Archive of Our Own ^beta

Truth be told, Martin never expected to be standing here.

It was all a bit beyond him, to be honest. The cemetery, the plot, and the service were all lovely, small and private as they were.

And Martin hadn’t paid a penny for it.

Burial plots were expensive. Coffins were expensive. Funerals were expensive. Martin had been desperately scraping together the funds for a cremation and the second-smallest possible service, when he received word from the care home that everything had been taken care of. And now here he was, lost in a sea of black—well, more of a pond of black—as he watched his mother’s coffin be lowered into the ground.

It was a lovely coffin. Martin didn’t even want to think about what it must have cost.

Eventually the service ended, and the mourners wandered away. Martin lingered awkwardly—he ought to stay longer, this was his mother after all—until he noticed the odd, pitying looks he got from the strangers filling in the grave, and he finally dropped the flowers in his hand and made his escape.

The funeral had been full of strangers, but the cemetery was too small and old for many visitors besides them. Every time he spotted one of his mother’s mourners, he couldn’t help but wonder if they were the one he had to thank.

He couldn’t begin to guess. In the past year, he hadn’t said more than four words to her, though not for lack of trying. He’d called in dutifully, once a week, and then once a month, and all he got in return was the sympathy and increasing awkwardness of whoever was unlucky enough to answer the phone and deliver the same news, that his mother wasn’t feeling up for a phone call.

It was probably why she liked the new care home, he reflected. The one he’d picked had a habit of simply letting him in.

And now she was gone. And she’d left him so little of herself that he didn’t even know who had cared about her enough to buy her coffin.

Unconsciously, Martin drifted away from the gravel path, away from the stretch of graveyard where his mother lay, and sighed with relief at the way the air felt lighter without her acquaintances nearby. The graves out here were older, less frequented. Even the grounds themselves were far less maintained. The grass was sparse and scrubby, and many of the graves were covered in mostly bare earth. Out here, it looked more like the picture he saw in his head when he thought of the world “graveyard.”

It wasn’t entirely abandoned, though. Martin was looking around idly, taking in the gloomy scenery, when he spotted a single visitor besides himself. They were half-hidden by an old but not-quite-dead tree, sitting against a headstone, dressed comfortably in warm colors rather than severe, formal black.

Martin didn’t mean to pay them much attention. But as he drew nearer to them, and the angle of the tree shifted with his position, an oddly shaped black something came into view in the grass beside the stranger. It drew Martin’s eye back, again and again, until curiosity overcame him and he made his way over as casually as he could.

There was a man sitting in the grass, with his back to a weathered old headstone, and a tablet propped up against his knee. Lying next to him, with its head resting in his lap, was a large black dog.

Martin slowed to a halt, startled. He tried to recall if he’d seen signs regarding pets, and his mind came up empty. At the very least, if animals were allowed, there were probably stipulations like leashes. The animal before him didn’t appear to have a leash, or a collar for that matter. Martin didn’t know his breeds beyond the obvious ones like spaniels and bulldogs and huskies and such. This one was… well, it was the most dog that Martin had ever seen.

“Can I help you?”

The man’s voice startled him. At some point while Martin was staring at the dog, he’d looked up from his tablet. He was a sharp-faced man, with graying black hair and glasses, and he had that sort of ambiguously aged face that could put him anywhere between twenty-five and forty. With one hand he was keeping the tablet in place; the other was resting in the dog’s ruff.

“Uh, no, sorry,” Martin replied. “Just… um. Is that your dog?”

“No,” the man replied, scratching the back of the dog’s neck. Its tail thudded softly in the grass.

“Oh,” Martin replied. “Right then.”

He was about to move on when the man spoke again. “You were at the Blackwood funeral.” He wasn’t asking.

“Yes? If that’s any of your business?”

The man frowned in clear disapproval, which—what was it to him? What gave him the right to scowl over a stranger attending their mother’s funeral? But the man was turning away, pointedly ignoring him in favor of the tablet screen, as if Martin wasn’t worth his time. Martin stood there, staring in speechless indignation, until he realized how idiotic he looked and stormed away.

When he returned to his empty flat, he turned his phone on to check his messages, and found a single voicemail from a hidden number, with a bland voice informing him that a payment deadline was coming up and he’d better hurry. He deleted it with a grimace. Stupid scam calls.

He turned on the kettle and went to the fridge, running through his mental inventory to decide whether it was worth it to go shopping yet. Reminders studded the refrigerator door on magnets and sticky notes.

Numbly, he pulled down the one with the care home’s phone number and dropped it into the wastebasket.

The following month, on the day he would have called the care home, Martin went back to visit her. It was easy this time. There was no number to call, no well-meaning staff member hunting for a kind way to tell him that he wasn’t wanted, no crushing feeling of rejection. He could just take the train to the cemetery, walk through the high iron gates, and park himself in front of her headstone like a good son ought to. He could give her flowers, and she couldn’t throw them away. He could talk to her, and she… well, she couldn’t answer him, but she also couldn’t frown or roll her eyes or make it obvious to him that she was checking the clock.

So he stood there, and he told her about his day, and he felt no guilt or discomfort, because this was what you were supposed to do at a cemetery. And even if he had been breaking some unspoken rule, there was no one around to witness it.

Eventually he ran out of things to say, and rather than linger in awkward silence the way he did when she was alive, Martin went walking again.

His steps took him back to the quieter, older stretch of graveyard. Out of idle curiosity he looked to the spot where he’d seen the man and the dog before, and to his surprise, he found them in the exact spot, as if they hadn’t moved in a month.

Martin meant to walk by them without stopping—hopefully the man would have forgotten him in the intervening weeks. But as he approached, the dog lifted its head out of the man’s lap and let out a booming bark.

Both Martin and the man startled visibly, the latter nearly dropping his tablet. Before Martin could make an escape, he looked up with a bewildered expression and spotted him.

“Oh, God,” Martin heard the man mutter.

