Chapter 1.
Seymour Madison never thought he’d set foot in Somerstown again, and yet, here he was.
The city was too big, too busy, and he’d always found it suffocating. He’d barely been here for twenty-four hours, and he was already over it. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. He longed for open fields and starry skies, fresh air with the sweet scent of wildflowers and lush trees, and the quiet hum of crickets chirping.
Somerstown was crap.
Yes, there was more greenery here than the average city, but it was hard to appreciate it with the suffocating grip of steel and glass everywhere. The thrum of traffic punctuated by the occasional siren made his head hurt, the air was obnoxiously thick, and Seymour was certain his skin was about to crawl off his bones.
It was absolute and total crap.
His mother had moved them several states away to a trailer in the country when Seymour was a kid, and he’d grown up with quite the affinity for nature and an equally strong dislike for urban settings. He didn’t have many memories of living here, but the tension washing over him in waves only reinforced the old knots twisting up in his gut.
Said knots had been there since he first made the decision to drive back here, and they hadn’t let up for a moment. It was difficult for him to explain, but there was something about living out in the cut that made him feel free. Here in the city, he was tiny and trapped and it was hard to breathe.
Fuck.
Even the city cemetery was denied any sense of tranquility as it was framed with iron and brick. The hum of the bustling world was impossible to escape, though Seymour suspected his discomfort was due in part to the fact he was standing at the grave of a man he’d never met.
His father.
It was the only reason he’d come back to Somerstown–to sign papers and pay what little respect he could.
The grass hadn’t yet grown back over the freshly dug hole, and there was no headstone. No one had left any flowers either. There was only a plastic marker with scribbly handwriting:
Thaddeus C. Carver
Seymour wasn’t sure what to feel.
Nothing?
Something?
Still, there was a small tug in his chest, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He was sad, and he had no idea why.
He knew the C stood for Clancy, his father’s preferred name, or so his mother had always said. She hadn’t said much else about him except he hadn’t wanted to be a dad and that was why they left the city right after Seymour was born. She insisted Clancy was a good man, but Seymour wasn’t so sure.
After all, how good could he be if he didn’t want to stick around and step up as a parent?
Maybe that’s what Seymour mourned.
Not the person, but the lost potential of a relationship he never got to have.
A rustle in the grass drew Seymour’s attention behind him, and he caught a glimpse of a thin blond man moving through what appeared to be an older section of the cemetery a few yards away.
The graves there were covered in debris, some of the headstones cracked or even toppled over, and clearly none of them had received much care in a very long time. This area boasted the cemetery’s singular tree, a giant oak that offered shade but was also no doubt responsible for the clutter of leaves and branches below.
The man was carrying a white five gallon bucket. He kneeled before a thin headstone with a small ornate vase, carefully brushing away a few twigs and leaves from around the base. Fuzzy green moss had nearly consumed every inch of the granite, and it was impossible to read a single word of the engraving.
Seymour watched as the man pulled out sponges, a brush, and some towels from the bucket. There was a big spray bottle filled with a pink liquid. The items seemed dry, and yet the man was somehow able to splash water all over the headstone from a full bucket.
Maybe he’d kept some of that stuff in a bag.
Also, a five gallon bucket full of water would be pretty heavy, and the man had toted it over there as if it weighed nothing.
Huh.
The man picked up one of the sponges to gently wipe at the tombstone. He cleared away the biggest chunks of green fuzz, and then he used a tiny brush to tidy up the letters. He seemed calm, relaxed, and there was an odd sense of serenity exuding from his very pores.
Seymour could only compare the feeling to looking at the stars.
But still, he did wonder…
Where did all that water come from?
The man turned his head, meeting Seymour’s probing gaze with one of his own.
He was beautiful.
Golden curls, tan skin, bright blue eyes, chiseled features, and a strong jaw. He looked like he should have been on the cover of a magazine wearing fancy couture clothing, not on his knees scrubbing a dirty headstone.
“Sorry. I just, uh…” Seymour forced a smile, laughing nervously. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
The man tilted his head, but he did not speak.
“Do you, uh, work for the cemetery?” Seymour shoved his hands in his pockets. “Or do you just like runnin’ ‘round scrubbin’ on headstones for fun?”
The man smiled shyly. He looked over his handiwork, regarding it for a long moment before he finally replied, “Fun.”
His voice was deep, rumbling in such a way as if it could command the very stone before him.
Seymour would have believed it.
“So, uh.” Seymour cleared his throat. “You got anybody here?”
The man frowned.
“Any…” Seymour scrambled for the right word. “Relatives?”
