Disclaimer: All characters and references made belong to Yana Toboso and the 'Black Butler' series. I have no claim to anything.
Author's Note: As always, I hope that my readers have gotten this far. I would hope to keep you that entertained, at least. Reviews are welcomed. Bashing is not. Thank you, and enjoy.
Chapter Three: The Homecoming
The Grim Reaper Library was a contradiction of itself; grand and aesthetically pleasing on the outside, yet monotonous and boring within. While no less grand in its interior, the décor consisted of white marble, stone, and plaster, a sparse amount of decoration of another color, an infinite number of endless hallways in which each door seemed to lead to either a superior's office, another hallway, or a staircase that led to another hallway, and one grand, infinite room. The room itself stretched from the bottom floor of the building up to the top level, with entrances on all sides on each level. Its walls were lined from top to bottom with shelves, which were stocked full of Deathplays from all over the world, accessed via the balconies and ladders that stretched alongside the shelves on each level. While stocked with the histories of everyone that had ever lived, what Ciel found most interesting about the room was that, while the east and west ends of the room spanned the length of a normal room in a normal library, no matter where you stood at the south end, you could never look out and see the north end, and vice versa. The opposite end of the room was always too far off in the distance to see. It truly was infinite. The Undertaker had proven that to him on the day of his initiation. During the tour that he had given the child of the building, he had taken him to the bottom level and proceeded to debrief him on all of the rules and regulations of a Reaper-in-training as they walked from the south end to the north…the latter of which, they never reached. They walked for over an hour, and seemed no closer to the opposite end than when they began. Ciel hadn't seen any sign that they had even made headway, save for the disappearance of the wall that had been at their backs after half of an hour. Not even a book out of place. The room was organized, flawless, perfect…and more often than not, completely silent. Other than the light 'tap, tap' of hi low-heeled boots against the marble floor, and the Undertaker's words strangling his consciousness. 'Just wait, Ciel. Just wait.' The boy's porcelain canines drew blood from his tongue with every syllable. He was tired of just waiting. Waiting did nothing. If you wanted something, you had to act. You had to stand up and take it yourself…otherwise, someone else would…
…and no one stole from a Phantomhive.
The metallic taste on his tongue was swallowed down to his heart. His visible eye flashed with resentment. He was no longer that person. It was his mantra now; a daily, constant reminder of the difference between the person that he once was and the person he had become…just like his right eye: a constant, physical proof that he was no longer the King of this game. He was now more akin to the board on which it was played; specifically designed and crafted, with rules that were meant to be followed, and the authority to enforce those rules. He was no longer the one breaking them. He no longer had the pieces necessary to do so…nor the payment with which to convince them. He no longer possessed a soul worthy of his taste.
The metallic taste returned, accompanied by the resentment, though for whom this time, he did not know.
xXxXxXxXx
Of course his superior was in section G. He couldn't have been in sections B or C; that would be too easy. Ciel was certain that the sun had set twice before he finally reached him, and the condescending glare that he was greeted with didn't help his sour mood; neither did the man's snide tone.
"…Good evening, Ciel Phantomhive." He said offhandedly, as one might address Grell Sutcliffe as he intruded upon a group of people who had just been discussing the party that he was not invited to.
The man's insistence on addressing people by their full names irked Ciel to no end; nearly as much as his annoying habit of adjusting his glasses with the tip of his Deathscythe. And this man had the gall to claim that his method of removing his eye patch was dangerous! Perhaps he had picked up said habit from this man in the first place?
With equitable distaste, Ciel grit his teeth, and snapped back a crisp, "Mr. Spears."
