3. The Glow-Up
The Glow-Up
WRECK
The barn smells like hay, shit, and whatever Susan and Gerald have been hoarding in the walls for the last six months.
I don't ask what they hoard. I never ask. The tooth situation taught me that some mysteries are better left unsolved.
All three of us stand in the middle of the dirt floor in various states of undress while our respective animal companions lose their collective minds around us. This is, without question, the most exciting thing that's happened since Gerald bit the tax collector last spring.
"Alright, ground rules," One-Eye announces from the highest rafter.
He spreads his wings like a preacher addressing his very disappointing congregation.
"I've got enough magic for one transformation each.
Clothes, carriage, horses, the works. Midnight and it all turns back to shit.
You lose a shoe, you lose your dignity, you get caught balls-deep in the lady when the clock strikes twelve, not my problem. Questions?"
I have a question. It's a good question. Possibly the most important question anyone has ever asked.
"Yeah. What happens if we're all balls-deep in the lady at midnight? Like, logistically."
"I'm going to fly directly into the sun," One-Eye says flatly. "Any other questions?"
No one has any other questions.
Slade is examining the pile of stolen magical components with what he probably thinks is a critical eye, but it actually just makes him look constipated.
Broken jewelry, bent silver spoons, a cracked hand mirror, three shiny buttons, a tarnished tiara, and an entire velvet curtain the rats have been slowly liberating from the manor house for weeks.
Bastard stands guard over the pile like a white-feathered dragon protecting his hoard.
"This is what we're working with?" Slade picks up the tiara. Half the fake gems are missing. "Did you rob a bankrupt brothel?"
"I robbed a dead witch's grave and your stepfather's trash heap," One-Eye snaps. "You want Versailles couture, go find your own magical crow. Oh wait, there isn't one, because I'm the only idiot desperate enough to help you three."
"I think it's lovely," Nibbles squeaks from somewhere near the curtain. He's already chewing on one corner. "Very rustic. Very 'rags to bitches.'"
"That's not the saying," Ash says.
"It is now."
I like Nibbles. He gets it.
Squeak scrambles up onto a hay bale, tiny paws on his hips like a general addressing his troops. For a rat, he has remarkable command presence. I respect that.
"Okay, here's the plan. Boss, Ash, you're the oldest and the biggest, so you go for the strong silent type. Brooding. Dangerous. 'I could snap you in half but I'll be gentle if you ask nice.' Got it?"
"I don't brood," Ash says.
"You literally glare at sunrises like they've personally wronged you," Slade points out.
"That's because mornings are a scam."
"That's brooding, boss!" Twitch bounces excitedly. "Perfect! Lean into it!"
Squeak's tiny paw swings toward Slade. "You, pretty boy, you're the charmer. Flirty. Quick with the tongue. The one who makes her laugh before he makes her scream."
Bastard honks approvingly. That goose has always been weirdly invested in Slade's sex life.
"I'm more than just a pretty face," Slade protests, but he's already preening. He's always preening. The man has never passed a reflective surface without checking himself out.
"We know. You're also an ass." Squeak's attention swivels to me, and I feel a surge of excitement. This is my moment. My classification. My role. "And you, chaos goblin."
"Thank you."
"You're the wildcard. Unpredictable. The one who says the unhinged shit that makes her think 'I should not find this attractive and yet.'"
This is the greatest compliment I've ever received. I feel seen. I feel understood. I feel…
"Shut up and take your pants off," Squeak says.
I'm already ahead of him.
My breeches hit the floor before he's finished the sentence. I stand there buck naked, lean, wiry, covered in scars from a lifetime of questionable decisions, and feel absolutely nothing resembling shame. Shame is for people who haven't made peace with their chaos.
Gerald immediately steals my breeches and drags them under a hay bale.
"Gerald, I need those." I pause. Consider. "Never mind. Guess I'm going full cock out for the magic portion."
Susan chirrups approvingly from my shoulder. She's always supported my life choices, even the terrible ones. Especially the terrible ones.
Ash sighs heavily. He does that a lot, the sighing, strips down as well.
And okay, I know he's my brother, but objectively speaking?
Years of farm labor have carved him into something obscene.
Broad shoulders, thick arms, abs that could grate cheese, and a cock that hangs heavy between his thighs like it's already preparing for its starring role.
The rats go dead silent for half a second.
"Jesus tapdancing Christ," Twitch whispers.
"We're gonna need bigger pants," Squeak breathes.
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!"
"You look like you could bench-press a lady and then make her thank you for it," Nibbles adds.
"I'd fuck you," Twitch announces. "And I'm a rat."
"That's... thank you?" Ash says uncertainly.
Slade has found a piece of broken mirror and is examining his reflection with deep satisfaction. Because of course he has. His doublet is deep emerald green, open just enough at the chest to make promises. The silver mask makes his sharp jaw and wicked grin even more devastating.
"I look like every bad decision a woman's ever wanted to make," he says. "This is perfect. This is art."
"You look like a fancy brothel owner," Ash says.
"That's what I said. Art."
I'm spinning in circles, watching my coattails flare. "I look like I should be banned from polite society."
"You are banned from polite society," Slade points out. "Remember the incident with the merchant's wife and the beehive?"
"She started it."
"She asked you to pass the salt."
"Aggressively."
One-Eye collapses onto the bucket, looking like he's aged thirty years in thirty seconds. "The clothes are done. Carriage next. And then, for the love of all that is holy and several things that aren't, you’re leaving and I’m going to find a quiet corner of the barn to contemplate my failures."
"You're coming with us," Ash says.
"I am absolutely not."
"Someone has to drive," Slade points out. "The horses trust you."
"There are no horses. We have field mice."
"Magic field mice," I say brightly, already bouncing toward the door. "Who will become magic horses. Who will need a driver. Who is you."
One-Eye's good eye twitches. "I hope you all get caught with your trousers down and executed for public indecency."
"That's the spirit!"
We move outside, where the broken-down hay wagon we use for manure runs waits in the moonlight. It looks especially pathetic tonight. One wheel is visibly crooked. The wood is rotting in at least three separate places. I'm pretty sure something died under the seat last month and we never found it.
"This is what we're working with," One-Eye says grimly. "Everyone stand back. This is going to take everything I've got."
He spreads his wings, mutters something that sounds like a swear word in an ancient language, and unleashes the last of the witch's stolen magic.
The wagon shudders. Groans. And then, impossibly, begins to transform.
Wood straightens and polishes itself into glossy black lacquer. The wheels repair, spokes gleaming silver. A velvet interior blooms from the rotting planks like flowers made of luxury. And the two field mice that have been hiding in the corner suddenly begin to grow.
Stretching. Reshaping. Expanding until two midnight-black stallions stand where the tiny rodents were, looking far too smug for their species.
"That’s deeply unsettling," Slade observes.
"They're beautiful," I breathe, approaching one horse with genuine awe. Susan pokes her head out of my pocket and chatters approvingly. "We should name them."
"We're not naming the temporary magic horses," Ash says.
He doesn't understand. He never understands the important things.
"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.