Dark Thread

By Crymsyn Hart

Darria tries to take a long deserved break from undertaking, but nothing ever goes as planned. She's just about had it with her handsy assistant, Omar. He still thinks his mummified fingers will rock her world. Corpses are rising from their ashes and trying to kill her. Not to mention her love life is in shambles. With everything heading six feet under, she's tasked with the impossible: finding the undertakers slotted to fill the empty places of their murdered predecessors and bringing them to safety. Some unknown evil is hunting them down and she’s also on the list. If she doesn't find out what this evil is, the universe will unravel and chaos will reign. However, no one is what they seem. Fate brings Darria to her knees, and she must choose what she'll sacrifice. Her life or her love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple Sword Publications
• Release date: Jan 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463464373

Crymsyn Hart

Crymsyn Hart is a bestselling author of Erotic Romance. Her worlds are filled with luscious vampires, gorgeous gods, quirky witches, and everything else that goes bump in the night. Hell, there is even a delicious cheesecake god floating around, but if I were you I wouldn’t eat his brownie cheesecake. Crymsyn worked as a psychic for many years in Boston while attending Emerson College. She graduated with a BFA in Writing, Literature, & Publishing. When she gets bored, she sneaks away to local cemeteries and coffee shops to find peace and quiet. Granted, graveyards might be a great place for the dead, but she still has to listen to their chattering. It can get annoying when all you want to do is write, but she can tell you quite a ghost story. Crymsyn shares her life with a small zoo, two playful puppies and her hubby Mark. If you come after dark, you’re more than likely to find her snuggled up with a gory horror movie, or a bloody vampire movie. Crymsyn has a collection of Living Dead Dolls and five bookshelves overflowing with books. Of course there's always room for more.

Book preview

Dark Thread:

The Undertaker Chronicles Book 3

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.

ISBN: 9780463464373

Copyright © 2020 CRYMSYN HART

Edited by Shoshana Hurwitz

Cover Art Designed by Traci Markou

Chapter 1

Her mouth watered at the aroma permeating the kitchen. The buttery goodness couldn’t come fast enough as the green numbers counted backward on the microwave. The sound of erratic corn kernels exploding in the bag echoed throughout the house. Darria Savege leaned against the kitchen counter and closed her eyes, savoring the fragrance. It brought back memories of the times she and her mother had loaded up a big, red, plastic bowl with enough white, fluffy popcorn to make themselves sick. A stack of videos waited for them on the coffee table. They had stayed up until Darria’s eyes drooped and she fell asleep on the couch. Those were happy times—times before it all started to disintegrate.

Hey Toots, are you going to watch the movies or not? That beeper’s gone off three times now.

Her eyes snapped open. She focused on the voice and saw her familiar in the doorway. Omar balanced on his wrist bone nub. Leathery skin stretched over the left-handed appendage. Worn, linen bandages clung to his brown flesh. The tips of his middle and index fingers down to the first knuckle were nothing but bone. Tonight, they were having a movie night. She needed a night off from processing bodies that the hunters dumped in her coal chute or on her back stoop.

Darria tugged on the mental leash connecting them. Omar squealed and flew into the kitchen, landing at her feet.

Hey! No need for that. Omar poked her leg.

Ignoring the sharp point of his bony finger, she opened the microwave and yanked out the hot bag of popcorn. Darria bounced the bag between her hands before throwing it onto the counter. She sucked on her fingertips to cool the scorched skin. Once she could, Darria ripped open the bag, and a blast of salty air hit her face. How many times have I told you not to call me Toots, babe, sexy, or something of that nature?

"It’s true, though; you are hot stuff. I don’t say that because you resurrected me. If you’d let me, I could bring you so much pleasure. You’d beg me not to stop massaging your...." He wiggled his bony fingers, emphasizing the singularity of his middle finger.

Ew. Omar, just because you copped a feel when I was semi-dead doesn’t mean you can take advantage. Enough with the hand jokes. Sometimes, you go too far. I should feed you to Gabbie once and for all. She popped a few of the steaming kernels into her mouth and walked past her familiar into the living room. Omar scurried after her.

Darria glanced at the stack of DVDs and rolled her eyes. Omar had picked the movie lineup. She sunk into the couch and cupped the bag close to her chest, absorbing the residual warmth from the popcorn. A chill lingered in the room. The wind rattled the windows, and a snowy mix pelted the house. Gray clouds had bloated the sky for several days, and now they released their bounty. The blue screen glared at her in the darkness. A forty-inch flat-screen hung on the wall. She hadn’t gotten around to updating the furniture yet. The green couch was raggedy but comfortable. If she sat on it long enough, it sucked her in and wouldn’t release her from its squishy cushions. Omar hopped on the table next to the pile of movies, which was taller than him.

