" The reader is a friend, not an adversary, not a spectator " -Jonathan Franzen.

My first fanfiction and writing seems easy until you actually do it. So my friends, this work of fiction is not perfect, it may not be the best thing you'll find out there but expect it to get better over the chapters and development of the story. I always end up unsatisfied with what I write, there are many things I'd improve if I got the chance/time, nevertheless, I take pride in this crap that I wrote with my heart.

I hope my passion will become yours.

Enjoy.


How does a demon without a contract spend his days?

...

"It stings!"

He hissed through gritted teeth; as he ducked his chin into his delicately knitted woolen muffler, wrapped around the velvet collar of his trendy over-coat.

The raging wind bringing down the cold big flakes from the upper skies to slap him across the face was a typical way for another merciless winter to bid him farewell, in the city of Westminster London.

A young man muttered a quick Pardon me as he bumped into him in the crowded Trafalgar Square. People coming out en masse in weather like this was something quite puzzling to him. They should be cuddling with their cats and pillows near their fireplaces instead, shouldn't they?

Well, it's not like everybody had cozy houses to go back to in this glamorous city, the beating heart of the world's greatest empire, The British Empire. Even if the sun was never to set on it, there are obviously many places on which it never shone in the first place, he thought, remembering the woman he saw on his way here, in rags under the Waterloo Bridge, hugging a newborn into her chest as his cries filled the damp spot they were occupying.

Maybe the Bridge of Sighs -as poet Thomas Hood named it, was a home to that woman and her baby. Maybe she had chosen that place for later, it would be easier for her to put an end to her misery in the muddy waters of the Thames, just like her fellow single mothers did before.

Sighs. A lot of sighs filled this filthy city, coming from East End and never heard by the residents of the west, Westminster, Kensington, Chelsea and all the royal boroughs.

What about the people who actually had houses to go back to?

They were out, most probably, to earn money for their food.

Food was everybody's first preoccupation and he was no exception.

He brought his hands out of his pockets and tugged his muffler down a bit, revealing more of his flawless features as he got nearer to Nelson's Column at the center of the Square. His eyes were focused on the granite monument standing few yards away from him, just like a giant Egyptians obelisk towering over the city. Erected there to intimidate the foreign visitors and remind the natives to hold their heads up high, for they won the first prize in the lottery of life the moment they were born into this great nation.

He snickered, brushing those ideas off quickly when his eyes fell on her.

He swaggered unwaveringly over to where she was sitting, a smile able to melt the snow around them dancing on his thin lips.

«You called for me my lady? » he said, casually taking a seat near her, not too close or too far.

The middle aged woman eyed the young man in surprise, was he talking to her? Looking around, the closest breathing being was sitting near the other bronze lion statue, occupying the southern corner of the huge pedestal of the column, of which she and this stranger occupied the eastern corner. There was no mistake; this stranger was addressing her. «N-No…you must be mistaken sir. » and she turned her face the other way.

«Yes you did. » He said with a smile. His confidence, sweetened by the playfulness of his voice, melted like pieces of sugar in the cup of curiosity he was offering her.

And the strong drink did the trick, as usual.

He picked up when she finally turned to face him, confusion and a hint of distrust clouding her puffy eyes. «You did, yesterday night, in the attic of your house, when you were reading that passionate love letter you found in your husband's pocket. »

The women's eyes became as big as saucers as she pushed herself further, away from him and closer to the snow-coated statue. «How did you know?! Are you a stalker! » Surely she had been alone the night before!

He chuckled lightly. «I assure you, madam, I have no such distorted hobby! » He said, borrowing her vision, and she swore those emerald eyes of his made time stop ticking in her head. «I wouldn't have come if you didn't call to me, » He added, as he took off his high-top hat, revealing rebellious short strands of a bright scarlet, that only the flames of the war-god Mars could measure to their beauty.

The woman, stunned by the grace of this stranger, let out wavering words like her wavering heart. «W-What do you want from me? »

«It's not about what I want, but what you want. »

«…What I want? »

«I lost all hope that he will love me, I lost all faith in this marriage, in life, in everything… I have but one wish, to disappear, and take him with me, » He hissed the very words she told herself in the dead of yesterday's night, with a wolfish glint in his crimson-flashing eyes.

