"Coal"

A Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) mini fanfic

Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) and all characters therein belong to Yana Toboso. I make no profit from the writing of this fanfiction, and it is strictly for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Well my dears, I only did a hasty proofread of this, because I wanted to have it uploaded before I travel. I wanted to leave you all with a nice little treat to enjoy while I'm away, and I promise there will be more to come when I have full internet access again and get settled in. Excerpt from the book "Carmilla", by Sheridan Le Fanu.

Coal. Every bloody year, he left coal in his stocking. Vincent still didn't know how he managed to do it without alerting anyone in the manor. Somehow, every Christmas Eve, the Undertaker snuck in and let a lump of it for him, with a little note wishing him a merry holiday. He'd tried to stay up late to catch him, when he was a child. No matter how hard he tried, he always fell asleep around Midnight, and awoke in the morning to find the dreaded piece of coal in his stocking...mocking him. Vincent finally gave up trying to catch him in the act by his sixteenth birthday.

He supposed he'd somehow provoked this odd little custom. When he thought back on it, he remembered his father warning him that while Undertaker was a valuable liaison for the Phantomhives, he was shifty and motivated by things best left un-guessed and undiscovered. He generally listened to his father, but then he met the Undertaker for the first time when a relative died. He was nine at the time, and when Undertaker showed up to stand in the rain with them for the lowering of the casket, young Vincent hadn't been able to take his eyes off of him. He hardly knew the uncle that had passed anyhow, and the tall man with the toothy smile and the long, hip-length silver hair was much more interesting to him than the mourning ritual.

Maybe that was the key. Maybe the coal was some kind of bizarre way for the mortician to warn him not to show so much interest in him. Vincent asked him one year after his sixteenth birthday why he did it, and Undertaker shrugged, grinned, and answered: "Because you're a naughty lad, that's why."

When asked what precisely he meant by that, Undertaker grinned even more broadly at him, beaconed him closer, and whispered into his ear. "You're a Phantomhive."

Vincent of course scoffed at the obtuse answer, and he decided that no matter how fascinating he was, Undertaker was clearly madder than a hatter. He tried to wash his hands of it, and he concentrated on his duties. He finished his prep schooling, attended Weston College and became a Prefect with the highest marks, led his dormitory house to victory in the annual cricket tournament, and returned home with honors.

Unfortunately, when he returned home he was heralded with the news that his father had passed away of a heart attack. While the old Earl had never spared much affection for his son, Vincent mourned for his loss and he arranged a splendid funeral service in his honor. The Undertaker showed up for it, and he looked exactly the same as he did when Vincent left for college. It was then that the young lord began to suspect that there was something abnormal about the man—besides his odd sense of humor and macabre fascination with death. He watched him covertly as the rain began to fall and he stood with gathered family, associates and friends to watch his father's casket get lowered into the earth.

Undertaker sensed the young man's eyes on him, and he looked up from the coffin to grin and wave at him. His long sleeve dropped to reveal a glimpse of a graceful pail hand, the emerald ring on his left-hand pointer finger, and the two-inch long, black fingernails. Vincent looked faintly discomforted by the gesture, and he gave Undertaker a frown that said he thought the cheerful wave was inappropriate. The mortician took the hint and dropped his hand, bowing his head in a show of solemn respect.

He watched the new head of the Phantomhive household covertly, however. The long silver fringe feathering over his eyes shielded half his face from public view, affording him a veil with which to view the world without being obvious. Vincent had grown into a handsome fellow, with fair, sculpted features, warm brown eyes and a sensitive looking mouth. He had a little mole under his left eye, a slight imperfection that incidentally added to the symmetrical appeal of his face. His blue-black hair was kept trimmed to the nape of his neck, but it was a bit long-ish on top, falling over his brow in a mildly unkempt manner. The sun broke through the clouds to shine on it for a moment, and Undertaker stared at the shiny, damp mass as he spotted rainbow highlights in it, like a raven's wing. It was really quite lovely, with the water droplets sparkling in it that way.

Vincent had neglected to bring an umbrella, so Undertaker took it upon himself to approach with his and offer some shelter, before the lad got too soaked. He excused himself quietly as he glided through the crowd. People parted for him like water, most of them wanting nothing to do with the creepy old mortician. Undertaker stepped up beside the new head of the Phantomhive household, just in time. The sun disappeared and the rain came down harder. It drummed on the canvas of the umbrella as he stood beside Vincent over the grave and listened to the priest give last rights.

"You know," murmured the funeral director thoughtfully, "they aren't going to have enough dirt to fill in that hole."

Vincent turned his head to frown at him. Like most people, he was shorter than Undertaker, so he had to look up. He answered him in a tense whisper. "I'll resist the question of how you can tell and simply ask why you're bringing the subject up."

Undertaker smirked, and he gestured at the mound of dirt waiting to be shoveled on top of the casket—which had now been lowered into the grave. "It was dug in the last quarter of the moon. They'll have to borrow dirt from somewhere else to fill it in completely."

"That's just an old wives tale," Vincent scoffed. "Don't be so superstitious."

The family informant watched him with a crooked grin. "Care to make a wager on that, my lord?"

"It's my father's funeral," reminded Vincent with an offended air. "What sort of gentleman makes wagers on the volume of grave dirt, at a time like this?"

Undertaker shrugged and looked away. "If you would rather concede—"

"Bite your tongue," muttered the Earl. "All right. This is ridiculous, but I'll take your wager. What are the stakes?"

"Hmm." Undertaker considered the question with a grin, delighted that he'd taken the bait. "If you win, I'll provide my services free of charge, the next time you have need of them."

Vincent nodded, keeping his voice down and his eyes on the grave. "And should you be the victor?"

"I take you on as my apprentice."

The nobleman stared at him. "You're apprentice? In what sense?"

Undertaker gave him a chill grin and he nodded at the casket, now being covered with the freshly dug soil. "In the sense that I'll teach you things that might help you avoid your own coffin for a few years longer, my lord." He looked at him, still smiling. "You do know it wasn't natural causes."

