by Crymsyn Hart
Darria stepped down from the center of the concrete circle and walked among the dead. Their flames drew closer to her. She held out her hand and brushed her fingers over one of the tendrils. Once she connected with the energy, it left a coppery taste in her mouth. The flame morphed into the shape of a small boy. He flashed her a grin with his front teeth missing and held out his hand.
Darria sensed the bond created between them. She granted this soul the ability to take shape. He reached for her, but before she could touch him, someone grabbed her wrist. The cold that shot through her was stronger than anything she had felt before. Darria yanked her hand away and hissed. Hearing the sound spill from her lips surprised her along with the added strength that came with it.
“Careful, necromancer, or I will drop you where you stand. Your soul might have already paid for its journey across my domain, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take you early.” No amount of power could stand up against the being who uttered the warning and stepped out from the rip in the universe sealing behind him.
The little boy squeaked in fear and backed away. The link between them snapped like a rubber band that hit her in the eye. Darria calmed herself. She was afraid of the dark angel who stood before her, but he had helped her before. This time, the mighty power of his office blasted against her, and she could see his wings.
“Hello, Azrael.” Her voice was calmer than she felt. “I wasn’t going to hurt him or use him for any gruesome purpose. I was intrigued.” Somehow, Darria knew that she could have excreted more of her will and made the little boy her servant.
The dark angel, head of all the harvesters, looked upon her with a flat expression. His power washed over her. Darria did not flinch. Silver moonlight cut around him as though he was a silhouette laid on top of the background. He didn’t belong in this universe, and yet, he was a part of it. Azrael stood seven feet tall. His dark hair hung past his shoulders. He wore a black trench coat, and underneath that were black jeans and a red T-shirt. Full lips hid sharper canine teeth. His black eyes glistened like newly shined marbles. When she looked into them, Darria saw universes and stars exploding in them. The silhouette around his back where his coat came together was the outline of his vast wings.
“You’ve changed,” the Angel of Death remarked with a little hint of awe in his voice.
“For better or for worse?” Darria inquired.
He took her face between his cool hands. His fingers slid over her flesh like silk. The scent of jasmine, cloves, and lilies hung heavily about him. It intoxicated her and nearly made her swoon and yearn for Oliver. She expected the slice of her that was the necromancer to spurn the idea, but no revulsion came up. His long nails scraped burning trails along her cheeks. Darria returned his stare and didn’t look away. The death energy that came off him was tough for her to clarify. If Oliver was a power plant she could siphon energy from, Azrael was a massive sun that would fuel her forever. His energy was endless, timeless. Within him, Darria sensed the spark she recognized as his soul.
“Hekate put her mark upon you in more ways than one.”
“What does that mean?”
His lips turned up in a devilish smile that only twisted her heart more into melting. Azrael took her right arm and trailed his index finger over the flowers, tracing the main vine. The ivy wrapped around her arm and showed more blue blossoms covering her arm up to her shoulder. The red poppies stood out more than they had before.
“Do you know what these flowers mean?”
“They’re symbols of death. They have something to do with how much magic or power goes with the office. Marie has them. Sophia had them. Obviously, I’ve done something right because they keep opening.”
Azrael touched one of the closed poppies. The flower quivered and began to open. “Poppies were used in ancient times with priests and shamans to send their souls into the spirit worlds. If they took too much, they could die. It was a gamble; they knew that. Some say the poppies signify resurrection after death. In the beginning, that’s what an undertaker was: a bridge between life, death, and resurrection. Before Hekate and the other gods got involved, tying themselves to their specific religions and the forms they have now, they were powerful beings with different names that humans worshipped. Some called them gods, demigods, or spirits that were thought into being. Put together enough mortals and an effigy of what they think a god looks like along with the mythology to back it, a spirit can latch on to that or come into being. The death gods were luckier than most because death will always exist in one form or another. Across dimensions, worlds, universes, and realms, they are always going to be there the same way death is. Sorry, I digress. Undertakers were originally the shamans, the priests, and the theurgists of the day. They had a bit of psychic power, whether they realized it or not. Supernatural creatures were drawn to them. They could appeal to the gods for them.”
“Wouldn’t the supernatural creatures have their own set of gods when it came to crossing their souls over?” Darria asked, intrigued by his story. Azrael was soft-spoken, but he wove a tale that pulled her in. She had nearly forgotten that he was holding her arm, and it was slowly growing numb and painful from the cold seeping into her veins.
“You would think so, but not in your world. Maybe in mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to think about it.”
“You’re not all here, are you?” He seemed more of a cardboard cutout of himself, and yet, he remained physical.
He cocked his head to the side. “Very good on noticing. You wouldn’t have caught that before. I bet you see more of me than you did before. Yes?”
“I can see your wings, but you look kinda flat.”
“To answer your earlier question, no, I’m not all here. I have other things going on. Like all those who work under me, I can split myself into various slices, so I can be in many places at one time. Right now, others need more than you do. I think you got the whole of me before when you were infested with the essence of the banshees.”