«Your heart told me of your undisclosed desires and I'm here to make your wish come true. »

...

She was his meal for today, and what an utterly dull after-taste did she leave in his throat.

He sighed, regretting not being pickier about what went into his stomach.

Living on the fast food he got from temporary contracts was a life style that suited him perfectly, sparing him the entire headache he used to go through when his proper meals ended up developing romantic feelings towards him in long-term contracts, and that -as ridiculous as it may sound- used to happen to him a lot.

Comfortable with his current life style, he couldn't care less about being called "a disgrace" by his own kind, or topping the red list of the near-sighted fellows with phosphorescent eyes.

"There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about." was his motto.

He strolled leisurely across the Serpentine Bridge separating Hyde Park from the Kensington gardens, his final destination for today. The frozen waters under the bridge reflected the white skies above, the two rendering the darkness of that night a bit less audacious and wrapped in nostalgia.

He effortlessly jumped over the fences of the gardens, closed at this late hour of the night and aimed for his usual spot, one with the best view of the neighbourhood, allowing him to stalk the pampered inhabitants of Kensington, looking for the next target to call to him.

For the people living in this deluxe district, as empty as their swelled heads were, their souls held a rich flavour of greed, egoism and cruelty. Just the right spices he needed to wash away the bitter after-taste he was regurgitating at that moment.

He finally reached the said spot.

Early that year, a stage play written by a certain Scottish novelist, entitled "Peter Pan, or the boy who wouldn't grow up." premièred in the theatres of London and instantly became a huge hit to the point that a bronze statue of the main character was erected overnight in the Kensington gardens, in no other place than the demon's favourite spot.

He first despised the little boy with the magical flute, swearing that he'd swallow the souls of the novelist, the sculptor, the gardeners and all those who had a hand in this shorty taking his place. But when he watched the play -out of curiosity, he rescinded his negative opinion and soon developed a feeling of companionship for the the little boy.

"He is free-spirited, smart, confident, energetic and multi-talented just like me. Neither of us shall ever grow up. And most of all, we're both unable to love..." the demon greeted his young companion with a smile as he jumped to take a seat on the latter's stiff shoulder and started his hunt for tonight.

[…]

It was a white night, but it was certainly a blank and empty one too.

The demon rolled his eyes with a growl when he couldn't find any decent prey; did everyone suddenly decide to swing to the angelic side tonight? Was there no one who could use the services of a demon with a stomach-ache?

He was pondering the option of going to East End; the souls there were equally strong flavoured, when a small voice caught his attention.

«Please, please, please, take me to Lyceum Theatre tomorrow, I want to watch the play! »

The demon whipped his face towards the voice's source, his inhuman eyes giving him an insight of the scene taking place inside one of the houses of Ossington Street.

A girl, of five or six years old, by the demon's estimation, was lying on her lavish bed in a rather big, comfy room and her mother, as he would learn later, was covering her with a thick puffy blanket while the girl kept pleading to go to the afore-mentioned theatre.

«One last time! Pleeeeeease! We'll go back to our manor the day after tomorrow and I won't be able to see the play again till next season. »

«But you already watched it three times my dear! Didn't you have enough? » The mother responded to her child, her eyes doing the pleading on her behalf.

«No, I didn't! » The girl responded with a grin, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck in a sneaky move to squeeze out more of her mother's affection.

The demon eyeing them couldn't hold back a mocking snort as he rested his hand on the head of his bronze little fellow. «See, Flying Boy, what do you do to the hearts of ladies? This young lady is literally pestering her mother to get a glimpse of your overwhelming charms. »

«I don't understand why do you love that play this much. » The mother let out a sigh as she stroke the back of her daughter gently. «How about I take you to watch Peter Pan instead? »

One of the demon's eyebrows quirked upwards. "The kid wasn't talking about Peter? So which play does she want to watch so desperately?!"

«It's either Henry VI or nothing! » The girl tightened her grip around her mother.