The young man paled. "They...they said that it was his heart."

"Hmm, indeed, his heart gave out," nodded the Undertaker, "but something helped it along and it wasn't fatty foods or high blood pressure."

Vincent looked around at the gathered collection of people paying their respects. Some of them seemed to have overheard part of the conversation. "This isn't the time or place," whispered the Earl. "We will discuss it later."

Undertaker nodded, tilting the umbrella a little so that it offered more protection to Vincent. "As you wish, my lord."

~Not possible! It makes no sense!~

And yet, Undertaker's deduction that there wouldn't be enough dirt to fill the grave was right on the money. He and the mortician were the only ones remaining by the gravesite as the last of the dirt was shoveled in, and there was still a good foot and a half depth to be filled. He turned to look at his tall, silver haired companion, and he tried to read his grinning expression. Undertaker looked delighted; but that was nothing new. It still fascinated Vincent that he hadn't seemed to age at all, but since only the lower half of the man's face was ever visible, it was difficult to tell for sure. He didn't appear much older than Vincent, from what the Earl could tell.

"How did you do that?" demanded Vincent in a whisper. "You must have arranged it."

Undertaker clucked his tongue, and he reached out to pluck some lint off the young lord's shoulder with his long black nails. "Now, now, Vincent. Don't be a sore loser. I've been in the business of fancying up bodies and putting them in the ground for longer than you've been alive."

He tapped his temple with a fingernail, his white teeth gleaming in the gray light of the stormy afternoon. "I know all there is to know about proper burials."

Still suspecting he'd done something and orchestrated this wager, but uncertain how, Vincent sighed at the grave. He and his father weren't very close. The old Earl raised him to be a strategist, a businessman and a gentleman, but he was never an affectionate parent. Vincent always suspected that some part of him blamed him for his mother's death. She died bringing him into the world, after all.

"Well, I'm a man of my word," he sighed. "But let's not talk, here. I have a wake to attend. It would be rude of me to leave my guests waiting."

"Indeed, it would," agreed the mortician with a satisfied smile. "I don't believe my presence is needed in there, young lord, so I'll simply—"

"No, you're attending the wake with me," insisted Vincent stubbornly. "You won't get out of it that easily."

Undertaker's smile turned into a frown. "Oh, I don't think I need to be there, my lord. The nobles don't much care for old Undertaker now, do they? I tend to make them...uneasy."

"Nonsense," said Vincent with a smile of his own. "Nobody who socializes with the Phantomhive family is squeamish and if they are uneasy around you, well that's too bad. This is my father's wake and you gave him years of service. It's right and fitting that you should come in, have a bite to eat and enjoy a drink with us."

Undertaker sighed. "You seem rather determined, Earl."

"I am," agreed the young man. He turned, but he kept his gaze on Undertaker, and he wondered what thoughts were going through that brilliant, allegedly troubled mind. "Come. Don't you ever get tired of being a hermit?"

"Suits me just fine," grumbled the mortician, but he followed along with him.

Much later that evening when all the guests had either retired in spare rooms or left the estate to return to their own homes, Vincent had a brandy with Undertaker in the study. He made sure to lock the door before sitting down in the armchair adjacent to the mortician.

"So, you've implied that my fathers' death wasn't a natural occurrence. Tell me what you know, Undertaker. Please."

The mortician crossed his legs and watched Vincent silently from beneath the pale fringe masking his eyes. The rest of his hair spilled over his shoulders and arms like thick, glossy spider's silk, and Undertaker absently toyed with the single, thin braid woven into his hair on the right side.

"Surely you're familiar with the concept of poisoning one's enemies, young lord. It's one of the most popular ways for aristocrats to finish off their rivals, because if it's done right, it can't be traced back to them."

Vincent looked into his glass with a frown. "And you believe someone did this to my father? Who?"

"If I knew that, I would have told you," answered the Undertaker with a shrug. He sipped his drink and he made a pointing gesture at the young man. "You could be next, if you aren't careful. You're too nice to people, Earl. That could cost you."

Vincent smirked without humor. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. There are advantages to being polite, Undertaker."

"Ah, yes," agreed the silver-haired man with a nod. "But how much of that is just scheming, on your part?"

He got out of his chair without warning and within seconds, he was looming over Vincent. The Earl was so startled that he nearly spilled his brandy, and he could smell the spice of liquor and a hint of ginger on the Undertaker's breath as he spoke. His voice was now much different from the absent-minded, scratchy voice he was accustomed to. The cockney accent smoothed out, and Undertaker's voice became a seductive, cultured drone that was more than a little pleasant on the ears.

"Your smiles reach your eyes," observed the mortician softly, planting his hands on either arm of the chair to box him in. "Do you understand how rare that is amongst nobility?"

"I've seen my share of fake smiles, sir," agreed Vincent, refusing to be rattled. "You aren't telling me anything I did not already know."

"Ah, but if you're accustomed to those false smiles, then you know the reason behind them. Court politics are brutal, my young lord."

Vincent sipped his drink. He thought of telling the mysterious funeral director to get out of his face, but he found the overall scent of him rather interesting. He smelled like candles and incense and earth...an odd mixture, but not unpleasant in the least.

"I've just returned from four years of college," reminded the young Earl, "all of which were spent struggling with inner politics and games. I understand how these things work."

"The games of children are a different matter," insisted Undertaker. "You've become a man, and you'll be playing in the arena of men. You're going to need a better poker face, and you're going to need better instincts."

"I believe my instincts are fine, thank you."

Undertaker smirked and straightened up. The tips of his hair brushed against Vincent's hand teasingly, before withdrawing. "We'll see, young lord. Even if your instincts are 'fine' as you say, there's always room for improvement."

Vincent stared up at him as the mortician seemed to transform again, from the dangerous creature with the sensual voice back into the giggling, creepy funeral director. "And now that you've been introduced to the 'other me', my lord, I shall take my leave for the night."

