All Hallow’s Evan

by BRK   

A young outgoing witch named Evan, already stuck with a hotness glamor he has to keep putting on (long story), leaves a Halloween party to find his magic is going wonky just as he happens to encounter a handsome admirer.

“Excuse me,” said a voice uncertainly.

I turned from glaring up the busy, lamplit avenue in search of my very late Uber and saw a man watching me, his expression diffident. I raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, and he dipped his head briefly in chagrin before looking me squarely in the eyes. “Sorry, it’s just—you have to be the most beautiful man I have ever seen,” he said. He essayed a sheepish smile. “Is there any way you’d consent to sharing a coffee with me? On me, of course.” He held my gaze, almost painfully hopeful.

I grimaced, knowing even that would look alluring in his eyes. Damn it, I thought. Forgot to take off the fucking glamor. Again.

The glamor was the bane of my existence, and the whole thing chafed all the more for it being solely and completely my own idiotic fault. Basically, from my teenage years onward I’d been dead set on not turning into my parents, who loafed about the mansion all day casting plant-flowering spells and indulging in brief revolving-door dalliances with bored, empty-headed Adonises culled from the rosters of a modeling agency Dad owned and otherwise ignored. I liked computers and had a knack for problem-solving, so I’d worked hard at college and trained myself up as a top-flight software engineer.

The trouble came when I went for my first job at a boutique dream firm known for high pay, exciting work, and employee care. I was a perfect fit, I had qualifications, my mentor had given me a glowing recommendation—everything was lined up. I kept telling myself that. It didn’t matter. The prospect of facing a panel of stern-faced authority figures whose literal job was to judge me had me coming unglued like I was going before the Witenagemot on charges of soul-selling warlockry. The morning of, I managed to get myself so worked up over the interview that I talked myself into giving myself a little spell-woven makeover. Just an itsy-bitsy glamor to boost my confidence and maybe give me that tiny little edge over the competition.

What didn’t occur to me, in my frazzle-heightened imbecility, was that if I wore an irresistibly handsome face and slightly broader shoulders to the interview with my future boss and other key principals at a firm whose personnel roster barely topped a hundred souls, my only fucking option on my first day of work—and every day thereafter—would be to wear the exact same Hekate-damned face I’d interviewed with, sharp jaw, smooth skin, bright eyes and all.

Casting the glamor on myself every morning in all its aspects—face, body, cock, smell—was getting to be a bother. Never mind that it was giving me a complex over the comparatively ordinary-looking real me having become unsuitable for public exposure, like looks-wise I’d gone from “hero’s best friend” levels of quirky, ordinary-guy attractiveness to fucking “hide in the bell tower and don’t let anyone see you” literally overnight. No, the real chore was that being ridiculously good-looking meant that people wanted to talk to you and spend time with you. I’d been borderline introverted before, always more excited by my studies (mundane and arcane) than people going back to my first ancient grimoire; but these days I found myself locking my office door and sneaking out the back way for lunch just to avoid all the happy, super-engaged fellow programmers and other random coworkers who apparently had nothing better to do than sit on the edge of my desk and grin at me.

Even virtual meetings at our desks were affected. I was the only one they nagged for not having his camera on, and don’t think I didn’t notice. Everyone wanted a piece of ol’ Evan, even if it was just a moment to stand next to me while the one-cup machine brewed my coffee and pretend to gossip while letting their eyes casually slide over the curve of my delts in my fitted bespoke button-downs.

So, yeah. Avoidance definitely didn’t work. If anything things escalated over the six months I’d worked there. Now they were dragging me out to social events. First, it was a few drinks after work to celebrate someone’s promotion. Then came a family dinner at my boss’s house, with his wife sitting a little too close and his teenage son mooning over me with big eyes from across the table all through the meal. A few weeks later, and my project team had a biweekly bowling night. Bowling!

And of course, there were the themed holiday parties, which I also had to glamor up for. At least the VP who’d hosted the Halloween party I’d just left had insisted on no costumes. There was no good way for a guy to dress up as a witch—those pointy hats look stupid on a dude, and anything more authentic would just have everyone asking “what are you supposed to be?” The other option is usually “wizard,” but the only recognizable getup in that category is a long-bearded Merlin/Dumbledore thing, and that’s an even worse stereotype than the pointed hat. (A friend calls the beard-and-robes look the “Merlodore,” which to me sounds like a blended wine.)