The man nodded in understanding, but then he said, “No.”
“It’s real nice of you. To do that for people.” Seymour gestured vaguely. “Especially if you don’t know any of ‘em.”
The man continued to stare.
It was a bit unnerving.
“Right. So.” Seymour coughed, looking back at the grave of his father. There wasn’t much to see, but he needed a break from the man’s intense gaze.
“You have… someone here?” The man ventured. “Someone you lost?”
“Yeah.” Seymour nodded and gestured to the grave marker in front of him. “My father.”
“I am sorry.” The man frowned.
“No, it’s all right.” Seymour shook his head, shrugging. “I never really knew him. It’s a long story, but, uh–” He cut himself off. It didn’t seem right to dump on a complete stranger. “Just in town to finish up some stuff with his will, maybe grab him some flowers, and then back on home I go.”
“You are not from here?”
“No. Mississippi.” Seymour cringed. “Well, okay, I was born here in Somerstown, technically, but we moved when I was real little. So, yes, kinda from here. But not.”
“Ah.”
“You?”
The man blinked owlishly.
“You from ’round here?”
“No.” The man went back to cleaning the headstone.
Seymour was expecting more of an answer than that, but he wasn’t sure what else to say now. He wasn’t sure if he was actually making a connection or if the man was merely humoring him.
“Right.” Seymour took a step back in preparation to leave.
“When was he born?” the man asked.
“Sorry?”
“When was he born? What day and what month? Your father.”
“Uh.” Seymour had to look back at the marker. “Twenty-fourth of July.”
“Leo,” the man said with a small nod. “They can be vain and arrogant, but also kind, loyal, and exceptionally creative. Their colors are those of the sun, bright and warm. Red, yellow, gold, and orange.”
“Huh?”
“You said you never knew him. I thought perhaps you would enjoy knowing what kind of man he might have been.”
“Oh, well, thank you. That’s real nice of you.” Seymour smiled warmly. “So, you’re into Zodiac stuff?”
“Yes. I am into Zodiac stuff.” The man chuckled. “It is fascinating.”
“I used to have this big book all about it. It had stuff with birthdays, even down to the time you were born. I thought it was real interestin’. My mama still reads the horoscopes every day. Used to do it with the paper, but uh, I think she has an app or somethin’ for it now.”
“An app? Like for a phone?”
“Yeah!”
The man seemed intrigued. “That is very convenient.”
“You believe all that stuff, huh?”
“Everyone needs something to believe in, do they not?”
“Fair enough.” Seymour walked a little closer, shoving his hands in his pockets. “All right. Is this the part where you ask me what’s my sign?”
“If you would like to tell me.”
“Aries.”
“Ah. the first sign of the Zodiac.” The man beamed. “Confident, brave, often impulsive, and a penchant for competition and arrogance. Ruled by Mars and the element of fire, Aries are said to be one of the most passionate signs.”
Seymour hummed thoughtfully as he considered the description. “I dunno ’bout bein’ competitive, but I can maybe be a little impulsive. Like thinkin’ it’s a good idea to stick around here talkin’ to a handsome stranger in a cemetery.”
The man blinked slowly, and his cheeks turned pink. “That is quite impulsive.”
“Is it a bad thing?” Seymour grinned. “I’ve been told I can be very charming.”
“I am not sure yet.”
“About me bein’ charming?”
“If it is bad.” The man scrubbed at the tombstone.
“If you’re not interested, I am more than happy to leave you here messin’ with your moss–”
“It is lichen.”
“Oh. My apologies.” Seymour fiddled with his keys in his pocket. “You know, maybe, I’d lichen to ask you if you want to go get a cup of coffee or somethin’.”
The man stared.
“Sorry.” Seymour laughed. “That was pretty bad, huh?”
“It was.” He cracked a smile. “But I liked it.”
“Maybe enough to at least get your name?”
“Sariel.”
Seymour waited.
Sariel tilted his head.
“No, uh, last name?”
“Oh. Right.” Sariel’s brow furrowed.
“Sariel Right?”
“Yes.” Sariel nodded slowly. “That is my name.”
“I’m Seymour Madison.” Seymour approached to offer out his hand.
Sariel accepted it. “It is nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Seymour didn’t want to let go just yet, and Sariel hadn’t pulled away. He held on, giving a little squeeze. “So, how about that coffee?”
“Coffee?”
“Yeah! Whenever you’re done with your tombstone scrubbin’, maybe we could get some coffee?” Seymour grinned. “Or dinner?”