Undertaker tipped his hat at him and he turned around. His black garments swirled around his ankles as he moved, and he stopped when he got to the study door to look back at Vincent thoughtfully.

"I think the first lesson should begin right away, Earl Phantomhive. Be at my shop bright and early, Saturday morning! That should give you plenty of time to tie up loose ends and free up your weekend schedule. I've got some lovely anatomy to teach you."

"Wait," Vincent pleaded, standing up.

The mortician paused with his fingers wrapped around the door handle. "Hmm?"

Vincent hesitated, unsure of how to ask the question raging in his mind. Indeed, he had so many of them. "Why is my safety so important to you?"

Undertaker chuckled. "It isn't, really. A chap has to protect his investments, though. You're the last remaining Phantomhive, and I'm not ready to stop doing business with you, yet. Until later, my young lord."

He opened the door and left, then, leaving Vincent frowning after him and wondering exactly who—or what—Undertaker really was, beneath all that hair.

He arrived as promised on Saturday, and he learned to his disconcertment that Undertaker's idea of teaching him anatomy was to drag him down to the basement of his shop and dissect a corpse in front of him. The cadaver was male and he appeared to be middle-aged...though it was difficult to say for certain, given that his scalp was sliced open and pulled down to expose the top of his skull. Vincent withdrew a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his navy-blue vest, and he covered his nose and mouth with it. Undertaker grinned at him. His long silver hair was gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. When he spoke, he dropped the "old man" voice and used that cultured, seductive voice he'd spoken with in the study, earlier in the week.

"Now, young Earl," said the Undertaker conversationally, rolling back his long sleeves, "we'll talk about the human body. Our model for today is Mr. Finch. He was found dead in his home under most embarrassing circumstances, just yesterday." He gestured at the body gracefully, pointing a long black nail at it.

"I see," said Vincent, grimacing behind his handkerchief. "Aren't you ever bothered by the smell?"

"Actually, I hardly notice it any longer," confessed the mortician. He walked over to side table against the wall, and he selected a cone from a box. "We can remedy that, for you."

He lit the incense cone with a candle burning nearby, and he set it on the protective little slab on the table. "There now," he said in satisfaction. "That ought to sweeten the air up a bit."

Undertaker took a pair of wire-framed glasses out of a case, put them on and walked back to the examination table. He removed his hat and tossed it across the room, where it landed directly on a hook set into the wall, and then he picked up a pair of surgical gloves that sat out on the tray beside the table. While Vincent blinked in amazement at his accuracy, the mortician slapped his surgical gloves on over his hand and he adjusted the overhead light. He reached into the gaping, open cavity in the torso, and he began to pull out the small intestines.

Vincent grimaced at the sight of the grayish, worm-like organ structure being slowly unraveled like some macabre rope. Undertaker looked up from his task, and he smiled benignly at the Earl.

"Did you know that the average adult's small intestine is twenty feet long?" Undertaker shook his bangs back as he lifted his prize up to the light for inspection, and for the first time since meeting him, the young lord saw what his face looked like beneath that concealing hair.

"Why, you could wrap a man up from head to toe in his own intestines," Undertaker was saying. "Wouldn't that be an interesting way to subdue him? Of course, he wouldn't survive the process, but facts are facts."

Vincent was too stunned by the sight of his face to react immediately. He could now see the scar that ran diagonally down his face from the left side of his scalp to the right side of his jaw. It did nothing to take away from the sculpted beauty of that face. The silver brows were thin and shapely, over a pair of sensually lazy eyes framed by thick, pale lashes. The eyes themselves were like no eyes Vincent had ever seen, and he couldn't look away from them. Surrounding the pupils were bands of brightest, vivid green, and a second band of golden color surrounded the green, completely separate from the inner irises. Undertaker had a straight, slim nose above that mouth that always seemed to be smiling about something. He was ageless. The only thing that gave away his years were those amazing eyes, staring into his soul from beyond the lenses of the glasses.

"Earl? Are you with me, or have you gone to another place in your mind?"

Vincent snapped out of it in a rush, faintly mortified that he'd been staring. He grimaced at the sight of the intestines and he gave a convulsive nod. "Thank you for that disgusting and un-necessary lesson, Undertaker. I took biology courses in school, however, and I'm already familiar enough with the human body."

Undertaker chuckled, and he began to replace the organs. "You think so, do you? Come closer, my lord."

He really didn't want to.

Undertaker looked up from his task, pale locks of hair falling over his eyes again. "Please, come closer. This is for your benefit as much as my entertainment, Vincent."

Vincent swallowed and approached. The incense was doing a decent job of masking the odor, but he kept his handkerchief handy as he joined the Undertaker at the table. Undertaker nodded at the tray.

"Help yourself to a surgical mask, my dear. It will leave your hands free and lower the risk of you catching anything this fellow might have had, when he passed."

Vincent looked at the box on the tray containing several tie-on cloth masks. He selected one and secured it around his head, covering his mouth and nose. "Aren't you going to use one?" he asked.

"As I said, the smell doesn't trouble me any longer, and I'm immune to common viruses and infections."

Vincent frowned at him. "And how can you be certain of that?"

The green-gold eyes looked at him again, tearing through all of his barriers as if they didn't even exist. Undertaker smiled. "I'm certain."

Deciding not to press the matter, Vincent looked down at the body. "What is it you want me to see?"

Undertaker pointed out the heart in the open cavity. He'd cut away part of the ribs with a bone saw for un-obscured access to the internal organs within. "This man died in a similar manner to your father," he explained. "Can you see the scar tissue on his heart?"

Vincent looked and shook his head.

"That's because there aren't any scars," explained Undertaker, "and yet he died of heart failure, like your father. Also like the old Earl, this man was poisoned. Coniine was the pick."

"Coniine?" repeated Vincent, trying to recall where he'd heard of it.