“Sorry to bother you,” Martin said through clenched teeth, and made to hurry past him again.

“No, wait!” The man tried to scramble up, but was prevented by the dog in his lap. “Let me up, you were the one who—” The dog rolled over, and the man hastily pulled himself up with one hand on the headstone and came hurrying over. “Wait a minute!”

He should have kept walking, but politeness was carved into his bones. Reluctantly, Martin stopped. “Can I help you?” he asked coolly.

The man caught up with him, nearly tripping over another headstone on his way to the path. “I owe you an apology,” he said in a rush. “I think.”

“You think.” Martin echoed.

“Yes. I may have been—I was rude before. I apologize. You were—good lord, you were here for a funeral and I—well. I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes.”

“I apologize,” the man repeated. “It was uncalled for.”

Martin hesitated. It seemed sincere enough. It was easy to apologize without meaning it, but it was considerably more difficult to blush with embarrassment on command. It was just that—it had been such a bizarre display of rudeness that it baffled Martin even now.

“Did you… know her?” Martin asked.

“Who?”

“My mother.”

A look of renewed horror crossed the man’s face, and he let his head fall into his hands. “Christ, you were at your mother’s funeral—”

“I’m just… it was really weird, and I couldn’t figure out what you were getting at, or why you—”

“Yes, yes, right.” The man lowered his hands. “I’d never met nor spoken to her, no. But I… well, I suppose you could say I’m somewhat acquainted with some of her acquaintances, which led to faulty snap judgments about you when I saw you at her funeral. Ge—I realized only after you left that those judgments might have been… unfounded.”

Martin stayed silent, letting the man’s words sink in. No matter how he turned them over in his head, he couldn’t make sense of them. This man knew people that his mother knew, and it had caused him to give Martin the cold shoulder. What did that mean for the company his mother had kept?

“Well, you knew her better than me, then,” he said at last. “I didn’t know any of her friends. We didn’t talk much the last couple of years.”

The last ten years, to be honest. But it was only after she’d found that new care home that she’d shut him out completely.

“I see,” the man replied, looking at least as uncomfortable as Martin felt. “Well it’s… it’s good of you to still visit her, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” said Martin, because what else was he supposed to say to that.

“I’m Jon, by the way,” the man added, almost as an afterthought.

“Martin.” Awkwardly, Martin shook his hand.

He was saved from having to think of anything else to do or say, by a sudden weight pressing against his legs. The dog was sitting at his feet—almost on his feet—leaning up against him and staring up at him with ears upright and forward.

“Hello, there,” Martin said, surprised and pleased by the attention. The dog sniffed politely at his offered hand, and accepted a scratch on the chin. “Whose dog are you, then?”

“He belongs to the graveyard,” Jon replied.

“Hope you’re not a guard dog, if this is how you treat a stranger,” Martin remarked. To Jon, he asked, “Does he have a name?”

“Gerry,” Jon replied, thoroughly amused as if he hadn’t been cuddled up to it just two minute ago. “And don’t worry, he serves his purpose very well. He’s just a good judge of people, that’s all.”

It was only as Martin was walking away, cheered by a friendly dog and a nearly-as-friendly human, that he recognized the remark as an unexpected compliment.

Martin continued to visit, though not on the monthly basis of his old attempts at calling his mother. There was no real regularity to them; whenever the flat started to feel a bit too empty, whenever customers were a bit too cruel, whenever Martin started noticing the silence and the empty spaces in his life, he visited the cemetery. Maybe it was a bit morbid, but it helped. It helped enough that, after the fourth or fifth visit, Martin finally admitted to himself that maybe visiting his mother’s grave came second to visiting his new friend.

Well, friends. He couldn’t count Gerry out.

“You know, I can’t for the life of me figure out what kind of dog he is,” Martin admitted, as he sat with them one afternoon. Remembering a cute pet video he’d seen once, he made a heart shape with his hands and held it out. To his delight, Gerry pushed his muzzle through it.

“An English long-haired embarrassment,” Jon said drily, and yelped when the dog turned and sneezed on him.

“You are such a good boy,” Martin informed him, rubbing his ears. “ Maybe he’s a shepherd or something? His face looks a bit husky-ish, though. Guess he could be some kind of mutt.”

“They’re all canis familiaris at the end of the day,” Jon pointed out.

"True," Martin conceded, gently pulling Gerry into his lap. The dog went without resistance, flopping over with his paws in the air. "Yeah, no matter what you are, you're a very good boy with very good toe beans, aren't you."

Jon stifled a laugh so hard he almost choked.

“Do his owners ever let him out of here?” Martin asked. “I mean, this place is a lot bigger than the average back garden, but it’s no dog park.”

Jon shrugged. “That’s… I suppose that’s not what his purpose is.”

“He’s a dog,” Martin said, appalled. “Even guide dogs get playtime.” He gave Gerry another scratch behind the ears. “Wonder if we could sneak him out. Take him for walkies while no one’s looking. Would you like that, Gerry?”

“I’ve… I’ve tried,” Jon admitted. “He can’t—he won’t come. Never strays beyond the gate.”

“Oh.” Martin frowned. “Is… that why I always see you here?”

“He likes it when I visit,” Jon replied, almost defensively.

“I’m sure he does! Surprised he doesn’t get more attention from the people who come here.” Martin booped his nose fondly. “Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t either, Jon.”

Jon grimaced slightly. “Most people have the courtesy not to notice me.”

“How could I not notice you? It’s not every day I see someone posted up against a headstone, watching Netflix documentaries with a giant dog in his lap.” He paused, glancing at the headstone in question. “Speaking of, are you sure ‘Gertrude Robinson’ doesn’t mind?”

Jon smiled thinly. “Ms. Robinson can keep her complaints to herself, if she knows what’s good for her,” he replied.

It was irreverent enough to get a laugh out of Martin. “If you say so. Still, it’s quite a look for you. I’m surprised you haven’t become the local cryptid.”

Jon laughed. “I’m not nearly photogenic enough.”

