A/N: Hi there. I'm glad, you're back. This was meant to be the last chapter. (Starting like that, you probably already know, it isn't. :) ) The thing is - I wanted to bring Sebastian back neat and fast, then move on to tie up the real lose ends. But it turned out there was so much complex and wonderfully twisted action going on behind the scenes, I decided to make it part of the story. :)

I'll bring the whole thing around full circle afterwards. Probably next week.

Oh, and of course, I am once more influenced by the anime. If you are still wondering - and don't want to learn 'via fanfic' - what kind of creature the Undertaker is, you should not read on. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sebastian, Ciel, Grell, William T. Spears and/or any other characters of the series. I hold no rights whatsoever to Kuroshitsuji/"Black Butler", and I do not make money from this.

+++Chapter 5: Kiss of Life (or: 'I understand you volonteered for this job.')

Half an hour before sunrise, Bard had already decided that the day was going to be a strange one.

He knew it, when he answered the door and faced a dark-clad man, who was reading a book even as he walked in. The visitor's garments, even his hat, were long and flowing, his silvery-white hair reached down to his hips. His eyes were hidden under his bangs. The book had no title, except for the letters 'C' and 'P' and some library code printed on its spine.

'I have come for the beast,' the man said, as he pushed past Bard.

'Well, it's got to be around somewhere,' Bard said, quickly matching the apparition with his idea of a big game hunter. The result left him even more confused, so he dropped it. 'I've been looking all over the place. Except for the basement. Sebastian has locked the door and - ' He stopped. 'Does that mean, that little hairy gnome is down there? But why wouldn't he tell me? Does Sebastian think I could not cope with a - ' Lacking an appropriate word and being too indignant to think of one, he hesitated.

'That's three questions and a missing definition,' the stranger said, somewhat lurkingly. 'Begin.'

'Begin what?'

'Well, making me laugh, of course. That's the deal. I get a good laugh, you get an answer. Your butler knows the rules.' The visitor raised the book, reading aloud. ' "You persuade how to know me." Hilarious!' He looked at Bard; at least that was what the movement of his head suggested. 'Usually, I want my reward delivered as a visual treat. But this - this image - is so ludicrous, I think, I'll make an exception.'

'Sebastian called you?' Bard scratched his head. 'Well, I guess, that's okay, then...'

The stranger walked down the corridor, reading the book as he walked, giggling.

Bard looked after him, still scratching his head.

The Undertaker reached Ciel's study and made himself at home. He arranged the curtains in a certain manner, then he produced a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the floor. Next he added a five-pointed star and proceded to fill in letters and symbols. A human occultist would have sweated blood. One line in the wrong place, a squiggle curving the wrong way might loosen pandemonium on Phantomhive manor and, subsequently, the whole of London.

But the Undertaker finished the magic signs with practised ease and not one moment's hesitation.

Then he sat down behind Ciel's desk and waited. He moved, when a beam of light filtered through the gap between the curtains. Leaning forward, his elbows on the desk and his chin on his folded hands, he grinned at the pool of light on the floor.

The fire had burnt down, and the party was over. The cool morning air was carrying the smell of fire away and the sun had lost its frightening bright radiance. Now, it was only another beautiful morning in spring, fresh and sparkling with life. Birds were singing in the trees, the ground was moist with dew. Leaves were green, the sky overhead was blue and the last traces of smoke drifted off like ghosts, manning the few last cloud ships that set sail for the western horizons.

People were leaving. They packed their belongings, rolled in their tents and distributed the ashes of their camp fires, making sure to extinguish any surviving spark.

Ciel's eye had stopped bleeding. It had been only a few drops, just enough red in his tears to tint the sight of Grell Sutcliff running wildly and leaping over the treet tops. The shinigami clearly was in a hurry. Ciel hoped, it had something to do with a chance for Sebastian, not just with a sudden craving for breakfast and coffee. He looked around: All supernatural personnel had already left in their own secret and efficient ways. He could see only humans. And Lidia.