"Hemlock oil," explained Undertaker. "Someone slipped enough of it into this fellow's tea or food to eventually cause paralysis of major organs. It's possible that he died of respiratory failure first, before his heart failed him. I could smell it in the gut, and blood analysis confirmed my suspicion. This man was an associate of your father's, from the underworld. Whomever got to him also got to the Earl, I believe."

Vincent felt an interesting combination of rage and fear. "Has your research led you any closer to discovering the guilty party, sir?"

Undertaker arched a brow at him. "I'm a mortician, not a detective. I have shared this information with the Yard, however. They have people on it, and given that your father was a noble, I'm sure they intend to make it a priority."

Vincent nodded and lowered his gaze. "We weren't always on the best of terms, but I owe it to him as his son to see the responsible party brought to justice, if possible."

"Of course." Undertaker gave him a moment's reflection, and then he continued his lesson. "There are some important things about anatomy that you won't get form common biology text books, my lord. I intend to show them to you. These little details could very well save your life, some day."

Vincent looked up and met those intense, fey eyes. "Then show me."

After several weekends of lessons ranging from gruesome to fascinating, Vincent Phantomhive came to a conclusion about his family informant.

"He isn't human."

It was a ridiculous notion; one that a level-minded gentleman should never entertain. He'd always been a fan of horror novels and fairy tales, much to his father's contempt, but he'd never actually believed in the existence of supernatural beings—until he began his tutoring with Undertaker. The man moved like nobody he'd ever seen before. He glided, rather than walked. Every gesture he made had the grace of a Geisha.

Undertaker informed him that as a Phantomhive, he was privileged to see his "true face", and the mannerisms that came with it. Even when playing the role of the codger, Undertaker moved with a certain ghostly elegance that made human beings instinctively recoil from him.

"He must be human, though," mused the young Earl, staring blankly at the pages of "Carmilla". Vampires couldn't really exist, and while Undertaker seemed to prefer the nighttime, he had no issues going out in daylight. There were no signs of fangs, and aside from the long black fingernails and albino skin tone, he seemed physically normal...more or less.

Perhaps he was simply a very talented performance actor, in addition to being a mortician and a contact to the underworld. "But all the stage makeup and acting in the world can't hide the effects of aging so completely," reasoned Vincent aloud to himself.

According to secret family records that Vincent now had access to as head of the estate, Undertaker had been a Phantomhive informant for at least three generations, so far. He should be a withered old husk by now, if it were even possible for him to have lived for so long. No human could be that old and still appear to be twenty-something.

"Then what is he?" sighed Vincent. "There has to be a logical explanation."

Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he really was dead after all, and his spirit was somehow chained to the fate of the Phantomhives, doomed to serve for—

"No, that isn't logical, Vincent," the young man chastised himself. He'd allowed his imagination to run away with him again. "He's a flesh and blood man, so there must be some other reason for it."

Maybe his Undertaker wasn't the same Undertaker his great-grandfather associated with, at all. What if it was a legacy, like his family business and estate? Perhaps the Undertaker was a title being passed down from father to son, and each new generation heralded a new Undertaker.

Vincent sat up and closed his book over the bookmark, snapping his fingers. "That's it! He's an heir, like me!"

He frowned a moment later, with one booted foot on the floor and the other resting on the sofa. He drummed the fingertips of his free hand over the back of the seat, puzzling it out. But if that were the case, Undertaker should still look twice his age, by now. He hadn't changed a bit since he'd left for college, and while some people aged well, he thought Undertaker should have matured at least a little more.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice the tall figure in black approaching from the open door of the library. "Afternoon, Earl Phantomhive," greeted a faintly scratchy voice with a common folk accent. "How's the day treating you?"

Vincent was so startled that he yelped, and his book went flying into the air—only to be caught by a bone-pale hand snapping out with abnormal speed, from the depths of an overly large black sleeve. Undertaker grinned down at him, his silver hair spilling over his shoulders to dangle over the young nobleman as he leaned over.

"Shouldn't toss away good literature like that," admonished the smiling mortician, turning the book over in his hands. "Hmm, 'Carmilla'. Still into the horrors and penny dreadfuls, are we? The old guvnor used to have fits about your tastes. He said it was a waste of a nobleman's time to read such obnoxious fiction and working class literature."

"Yes, I know," answered Vincent, willing his heart to stop hammering so blatantly in his chest. "But it's my time to waste, and what he considered 'working class literature' was more interesting than that which he held suitable for gentlefolk."

He sat upright on the sofa and he reached for the book, only to have Undertaker teasingly take it out of reach. The mortician opened the novel to the bookmarked page and read aloud from it.

"As he spoke one of the strangest looking men I ever beheld entered the chapel

at the door through which Carmilla had made her entrance and her exit. He was

tall, narrow-chested, stooping, with high shoulders, and dressed in black."

The mortician stopped, and he tapped a long black nail over the page thoughtfully. His voice changed when he spoke again. "If one read no further than that, it could be presumed the author is describing myself. Isn't that funny?"

Vincent felt a shiver. "Was he?"

Undertaker turned and grinned, his voice again returning to the mad, worn voice of an old eccentric. "I don't fit the rest of the description, my lord."

"Maybe the character was inspired by you," suggested Vincent, "or someone else in your family. How many Undertakers were there, before you?"

The other man tilted his head and smiled. "I've no idea what you're talking about." He stepped closer to him and offered the novel back. "There you are, my love. Try not to get so stuck into it that you get a fright, again."

"The book didn't give me the fright," insisted Vincent as he took the item back. "You did. You should knock before entering a room, next time."

Undertaker took his hat off and made a sweeping bow. "Begging your pardon, my lord. The door was open, and we did have a scheduled meeting."

"Yes, of course," agreed Vincent politely, a little embarrassed by his lapse. Please, have a seat." He gestured at the armchairs invitingly, and when Undertaker sat down in one, he went to the liquor cabinet. "Would you like a brandy?"

"That'll do fine," agreed the mortician.

