Chris’s angelic blue eyes glinted out from the red paint Gaz and I had dabbed all over his face and any exposed skin. Two small horns clung to a band he’d clipped on his blond curls. He was the only guy I knew who could wear nothing but a black leather tunic and loincloth—with a devil’s forked tail attached—and still look like the Archangel Gabriel just minding the clothes for a friend.
Bren’s costume made him look like a hybrid swamp monster, as if a squid and a Komodo dragon had met and mated in the dark when they were too drunk to care. It had taken a week of Gaz’s and my spare time sewing on extra tentacles. Now most of them kept getting caught around our ankles, and the slimy green hair gel we’d combed all over his head didn’t bear closer inspection. Even Chris was wary of it.