A Deathly Undertaking

Undertaker Chronicles Book 1:

A Deathly Undertaking

Crymsyn Hart

Published By Purple Sword Publications, LLC at Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

Copyright © 2017 CRYMSYN HART

Edited by Shoshana Hurwitz

Cover Art Designed by Traci Markou

ISBN 9781370552658

Chapter 1

Darria ran her fingers over the porcelain cup, sipped at her coffee, and made a face. The acrid taste overpowered her senses. Her boss preferred it strong, so she made it that way for him. Mr. Archer sat across from her at the white-and-yellow, speckled, Formica kitchen table in the house where he lived and worked. Maple syrup covered his plate from the pancake breakfast she had made him. Hers remained half eaten. Normally, she enjoyed blueberry flapjacks, but she had been unable to shake the dread that followed her from her dreams. She stifled a yawn and took another sip of her coffee, hoping it would help get her motivated for work.

You should head down to the basement soon, Darria. Her boss turned another page of the paper.

I’ll go set up in a minute. She squashed a blueberry with her fork.

What’s on your mind?

When are you going to train me?

He folded the paper and placed it on the table. We’ve been over this before. You signed on knowing I’d teach you when it was time.

I know. But—

I understand you’re frustrated. I haven’t shown you what I actually do to the bodies. It’s the way I and other undertakers before me were taught.

What’s so secretive about it? Can’t you break the tradition of great undertakers before you? Let me in on a little more than what I already know? Darria yearned to do more than the menial tasks he assigned her.

I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll do this body and then you can shadow me on the next corpse. Okay?

Jubilation rose within her chest and caught in her throat. Darria fought the urge to hug her employer. That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Archer.

You’re welcome, dear. Now go downstairs and set up the workroom.

Darria hid her smile. A bit of movement from the newspaper caught her eye. She peered at the front page. Below the headline about a declining stock market was the image of a teenage boy. The boy blinked and scowled at her. She jumped, and her knee slammed against a table leg. Her plate hit the edge of the table and crashed onto the floor.

Are you okay? he asked.

Darria glanced at him and back at the paper. The photograph returned to normal. She shook her head, trying to clear the disturbing vision. S-sorry. Thought I saw a spider. She grabbed a rag to clean up the mess on the floor.

Mr. Archer knelt down and touched her arm. His warm smile relaxed her. I’ll do that. You head downstairs. I’ll make sure the spider’s dead.

Thanks.

Darria.

She turned back around. Yeah.

Do you know why I take care of the bodies?

It’s your job.

Yes. It’s my job. One day, it will also be yours. However, I do it because there are many things in the world that most people don’t see. We’re the lucky ones who get to see the other side. Do you know what I mean?

I do. Where’s this coming from? He never opens up. A chill trickled along her back.

Good. Then you understand that the most important thing we do is handle the dead so they won’t cause any more trouble. And we make sure the objects in the Wunderkammer are secured. They could do more damage if they were left out in public.

She nodded. It’s about time the old man revealed what he does. Mr. Archer sat back at the table and read the paper again. Darria opened the basement door and went down the steps. His words echoed in her mind about keeping people safe. If anything got free, then havoc would ensue, and people would be in danger. Darria opened the heavier, second door at the bottom of the staircase that separated the cellar from the rest of the house. At last, Abner would show her exactly what he did, and that satisfied her. His words made sense. The levity of what he did settled in her mind. He helped protect others.

She slipped on her apron and then set up the tools Mr. Archer used on his roll-around tray. From right to left, they were: pliers, a wrench, a blowtorch, a stake, a mallet, a silver scalpel, and forceps. An open spot remained for the last implement she needed.

A corpse lay on the steel table in the center of the workroom. This one looked normal enough, with blonde hair perfectly arranged around her head. The green smear of eyeshadow on her lids matched her dress. Slightly marred, pink lipstick stuck to the woman’s teeth. Her emerald dress showed off her curves and covered her legs down to her calves. One of her black pumps was missing. However, the bullet hole in the center of her forehead was a dead giveaway that she was, well...dead. Faint curls of black smoke billowed from the wound, where the silver bullet reacted with the cadaver’s flesh.

It was tough to believe this woman could turn into a ferocious beast on the full moon. Trying to picture her on all fours covered with fur brought back memories of the bad horror movies Darria had watched as a child. Silver could hurt or kill them. This was one of the varieties of creatures that passed through the undertaker’s cellar to be processed.

