In retrospect, perhaps sending Sebastian off to Paris in search of a man who didn't exist wasn't such a brilliant idea.
Arms stretched high above his head, manacles cutting deep into the heels of his palms, Ciel attempted to relieve the pressure by bearing the bulk of his weight on the balls of his aching feet. He didn't know exactly how he ended up hanging from his wrists in the middle of the dim and dank warehouse, but he suspected the chemical, metallic taste lingering in his mouth was to blame. The last he remembered, Roger Winston, Esquire and trafficker of fresh corpses, had been lying facedown against the damp concrete floor, pinned there like a struggling insect to a corkboard beneath the crushing weight of Ciel's knee while the earl quite cheerfully strangled him with the blue silk tie his butler had gifted him for his twentieth birthday.
He'd been alone. I was certain I only saw one man. He didn't have a partner . . .
Now the vermin paced before him, each slap of his hard-soled shoes against the wet slab resounding like a gun-blast through the clearing fog of Ciel's too-heavy head. The sight of Sebastian's gift draped loosely around Winston's neck like some ill-won Lady's favor only added insult to injury—although watching the man gulp long draughts of the foul air eased the sting, some. Suffused with the stench of formaldehyde and moldering decay, the thick atmosphere of the warehouse was nearly suffocating and Ciel held out hope the sick bastard might still choke to death after all.
As if he'd heard the thought, Winston halted mid-pace and assaulted Ciel with a beady-eyed glare. "Higher." The tall, scrawny man rasped, his long, skeletal fingers tracing over the friction burns just below his prominent Adam's apple. "I wanna watch this arrogant ponce dance for me on his tippy toes before I drop him to his knees, begging."
"Dance? I was under the impression you preferred your captives far less animated," Ciel sneered. In his mind's eye, he saw Sebastian shake his head in silent admonishment, telling him that taunting a madman who had him chained to his mercy was foolish, indeed, but Ciel didn't care. He'd very nearly ended the sad sack who now gawped at his nerve, and he'd finish the job just as soon as his brain stopped buzzing and he regained the whole of his wits. He'd manage just fine without his butler's aid, too, and prove, once and for all, just who was truly the master of every damned domain.
I'll see you serve as my butler in Hell, demon. Don't think just because I succumbed to a moment of weakness and confessed my . . .
The screeching clack and grind of a winding winch ripped Ciel out of his thoughts and his arms nearly tore from their sockets as his body yanked violently upward. He bit down hard on his pained cry and stared defiantly into the muddy eyes of his captor, who gazed back at him with brightening interest and an expression of growing anticipation Ciel didn't care for at all.
"Rupert. Fetch the cart." A wicked smile blazed across Roger Winston's pallid face.
"Righty-O!" A voice called amicably from somewhere behind Ciel. "You want I should bring the tubes and the tanks, too?"
"Nah. Just the cart will do." Winston tongued his lower lip and leered at Ciel. "Once we get done playing with the Queen's fancy pet, we'll see if there's anything left worth preserving."
Rupert's resounding whoop of delight prickled Ciel's skin and chilled in him a way which made the cool, damp air of the warehouse feel positively balmy. Winston watched Ciel intently, and a broad, yellow-toothed grin split his face once more.
"The black market trade for fetid flesh must be much more lucrative than I'd believed, if it affords a butler to filthy scum like you," Ciel said, his thoughts on his own butler, who he yearned for with a sense of infuriating yet growing desperation. Fire blazed through his arms and hands. The pain bordered on excruciating, but it helped sharpen his mind, if nothing else. Soon they'd be numb and useless, and that would be much worse. It might prove damning, in fact, but there was no help for it. The toes of his shoes barely brushed the concrete now and he couldn't use his feet to support his weight at all. Once he lost the leverage of his upper body, he would truly be at Winston's mercy.
"Rup's not my butler, he's my brother," Winston said. His fingertips ran slowly back and forth over the tail of tie trailing over his breast as if entranced by the texture of the silk. If only the bastard would take two steps closer, Ciel could swing forward, lash out with a swift upward kick, and send Winston's bony hook of a nose straight up into writhing mass of maggots that served for his brain. Then those spindly fingers would never molest another tie, or anything else, ever again.
My intel made no mention of a brother . . .
"A high and haughty rich arse like yourself probably believes a brother isn't half as good as a servant who caters to your every whim," Winston continued, "but I don't have to pay Rup to have my back. That's the blessing of family . . . not that you'd know. Heard yours was murdered, and all the Phantomhive millions weren't enough to buy 'em back from the dead." Winston chuckled, his lecherous fingers still violating Ciel's favorite tie. "But I'm a generous individual. Very soon, I'm gonna let Rupert have your back, and you won't even have to pay him for the pleasure."