The demon jumped a little in his seat as if a needle has just pricked him. «Henry VI? HENRY VI? As in Shakespeare's Henry VI?! » a bewildered huff escaped him. «How old are you again? »

"Henry VI" was a historical play, written by Shakespeare to depict some of the events of "The Wars of the Roses". Despite how romantic their name may sound, these "Wars of the Roses" were a series of bloody dynastic wars for the throne of England, taking place in the English territory between 1455 and 1487 and fought among the members of "the house of Lancaster" and "the house of York", the two families with blood-rights to the throne.

«I shouldn't have let you hang around the Undertaker. » the mother sighed. «Introducing such a bloody play to little children like you and Ciel, what in the world was he thinking? » She eyed her child with a grimace as she kept caressing her hair.

«He said the play is a very important clue to the future, as history is bent to repeat itself. » The girl's eyes gleamed with excitement as her hands unconsciously tightened around her blanket wrinkling it. «And he said the battle of Towton was the largest battle ever fought on English soil! »

«Not just the largest but the bloodiest as well, » The demon retorted from his remote place. «Twenty eight thousand people died on that day, and most of them were Lancastrians who were slain while fleeing the battle field across the Wharfe river. Men struggling across the river were dragged down by currents and drowned. Those floundering were stepped on and pushed under water by their comrades behind them as they rushed to get away from the Yorkists. The dead began to pile up and the Lancastrians eventually fled across these bridges of bodies. The waters of the river ran in a scarlet red for a whole week after that... » The demon's eyebrows met as he straightened his stance. «And that's exactly why a kiddo like you shouldn't be watching such a play. »

«War is an ugly thing and the worst type of war is a civil one, like that of the Roses. You shouldn't be excited about something like this Elena, » the mother reprimanded her daughter and the latter shrank in her seat, hiding her face with the blanket.

«I'm not excited about the war, Mother, but about the red demon Undertaker told Ciel and me about. He said that demon was born on the day of the battle of Towton from the blood of the Lancastrians and that he shall appear again and that will mark the beginning of the end. »

«The next time I meet the Undertaker I shall ask him to refrain from filling your head with his nonsense. » The mother laid the little girl on her bed again, upset visible on her face. «Now go to sleep little miss. » and she blew the candles on the nightstand out.

«Good night Mother. »

«Good night. »

«Towton, The Undertaker, Elena... » The demon jumped off the bronze statue, as the cold night breeze brought his scarlet bangs to cloud his vision. «The beginning of the end, huh? »

...

10 years later, late autumn 1892, the Lionton manor:

It was just another monotonous day in the Life of Elena Lionton. Everything went on as scheduled: economy lessons, dance lessons, fencing lessons, business meetings for both the companies she ran.

That's how one would see her daily life, or at least, that's how most people would see it.

«Lady Elena Evangeline Cleopatra Lionton. » The reporter, sitting across the long table from the girl in the lounge, with a half eaten slice of la forêt noire and a tea cup newly filled with Earl Grey in front of him, knocked on the pocket-sized notepad with his dip pen. « Sixteen years old but already the Marchioness of the Liontons and the head of both the Lionton gun company and the Lotus company for herbs and medicines. Allow me to ask a question here, » He said with a grin plastered on his face. «Isn't it a bit ironic for the same person to be running both these companies at the same time? »

Elena, with her butler Kyle standing at her right, couldn't help but smirk in response to his question. «You know, dear Sir, just like everyone else, that the Lionton family has been entrusted with England's safety by the royal family itself for ages now. We control all the weapons and arms that come in and out of the British territory. We have always regarded this mission as both a duty and an honour to the Lionton family but my late father, Alfred Lionton, was more of a pacifist so he founded the Lotus company of medicines to help heal the wounds any weapons may cause. »

«Is this some sort of a confession that the weapons you bring to England are misused? » Clayton Barclay, the reporter said with a hint of eagerness in his voice.

The Marchioness chuckled amused by his accusations. «Are you sure you should be excited about something like this Mister Barclay? I believe I said any weapons, didn't I? But let me make it clear, no, not in any possible way would the reason behind founding the Lotus company be any sort of redemption for some negligence on the Lionton's family behalf, it is a mere act of benevolence. We do our job perfectly and we hire just the right people to ensure that. What happens to the guns once we deliver them to their rightful owners in none of our business, I believe there are other people in charge of such matters. »

«Do you mean the Phantomhives? »

«Did I mention a name? » The girl asked with a frown darkening her beautiful face.