Which one do you want to watch first? His pinky kept twitching from the excitement.

She bit her lip to keep from laughing at his enthusiasm. Darria set the popcorn down and perused the movies. A few of them were from her collection, but some he had ordered from the Internet. Omar often complained that she was overworked. The undertaker shortage had caught up to her in a big way. Questions weighed on her mind that she had been unable to solve. From where had the undertakers come? How could she put the deceased undertakers to rest? How could she control her power?

If you don’t decide, I’m going to put one in, and you won’t have a hand in the choice.

Cute, Omar.

He took a half bow. Why, yes, I am.

You are a sarcastic ass sometimes.

Gabbie grumbled in agreement from her spot in the corner. Darria still couldn’t understand the gargoyle except for a few sounds that she identified as yes and no. At least Omar could translate for her. The gargoyle had chosen to stay after Darria rescued Gabbie from the other undertaker she had interred. An assassin had murdered him and his assistant along with eight others, including her precursor, Abner Archer. After three years of being an undertaker’s assistant, in one whirlwind week, she had become an undertaker, discovered she was a powerful necromancer, learned a soul eater was hell-bent on freeing Medusa and her sisters from purgatory, and the local graveyard owner was a grim reaper.

All of that happened a year ago.

How can I be an ass when I only have five fingers, a palm, and a wrist bone nub?

Why do I put up with you? Darria muttered, running her finger down the pillar of DVDs.

Because you used your dark, evil powers to bring me back to life and make me your love slave.

Darria winced at his speech. I don’t appreciate being called evil or dark. She tried everything she could to distance herself from the shady path most necromancers walked. Power tingled her insides when she thought about her necromantic ability. The link flared between her and Omar. Before she could stop it, a bolt of energy rode the connection.

Blue flames engulfed his fingers. Ouch! Gee. Can you put me out? Omar rubbed his thumb and index finger together. Why did you do that? I was kidding.

Darria yanked back her power and shoved it into the confines of her mind. Sorry. I didn’t mean it.

I know. It’s okay. You’re doing better at controlling it with your emotions.

Darria sighed and tried to be uplifted by her familiar’s comment. Omar was loyal, but it wasn’t getting any easier. Her power continued to grow. Nothing she found enabled her to get a better handle on it. You don’t have to placate me. I appreciate the sentiments, though.

You’re my Mistress of the Dark. I’d do anything to make you happy. If only you’d let me use these digits to please you even more. Then I could—

Ew. Enough of the dirty talk. Elvira is the Mistress of the Dark. I’m not skinny, and I don’t have her tits. By the way, some of these movies don’t have a hand as the main character. Do you realize that?

What do you mean? All of them are about hands. They make the movie.

Darria scanned the list again.

Addams Family Values

Waxwork

Idle Hands

Evil Dead 2

The Hand

Severed Ties

The Beast with Five Fingers

Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors

The Crawling Hand

Quicksilver Highway

And Now the Screaming Starts

The Hands of Orlac

Netherworld

Waxwork II: Lost In Time

Invasion of the Saucer Men

"Omar ... in Waxwork, the hand is a minor subplot they weave into the movie to get a sequel. In Netherworld, the hand isn’t even a character. It flies around and kills people."

No. It’s the star.

How do you know about the movies, anyway? A few of these are from my shelf, but what about the others?

Omar opened one of the movies and placed it into the DVD tray. I have free time and interests outside of undertaking. I gleaned some of their plots from your memories and the pictures on the cases. The rest ... well, the Internet is shiny.

She chuckled. Don’t let it get too shiny that you overdraw the bank account.

Omar pushed the tray back into the machine, and the blue television screen changed to the coming attractions. If you’ve looked at our bank account lately, then you know you have enough in there for several lifetimes.

It was true. From all the bounties the hunters had brought her, and from the amount accumulated by the past undertakers, she was a rich woman. If she ever wanted to retire and get out of the undertaking business altogether, Darria figured it could happen, although she would lose more than the money. When she had inherited the job, the house, the bank account, and other responsibilities fell onto her shoulders. The major obligation she hadn’t accomplished was interring the eight murdered undertakers and their assistants. Her heart hitched when she thought about it. They didn’t deserve to be left rotting in their workrooms.

I know.

Cheer up, babe. Omar patted her knee. His fingers crawled a little further along her thigh.

Thanks, but stop feeling me up. You’re the one who bugged me to watch the movies. So watch them, and keep your hand off.

"I could rub your neck and your shoulders. You love it when I do that." Omar’s voice dropped to his version of a seductive whisper. It made him sound like a screechy baritone horn.

Darria didn’t answer as the movie menu popped up. He hopped up onto the back of the couch and dug into the curve of her neck. A small moan escaped her lips when he hit the tensest spot.