“You absolutely are. That Mothman statue in Point Pleasant has nothing on you.”

“Martin, that thing has an eight-pack.”

The answer took him by surprise, and it was a minute before Martin could stop laughing, only for Jon to add, “Flattery will get you nowhere,” and set him off all over again.

Martin returned home in high spirits, high enough to cook dinner rather than heating up a ready meal again. In about a half hour he managed to put together a decent pasta that tasted better knowing he’d made it himself.

He was washing his dishes when the knock came at the door, so he missed the first and only heard the next when he turned off the sink to put his plate in the drainboard. It startled him at first, and only unnerved him once the immediate surprise had worn off. It was half past seven. He had no acquaintances among his neighbors. No one ever knocked at his door, no matter the time of day.

After drying his hands and dawdling long enough for his unknown visitor to knock again, Martin finally ventured out to his entryway and peered through the peephole. There was a man standing in front of his door, gray-haired and neatly bearded, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his heavy overcoat. He was not one of Martin’s neighbors.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Ah, hello!” his visitor replied. “I was worried you weren’t home. My name is Peter—Peter Lukas, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“No,” Martin replied truthfully.

“Oh, that’s a shame. You see, I’m an acquaintance of your mother’s, and I really must speak with you.”

Martin hesitated. His first thought was that any real friends of his mother probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him. What proof did this man have? For all Martin knew, he could be some oddly polite burglar with a unique method of entering people’s houses.

“You are Martin Blackwood, correct?” Peter Lukas asked.

After almost a minute of deliberating, Martin finally cracked his door open. “Yes? That’s me.”

“Wonderful!” Peter smiled, lips pressed together so tightly it turned them pale. The rest of him was pale as well; in the dim light of the hallway, his colorless skin looked yellow. “May I come in?”

“Is there something I can help you with?” Martin asked. A look of irritation flashed across Peter’s face, which only reinforced Martin’s conviction that he shouldn’t allow this man to put one foot into his flat.

A moment later, the pleasant smile was back in place. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he replied. “It’s a rather unfortunate business—oh, and my condolences for your recent loss, of course.”

“Of course,” Martin said dubiously.

“I really do wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” Peter went on, his face the picture of regret. “But my relationship with your mother was purely one of business, and her passing left some of that business unfinished.”

“Business?” Martin stared at him in disbelief. “My mother was retired and living in a care home.”

“Yes, of course,” Peter agreed. “A care home that you were not paying for, correct?”

Martin stared at him, heart sinking. “She insisted on moving out of the one that I was,” he said stiffly. “She said she had money saved up—that it wasn’t any of my concern—”

“Only now, I’m afraid, it very much is,” Peter said gravely. “You see, in order to obtain the life she wanted, your mother willingly placed herself in debt to me, and was in the process of paying that debt when she passed so unexpectedly. And as her only living next of kin, I’m afraid it falls to you to pay the remainder.”

For a moment Martin could only gape at him speechlessly as his mind kicked up a storm of emotions. Shock, at the abruptness of the news from a total stranger. Dismay, that his mother would do something so unwise at the end of her life. Indignation, that she would leave him to deal with it without so much as a warning.

And then it settled, and blessed common sense pushed through.

“Excuse me?” he blurted out. “No it doesn’t.”

“I beg your pardon?” Peter’s smile turned strained.

“If you wanted to be sure you got your money back, then you shouldn’t have entered into an agreement with someone elderly and chronically ill,” Martin informed him. “That’s your fault, not mine. And I never agreed to take on her debt, nor have I ever made any payments toward it, so I’m not obligated to pay you anything.”

“But, you see, you really are,” Peter retorted, rapidly turning cold. “Did you ever wonder who paid for her coffin? For her plot? For that lovely service? I think you’ll find that you do owe me, Mr. Blackwood.”

“No! I don’t!” Martin’s hand trembled as it gripped the door knob. “I never asked you to pay for anything, you did it on your own. You can’t just—just throw money at something without asking anyone and then demand to be paid back! That’s not how it works. That’s not how any of this works. I’m sorry you’ve lost money over this, I really am—but it’s not my responsibility, and I don’t owe you anything.”

“Martin, I would think very carefully about what you’re doing—”

“Goodbye, Mr. Lukas.” Martin shut the door in his face, did up the locks, and didn’t move from the door until he heard Peter Lukas’s footsteps fade away.

On Saturday, Martin’s shift ran longer than expected. Well, that wasn’t quite true; his shift ran its course normally, but he was obliged to fill in for someone else on the shift directly afterward. It wasn’t an agonizing decision to make. The bookstore was definitely one of the better retail jobs he’d ever held, he could always use the overtime, and it was good to fill in for other people just in case he needed to call in favors later.

Still, it was evening by the time he got out. When he reached the cemetery, it was ten minutes to closing.

In spite of this, Martin dutifully visited his mother’s grave. To his annoyance, the plot and the headstone were as nice as ever. Before, he’d been content with and grateful for the anonymous act of charity. But ever since his mother’s memorial service had been used in an attempt to manipulate money out of him, the lingering evidence of the expense felt like a taunt.

A familiar cold, wet nose prodded his hand, and he grinned and gave Gerry a scratch behind the ears.

“Alright?” Jon asked, coming up on his other side.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Martin assured him. “Just… some things on my mind.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t see you in this part of the cemetery very often.” It was a pretty transparent attempt to change the subject, but Martin was too tired to care.

“I suppose you’re opening me up to brand-new experiences,” Jon said dryly.

Martin made a vague noise of agreement, eyes still fixed on the neatly engraved letters of his mother’s name.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jon asked cautiously. “You look… worried.”

“Like I said. A lot on my mind.”

Silence fell again. The cemetery was even quieter than usual; the only stragglers were teens who thought hanging out in a cemetery was inherently cool. But the sun was going down, and no one wanted to be here after dark.

“Er… Martin,” Jon said quietly. “Could I…?”

