1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

" — and I can only imagine how difficult it's been managing the back without me," LA Holmes said with a polite smile. "Please believe that I am ready to return to work as soon as possible."

His manager, Michael Block, frowned and glanced over the papers in front of him. "But this says you haven't been cleared for lifting?"

"No, no," LA said quickly. "I was cleared for up to fifty pounds, sir."

Michael stared. "But the job is for at least seventy-five."

LA gritted his teeth.

Smile. Just keep smiling .

"We both know that's ridiculous," LA forced himself to spit out. "Some decedents are in a bit of, let's say, excess of that number. It's not like we ever move a body by ourselves because that would be dangerous to us and them, so—"

"But you were only cleared for fifty."

"Really? That's what you're focused on right now?"

Michael's furrowed brow indicated his answer was a yes .

A sweaty, uncomfortable yes.

"We want what's best for you, Mr. Holmes," Lisa Sun said with a perfectly congenial smile. She was from the human resources department for the company that owned the funeral home, and she was just as plastic as the fake plants that decorated the conference room. "Your family here at Barrie-Lucas Funeral Home wants that too. But the company has to move forward, and we've already filled your position—"

"I embalmed your uncle," LA snapped, glaring at Michael now. "Do you remember that? I did that when I was an apprentice . You trusted me to take care of the man who raised you—"

"Mr. Holmes—"

"—because your daddy was a fucking drunk just like you—"

"Mr. Holmes!"

LA stood, his eyes narrowed and jaw set. "This is absolute horseshit. You're firing me on a bullshit job description technicality and for what? To get some asshole fresh out of college that you don't have to pay as much? Is that it? Because I was too difficult of an employee? Oh, you haven't seen fucking difficult yet—"

"I think you'll find that we'll see very little of your difficult behavior," Lisa cut in while Michael trembled. "After all, haven't we seen enough? You have a very troubling pattern of behavior, Mr. Holmes. Insubordination, fraternization, and oh, my personal favorite, drinking on the job—"

"I was not on the clock, merely here on the premises during a snowstorm that prevented all the staff from leaving the property," LA clapped back. "My apologies for not knowing in advance that my manager was a recovering alcoholic and sharing a bottle of vodka from the trunk of my car was a terrible idea. Which! Oh! By the way, still has nothing to do with this meeting."

"Does it not?" Lisa arched a brow. "There have been many concerns about your professionalism and your attitude during your employment."

"Excuse me?"

Lisa tapped a folder in front of her. "You have quite the collection of write-ups, warnings, and at least two counseling sessions with human resources, one of which includes the aftermath of your snowstorm adventure when you verbally attacked your manager, Mr. Block here—"

Michael shrank in his seat.

"We were drunk, off the clock, and—" LA tried to cut in.

"Still on company property." Lisa opened the folder. "Just like when you told a coworker to, and I quote, choke on a block of cement and then jump in a river ?"

"That was an extremely stressful day. We had an entire family who'd passed away in a car accident and—"

"What about when you told a coworker to change careers to something they were more suited for? Like working at McDonalds ?"

LA gritted his teeth.

"Or when you threatened a client's family?"

"Yeah, to call the police after they physically assaulted a preacher ." LA threw up his hands. "I'm sorry, but why does any of this matter? I'm not the only person working here who's had some rough days. With all due respect, this has nothing to do with my job. A job I do very well, by the way, and one that I love."

"I admire your passion, Mr. Holmes, but I just don't see how we can accommodate you at this time," Lisa replied coolly. "Since your injury, you've been out of work for months—"

"Yeah. Because of him." LA pointed right at Michael.

Michael quaked. "LA, come on now. I'm just doing what corporate recommended."

"You let me work with a broken wrist last year." LA scoffed. "I know you can make the damn accommodations because we've literally done it before."

"Yes, but now you have a permanent lifting restriction," Lisa said. "The company has changed its policies and we are not comfortable letting you return to work." She pulled a crisp white letter out of the folder and slid it across the table.

LA stared, his heart leaping into his throat.

