by Crymsyn Hart
“You’re M?”
“I am. Are you going to take care of this abomination, or do you want me to do it?”
“I don’t know how.”
“I guess there’s more for me to show you than I thought. All right. Watch on this one, and when the next one comes along, you’ll know how to get rid of it.”
“The next one?” Darria wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the next one was going to be. In the last year, she had worked on dozens of corpses. Before that, Abner had worked on hundreds— thousands, maybe. It was impossible to know what would appear in her house. How had it gotten in the house, anyway? Before Darria could ask, M focused her attention back on the werewolf.
M pulled her hand back, bringing her fingers together into a point. The mesmerized beast swayed. Darria nearly lost herself as well. With one swift moment, M yanked her hand back and twisted it. A rush of energy pulsated out of M and hit the werewolf. The corpse crumbled to the floor in a disintegrating pile of bone and ash until only the skull remained. A crackle of red energy spider-webbed over the remnants, consuming them in small flames until a scorch mark marred the white linoleum. The woman dropped her hand and glanced over at Darria with a triumphant smile. “Phew ... that always makes me hungry. What do you have to eat around here?”
Darria remained speechless as to what occurred in her kitchen. M opened the fridge, the pantry, and the cupboards. She pulled out some ingredients: flour, milk, cheese, eggs, and a little bit of whatever else Darria had in the fridge. M stopped by the sink and picked up the red-stained towel.
“What’s this?”
“Nothing. Just a scratch.”
She ran her finger over the wounds on Darria’s neck. “Those are nasty. They need treatment.”
“I’ll be fine. Just a few nicks.”
“Oh, no! These can infect you even if the perpetrator is dead. It’ll only take longer for the contagion to set in. You don’t want to turn into a zombie werewolf, do you?”
“I’m a necromancer, and if that thing was dead, the dead shouldn’t affect me. Plus, I’m an undertaker.”
The other woman crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you want to take the chance? The cure is rather simple, and if you’re not infected, you can cross it off the list of what won’t kill you.”
“Fine.”
“Good. Can I have that silver stake, please?”
Darria handed it to her. The woman went over to Gabbie. “Can I borrow one of your claws?”
Gabbie lifted her paw, allowing the woman to touch her. She drew the claw over the silver stake and caught the shavings in her other hand. When she had a handful, M snatched another towel from the counter, wet it, and placed the flakes into the cloth.
“Ready?”
Darria shrugged. “I guess.”
“You’re going to let her put that on you?” Omar interjected.
“Do you want your mistress to turn into a zombie and be someone else’s bitch?”
Omar quieted.
M placed the towel on all the scratches, so the silver touched the wound. Darria gritted her teeth at the oncoming pain. She held her breath. All she experienced was cold along with the slight warmth of the silver shavings and nothing else.
“I guess you’re right. You’re immune. It never hurts to be too careful, though. I was bitten by a vampire once and got some of his blood in me. Thought I’d turn, but here I am. My body rejected the infection. I was a new undertaker but old in the ways of necromancy. Kinda goes with the territory and the magic that runs with my line.” M balled up the towel of shavings and placed it on the counter. “Remember this. It can come in handy. You might want to look into getting some colloidal silver to have on hand. Vampires hate it if they ingest it. So do ghouls or fairies, although they are mostly turned off by iron and....”
Darria waved her hands to get the woman’s attention. “Whoa. Time out. Thanks for taking care of the werewolf, but who the hell are you?”
The woman threw her head back and laughed. Her hair jingled with the charms woven into her braided locks. “Forgive me. I thought you’d figured it out. I’ve had my eye on you ever since I sensed you coming into your power. That was quite a show you did at the graveyard, raising all those corpses and attaching their spirits to the dead bodies. Bad for the souls, of course. I’ve met a rival necromancer or two in the past. You can feel it, can’t you? The way our power bounces off one another?”
The longer the woman remained, the more it grated Darria’s skin the wrong way. It was magnetic and revolting at the same time. The push and pull reminded her of the tides. “I feel it.”