Buttocks clenching, Ciel bit back the insult burning on his tongue in favor of taking Sebastian's advice for once. That acrid tongue of yours is a dangerous defense mechanism, he heard his butler say, one that's like to get you killed before you summon me, one of these days. Considering the fire in his arms was dying to pins and needles, attempting to summon his butler now might not be a bad idea. Even for someone with Sebastian's capabilities, the distance between Paris and London would take more than an instant to cover. But then, he hadn't spent the past decade beneath the tutelage of a powerful demon without learning a few tricks of his own.
I got myself into this mess, and I'll get myself out. It's high past time Sebastian sees I don't need him at every damned turn, the smug bastard. Strutting around the manor these past weeks like a bloody peacock, gloating as if he's won some damned . . .
"Got it!" The squeal of rusted wheels rolling across wet concrete punctuated Rupert's excited shout, which reverberated through Ciel's head as if the man had yelled directly in his ear. Even Winston startled, his infernal fingers finally dropping from Ciel's tie as he whipped toward the sound of his brother's voice.
His captor momentarily distracted, Ciel forced his dead fingers around the thick chain attached to the manacles. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tested the strength of his numb arms and managed to lift himself a few inches off the floor. It wasn't much, but it would be enough leverage to put up a decent fight; enough to incapacitate the dull-witted brothers Grimm, surely, especially if Rupert proved as scrawny as Roger.
Wonderful. Now, if I can just figure a way out of these blasted manacles . . .
Rupert wheeled the cart into view and stunned Ciel out of further plans for escape with sudden understanding as to why he'd missed the man's presence when he'd cased the warehouse before his attack. Roger and Rupert Winston were not merely brothers. They were identical twins.
Bloody Hell. They're even wearing identical clothing. Maybe Mummy still dresses them just alike . . .A shiver ran over Ciel's spine.
Rupert stopped the cart beside his brother. "So what's the plan, Rog, huh?" he gushed, his expression so like that of an eager puppy Ciel realized the twins weren't completely identical after all. Roger had apparently gotten the lion's share of the intelligence.
"You tell me," Roger smiled, and nodded his head toward the cart. "Pick your game, Rup. You get to play first, this time."
Ciel darted his gaze to the cart and his stomach lurched. Covered in rust, it bore an assortment of metal instruments, most of which were spattered with spots of reddish brown. Knives and saws and a giant pair of shears lay haphazardly amongst a plethora of not so recognizable items, one of which resembled a miniature, cylindrical cricket bat.
No. I won't call him . . .I . . .I can handle this.
"Really?" Rupert's smile lit his face like a child's on Christmas morning, but then his shoulders slumped, his smile plummeted, and his lower lip quivered. "But . . .I . . .I was bad, Rog. I forgot, and . . .and I . . .I took off his pirate's patch and his pretty coat . . .and I . . . I was going to . . .I wanted to . . ."
"But you didn't." Roger said gently. He lifted his brother's trembling chin. "You forgot, but then you remembered, and you did exactly what you were supposed to do. You saved my life, Rupert. Now you deserve a reward."
"I do?" Rupert looked confused, and then his face lit up again as if a switch had been flipped. "I did! I do!"
Roger laughed and gestured to the cart. "Go on, then! Anything you want."
Without a second's hesitation, Rupert snatched up something rectangular that looked for all the world like the grater Sebastian used for shredding hard cheeses—were it his butler in the habit of first neglecting to clean his kitchen tools and then leaving them out in the damp for weeks on end. Rupert approached Ciel slowly, his filthy toy held out before him like an offering, a glistening string of saliva slipping from the corner of his gaping maw.
Ciel's stomach heaved. Keep it together, Phantomhive! Almost close enough. Be ready.
"What in the Hell is that thing?" Ciel yelled louder than he'd intended, and he didn't need to feign his expression of abject horror as he tightened his grip on the chain and tensed his muscles in preparation. Just another second, now . . .
"What? The file?" Roger grinned, his watchful gaze drawn to the item in question. "Dead useful, that. See, no matter how well we preserve and store our products, they tend to grow a patch of mold here and there after a few days. If used carefully, the file removes the blight without damaging the tissue beneath. Rupert, though, has an aversion to anything that alters the smoothness of skin. I believe he intends to remove your nipples."
"Yup." Rupert said from no more than two feet in front of him, and Ciel cursed himself for becoming distracted by his intended distraction. "Say! Your eye is a funny color, huh? Looks like some kinda star on it, too."
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