Sariel stared for a long moment, and then he suddenly jerked and yanked his hand back, as if startled. “Is this a romantic invitation?”
“Uh, that was sorta the idea, yeah.”
“A date.”
“Yeah, we could call it a date.”
“You wish to go on a date?”
“Yup.”
“With me?”
“Yupperino.”
Sariel’s eyes widened.
Poor guy looked like Seymour had asked him if he could have some of his internal organs to crochet into a blanket for the devil.
“Look,” Seymour said quickly. “If you’re not interested, totally fine.”
“I am interested, but…” Sariel looked at the tombstone. “The circumstances, however, are not ideal.”
“You mean askin’ you out in a cemetery? Easy fix. We could head over to the sidewalk and I could ask you there.”
“I am afraid that would not change much.” Sariel smiled, but there was a sadness to it now.
“Are you in a relationship or somethin’?”
“Or something.”
“Well…”
Sariel returned his attention to his cleaning without waiting for Seymour to finish his reply, and all the lines in his face grew hard. He appeared as old and worn as the stone in front of him and twice as depressed.
There was definitely a story there, and Seymour was fairly certain it was not a happy one.
“Well, if you need somebody to talk to?” Sariel cleared his throat. “I saw a coffee shop on my way in called Hallowed Grounds. Looks like it used to be an old church. Might be there, let’s say, maybe around eight o’clock? Probably in a corner booth or somethin’. So, it’s nice and quiet.”
“I do not understand.” Sariel tilted his head as he cautiously glanced back up at Seymour. “Why are you telling me this?”
“’Cause I am plannin’ to be there and I dunno. Hope maybe you show up.”
“I cannot promise that.”
“No pressure.” Seymour shrugged again. “If you’re there, great. If not, that’s great too.”
“How can both things be great?”
Seymour beamed. “Because I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you either way.”
Sariel’s face morphed into a spectacular shade of lobster red. “Oh, oh, that, that is very great. Nice of you.” He shook his head. “I meant to say, yes, thank you. I appreciate it. Not many people have shared such a kind sentiment.”
“Sounds like you’ve been hangin’ ‘round some real jerks then.”
“You have no idea.”
“Maybe you can tell me ‘bout it. If you decide to come get some coffee with me, that is.”
Sariel nodded. “I will give it a lot of thought.”
“I hope you do. So! Uh.” Seymour turned to nod at Clancy’s grave. “I’m gonna go find me some flowers. Don’t forget. Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock,” Sariel echoed, his expression softening.
“Good luck with your scrubbin’.”
“It was very nice to meet you, Seymour. Thank you for this. I enjoyed it. Very much.”
Seymour didn’t like the sense of finality in Sariel’s words, so he aimed for confident and said, “You can thank me plenty later when you see me tonight.”
“All right. Goodbye.”
“You take care of yourself.” Seymour waved and then left, heading to his car with a smile.
Okay, yes asking someone on a date while hanging out in a cemetery was a little weird, but it wasn’t like Seymour was particularly mourning his father’s death.
Sariel didn’t seem to mind anyway.
After all, he’d been there cleaning up graves, so maybe he was all right with a little weird.
There was something oddly enchanting about Sariel that Seymour couldn’t shake, and he found himself considering his options to potentially stick around Somerstown for a few more days. He hadn’t had much of a reason before, but now he could see himself wanting to stay and take in the sights.
Namely the sight of a beautiful man with golden curls and a dazzling smile.
And if not, then Seymour would have a very long drive back home ruminating over a hundred what-if’s involving said beautiful man.
At least he’d tried.
It wasn’t like he was offering Sariel much more than a good time for a short while. He would sooner set his truck on fire than move to the city, so maybe it was for the best if Sariel didn’t make their coffee date tonight. Sariel struck him as the breakfast in bed and cuddling type, and Seymour was very much not.
He wasn’t a fan of the term man-slut, but…
If the man-slut shoe fit.
Seymour knew it would be too easy to blame his long hours at the hospital where he worked as a phlebotomist when the reality was that he hated being tied down. His bedmates were always beautiful but ultimately boring, and he would find himself longing for another conquest.
He wanted the rush, the thrill of a new adventure, something more.
Maybe something like Sariel.
Seymour dismissed the thought.
Any potential relationship between them would likely suffer the same fate as all the others. It didn’t matter how gorgeous or fun or intelligent or anything else someone was. The man could be perfect, everything Seymour had ever wanted in a partner, and yet the spark never lasted.
There was a deeper issue, he was sure.