"We truly wish you all the best in your future employment. Mr. Daniels from our workman's comp department will be in touch—"

"You can't fucking fire me for being injured ."

"We can fire you for any reason we'd like. This is an at-will work state." Lisa raised her brow. "I think we've been more than kind, and at this point, you cannot perform one of the core requirements of your job. It's listed right there in the job description."

LA stood with a wince. He grabbed the letter, crumpled it up, and threw it at Michael.

"LA! I'm s-sorry!" Michael sputtered.

"Mr. Holmes!" Lisa scolded. "Was that really called for?"

LA ignored her and glared at Michael. "Let's see how long you last without me here to cover your fucking ass. Enjoy getting the MSDS sheets updated, prepping for OSHA inspection, and oh yeah, the formaldehyde compliance—"

"LA," Michael pleaded. "Wait! You have those files—"

"Fat fuckin' chance of getting them. You just fired me, remember?" LA smirked. "You both have a lovely day."

"No, no, wait! Where are those files? LA! Come back here!" Michael shouted after him as he left.

"Sorry! Can't hear you over the sound of being fucking fired !" LA headed outside and marched all the way to his car with his head held high.

He knew he'd be in view of the cameras at the front of the funeral home until he pulled out of the parking lot. He drove off, stopping a few blocks away at a gas station before he allowed the full gravity of the situation to sink in.

This was it.

He'd been fired.

Ten years of his life down the drain.

He'd started off as a part-time employee driving the hearse and limos for funeral services before he got an apprenticeship. He'd spent all of his career at the same funeral home and now…

It was over.

Because of a stupid, stupid fucking mistake.

LA took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down, but the incessant vibrating of his phone wouldn't allow him a moment of peace. Adding to his frustration was that his phone had apparently not connected to the car's Bluetooth system and he had to actually pick up his phone to answer it. He tried to get his emotions in check, but he knew there was a bite of anger in his voice when he said, "What?"

"What the hell is going on, LA?" It was Gavin, his boyfriend.

"Huh?" LA rubbed his forehead. "Can I call you back in a little bit, baby? Kinda not in a good place to talk right now. I just left—"

"When are you ever?" Gavin cut in with surprising bitterness.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" LA was not in the mood for any of Gavin's attitude. "You know I had that meeting with my manager and the woman from corporate today and—"

"And you know you promised not to forget our lunch date."

"With your parents?" LA scoffed. "That's tomorrow."

"No, it was today!"

LA's stomach clenched.

Shit .

He had told Gavin about this meeting. He knew he had. He'd had it on the calendar in his kitchen for over a week, and Gavin was fully aware of its importance. There was no way LA would have missed a lunch date with Gavin and his parents.

Right?

Shit.

Now he had to do damage control.

"I am so, so sorry." LA glanced at the time. "Where are you? At that Olive Garden, right? I, I can try to meet you—"

"No, it's too late."

"What? Come on, it's only a few minutes after one."

"No, it's too late for us . For everything. I'm so sick of you putting me second and not listening to my needs."

LA took a deep breath. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me!" Gavin fumed. "You never fucking listen! We never do anything together anymore! You're so fuckin selfish! All you do is lie around and bitch about your stupid back—"

"We just went out last night!"

"And left early because you wouldn't stop complaining."

"Wow." LA sighed. "I'm hanging up now. We can talk later when you're not being an asshole."

"Don't bother calling back," Gavin snapped. "We're done! Do you hear me? I am fucking done! I'm bringing my fucking keys by tomorrow—"

"You selfish fucking dickhead!" LA raged back. "How about I'm fucking done with you, huh? You always do this shit! You schedule shit whenever I have something to do to make me cancel it and prove to you that I'll choose you over whatever the fuck it is I have in some sort of twisted fucking ego trip! Fuck you and go fuck yourself, you arrogant—"

Click .

"Motherfucker!" LA hurled his phone at the passenger floorboard.

He rubbed his eyes, fighting back the sting of angry tears.

Fuck this.

He needed to go home.

And get absolutely, totally fucking shit-faced.

