The sun hung lazily behind the multitude of clouds in the greying sky as he made it back to his shop, and one by one he unloaded the pine coffins and placed them side-by-side along the floor within his parlor. He had caught a glimpse of some of the cadavers before they had been brought to his cart and placed inside, but he found himself eager to examine them further—a conniving delight similar to a small child's as they awaited Saint Nicolas on Christmas Eve. Nicole usually tried to make clean work of her victims, but rarely was it so: Despite her success, she just wasn't skilled enough a killer, and no doubt it didn't help that she favored her sword so readily over firearms. He knew she had a pistol that she always kept at her side, but rarely did he see a corpse of her making plugged by a bullet. Not that he minded the extra work she gave him—in fact, he rather enjoyed it. Her wicked dance of death was interesting enough to watch in the eyes of those whose lives she had ended.
He didn't even mind the one she had let live out of the bunch. Whatever risk it pertained to her by allowing one criminal she had sparred with to be taken by the police, in the end, he knew, the lad's body would wind up like the others. And she knew it as well—that the insurgent youth was just as good as dead. Within a week's time, once the police were through interrogating him, he would be found guilty and strung upon the scaffold. Another life vanquished by her actions: Another guest to prepare for whatever was planned to do with his remains. It was a nice little arrangement they had.
Granted—and the retired Shinigami smiled at the thought of it—Nicole was completely oblivious to what became of many of those she had slain. If she only knew… Well, he imagined she wouldn't take well to the knowledge: He had doubts in her ability to cope with something as that. And it served better for his own purposes that she remained naïve, lest whatever the cost to herself may be she released herself of all ties to him. Though a tiny, insignificant piece in a game of his design—an extra card added to the deck—the woman was a convenient one to keep around. A puppet that played a very minor role in the show, that moved on its own accord and could snap its own strings, yet was easily manipulatable and only added to the scenes she performed in.
And she had played her part well in the previous scene, giving him some laughs and presenting him with a few more dollies to partake in the performance.
He had promised the families of the trio of bodies had been claimed that the remains of their loved ones would be cremated or buried—ashes scattered in some unknown location or corpse placed within an unmarked grave as post-mortem punishment dictated; a complete waste in his eyes. Nevertheless, he would fulfill his word to them. The fate of the others was left to his own discretion, and he found it far more suiting that their remains be used for something of value rather than be delivered unsentimental rites under a false sense of moral obligation to the departed. Those mortal shells would instead be used to create something… beautiful.
His fingers idly roamed to the mourning chain at his waist, running along the surface of each of the seven lockets as he briefly recited the names belonging to them in his mind. Unhooking its small latch, the Undertaker removed it from his person momentarily to shed the hat, sash, and large overcoat draped around him—placing all three garments atop an empty, mahogany coffin—so he might continue his work with greater ease. He slipped his ring from his finger and onto the chain for safe keeping before refastening the latch as he bound his treasures to him once more. Then he locked the door to avoid any interruptions for the remainder of the day.
His gaze fell upon the row of pine boxes and he approached the one resting on his far right first. He opened each and examined them carefully: All were still stiff from rigor mortis and putrefaction had yet to set in, though some already bore blisters. He only found dissatisfaction in one—the only one of which Nicole had clearly used her pistol against at close range, obvious by the bullet wound and the significant damage done to the front of the skull, making the man almost unrecognizable. Perhaps the youth had caught her off guard and forced her to act quickly in to order to fend for herself, not that it mattered: What did matter was that this one was practically useless to him.
The rest were of more adequate condition: most with injuries focused around the abdomen, two whose throats had been slit open, one whose ligaments had been severed at the back of the knee—good; she was heeding his occasional advice—and another whose forearm had been hacked halfway through. Include the fellow who had been shot by one of the farmers and he had quite the intriguing mix. Two corpses to bury within a criminals' cemetery, one to cremate, and one beyond use, leaving four remaining for him to work with for the time being: Not a bad day's collection.
True, Karnstein Hospital gave him a near endless supply, but acting as the hospital director's, Ryan Stoker's, 'research partner' presented a few limitations in its own right. It was certain that progress had escalated in his experiments with his Bizarre Dolls due to their aid, yet he found it much more preferable to work at his own pace without the need to cover the reality to their test subjects' resurrections.
Hefting one body from its coffin—a lad who looked not quite yet a man, but sported whiskers upon his face frozen in pain—he carried it into the back room where an embalming table had already been set up and placed it upon its flat surface.