So here I was, standing outside the impressive tower housing my VP’s even more impressive twentieth-floor corner co-op, slightly buzzed from the two filter-eroding cocktails I’d allowed myself, and people were hitting me up on the fucking street, all because the dumbest impulse decision I had ever made had glommed onto me like a tattoo and would not. Let. Go.

The guy was still giving me the doe eyes. He was cute, in a movie star’s brother sort of way. My height (I’d kept my 5-foot-11-ness as part of my fake persona), a few years older than my young-looking 23; not quite balding but you could see where the receding was about to start; brown-eyed, and slim. He was dressed unprepossessingly in old jeans, sneakers, and a blue tee shirt with a white, very laundry-battered Columbia logo on it, but he made it work. He had a reusable grocery bag in one hand half-full of odds and ends, like he lived around here and had just popped out for a bit of shopping. I liked his smile—it touched my heart somehow. He seemed sweet and was probably smart and funny and generally perfect boyfriend material, and the fact that he could only be into me for my fake looks was suddenly both humiliating and exasperating.

“Yeah?” I said. I’ll show this guy just what tree he’s barking up. I looked down quickly, silently lowering the glamor, then up again. “You sure?”

He looked excited. “Definitely,” he said dreamily.

I frowned, my eyebrows drawing together. I checked my inner flows and realized the glamor was still in place. If anything it was more solid and secure than ever. What the heck? I looked down again and tried lowering the glamor and raising it again. Flip-flop, like a light switch. Nothing simpler.

When I looked up, my random suitor gasped. “Wow,” he breathed, moving toward me almost involuntarily. “You’re so—”

I gaped at him. Quickly checking my flows again I realized I was sporting two layers of hotness glamor, the resonance between the two almost doubling the effect. Shit. I could tell from my guy’s look of almost inebriated attraction that I was even more better-looking than ever, and that wasn’t all. My shoulders felt wider than usual for this spell, and my pecs were now pushing out the front of my loose saturated-purple party button-down just enough to be impossible not to notice. My junk felt fucking heavy in my pants, too, but I wasn’t looking there, and neither was he—yet.

I looked closer at the forms. Something was very weird here. Normally my flows looked sort of vibrant golden-yellow to me, but tonight they were threaded with a thin, extremely fluid red filament that I had never seen before. Where the hell did that come from? Worryingly, it seemed to weave between the flows and my physical soul, the spirit that inhabited my material flesh, as though the glamor—glamors—were now firmly woven into my being.

All of this assessment had passed through my head in a flash, while cute shopping-bag guy was still vocalizing his reaction. I held up a finger, cutting my new friend off in mid-gush, and turned away, pulling out my phone. Quickly, I dialed home.

Mom answered. “Hello, dear,” she said, sounding bored as usual. Now that I was an adult I knew better than to take it personally.

“Hey Mom, it’s me,” I said. “So, um, if you cast a spell on Halloween, does that make it more permanent or something?” It was the only explanation I could think of.

“Of course not,” she answered, completely uninterested. I swear, someone could have been enthusiastically eating her out and she’d still sound like she was filing her nails.

I shuddered, shoving away that bit of imagery, and focused again on my problem. “You sure?’ I asked. “No side effect from the thinning of the veils or anything?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Evan dear,” she responded flatly. “All of that thinning of the veils business is a myth, you know that. The only significance of Halloween to our kind is that it’s the Magisterial Synod’s fiscal end-of-year. Which reminds me, have you filed your decennial tribute forms with the Council yet?”

I gave her the loud, rattling sigh of a son fed up with his mother. “Bye, Mom.” I hung up, turning back to my admirer. He was waiting patiently, closer than before, and when I turned back to him I could he him reacting physically to my enhanced beauty. He’s probably hard, too, I realized. Don’t look. Don’t look!

“Okay,” I said to him. “Let me try something, okay?”

He nodded, smiling in anticipation. I lifted my hand again to keep him from closing the distance between us, and he stopped, slightly disappointed but still excited. Rapidly, I assembled a basic revised appearance spell and cast it before I could change my mind.