Vincent poured them both a drink and he handed Undertaker his, before taking his seat back on the lounge. "I've entered a marriage arrangement," he informed.

"Oh?" Undertaker sipped his drink. "And who's the lucky lady, then?"

"Lady Rachel Durless," answered Vincent. "My family has known hers for some time, but I never had the opportunity to meet her for the first time until after I graduated from Weston. She's a smart, lovely young woman, and she's kind and considerate of others. I think she's a good match for me."

Undertaker nodded. "You're probably right, Earl."

Vincent tried to get comfortable in his seat. "She has beautiful golden hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean."

"She sounds like a darling." Undertaker kept watching him, smiling quietly.

Now that Vincent thought of it, the man never seemed to stop smiling, for very long. Even his frowns only typically lasted for a few moments, and he didn't seem quite capable of a neutral expression.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Undertaker crossed an ankle over one knee. "Me? I'm just a humble mortician, my lord. I'm hardly the person to ask."

"Yet you have a perception I haven't seen matched," said Vincent with a smile. "She's coming today for a visit. I would like for you to meet her."

Undertaker's smile faltered. "I think you've misinterpreted what I am to you, my lord. I'm not your business or romantic advisor. I'm your informant. Whether you choose a horse-faced inbred or a glorious swan with fantastic tits is none of my affair."

Vincent grimaced at his choice of words. "Vulgarities aside, Undertaker, you are the only informant I've come to trust."

The mortician snickered. "Really? That's a sad thing."

"That I trust you?" pressed Vincent.

Undertaker shook his head and sipped his drink, before answering. "That you trust anyone at all, my lord."

Vincent smiled softly. "Perhaps I'm not as jaded as some people, yet."

"We'll see how long that lasts," chuckled the mortician. "So, when do I—"

The family butler knocked on the threshold lightly, and he stood dignified and straight with his graying hair and mustache. "Begging your pardon, young lord, but the Lady Durless' carriage is approaching. Shall I set out tea and cakes in the parlor?"

Vincent smiled at the butler, and he nodded. "Yes, Tanaka. That will be good, thank you. I shall greet my lady as she arrives."

"Very good, sir." The butler bowed and left them alone.

Vincent looked at his companion, and his smile became a tad nervous. "Well, shall we? I'm anxious for you to meet her, since you think you're such a good judge of character."

Undertaker snickered. "Was that a dig, my lad?"

"Maybe just a small one," answered the younger man with a smirk. He got out of his seat and he made a grand gesture at the doorway. "After you, sir."

Undertaker finished off his drink and he stood up, stretched and walked through the open doorway. "Your familiarity with common folk really brasses off the other nobles, you know."

"Hmph, I'm counting on it." Vincent didn't care much for the attitudes prevalent in high society, and he always did his best to avoid becoming that way. As far as he was concerned, looking down on those of lower status and income didn't make a person "noble" in the least.

"That's what sets you apart from them, my lord," observed Undertaker as if reading his mind. There was a hint of admiration in his tone, but then it darkened. "And that's what's going to earn you more enemies."

"Yes, yes," sighed Vincent. "The more some like me, the more others will hate me. The nicer I am to my staff and the common born, the more the nobles will resent me. The more successful the family company is, the more they'll covet it, and the more favor my house earns from the queen, the more jealous they'll become."

He dared to reach out and pat the taller man on the arm, familiar enough with him by now to feel comfortable doing so. He could feel the lean muscles beneath the mortician's black, flowing garments and he was suddenly plagued with unbidden curiosity about what his body looked like, beneath all of that soft material. He cleared his throat and went on as they walked through the Great Hall together, toward the double doors leading outside.

"We've been through this many times before," Vincent went on, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts were taking. He smiled brightly when he saw his lady stepping out of the carriage at the foot of the stairs, with the help of her footman. Her handmaiden stepped out from the other side and came around to whisper something that had the young woman laughing softly, her blue eyes shining.

"There she is," Vincent said un-necessarily to his tall, dark companion. "Isn't she a vision, Undertaker?"

The mortician nodded. "Indeed, she is." He looked sidelong at Vincent with a sly grin. "So, does she know about you, yet?"

Vincent frowned subtly. "Pardon?"

"Your little secret."

The Earl looked at him. "You mean the dealings of the family business, or my being the Queen's Guard Dog?"

"Neither," replied the Undertaker. "I'm talking about your romantic interests, my lord."

Vincent felt himself go cold, then hot. "Excuse me, but I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

"Haven't you?" Undertaker's teeth flashed white with amusement. "Then you didn't kiss one of your classmates goodbye, before you left college?"

The Earl felt like the world was dropping out from under him. "Wh-what?"

"Don't worry," murmured the funeral director. "I can keep a secret. I was just wondering if you ever plan on telling your lady that you fancy the gents, too. That is, if you really love her."

Vincent ogled him, and the damnable memory of the kiss that he had indeed shared with one of his classmates that day came back to haunt him. It wasn't the first time, either. "Have you been spying on me?"

"I prefer to think of it as watching over you," corrected Undertaker. "Your father asked me to, because I have ways of getting in and out of places unseen that rival any thief. Don't worry, though, I never saw any details. Behind the dormitory isn't exactly the most private location, though. You might want to keep it indoors, next time."

"Shh," hissed Vincent desperately, his fair cheeks blooming with red. "It was just a one-time thing...and none of your business! Dear God, did you tell my father? Is that what really contributed to his heart failure?"

Undertaker grinned with amusement at his flustered reaction. "No, I've already told you what contributed to that. I didn't think that particular encounter was something your father needed to know about, so I kept it to myself. Oh, and you might try keeping your voice down too, Earl."

Vincent quieted down as directed, and he forced a smile when he looked down at the young blonde coming up the steps to meet him. He hurried down to her and extended his arm, taking one of her gloved hands in his to kiss the top of it.

"Vincent! I wondered how long you were going to take to notice us," she teased. She looked up at the Undertaker, who stood waiting by the main entrance to the manor. "Who is your companion?"