The remainder of the instruments were kept under lock and key, and she guarded that key with her life. Darria trailed her fingers over the inked form on the inside of her right elbow. The sleek lines of the ink defined the shapes in her tattoo. Darria played her fingers over the outline of the key until a violet shimmer appeared on her flesh. The key became solid and fell into her palm. The metal warmed as she held it. When she had accepted the job, the undertaker gave her a normal brass key she could have picked up at any hardware store.

Darria ran her finger over the three arches on the top of the key. A surge of energy arced along her skin, causing the small hairs to rise along her arm. It gave the ravens etched into her flesh an amethyst hue. It was nice to take a moment to admire the simple symmetry of her job and the responsibilities that went with it.

The body waited for the undertaker to perform his duties. Then she would clean up. Rolling her shoulders, Darria Savege gazed around the room. Shrubs blocked off the cellar windows. A desk and an ancient gray filing cabinet sat off to her left. The large, stainless steel table was the centerpiece of the room. On the far wall was the curio cabinet. Her boss called it a Wunderkammer, a cabinet of curiosities. The countless oddities on its shelves kept her guessing from where and when they had originated.

A shrunken head stared at her with an expression of utter fear frozen on its sewed lips. A long, black braid curled around its neck stump. A two-headed fetus with a horn sprouting from one head and a hoof for a left foot floated in a jar. An array of bottles and other Mason jars bursting with indiscernible things lined the top shelf. No matter how intense her curiosity, Darria dared not pull the containers out. Different kinds of human skulls lined the second shelf. One resembled a human but for the long, curved canines, suggesting it might have been a vampire. Old-time medical instruments were on the third shelf. The fourth was a mishmash of oddities. A stained red, carved elephant tusk and a foot-long, spiraled, golden-brown horn that her boss said came from a unicorn, a pinboard filled with numerous insects, and a few other things she had no name for. The most important object in the whole collection was in a beat-up, black, tin box that looked like it had been kicked around a schoolyard one too many times.

Darria slid the key into the lock and turned it. The doors did not want to unlock at first.

Come on, she said the to the curio cabinet. You gotta open up. Mr. Archer’s going to be pissed if you decide to be stubborn.

It felt as though the large piece of furniture was staring at her, deciding if she was worthy. It might have been fashioned of wood and glass, but sometimes, Darria thought it had consciousness. She couldn’t explain it, but the Wunderkammer had a mind of its own. Darria jiggled the key to make sure it wasn’t stuck. She turned it again. This time, the doors decided to open.

Thank you. She stood on tiptoe and gingerly took ahold of the old tin. Darria slid it off the second shelf, careful not to disturb the other curiosities.

She set it exactly in the center of the roll-around tray and pried the lid open. A few rust flakes fluttered onto the shiny surface. What was inside the container was what really mattered. In the beat-up box were five rows of ancient silver coins stacked eight coins high in each column. On the face of each coin was a relief. It was difficult to tell if it was some ancient emperor or a faded silhouette of George Washington. In front of the coins were three silver needles. One was the thickness of a single hair, another, the width of a toothpick and curved, and the last was the size of a drinking straw. That one looked more like a weapon. Next to that were three spools of fine thread: silver, black, and purple.

Darria ran her finger over the cool fibers. They felt like metal but were actual thread. Something clattered in the cabinet. A streak of black scuttled along the top shelf of the curio. One of the large Mason jars rocked but didn’t fall. Darria inspected the shelf but didn’t see anything. She closed the glass doors, locked them, and placed the key along her inner arm. It glowed purple. The ink flowers and ivy wrapped around the key until it became an unnoticeable part of the tattoo once more. Something else moved inside of the Wunderkammer. When she checked, nothing seemed amiss.

Make all the noise you want. I’m not opening you back up until Abner is ready for me to clean up, she muttered to the cabinet.

She turned back to the woman on the slab. Smoke rose from the entry wound. Black lines of silver poisoning marred the dead woman’s flesh. Darria touched the werewolf’s skin and found it warm. One of her fists remained clenched. She checked the doorway to make sure her boss wasn’t coming. When she didn’t hear any noise from above, Darria peeled back the stiff’s fingers. Inside of her fist was a small, black, shiny stone. She tried to pry it from the corpse’s hand, but the floorboards groaned above her. Abner was coming down to work. She pulled her hand away and tried to forget about the stone.

When she had been hired, her boss had told her this wouldn’t be an ordinary undertaker’s assistant position. At the time, Darria had no idea what an ordinary undertaker’s assistant did. She needed work. She needed to stop living out of the back of her car. She didn’t want to run anymore. Memories of the past plucked at her mind like a wake of feeding vultures, but she shoved them aside. Opening up doors she closed a long time ago would not help her in her current career path.

