The problem with being nice was you couldn’t tell people no, which was why my team consisted of the first four individuals who’d volunteered for the job. Even worse, I couldn’t suggest they spend some time training because I couldn’t hurt their feelings.
I’d gathered the group at a pub by the time Bryce returned from rescuing the blacksmith’s daughter (it turned out she was just going through A Phase that involved hanging out with her giant friends). I’d recruited Cuthbert the swordmaster, and then I’d been approached by Winston, who was still bound and determined to use his life for good after narrowly escaping what we now knew to be Greg the mouse’s evil clutches. He’d been desperate to help, and I quite literally could not tell him no. And I’d so wished to tell him no. Then, of course, there was also the blacksmith and his daughter, whose name was Chandelier Dew Bloodlava, but I’d taken to calling her Pants because she worepants and would not shut up about how that made her different from other girls.
Bryce sat at the far end of the table. He looked at each person sitting around us, then at me. “What an excellent band of heroes you’ve gathered, Courtney.” He smiled kindly. I didn’t miss the elite level of sarcasm he sneaked under the hero potion.
I let my face remain in the neutral but pleasant expression that had become its natural state, completely replacing my previous resting bitch face. “Everyone, this is Bryce.” I was going to leave it at that, but my mouth continued on without me. “Why don’t we all go around the room and introduce ourselves?” I wanted to punch myself for suggesting the universally most hated group icebreaker activity.
“An inspired idea,” Bryce said, that cheesy smile still plastered to his face.
I tried to drain my glass of ale, but my mouth only allowed small, responsible sips. I’d be enduring this hell sober.
“What kinds of skills do you all have?” Bryce asked, and though he smiled indulgently at each member of our crew like he was the father of the Brady Bunch, I imagined deep down he was on the cusp of a panic attack and wondering what was wrong with me that this was the team I’d assembled.
I tried to send him telepathic messages.It’s fine. Everything is fine.
The smile slapped across his face didn’t budge. All my usual methods of cheering him up wouldn’t work anymore. There would be no more scaring the fear out of him, no more teasing him.
Winston fitted his hands together and shrugged modestly. “As far as skills, well, I don’t want to brag none, but it was my rhubarb strudel that took first place in the village fall festival.”
Bryce and I waited for him to say more.Hopedhe’d say more.
Winston did not say more.
Cuthbert leaned forward. “He’s being humble.”
Bryce’s smile widened, a silentThank godscreaming out of his eyeballs.
Cuthbert lowered his voice. “Blue ribbon winnerfive years running.” Nodding, he sat back, brows raised with significance.
“You bake pies,” Bryce stated with a bit too much cheer.
Winston puffed up. “Strudel, sire.”
“Strudel,” Bryce said exuberantly.
I turned to Cuthbert. “We know you can hold a sword. Any other skills we should know about? Maybe something niche and special that will come in handy later on?”
Cuthbert blushed. “I’ve been told I give excellent massages.”
“Okay,” I said, voice an octave higher than normal. “Cool, cool, cool. So, more handsy than handy. Amazing. Perfect. All skills have value. You’re such an asset.” I turned to the blacksmith’s daughter. “What about you?”
“I wear trousers,” she said, as though that one attribute qualified her to save the world.
I blinked. This poor misled girl. She’d someday learn that wearing any form of pants not preceded by the wordpajamawas literally the worst.
“So,” Bryce said, “we have a baker, a masseuse, and a girl who wears pants.” He turned to the blacksmith. With the blacksmith’s big, burly frame and rough disposition, I was sure Bryce thought he was our group’s saving grace. “What about you?”
The blacksmith looked surprised, running a hand through his beard. “Ah. I thought you knew. I did send you to fight for my daughter on my behalf.”
“What are you talking about?” Bryce asked.
The blacksmith cracked his knuckles. “I’m a pacifist.”
A long silence.
Winston leaned in eagerly. “What is our plan to obliterate the Evil One’s army?” He smashed his fist on the table.
The blacksmith jumped. I did a double take when Brycedidn’t even flinch. But of course, heroes didn’t do things like flinch. The thought of him enduring a silent flinch all by himself made my heart twinge. That was the problem with being perfect. No one could see you.