Vincent escorted her over to Undertaker. "Rachel, meet the Undertaker. He's worked for my family for years. Undertaker, it's my pleasure to introduce you to Lady Rachel Durless."

Undertaker removed his hat and bowed before her, smiling. "It's an honor, milady. I hear congratulations are in order."

Rachel looked politely puzzled, and Vincent put a gloved hand over his face in exasperation. "Congratulations for what, sir?" she asked.

Vincent made a shushing motion, but Undertaker either didn't notice or didn't care. "Why, your upcoming marriage, of course! Don't tell me the groom didn't bother telling the bride he's asked for her hand."

She turned stunned eyes to her beau, who was now a delightful shade of pink from collar to ears. "Vincent...is this true? Have you made a marriage arrangement with my father?"

"I...I don't know," he said, flustered.

She sighed, but she was smiling. "Vincent, either you did or you didn't. Which is it?"

He looked at her sheepishly. "I...did speak with him about it, earlier this week." He shot a glare at the Undertaker, who had one finger pressed against his grinning lips. The emerald ring on that finger glinted in the afternoon light.

"I was going to properly propose to you," Vincent explained to her. "The way I think a man should propose to his lady. Yes, I asked your father for his blessing, but you're the one I wish to marry, not him. The choice must be yours, Rachel."

"Aw, isn't that sweet?"

Vincent shushed the crooning mortician, so irritated with him that he could have cheerfully kicked him in the rump. Rachel seemed to find him amusing, however, so he let it go. The cat was out of the bag now, so he might as well follow through with his plan. He reached into his vest pocket and he went down on one knee, smiling up at her.

"I believe this is the way a gentleman traditionally proposes to his lady," he said to her, opening the box to reveal the diamond ring inside. "Lady Rachel Durless, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

She beamed down at him happily, a blush of adoration coloring her fair cheeks as he removed her glove and slipped the ring onto her finger. "Yes," she sighed. "Vincent, I have been dreaming of this, but I never thought you would propose!"

He smiled up at her, forgetting his previous frustration in his happiness. He hadn't really thought she would turn him down, but Undertaker's confrontation cast a pall over his confidence. He got back to his feet, and he ignored all the smiling faces of her servants, his butler and Undertaker as he put his arms around her and twirled her around with delight.

"Thank you," he said with a laugh, "that was the most terrifying moment of my entire life!"

She laughed as well. "I don't understand why men are so afraid of proposing!"

"When you do it, then you can criticize," chastised Vincent teasingly. He felt Undertaker's gaze on him, and it felt like a brand. When he turned to look at the mortician, however, he was smiling pleasantly at both of them. The shadow of his hat brim and the curtain of his fringe hid his eyes from view, making it impossible to tell if his smile reached them, or not.

The wedding was scheduled to occur in the spring, and Vincent continued his "apprenticeship" with Undertaker, even though half the time he didn't think he was actually teaching him anything of value. He learned how to dismember a body "properly", and he did learn some interesting tricks to stop an opponent in combat that he never would have learned through conventional lessons.

Undertaker never mentioned the conversation they had on the steps of the manor, and Vincent certainly didn't have an interest in bringing it up again. Unfortunately, the subject was never far from Vincent's mind, and he often lay awake in bed at night, thinking of Undertaker as much as he thought of Rachel.

One night, a couple of weeks after proposing to Rachel, Vincent had a most interesting dream that had him waking up in a sweat, gasping and panting. He felt the stickiness in his pajamas, and he grimaced. The subject of his dream wasn't his betrothed, but the silver-haired man with the angelic, scarred countenance. It became clear to him that he was attracted to the strange old funeral director, and the Earl stuffed a pillow over his face and groaned into it.

That was when he decided he needed to put an end to his deal with the Undertaker.

"I'm ending my apprenticeship with you."

Undertaker looked up from the book he was writing in, and he frowned. "Beg your pardon?"

Vincent sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. "I said that I'm ending my apprenticeship. I have no intention of becoming a mortician, and I think you've taught me everything I need to know from you on the subject. I think it's time we put an end to this, and return to business as usual."

"Hmm," said the mortician, looking down at his book again. "I see."

Vincent looked around at the interior of the shop, and he found it distasteful how easily he could imagine doing scandalous things with the Undertaker, right there in the shop—and possibly on top of one of the coffins.

"Well?" he finally prompted.

Undertaker didn't look up from his writing. "Well what, my lord?"

Vincent frowned, uncertain of how to proceed. "Do you understand why I'm putting an end to our lessons?"

Undertaker nodded, his top hat bobbing with the motions of his head. "I do, indeed. Is there anything else I can do for you today, Earl?"

~Yes, you can stop being so dispassionate about it,~ thought Vincent, ~you were the one that insisted I should learn from you in the first place.~

But Undertaker didn't react to things the way normal people did. He didn't seem to think like normal people, either. It called to mind the question of whether he was truly human. His ghostly-white skin had a luminescence to it that reminded Vincent of pearls.

Undertaker stopped writing and he smiled widely up at the distracted noble. "My, my, what could you be thinking of, my lord?"

Undertaker got up and circled around the writing desk, practically gliding over to him. He stopped just short of two inches from his face, and he leaned over him. When Vincent refused to budge, even when their mouths were only an inch apart, he chuckled.

"Thinking of a kiss on the campus grounds, are we?"

"Not at all," Vincent said truthfully. "I'm thinking of you, actually. What are you, Undertaker? I'm beginning to suspect you aren't a mere human."

"Heh…'beginning'." Undertaker patted his cheek lightly, making him flinch a little. "My dear Earl, you've known since the very first time we met that I'm not a human being. Don't play coy with me."

Vincent didn't deny it. "Then what are you? I think as head of the Phantomhive estate, I deserve to know."

Undertaker's brows went up. "You 'deserve'? No, my young friend, you aren't entitled to any secrets of mine that I don't choose to share with you of my own volition."

