Full Summary:
Bodies of deceased children have been found throughout the streets of Europe and the reapers of London and Germany are clueless as to who or what could be killing them.
With only a single lead, William T. Spears, Ronald Knox, Grelle Sutcliff, Alan Humphries, and Othello are deployed on an undercover investigation to the location where the most recent victims were found: the Manor of Claude Faustus and his son, Alois Trancy.
Assisted by the Undertaker, Ciel Phantomhive and his demon butler, Sebastian Michaelis, the reapers find their way into the manor and assume various roles to ensure their stay. Through strife and struggle, it is their goal to bring an end to the culprit and retrieve the stolen souls of the innocent children wrongfully reaped and murdered before their time.
Chapter 1
Present day
A loud crack filled the air, the tail of a leather whip snapping at its end. Overjoyed by the sound, the handler couldn't help but laugh as he lashed the whip once more, watching it hit the ground with great ferocity. The vibrations created by the quick motion crept into his hand and burrowed into his veins, rushing up his arm and to his heart; adrenaline at the helm. A beautifully addictive sensation, he was enticed by the comfortable grip and how it seemed to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, as if it was designed for him and no one else. Not to mention, he was the only one able to produce such high notes from those he beat into submission, writing a musical piece sound to his young ears.
Little fourteen year old Alois longed to partake in a long-running tradition at the Faustus Manor: welcoming a new member to the refined home. He was the best, he thought, in making a lasting impression in those whom were brave enough to agree to the harsh employment terms. However, his chance to greet another unfortunate soul was taken by someone else, someone in need of a lesson. It was his stepbrother's turn to experience the delight of wielding the leather whip, recently constructed with the blessing of a few cows or pigs—he couldn't remember. Whether the idiot liked it or not, his brother had to learn the way of life at Faustus Manor if he wished to be treated well, otherwise the pussy may suffer the consequences unknown to man. The mere thought caused Alois to smile, despite his blood brimming with envy.
Before he could pull the whip over his shoulder a third time, footsteps echoed in the distance, cascading in the direction of the room. His full head of platinum blond hair swished toward the door, his blue eyes sparkling with merriment and excitement. A man in tattered, dirty clothes was dragged across the ground, softly grunting as rubble scratched and dug into his swollen flesh. Strands of dark hair hung in front of his bruised face, drenched in sweat and blood, threatening the security of his glasses partially dangling at his ears. Awestruck, Alois watched the pathetic waste struggle in vain as he was pulled along.
Trancy giggled and silently cheered as the vermin was tossed to the ground at his feet. He rolled the handle of the whip in between his sweaty palms, eager to strike the lowlife at least once. That was all he needed: one chance to scrawl blood across the walls and break the man's skin, to write a crescendo of screams in his growing masterpiece, but no… There would be plenty of time to bask in the afterglow, he told himself, until then…
Why does Ronald have to get this one? It was obvious the nancy boy didn't like to welcome newcomers; mother saved him each and every time. Except today, father forbade the woman from interfering or rescuing the princess. Little Alois was still jealous, though. Perhaps father would allow him to have a go once Ronald was finished? One could only hope!
To say Ronald Knox was nervous would be an understatement. On the third floor of the Manor, the young man paced to and fro across the bare boards of his bedroom, each one creaking underneath his feet. The honey blonde hair at the top of his head was damp with sweat, the longer dark strands matted to the nape of his neck. A steady stream of the salty liquid trickled down the center of his back, forming a rather ugly stain in his white dress shirt. To make matters worse, he felt like he was choking with the black tie neatly fastened around his neck, even after he chose to loosen it.
The repetition of his footsteps threatened to leave scuff marks on the polished cherry wood, something he would likely be reprimanded for, but he couldn't stop. How could he? He was frantic and afraid of the doom that awaited him outside, where his stepfather and stepbrother damned him to the same cruelty under the Faustus name. It was evident Ronald was unlike the others, if not on the opposite end of the spectrum. Gentle and meek in nature, he withdrew from the ceremonies in a flurry of tears, rescued by his mother before he could take hold of the whip carved by the family name. It was an act that earned stoic scrutiny from Claude and even worse ridicule from his Alois, but he refused. He refused for so long, until he had no other choice than to do it. Yet the main question still waited an answer: could he follow through with such an insane order?