More heavy footfalls sounded overhead on the warped, wooden floor. Sprinkles of plaster broke loose from the ceiling and peppered the cement floor. Darria took her customary place to the left of the table, leaving enough space for the undertaker to inspect her preparations. She brushed her apron free of grime and smoothed it out over her curves.

The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs. The unmistakable shriek of hinges on the ancient cellar door filtered down from the first floor. She expected Abner to come down. However, the door shut again. More plaster cascaded from the ceiling as her boss walked away from the basement. Probably forgot something. He won’t start until he has everything. Darria asked him once what the importance was of the tools being in their proper place. She shivered as she remembered that day.

* * * *

Her boss turned to her with the lines in his forehead creased more than usual and a dark look in his green eyes. Mr. Archer stopped his tool inspection and a small but tense smile dimpled his cheeks. I know you think my preparation is ritualistic and my tendency for ‘playing with dead things,’ as I heard you tell your friend one day while you were on the phone—

Her mouth dropped. Sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I thought I was alone. I only mentioned it.

It’s okay. I understand how hard it is not to talk about the specifics of the job. In your position, it’s harder because the pain starts in your temples if you do.

Darria nodded. It won’t happen again. And I—

His lips turned up into a meaningful grin. It’s okay. Many years ago, I used to be an apprentice myself and had the same questions you do. Mr. Archer pulled an ancient, wooden stool out from under the table and dusted it off before sitting down. He closed his eyes, seeming to take comfort in being off his feet. This was the first time she had seen him pause from his work. Did I ever tell you about the woman who trained me?

No, sir. The slight weight of the key working its way out of her tattoo made her arm feel heavier. Darria ran her fingers over her arm and felt the rounded edges of it raise up like ink from a new tat.

Mr. Archer took the tin from the tray and rested it on his lap with his hand on the cover. My predecessor was a powerful woman with a proclivity for the dead. She had a... he paused, stroking the box lovingly, a certain finesse with them that’s lost on me. I became her apprentice when I was younger than you. I kept scattering the instruments every time I set up for her. After a few months, she took me aside. I assumed she’d fire me. Sophia was a beauty. I was smitten with her, but she ignored my horrid attempts at flirting. And her hands. He sighed like a schoolboy talking about his first crush. I think I was in love with them just as much as her personality.

‘Abner, I know you value this profession,’ Sophia said to me. ‘You do everything I ask. If you keep tossing my tools about and breaking my concentration, something disastrous will happen.’

I forced myself to take my time. In the ritual of arranging all these instruments, I became a little obsessed, but I ceased being clumsy. If I’m interrupted while I’m working on a body, then something catastrophic could happen. I don’t want you to get hurt. He touched the scar on the left side of his face. It ran under his eye, the whole length of his cheek, to his neck, and disappeared underneath his shirt.

What happened to you, sir? Darria never dared ask before about his scar.

That’s a story for another time. If you don’t mind, please remove yourself. He set the tin back in its rightful place.

She left the cellar and went upstairs. From that moment on, Darria took more care in how she set things up.

* * * *

Muffled voices filled the house above her. Her boss had no appointments today; she knew that because she tended his calendar. Any change in his schedule annoyed him to no end. He sent her to deal with anyone who came to the door for deliveries.

The muted voices gave way to shouting. Darria strained to pick up the conversation.

...Out. I told you to get out... Mr. Archer shouted at the other person in the house.

The response was inaudible.

She stepped toward the door, ready to go back up and see if her boss needed help. Before she could, thunderous footfalls followed by a crash made the floor shake. The heavy shower of plaster made her jump. Darria clutched the side of the steel table and hoped Mr. Archer was okay. A wave of dread engulfed her.

A loud thud shook the entire floor.

All went silent.

Darria released the table and checked to make sure the key was secured in her tattoo. It couldn’t end up in the wrong hands. She waited for something else to happen, but the quiet remained. She made it halfway up the stairs when the hallway door bowed inward on its hinges as if it were breathing.

A cool breeze prickled her skin. She ran back down the steps into the basement. Darria peered around the corner and looked up at the door. The wood shrieked in protest. Her heart pounded along her ribs. Something was wrong. Darria tried to close the heavy, metal door that separated the workroom from the stairs. It wouldn’t budge. Some unseen force held it in place. The wood screamed again from the hallway door. She tried once more to close the metal door. No good. Darria’s gaze swept across the workroom from the curio cabinet to the cadaver atop the table to her boss’ desk nestled in the corner of the room next to a rusting filing cabinet. Behind that were the oil tank and boiler. At the opposite end was a coal chute that she found bodies in. If she had