I blinked. The glamor spell worked very well on him. I’d meant to boost his looks a few notches and fill out his slender frame a bit, and I had. Boy, had I! The way the spell came together was like pieces snapping into place, every small improvement coming together to create an effect greater in intensity and impact than the component parts. The slightly rounded face firmed, the thinning hair thickened, chest hair appeared on a firm chest, and his torso visibly went from I-shaped to Y-shaped. His brown eyes, formerly pretty but mundane, now seemed deeper and richer in color and in all other aspects. They drew me into them somehow, inviting long, endless stares that were somehow as gratifying as speech, or sex.

His rough stubble was now a very short, well-trimmed two-day beard I wanted to feel under my fingertips, and his dark hair was brushing his square shoulders—an entrancing look on him. Below, his long legs now looked less like sticks and more like he enjoyed a good swim whenever possible, and behind the fly of his jeans was—yep, he was hard, as predicted, and the bulge was almost as impressive as mine.

The funny thing was, he hadn’t noticed any of this. He was still fixated on me, his attention completely consumed by his deep, if mostly innocent, desire. I wanted to laugh, and when my lips quirked into a lopsided smile he drew in a shuddering breath.

“What’s your name?” I asked, feeling like a schmuck for not having bothered to get it earlier.

“Dave,” he said, not looking away.

“Okay, Dave, I’m going to try one more thing.” He nodded, even though he couldn’t possibly have any idea what I was doing. Keeping my focus intently on Dave, I lowered the spell I’d cast on him.

Nothing happened. The guy standing in front of me was Sexy Dave, with no sign of Regular Dave in sight. I shifted my sight and found the flows that shaped the glamor I had given him, and my worst fears were confirmed when I spotted the red filament blithely binding the spell to his physical soul the same way it had done with me. If anything they looked more natural inside him.

Either way, he was now just as stuck with his beguiling appearance as I was with mine. I had to admit I didn’t mind, but the fact that my temporary hotness spells were suddenly not-so-temporary was a little unnerving.

“You feel okay?” I asked him, worried.

He grinned. “I feel great,” he said, and, fuck, his voice was a notch or two lower and smoother, too. I suppressed a shiver—I could listen to that voice forever. It was like he had found the exact frequency of my libido and tuned right in.

Something was nagging at me. If it wasn’t the fact that it was Halloween—

“Hey, you call an Uber?”

I looked over to find a black car double-parked directly in front of me, a muscular, thirty-something amateur boxer type standing in the open driver’s side door. Without thinking I threw a glamor spell at him. “Hey, what the hell?” he said, looking down in alarm at his four arms, spreading his hands in front of him. He looked up at me, annoyed. “What are you—?”

I threw another glamor, this one making him look normal again (okay, hunkier but otherwise normal). He still had the stacked-up arms and pecs, but no one could see them except himself—and witches like me. To anyone else, he’d look like a slightly hotter version of his regular self.

“Okay, fuck this, and fuck you,” the driver blurted. Giving me the finger four times over, he climbed into his car and screeched out into traffic. I watched him go, unimpressed. I knew he’d liked the four arms—the spell I’d thrown was called “Desired Transformation,” after all, so there was no call for being all salty about it. Probably make him a better driver, I mused. No more keeping your hands at 10 and sandwich, buddy.

More importantly, casting those spells had confirmed my hunch. Of course, if it wasn’t Halloween, the factor making my transformation spells permanent starting from an hour ago had to be the only other variation present. I’d watched the flows as I’d worked the spells, and while the yellow-gold energy came from me as always, the fluid red filament came from us.

I smiled at Dave. He smiled back. Glancing down at his shopping back I asked, “Want any help putting those away?”

He beamed at me, but said, “I don’t want you to think I’m easy. Not usually. Tonight is… well, unusual. Intense.”

I reached out my hand. He took it, and we started walking toward one of the other condo towers—presumably the one he and I would be spending a lot of time in from now on. “Tonight is Halloween,” I said slowly. “Sometimes, they say, soulmates meet on Halloween.”

His smile was sly. “But only if you’re wicked?” he teased.

“Shut up about my favorite musical,” I shot back.

We walked on in easy conversation, about musicals, and life, and everything. There’d be a little defying gravity later, maybe literally, definitely metaphorically. Then tomorrow we’d go out and try making the city a little more beautiful, one englamored hottie at a time.

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