"I can't do this," he heaved, the words fast and sputtered from thick saliva. His heart raced, pounded at the door of his ribcage for freedom, or a kinder fate such as death. To die of his own stern will would be sweeter than at the hands of his stepfather, a consequence he was sure he would face if he didn't do what they demanded of him.
Slowly, Ronald drew in a breath and held it for ten seconds. He repeated the exercise in hopes of calming down, but it made his stomach churn. Rather than exhaling, he quickly ran into his private bathroom and fell to the floor, barely making it to the toilet to heave and vomit into the bowl. The contents of his stomach continued to empty into the porcelain base, acid and bile burning his throat. The minutes drew on and the more intense his stomach turned, but after what felt like years, Ronald gagged one last time and lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his clammy gloved hand. He sat there, trying to regain self-control, but it was useless. The moment he stepped outdoors, he would lose all control he had over the predicament at hand. He would become a harsher man, one of the Faustus name.
"I'm not one of them," he quietly assured himself, folding his arms around both legs as they pulled into his chest. Exhausted, he tilted his forehead on his knee, but before he could catch his breath, a knock was placed on the door.
Alana Humphries-Faustus slowly walked into the bathroom, her white heels clicking on the marble tiles, her pink summer dress flowing elegantly behind her. She gently kneeled in front of her son, her modest dress pooling around her. The small woman with curly blond locks leaned closed and tucked a strand of wet hair behind his ear; her eyes sad and sympathetic.
"Honey, I tried," Alana apologized, fingers running through her distressed son's hair. Ron looked at her through tearful eyes, his bottom lip trembling as he chewed on it.
"Mother," he sniffed, his cheeks warm. "I can't."
"You can," Alana sorely insisted, grasping his hands in her chilly ones to gently squeeze. "You must. It'll be alright, my love."
"No, it won't! I'm being forced to whip somebody. How am I supposed to do that?" Ronald's eyes widened, his tone gaining volumes of fear as anxiety seized hold of him again.
Alana didn't respond, but slowly stood, pulling her son from the floor along with her. She reached to the top of his head, grooming his disheveled two-toned hair. Sadly, she placed a comforting hand on his blotched cheek, wiping the tears away with the pad of her thumb.
"We have to go, Ronald. Your stepfather and brother are waiting," she muttered through a forced smile. Taking a hold of her son's hand, she walked out of the bathroom door and through the Manor, leading him outside into the daylight.
It had been less than ten minutes since father sent mother to fetch his brother from his bedroom, but in those long, excruciating minutes, Alois' patience began to wear thin. How long did they have to wait for the pansy to arrive? There was no doubt in his mind: he would back down from the task as he had done so many times before, which made the wait all the more unbearable. If only father would grant the responsibility to him full-time, then no one would have to worry about Ronald making a fool of himself time and time again. In fact, there could come a day where he would be the one to deliver Ron's punishment—an idea he quietly reveled in. Still, a lovely daydream could saturate his nerves for so long. Snapping, he shrugged off his purple frock coat and childishly threw it to the ground with determined force; dust rose from the impact, soiling his emerald green vest.
"Alois! Calm yourself," ordered his father, Claude Faustus. He stood tall and shoulders broad, his demeanor apathetic and icy.
"Why do we have to wait for Ronald to get here? He's taking forever!"
Unmoved by his son's tantrum, Claude remained motionless, not entertaining the young boy with even so much as a look. "Your mother has gone to retrieve him."
"But—"
"They're walking out of the manor now," the man interjected before his son could continue. The gold eyes beneath his black hair narrowed as he watched his wife gracefully drag his eldest son toward them, their steps agonizingly slow. Yet somehow, Ronald managed to make his way to cower before his authoritative father. Reluctant, Knox gazed into his father's cold eyes and swallowed the thick knot at the back of his throat.
"Give your brother the whip," he instructed, his tone flat. With a sneer, Alois gave the precious item to his stepbrother, which Ronald hesitantly grasped. "Turn around," the man added.
"This is William T. Spears!" Alois cheerfully introduced. "We're here to welcome our newest employee. Say hello everyone!"