“Yeah. You probably want to vomit. That’s another sign you haven’t wrestled it yet and won. We can work on that later. You’re going to have to learn to deal with it quickly because I’m not going anywhere until this whole situation has a resolution.”
“What situation?” Darria pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. She ran her fingers through her hair and over the wounds in her neck. They were already closing.
M threw a few things into the metal mixing bowl and paid attention to Darria while she began cooking. “I hope you don’t mind. Using my abilities leaves me hungry and energized. It’s kinda funny.”
“No. It’s fine—”
“Thanks. You asked who I was.”
Darria nodded. This woman was going a zillion miles an hour, and she could barely keep up with her.
“I sent you the note after I heard you were still with us. You were all the buzz with the harvesters and the remaining undertakers. By bringing you back from the dead, Stockton changed the destiny of a lot of things. Things are unwinding quickly and reweaving themselves. The Fates have been busy; I bet as busy as you are with the bodies coming at you.”
Stockton, one of the hunters who brought in bodies, revealed he was an angel. He had healed her when Oliver couldn’t, and it had changed her destiny. “Yeah. It’s been a little hectic.”
“I figured as much. Sorry. I’m jumping ahead of myself.” She set the bowl on the counter and wiped her hands on her skirt, smearing flour on the material. M stuck her hand out. “I’m Marie. Marie Leveau.”
The name was synonymous with the most famous voodoo queen of New Orleans. Darria had also read it in the diary of William Navil. He had been on the trail of a missing woman who had been captured by two brothers. The brothers had enchanted the woman, forcing her soul from her body and binding a banshee into the vacant flesh.
“You were the undertaker who helped William when he was searching for Isabelle. I thought someone killed the line of undertakers in New Orleans, including the undertaker here and his assistant.”
Marie clucked her tongue in disgust. “Augustus was a know-it-all pain in my ass. He was after my job since his first day as my assistant. Sometimes, I wish the Fates were a little wiser in who they choose to do our jobs. The list you possess is correct. The line has been wiped out, but I have not been. I vacated the position right before World War II. It was my time. I’d been doing it for over two hundred years. Augustus was happy to step in.” The sound of the spoon hitting the metal bowl filled the kitchen.
Darria wondered how much Marie knew. “Augustus came to me the other night.”
Marie dropped the bowl on the floor, scattering flour and clumps of dough across the linoleum. “Shit.” She picked up the bowl. Gabbie licked up what had fallen. “Was he a spirit?”
“No, a decaying corpse. I thought I was dreaming. Maybe I wasn’t. Augustus said it was time for me to put the corpses to rest.”
“What else did he tell you?” Marie’s voice dropped to a low whisper. The power that dripped from every word rolled Darria’s stomach.
“He said I’d been assigned by the conclave to find the next undertaker who would possess ownership of this safety pin. He said things had taken on a darker fate.”
Marie’s skin paled. “I knew it was bad, but I had no idea it was that bad. You need to learn your powers more quickly than I thought. It sounds
as if all hell is going to be breaking loose.”
“Enough with the cryptic. Why are you here?” Darria pounded her fist on the white-and-yellow, speckled, Formica table. The matching skull salt and pepper shakers hopped and toppled over. “This is ridiculous. You’re almost as bad as the banshees I dealt with a few months ago. I mean—really. If you can answer my questions, I would appreciate it. You’re the first necromancer I’ve ever met.”
She poured her concoction into the cupcake tins she had on the counter. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a green undertaker and a rival to my power all rolled into one. You have no idea how unusual you are. I was trusted and brokered a peace when I was in N’awlins. I left the office on good terms. They don’t tell you everything when you leave the position behind. You can continue to live with the magic you have until it peters out and then you slowly age again. That can take a long time or maybe not at all. Or you can renounce it and do another ritual to grow old again. If you’re something a little different, you make your own rules, and the conclave doesn’t want that. They worked out the deal with the harvesters and the hunters to keep the peace within the paranormal community because things had all gone to pot ages ago.”