It seemed the Hawthorn Lady's last duty to collect the ritual equipment. She already carried the staff and the chalice, as she walked on the pile of ashes, turning her head searchingly. Ciel was sure that there was no point in looking for remains. But he watched her nevertheless, silent, waiting. Eventually, she stooped and picked up a piece of cloth.

She took it to Ciel, rubbing and shaking it underway in order to make it presentable. Still, it was singed and dirty with ash and soot. Sebastian's left hand glove. Of all things.

'He didn't suffer,' Lidia said, seeing the look on Ciel's face.

'He's not dead,' snapped Ciel.

'Yes, he is. And his revival depends on the shinigami.'

'On Grell? Then he's in trouble.'

Lidia cupped her hands around the tattered glove and breathed on it. When she opened her hands, the cloth had transformed into an eyepatch. It even was reasonably clean. She handed it to Ciel, giving him a strange look. A 'this looks like an eyepatch, but when it comes to Him, you're actually wearing blinkers, are you not?' kind of look.

He refused to comment, knowing that she would explain even if he didn't ask her directly.

'He asked me to do this for you,' she said. 'He said it was very important and he wouldn't be able to do it himself, since he would be gone by the time you started your journey home. He also said that you'd probably try and summon him, before he was ready to show himself to you again. In that case, he asks you to shut your eyes. He does not want you to get exposed to a sight that you would necessarily find unsettling.'

'How far-sighted of him,' said Ciel, cynically.

Lidia shrugged. 'You live a number of centuries, you learn how to plan five hours into the immediate future,' she said.

Ciel looked at the eyepatch in his hand. And he wondered.

The demon arrived without a forewarning and almost without a sound. Or maybe the Undertaker was so absorbed with his book that he didn't notice. He looked up just in time to see Sebastian sink to the ground.

Sebastian? It was hard to tell whether the thing that moved in the circle was human shaped at all. It had gathered too many shadows around its form, knowing that it was weak and trying to shield itself from the disturbing light. The Undertaker silently congratulated himself for perfect timing. The sunlight was fully on the white chalk drawings, and the marred creature in the circle hated every single photon of it.

'Fffeel, fffloor, under your fffeet,' the Undertaker chuckled. 'Oooh, I loved that bit!'

The demon tried to speak. 'Glad... you enjoy...,' he croaked.

The undertaker turned a page. 'I got the earl's Doomsday Book as soon as I learned that he was with you and Grell at this lunacy fair.'

'I hoped...you would.'

'I must say it was worth the while.' The Undertaker read and giggled silently. His shoulders shook.

Sebastian pulled himself and the remnants of his lungs and vocal chords together. 'Please,' he said, 'Don't want...be at mercy...Sutcliff.'

'Don't worry. I've received my payment, in advance and in abundance. If anything, you're at my mercy.'

The demon seemed to slump a bit.

'And you're fortunate. You could've been stuck with William.'

The demon made a questioning sound.

The Undertaker shrugged. 'He's waiting for you in hell. After all, that's where you people usually turn up, having died in the May fire. But somehow I reckoned, you'd show up here. I couldn't be bothered with searching the hundred-and-something rooms, though. So I called you here. No way you can resist the tug of your own occult signature.'

'...know me...well.'

'Well enough to know that you wouldn't stumble, not in a thousand years, not even if I were to soak you in pure alcohol for three days,' the Undertaker said, grinning and leaning casually over Ciel's desk. 'But the idea and your performance made me laugh.' He turned the book around, pointing his finger at a certain line. ' "We. Already. Have a contract." That's a scream! Wish, I could've seen our young earl's face! I didn't know you were such a natural talent.'

The demon cracked a smile. It looked rather painful. So far, Sebastian had held himself up very much like a human leaning on his elbows. He could no longer do it. Even a demon couldn't prolong a near-death experience infinitely, once the soul was gone.

There were hands holding him, and a voice talking to him.

'Come on,' the Undertaker said, unexpectedly gently. 'Let's lay you out.'