Servants gathered around the poor man muttered a chorus of synchronized, solemn hello's.
"Say hi, Ronald!" Trancy urged through gritted teeth, shoving at his older brother.
"H-hello…" the young man stammered.
Spears peered over his shoulder at the young man whom appeared to be no older than twenty-four. The panicked eyes behind the bulky, black frames almost made William pity him, then again, he was the one about to be beaten and scarred for no reason other than being on the Faustus payroll.
Ronald's tear-filled gaze connected with the hostile eyes that were the similar in color, but glared with unadulterated hatred as if he ached to condemn the blond to the deepest, most remote pits of hell. After the 'welcoming festivities', Ron was certain he would end up there anyway.
"You know what to do," Claude firmly stated. The blond made no effort to move forward but instead, looked frightfully to Alana who stood mum. Faustus grabbed the collar of his eldest's son shirt and yanked him close. "Don't look at your mother!" he growled. "Either you could do it, or your brother and I will. However, I cannot guarantee that he will live if we were welcome him. With you, there is a chance of survival. Do you understand me?" he whispered into Ron's ears, satisfied by the nod of the boy's head. "Good." And with that, he forcefully pushed his son toward their newest employee, sighing as Knox clumsily tripped over his feet.
Slowly, he stood before William whom kneeled in front of him, the two staring at each other in a dance of abhorrence and terror. Ron wished he could tell the man something other than "I'm sorry" and beg for forgiveness, but the apology would be meaningless—if not insulting. With a frenzied heartbeat and a sharp intake of breath, he raised his unsteady arm behind him and snapped it forward, the whip making contact on the first strike.
On hands and knees, William hissed through clenched teeth at the first lash—his skin slicing open, the fresh wounds separating wider with each strike. He tried to bite through the pain, only grunting with every repeated lash; his glasses tumbled to the ground, the blows lurching his body forward.
Knox winced as he plundered the man's frail body. All sound, except the whip and the birds overhead, faded into the background. He watched blood flow down the new servant's back with visions of enthusiastic crows swooping to ravage the torn flesh from the open, gushing wounds under the hot sun flooded his mind. Agonizing screams joined the birds' and whip-cracking's duet.
A warm liquid trickled down Ronald's pant leg, pooling in his shoe. His head began to swim as the nauseating sounds ratcheted in his skull. When he felt like he couldn't strike another blow, a firm hand gripped around his wrist, causing him to look fearfully at his father.
"That's enough for now," the Head of House declared, removing his hold on his son's wrist.
Ron's arm went limp, the whip sliding out of his grasp and dropping to the ground covered in splashes of blood. The blond looked down at his victim whom laid on his side, his body racking with painful sobs.
"I should've had a-go," Alois grumbled, figuring the man could have handled a bit more.
"Give Spears his glasses and take him to the infirmary. Ronald will treat him there," instructed Claude, concluding the ceremony. Without a glance at Knox, he walked to the manor with Alois sauntering behind.
Quickly, Alana walked over to Ron and pulled him into a tight embrace. Without hesitation, he slumped into her arms and put his head on her shoulder, crying into the crook of her neck. To try and comfort him, she rocked him back and forth, rubbing small circles against his lower back to soothe his nerves. "It'll be alright, honey," she whispered. "I promise."
Despite blurred vision, William saw a pair of black boots step into his line of vision, shielding the sunlight from his eyes. Flecks of dust were kicked into his face, forcing a cough from the back of his throat; he hissed as the mineral found its way into his mouth. The person above him squeaked, letting out a tiny wail.
A young boy with large, turquoise eyes dropped to the ground, frightfully looking at him. "Are you alright, Mr. William!"
Will opened his mouth to assure the strawberry-blond haired boy that he would be fine, but only managed to dry heave in response. Instinctively, Finnian reached out to place a hand on his shoulder in what should have been a gesture of comfort. However, William belted out a loud, gut-wrenching groan when the boy gripped him with a strength no mortal oughtn't possess. As quickly as he tried to comfort him, he snatched the hand away and burst into tears. "I'm so, so sorry!" he wailed, both hands covering his eyes.