His voice trailed off, and it took a few more seconds for Martin to register what little he’d said. “What was that, Jon?”

Jon sighed heavily. “Could I buy you dinner?” he asked, almost in a rush.

That jarred Martin out of his odd headspace, and he turned away from his mother’s headstone to stare at him. “What?”

“Not—I mean, there aren’t any strings attached,” Jon assured him. “I don’t mean anything—I mean I don’t have to mean anything by it. But you look like you’ve had a long day, and… I’d like to spend more time with you, if that’s alright. And since the cemetery’s nearly closed, our normal activities aren’t really an option.”

Their normal activities consisted of sitting among the older headstones, watching documentaries on Jon’s tablet, and playing with Gerry. Martin wondered what that said about him, when that made up the bulk of his social life.

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s get dinner.”

They left Gerry at the entrance. As Jon had told him before, the dog made no attempt to follow them beyond the gate, though he did stare at them wistfully as they left.

“Will he be alright, all by himself?” Martin asked, looking back. Gerry let out a booming bark, somehow not scaring the life of the few stragglers leaving, before turning and trotting back into the gathering shadows.

“He’ll be fine,” Jon replied. “Now that the sun’s going down, he has to do his rounds.”

Martin had been visiting long enough to get to know the area, but he let Jon lead the way as they left the cemetery behind. There were a couple of restaurants within walking distance, and Jon probably knew which ones were best.

“What does he even do?” Martin asked as they walked. “I mean, what’s he guarding?”

“The cemetery.”

“No, I—obviously he’s guarding the cemetery. But why? It’s not the eighteen-hundreds anymore, you don’t have people digging up corpses to sell to medical schools.”

“No, but you do have… I don’t know. Vandals, I suppose. Teenagers playing truth-or-dare. Other things.” Jon shrugged, darting out of the way of someone walking in the opposite direction.

“Rude,” Martin said, shooting them a glare. They must have heard, because they glanced back and had the audacity to look confused instead of embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” Jon told him.

“They didn’t even slow down! If you hadn’t dodged, they would’ve knocked you over.”

“People… don’t tend to notice me,” Jon said. “It’s not their fault. I’m used to it.”

Martin stared at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“What?”

Martin looked away, laughing a little. “Nothing. Just… I only ever see you in a graveyard, walking around with a big black dog, and now you’re telling me people have trouble seeing you. You’re not a ghost, are you?”

Jon joined him in laughing. “No, not a ghost. Just a very average, boring man with a strange taste in scenery and company.”

“A strange taste in—do you even hear yourself? That’s so cryptic!”

“Here, I’ll prove it to you.” Jon took his hand, and Martin’s heart played a quick game of hopscotch at the unexpected touch. Unaware of the minor crisis he was causing, Jon wrapped Martin’s hand around his own wrist, so that the pad of Martin’s thumb was pressed to his pulse point. “There we are, a heartbeat. Count it if you like—you’ll find it’s well between sixty and a hundred beats per minute.”

“I’ll, uh.” Martin turned his head to hide his blush. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Ghost or not, Jon was right about people not noticing him. Their waitress nearly forgot to take his order, and seemed surprised and embarrassed when Jon, not Martin, was the one who presented her with a credit card at the end of the meal.

“Incredible,” Martin remarked as they left the restaurant. “Have you considered a career in spying?”

“The thought crossed my mind when I was a child,” Jon admitted. “My guardian found an old copy of Harriet the Spy for me, and I begged for a notebook of my own immediately afterward.”

Martin imagined an eight-year-old Jon crawling around peeking into basement windows while scribbling in a journal, and couldn’t help smiling at the image.

“Feeling better, I hope?” Jon asked, with all the caution of someone putting a toe on a frozen pond.

“A lot better,” Martin replied. “And…”

“Yes?”

“You said before, no strings attached,” Martin said. “What if I wanted strings?”

Jon went still. “How do you mean?”

“I mean…” Martin dithered for a moment. “I mean, is it alright if I consider this a date?”

“I—” Jon’s mouth opened and shut a few times, like a fish out of water. If Martin hadn’t been terrified of his answer, he might have found it funny. “Yes. Yes, it’s absolutely alright.”

Relief flooded him, tinged with excitement. “It’s a date, then. Or it was a date, I suppose.”

“Right.” Jon looked dazed. “Good. Fantastic.”

“And… thanks, Jon. For inviting me in the first place. I really needed this, more than I realized.”

Jon’s eyes softened. “I know how difficult grief can be,” he said.

“Honestly, it’s not grief, exactly?” Martin admitted. “Just a lot on my mind. D’you remember, when we first met, how you shot me a glare because you knew people my mum knew, and drew conclusions when you saw me at her funeral?”

Jon pulled a face. “I try not to.”

“No, I think… you might’ve been right?”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, frowning.

“I think I met one of them,” Martin told him. “Have you ever heard of anyone named Peter Lukas?”

Jon stiffened immediately at the name. “You met Peter Lukas?”

“Yeah. Do you know him?”

“By reputation only,” Jon replied stiffly. “And I sincerely hope it stays that way.”

“Yeah, he really isn’t worth meeting,” Martin agreed. “He came ‘round my flat, talking about debts my mum apparently had, trying to make me pay them for her.”

“You didn’t let him in, did you?” Jon asked, staring intently at Martin’s face.

“Of course not! He was… really sketchy. Told him to bugger off and shut the door in his face.”

“Good,” Jon said firmly. “Stay away from him, and don’t enter any agreements with him.”

“Oh believe me, I’ll be happy if I never see him again. What a prick. And a creep.”

“Yes, he is that,” Jon said acidly. “You did the right thing. From what I’ve heard, nothing good ever comes of making deals with Lukases.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

By the time they parted ways, Martin was full of good food, pleasant thoughts, and just enough alcohol to keep him loose. The comfortable headspace that had followed him from the moment he left Jon to the moment he stepped off the train, then all the way back to his neighborhood, his street, and his building. He couldn’t wait to see Jon again, either in the cemetery or anywhere else. His mother might be gone, but that didn’t mean his life was empty.