Feeling quite detached, Sebastian saw the room tilt and the ceiling come into view. The Undertaker moved him with professional efficiency, just as one would expect of him. There was something in his attitude suggesting that this was not the first time he tended a late Hawthorn Lord. Sebastian's plan had worked. All would be well.

Only one thing...

'Undertaker? The curtains...'

'I'm sorry. There was just that small chance of you appearing a mad, mindless, maim-and-kill-them-all spirit. That type can usually be thwarted by sunlight. Don't know why. Just glad, it works.'

'...other way...'

'Beg your pardon?'

'Draw them the other way!'

The Undertaker looked at the closed curtains, not sure whether he grasped the demon's meaning. 'The other way?'

'Five-thirty,' explained Sebastian, habitually fumbling for his silver watch and finding none. 'Time to draw the curtains. Open the windows. Then you wake the staff.'

He was amazed to hear the Untertaker chuckle. He had not been aware of making a joke. He was the butler of ... this household, even though he had to admit, he had some trouble remembering the exact names, including his own, and ... and ...

The sunlight dispelled his shadows, took away his cover. It didn't matter. There was another kind of darkness waiting, and he finally allowed it to engulf him.

Ciel, Finny and May-Rin were not certain as to the direct way home. So, Lidia showed them. She didn't, however, return all the way with them.

'If you follow this path, you'll be fine,' she said. 'I don't have to mention that this is a magic fairy path, do I? Do not stray, don't look back and if you think you're hearing strange noises or see pretty things that beckon you to follow, just ignore them.'

'What will you do now?' Ciel wasn't sure, why he asked. He couldn't have cared less.

'I'll return to my daily life, of course,' Lidia said.

'Meaning?'

She smiled enchantingly. 'Maybe you'll find out. Keep an eye out for me. Choose for yourself, which one to use.'

May-Rin, who stood with her arms crossed, gave a snort.

The noise of approaching hooves grew louder. Coming up the path, there was a black stallion. It carried a wet and bedraggled looking Viscount Druitt.

Ciel was not surprised to find that the fairy had taken advantage of the distraction and vanished, when no-one looked.

'Is that one of the things she told us to ignore?' asked Finny, anxiously.

'I don't think so,' said Ciel, sighing. 'I would love to. But he just doesn't look pretty in the least.'

By the time Grell Sutcliff arrived, the Undertaker had dressed Sebastian in a new tail suit and arranged him in the position of a corpse lying in the coffin. Only the demon's hands resisted being neatly folded on his chest. He wanted to cross his arms in the manner of an Egyptian pharao. The Undertaker didn't think it a decent way for an English corpse to behave and he wrestled with the flailing arms. He hadn't counted them, but at times he was sure there were more than two to control. If arms they were. He wondered. But the look on Grell Sutcliff's face suggested that it was enough, if one of them found out for sure.

The red haired shinigami gasped. 'Is that - Sebby-chan?'

'No, it's his corpse. Hurry,' said the Undertaker, laying across the restive demon. 'How long, do you think, can he continue without a soul?'

'I'm sorry, but with someone as long-lived as him there was a hell of a lot of recordings to check.' Grell pouted. 'And they were dull! I must've dozed off at some - '

'His soul,' said the Undertaker, reaching out his hand.

Grell produced a small red vial. He stepped forward, but something got between his feet, tripping him. The little red vial that held Sebastian's soul described a high arc.

The Undertaker caught it.

In turn, vicious tongs caught the Undertaker's fingers. They didn't draw blood, but they might at any given moment.

'Thank you, William,' said the Undertaker, calmly. 'But I've got him safe. No need for your death scythe.'

'You tricked me,' said Spears icily, holding fast. 'You told me, he would seek refuge in hell, when you knew he'd come back here.'

The tongs pressed down harder.

'Well,' said the Undertaker, 'again the old proverb holds true: Home is where the heart is.'