Trails of already dried crimson ran along the corners of the body's mouth as well as soaked its vest and undershirt. He gave a single, long whistle as he leaned over the corpse and began to prod the wound upon its chest with his finger. It was a large gash—considering the type of blade Nicole used—which cut right through the lung: Based on just that simple glance, he suspected that upon further investigation he would find that she had had to wrestle her spadroon free from the body. One would think years of experience, he inwardly tssked, would've taught her to strike properly and with enough force for a clean cut. Then again, this one may also have caught her off guard. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't seen some steady improvement.
Coagulated blood collected on his fingertips as he pulled his hand away. The Undertaker toyed with the thick liquid a moment before stepping away to wash his hands and collect his tools. An array of equipment and bottled fluids was pulled atop a smaller, second table alongside the body: A gleaming scythe—the metalwork along the snathe detailed with the ribs and skull of a human being and a crown of thorns resting upon its head—was summoned to his hands.
"Come on now, dear, you've barely eaten a thing. You're like a little bird, you are: Scrawny."
"Ha! I only wish my girls had her appetite. They eat as though the world were coming to an end."
"Mama!"
Nicole sat in silence within the circle of women and children, observing the idle chatter and gossip with little interest despite the group's interest in herself—an outsider from London that passed through their village at the worst of times. Bless them; they tried to remain light of heart and good of company, but their smiles and laughter did little to hide the distress and mourn that still lingered over the course of recent events. What right did she have to sit among them?
She had stepped away from the brunt of the work in the fields to assist the rest of the women with the evening meal, just as she had at midday. The majority of the men had meanwhile divided themselves into two groups: One tending to repairs and the other continuing the harvest. The tenant farmers as a whole, however, were working late into the night to fix the damages to their livelihood. Supper had already been delivered to the men; now it was their turn to take a moment's breath and enjoy a bite to eat—huddled together in a mass to fight off the chill of the autumn air, encompassing the soft glow of a fire and the large pot strung above it. Vegetables ripe from the gardens and bread made fresh that morning, the food was nothing to complain about, and yet it still managed to taste stale in her mouth.
"I've been feeling a bit ill lately," she excused herself, allowing her gaze to sink to the warm, creamy mixture contained within her bowl. "Please forgive me."
She couldn't look at the woman sitting apart from her with two small boys in between them: Anna, as she had been introduced. It wasn't often she met the family of the people she killed. She didn't like it, and now, because of her façade, she would sleep within this woman's home that night, in the bed of her dead son whom the Undertaker had carted away with the rest of the criminals. A kind offer and one she hadn't been able to refuse out of politeness in turn, but it sickened her.
How strong this woman was, to try to remain cheerful after the death of her eldest child and to be denied of mourning unlike the families of the group's victims. A criminal was to be forgotten, not grieved for, as a dishonored blot upon a family's name—meant to be scrubbed away as any filthy stain would be. Yet Nicole knew it was not so simple to forget: Instead it haunted you. If only the other knew she sat so close to the cause of her despair, the very woman she shared bread with and gave a roof to for the night…
"If you're unwell then Margaret's food is just what you need," chuckled a pretty girl perhaps a few years younger than she, lush ringlets springing free from her bonnet and a baby less than a year old nestled in her arms. "She practically saved me during my pregnancy with her cooking." Many other women nodded along in agreement and before Nicole could voice against it, another girl refilled her half-eaten bowl of turnip soup with another large helping.
"Thank you," she murmured, forcing a soft smile and spooning a bit of the dish into her mouth even as it caught in her throat.
"Ya said ya were from London, didn' ye?" began to question another young woman in a faded, pink skirt and simple, button-up blouse, "So what's a city girl doing down this way—and all by her lonesome no less? Where's your husband off to?"
"You blind dunce! Can't you see she doesn't have a ring?" one of the others attempted to whisper to the former, much to the amusement of a few members of the surrounding audience.
"I'm not married," Nicole confirmed over their snickering. "I only came to the country for a bit of work in the fields and was just passing through here before returning to London."
"Right in the middle of the harvest?"
"They were supposed to be short on hands," she shrugged, shoveling down a bit more of the soup without raising her eyes from the bowl. Stirring her spoon in the concoction, she added, "It turned out they didn't need any more by the time I got there."
Lies upon lies. Her business wasn't farming; it was blood. The bulk of her time was devoted to her work as a vigilante in secret and a Samaritan of the church in the public eye: However, neither did much of anything to provide food for the table. The very same blade she devoted to protecting some was used to cut her meat and bread as well. Nearly the entirety of her wages consisted of dirty money stained with crimson. Once she realized that her meager funds wouldn't support her forever and what odd small jobs she could get weren't enough to live on, what began as looting what little there often was from those she killed during her vigilante work had transformed into hired theft and the occasional assassination as her reputation grew. Nicole had never actually met with any of her employers in person, but they knew where to put the money out for her. And if she saw it well enough by her own moral code to take the job, she would.