He was happy. He, Martin Blackwood, was content for once in his life, and all it took was one dinner with a good friend to end the day on.

In the midst of these thoughts, he was grabbed and dragged into the alley beside his building.

Martin’s back hit the brick, nearly knocking the wind out of him. A hand, as cold and hard as iron, pressed against his throat before he could cry out.

“Evening,” Peter Lukas said pleasantly. “I would say ‘good evening,’ but… well that’s not going to be true for you in a few moments.” Martin kicked and thrashed in his grip, but he might as well have been held in place by a statue. “No, no, don’t struggle. You’ll only injure yourself. Well, injure yourself more, I suppose.”

“Let go of me,” Martin hissed through his half-closed throat.

“I did try to be reasonable,” Peter went on as if Martin hadn’t spoken. “I thought we could come to a satisfactory arrangement. Remember that, Martin. I did try.” And then he lunged.

Fiery pain erupted in the side of Martin’s neck, and he twisted uselessly in Peter’s grip. He still couldn’t scream, but now instead of a hand at his throat, there were teeth in his throat, sinking deep, spilling his blood into Peter’s cold, wet mouth.

A deep hum of pleasure reached his ears, and Martin choked on a sob and waited for it to be over.

He was dizzy by the time Peter released him, far too lightheaded and weak to put up a fight or flee. He could barely stand without Peter propping him up against the wall behind him. If he went in for another bite—if he drank until Martin dry and empty—there was nothing Martin could do to stop him.

“Wonderful—really quite wonderful,” Peter praised him. He swiped his thumb against the side of Martin’s throat and popped the bloody digit into his mouth, humming again as if savoring a taste of chocolate. “Well then. Thank you, Martin, for making your first payment. I do look forward to collecting the rest.”

Peter left him in the alley with a whistle on his lips, hands tucked neatly in his coat pockets. Slowly, Martin slid down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement, tucked his head between his knees, and waited for the dizziness to pass.

It was a minute or so before he realized that it wouldn’t, and another before he managed to drag himself back to his feet. By some miracle he managed to fit enough keys in enough locks to make it into his flat.

Had he been thinking clearly, he might have worried about a lot of things—blood loss, infection, how unsanitary it was to have someone’s mouth on an open wound—but it was all Martin could do to make it to the couch before the darkness closed in, and the world slipped away from him.

Martin awoke with a pounding headache, and the events of the previous night slammed into him with all the mercy of a freight train. He scrambled up, only to double over with a whimper of pain when his head throbbed again.

Had he locked the door? He couldn’t have, not in the state he was in. Heaving himself gingerly to his feet, Martin hobbled to his front door and found it not only unlocked but partially ajar. He shut it and did up the latch, then went through every inch of his flat, every room and closet and space big enough to hide a person.

He was alone. Nothing was missing. With that confirmed, his panic died down to low-level background noise, and he set about taking care of things one by one.

He went to the kitchen and had a glass of water.

He gave himself ten minutes kneeling by the toilet, until he was sure that he wouldn’t throw up.

He changed out of the previous day’s clothes.

He toasted two slices of bread and ate them plain, washing them down with more water.

It was only once those tasks were completed that he felt human enough to do more than curl up in a corner of the flat and sink into a panic. He called in sick to work, too tired and beaten-down to feel guilty about leaving his coworkers in the lurch.

Then he went out and visited his mother.

It wasn’t a rational decision in the least. She was no more likely to talk to him dead than she had been alive (no less, either) and it wasn’t as if the answers to his questions were written on her headstone. But it was something, and doing something felt infinitely better than doing nothing.

Besides, by now the habit was ingrained. When his spirits were low, he visited the cemetery. And now, his spirits were at their lowest.

He found his way to her grave by muscle memory. It was just as neat as it always was, from the grass that covered her body to the polished headstone, still pale and new. Martin stared down at it listlessly, trying to ignore the itch and sting in his freshly-healed throat.

Martin wasn’t sure how long he stood there before he felt another presence beside him. His mood lifted with an almost desperate speed before his brain registered why; he turned, with Jon’s name on the tip of his tongue—

He didn’t recognize the woman standing there. Well, he did, sort of—she’d been at the funeral, one of many nameless faces from the social life his mother had kept from him. She was dressed warmly for the weather, the collar of her jacket turned up against the wind.

“Hello again,” she said with a polite smile. “You were at Lily’s funeral, weren’t you? Did you know her well?”

She didn’t know who he was. She’d known his mother long enough to be on first-name terms with her, and she didn’t know her friend’s son just by looking at him.

Martin mumbled something in the affirmative.

“Such a shame. She was so close, you know.”

Martin didn’t know. “Was she?”

“Oh, yes. She didn’t tell you? She was months away from paying Mr. Lukas in full.” The woman sighed. “I suppose it wasn’t entirely a surprise. There’s always that risk, and Lily with her health…” She tutted softly. “How far along are you, then?”

“What?”

The woman gestured toward him, tilting her head to the side as she did. Beneath her upturned collar, her throat was scared by a series of pinpricks, all of them nearly in the same place.

Martin’s blood turned to ice. First payment.

He didn’t realize he’d said the words out loud until the woman nodded with an understanding smile. “The first time is always difficult. But you’ll get used to it. We all do. So did Lily, I suppose. It’s the price we all pay for what Mr. Lukas and his family promise.”

It was hard to breathe. His pulse pounded in his ears, but he could still hear the woman’s words.

“I wouldn’t worry about you, though—you’re young and healthy, not like Lily. It was such a risk for her. Can’t blame her, though. Poor thing spent all her best years on her son, of course she’d want her youth back.”

Beneath the grass, beneath the dirt, beneath the coffin lid and the dress and the makeup that the mortician had so carefully applied to her body—did his mother have the same scars on her throat?