'The heart, you say?' Spears turned to the body on the floor, looking at it for the first time. 'He's a - oh my goodness! What is that?' He pushed up his glasses and then, out of habit, pushed them up again.

The Undertaker giggled. 'Obviously, none of you has ever seen one of his kind in their true shape before.'

Spears struggled for contenance, something that happened to him very rarely. 'So this is how this vermin normally - ?'

The Undertaker cracked up. He laughed and laughed, wiping tears from his eyes with his free hand. 'No, you fool,' he managed between giggles. 'He's burnt. And he's dead. And look - he's starved - and listening - and craving for you to bring to bear the death scythe.' He sobered up a little. The grin stayed on. 'The pain. The blood. He needs it so badly.' The Undertaker's grin seemed to worm its way straight into Spear's darkest fears. 'Tell me, William. Have you ever fought a ravenous demon, whose soul has gone missing?'

'Grell Sutcliff!' Spears released the grip of his death scythe. He made a point in demonstrating that he clearly wasn't letting off because of the Undertaker's upsetting words. He let off, because he urgently needed the tongs to push up his glasses. 'I understand you volonteered for this job?'

'Did I? Er. Yes. I believe, I did.'

'Then do it,' William said, plainly. 'Incredible. You procrastinate like we're not short on personnel and snowed under with work!'

Unhappily, Grell Sutcliff approached the demon and the older shinigami. The Undertaker grinned, holding out the vial.

Grell found it quite safe for him to talk, because William was going on about danger allowances and safety at work.

'Is it really that bad?' Grell asked in a whisper.

'I don't know,' said the Undertaker. 'I have never fought a ravenous demon, whose soul has gone missing.'

'Oh – okay.'

The Undertaker watched Grell break the seal of the vial. 'Do you know what to do?'

'Putting a soul back in?' Grell's green eyes showed his surprise that someone should ask. 'It's like removing a soul. Only sort of backwards. And normally you can rely on the body to co-operate. See? No. Stop. Let me - Sebby-chan!' Grell slapped at the blackened claw that groped for the vial. He ended up wrestling the burnt limb, trying not to let it grasp his hair, screaming, 'I can't explain. You just do it. Watch me.'

The Undertaker whistled softly. 'That kid is a pro,' he murmured to himself.

Spears looked the other way. A generous bonus, he decided, was not enough to recompense his efforts. A day off. That was the least. And he wanted it. Now.

It took some persuasion to make the Viscount Druitt get off Ciel's black stallion. But eventually, he sat on the ground, shaking and dripping muddy water.

'She took me by the hand,' he recounted. 'I couldn't let go. I mean, I wanted to, but I couldn't. She said that was, because at the bottom of my heart I was still a boy. Behaving like a foolish kid. And she said that she liked me because of that trait. I could stay with her as long as I wanted.'

'Under water?' asked Finny.

'Or I could turn into a flower, growing on the shore of her lake.' The viscount drew his soaked garments closer around his body. 'That was when I finally managed to break free and run.'

'I understand,' said Ciel. 'I guess, being turned into a frog was enough for one night.'

The viscount's eyes glittered. 'No, you don't understand at all,' he stated. 'I would have become a marsh marigold.' He gestured feverishly. 'A rose, yes. An orchid, yes. Even a lily - yes, yes, and three times yes! But a marsh marigold? No beautiful woman ever adorned her hair with silly yellow flowers that grow in the mud!' His temper even gave him the strength to stop shivering and get to his feet. 'I need to get to London. Right now.'

'To clean up and get some rest,' said Ciel, who felt the same.

'It's the first of May. There are festivities to attend. Ceremonies. And Oscar.'

'Oscar?' asked Ciel. 'What's an Oscar ceremony ..?'

'Wilde. Oscar Fingal O'Flaherty Wills Wilde. The journalist. I need to talk to him.' The viscount wiped his brow. 'He'll know what to make of the freak dreams I have to confide him.'

