Angels Adore Astrology (La Famiglia Mostro #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

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 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 country 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.

When his mother passed away a few years ago, he had mourned her because she’d been a great mom and an even better friend.

From impromptu indoor water gun fights to ordering late night takeout after having a bad day at school, there had been no better person.

He’d loved her so much, and his world had been a bit darker since losing her.

He knew the C stood for Clancy, his father’s preferred name, or so his mother had always told him.

She hadn’t said much else about him except he hadn’t wanted to be a dad and that was why they’d left the city right after Seymour was born.

She’d 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 a deep, rumbling low, 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 asked. “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 didn’t know 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 used to read the horoscopes every day. Used to do it with the paper, but uh, I think she had an app for it or somethin’.”

“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 Wright?”

“Yes.” Sariel nodded slowly. “That is my name.”