.
.
.
.
Taking a swig of beer, the bottle was effectively finished off, and set off the side, making the meager weight in her lap seem that much heavier.
An hour ( four slices of pizza, and two beers ) later, she still hasn't opened the journal. Though, to her credit, her resolve was now fairly steeled. It could be the faint buzz from alcohol, or the fact that she just knows the damn thing won't stop bugging her if she didn't.
The faint murmur of "Hooked on a Feeling" playing from her laptop seemed to echo far more loudly than it should have, causing her eyebrow to twitch. She should just do it, rip it open like you'd do for a Band-Aid to keep it from hurting longer than necessary. All right, here we go.
Roughly flipping the cover page, she waited for something amazing ( or terrible ) to happen. Nothing in her apartment moved; nothing exploded; there was no white light or anything otherwise supernatural. A breath she didn't realize she was holding in was exhaled, and relief flooded her system. Looking down, nothing out of the ordinary was in the pages, either. The paper looked a little worn, and the handwriting could have been better, but it was- normal.
Skipping to random pages, she noted some of the entries were close together, while others were extremely far apart.
If this is a hoax, it's a pretty well done one.
The language in the journal was definitely Victorian English, and dated in the 1800's; not to mention that the thing looked like it could've been there, with the color of the paper, and the minor wear and tear on it. Still, the fact that this was, supposedly, a belonging to one Ciel Phantomhive who was a creation, not an actual person, left a healthy amount of skepticism.
Reaching over to the box of pizza that still sat on the coffee table, another slice was grabbed, before she sat back on the couch with a faint sigh. Reading through it a bit couldn't hurt, right? No harm ever came from a book. At least, not in the real world, where that was impossible.
About as impossible as objects moving on their own…. or the notion that a fictional character actually existed.
Her rational side was still fairly hell-bent on explaining that last one. It's possible there was someone named Ciel Phantomhive, who lived in London. It is also possible his family died, and he was left to carry on the name, and company. That isn't so far fetched, after all. Someone easily could've stumbled upon that information, and just built an entire fictional world, with otherwise fictional events around it. Kind of like the idea that Abraham Lincoln was a Vampire Hunter; the man himself certainly existed, but not so much in a Buffy the Vampire Slayer kind of way. Thought if he did, it would've made history a lot more exciting. And, really, that's all entertainment was: excitement.
A way to escape from normal, mundane things, and let yourself think, just for a moment, that something supernatural could exist.
Shaking her head, she let her gaze drop back to the book, skimming over the written words with case. Some of what was mentioned sounded familiar, but it was too personalized to be some kind of item from the show. She could feel the faint indentation in the paper where the letters were, after all. The letters weren't printed; there were no logos or copyrights. Nothing, aside from the content, suggested it wasn't something other than a journal of a young boy.
A weird journal, maybe, paired with weird little occurrences that happened ever since she found it, but -
There.
Turning the page, there was no mistaking the sketch that took up the middle of the left page. Doodled in with extreme care, was that ever-infamous pentagram with quite a bit of a detail.
Even someone who had never encountered the source material would know where that was form, and what it meant. The merchandise was everywhere, after all, with the release of the newest season that encompassed a very popular manga arc. It was a bit disconcerting, to say the least. Pentagrams weren't a new mark; the showed up often in a number of different rituals, spanning over cultures that existed all over the world. But, to see this particular one, out of all others?
Kind of creepy, actually.
Shutting the journal, Mia rubbed her temples, feeling the beginning of a headache forming in the back of her mind. Wonderful, absolutely wonderful.
"I think that's enough for today, don't you?"
Not bothering to wait for an answer ( because, well, she wouldn't get one ) it was off to the kitchen to grab an Advil, and then a retreat into her room. With the fading light of day, and the dark curtains in her room, it was pleasantly cool and dimly lit.
Perfect for a quick nap to ward off the impending headache.
After that, it was another long night slaving over lyrics and melodies that needed to be sent out ASAP, in the hopes that a few labels would pick them up, and give decent pay. Credit was nice, and so was networking with people, but no one could survive in this world without compensation. Bills didn't wait for fame, or regular paychecks, for that matter.
Falling onto the bed, she didn't bother with the covers before her eyes steadily fell, and her consciousness was pulled into darkness.
xxx
There was something distinctly wrong with her pillow.
It wasn't nearly as soft as it was suppose to be, and someone pulled her curtains back, because she could practically feel the sun behind her eyes.
Only, there was no way she'd slept all the way through until morning, was there?
Shooting up, the decision was immediately filed as a bad one, because her back was killing her, and she was covered in dirt and grass.
"What the hell?"
Last time she checked, her home was in an apartment in New York, not outside god-knows-where.
And- she still had her headache. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Carefully she stood, a branch cracking beneath her bare feet, making her wince a bit at the contact. It took a bit of planning to try and step on only the softest parts of the ground, but even that probably had her looking utterly ridiculous.
Much to her relief, there was a little dirt road ahead, and what looked to be like the biggest goddamn house she'd even seen.
No, scratch that, mansion.
It was easily twice as big as most hotels, at least horizontally.
"Excuse me, miss?"
When someone snuck up behind her, she couldn't say; but upon turning heel, she came face-to-face with a chest. A presumably nice one that was covered in proper, refined layers, even if the style was slightly old fashioned.
"Uhm," My, that was articulate.
Mentally slapping herself, she braved looking up, and tried not to feel like a child under the extremely concentrated stare. That would've been easier if he was not so tall, and didn't have incredibly intimidating red eyes.
Hell, if she was in actual clothing and not pajamas, even that would help. But, alas, no; she is, indeed, in her sleepwear. With hair that – no doubt – looks very much like a dark lion's mane.
His stare was decidedly unimpressed, and honestly, she didn't blame him.
A/N: Time traveling is always fun, isn't it? I think that was a good place to end, otherwise I might've dragged this chapter out too much. Plus, it's almost midnight, and I want this up, though I know things are starting a little slowly.
Please review & let me know what you think so far!