“Is Kerstin okay?” Darria had liked the other grim reaper who had kept her company once.
Azrael’s brows bunched together. “She’s having troubles of her own. There’s nothing I can do to help her until she figures it out. It’s a long story.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I like Kerstin.”
“I do, too. She’s suffered because of the choices she made. Enough about that, though; my time is limited here, and I was telling you about undertakers.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Because the preternatural beings went to the priests and shamans, those death gods who hung around certain tribes took notice. They implored the shamans to be the intermediaries between the spirits of the dead and the death gods. As payment, the supernatural creatures brought poppies. The gods were drawn to particular priests who they felt were the most powerful. These priests soon marked themselves with tattoos of poppies. Hekate told you about the objects, like your key. The gods thought they could control the undertakers, but things don’t always go the way you want them to. The death gods weren’t the only ones who took notice of the souls the humans were helping. The Ruler of the Dead wasn’t happy that he wasn’t being consulted. He had to make sure all the souls got to where they were going.”
“And that wasn’t you?”
Azrael shook his head. “No. It was well before my time. My history is a bit jaded and not up for discussion.”
“Sorry. What happened?”
He licked his lips, and his eyes burned deep crimson. He grimaced, and his canines flashed in the moonlight. “Forgive me. The rest will have to wait. I have to go.” A rip in the universe appeared, and Darria distinctively saw the curved blade of a large scythe make the cut. The cold of the expanse behind him called to her for a quiet place for her to retreat.
“Wait. What about Oliver? He said you revoked my access to the cemetery and to him.”
Azrael’s wings enclosed him. He stepped backward into the rift, but they separated, and his eyes narrowe
d. His eyes were no longer the wisdom-filled ones with galaxies exploding in them. Instead, they were full of a hunger and a longing she could not understand. His lips twisted up into a snarl.
“I told Oliver no such thing. All I told you was never to take over one of my harvesters again, or there would be dire consequences.”
She tried to ask him another question, but he floated back into the darkened chasm. She had a few more tidbits of information and applied it to what she had learned from Hekate. Undertakers were far older than what she had imagined. Darria didn’t know how far back her memories went, probably thousands of years over hundreds of undertakers, to whenever the death gods had assigned themselves to a line of undertakers. Of course, that didn’t figure into how the hunters worked and how the grim reapers came along. I bet that had something to do with the Ruler of Death, and he wasn’t happy about the death gods using the souls of the undertakers who were helping the supernatural creatures cross over and that his reapers were not doing their jobs. Supernatural creatures were no longer seeking out undertakers. The agreement with the undertakers and the hunters dated back a long time. The hunters provided the money or the goods the undertakers needed. The undertakers would take the souls and provide a respite for the hunters and give them shelter. Omar had said something about undertakers in the past being killed. Omar had served in a temple as an undertaker, but she couldn’t access those memories. She had tried to recall them but hadn’t been able to. It made her wonder.
Darria shook her head. Before all this had happened, she was headed over to Rory’s to see if he could tell her what the piece of paper was that they had found in Gerry’s pocket. It had to mean something. Her personal life was in shambles. Oliver was the last of her worries. It coiled her heart into knots to think that he didn’t want her anymore. He had lied to her and figured she would never find out. Her emotions locked in her throat and tears threatened, but she pushed them out of her mind. Darria had to work with him as an undertaker. Staring up into the night, she noticed that the moon looked different. A half-moon instead of a crescent hung in the night. Darria wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and chose one of the paths back to her neighborhood. Spirit flames skated closer to her and lit her way to the front of the cemetery. Her stomach growled as she got closer to the front.
Being removed from reality had caught up to her. The air around her grew heavier, signaling that she had returned to her own realm. When she got to the front, the souls remained near their stones. The name above the cemetery gate in the scrolled iron didn’t waver any more, and she could finally read it.
Requiem aeternam intra iacet. Eternal rest lies within.
Darria chuckled at the message. All along, she had assumed it was going to be some kind of name for the place like Resurrection Cemetery or Our Lady of the Sanguine Heart. Her stomach growled again, and she felt the other needs her body had. Darria touched the front gate and pushed it. This time, it opened for her. She slid through the opening and heard it click shut behind her. When she glanced back, the padlock remained on the gate. When she tried to get it open again, it wouldn’t budge. Darria touched the cold iron and found it solid. Power hummed within, but this was Oliver’s working, blocking her from the boneyard. Tears gathered in her eyes. She didn’t think she would be so distraught that her world had ended because she couldn’t get back into the place that was part of him.
It must’ve been how he felt when I pushed him out of the house and didn’t give him any explanation. The key could open the padlock if she really wanted it to, but she wasn’t going to break into the graveyard.
What if? She brushed her hand over one of the open blossoms and plucked it from her arm. The red blossom grew until it was eight inches around and the stem was a foot long. The image of the bloom remained in her arm, but it was slightly faded as though needed a touch-up. She carefully pushed the flower through the bars and focused on the nearest spirit.
