Beads of rain sluiced gently down the glass of the oversized window. It dominated almost half of the wall in the library, the only thing separating the huge room from the sky, it seemed. There was a single butterscotch candy left in the bowl on the coffee table, it's wrapper glinting in the firelight. A flash of pale white skin, and it was gone. The greatest detective in the world stripped the sucking candy of it's metallic gold wrapper and pushed it slowly between his porcelain lips as his black eyes flickered slowly over the top of is murder mystery novel. L's black eyes roved aound the room as he snapped the work of Agatha Christie shut and replaced it on the shelf. The storm outside had tapered off to a gentle rain, which made the snowy landscape look very gray and bleak. L shuffled over to the mantle of the huge stone fireplace and selected another thick book, before returning to his black leather armchair and tucking his knees comfortably against his chest.
The library was L's favorite room in his whole mansion. The room was huge and would be completely dark, if it weren't for the ancient stone fireplace that spilled light and warmth a good twenty feet in every direction when lit. The eastern wall was almost entirely constructed of glass through which one could see the snow-covered east lawn, and the icy sheet that was usually the lake. The shelves, packed with old case files, classics, and mystery novels, lined the entire western and northern sides of the room. Up above was the loft, where even more thick, old books jostled for space on the dusty shelves. Even further up into the blackness of the ceiling was an old crystal chandelier that L had neglected for the past thirteen years. He never turned it on. He felt there was no need for excess light, and he felt that a chandelier like that shouldn't be seen by other people, because of reasons that he would never tell anyone. The chandelier had belonged to his mother.
Fifty seconds passed, and the detective closed this book and replaced it on the shelf.
Suddenly, his black eyes opened wide, and his breath stuck in his throat. His scalp prickled. His pulse began to race. Oh, no. No. NO! Dammit, this couldn't be happening! The detective's head snapped sharply to stare in horror at the door, as if he expected a mad axe-man to burst through it at any moment. Without another word, he ran to the door, wrenched it open, and threw his skinny body into the upstairs hall. There wasn't much time left. He flew down the stairs, light as a ghost. Second floor. God, I hope I make it before it's too late. His heart pounding beneath porcelain skin, he dashed down the grand staircase, through the parlor, down the hall, and into the kitchen. It was difficult for him to breathe, knowing that in about another half minute, all of his dreams, wishes, and deepest desires were about to be fufilled.
Chocolate Cake.
Yum.