Tension palpable in the air, neither made a move closer to the other. Even working under the same roof, the two would more than likely never reconcile the differences that had developed during Ciel's life. Ciel preferred it that way. He had never had a particular liking for the tight-belted Reaper, anyway. He had resolved himself to connecting with as few people as possible; not only did it save him the trouble of future complications, he simply didn't seem to be good at doing otherwise. Whether it was tolerating the Undertaker's insistent birthday cakes, baked in the shape of coffins every year, or ignoring fellow Reaper Ronald Knox's endearing ruffling of his hair and attempted friendly 'Good work, kid,' Ciel simply wasn't capable of accepting the welcome. He much preferred Grell Sutcliffe's continuous, nostalgic contempt and envious 'Brat!' That he knew how to deal with. Hatred, he could accept. It was acceptance that he could not seem to grasp. Such was the reasoning behind his apathy in the face of William's intimidating stare. The elder Reaper turned slowly from his observance of the bookshelves to face the boy, and adjusted his glasses (that damned habit!) before addressing him.
"It's actually quite convenient that I've run into you."
'It's good to see you' would have been too much to ask for. The bespectacled man proceeded to step forward and hold an outstretched arm toward the boy. In his hand, he held a dark leather book, engraved with gold filigree, in presentation.
"You have an assignment." He said, blankly.
Another assignment? So soon? He had been on duty, and therefore sleepless, for the past three nights! He was certain that he would be given a break tonight. He should have known better, what with who his superior was. The displeasure must have shown on Ciel's face, for William T. Spears was not a man to explain himself; therefore, his next statement was incredibly significant.
"We…or rather, they…thought that this one should be handled by you."
His golden eyes held a knowing look, and Ciel met it with one of equitable intrigue. The questions that had been on the tip of his tongue were answered by the simple act of glancing downward at the filigree etched into the leather cover in his hands. It read, 'Matilda Simmons.' He knew that name. That was the woman that Sebastian had copulated with in order to gain information during their investigation of that cult all those years ago. She was one of them; the ones who had killed his family, broken hi body, and tarnished his name; the ones who had humiliated him, that he had sworn revenge against. He acknowledged William's generosity with a nod, though it wasn't truly William that was being so generous. William Spears had always detested the fact that these kinds of missions were handed to Ciel, finding it unfair, claiming that he was being favored. However, someone quite a bit above the Head of the London Division had the first say. It was the Undertaker's advantageous pulling of strings that allowed Ciel alone to pass judgment on the members of the cult. In his position, it was his only way of exacting his revenge without breaking the rules, and the Undertaker had the power to make it possible…and while Ciel had yet to comprehend the man's reasoning in favoring him so, for that, he could never thank him enough. What he had not accomplished in life, he would accomplish in death, and as the golden filigree burned itself into his retina, he felt one step closer.
xXxXxXxXx
'The young woman drifted across the floorboards, closing her curtains and extinguishing the candles before making her way back to her vanity, upon which one candle was still lit. She lifted her hairbrush to her scalp and began to slowly comb the tangle of a hard day's work. She sighed lightly to herself, slightly apprehensive of the day to come. Her service tomorrow would be awkward, to say the least, as was every service at her new house of worship…as were all services at any of the houses of worship that she attempted to attend. What with her reputation, her history of methods of worship to His Holiness, she was lucky that her newest choice of church would even consider allowing her to attend. Her internal thoughts were wrapped in this as she finished brushing her hair, and lifted herself from the vanity stool, taking the candle with her to her bedside before extinguishing it with a puff of air.'
"Good. She'll be sleeping soon. That will make my entry all the easier."