The low hum of panic rose to a silent scream, and Martin turned away from the woman and the grave and fled. Any hope of rational thought was gone; all he could think of was fleeing.

There was a hand on his arm, a familiar voice in his ear. “Martin? Martin, are you alright? What happened—oh no. Martin, your neck—”

Martin wrenched his arm out of Jon’s grip, slapped his hand over the marks on his neck, and followed the voice in his head telling him to get away, run away.

Jon knew about the Lukases. He knew the name Peter Lukas and he hadn’t warned him—

He was halted only once more. At the cemetery’s open gate, a familiar black dog blocked his way. Gerry’s eyes were on him, unblinking and intent. Martin tried to dodge around him, but Gerry moved to block him further with a soft, urgent whine.

“Get out of the way.” Martin shoved his way past the dog. Teeth closed around his arm, far too gently to cause pain or hold him in place. Martin pulled himself free and was through the gate before anyone or anything could stop him again.

The sound of Gerry barking followed him until he’d left the cemetery far behind.

Martin didn’t go home afterward. How could he go home? The last time he’d gone back to his flat, he’d found Peter Lukas there, waiting for him in the shadows. He couldn’t go near the tube; the thought of putting himself in an enclosed space with nowhere to run made him feel sick. So he spent the day wandering aimlessly, terrified and more lost than he had ever been in his life.

His mother had sold her blood to a vampire in the hopes that she’d get to become one. With her death, she’d passed the buck to him. And she hadn’t even told him.

Why would she? he thought. She was done with you. She wasted her life on you. That was why she chose this in the first place.

It felt better to run. Running meant escaping, moving constantly meant he wouldn’t be caught. As long as he didn’t stop, he could pretend that he was going somewhere, getting away from something.

It was only as the sun was setting that he realized his mistake.

Peter had asked, the first time they’d met. He’d asked if he could come in, and when Martin told him no, he hadn’t tried to force his way in. He’d been strong enough to throw Martin around like a ragdoll, and he hadn’t tried to break in when Martin refused him entry. And now, Martin was out in the open, and it would be dark soon.

If he tried to go home, it would be dark again before he reached his flat.

Not long after Martin came to this realization, he also realized that he was being followed. It started as a prickle up the back of his neck, easily explained away as his own heightened fear, until the crowd parted and he spotted the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Peter Lukas walking behind him at a distance. Not chasing, not pursuing, just… following.

Martin hurried through the streets, taking turns at random until his path became a winding tangle of side streets and alleys. He couldn’t be sure if losing his tail was even possible, if a vampire could smell him or hear his heartbeat and panicked breathing, if drinking his blood let Peter Lukas listen to his thoughts.

Eventually he found a small open pub, well-lit and full of people. Full of witnesses. He sat in a booth, ordered a series of waters, and watched the door.

An hour passed that way. The sky outside grew dark. The crowds both within the pub and in the street outside grew thinner and quieter.

Martin’s eyes drifted from the door to the windows. From across the street, where he leaned on a street lamp, Peter Lukas met his eyes and smiled.

The pub would close in less than three hours, according to the sign. And Martin knew without any trace of doubt that Peter would still be there waiting for him then.

The instinct to hide became the instinct to run, again. He couldn’t stay here forever. He may as well start fleeing now.

Cold air hit him as he opened the door and stepped outside again. In a single smooth motion, Peter straightened up and stepped away from the lamp post. Without waiting to see what he would do next, Martin took off running.

The streets outside weren’t as full as he’d hoped. No matter where he ran, there were too few people, too little light. The street lamps were lit, but the pools of light they cast left too many shadows between them and beyond them.

He looked back, just in time to see Peter vanish from one lamp post and appear at another, even closer than he had been before.

Martin wasn’t sure why he turned in the direction of the cemetery. Perhaps it was the only place nearby that he truly knew. Perhaps his habits formed over the past weeks and months had trained his hindbrain to see it as safe regardless of logic. Perhaps his scattered thoughts managed to land clumsily on the vague idea of hallowed ground.

By the time the entrance was properly within view, he could hear Peter’s footsteps behind him, and only then remembered that the cemetery had closed hours ago. He reached the gate on the verge of despair, flinging himself at it, ready to try his hand at climbing if it brought any hope of escape.

A hand as cold and hard as iron yanked him back to the ground and spun him around. Peter was there, not even breathing hard—if he needed to breathe at all.

“Locked out, are we?” he asked, shaking his head pityingly. “Not that it would have done you any good. Did you not know the difference between a cemetery and a graveyard?”

He wasn’t holding him, but he didn’t have to be. Martin wouldn’t get two steps before he was grabbed again.

“A cemetery is merely a place where bodies are buried,” Peter went on. “A graveyard is attached to a church. There’s no hallowed ground here, Martin. There’s nowhere you can run.”

Trapped, Martin pressed his back against the unforgiving bars of the gate. “Please.”

“I might have waited,” said Peter. “Given you a chance to recover. It’s only polite. But since you’re determined to be difficult about this—I have to take whatever chance I can get.” He reached forward, lips pulling back from his fangs.

The gate opened so suddenly that Martin nearly fell through. A hand—small, slender, and warm—closed around his wrist and pulled him inside.

“Get in,” Jon gritted out. “Hurry.”

Too shocked and relieved to protest, Martin stumbled after him into the cemetery. A glance over his shoulder told him that Peter was following them inside.

“Jon,” he choked out. “He’s still—he said it’s not hallowed.”

They were well inside the cemetery by now, and Peter showed no signs of slowing down in his pursuit. Before Martin could blink, Jon halted among the graves and stepped between Martin and the approaching vampire.

“Hallowed or not, you aren’t welcome here,” he snapped, as if Peter were some teenage vandal instead of a monster.

At this, Peter did pause, though he never lost his smile. “My goodness,” he said, half to himself. “That’s not Jonathan Sims, is it?”

Jon stiffened.

“It is! Well, isn’t it a small world?” Peter drew closer, his steps shifting smoothly into a predatory prowl. “The little graveyard child. You always hear of people raising the dead, but never of people raised by the dead.”

