The Undertaker
The man simply known as Undertaker kept an establishment in the more dubious parts of London, along a cobbled street that was mainly deserted during the day, but thrived with life in the late hours of the night. It was a place where the good people of London knew to avoid unless they wanted to be drawn permanently into the sorts of activities that the Queen's Bloodhounds had to be called into to deal with.
This particular establishment was known for a level of professionalism that most undertakers weren't known for. Of course, maybe that was because of the things and people that Undertaker was used to dealing with. Everyone had heard of the odd people who actively sought out his advice; herbalists who didn't just sell common remedies in glass vials, and embalmers who weren't known for keeping the dead, dead. Most of all, everyone had heard rumours of what exactly Undertaker did, and what he kept in the dungeon under his store. Whispers circulated among the seedier social circles of an undead corpse army, black magic rituals that required a virgin's beating heart, demons he'd summoned from the pits of Hell and of secret societies and devil-worshipping cults who met in the dead of the night.
All these theories were quite worrying, if not a bit amusing, to Undertaker, who worried about the sorts of people the Queen employed to ensure peace and normalcy among the people of London. They were the sorts of people who were a threat to his slowly dwindling business. It caused him great, unnecessary anxiety, considering the only thing he kept in his dungeon was a single, carved coffin.
A golden glow from a candle was cast into the room, dancing across the uneven surface of the stone floor, playing on the patches of mould that had gathered from the moisture in the dank dungeon. Undertaker grasped a white, tapered candle in his spindly fingers and shuffled further down the rotting wood stairs that led from the only entrance and exit into the dungeon; an archway hidden behind a cabinet where he kept fascinating looking crystals on display for particular clients.
As he descended further, a curiously small coffin was revealed, sitting atop a raised platform. Next to it was a rounded table where an unlit stubbly candle stood on a golden disk, and next to it a goblet encrusted with rich jewels. Undertaker scuffled to the table, carefully balancing the candle he'd held on the tabletop. Fully illuminated, the polished oak coffin was a work of art, carved intricately with reliefs of exotic flowers and powerful angels. Undertaker leant over the coffin, and gently pushed the lid off so as not to damage his masterpiece, his most treasured work.
Inside was a mirage of beauty in the darkness of the dungeon, a young boy perfectly preserved and nestled in the layers of deep blue satin lining. His waxy pale skin was more alive than it had been in life, under the flickering candlelight, and contrasted beautifully with his thick, ash black hair and the dark lashes of his eyes. He was dressed in a sailor-suit that was fashionable for boys and young men at the time, hand stitched by Undertaker, and cut in a way that revealed his delicate collar bones.
Undertaker gazed down with warm eyes, something that looked unusual on his face, with his dull yellow cat eyes, hollowed cheeks that spoke of years of malnourishment and thin lips that revealed rows of shark teeth. He looked more like an animalistic hybrid than a human; the main reason why his establishment was hidden deeper in London rather than the in the bustling centre where he'd get more customers. His exotic features had the tendency to frighten the good men and women of London.
His hand reached out to gently caress the soft skin of the boy's rounded cheeks, a thumb grazing over the small, shell pink tinted lips that had remained coloured even after so many years had passed. A strange feeling came over him; an agony twisted his gut that no potion could cure, tightness in his chest threatening to choke him. It was a disease that he'd suffered from the moment he'd first laid eyes on the boy, and now during his nightly visits. His fingertips trailed further down, along the delicate throat and came to rest above where the heart would be. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the boy's eyes fluttering open to reveal depths of sapphire blue. He'd sit up, and his kind lips would pull into a secret smile reserved only for him. Under his own hand, he would be able to feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the boy's small hands would come to grasp at his larger ones.
Coldness suddenly swept through the room, snuffing out the candle and plunged the room into darkness, fear like no other clutched his beating heart. Cold drafts weren't uncommon in the dungeon, no matter that it was theoretically impossible for there to even be a breeze this deep down. No, this coldness meant something. Undertaker wasn't particularly a religious man, and he didn't think sudden changes in weather or a flock of ravens was an omen like some of the more bizarre customers believed, but even he would be stupid to believe that this sudden occurrence was nothing.
Undertaker whipped around only to find that the room was re-illuminated by three figures that were quickly descending the stairs. There were two men, one short and stocky who held a lamp in one hand, the other tall and willowy with blonde locks long enough to curl into the ironed collar of his shirt and both happened to be wearing matching black suits that were unusual for men to wear. Their companion was a women in a dress made of layers of thick black material, that, like any other dress, cinched tightly at the waist, and created the illusion of shape with the way her breasts were pushed up to allow cleavage, and a bustle gathered low at her back. Her eyes were sharp and regarded him with strong disapproval that marred her otherwise pleasant face.