The bright, half-mad smile returned, and his voice changed to that deep, hypnotic drone that Vincent found so enchanting. "Fortunately for you, Vincent, I've decided to share that with you. To put it quite plainly, I'm Death."

Vincent raised a brow. "Death," he repeated. "In what sense do you mean?"

Undertaker sighed and removed his hat, dropping it behind him on the writing desk. He combed his bangs out of his eyes, revealing that face once more to Vincent. "In the sense that for thousands of years, I was the Grim Reaper. I was the last thing mortals saw when their final breath passed their lips. I was the dark ferryman, the angel of death, the keeper of time."

Vincent stared at him. "You were the Grim Reaper."

Undertaker looked around. "Is there an echo in here? Yes, yes, I was the Grim bloody Reaper!"

"I see." Vincent heavily suspected him of toying with him. He sighed. "Well, I suppose it's more interesting than claiming you're a vampire."

Those strange, green-golden eyes remained locked on him. "You've suspected that I wasn't human, and yet you doubt me when I tell you what I am?"

"I said 'no mere human'," corrected the Earl. "I never said you weren't human at all. Come now, sir, fun is fun, but—"

Suddenly a huge scythe manifested out of thin air, to rest in Undertaker's hand. The temperature in the room dropped until Vincent could see his breath on the air, and his wide eyes took in the sight of the beautiful, horrible construct. The scythe had the likeness of a grinning skull wearing a crown of thorns as its heel, and the wicked, curving blade came out of it. He'd never seen a scythe that big before, or that deadly looking.

Vincent stumbled backwards, until he fell into an open coffin with a cry and ended up sprawled awkwardly in it, staring up at the beautiful, terrifying visage looming over him.

"Yes, well," he said with a gulp, "When you put it that way, I suppose I believe you." He was amazed at how level his voice sounded, because he honestly feared he might wet himself.

Undertaker began to grin, and the scythe evaporated as quickly as it had formed. "You look ridiculous, Earl," he announced. He offered a hand down to Vincent. "That's no way for a nobleman to sit. Here."

Vincent looked at the long, pale hand offered to him, and he took it warily. It was cool in his grasp, but not clammy. He kept staring at the mortician as he got back to his feet, trying to cope with what he'd just seen.

"If you're the Grim Reaper," he said, "then why aren't you out guiding souls into the afterlife, right now?"

"Because I'm retired."

Vincent blinked. "What? Can…can death do that?"

Undertaker laughed at him. "Oh my, I don't care what your father said; those horror books have really fortified your constitution. To answer your question, my dear, yes, we can. I was alone in the beginning, but more like me were created when the human population became too big for one reaper to manage alone. Your kind spread like locusts, without a care for whether your territory can even sustain your population."

"Well, God did say 'be fruitful and multiply'."

"After the great floods that wiped most of you out," pointed out the reaper, "according to your holy books, that is. Just because he told you lot to rebuild your population and civilization doesn't mean he was giving you the green flag to squirt out more babies than you can even hope to feed."

"Er…I think we've drifted off subject," said Vincent. "So, more of your kind were created to handle the increased number of human souls that needed shepherding, correct?"

Undertaker nodded. "Indeed."

"Why did you retire? Do your scars have anything to do with it?"

Undertaker smirked. "I didn't say I'd share that part of my history with you, my lord. Suffice to say, I felt the organization no longer had anything left to offer me, so I gave up my glasses and started my life as a mortician. Eventually, I became involved with your family, and I have been ever since."

Vincent's brow furrowed. "Excuse me, but did you say you gave up glasses? I see you using them all the time when you're working on cadavers."

"Those are cheap, human-made glasses," explained Undertaker. "They help me see fine details of what I'm doing, but they can't correct my vision enough for me to get much further use for them. Mortals can't produce the sort of prescription a Shinigami needs to see straight. It requires certain methods your kind aren't capable of reproducing."

"I never knew your vision was that bad," said Vincent.

Undertaker shrugged. "I've learned not to rely so heavily on my eyes. Right now, at this distance, I can barely make out your features."

"And you're sure human glasses won't work?"

Undertaker swooped in on him, nearly startling him back into the coffin. His face was only inches away, and Vincent detected the scent of cloves and ginger on his breath. "Look at my eyes," said the reaper, "and tell me of a doctor you know that can correct problem vision in a person with layered irises."

"I see your point," said Vincent.

The close proximity was beginning to do things to him that he really didn't want Undertaker to notice, and he was surprised that the thrill of danger only seemed to excite him more. "Stop doing that, would you?"

Undertaker stepped back obligingly, offering him a bow. His voice was again that of a simple old shopkeeper. "My apologies, Earl. I forget myself sometimes. Seems I have a bit of an intensity problem."

"That's…all right," said Vincent, squirming a bit to try and hide his little condition. "I…think I need some time to absorb all of this. I'm going to take my leave, now."

"As you wish," agreed the reaper. "You'll call on me if you have need of my services, I'm sure."

"Yes, of course," Vincent said hastily. "And I won't betray your secret."

"Good to know," said Undertaker, "for your sake."

Vincent stopped on his way to the door and he turned to frown at him. "Did you just issue a threat to me, Undertaker?"

The reaper smiled at him. "Just an observation. If you went around telling people that the Grim Reaper is running the south London mortuary, I believe they'd lock you up as a loon. It's in your own best interest to keep my secret, my love."

Vincent had no response for that. He left without another word, and he heard the Undertaker's dark laughter following him out the door.

Vincent spent that Christmas alone. Rachel and her family were visiting relatives in Germany, and he'd given most of his staff leave for the holiday. Only Tanaka, two of the maids, the carriage driver and the cook were still around by Christmas Eve, and Vincent sat before the fireplace in the parlor, alone and busy-headed with strange thoughts.

