Page 86 of Protector Unmatched

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It was still dark when the activity at the Brentwood mansion went into overdrive. The living room had been turned into a dressing room for the men, while the smaller dining room was meant for the three women among them.

Despite his best efforts, Pearce hadn’t been able to talk Daphne out of going to the cosplay convention with them. She’d insisted that she would be the only one her friend Claus would hand the tickets to, though of course, Pearce knew it was a white lie. She wanted to be there; she wanted to be part of this. He couldn’t blame her. She’d come this far, helped him with countless things to get to this point, and now she wanted to see the fruits of her labor. He’d finally given up opposing her decision and watched her enter the women’s dressing room with a beaming smile.

Pearce headed into the living room and closed the door behind him. Several clothing racks with costumes lined the room. To one side, Thomas and Zane, two full-blooded vampires, were squeezing into the rigid white uniforms of the Stormtroopers from the Star Wars movies, while Gabriel eyed the Darth Vader costume. He, too, had to be covered head to toe in order not to be exposed to the burning rays of the sun.

“I think it’s only fitting that I’ll take Darth Vader,” Gabriel said to Thomas and Zane. “After all, I’m your boss.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Just don’t get too much into character. You’re still one of the good guys.”

Pearce moved farther into the room, where Patrick was helping Manus slip on some sort of gloves with spikes.

When Manus looked up and met Pearce’s look, he grinned. “Check this out.” He moved his hands, and the spikes on the back of his hands extended. They were long, sharp metal claws. “I’m Wolverine. Pretty cool, huh?”

Pearce smirked. “You don’t look anything like Wolverine.”

Patrick turned to him. “Wait until we’re done with hair and makeup.”

“Hair and makeup?” Pearce asked.

The hybrid pointed to another corner of the room, where two dressing tables with mirrors and professional lighting were set up. “I brought in a couple of makeup artists that work in the movies.”

“Wow, you went all out.”

“It’s all about authenticity, trust me,” Patrick said.

“If you say so. So, where’s my costume?”

Patrick patted Manus on the shoulder. “You’re done. Go and have them fit you with facial hair and…” He dropped his gaze to Manus’s half-open shirt. His scars were clearly visible. “Maybe a little fake blood on the chest.”

Manus walked away, and Patrick ushered Pearce to follow him to one of the costumes racks. “So, I’ve only got a few things left that might fit you. It’s either Spider-Man or Jamie Lannister, you know, from Game of Thrones.”

“I’m not gonna get caught dead in a tight red and blue jumpsuit.”

Patrick tilted his head. “Well, it’s Jamie Lannister, then. I’ve got you the leather outfit, rather than the armor, ’cause that’s a little easier to maneuver in. Between you and me, Jamie Lannister is a better choice than Spider-Man anyway. He’s hot right now. Total babe magnet.”

Patrick handed him the costume.

“You told me that I’m the babe magnet,” Hamish said from behind them.

Pearce looked over his shoulder to get a look at Hamish’s costume. Hamish sported a bare chest with dark-stripe fake tattoos and a loincloth with an assortment of weapons, while his face had been transformed by a goatee, dark, bushy eyebrows, and a long braid. “Khal Drogo. Not bad.” To Patrick, he said, “Why couldn’t I get that one?”

“Because I got up earlier. Though if Tessa were here, you might have beat me to it,” Hamish said, implying that Pearce was tardy because Daphne had spent the night with him. He wasn’t wrong.

“I think I’m gonna rock the Jamie Lannister look,” Pearce said. “I look good in leather.” He pointed past Hamish, where Grayson was squeezing himself into a Superman costume. “Better than wearing tights any day!”

Hamish looked over his shoulder and chuckled. “Yeah, that’s manly.”

Grayson looked at them, clearly having heard the jab. “At least I’m not wearing a frilly shirt and knickerbockers like Ryder.” He motioned to his friend, who was adjusting the sleeves of his historical-looking shirt.

“They’re not called knickerbockers, and you know it,” Ryder said without missing a beat. “They’re breeches, and men in the eighteen hundreds wore them all the time. You’re just jealous ’cause you can’t carry off the look.”

“It’s barely a disguise,” Grayson said, huffing.

“Okay, I’ll ask,” Pearce said. “Who are you supposed to be?”

Ryder gave an elaborate bow, then straightened and flashed his fangs. “The vampire Lestat.”