"Would you like to try a custom-made coffin?" Undertaker asked softly, gesturing to the small coffin behind him. There was no mistaking who these people were or why they were here. No one would dare break into any building along this street at this time of night, knowing the sorts of people who tended to roam around the area at this hour. The Queen's Bloodhounds were the only ones who could break and enter as they pleased and stick their noses in where it wasn't welcomed. They were also the people charged with the responsibility, by the Queen herself, to ensure peace and normalcy in the great city of London.
"No, thank you," she declined. Her voice was crisp and haughty, exuding an air of confidence that here two companions lacked, both of whom were awfully tense for two men who had the audacity to break into a building that was occupied.
"I insist," Undertaker smirked, his unyielding aurulent gaze aggravating the woman. "Although, I find this particular model has already been taken."
"This perversion you keep buried is more loathsome than the black magic you have been accused of invoking!" The woman cried, giving into her female condition. "This poor, sweet boy is too young to have been taken by the likes of you! I won't have this go on any longer!"
Another cold draft swept the room in an icy rush that threatened the flickering lamp held by the shorter man. Undertaker gazed apprehensively around the room, unsure as to why there would be another mysterious breeze; nervously he glanced back at the coffin, relieved to find that the boy was still lying there peacefully. When he turned back around, the Bloodhounds were rushing back up the stairs
Men and women in black cloaks had begun to loiter in the street outside Undertaker's establishment. It was an obvious threat to him directly, and to the boy he kept in the coffin down in his basement. Fortunately for Undertaker, it didn't deter any potential customers. If anything, his clients thrived on the mystery surrounding the men and women in black cloaks, and the incident with the Bloodhounds that everyone seemed to know about despite him not saying a word.
It wasn't until a few weeks after the intrusion that Undertaker knew what was really going on with the people in black cloaks. He'd been polishing an antique water scrying dish made from the ash of human bones when a man wearing a black cloak had entered his fine establishment. He wasn't like the other people in black cloaks; his cloak was frayed at the hem and so faded it appeared bottle green. From under the hood appeared a hooked nose and a drooping wart dotted at the tip.
The man had approached Undertaker, drawn close to his face and whispered in his ear, "Let there be light." Undertaker drew back instantly, frowning at the odd man who'd uttered such a strange phrase, and placed the scrying dish down gently. The strange man clasped his hands, they were clammy and thick-fingered, his grip so strong they were turning his own hands red.
"They know about everything," the man puffed. He was shorter than Undertaker, and kept his head bowed so he couldn't see anything other than the wart on his nose. He did notice a large silver ring on his right hand, with a large sparkling red jewel carved with an ancient rune he didn't recognise. "They know about sorcery, they know about the," the man swallowed thickly. His next word came out in a barely audible whisper, "necromancy. They're going to get rid of all of us. Tonight."
Undertaker recoiled back, pulling his hands away from the strange man. He glanced up, out the windows at the front of his store only to see that every man and woman in a black cloak that had been loitering outside was watching them intently. The man shook his head and left without a word, hurrying down the street with two pursuers on his back.
The strange man was right, that night a fire engulfed the city in flames, eating everything in its path. It hadn't reached the darker parts of London, but it was slowly creeping upon them, if the heavy, dark smoke was anything to go by, or the ash falling from the sky like snow. Undertaker knew something was going to happen when the men and women in black cloaks had been standing in the streets one minute, and gone the next. By then it had already been too late to heed the warning gifted to him by the strange with the hooked nose.
At the first sight of flames, he'd rushed down to the dungeon where he kept the boy. It would be too much, too difficult to drag the coffin with him. Bile rose in his throat, a sickening feeling creeping into his skin at the thought of all the time he'd spent carving the coffin with his bare hands, and now just to leave his most prized piece of work to be eaten by the flames.
Undertaker licked his lips and lifted the boy as gently as he could without jostling his delicate body too much. Smoke had begun to gather quickly inside the establishment, and the heat of the flames was encroaching upon them steadily, hurriedly he concealed the door to the room. His gaze swept around the room, it was difficult to see past the thick, dark smoke, but he already knew he couldn't risk taking anything else while he held his boy. Instead he moved to flee the building, pushing against the hot, stained glass of the door. It wouldn't budge, and he was afraid that the heat had melded it shut. He rammed his shoulder as hard as he could while holding the boy.
Outside the orange flames were dancing high, and he could hear the crackling as it consumed everything in its path. Vaguely, as he realised that he couldn't leave while he had the boy with him, the words of the Bloodhounds echoed in his ears, as if they were standing right beside him, warning him that there would be consequences for his blasphemous actions.
He leant the boy against the hot glass of the store's front windows, and went back to the counter of the store where'd he'd left a steaming cup of tea he'd made while watching the smoke rise, hours before he saw the flames. His spindly fingers had wrapped around the delicate curve of a tea cup, inside a dark black liquid sip. He took a deep slurp in hopes that the lukewarm liquid would mask the thick feeling that always coiled at his stomach. It was a heavy black tea that smelt of smoked wood, something he'd acquired from a bizarre customer who's come to him asking of necromancy. At the time he'd laughed at the mere suggestion of wielding such powers.