“Why is this council—this conclave—so hush-hush about their existence? I’d think they’d want to be around other undertakers. Hell, I would’ve loved to have been able to contact someone when I first got the job after Abner died. I had no freakin’ clue what I was doing. Shit, sometimes, I’m still not sure I know what I’m supposed to be doing. Undertakers shouldn’t be a solitary bunch with just their assistants keeping them company.”
Marie pointed at her with the mixing spoon she had been using. “I can’t tell you why—” Gabbie stood up on her hind legs. Her long, purple tongue darted out and licked the batter from the utensil. Marie yanked the spoon away once she realized what the gargoyle was doing. “Shoo. That’s not for you, although I don’t think it’s going to hurt you because—is chocolate poisonous to gargoyles the way it is to dogs?”
“I doubt it. Gabbie eats corpses for dinner.”
“Your gargoyle has a way of stealing the attention when she wants it.”
“That she does. So—”
“Yes.” Marie slid the cake pans into the oven before pulling a beer out of the fridge and sitting across from Darria. “The elders run the show behind the scenes. They don’t appreciate anomalies.”
“Like us.”
“Yes. The deal was originally concocted with the Fates, binding certain relics to specific undertaker lines.” Marie traced the key on Darria’s arm. A small, purple light reflected around the key and tingled her flesh. “The key is one of the oldest artifacts. They change over time to fit the bearer.”
“When I first got it, it was a brass house key. What did you have?”
Marie waved her hand, dismissing her question. “That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that we need to figure out what happened to Augustus and the others. He might’ve been an ass, but he doesn’t deserve to be trapped inside of a rotting carcass. Do you happen to remember anything else about the visitation?” She got up and checked the oven.
A wonderful, sweet smell permeated the kitchen and made Darria’s mouth water. Augustus’s half-putrefied face flashed in her mind. His clothes were in tatters, but his apron had been whole. Marie pointed to Darria’s arms. “You and I have more in common than I thought. I’m not sure that’s a good or a bad thing. Lord knows I’ve had to deal with the burden of them all my life, but let me guess, the poppies didn’t appear until you took the position, right?”
Darria glanced at her arm. The ruby blooms intermixed with the blue morning glories. “Yes. I got them when I took office. First, only five filled my arm. They all opened once I did the ritual and killed Medusa. Then, the other five emerged. The sixth one opened after I defeated the banshees. William’s journal mentioned a conversation between the two of you. You said, ‘Those who walk the line of death can’t be infected with death. Only those powerful enough can resist their deepest call. We are marked.’ You have five along your arm. I have ten, although four of them haven’t bloomed. Poppies are related to death. The banshees tried to infect me, but it didn’t take. You touched the pages and neutralized the writing. An undertaker walks the line of death, so we can’t be infected with or by anything dead. I’d stretch that to anything we work on, which is why the werewolf scratch didn’t affect me. What do the poppies mean? Give me some straight answers.”
Marie lifted an eyebrow and rolled her sleeve up. Eight open blooms adorned her arm. She pointed to the last one. “This one appeared before I wrote you the note. I thought I was finished undertaking. I’ve been enjoying my life outside of the workroom. I’ve gotten back to my roots, practicing magic the way I did when I was a child: root hoodoo and good old voodoo. It’s what I do best. I have a small following. Most think I’ve taken the name to continue the legacy. A select few know who I am. They don’t know I’m a necro, but that’s a different story. You asked me about the poppies. What I told William was something I learned from trial and error. I also had a run-in with the banshee. The poppies are another connection back to the original line of undertakers. The more you have, the more powerful you are. You’re both an undertaker and a necromancer. I can’t tell you why Augustus came back locked in his flesh. I can’t tell you why the council has decided that you are the one to find the new owner of the relic in your left arm. What I can tell you is that after a hundred years of being away from the business, someone or something pulled me back in. I’m here to help you.”