LA waited until he'd calmed down enough that he felt safe to drive again and then finally pulled back out to the street. He focused on the road and tried to clear his head. He didn't want to think about his termination or getting dumped, and he was determined to make it home before breaking down— no .

He would not break down.

Everything was going to be fine.

He'd find a way to challenge the funeral home's termination. There had to be something he could do to get his job back.

And Gavin.

Fucking Gavin .

They'd been together for almost two years. They'd talked about getting engaged and moving in together. This couldn't be the fucking end. LA refused to give up what was an absolutely perfect relationship. Yes, they had their problems, but what couple didn't? They were so good together and there was no one else LA could imagine being with.

He loved Gavin.

The good, the bad, all of it.

Just like he loved his job, too, for all of its ups and down.

His entire future was crumbling in only a matter of minutes and—for the love of fuck, why was his phone ringing again?

LA's first thought was that it was someone from the funeral home, Michael perhaps, calling to beg him for those files. A glance at his car's dashboard revealed it was much worse than that.

His mother.

Yes, great, fabulous.

Just who he wanted to talk to.

So wonderful his phone decided to wait until now to connect to the car so he didn't have an excuse not to answer. With a sigh, he tapped the button on his steering wheel to accept the call. If he didn't pick up, she would keep calling until he did.

"Hey, Mom," he said, aiming for friendly and hoping his sour mood didn't register in his voice.

"Hi, sweetie," his mother, Deborah, greeted him. "What's wrong?"

LA cringed.

So much for that.

"Today wasn't a great day," he replied. "I had to meet with the person from human resources for the funeral home." He took a deep breath. "They fired me—"

"Oh! Well, that's wonderful news! You know I hated you working there. They treated you so poorly—"

"Yeah, losing a decade of my life doing something I loved is wonderful ."

"Watch your tone," Deborah scolded. "You can do so much better, sweetie. You could go back to school and actually get a real degree—"

"I have a degree. In mortuary science."

"That's a two-year certificate, shush. You need—"

" Associate's . It's an associate's."

"—to move forward and get into teaching like you wanted to."

LA squeezed the steering wheel. "I never wanted to be a teacher. You never listen—"

"You're the one who doesn't listen! How many times did I tell you that awful job was destroying your body? Not to mention how many carcinogens you were exposed to! I knew this would happen. You should've quit after your apprenticeship, but no, you didn't want to listen to me…"

LA tuned her out.

He did not want to hear another one of her speeches about how he was doing everything wrong because he didn't do what she'd wanted him to. There was no arguing with her. She simply wouldn't listen, and LA couldn't bring himself to hang up the phone.

Just hang up .

Pretend you lost signal .

Just fucking hang up the damn phone .

"—and you'll be coming to the rehearsal dinner, of course. It's next Friday."

"Are you talking about Carter's wedding?"

"Yes! Do you have any other brothers named Carter?" Deborah laughed. "You're so funny."

"I'm not going."

"What?"

"I'm. Not. Going." LA summoned all of his courage and fought against the twist in his guts. "I already told him no."

"Of course you are. Don't be silly. The dinner is scheduled for five o'clock, but I really think we should be there a little earlier."

"Mom, he is literally marrying the woman who made my life a living hell in high school. I don't want to see her. I don't want to see him. I am not going."

"And what will people say if you don't come?" Deborah gasped, absolutely scandalized. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing that will be for me? For your brother? What do I say?"

"Tell them I died."

"Lawrence!"

"Mom, I'm sorry, but there's no fucking way—"

"Language!"

"I'm not fucking going!" LA barked. "There is no power on this earth that could make me change my mind and—"

The steering wheel jerked violently as the car ran over something in the road. LA hadn't seen anything, but the telltale whump whump whump had him turning on his blinker and quickly pulling over as soon as he saw an opening.

"Lawrence? What's wrong?"

"I got a flat tire! I gotta go! I'll call you back!" LA hung up with a snarl.

He was going to conveniently forget to call her back, of course.

Somehow, today had morphed from what was supposed to be a day of celebrating returning to work into an absolute nightmare.

