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The Devil's Smile	By : Kinnikuman Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 1969 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Neither author owns or holds rights to the works of "Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji)". We do not make a profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
Chapter Six

By the Hatter

Under normal circumstances Grell wouldn’t have bothered with following round one of the dust biters (as Will told him not to call them) from the to die list. The human world could be so boring; it took him back to his training days with William, who spent 100% of his time watching their target. Although it had more interest for Grell now there were lots of handsome men around, but with Ronald as his partner, there was little time to make use of that. Infact Ronald had once had Grell cover all the areas of London appropriate to their list that day, whilst convincing him he had ‘just seen Sebastian go this way! Oh look, the soul we need to reap is here, let’s just deal with that, and then off to find your man, sempai!’ You really had to admire the dull wit of youngsters these days…

The sooner this mystery was solved the better; Will was being such a slave driver over it. He was being colder than ever, it made Grell feel kind of unloved. In his little book of romance, Will was always his safe pair of hands. Bassie was the dangerous type; he was a demon, so naturally it had to be that way. Angelina had been his kindred spirit; yes he was quite sure he had found his soul mate for a time. Well, that was a chapter of his life now closed. The Will chapter however, that just kept opening up. Now on first glance, William T. Spears was completely what he appeared to be, a rigid, cold, boring, career obsessed, unromantic, mean spirited… well you get the idea. But he was so much more than that, he was so handsome and harsh, so straight forward and practical. He was ruthless, utterly ruthless…

It made Grell feel all tingly.

William had been his secret romance during the early years as reapers, always back and forth. He’d been so shy and awkward and mean in public, but behind closed doors, there had been such incredible passion. It made a lady blush to think back on it… But Will’s passion has gone cold, which made him sad. As they worked their way up through the Reaper organisation, Will had become the company robot he was born to be (Jason Jackson, Grell’s mentor had called Will ‘the robot’ in all their classes – Sensei was so wise he could almost predict the future) and Grell ran off painting red and searching out true love. True love was not something he’d find with Will; that was clear enough – so much as he delighted in dreaming.

Their little passionate flings became further and further apart. The last being… over two years ago when Grell had turned up at Will’s frighteningly clean apartment in a somewhat embarrassing state after the office Christmas party Grell had thrown in the actual office – Will had not been invited on account of being a stick in the mud – he also found out the next morning that said party had been held in the office and someone, somewhere, had done something unspeakable on his desk. He blamed Grell, naturally, everyone seemed too. That was two years ago, and all of Grell’s attempts to relight the sparks of love had gone out before they could really set off.

Still, William had forbidden him from seeing any more of the Undertaker. He sensed there was probably a much more tedious reason than bitter sexual jealousy, but still, it was rather flattering nonetheless. Not that he’d go anywhere near the Undertaker, that he’d even thought of him that way! He did have some taste after all. The Undertaker was not anywhere near as handsome as Sebastian, though in this cruel, cruel world, who really was? No, the Undertaker was just creepy, and he could keep his horrible body parts flavoured tea and dog biscuits. Sebastian was truly the only one for him; though he was dreadfully cold as well.

“Perhaps there is something wrong with my taste in men,” he said aloud, running a finger along the grimy window.

“Erm… sempai, who are you talking too?”

Grell blinked, glancing to the side at his partner who was sat, leaning on the dressing table, staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, I forgot you were here, Ronald,” he sighed, leaning back, “I’m so bored, I suppose you could say my mind just wandered away…”

“Oh, right. That’s easily done I suppose,” he stretched, leaning back in his seat, “Guess it was kind of useless coming to watch him in the day. His trade is more of a nightly occupation, right?”

The soon to be deceased, had been sleeping all morning. He lived in a small, overcrowded flat on the ground floor with four others – two young girls, Flora and Kathy, a much older woman with grimy grey hair they called Mrs Boots, and another boy, Jasper, who wore haggard old woman’s clothes and rouge on his lips. They were a rather sorry lot to say the least, the sight of them made Grell feel rather depressed. Samuel Carter was the healthiest looking of the group, yet he coughed and wheezed and was painfully thin. He had sandy blonde hair and bright brown eyes; he stubbornly did not cross dress. His roommate, the boy named Jasper, was often beaten when mistaken for a woman by men; one particularly nasty sailor had cut off the boy’s ear as punishment for deceiving him. Samuel Carter took the risk of eating less because the men did not want it, rather than face their wrath when they did.

It was a horrible little day to day life story, and from what they had observed so far, Grell doubted his cinematic records would be any less depressing. The human world was so dull, and yet it was a great escape for the day to day miseries of his own life.