The oven timer dinged. Marie checked her bakery concoction and stuck it back in the oven once more. The rev of a car engine in the driveway stopped their conversation. A weight descended on Darria’s shoulders. A hunter had delivered a body. She sighed. Processing the corpse was her priority. The engine outside gunned once more, shuttered, and died. A man came to the door, about five-foot-three and rounded in stature, and pulled open the screen door.
“Hello, Darria.” The man walked in, oblivious to Gabbie and Omar.
“Evening, Gerry. Been a couple of months. What’re you bringing me tonight?”
Dried, red clay covered the hunter’s blue jeans. Clumps flaked off from his tan work boots as he crossed the floor. His pudgy fingers wrenched open the fridge door and pulled out one of the several different types of beer she kept on hand for those who came through dumping off cadavers. Because of the undertaker shortage, the hunters journeyed a long distance to her. She offered them a respite from the road, and the hunters provided her a portion of their bounty. The hunter twisted off the beer cap and threw it into the sink, where it bounced around with a few clinks. Darria cringed. He tossed back the beer and drank it down in two large gulps. He reached for another one and opened it the same way. Gerry leaned on the counter and stared her straight in the eye. “Do you know when the replacement undertakers are coming? I’m getting sick of traveling to this backwater town.”
She shrugged. “Sorry, Gerry. We’re working on it. What did you drop off?”
He reached into his pocket and threw a money clip full of hundreds across the table. “See for yourself, bitch. By the way, your dog is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Gerry walked into the back apartment, trailing clomps of clay all the way.
“Yeah. Fuck you, too.” Omar flipped him the bird behind his back, although Gerry couldn’t hear him. She bit her lip to hold back a laugh.
“Why do you let him treat you that way?” Marie asked.
Darria pulled the money from the clip and counted it. Two thousand dollars. Marie’s question filled her mind, and Stockton’s words of warning before he left popped into her thoughts. She remained on a watch list because she was a necromancer and the powers that be wanted her dead, but Stock had saved her. Because of this, she wasn’t about to rub a hunter the wrong way. “Better safe than sorry. The hunters may hate that they have to come to me, but it’s nice for them to have a friendly
face.” She tucked the money into her pocket, and the responsibility of the body tugged on her consciousness.
“Makes sense, but I’d still slap his ass for talking to me that way. Hunters are assholes. He’s a great example of why I don’t miss working with them.” The sweet smell of Marie’s treats made Darria’s mouth water.
“I agree, but I’m not going to tell them that they can’t bring bodies here. I’d rather have them do that instead of using their cemeteries. They can’t cut the undertakers out of the business. It goes against the way of things. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to work on the corpse. Make yourself comfortable. You’re welcome to use the spare rooms upstairs. I don’t know how long I’m going to be.”
Chapter 4
Darria let the key drop into her palm when she opened the Wunderkammer, the cabinet of curiosities that housed all the strange objects she and the undertakers who had preceded her had amassed. Some had come from the bodies the hunters brought in. Other objects were things that no ordinary person should handle. It stood against a wall all by itself in the basement. Objects put on the shelves faded into the background, obscuring themselves until they were needed or wanted. The cabinet had four shelves. In another lifetime, it might have been a china cabinet displaying all the fine dishes a housewife possessed. Sometime in the last four centuries, it became enchanted. Her memories hadn’t revealed the exact origin of the cabinet. A shrunken head stared at her with an expression of utter fear frozen on its lips. Most of its black hair remained intact in a long braid that curled around its neck stump. Next to that was a two-headed human fetus floating in a jar with a horn sprouting from one head and a hoof for a left leg. An array of bottles and Mason jars filled with indiscernible things made up the top shelf. Some were covered, so she had no idea what was in them. No matter how much her curiosity got the better of her, Darria dared not pull the containers out and see what was inside of them. The second shelf contained different kinds of human skulls from baby ones to an exploded skull to one that could have been a cyclops. Several had long, curved canines, suggesting they might have been vampires. She noticed one that she hadn’t seen before: a mummified woman with long, white hair clinging to her neck. The expression on her face locked in a scream.