Another man walked alongside Finnian and crouched beside him, his lips twitching into a frown. "You didn't mean it, Finny," assured Bard, a cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth. "Let's get Mr. William to the infirmary."
Once he nodded in agreement, Baldroy picked Will's glasses up with the intention of putting them in Finny's care, but thought better of it. Instead, he folded the stems of the spectacles and tucked them at the top of his apron. Raising a hand, he scratched the back of his head and looked down to the beaten man on the ground, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the situation. "Mey-Rin should be back soon with something to carry you to the infirmary," the Phantomhive chef sighed. On cue, the Phantomhive maid came running toward them from the sickroom.
"Bard, Bard! I have it!" she called out, haphazardly carrying a white cloth stretcher nestled between her arm and torso. Baldroy waved his arm above him to beckon her in their direction. Mey-Rin made it to the three men, huffing from exertion as she placed the stretcher on the ground, dust billowing up from the impact. She pushed it close to William's front to roll him on the stretcher; stomach down.
"Me and Finny are gonna turn you over," Bard informed the bloodied brunet. "It's gonna be a bumpy ride."
William softly grunted, offering only a nod of his head. His yellow-green eyes closed and he drew in a deep breath, bracing for the pain. No amount of preparation could prepare him for what came next. Although the three servants were careful not to add further injury to the tender wounds, Will let out a curdling scream—every inch of his body shivering. The briefly clotted wounds reopened and blood trickled along his skin, following the curvature of his muscles. Beads of perspiration flowed down his face, the sweat pooling in his eyes. The immense pause caused him to suck in heavy gasps, but before he could take control, he blacked out, regaining consciousness shortly later.
"Sorry," Bard mumbled beneath his breath as he stood, scratching the back of his head. He moved out of William's sight, which caused a stream of bright sun to shine in his face, adding insult to injury as he hissed.
"Eh, Finny, can you give Will your hat?"
The gardener flushed at the question and his feet shuffled from side to side as he twiddled his thumbs. "M-My…" Finnian looked at Baldroy and subtly pointed to the tattoo on his neck.
With a thoughtful hum, Baldroy grabbed the goggles around his neck and pulled them off, offering the eyewear to the small boy. "How about you take these?"
Finnian beamed with child-like wonderment and removed his hat, exchanging it with the googles. "Thank you, Bard!"
"I'm gonna put this over your face to keep the sun out," the chef assured William, whom nodded in approval. With the hat settled over his face, Bard walked to the head of the stretcher and kneeled to grab the handles—Finnian at the other end. Together, the two lifted it as gently as possible and, with cemented grasps and footing, the three Phantomhive servants made their way to the Faustus infirmary.
"I wish the young master had arrived before this happened," sighed Finnian. "Do you think he would have stopped it, Mr. Bard?"
"I think he would've if he could've," the chef replied, focused on his steps onward.
"I hope Mr. Knox can patch him up, I do," Mey-Rin voiced, blushing as she thought of the other man.
"You seem to be liking that one, Mey," Bard pointed out, taking a wide step to avoid a hole in the path. The sudden movement made William jostle to the side, but thankfully, he remained on the stretcher. Still, the blond apologized at the pained grunt.
Upon hearing the chef's words, a rush of blood burst from the maid's nose. Quickly, she slapped a hand over it to catch the coppery fluid. "N-no!" she squealed in protest, her red cheeks darkening. "He said he's studying to be a doctor, is all!"
"I'm just messing with ya," Bard laughed.
Underneath the straw hat, hidden away from suspicion, William rolled his sore eyes as he listened to the conversation.
Hours later, William awoke only to be greeted by nightfall. He was unable to recall the arrival to the infirmary, nor when he received medical attention. Had he blacked out again?
The raven-haired reaper gently shifted, able to feel the bandages on his back. Albeit sore, he moved his arms to pillow his stiff neck and looked to the side, spotting his precious glasses on a tray. With great effort and fumbling about, he finally grabbed hold of them to slide back onto his face. When his vision adjusted, he realized there was a strange object next to his pillow. Closer inspection told him it was a pen, but at that moment, a warm glow appeared to scrawl across his forearm. The familiar, sloppy penmanship covered his skin in glowing ink and he squinted, leaning in to read.
