Chapter 4 #3
Vilanos nodded. “Yes, until you say yes.”
“But what are you gonna ask me for?” Seymour looked to Sariel. “I don’t get it.” He glared at the two fae suspiciously. “You could keep askin’ me for anything forever and I could just keep tellin’ you no. What gives?”
“I do not know.” Sariel narrowed his eyes, asking firmly, “Seymour is allowed to refuse any number of these requests until one is suitable to him? There are no constraints or limitations to how many times he can refuse you?”
Absolis lifted his glass. “Not a one.”
“Not a one,” Vilanos purred sweetly. “Do we have a deal?”
Seymour still didn’t trust this, but he found himself replying, “I guess, but—”
“The deal is done.” Absolis wiggled his fingers in farewell. “A pleasure, Mr. Madison.”
“Such a pleasure,” gushed Vilanos. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
“Very soon.”
“What are you—” Seymour gasped as the space abruptly melted. He flailed, watching the dais and the dancers and everything else erode into an explosion of floating blobs as if a giant lava lamp had ruptured. “The fuck!”
“I have you,” Sariel said quickly, wrapping his arms around Seymour from behind. “You are safe.”
Seymour clung to Sariel, squeezing his eyes shut. The spectacle was nauseating, and his head was left spinning as the weird circus dripped away. He caught one last glimpse of Boozey, but it was only a quick flash.
One of the dancers hanging in a hoop had slumped over and was no longer moving, and Boozey was draining blood from their wrist into a pitcher.
As the blood filled the container, it turned black.
Their eyes met, and Boozey smiled, flashing rows and rows of sharp teeth as his eyes melted away.
There was so much fucked up in that brief vision that Seymour couldn’t begin to process it, especially as he found himself in a new location within only a few seconds. He was still in Sariel’s arms, but they were now standing in the hallway of an apartment building.
“The fuck? The fuck!” Seymour whirled all around, his chest heaving.
“You are all right,” Sariel soothed. “You are safe.”
“Are we back in Somerstown?” Seymour grabbed for Sariel’s shoulders to brace himself. “Is this real?”
“Yes, it is very real.” Sariel smiled softly, and he tucked his wings away, his halo vanishing once more. He looked to the door next to them. “I believe this is our destination.”
“The witch’s place?”
“I assume so.”
“I… Okay.” Seymour tried the door. “It’s fuckin’ locked. What do we—”
The door opened.
Seymour blinked. “Uh, Sariel?”
“Yes, Seymour?”
“Did you do that?”
“No.”
“Great. Peachy keen.” Seymour didn’t want to admit that going first sounded like a terrible idea, what with having a squishy human body and all that, and he sighed in relief as Sariel took the lead.
Seymour followed him inside, shutting the door and locking it behind them. He took a deep breath to prepare, and he tried to mentally ready himself for anything.
Magical carpets, enchanted spears, big goblins, or maybe even big goblins riding on magical carpets with spears—whatever!
Thankfully, the apartment was stunningly bland.
Secondhand furniture, a few framed pictures of waterfalls, and a very dead houseplant. There was an open door by the kitchen offering a glimpse of an equally boring bedroom.
No ghosts, no nothing.
Though that initially put Seymour at ease, he soon realized it was a problem. After all, he was here to speak to a spirit about finding a magical head.
Kinda hard to do that if there was no spirit here to chat with.
“So.” Seymour opened the fridge to peek inside. “What should I be looking for? Because nothing about this place exactly screams witch.”
“I do not know.” Sariel looked around curiously. “It does seem rather simple. Perhaps too simple.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is supposedly the home of a powerful witch, yes? And yet there is no visible evidence of magical workings anywhere.”
“Other than that door openin’ up by itself,” Seymour pointed out. “Could be there’s some kinda invisible evidence hiding somewhere.”
“It is worth a closer examination.” Sariel nodded. “I’ll start in the living room.”
“I got the kitchen.” Seymour opened a few cabinets, not finding much else except for basic spices and a single coffee mug. “So, I wanted to thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Sariel peeked up from where he’d been checking under the couch. “What for?”
“You standin’ up for me.” Seymour smiled. “Reckon we’re even now, huh?”
“Even?”
“Yeah. ’Cause I stood up for you before.”
“Oh. I did not realize that created a debt.” Sariel frowned. “I am sorry that I did not fulfill it sooner.”
“No, no!” Seymour laughed. “It’s just an expression. You really didn’t owe me nothin’. I promise.”
“Oh.” Sariel perked back up. “Well, thank you.”
“If you happen to be feelin’ extra helpful, got any ideas what Abby and Vilanos might ask me for?”
“I am not sure.” Sariel poked through the couch cushions. “It could be a memory or a moment in time. Remember that their request does not need to be something tangible.” He snorted. “Even if their intentions are most certainly lascivious.”
“La-siv-what now?”
“Perverse.” Sariel shoved the cushions down hard enough to rattle the whole couch. “They were quite direct with their desire for you.”
Seymour cracked a grin. “Didn’t like that, huh?”
Sariel blushed. “No, I… I suppose I did not.”
“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout them.”
“Why would I be worried?”
“What I mean is, I wouldn’t ask them out for coffee.” Seymour winked.
Somehow, Sariel managed to blush even harder.
Seymour chuckled to himself, drifting now to a stack of mail on the counter. He flipped through aimlessly, but he stopped when he suddenly realized he recognized the name.
No…
It couldn’t be.
He went back to the first envelope and flipped through the rest more carefully, checking each one. His stomach turned, his pulse thudded, and he rubbed his eyes as if it could somehow change what he was seeing.
Seymour must have appeared quite distressed because Sariel asked, “Seymour? Are you all right?”
“Not really.” Seymour swallowed hard.
“Is it because I did not respond to your comment about coffee? I am not well versed in flirting.”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s this. I… I don’t understand it. It don’t make a damn lick of sense.”
“The postal service or…?” Sariel approached, gently placing his hand on Seymour’s shoulder. “Is it something else?”
“Oh, it’s definitely fuckin’ somethin’ else.” Seymour held up the mail. “Ring any bells?”
“Who is Clancy Carver?”
“My father.”