Business had returned more or less to usual with Undertaker, and he rarely saw him anymore, except for when he had need of information from the Underworld. Despite the terrifying secret he'd learned about the mortician, he missed him. The family business kept him busy enough, but it was a very lonely holiday for him, this year.

Long after everyone else had fallen asleep, Vincent's head began to sink to his chest, and the book in his hands fell to the floor. He was only asleep for a moment, before a sound startled him awake. He impulsively started to reach for his sword—which of course wasn't sheathed at his hip right now—and he parted his lips to shout.

Darkness seemed to envelope him, and a cool hand pressed down on his mouth, muffling his cry. Vincent went still with surprise when he recognized the Undertaker grinning at him. He stopped struggling, and the mortician released him.

"What in the hell are you doing here, unannounced?" demanded Vincent crossly. "You very nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"I think it's a bit early in life for you to worry about that happening," assured the reaper with a chuckle. He looked down at the shattered ornament on the floor. "That's the first time I ever buggered up a Phantomhive Christmas break in. You have the tree in the wrong bloody place, this year."

Vincent looked at said tree. "Ah, so that's what finally threw you off! I should have done it years ago!"

"Cheeky," accused the reaper. He looked around. "Celebrating alone this year, are you?"

"So it would seem," agreed Vincent, covering a yawn politely. An idea came to him, then. "You could always stay through Christmas and have dinner with me, Undertaker. It won't be a grand feast, but it will be a hot meal."

Undertaker stared at him, and he took his hat off and turned it around in his hands by the brim. The long ribbon hanging from it dragged the floor as he absently toyed with the headwear. "I find it peculiar, you inviting me to have dinner with you, knowing what you do."

Vincent shrugged. "Reapers have to eat too, don't they? At least, I see you stuffing your face with those bone cookies all the time, so I presume you have as much need for sustenance as we mere mortals do."

Undertaker grinned and nodded, looking at him through his now slightly parted bangs. "I can put away some food, my lord. I do love a good meal."

"Then stay," invited Vincent, "and join me for Christmas dinner tomorrow."

Undertaker smirked at him. "You really aren't afraid of me, are you?"

"I think a part of me is," corrected Vincent, "but the other part has known you since childhood, and I grew up reading horror stories and mysteries. Besides, not many people are more frightening than my father could be, when he went on one of his tangents."

Undertaker snickered softly and nodded in agreement. "He could be a mean old fart, your father. Terrorized most of the help half the time, he did."

"Yes," agreed Vincent with a smile, "God rest his soul. I think that's part of why I try to be so nice to people; to make up for the way my father treated them."

"Just so you don't get too trusting and let your guard down," reminded Undertaker. "Well, I appreciate the offer, but I must be going. I have a body to prepare for a Christmas funeral, as luck would have it. I wouldn't want it to go to the grave unprepared."

"I see." Vincent swallowed his disappointment. He'd come to realize that in addition to his attraction to Undertaker, he genuinely liked the man. He supposed it had something to do with his macabre sense of humor. "Well, if you happen to finish before five pm tomorrow, you're quite welcome to come by. The dinner offer still stands."

"Hmm, I might be able to do that," said the reaper with a thoughtful nod. He put his hat back on and he started to go, but he looked up at the ceiling and he pointed. "Earl, is that mistletoe over your head?"

Vincent looked up. He'd quite forgotten about the ribbon-adorned sprig that the servants had hung there. "Yes, it is."

The next thing he knew, Undertaker was right up in his face. He hadn't even seen him make a move; he was just…there. His lips descended to Vincent's before the young noble could so much as offer a peep of surprise, and then there was nothing but sheer bliss. Undertaker's mouth was warm and insistent against his, the lips velvety, animated and spiced with whatever ingredients he put into his baked treats.

A part of Vincent's mind panicked a bit at the thought of one of the servants coming by to get anything and happening upon them like this, but then he was backed up against the wall, his wrists were pushed over his head and Undertaker's kiss became searing. An odd sound arose in Vincent's throat as the reaper's leg pushed between his and their pelvic areas lined up. He recognized it as a muffled moan, and he instinctively struggled against Undertaker's hold on his wrists. Finding himself unable to budge the restraint probably should have made him anxious, but it only served to excite him.

He felt evidence of the reaper's arousal pressing against his own through their clothing, and when Undertaker's tongue slipped into his mouth to explore, he rubbed against him urgently, losing his senses. The reaper wouldn't allow him even a moment of control over the situation. His tongue caressed and stroked in his mouth with masterful skill, his lips seemed to take his breath away, and the feel of his slim, powerful body flush against his made the Earl want to tear his clothes off.

The kiss ended all too soon, and Undertaker held him in place for a few moments, his breath matching Vincent's in pace and force. "I thought you might be submissive for the right person," mused the reaper huskily. "I'm pleased to find out I was right. As much as I'd love to linger, my lord, I really must be going."

Undertaker smiled at him. "But before I go, I've got to give your present to you, don't I?"

Vincent was too dazed, breathless and weak in the knees to comprehend that, until Undertaker suddenly undid his trousers and shoved something down into them. He released Vincent and he stepped back with a broad, happy smile on his face.

"Happy Christmas, you naughty chap. Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow."

With that said, Undertaker made a gesture in the air and a flickering oval of smoky shadow appeared behind him. He stepped through it and was gone before Vincent could call out to him. The portal closed and Vincent Phantomhive stood gasping and hunched over. Hardly believing the man's nerve—even if he was a supernatural being—Vincent reached into his pants to dig out the hard, solid object Undertaker had shoved down them.

He held the object up in the palm of his hand, and he sighed. "Coal," he muttered. "Of course."

He had no idea what had motivated Undertaker to so bold a move, but he couldn't deny the thrill that brief encounter gave to him. He bowed his head and sighed.

"Forgive me, Rachel. I love you, and I swear I'll never take a mistress the way most other men do, but I can't promise never to seek another kiss like that from him again."

Indeed, if the price of sharing a kiss like that was a lump of coal down his pants, he'd gladly pay it again.

-The End