Ciel Phantomhive flipped the page where the text had filled, keeping a constant vigilant eye on his next target, whether she was in his sight or no. In the dead of night, he strode the streets of London with a clam exterior, even as his insides burned with the fire of hatred at the concept of being one step closer to his ultimate revenge. He remembered this one. He remembered this woman well. She had partaken in the cult's practices and beliefs, claiming to be pure, only to fall victim to the seduction of a devil with an incredibly small amount of influence. Purity, apparently, is as skin deep as beauty. Well, no matter. Neither would matter to her soon. As the road before him was cut off by a building, branching into an alleyway that would take him farther from his target, he refused to so much as slow in his advance. Without taking his gaze from the DeathPlay, he placed a single booted foot against the wall of the building and strolled up the side with no effort. Such physical limitations had no hold over a Grim Reaper, and he was learning this well, or so the Undertaker had told him. At this time of night, he would never be noticed anyway. The streets were empty, and the lights in all of the windows surrounding the area had been put out. No one would even be awake to hear the woman, should she refuse to be taken to the afterlife. This would be too easy. His path lead him over walls, rooftops, down fire-escapes and across power-lines, all without ever taking his gaze from the book. He couldn't afford to miss a moment of her actions, lest he be caught off-guard and miss something important.
'Curling herself beneath the covers, Matilda closed her weary eyes, a dreamless sleep drifting into her consciousness, taking hold and dominating the silence…'
The night was just as silent as he continued his advance. He preferred it that way. No distractions, no sound. Just silence…the silence that he was most familiar with. The silence that sat on the air moment before the…
…storm.
'The sudden sound, soft though it was, jerked Matilda from her light doze, dragging her gaze in the direction from which it had come. She could have sworn that she had closed her curtains. Mulling over how very odd the occurrence was, she hesitantly lifted herself from her bed, padding over to re-close the curtains of her balcony window. As she made her way back to her bed, the noise made itself heard again, no louder than before, but accompanied by an odd clicking, much like a lock being broken. She turned quickly to find that, once again, the curtains had been pulled back, this time before she had even reached her bed, along with very window that they masked being opened. How was this possible? The lock was on the inside.'
Ciel felt a cold, sharp ice in his chest. His intuition could not distinguish itself from paranoia. This was obviously abnormal. He quickened his pace as he continued to read.
'Hands trembling slightly, she reached out, closing the window and readjusting the lock before closing the curtains for the third time. Without breaking her gaze, she watched the window intently as she backed away, once more resting herself on her bed. The room now felt unusually cold, the silence from before oddly uncomfortable…oddly eerie, as though begging to be broken.'
His brisk walk took on a slow jog as his right eye began to itch.
'As she lay herself back beneath her covers, her previously warm bed felt more so like a prison than a welcome haven, giving her little protection should something choose to break the silence. As her mind chastised her childish thinking, she forced her eyes closed under the façade that she was calm, that she was imagining things, that everything was alright…and the she heard the sound again. Her eyelids fluttered open to meet a vermillion gaze boring into her from the other side of the window, now fully visible as the curtains had been pulled back once more. The creature to whom the gaze belonged was indistinguishable in the darkness that surrounded, encompassed it…though it looked oddly familiar…'
A slow jog became a commendable run. Someone, or something, was interfering in his mission, and his reason screamed that it was not what his paranoia screamed that it was.
'The window was a useless shield as Matilda scrambled out of her bed, crawling backward until her back met the wall, watching in awe and horror as the darkness slipped through the very cracks of her windowsill, bringing itself to stand at full height on her bedroom floor on the opposite side of the bed. It eyes still glowed, bleeding a dark crimson, as a Cheshire grin spread beneath the shining irises. A moon-white sickle smile that bled the same familiarity as that gaze…and then the creature spoke. It addressed her by her name, and she knew its voice. She had recalled that voice for years, in her dreams, in her nightmares, in her memories. She spoke in a broken whisper, her reason denying what her mind, what her body, knew.
"W…w-what do you….w-want f-from…from me…?"
That leer spread wider, those eyes narrowing in undeniable amusement.
"Why, my dear Lady…I am simply here to fulfill my orders."'