'Most likely, he'll make a story.' Ciel thought that the notorious, flamboyant dandy was just the sort of person, the Viscount Druitt would like to hang out and be seen with. He himself had read the shortstory about the 'Canterville Ghost', which had been published shortly after his absence and ... return to London. He had not really liked the storyline about the desperate ghost being pranked by the American kids. But he had devoured the part about the ghost needing someone to weep and pray and call upon the Angel of Death in his stead. And he had wondered, what he could possibly derive from it, maybe learn, in order to deal with his own predicament.

'You can take the horse,' he offered. 'I happen to know it belongs to the Earl of Phantomhive.'

'Can I accept the gift of another nobleman's stallion -?'

'But, yes, you must,' said Ciel, thinking that the alternative was to invite the viscount for breakfast. 'Kingdoms have been offered for a mount. Send it back to Phantomhive, when you're home.'

The viscount accepted, as if he were not standing in the middle of a forest, after a night of terrors and marvels. In fact, he seemed more than ready to believe that he had fallen asleep under a tree, maybe sleepwalked around a little and fallen into a puddle.

Ciel looked after him, as the youth spurred the stallion.

Nothing, he thought. You can't derive or learn nothing from any of them at all. Whatever these people, the viscounts and Lidias and Hesrabes do or think they know – it is merely a figment of the imagination. Dreams and cliché. It has nothing to do with a real demon haunting your life.

Grell Sutcliff was feeling sick. Not just a little queasy, but ill. Nauseated, ready to turn his innards first upside down and then outwards.

The Undertaker had decided that the earl's study was not the right place for their patient to rest and heal. William had made it clear that he wasn't going to touch the demon. And that he wanted to use up the overtime he was doing here. He was surprised, when the Undertaker produced an application form and signed it. ('Here you go. But please, go now.')

So, William had left, a surprised, frozen, almost hurt look on his face, and they were on the move. Grell carried Sebby-chan's weight, and he controlled himself, wishing that he had more than two sleeves to wipe his mouth.

The Undertaker opened a door. 'This looks good. Put him on the sofa.'

Panting and retching, Grell dragged his burden into the room. He didn't see the books on their shelves, he didn't see the armchair or the bear skin rug, the cold fireplace or the shiny weapons on display. He merely saw the sofa and he focussed so hard on reaching it, he forgot to stop and bumped his shin. 'Ouch! That does it! I'm finished! I'm sick, and I'm tired and I'm not moooving another step!'

He dropped the demon on the sofa and slumped beside him. He had planned to sulk, but instead, he raised his head, alerted: A tiny hitch in the demon's breath was more sign of awareness than Sebastian had shown ever since the Undertaker had supervised the re-composure of the physical body and Grell had put the soul back in.

('It's dead,' William had said, pushing up his glasses. 'Let's dispose of it.'

'First of May,' the Undertaker had pointed out, staring at the demon's jelly-filled, sightless eyes. 'Let him catch his breath.')

A scarred hand that was almost as dark as the black nails reached up and touched the raven hair. It was re-growing fast, only the wanton strands that would lateron frame the pale face taking their time. Grell stood up, joining the Undertaker, who watched with a wide grin on his face.

('I'd love to,' William had said, the light reflecting on his glasses as he prodded the burnt mummy with his death scythe. 'But as you can see, he's not breathing at all.')

The Undertaker and Grell watched the demon, waiting.

Sebastian's eyelids lifted, and the eyes, though unfocussed, were auburn and perfect and framed with long, soft lashes that fluttered a little, then stayed open.

Grell gasped. The demon's eyes immediately moved in the direction of the sound.

'You look fine,' the Undertaker told him. 'You're doing fine. Just one more effort. Do you remember your name?'

'Sebastian,' the demon whispered. 'Sebastian Michaelis.' At the very instant he said the word, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed slightly, losing their glazed-over, vacant look. He cracked a smile, a triumphant smile, that seemed to say 'Well, that was that!', and stretched languidly. Thoroughly. Grell started to drool. Sebastian ignored him.

'Where's the young master?' he asked the Undertaker, who busied himself with the demon's left wrist.

