Chapter 19
The metallic taste of blood still lingers on my tongue as we shuffle back to the bus, our recent discovery at the fight club a stark contrast to the opulence awaiting us.
I rub my fingers over where I bit my lip to keep from punching the dickhead council people in the VIP section, and the sinking dread of the upcoming charity dinner settles in my stomach like a stone.
I hate shit like this and I’m going to be part of so much of it for months on end—kill me now.
“Can’t wait for this dinner,” Dezi drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm while he eyes me from across the narrow aisle. His deadpan humor does little to lighten the mood, and I sigh, leaning heavily against the cold metal cabinets.
“Maybe I’ll just get sloshed,” I mutter, eyeing the row of Fae spirits tucked away for special occasions—or emergencies, depending on how you look at it. “Might make the evening bearable.”
“Fiadh, you know that’s not an option,” Tiernan chides gently, easing himself between me and my liquid escape. “You’re too honest as it is; alcohol would only sharpen your tongue.”
He knows me way too well, and it makes my skin itch sometimes.
I shoot him a glare that’s half-hearted at best and slump onto the couch. The leather creaks under my weight, a comforting sound amid my internal turmoil. He’s right, of course. Drunk Fiadh at a high-profile event is a recipe for disaster.
Without a word, Tiernan presses an energy tonic into my hand, the cool glass vial a silent reminder of my responsibilities.
He pairs it with a snack—something small and protein-packed, knowing it’ll help clear my head.
I’m a right bitch when I’m hangry and again, he’s read me like a book. Damn mates.
“Revelin will be here soon,” he says, sitting down next to me with a soft thump. His presence, usually so calming, does little to assuage the gnawing anxiety. “We can discuss everything after the dinner. Just us.”
“Great,” I grumble, turning the vial over in my hand. “An entire night playing dress-up for nothing.”
“Fiadh,” he starts, his tone taking on a lecturing quality that makes me want to groan. “Having stylists handle our looks means any criticism can be deflected to them. It’s strategic.”
“Because I care so much about what they think,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I know he has a point. Personal attacks are harder to dodge than critiques on wardrobe choices. And I’m not exactly kind to people who criticize me—especially with appearances. It’s vain and shallow, not worthy of my time, but I can’t stop myself from rising to the bait.
“Plus,” Tiernan adds with a knowing look, “it prevents you from throttling someone who comments on your outfit.”
“Fine,” I concede, unscrewing the cap of the tonic with more force than necessary. I toss back the contents, feeling the rush of energy flood my system, bracing myself for the chaos that awaits. “Let’s get this over with.”
The door to the bus swings open with a flourish that’s pure Revelin, and he steps in, trailing a comet’s tail of fashion emergency aid—Tanya Windwalker, her floating hair already a sign of her magic at work, flutters beside him.
Orchid and Basil Tangleberry, with their ethereal beauty and near-identical features, follow, their eyes scanning the space like they can already envision the transformations they’ll weave.
“Showtime, folks!” Rev announces, and it’s all high-octane charisma.
I watch from my spot on the couch as he slips into his public persona, a mask as glittering and false as the outfits he’s about to parade before us. The crew doesn’t need to know that beneath that sparkle is a man who’d rather be anywhere but under the council’s thumb.
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, and he 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 on Drag 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.
“Let’s go show them how proper warriors clean up,” I say finally, the ghost of a challenge in my tone as I meet each of their gazes.
“Lead the way, General,” Khol chuckles, and with one last look in the mirror, I steel myself for the evening ahead.
“Revelin, where are your cuffs?” Dezi asks with a frown, glancing at the spot on his wrists where the new accessories should be.
“Shit,” Revelin curses. “Must’ve left them on the counter.”
The room erupts into a cacophony of movement and mutterings; everyone is aware that without all of us wearing the protection items, this whole evening could be dangerous. I look around at the guys, counting them to make sure everyone else has theirs. Once I see they do, I sigh in relief.
“Everyone, calm down,” I snap, more out of annoyance than any real authority.
With a dramatic roll of my eyes, I flick my wrist, murmuring a spell under my breath that I pray works.
Moments later, the cuffs materialize in my palm, still warm from their last contact with skin. “There. Crisis averted.”
And the fucking spell worked! My average in Faerie is four to zero in my favor.
“Remind me again why we don’t use magic for everything?” Khol quips, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity beneath his sarcasm.
“Because then we’d have no excuse to watch Rev panic,” I retort, tossing him the leather bands, which he snatches out of the air with a grin.
“Ha. Ha,” Revelin deadpans, securing the cuffs on his wrists carefully.
The silver and red gem gleam against his tattooed arms, suddenly making him look completely put together.
“You realize that stuff doesn’t always work as intended, right?
Fi’s getting better, but if you want to trust ordering hot coffee that could land in your lap… ”
I growl at him with narrowed eyes when Khol flinches at the image.
“Can we go now? Before another catastrophe strikes?” Tiernan suggests, ushering us towards the door with a gentle nudge.
“Lead the way, fluffy butt,” I reply, following him with a mock bow as we file out the door. That earns me a sharp look from him and a round of snorts from the others.
Can I help it if his tail is so cute and poofy as a snow leopard?
Once we’re piled into the car, the tension from earlier breaks like a snapped guitar string. Dezi lounges back, every inch the aristocrat, even when confined to a vehicle seat. “I give it fifteen minutes before Rev gets glitter on someone important.”
“Only if they’re lucky,” Revelin shoots back, his public persona slipping back like a well-worn mask.
“Twenty bucks says Fiadh insults at least three donors without meaning to,” Khol adds, winking at me. “Or punches someone Rev gets glitter on.”
“Only three? You wound me with your lack of faith,” I scoff, crossing my arms. But despite my words, warmth blooms in my chest. They get me, and none of them wants to change me. It’s terrifying.
“Remember, we need these people to like us,” Tiernan reminds us, though his lips twitch as if he’s fighting back a smile.
“Tiernan, darling, when have I ever cared about being liked?” I ask, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Touché,” he concedes.
As the city lights streak past the car windows, something shifts inside me—a flutter of excitement, a spark of anticipation. Tonight could be a disaster or it could be a triumph. With us, it’s always a gamble.
“Who knows, maybe tonight will be boring, and no one will earn a knuckle sandwich,” I muse out loud, already knowing how unlikely that is.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Khol chuckles, leaning forward between the seats.
“Exactly.” My reflection grins back at me from the window, all dark hair and shimmering dress. Feray would indeed laugh her ass off at this spectacle. But somehow, that thought doesn’t sting as much as it did earlier.
“Tonight, we take the stage not as rock stars or misfits, but as champions of charity,” I declare melodramatically.
“Here’s to hoping we don’t end up brawling in a viral video,” Tiernan adds dryly. “Looking at you, Khol. Don’t help her get arrested again.”
“Or help me and we’ll have a lot more fun,” I counter, and laughter fills the car, drowning out the hum of the engine.
“Either way, it’ll be a night to remember,” Revelin says, and as we pull up to the venue, I can’t help but agree.
Who knows, maybe I’ll get to deck a smug asshole after all.