Ciel broke out into a frantic sprint, his target home mere blocks from where he was. His reason bled together with his denial. It isn't him It isn't him It can't be him-! He could hear here screams from here, but he could not bring himself to read any further, lest he see that name, lest his paranoia win out over the only thing that kept his sanity. Her screams were louder than before. He would never make it in time this way. His only chance lay in the tactic that his teacher had been training him in for quite some time. 'Only to be used in cases in which it is necessary,' as claimed the Reaper, due to the fact that it was difficult to master, especially for one so young, along with the risk of leaving a few pieces behind if it was not performed properly. As her screams died abruptly, leaving the air in an even colder silence than before, his hesitation fled. He froze on the spot, grasping the handle of his DeathScythe to be certain that it made the journey with him, closed his single visible eye, and in a moment, the child had all but disappeared from the street upon which he had been standing. His form reassembled itself in the very room from which his target's shrieks had come. He made a mental not to rub Grell Sutcliffe's nose in his success later, before his mind was captured by the sight before him. Red. The entire room had been stained red. The walls were painted and the floorboards were soaked and the bed sheets were all dyed the same matching hue of crimson, flaked with flesh and bone and hair and tooth and nail. He brought a hand to block the bile rising in his throat, pulling his weapon from its holster and pressing his back to the wall behind him. Following protocol, he cleared the room with his gaze and his weapon before making a move. His eyes caught the intruder almost immediately. The tall, dark form, obviously human in nature, sat with one leg crossed formally over the other on the blood-stained bed, crimson eyes the pigment of the sheets staring at him with an unnerving combination of scrutiny, amusement, and hunger. His weapon found its barrel pointed between those ruby orbs, his voice as strong as he could manage while restraining his gag reflex.
"I am Agent B29 of the Grim Reaper London Division, and…and you are interfering in Grim Reaper business. This woman was…her soul was to be taken before the Judgment Bureau, and…and you have committed a felony by the rules of the afterlife. You are under arrest by the authority of the London Division…"
Those dark eyes bled amusement as his thin lips sounded the word 'arrest.' He could assume by the slight shaking of its shoulders that the creature was chuckling at him. His nerves fled immediately, fury and indignation rising up to protect his pride as he stood straight-backed, meeting that malicious smile with a deep glare of ice.
"I fail to see the humor, cretin. Whoever or whatever you are, you will be tried by the Judgment Bureau and punished for your crime…I will certainly see to that."
The creature's smile only widened, and Ciel couldn't bear to break the gaze that held him captive with its nostalgic glow. It wasn't him. Its aura was certainly dark, menacing, but it wasn't him. It couldn't be. The realization that it was a demon was easily acceptable, but it was certainly another demon, one which Ciel was unfamiliar with. His thoughts froze as the creature before him lifted itself from the bed, standing now at least a foot above him in height, shrouded by the darkness as its head titled in curiosity. Ciel held his gun level, feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to defend himself.
"I had quite the specific plan for this human, and you have stolen my opportunity from me." His azure eye glazed over, narrowed with a quiet rage and cool contemplation of a serious consideration. "Perhaps I shall claim that I did so in self defense, and take my revenge upon you instead."
The creature grinned its sickening grin, wider than he had seen it as of yet, and licked its dry lips before splitting them to speak in a voice so familiar it sent chills down the young Reaper's spine.
"Why ever would you desire to take your revenge upon one who is endeavoring to help you achieve it?"
The child's mind froze in the wake of his broken denial and his own retreat as the creature before him stepped forward, revealing itself to the moonlight that shone through the bloodied window, casting shadows of dark crimson across the familiar face in rivulets and streaked etchings of the life that had been taken by his white-gloved hands. The child's hands shook, his mind pulsing, his heart frozen, and his eye was burning and burning and-!
Silence. It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence that was most familiar to him; the silence that signaled the beginning of the end; the silence that graced the tense air moments before the destruction of the storm occurred.
That Cheshire smile leered at him from miles away, fangs just barely peeking out from those pale lips as the child's vision waxed and waned like the moon that the creature before him had claimed to have sworn on so long ago.
It can't be him It can't be him It isn't-!
"Well…Young Master?"