See. I told you how much you’d love it. Why don’t you admit it?

Because it’d only encourage you. Besides, how can you see the movie, anyway?

You’re changing the subject. Dearest mistress, relax and forget about everything. I’m going to work out these knots and watch the videos.

Darria wasn’t going to argue with him. The title came on: Waxwork. It was one of her favorite movies because the individual scenes in the waxwork were set up as horror movies that came to life. She could imagine some unknown audience gawking at a tableau of her life during the various snippets where she had fought snake-haired monsters, raised an army of the dead, stood up to the banshee queen, wandered through an undead carnival, and worked on various monsters. What would the world think? The paranormal was not something she had taken into account until she took her job. Then, her world changed.

Omar kneaded her muscles until her eyes drooped.

Mad screaming awoke Darria. She opened her eyes to see Evil Dead II on the television when Ash chops off his hand. Omar’s fingers wiggled, and he giggled in demented glee by the antics of the possessed hand. It was creepy even for her, but she wasn’t going to interrupt him. The bag of popcorn was nothing more than burnt kernels and congealed butter. A stray piece clung to the corner. She fished it out. Omar squealed on the other side of the couch. A shimmer of the spirit animating the hand glistened into the form of a person. Once she blinked, the vision broke apart.

She got up to stretch her legs. The clock above the television read three in the morning. Darria rolled her shoulders, glad to find the knots freed, and headed toward the kitchen. Someone knocked on the door. A corpse at this hour? That’s all I need! But she didn’t hear the familiar sound of someone dropping a body onto her doorstep. Instead, her other sense tingled: the necromantic one.

A steady thud on the wooden door vibrated the house. It originated from the front door and not from the back, where everyone entered. She turned back in the hallway and headed toward the front. Omar didn’t seem to notice the disturbance. The knocking continued, a steady tempo that kept time with her heartbeat. The dull thunk of the knocker falling back against the metal plate irritated her. Darria held back her power and opened the door. Thick fog enveloped the outside world. Threads of vapor slithered along the porch, banking at the door. One tendril crossed the threshold and wrapped itself around her left ankle. The gentle caress didn’t pull her into the miasma. It piqued her interest, luring her forward until she had left the safety of the house and stood at the top of the steps. Her fingertips tingled as her power threatened to break loose. Something lingered at the end of the stairs. Something dead. A silhouette grew sharper at the bottom step. Before she knew it, Darria stood on the third step eye to eye with the figure.

He wore a dark blue jacket over a white shirt and jeans. Dark red blemishes from old blood stained the apron he wore over his clothes, a macabre Rorschach shifting every time she stared at them. His left eye dangled from its socket on the string of his optic nerve. The right side of his face was scarcely more than bone with bits of sinew holding him together. Tufts of white hair clung to the top of his skull. The left side of his throat had been torn out. Her power flared at the presence of his soul, animating the dead flesh. Darria unfurled her fingers and relaxed the hold on her necromancy.

Why have you come here?

It’s time....

She strained to make out the hollow whisper of the man’s voice. His mouth moved, but only a gurgling sound escaped his throat. His bottom jaw creaked. A light wind drew goosebumps along her flesh. The haze thickened.

Time for what? Who are you? she demanded. Her cool necromantic power raced through her, but she held it back in check. It was like wrestling with a snake. It constantly yearned to slip from her grasp. It reacted against her will at times, no matter how much she tried to tame it. This zombified man garbled something else and pointed toward her left arm.

Flesh tingled underneath her sleeve. Darria rolled it up. The six-inch safety pin tattooed on her inner arm crackled with green energy. The clasp end protruded from her body, gaining weight until she plucked the whole thing from her skin. The safety pin was a heavy, brass antique from the 1850s, but the idea of the pin had been around for a long time, and the same was true regarding the key on her right arm. When she took on the undertaking apprenticeship, Abner had given her a regular brass key. The key had grown three inches long with three loops on the top of it, making it into a genuine skeleton key that could open any door. No one suspected that her tattoos became real. On her left arm, besides the safety pin, was a spell to cross over human souls and an angel feather. The detailed lines and iridescent colors of the feather reminded her of the one who had given it to her. Her heart stirred at the thought of Stockton.

The touch of the mist on her hand brought her back from her thoughts so she could concentrate on the pin and the undead man before her. Are you the undertaker who this belonged to? Darria prayed it wasn’t because she assumed his spirit had crossed over along with all the other undertakers.

No, but I come on his behalf. We all did. Standing behind the corpse were a dozen more spirits in the same state of decomposition. These were the undertakers and the assistants she had been trying so desperately to inter.

