Or all three of you are going to die trying."

"Wait, all three?" Ash says. "You said she wants a man."

"I said she wants someone who can perform," Squeak corrects. "I didn't say how many. Twitch, you did the research."

Twitch puffs up importantly. He loves being the research guy.

"Lady Cinder rejected thirty-seven suitors in the last year alone. Her stated complaints include: 'finishes too fast,' 'no creativity,' 'couldn't find a clitoris with a map,' and my personal favorite, 'I've had more satisfying encounters with my own hand.'"

He pauses for effect. Twitch loves a dramatic pause.

"I don't think she knows what she wants. But I think what she needs... is options."

"Options," Slade repeats slowly. A wicked grin spreads across his face. "I like it."

"We're three options," I add, brain firing on all cylinders now. "Three flavors. Like a... sex tasting menu."

"Please never say that again," Ash mutters.

"Sex. Tasting. Menu."

"I'm jumping off the carriage," One-Eye announces. "Goodnight. Goodbye. I hope the lady has you all arrested."

"Drive, you dramatic feathered prick," Slade laughs, slapping the side of the carriage. "We've got a lady to ruin."

The carriage lurches forward. Murder and Violence prove to be surprisingly good at their temporary jobs, hooves striking cobblestones with satisfying authority. The animals settle into chaotic travel mode, rats chattering strategy, Bastard preening his feathers.

I lean back in the velvet seat, Susan curled against my neck, Gerald attempting to pick the lock on a decorative compartment, and grin so hard my face hurts.

Six hours.

Six hours to crash a ball, seduce a lady, and prove that three farmhands covered in pig shit are worth more than every perfumed prince in the kingdom.

Best. Night. Ever.

Arrival at the Ball

Slade

The black lacquer carriage rolls up to the castle steps like it belongs here, and I have to admit, even I'm impressed.

We belong here. Tonight, at least. For exactly six hours, we're not farmhands covered in pig shit. We're something else. Something dangerous.

Murder and Violence, gods, I can't believe Wreck named the horses, snort and stamp with the smug energy of creatures who know they're temporary but are enjoying every second. On the driver's bench, One-Eye sits hunched like a feathered gargoyle of regret.

"I'm not waiting up," he croaks. "You have six hours. Try not to start a war, impregnate anyone with a title, or get executed for public indecency. Though, frankly, I'm expecting all three."

"Your faith in us is touching," I call back.