Not only had he been fired, but his boyfriend had dumped him, and his mother was on his ass to come to a wedding he'd sooner drop dead than attend.

Great.

Just fucking great.

LA already knew he didn't have a spare tire because he'd had a flat tire two weeks ago that he'd yet to replace. He called a towing service and was told it would be at least four hours before someone could arrive. He knew he was only a few blocks away from home, so he opted to walk. His back would hate him for it, but he was angry and beyond frustrated. The only thing he wanted right now was to go home.

He could figure this out.

He just had to be better, stronger , and fight harder than ever before. He was going to get his job back, reconcile with Gavin, tell his mother to fuck all the way off, and then—

A bell rang, the loud jingle that usually signified a shop door being opened.

He was walking by a small shop, but the door was definitely shut.

Huh.

LA looked up, reading the wooden sign hanging over his head.

The Magic Shop

It was written in red, a fancy script meant no doubt to conjure up visions of fantasy and spells. He couldn't see much through the windows because of the glare, so he had no idea what the shop actually offered, but he had the oddest urge to go inside. He wasn't sure what to expect or why he was experiencing such a strange draw, but he was already walking in before he could second-guess himself.

The first thing he noticed was that the door didn't actually have a bell.

That was odd.

The shop was also much larger than it had any right to be given the diminutive exterior, and LA was a bit mystified as to how that was possible. The ceilings seemed to go on and on, so high that there were ladders about to reach the tallest shelves. That was most puzzling as LA had been certain this building only had one story. There had to be thousands of books, and the musty smell of paper was like a warm blanket, reminding LA of his old school library.

There was a man at the counter and LA knew he was probably the owner of the shop.

No, The Owner.

The Owner was tall and thin, dressed in a full suit complete with bowtie and top hat. He looked exactly the way LA imagined all magicians did when he was a kid. He would not have been surprised if The Owner pulled a rabbit out of that hat right now. Although he was handsome, there was something off about his eyes…

Too dark, too black, too something .

LA shivered.

"Welcome," The Owner said with a friendly smile. "How may I help you today?"

"Just looking. Thanks." LA waved his hand as he dove into the nearest aisle to avoid conversation. He wasn't in the mood.

Hell, he didn't even know why he'd come in here.

He strolled through the narrow aisles, finding a bounty of herbs, crystals, clothing, and more. He had no idea what he'd hoped to find here among the bundles of dried rosemary and polished quartz crystals, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow exactly where he was supposed to be.

Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.

After all, he'd lost his job, his boyfriend, and his future. He had—

LA paused when a bottle caught his eye.

It was glass, a deep shade of red, and shimmered as if it was full of liquid. Although it had been sitting on the shelf when LA saw it, it was warm as if someone had been holding it recently.

Weird.

He turned the bottle over a few times and decided to buy it.

The red would match the decor in his bedroom and fuck it, he deserved to do something for himself after having the day from fucking hell. Not leaving himself another second to debate such a frivolous purchase, he headed to the front register to check out.

"Ah! A strength potion!" The Owner grinned. "An excellent choice, sir."

LA snorted. "Is that what it is?"

"Of course! It's what you need, isn't it?"

LA wasn't sure how to answer that, so he only nodded. "Yeah, sure."

The Owner rang him up with a cheerful hum. He wrapped the bottle up in old newspaper and then reverently tucked it into a small paper bag. He offered it out to LA with a wink. "Be careful now! It's a powerful one."

LA took the bag. "Right. So. What do I do with it?"

"Why, you take it home and use it, of course!"

"But how?"

The Owner held out his hand. It was empty, but he rolled his fingers back and a playing card of some kind was now between them as if plucked right out of thin air. He reached over the counter to place the card inside the bag. "Don't worry. Everything you need is right there!"

"Right." LA's cheeks were getting hot, and he wanted to be anywhere but inside this damn shop. He was pretty sure he'd just wasted his money, and he felt like an absolute idiot for coming in here. He quickly headed to the door, scowling.

"You're welcome!" The Owner called after him.