«No, my lady, » the reporter responded, shrinking in his seat, but no, he wasn't going to back down now. He came here knowing full well that writing an article on the Lionton family could very well mean stepping on a land mine, but that was a risk he was willing to place his professional pride as a reporter on.

«Lady Lionton…are the rumours saying that your mother is still alive and hiding in Egypt true? » all the reporter's attention was now focused on the girl's facial expression anticipating some sort of anger or at least annoyance but to his surprise, the girl didn't show any emotion for what seemed like a long unbearable minute of pure silence, before a perplexing grin crept into her face.

«Dear Sir, if you have any news about my mother, I would be most thankful if you decided to share them with me, but to be frank, I, like most people, believe that my mother died a long time ago. That's so unfortunate since you won't get the scoop you came for, well now… » the young girl slowly cleaned the edges of her mouth with the white napkin, once finished the butler pulled back her chair and she stood up. «I must excuse myself, I still have a lot of matters to attend to. »

«Yes! yes! I understand! Thank you for your hospitality Marchioness Lionton and I hope my visit wasn't a nuisance to you, » The man said, as he clumsily pushed the chair away and stood up as well, fully aware that he wasn't welcome in that house any longer.

«Not at all. Kyle, see our dear guest to the exit. » the Marchioness left the room without sparing a single glance towards the said dear guest.

«Right away my lady. » was the butler's response with a curt bow and his right hand placed diligently on his chest.

...

«Aren't you old enough to stop being this sensitive about anything related to your mother? » the redhead butler said as he entered the girl's room late that night, pushing a cart with a glass made tea set on it.

«Who is sensitive? »

«You obviously. »

«No, I'm not. »

«Yes, you are. »

«Now are you my butler or my father! »

«My! Of course your humble butler! » the butler said as he poured the tea in the glass cup where he previously placed a chamomile flower. «I wouldn't want to be your father any way, » he added, too softly for the girl to hear.

«Seriously?! You don't even have a mother but you always lecture me about mine! » the girl added on the spur of the moment, the pain knifing through her at the mention of that woman bolstered up her anger.

«Maybe I had one, who knows? » the butler shrugged. «But one thing I'm sure of, we demons are alone from the moment we are born to the moment we die. Unlike you, who had your parents, and now have me. »

Elena felt a slight sting of guilt in her heart for getting carried away and blurting out those things. Kyle handed her the tea cup and she took it silently, avoiding his gaze.

«Oh, don't make such a sad face Elena! » The butler said with a light chuckle. «I'm amazed at how naive you can be at times. Feeling sorry for a demon? Very unlike you. »

« Shut up Kyle. » The faintly blushing girl was still feeling upset and uncomfortable and the butler decided to lighten the mood, in the way that pleased him of course.

«You don't need to worry about my feelings my dear, for they are mostly, » and the demon leaned very close to the girl's face with his eyes flashing red. «hunger and lust, » he added with a smirk adorning his flawless face.

«You know why I hate those red eyes? You hide your true self behind them, I see nothing, they are terribly suffocating, » the girl said, glaring at her butler.

The demon grinned, keeping silent for a while, before snapping, «Oh yes! » he turned to pick up a silver tray laid on the cart and place it carefully on the lap of his mistress, who was sitting comfortably on her bed.

«What is all of this? » the girl glanced at the pile of letters then at the letter-opener placed beside them. «I see you already opened them? » the girl lifted her head to give her butler a nonchalant look.

«Most of them were proposal letters so I took it to myself to dispose of all those Incompetent, stupid, greedy men unworthy of you. »

«Aha, » was all what Elena said watching her demon enthusiastically amplify the words of insults towards the noblemen, «and, » she added with a hint of impatience.

«Well, there was also a letter from the Queen that I left untouched. »

«Her Majesty? how rare … » Elena opened the letter carefully feeling both confusion and anticipation towards what may this important piece of paper bring.

Kyle stood there looking at Elena's face and his doubts were confirmed when he saw her eyes open widely.

«NO WAY IN HELL! »