It had nothing to do with the distance, but everything to do with himself and the empty void inside of him that he couldn’t fill no matter how hard he tried or how many men he took to bed or–wow.
All of this over a guy he’d only spoken to for a few minutes who loved cleaning graves and chatting about horoscopes.
Maybe it really was for the best if Sariel didn’t make their coffee date tonight.
Shit.
With a sigh, Seymour got in his truck and searched for a local flower shop on his phone. He found one by the name of Uranian Flora and then headed that way, his heart heavy with the task at hand. It was safer to fret over flowers than deal with his own inner bullshit.
Would roses be weird? Was that too romantic or something?
What about daisies?
Too cheerful for a grave?
Sariel probably would have known.
Shit.
Seymour parked across from the flower shop, eyeing it warily.
The flower shop was a brick building with three stories and a small greenhouse on the side. There were a bunch of bright pink flowering bushes out front, and the awnings over the door and windows were the same color. He’d seen those big flowering bushes all over the city, but he couldn’t remember what they were called. There was some sort of festival every year dedicated to them too, but the name eluded him.
Seymour got out of his car, deciding he had more important things to stress about than the name of some stupid flowers.
Like picking some other stupid flowers for a grave.
He crossed the street to head inside the flower shop, his eyes immediately assaulted by hot pink counters and trim. The floors were stained a crazy bright blue and the big menu hanging behind the register was a blinding shade of lime green. It was a lot to take in and Seymour found himself squinting.
A scruffy young man with dark hair, olive skin, and a bright smile was at the register, talking to a pale woman with vivid red lipstick dressed like one of those rockabilly chicks.
The woman quieted down as Seymour approached, saying softly, “Oh, he looks like he’s had a terrible day.”
Seymour almost laughed.
No shit.
The young man didn’t respond to her, instead greeting Seymour with a wave. “Hi. Is there something I can help you with? Looking for anything in particular?”
“Uh, yes,” Seymour replied. “I’m, I’m new in town. Well, not technically new. I used to live here before, but then we moved.” He shook his head. “I found out my father passed away—”
“Aw, poor thing!” the woman whispered loudly.
“Never met him. Don’t have one single memory of him.” Seymour sagged. “Still kinda hurts… Actually hurts a lot, bein’ here to mourn somebody I never knew. Not really sure how I’m supposed to feel. He don’t even have a tombstone or nothin’ yet. Just a little plastic sign.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that all just came out. Been a weird day. I gotta go to the readin’ of his will, and someone kinda got the idea in my head to leave him some flowers.”
The young man smiled gently. “Hey, it’s okay. My condolences. But don’t worry. I’m here to help.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Seymour offered his hand out. “Seymour Madison.”
“Neil Ricci.”
“Nice to meet you, Neil.” Seymour turned to offer his hand to the woman, but she had stepped back out of his reach. He gave her a polite smile, but she was looking at Neil and didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Seymour.” Neil gestured to several of the arrangements on the shelves. “Traditional flowers for mourning are lilies, carnations, gladioli, daffodils, and a whole bunch of others. Those are the big ones.”
“And those are?” Seymour stared at the flowers.
“Here.” Neil got up and walked around the counter, pointing as he spoke. “Those are carnations. These over here are gladioli. These yellow guys are daffodils. And the potted one over there is a lily.
“Lilies are for innocence and remembrance, sympathy. White carnations are supposed to symbolize innocence. Pink ones are for, well, more remembrance. Uh, gladioli are good for someone who had good character and you want to uplift the family.”
Seymour shrugged. “Well, I don’t rightly know what kind of character he had. And the other stuff doesn’t sound right. Pretty though.”
“Right. Uh. Maybe the daffodils then? They’re a symbol of renewal and hope.”
Seymour eyed the yellow flowers, taking in their bright color.
He remembered what Sariel had said about Leos and warm colors.
“Yeah.” Seymour nodded. “I think those will do just fine.”
“So!” Neil walked toward the wall beside the counter. “What are you thinking? A wreath? Maybe a standing piece?”
“I guess, uh…” Seymour had no idea.
“A wreath would be lovely,” the woman whispered. “Especially if there’s no headstone yet.”
Neil gave a small nod of his head. “How about a wreath? Especially since there’s no headstone.”
Seymour glanced between them. “Uh, sure.”
Neil patted the wall and opened a door hidden there, revealing what looked to be a walk-in cooler. “Just give me one second and I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, great.” Seymour sighed. “Thank you.”
“No problem! Just a sec.”
The woman returned to her perch behind the counter.
“So.” Seymour hated the silence. “You been workin’ here long?”