“Tell Oliver who this is from, and make sure that no one else picks it up. Do you understand?” Her tone was harsh. She pushed a little bit of her power into the spirit, creating a tenuous link between her and it. It didn’t gain form, but it was obvious that she controlled it.
“Yes,” it whispered, guarding the flower.
“Darria. Please, Mistress of the Evil Darkness, come back to me. I’ll be a good hand. I’ll please you in any way you wish. My magic fingers will massage you in ways you’ve never imagined. Answer me.” His desperation enveloped her.
Darria reached along their thread and reassured him, “Don’t worry. I’m coming home.”
Chapter 9
Once Darria opened the kitchen door, Gabbie knocked her to the floor. Her tongue swiped upward, catching the tip of her nose and covering her with slobber. The gargoyle’s paws wrapped around her neck, and its claws sunk into her shoulders. She didn’t mind the pain and hugged the creature back. Her deep, rumbling purr vibrated Darria’s chest.
“I’m so glad you’re back. Omar’s been such a bear. Where did you go? You’ve been gone for two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Who’s been taking care of the bodies?” Darria asked.
“Marie. She’s been great. None of the hunters have suspected that you were gone.”
“That’s great. Gabbie, you gotta get off me. I can’t breathe.”
The gargoyle moved off Darria and sat on the floor. “Wait. You can hear me.”
Darria stood up and stretched. She did a double take and stared at the gargoyle. Before she could answer, she was hit with another rush of energy and strong fingers on her throat that worked her shoulder. Her first instinct was to discipline him and throw him off of her, but Darria resisted. She couldn’t hurt Omar. Instead, she touched his wrist nub and pushed a little bit of energy into him, thinking it would do nothing except give him a buzz. His fingers spasmed, and he fell to the floor, convulsed, and lay still. The link between them was full of euphoria.
“You’ve changed.” Marie came into the kitchen and picked up the mummified appendage. She stroked the back of the left hand, and Darria sensed more of him quaking.
“He’ll be fine,” she responded.
Marie placed Omar on the counter. Her power swept over her, but it didn’t turn her stomach. “Hekate marked you.”
“In more ways than one,” Darria whispered. The cast of characters she acquired all stared at her, waiting for an answer. She flashed them a smile, excused herself, and headed to the bathroom. When she came back out, Darria went to the fridge and pulled out the fixings to make a sandwich. Marie and Gabbie waited for her to talk, but all she could do was eat. Omar’s mummified fingers twitched as he drew back to consciousness. Once she was done, she picked up her familiar and poked him.
“You okay, old man?” Darria rubbed his palm.
“I’m not an old mmmann,” he cooed. He tried to get up, but he wobbled on his fingers and fell back down.
Everyone laughed and then the silence grew heavy as they all waited for Darria to speak. Darria contemplated how she could hear Gabbie. How else have I changed? She needed to know, but responsibilities loomed over her. Learning the history of the undertakers stirred up more questions. Who was behind the werewolf resurrection? Were they the same as the ones coming after her gang? Had they sent Gerry after her? She had to find out.
“You’re all wondering what happened to me.” Omar slowly crept up her shoulder, grabbing a handful of her breast. “Getting enough boob in that palm of yours?”
“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he said innocently. He was never going to change, but at least he provided comic relief.
Marie sat at the table and pushed out a chair with her foot. “Why don’t you tell us what the hell happened? We’ve all been worried about where you went. I knew you weren’t dead because Omar was still skittering around and trying to sneak under the covers with me.”
Darria bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” She told them that instead of going to see Rory, she had ended up at th
e graveyard and how she had been confronted by Hekate.
“When Hekate decided to pull me apart, she set me in some kind of pocket reality. It wasn’t much time to me, but obviously, time passed here. Did anything happen?” Darria sat in the chair and stifled a yawn. Her entire body was heavy. She could barely keep her eyes open.
“That sounds about right. It’s what happens when Papa Legba and I talk at times, too,” Marie told her.
“Do you talk to Legba much? Gerry had his mark on him. Did you....”
“Already tried to contact him while you were gone, but I couldn’t reach him. He can be an asshole sometimes, but he always answers me in some way, shape, or form. It’s been really quiet. Haven’t you noticed?”
Darria shrugged. “I’ve been too busy. Up until recently, I haven’t really figured out how to talk to a ghost.”
“You can reach out to the undertakers who have passed on and see what they know,” Marie suggested.
“You’d be the better one for it. You know what you’re doing more than me dealing with the dead,” Darria replied. She rested her head on her hand and stifled a yawn.
“True, but they’re tied to you because you’ve been fingered to hunt down all their objects. I think you need to do that soon.”
“It’s the next thing on my list. First, I need to sleep and take a shower. Can you guys hold down the fort until then?” Darria got up but fell back down into the chair.
Gabbie grumbled something she couldn’t understand. Marie went to her side, and Omar was silent. Their silence did not make her feel any better. Her familiar always talked. If not, he tried to entice her into bed. “Okay. What’s going on?”