Are you all bound to your flesh? Omar got your addresses so I could collect your remains and then bury you. Whenever she tried to use her key to get to them, the door she opened led to somewhere else in her house. It left her frustrated.

Things have changed. Put us to rest. Then deliver our relics to the next undertaker to which they belong. Do it before destiny takes a darker turn. The web of Fate has blinded itself. Darkness has threaded into the weave.

Wait. I’ll do what you ask, but I can’t leave my post. There’s already a shortage of undertakers as it is. How am I going to find the person who owns this? What do you mean about a darker weave?

As an undertaker, you have to collect artifacts, fill in when needed, and do whatever the conclave asks you to do.

Conclave? I haven’t heard of any conclave. Even with the others’ memories, I don’t know anything about it.

Threads are unraveling. Put us to rest before chaos ensues.... The fog thickened into an impenetrable curtain, swallowing the shadowy shapes.

Darria stepped down to follow the ghosts, but she bounced off the curtain of vapor and hit her head on the pavement.

Chapter 2

Darria, are you okay?

Concern-filled, blue-gray eyes stared down at her. Sunlight caught the silver strands woven through her harvester’s unfettered, brown hair. His energy announced that he was dead, and yet, something animated him. His soul. Oliver’s furrowed brow and the tense line of his mouth showed his worry. Darria had feelings for him, but she hadn’t acted upon them. They had kept their distance unless it was related to work.

Can you hear me? His fingers trailed along her face. His touch left cool traces on her cheek. She blinked and realized that she wasn’t dreaming.

I hear you. Oliver helped her sit up.

Mr. Letum, is she going to be okay?

Darria glanced over to the small group of people gathered around her front lawn. She recognized her neighbors from their comings and goings. They barely spoke except for the occasional hello and goodbye. A teenage boy talked to Oliver. He lived directly across the street from the funeral home. Mulligan was the family name.

Yes, Rory. Ms. Savege is fine. Thank you for coming to get me and telling me she’s out here. Oliver lifted Darria to her feet and pressed his palm against her back.

Darria eyed the boy. Blond hair stuck out everywhere around his head. Freckles covered his entire cheeks. His hazel eyes were too big for his face. His face was round, but his chin was pointy. Rory was in the awkward stage, tripping over his limbs. She smiled back and leaned against Oliver. Being against him felt right.

How long have I been out here? she asked.

Omar started shouting for me a few hours ago when he couldn’t find you. I would’ve been here sooner, but I was helping some other reapers catch up on their lists. Flitting between dimensions makes it tricky to hear sometimes. Rory came into the graveyard, and I came right over when I heard him.

Thank you for finding me, Rory. I must’ve been sleepwalking and hit my head. How did you know to get Mr.— She glanced at Oliver and struggled to recall the name the boy called him. Letum?

The gaggle of neighbors went back to their houses when nothing else happened. Rory remained looking on with a mixture of awe and terror. His cheeks turned a dark scarlet when he realized that Darria caught him looking at them. He immediately studied the untied laces of his blue sneakers. He muttered something.

Sorry. I didn’t hear you, Darria said to him. She figured he was somewhere around seventeen or eighteen. He was wearing a ragged T-shirt sporting a logo of some comic book hero she vaguely recognized. His jeans were ratty, and his sneakers had more holes in them than she could count.

He met her eyes. I know what you and Mr. Letum are. I know what goes on around here.

No one in town knew much about her or her job save that she lived in a private funeral home. If anyone questioned her about doing funerals for the public, she declined. Oliver never interacted with the community. Humans could walk through his graveyard during the day, but at night, no one could enter.

I’m not sure what you mean. I run an exclusive funeral home with a few select clients. Darria had her undertaker’s license even though she had no formal training. If it came down to it, she could embalm a human corpse. The knowledge came with the memories of the undertakers who came before her. It was part of the cover that came with her position.

Your aura is a mixture of death and life. You have a dismembered left hand that runs around the property and some animal. It’s kind of like a giant lion creature with wings. It sits on the roof at night, protecting the house. Sometimes, she bays at the moon.

Darria had gotten used to Gabbie howling at night. It troubled her that Rory identified her.

Rory’s psychic. He sees through the veils obscuring this house, you, and me, Oliver informed her.

She nodded, accepting the explanation. Okay. Thank you for fetching Oliver, but please don’t tell anyone. Most people don’t know what goes on here.

Don’t worry. I think it’s cool. Mr. Letum said you’d show me around some time. Rory glanced at her with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Yeah. I can do that. Not today, though. Darria felt the world spin and grabbed onto Oliver.

Cool! Well, I have to go. My mom wants me back. Rory glanced back toward his house. Darria looked over. His mother stood on the porch. She raised her hand and waited, but the mother did not return the gesture. Rory bounced across the street and slipped into