That was another reason for Grell to be jealous of the Undertaker; he had observed dear Bassie’s cinematic records first hand. He was the one to make the cut and make them pour out. It was nothing overly dramatic, no ex-lovers revealed or scandals; just more of his day to day life as a butler, shouting at servants and serving that ungrateful brat. Still, he longed to plunge deep inside Sebastian and uncover every secret those mystery red eyes housed behind them.

He slapped himself about the hair gently, “I have to stop thinking about that bastard.”

“Sempai, what are you talking about?” Ronald groaned, “Either let me in on it or stop talking to yourself. You just interrupted me that time, I knew you weren’t listening.”

Grell rolled his eyes, “This is why I hate working with a partner. You’d think William doesn’t trust me the way he keeps attaching the rookie to my hip, like a dead weight…”

“Well that’s not very nice,” Ronald teased, “And I thought we were friends too.”

“I remember the days where I was allowed to work alone. I swear I am being punished. Nobody understands my artistic talent… Will would have everyone in the department with the same death scythe, same boring hairstyle and shoes…” he glanced down at his red boots – something else Will had a go at him about.

That man needed a makeover or an orgasm or something, anything to stop him being such a mean boss.

Perhaps that would be another thing to bind Sebastian and himself together – they both had to slave away under the ham fisted rule of a cruel master. Maybe they could run away together, live off the land, painting red with nothing but their love and perhaps a few changes of clothes. Now that did sound a little silly.

“Nah, Mister Spears’ hairstyle is way too hard to keep on the go. It’s so still even when it’s windy,” Ronald shrugged his shoulders, “So… are you thinking a lot about Mister Spears, Grell-sempai?”

He blinked at the question, “Excuse me?”

“Well, from what I gathered from your rambling, you know ‘Something wrong with my taste in men’, ‘Stop thinking about a bastard’, you know, it kind of sounds like you two…”

“Oh Ronald, mind your own business,” he huffed, folding his arms, “And for your information, no I was not. I am in no mood to discuss my boy trouble with you.”

“So… the bastard is the demon?”

“Don’t call Sebas-chan a bastard,” he swatted him with his hand, “And I just said I wasn’t discussing boy troubles with you. I don’t ask you questions about your love life.”

“I don’t bring my love life to work with me,” Ronald muttered.

Grell laughed loudly, “Oh, a likely story! As if you’ve never run off early so you catch one of the girls before the end of her shift! You’re like a society girl who only studies to find a husband!”

“Oh I see, so it’s the deserter. I’d be wary of that one, sempai.”

“What kind of conclusion is that?!” he smacked him on the side of the head.

“Owch, sempai, you’re so violent!” he rearranged his glasses, which had slid off his nose, landing on the table, “And for your information, I went through the list. You have a man list. You’re such a player, sempai.”

He rolled his eyes; “I would appreciate if you would not imply I am some kind of hussy, Ronald!” he fluffed up his hair at the back, “A lady may have many suitors, many, many suitors in her pursuit for true love… Perhaps you should bear that in mind when you dally with all those sectaries.”

Ronald laughed, “You’re just jealous c’os you’ve never been out on a group date.”

“Ergh,” Grell huffed, standing up and dusting down his coat, “This is going nowhere. I’m going for a walk.”

“Hey-! You can’t leave me here by myself!”

It was true there was a possibility the victim was being watched in the day, but it seemed unlikely. Grell hadn’t sensed anything like that since they arrived, no dark presence or watching eyes. It was as if, the boy would die a normal death like any other soul at the appointed time tonight. This was such a peculiar case… no doubt the humans had begun to notice the same – hopefully that would bring Sebas-chan along soon. Grell lived and waited in hope, much like a maiden waiting for her true love to return from a voyage at sea.

He sighed, letting the complaints of Ronald Knox float right out of his ear.

Grell really did not much care for London. It depressed him. Everywhere was some poor, diseased soul about to arrive at Death’s grim door in one way or another. Everyone was corrupt and awful… He saw a flower stand he rather liked on the market, once he was well out of the East end, adorning his hair with red flowers, like a fairy queen. There were times when his resemblance to romantic heroines was just too close for comfort. Here he was, in the capital city, wearing ravishing red, a crown of flowers in his hair, in the midst of a love triangle between his safe pair of hands and the Undertaker.

That must be why Will would forbid him from seeing him. As his manager, surely he’d just say that the sexual harassment act enforced Grell not be put in situations where he have to deal with the silver haired deserter… But William had actively told Grell he was not allowed to come into contact with him. That must be a sign; a sign that Will’s passion ran deeper than that cold, blank expression of his.