Such as with the man in Maidstone. A local baronet apparently had a fancy for young and pretty girls, but not enough of one to let them live after he had enjoyed their company. As expected, most of the baronet's crimes had been swept under the rug for the longest time. However, the man who had hired her—whose daughter had fallen victim of the baronet one fateful evening before she could return home—was no ordinary commoner; a wealthy member of the highest middle class owning a great deal in stock. Despite how he couldn't get the police to investigate, discovering the matter as an absolute truth had been child's play. Now the baronet was gone and she was several sovereigns richer for the journey.
Nevertheless, she couldn't help but loathe herself even if it was necessary. Dirty money—that's all it was. It wasn't the reason she chose the scorched and broken path she walked on. So when she could she would take whatever work in London she could find by day: laundry, deliveries, an extra pair of hands as needed by whoever could spare a farthing. With as much as she had made in this one job, she wouldn't need to take on any others of its kind for a while. Good fortune that was at least, for it also placed her higher on the Yard's wanted list. In that regard, keeping a low-profile was of greater value than making a living.
"Of all the bigoted things!" barked a grey-haired woman with a missing tooth as her lips curled into a sneer, "Dragging a poor girl all the way out here and then sending her off without an escort! Suppose chivalry truly is dead then!"
"I'm afraid chivalry has nothing to do with business," she dismissed lightly, "especially in this day and age."
"You'd have to know all about that, being from London," pouted one of the younger women. "I've got cousins working in the factories there. They're always worked to the bone."
As the topic gradually shifted away from her, Nicole's thoughts also gradually drifted away from those around her to the affairs she would need to face in the near future. First was the matter of hiding the tools of her trade: A pistol, ammunition, and a spadroon. Easily done if she excused herself outside before turning in for the night, but she would have to avoid prying eyes of the men and their sons who would be working late. If she set out to leave before the tenant farmers finished preparing for the morning, she could risk hiding her belongings not far from the general area and recollect them as she made her way to London.
Then, of course, was the matter of what to do once she arrived there. Nicole had taken care of some matters before her journey, but she had rent to pay and food to buy. What she had hoped to do was sweep by the marketplace to supply her for the next few days, return home to pay her landlady and get some much needed rest, and then resume her vigilante work later that evening. However, a certain mortician had thrown a wrench into that plan.
The Undertaker held no true authority over her and they were far from companions. Yet what he did hold over her was knowledge of her own activities. It still baffled her at times, recalling how easily he saw through her upon their initial meeting—as though he were looking through a plane of glass. His peeving, impish smirk as he had stared straight at her beneath his bangs, subtly unnerving her until the policemen she had travelled to his parlor with in order to deliver a corpse stepped out of earshot: Cutting a knife through the veil of her façade of a bystander unfortunate enough to happen upon the body as he snuck up behind her and whispered, And, of course, once all matters have been settled perhaps the lady wouldn't mind remaining a moment longer for a cup of tea to calm her nerves. All that blood on her hands seems to have left her more than a bit rattled.
No use hiding it, love, he had snickered in her ear without the other men hearing. You might fool the Yard, but you can't fool me. You reek of death. She swore he was better than any detective could hope to compare.
Yet he hadn't turned her in and instead played along with her act. Not out of any form of courtesy or sympathy—why would he have done so; she certainly wouldn't have—but rather out of, as he had put it, amusement. The idea repulsed her, and yet she, the killer, could find no means of refuting it so long as she insisted upon the execution of others for her own beliefs of duty and justice.
Beliefs that had been laughed at once already the one time any of their informal meetings thereafter had carried any sort of significance. Every time they had met he found some means of reaping his 'amusement' from her, be it by preying on her nerves through his antics, an endless array of taunts and pranks, or by reminding her of the pile of victims that continued to build at her feet. She withstood it and remained his acquaintance to stall against the day he reported her to the Yard. Sometimes she'd find a means of returning the favor for all the madness he put her through—just as she now planned to do for his insufferable teasing earlier that very day—even if it tended to backfire in the end in some fashion.
In another sense though—the thought appearing only at times when she wasn't terribly bitter with him—he wasn't that bad an acquaintance to have. It was as nice as it was concerning for someone beyond herself to see the stains that coated her flesh. There were even moments where he had been somewhat helpful, such as hinting for her to experiment with different methods of murder so not to give the Yard a trail of connected deaths based on similar causes. She never wanted anything from him save for him to remain quiet, but, she could admit, someone who knew her—someone that neither praised the Samaritan nor applauded the vigilante—gave her conscience a small means of solace.