Dream Chaser (Bailey Spade 3)

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Fabian starts to strip, exposing rows upon rows of muscles that only the most potent of steroids can conjure up in non-werewolf folks. When he’s down to his boxers, he turns his back to us and finishes stripping.

At the shameless display of his glutes of steel, Itzel looks away, Kit whistles like a cartoon wolf, Ariel waggles her eyebrows, and Dylan blushes like a medieval maiden. Conscious of Valerian’s narrow-eyed stare on me, I pretend to be swooning as well.

“My mask is a special design,” Fabian says without turning, his German accent even deeper. “Just wanted to test it one last time.”

With a flash, he turns into his wolf form. The size of a bison and even more muscular than in humanoid form, it’s a shaggy thing of terrifying beauty. And indeed, his mask has elongated to accommodate his canine face, making him look like a muzzled hellhound.

When he switches back to his man form, the mask contracts, but no one pays attention to that because this time, he’s facing us, his family jewels and other bits out in full force.

Kit whistles again, Ariel fans herself, and Dylan looks on the verge of fainting.

“Great job, Itzel,” the werewolf says, ignoring it all.

Itzel looks him over, swallows very loudly, and averts her eyes. I, on the other hand, gape for all I’m worth to annoy Valerian.

It must work, because his chiseled jaw tightens and he uses his powers to shield Fabian’s bits with a fig leaf until the werewolf puts his boxers back on.

Acting disappointed, I turn to look at the leftover masks. There’s at least a dozen of them.

“What about those?” I ask, nodding at the stash.

“They’re for the second part of our team,” Valerian says, still sounding irritated—much to my delight. “We’re meeting them en route.”

Puck. We’ve already got an ancient vampire, a giant, a telekinetic, an uber, a chort, a shapeshifter, an alpha werewolf, an illusionist, and a robot suit. Now it sounds like there are more reinforcements. By the time we get to our destination, we’ll be a freaking army.

Grunting, Colton collects the remaining masks and stashes them in his ginormous backpack.

Itzel shows us some of the mask features—like being able to eat and drink without taking the mask off—and Dylan makes sure to point out which features were her contributions.

“You still have to make sure the food and drink aren’t contaminated,” Itzel says apologetically when she’s done with the demo. “If I’d had to build a decontamination chamber, the project would—”

“No worries,” Colton booms and turns to show us a bag the size of an industrial refrigerator. “I’m carrying the supplies.”

“Careful,” Valerian says. “There are grenades in there.”

Kit slides her mask up her forehead and transforms into a creepy plant-like creature without a mouth and nose, and with green cactus spines instead of hair. Returning back to her anime-character self, she says, “In a pinch, I won’t need the supplies or the mask and could live off photosynthesis.”

“Nyechist’,” Stanislav mumbles under his breath.

“That means something like evil forces,” Felix whispers into my ear. “Usually said about chorts.”

Stanislav’s hearing must be good—he gives Felix a withering glare.

Chester also takes his mask off, revealing a devilish grin. “Shall we go?”

“Just one thing.” Valerian unfurls a big hand-drawn map on the table. “Memorize the path to Necronia, in case we get separated.”

“Done,” Dylan says instantly. “I have a photographic memory.”

“I hope you have the patience to wait for the more mentally challenged among us,” Fabian growls through his mask, and Dylan takes a step back, proving she’s got enough street smarts to be wary of an annoyed werewolf.

I memorize our path with ease; making sense of such maps is a course taught in middle school on Gomorrah. Felix and Ariel take the longest, and no wonder: Their teacher was Hekima, whose primary objective in his classes turned out to be causing nightmares.

“Now grab a weapon and let’s go,” Valerian says when everyone recites the map from memory to his satisfaction.

Ariel sprints over to the farthest corner of the room with all the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. There are two piles there—one of blade weapons like knives, swords, and the like, and the other of guns.

“Remember, firearms don’t work on every world,” Dylan says as she watches Ariel cram pistols into every crevice of her outfit.

With a shrug, Ariel picks up a knife and a scabbard with a sword in it.

“I’ve got my own,” Chester says and pulls out what looks like a sword handle from the back of his pants. He presses something, and the handle turns into a weapon I’ve never seen before—a sword made from a substance that looks just like the shimmering plasma of the gates.

“Wait,” Felix says. “Isn’t that—”

“A family heirloom.” Chester winks and retracts the blade.