“This was my home for years,” Jon retorted. “And I don’t remember giving you permission to enter.”

“Not your home now, then,” Peter said with a shrug. “You’re just its dutiful little guardian now.” The moonlight glinted on his eyes, turning them red. An eerie white glow lit him from behind. “But who’s guarding you?”

Jon pointed. “He is.”

A low, thunderous growl cut off any further words. Peter straightened up stiffly, eyes flying wide with surprise, and whipped around to reveal the source of the glow.

The creature standing behind him could only loosely be classified as a dog. It certainly stood on four legs, and wore black fur and a tail as well as any animal of the kind. But the spectral light that poured from its eyes and clung to it like mist was where the similarities ended, and when its lips parted from two rows of teeth, they caught the glow in a way that outlined each sharp, dripping fang.

“Oh,” Peter said, almost matter-of-factly. “You have a grim.”

With a deafening snarl, the spectral hound charged. Peter pulled back with blinding speed, only for the dog to match him and sink its teeth around his outstretched arm. Peter hissed, and the dog flung him to the ground with a powerful wrench of its head.

Martin watched, speechless with shock, as Peter scrambled to his feet and fled with the dog—with Gerry—snapping viciously at his heels. His path to the gate was quickly cut off, and in the blink of an eye he was cornered at the bend in the iron fence that surrounded the cemetery.

“Now, now,” Peter said, pressing back with his teeth bared. “Nice doggy.”

The growl deepened.

“Be reasonable,” Peter hissed. “You can’t protect him forever. Martin Blackwood owes me. His mother’s debt has passed to him. His blood is as good as mine.”

“Tell me you’re joking,” a new voice called out, dripping contempt.

There was a woman standing beside Martin, arms crossed. Martin had never seen her before. She was elderly, and her hair was silver—but so was the rest of her. From head to toe she was translucent and gray, as if she were made out of smoke.

“Good evening, Gertrude,” Peter greeted. “Mind calling off your beast?”

“You think he listens to me?” the ghost woman retorted.

The black dog turned toward her, eyes still glowing like lamps. Its form flickered, and a moment later the dog was gone, and a man stood in its place.

A few similarities remained. The long hair that tumbled over his shoulders was as black as his fur. His eyes still glowed. His hands were smeared with grave dirt.

“I’m handling this, Gertrude,” he growled.

Gertrude sighed. “Not that I wouldn’t sing your praises for ripping his throat out once and for all, but the last thing we need is his relatives crawling over the headstones to whine about it.”

“Far more trouble than it’d be worth,” Peter chipped in cheerfully. “So, if I could just take Martin and go—”

The man slammed Peter back into the iron bars hard enough to rattle them. “You go near him again, and I will rip your entire ass off.”

Jon’s hand slipped into Martin’s, squeezing gently. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Martin forced himself to breathe in. “I am… so confused right now.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Another squeeze. “Don’t worry. They’ll handle it. Or, one of them will, one way or another.”

“I-I don’t owe him,” Martin went on. “At least, I don’t think I do? He said my mum was in debt, but I didn’t know about it, I didn’t agree to any of it, he just—”

“Martin—”

“He just showed up and…” Martin’s hand was at his neck again.

“I know.” Held hands became linked arms. “I know, Martin. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you earlier. I should have realized he’d involve you.”

“I didn’t involve him,” Peter called out, teeth clenched. The dog—the man—still had him by the throat. “His mother did when she made her deal! Her debt passes to him!”

“It’s been two hundred years, Peter,” the ghost woman snapped. “Don’t tell me you’re still running this ridiculous scam.”

“It’s a legitimate—”

“That man doesn’t owe you a drop,” she went on. “Do you know how I know that? Because for the past few months we’ve had to listen to his tiresome mother moan and whine about how she didn’t get to be a vampire, because of all the cemeteries in the country you just had to bury her here. She died before you could hold up your end of the bargain. There’s no debt.”

“What difference does that make?” Peter retorted. “The only ones among you with any real power are bound to this cemetery. As soon as he sets foot outside, he’s mine.”

“My grave is empty, Peter,” Gertrude said coldly. “I’m not bound to anything. All I have to do is whisper the right words in the right ears. I’m sure the rest of the Lukases would love this little blemish on their reputation.”

For the first time since the black dog appeared, Peter wavered.

“And just think—you’ll have an eternity to deal with it,” Jon called out. “Your relatives, never leaving you alone for a moment, watching you day and night to make sure you don’t shame them again—”

“Alright,” Peter snapped. “Alright. You’ve made your point.” He turned a poisonous glare on Martin, who transferred his attention to the ground at his feet.

“Get out,” Gertrude said flatly. “If there’s a next time, rest assured that Gerard will do as he likes.”

Peter didn’t move, only because he was still being held quite firmly in place. A deep, rumbling growl ripped from his captor’s chest.

“Gerry,” Jon said quietly. “He’s not worth the headache.” He glared at Peter. “Yet.”

Finally, reluctantly, Gerry released him and stepped back. Peter straightened up and stepped away from the fence, neatened his coat, and began striding back to the gate.

In an instant Gerry was a black dog again, snapping viciously at Peter’s back. The dignified stride became a frantic dash for the gate, and within seconds Peter was scrambling through it and vanishing into the night.

Martin only realized he’d been holding his breath when he let it out, suddenly lightheaded with relief. His hand went to his neck again, as if to make sure it wasn’t bleeding with a fresh bite wound. The old one still ached and itched like a fresh injection site.

He breathed in again, chest hitching as tears flooded his vision.

Suddenly there were hands steadying him, strong and cool to the touch but a far cry from Peter’s ice-cold iron grip. There were eyes on him, the harsh white glow softening to reveal pale blue irises.

“Let me see?” Gerry asked quietly. “Just for a second.”

Trembling, Martin let him coax his hand away from his neck. Gerry hissed through his teeth.