'With his servants on his way home. This is the first time I'm actually taking a demon's pulse. Are you alright?'

'The young master ordered me to make my performance realistic.' Sebastian listened to the signals from inside his body. 'I feel fine.'

'These mornings, first of May, used to be much worse, before you guys found out about that potion,' the Undertaker agreed. 'In the old days, the late Hawthorn Lord would come around kicking and thrashing about. Nearby things and shinigami bones would go to pieces.' He smirked, seeing the look on Grell's face. 'I've known demons, who screamed with pain for hours,' he half-whispered, in the voice people use for telling ghost stories to children. Grell shivered.

'It really hurt, back then,' Sebastian said, defensively. 'But today I feel fine. I'm not - ' He stopped and stared at the two shinigami. 'I'm not even hungry.'

'Well - ,' said the Undertaker, his smirk vanishing.

'Uh,' said Grell.

Both avoided looking him in the eye. Grell touched the tips of his index fingers together.

Sebastian sat up bolt upright. 'What did I do?'

'You must've smelled the souls all the time...,' said the Undertaker.

'The souls?' Images of Tanaka and Bard sprang to Sebastian's mind.

'And when we carried you past that door, you seized the opportunity to break it down and get them.' Something in the Undertaker's voice suggested, that he secretly added 'you conniving supernatural bastard'. Silently. Never aloud. But coming from the heart.

'What door?' Sebastian thought about grabbing Grell's collar and shaking the information out of his head. 'Will any of you please tell me what happened?'

The Undertaker coughed, 'Well, it seems there were some dead bodys in the basement...unburied, their souls lingering...'

'There were - ' Sebastian's face turned pale, 'hog-goblins.'

'See? I thought he'd know about them,' said Grell to the Undertaker. 'I told you one of them went, "Oh no, not him again!" '

'I don't think, shinigami authorities will notice five of them missing. But I guess we are all fortunate that William had already left,' said the Undertaker.

'Hog-goblins!' Sebastian groaned, clutching his stomach. 'Couldn't you have stopped me? What time is it?'

'Six-twenty. Why?'

'Great! The young master will be wanting his breakfast, and I'm dying of disgust!'

'My guess is that you're a little hung-over, after all,' said the Undertaker, who didn't exactly feel overly sympathetic. 'I didn't say it wasn't possible for you to get drunk. I only said that it didn't necessarily show so overtly. Anyway. If you feel you've got a state of life to lose, then our job here is finished. Grell Sutcliff? Let's go.'

Grell hesitated, hopefully. This body, albeit still scorched and sick, was quite another affair than the parched mummy, whose lungs Grell had needed to kickstart with his own breath, due to William pressing for results. It was his job, as everyone had pointed out to him, the one he had volonteered for, 'therefore please'...

Aaargh, the revolting memory of those dry lips on his and the taste of smoke in his throat and nose.

'Go gently,' the Undertaker had commanded, and Grell had swallowed his aversion and done his best.

Gently, slowly, exhaling around a tongue that lolled like a cold, dead slug...

Then Sebastian had started to cough, convulsively. For someone looking like something raided from the vaults of a pyramid, the demon had a surprising amount of soft, slimy and generally revolting things stuck in his windpipe. And Grell, who had been just a little slow pulling back could feel some of them on his own tongue, entering his mouth, some going as deep as his lungs.

Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, vice versa...

There was only one thing to do to make the memory remotely tolerable. Pile new memories on it. Good ones. Lots of them.

'Anything else I can do for you?' Grell asked.

The answer designed for this last stage of the Hawthorn ritual was a more or less polite dismissal of the helpful shinigami by the healing demon.

Sebastian said, 'Actually, yes, you can.'

Grell was always one to change the rules, as long as it was in his better interest.

'What's in it for me?' he asked eagerly. 'A real, juicy, enjoyable kiss, maybe?'

'I think, you'll like it even better.' That was hard to imagine. But Grell listened.

And eventually, he agreed.

+++End of Chapter 5+++