Prologue

That night was when the memoires came back.

It was that night, not so long ago, when the young master and I were out investigating the Jack the Ripper case. Two people were now dead, Ciel was injured, and so was I. But just the same, I was caught up in a duel with a Grim Reaper, who had been posing as an incompetent butler to Madam Red all along.

Dodging his death scythe while fighting and trying to ignore his love-struck chattering proved to be quite a challenge. Even though it wasn't so taxing on my body to leap and duck and summersault backwards and left and right to avoid any further injuries, being able to strike back without being fazed by talk of "feelings" or "passion" or "babies" proved to be rather difficult… because having "feelings" for a Reaper and feeling "passion" for a Reaper and even things of "babies" with a Reaper brought up too many painful memories; and having this red-haired pervert stir them up only made me all the angrier.

That anger distracted me long enough to allow Grell—this love-struck Reaper—to ramble on about this fight lasting forever; permanently lit by the glow of the moon. And when I least expected it, he thrust his head forward, bashing his skull against my own. I could feel blood trail down the side of my face and I found myself in a daze. The next thing I knew, I could taste blood in my mouth—my own blood—and a large gash ripping across my torso. My life flashed before my eyes, but each image was brief and consisted mostly of the four other servants of the Phantomhive household and their bothersome mistakes.

Of course, that's what my everyday life had been like for the past two years, but I wasn't willing to allow such a vulgar being like Grell Sutcliff to view anything further.

My clothes, now ruined—my tailcoat, past mending—became the only useful tool I had left to best that blasted death scythe of Grell's. The scythe's power came from its rotating teeth that lined the blade. With no hope left for my tailcoat, I jammed the scythe's rotating blade with its thick, black fabric. It wouldn't matter how hard that annoying pest yanked and pulled on the coat to get it out. His fancy, special weapon was utterly useless, leaving him with nothing to fight with but his fists.

Of course, with this, I gained the upper hand. Grell, seemingly lost without his precious scythe, was quickly reduced to a whimpering, blubbering, bloody pulp.

"I must say, this is much nicer." I purred, "I prefer kicking to being kicked."

Whatever noises were coming out of that Reaper's mouth, they weren't any words I could make out. I was fluent in a vast number of languages, but of all the languages I could understand, Gibberish was not one of them.

"We finally found something you're good at: screaming. Very well done." I said, raising his death scythe over my head and revving the blade; having freed the tailcoat from its rotating teeth with a simple tug, "As a reward, I shall kill you with this cherished little toy of yours."

"No, please stop! Don't kill me." Grell whimpered, finally making words I could understand, "I can tell you who killed the kid's parents!"

If Grell would have said something sooner, I would have taken those words into consideration, but it was too late for that now as I brought the rotating scythe down…

… Only to have it clash with another death scythe; one that I was all too familiar with.

"I apologize for interrupting." A far off voice said; it too sounding all too familiar, "My name is William T. Spears: an administrator at the Grim Reaper Staffing Association. I've come to retrieve that Reaper there."

'I know who you are and why you're here.' I thought to myself; anger beginning to fill my chest.

William leaped down from the building he was perched on, landing right on top of Grell, who was now face-planted into the cobblestone surface of the street. He began to read off several of Grell's violations; killing people not on the To-Die List, using at customized death scythe without authorization, and threatening to reveal strictly classified information.

'Really, Will? Is work still the only thing that matters to you?'

William eventually hopped off of Grell and dipped his head to me. A Reaper bowing to a demon. It was unheard of!

"I'm sorry for all the trouble this wretch has caused." He said, handing me his business card, which I promptly took. I didn't so much care about the card. I was more surprised by the fact that William was still bowing his head to me.

"Honestly…" he continued, "I never thought I'd see the day when I had to bow my head to demon scum like you."

The way he said it made me think he still remembered something, forcing a slight smile to cross my face. That smile quickly vanished as he finished.

"This is a disgrace to all Grim Reapers."

"Then perhaps you should keep a close eye on your minions," I said, tossing the business card aside, "so they don't trouble us."

I was desperate to change the topic. Everything that had come out of William's mouth reminded me of what had happened between us not a century ago.

"Humans are so easily tempted." I said, "They will do anything when in the grip of utter despair. They will grasp onto any thread that promises to save them from unhappiness… no matter what the consequences. You should know that."

At last, William straightened up, "That's a charming little piece of information. You demons seem to capitalize on that fact more often than we do."

"Hm, that I cannot deny."

William then turned to Ciel, who was still knelt on the ground beside Madam Red's body.

"Right now, you seem to be a tame dog. That makes you far less dangerous than the rapid mongrels running around free."

A dog. Of all things, he compares me to a dog. I was at my wit's end with William.

He turned to walk away, dragging Grell by his hair along with him. he mumbled something about being shorthanded and overtime and how "The Board" was not going to be pleased.

It was all my nerves could take, and it was then that I realized I was still holding Grell's death scythe.

'Honestly, William…' my arm lifted and I flung the scythe at him, somewhat hoping—yet at the same time, not—that the blade would run him through, 'Can you think of nothing else but work?'

William was able to catch the blade between two fingers; an indication that his senses were still sharp and he still had a respectable amount of strength.

I forced a smile, "I assume you'll want that, yes?"

"Yes, thank you…" William replied in a dull tone and adjusting his glasses for the twentieth time since his arrival, "Now, if you'll please excuse us…"

And with that, William left.

I sighed, but not from exhaustion. The emotional hurt from all those years ago had completely surfaced.

'Why William? Why do you hate me now? Why don't you remember what happened. What happened on… on that day?'