"Yeah, thanks!" LA rolled his eyes as he stepped outside, marching down the block to get as far away from the shop as quickly as possible.

He needed a damn drink or five.

Home was an old brownstone with cast iron railings and ivy creeping over the stairs. He let himself in, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet as he kicked off his shoes. His back was throbbing from the walk, pain shooting down his right ass cheek and into his leg. Walking so far had definitely not been wise, but he reasoned it was still better than sitting in his car for hours waiting for a tow.

The furniture was mostly knock-off antiques, pieces he'd acquired from the funeral home the last time they redecorated. He'd needed new furniture and he wasn't going to argue with free, though the rosy pink floral prints did make it look as if an eighty year old woman lived here and not a thirty-something year old man.

The walls were cluttered with paintings and framed prints, many of them his own. He'd once had the dream to be an artist, having had a special love for mixing different mediums like biohazard tape with medical gauze and acrylic paint. The results were haunted figures that seemed to pop right off the canvas thanks to the three dimensional pieces, a macabre contrast to the otherwise cheerful grandparentcore aesthetic.

The kitchen was small with dark wood paneled walls and faded green tile backsplashes along the counters. There was a small breakfast nook with a table and chairs, though he hadn't seen the surface of that table in months. It was covered in paperwork, forms, medication bottles, boxes of lidocaine patches, and two different back braces.

It had been six months since his injury—two herniated discs with a heaping helping of sciatica, weeks of physical therapy, daily pills, daily stretches, daily pain.

Fuck.

He headed to the fridge to grab a can of Dr Pepper. He used to keep the spiced rum in a cabinet, but he'd been leaving it on the counter as of late for easier access. He was startled to see the bottle was already half-empty.

Shit.

He knew he'd been drinking a lot lately, but…

No, it was fine.

He made himself a drink that was heavier on the rum than the soda side and then dragged himself upstairs to get changed out of his suit.

The bedroom was dark and painted in somber shades of gray with a thick red border. The king-sized bed took up most of the space, the rest occupied by neglected laundry and tall stacks of DVDs. A flat screen TV was mounted on the wall along with a handful of other paintings.

He'd had what he mentally referred to as his Red Phase and only created monochromatic pieces in vivid variations of scarlet and crimson for several years. The subjects were more gaunt, tortured figures like the ones downstairs, and he'd used everything from broken paintbrushes to newspaper.

Huh, there was newspaper in that bag from the Magic Shop.

Shit, the bag .

LA hadn't planned on going back downstairs, but he wanted to get the bottle. He thought it would look nice on his nightstand. He didn't believe it was a strength potion or whatever the hell the Owner had said. That was obviously a bunch of nonsense.

It was a nice bauble.

Nothing more.

After changing into a T-shirt and sweats, he trudged back down the steps to find the little shopping bag. It was where he'd left it on the coffee table in the living room, but it was empty now.

LA frowned.

He hadn't taken the bottle out.

At least, he didn't think he did.

He checked the bag twice and found nothing inside except for the card the Owner had placed in it. It was a Tarot card with a woman holding a lion or something, and he didn't pay it much attention. He remembered he'd gone into the kitchen to make a drink, so he headed that way to see if he'd brought it with him for some reason and forgotten.

He froze in the kitchen doorway.

The fridge was open.

Something was drinking milk right out of the carton.

It was…

A monster .

It was so big that it had to hunch so its curling horns wouldn't hit the ceiling. It was covered in thick brown fur and had a mouthful of sharp teeth with long canines. Its paws were massive, its claws even more so, and its legs were cocked at an odd angle like they'd been put on backward. It had a long tail scaled in thick golden plates, giant wings like a bat, and… and…

Wow.

Okay, the monster was sort of hot.

In a weird, furry Beauty and the Beast kinda way.

The cartoon though—not the live action one.

The monster's eyes were the same shimmering shade of gold as its tail and wings, and its toothy grin was somehow cute while also being completely terrifying. It raised a paw and waved, saying in a low, rumbling voice, "Hey there!"

LA screamed.

The monster screamed.

LA wheezed and hit the floor.