She gave him a curious glance, but then she looked away as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Okay.” Seymour frowned.
Wow.
Definitely needed some lessons in customer service.
Seymour busied himself looking over more of the floral displays until the cooler door opened again.
Neil had a large wreath packed with daffodils, greenery, and little white flowers. He carried it to the counter, saying, “Okay, here we go!”
“Wow, okay. It looks great.” Seymour reached for his wallet.
“Yeah? I can get a bigger one.”
“No, this is perfect. Thank you both so much.” Seymour pulled out his credit card. “I really appreciate it.”
“Both?” Neil echoed.
“Wait.” The woman stared right at Seymour. “Can you see me?”
Seymour scoffed. “Of course I can see you. You’re standing right there.”
“Who the hell are you?” Neil demanded. “How can you see her?”
“It should be impossible!” She clutched her hands to her chest.
“What?” Seymour took a step back, laughing nervously. “Are you serious?” He looked between them. “She’s right there.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” The woman waved her hand.
“Uh? Three? No, four.” Seymour huffed. “Stop movin’ your hand around.”
She gasped. “Dear God. He really can see me.”
“Of course I can!” Seymour frowned. “What the hell are y’all on? She’s not a damn ghost. I can see her clear as day.”
“Well, today just got much more interesting,” a new voice drawled.
Seymour glanced over to see a giant dog monster lazily trotting toward him.
“What the fucking fuck? What the fuck is that?” Seymour lifted the wreath high over his head.
He had no idea what good a bunch of flowers would be against a dog monster, but maybe it was allergic. He didn’t understand how it had appeared so suddenly, as if right out of thin air, and the chances of it sneezing and fleeing from daffodils seemed unlikely.
“This is a Flanders.” The dog monster peered at Seymour’s shoes. “Oh! Doc Martens. Not bad.”
“Huh?” Seymour continued to retreat, glancing over at the door.
Shit.
Flanders was between him and escape unless there was an exit inside the greenhouse.
Seymour kept backing up and looking around frantically. “This, this is fuckin’ crazy is what this is. I’m, I’m gonna go on and get now, so–”
“Wait! Please.” The woman hurried toward him. “We really need to speak with you. There’s no need to flip your lid, sweetie. This is just, well, it’s quite incredible!”
“Having someone around here with decent taste in shoes?” Flanders nodded. “Yes!”
“Oh, don’t you start,” Neil scolded, his eyes flicking now to Seymour. “Have you ever owned a bracelet with little dead people inside of it? Maybe someone in your family or something?”
“What?” Seymour scoffed. “What are you talking about?”
“Deep breath. Think hard.” Neil inhaled slowly. “Have you ever heard anyone talk about a magical item called the Reliquary?”
“No! What the fuck is that?”
“Complicated.” Neil grimaced a bit. “Look, I thought it was crazy too–”
A black mass of inky darkness materialized at Seymour’s feet.
“What the fuck is that?” Seymour shrieked.
It was small, about the size of a cat, and had a distinctly feline shape.
Seymour froze as the creature rubbed around his legs and…
Purred.
“Oh, that’s Buffy!” The woman beamed. “She likes you!”
Seymour was too terrified to move. “What in the ever lovin’ fuck is goin’ on?”
“She’s sorta kinda an eldritch kitty monster?” Neil tried to offer what may have been an attempt at a friendly smile. “She’s really nice though. I promise.”
“Unless she’s hungry,” Flanders whispered loudly. “Spoiler, she dines only on human flesh.”
“Flanders! Shut up!”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
Neil groaned. “Oh my God.”
“Hey, hey!” She waved her hands frantically and stepped in between them. “You two quit it now!”
“He’s already tainted Lou with his plastic clog madness!” Flanders howled. “When will it stop? A whole city of people wearing those eye assaulting horrors?”
“For the last time! It’s not plastic!” Neil insisted stubbornly. “It’s a resin called Croslite and–”
“You made that up.”
Seymour knew this was his chance.
While they were busy arguing about shoes or whatever, he could make a run for it. He wouldn’t even worry about seeing the lawyer. He was going to get in his truck, drive away until Somerstown was nothing but a blip in his rearview, and then–
A big hand dropped on his shoulder, and a deep voice rumbled, “We got a problem here?”
Wait, no.
It wasn’t a hand.
It was a paw.
Seymour turned to identify the owner of the paw on his shoulder and found himself looking up, up…
At a werewolf.
OMG! The chaos of the flower shop is real!
Hehehe! So very real! Or maybeee there’s a reason Seymour can see them toooo! 😀 😀 😀 😀