"I'm sorry."
The Dispatch Supervisor closed his eyes, sighing an exhausted moan. What could he say? To form words was a difficult feat, but an even worse task to actually write on his skin once the apology disappeared.
"It was necessary. I'll be fine."
In his dark room, Ronald sat on the bed, his legs crossed and still dirty from the ceremony. He hadn't bothered to change his clothes, nor had he entertained bathing despite the fact he urinated himself. Shaken, he stared at his arm, biting at his lip as he watched William's response paint his own skin with the green ink. Once the message faded, he pressed the pen against the underside of his forearm.
"Please don't make me do it again, Will." He scrawled in return.
"I'll try my best. It wasn't pleasant, but as I said; it was necessary."
Tears started to slide down Ron's cheeks as the visions of William bleeding and screaming swam behind his closed eyelids. Will laid, waiting for the blond to reply, but after minutes of silence, he sensed his lover was crying.
"I've missed you." The glittering letters appeared one by one on the younger reaper's arm.
"It's been a while, I'd hope you'd miss me a little." Once the slate cleared, Ronald added, "I missed you, too."
William smiled at the response, though it turned into a mischievous smirk. "What are you wearing, Mr. Knox?"
"Clothes."
"Would you kindly stand by your window and take off said garments?" William rarely instigated flirtation, but he was willing if it would lighten the blond's burden.
The young man's cheeks burned, but he hastily replied. "I really hate you. Instead of teasing me, don't you have healing to do?"
"The constant reminder of your hatred for me is why I love you so." William could feel Knox's eyes rolling. Pushing up his glasses, he looked out the opened window before him. It was unnaturally dark outside, the moon barely visible despite minimal clouds in the sky. A soft breeze filtered through the window and brushed through his dark hair, earning a content sigh. He was grateful for the chilly wind that kissed the abused flesh across the expanse of his back, yet he frowned once he noticed the conversation had ceased yet again.
"Are they treating you well?"
Ronald chewed his lip, unsure of how to reply. He could be honest, but the thought was fleeting. The truth would create unnecessary drama when there was more than enough to deal with on their plates. Lifting the collar of his dress shirt, he tried to hide the bruise on his neck and scribbled a half truth on his arm. "Claude and Alois are creepy bastards. We're constantly being watched by Alois and the Faustus servants. It sucks, but we've had to come up with ways to communicate. Other than that, I'm fine." Hopefully, Will wouldn't reap him later.
"And Mr. Humphries?"
William pushed at the bridge of his glasses as a new answer appeared, squinting at the small text. "The transformation is hard on him. Alan hides it, but I know he's tired and the Thorns aren't helping. I do my best to get him away from Claude so he can rest. It doesn't happen as often as it needs to."
"Miss Sutcliff?"
The question made the Junior Office pause. Already, he told a half truth, but he hadn't the slightest clue how to explain the situation with Sutcliff. "Something is wrong, Will. I mean seriously wrong. Grelle won't tell me what's happening and she tells me everything."
"Officer Sutcliff is a highly capable Shinigami."
"Yeah, but you just got here. I've never seen Grelle like this before. I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't worried." Ronald hissed once he realized the tip of the pen was digging into his skin—a sign of his frustration and concern.
"I'll speak to her as soon as I'm able."
"No… We need to send her back to Headquarters."
"Dispatch may not let her abandon the investigation."
"Then we fucking send her off with Undertaker! I can't sit here anymore and…"
The words stopped appearing mid-sentence, notifying him that Ronald had stopped writing. He was about to urge him on, but a bolt of light flashed through the sky. It was so bright, he had to shield his eyes from the blinding white shine that lit up the entire forest ahead of him. Cinematic records shot above the canopy of the surrounding trees and swayed in the air.
"Oh shit..." the blond muttered as he flew off the bed and ran to the window, jumping out only to silently land three stories below on the soft grass. He ran toward the tree line as fast as his legs enabled him, not leaving a sound or trail in his wake.
As Ron sprinted, he summoned his temporary scythe: a Corona Machete. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the demon butler jumping overhead, silverware tucked between each of his fingers. Both were prepared to strike.