“It’s healing,” he said. “And it won’t happen again.”

Martin could only stare at him through teary eyes, at a loss for words. Gerry sighed.

“Would it be easier if I was a dog?” he asked.

Gertrude scoffed quietly. “I think it would be easier if he weren’t still standing in a cemetery after dark.”

“Yes, thank you, Gertrude,” Jon said. His voice gentled when he turned back to Martin. “Martin? Do you want to go home?”

Home. Home was where Peter had been waiting for him, last time. There was so much distance between here and home.

“Gerry’s right, he won’t go near you again,” Jon offered, as if reading his mind. “But would it help if I went with you?”

Only a few minutes before, Jon had stared Peter down in a fearless challenge. Not trusting himself to speak, Martin nodded.

“Alright. Let’s go, then.”

With a gentle tug on his hand, Jon led him to the still-open gate. Martin chanced a single look back. It could have been a trick of the shadows, the scant light playing on the tears clinging to his eyes, but for a moment he could see hazy figures scattered throughout the cemetery, glowing faintly as they watched him go.

A familiar weight pressed against the side of his leg, and Martin’s free hand curled into the thick fur on Gerry’s ruff.

They parted at the gate. Gerry watched with glowing eyes as Jon shut it firmly behind him, murmured something to him, and led Martin away. When Martin looked back again, Gerry stood on two legs, clutching the bars with dirt-streaked fingers and watching them through his curtain of dark hair.

In spite of everything, laughter bubbled up from within him. Martin tried to swallow it down, but enough of it escaped for Jon to hear.

“Are you alright?” Jon whispered, squeezing his hand again.

“It’s nothing,” Martin choked out. “I just—I called him a good boy.”

“He is, unfortunately,” Jon replied. “Very good. The best I’ve ever known.”

The next time Martin found himself at the cemetery gates after dark, he was breathing easily. Nothing was after him. The bite on his neck was a scar, quickly fading.

On the other side of the iron bars, Jon appeared with a smile. Martin could have sworn the gate was locked, but it opened easily at Jon’s touch. Martin followed him in.

It wasn’t a trick of the light, Martin was sure of that now. There were people here—pale, misty figures walking the grounds. Some of them were as sharp and clear as photographs in grayscale. Others were only the vague shapes of people, faceless and silent in their wandering. A few acknowledged Jon as he passed, and he responded with names and greetings. Martin caught the names Sarah and Michael, but they were gone too quickly for him to see their faces.

A swift, dark shape came weaving through the ghosts, eyes glowing, mouth open in a canine grin. The spirits parted for Gerry easily, and in the blink of an eye he was human-shaped.

Any lingering nervousness Martin might have felt was thrown to the wind when Gerry caught him in a tight hug. Shock froze him in place for a moment, before his mind caught up and he hugged him back.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” Gerry told him.

Instead of saying something intelligent, the first thing that came to Martin’s mind—and his mouth—was, “I read somewhere that dogs don’t like it when you hug them.”

Gerry pulled back with a snort of amusement. “Well, this one has been wanting to do that for a while. Are you alright? Lukas hasn’t been giving you trouble, has he?” His lip curled past the tips of his teeth. They were still sharp.

“N-no,” Martin replied. “I haven’t seen him since…”

“Good,” Gerry said firmly. “And you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m… yeah.” Martin looked around, taking in the crowded graveyard. “It’s been weird, but yeah. I’m alright.”

“It’s not too much, is it?” Jon asked anxiously. “I know it’s a lot, most people would run screaming…”

“I’m fine,” Martin said firmly. “It’s weird, but it’s… safe. It felt that way before, but now I know it is.” He looked at Jon shyly. “You grew up here, didn’t you?” Raised by the dead, Peter had said.

Jon nodded. “I escaped something terrible, when I was very young. I found my way here, and the dead took me in. I’m not dead, but my upbringing left its mark.”

“And you still live here?”

“No, I have a home of my own now,” Jon replied. “It’s not always easy to hold a job when people have a hard time noticing you, but I make do.”

“But I’ve seen you here so often,” Martin said.

To his surprise, Jon blushed. “Yes, well, my family is here, and it may be unconventional but families do tend to like it when their children visit, so…”

“He has been coming around more often than usual,” Gerry chimed in. “Ever since you became a repeat visitor.”

Martin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Gerry.”

“We’ve been very excited,” Gerry went on blithely. “It’s been ages since Jon had a crush—”

Jon clapped a hand over his mouth, effectively gagging him for about two seconds before he pulled back with a noise of disgust. “Did you just lick me?”

“I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s because you’re a dog!”

Martin’s hand was over his own mouth, muffling his laughter. Jon was scowling, but when Gerry shifted over to lean on him, he met him with a one-armed hug.

“Never mind that,” Jon went on. “Would you like to meet them?”

An unfamiliar thrill ran through Martin. “Your family? Are you sure they want to meet me?”

“It’s not every day we meet someone who can see us. Them, rather.” Jon smiled, a little bashfully.

Ghosts. Jon was about to take him to meet his foster family of ghosts.

“Is this—” Martin hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Jon asked worriedly.

“It’s just…” Martin looked at his face, then at Gerry’s. He took a deep breath. “I mean, we’ve been on one date and I’m already meeting your parents?”

Gerry burst out laughing. Jon threw his hands in the air. “I said we were unconventional, didn’t I?” he said, exasperated. “So you might as well. Now come on, Fiona’s been badgering me about you for weeks.”

Grinning Martin took his hand and followed him. Gerry stepped in on his other side, knocking their shoulders together affectionately.

He almost paused at the curve of a gravel path, one that he knew would lead to the cemetery’s freshest grave. Only at that moment did it strike him—she was here. He could talk to her again, if he wanted.

Only… could he? He never could in life. Why should it be different now?

Families tend to like it when their children visit, Jon had said. But she never did, did she?

Martin turned away from the path, squeezed Jon’s hand warmly, and walked on into the graves.