Still… Will was always so mean. He never called Grell ‘Miss’ or ‘Lady’ or anything, but ‘Mr Sutcliff’ or ‘Mr Grell’ or ‘It’… The ‘It’ probably hurt the most… Will disliked Grell acting as though he was female. He recalled a time he had, knowing William was coming over, curled his hair, bought sexy negligée, waited on the bed sprawled out for him. He had envisioned the look on his lover’s face hundreds of times, but when Will entered the room; he just stared – really stared. But then he pushed up his glasses, sighed, and had spent the next twenty minutes brushing the curls out of Grell’s hair, scolding him. “I don’t like it, it’s weird. You’re male, Grell Sutcliff.”

Male, always male, he wouldn’t even play along or humour him. Sebastian was the same… But the Undertaker called him a lady; he called him ‘Miss Sutcliff’. That felt nice, to be acknowledged and thought of. And it wasn’t like the older man wasn’t handsome – he really was – you’d never know it in that smelly cloak and his ugly hat and badly kept hair. His eyes shone when he laughed, and he looked so alive when he fought. Grell had always enjoyed combat, he got excellent grades for practical skills in his exams – Sensei said it was a lady’s business to be good with ones hands – but he found it so hard having a fight that fulfilled him.

His fight with the Undertaker had been a little too close for comfort… and he had the scar to prove it.

Grell sighed, brushing back his hair… This was so irritating, it was just so typical that he found a man who liked him and it was a deranged deserter who served tea in dissection cups and fretted about laughing like a maniac. What would Angelina think if she could see him now?

“Come back to see me already, Miss Sutcliff? What is a humble Undertaker to do with all these guests?”

Grell nearly jumped out of his skin – now he was paying attention to his surroundings he noticed he had somehow, walked from the market place, all the way through the backstreets and alleys, to the Undertaker’s shop – and not just to the shop, he had gone inside and was stood amongst the many coffins out on display.

The Undertaker was sat at a moth eaten looking desk, his hands drawn together, long black nails tapping against the knuckles.

“I most certainly was not!” he snapped.

“Oh?” he pouted, “But here you are, in my little shop. Unless you came to get measured for a coffin, I don’t see what other reason you’d have to be here.”

“Well it wasn’t to see you. I was just wandering through London and I thought I’d come to see if the deserter was still around,” he folded his arms, scowling. “I am incredibly busy with work, you know?”

“It seems cruel for the dispatch office to keep Miss Sutcliff so tied down with work, perhaps they were hoping you could wheedle a little more information about this case from a poor, lonely undertaker?” he chuckled, a hand over his mouth.

Grell’s cheeks coloured, “They most certainly did not. And I doubt you’d tell me anything useful anyway,” he put a hand on his hip, watching him with scrutinizing green eyes. He always wondered what kind of reaper, especially one so famous, would leave it all behind. What happened to him… and how did he get all those scars? Some men were truly in the depths of deep trauma and sorrow, with the right persuasion Grell would be persuaded to play nurse maid. Well, for Sebastian, perhaps, though he could not imagine Sebastian ever being requiring comfort.

“So you won’t even stop for tea? It’s not every day a man gets to have tea with a beautiful lady.”

Somehow he knew how to bring Grell over this way of thinking, as to that, the redhead had no idea how. The Undertaker must truly be a master of words…

“Well, I wouldn’t say no. I can’t stay long though, so anything you could tell me about the case would be fantastic.”

He chuckled in that bone chilling sort of way and went about himself, fiddling with the pot and tea he produced from a small tin container labelled ‘Human Eyes’. Grell stretched a little to assure it was tea he was putting in the strangely brightly coloured tea cups. It was… though those cups were bright pink – such a stark contrast to the general doom and gloom of the rest of the shop.

“You are tracking down the next soul on your list, I take it?”

“Well I wouldn’t be in the human world otherwise.”

“So insistent that you weren’t coming to see me, aren’t you?” the Undertaker smirked, “The next victim in our serial killings too, I suspect?”

“Rather,” he was about to take a seat on the little wooden chair beside the desk, when all of a sudden the Undertaker was beside him. His long fingers wrapped around his wrist, he could feel the slightest pinch of those sharp nails against his skin. Grell instantly reached out to push a hand against his chest, “Excuse me! Unhand me this instant-!”

The Undertaker let him go, stepping infront of him, he produced a faded grey drape, with a flourish of his wrist, he draped it over the chair, “A cover for the lady to sit upon,” he said, giggling, “Did you think I’d attack you? No, no, I just offered you tea, after all.”

Grell was taken aback, he was seconds away from reaching for his death scythe, and cautiously he took a seat upon the cloth. It surprisingly, smelt incredibly clean; it had the slightest hint of flowers and not anti-bacterial products. The Undertaker wandered back to the tea cups, giggling to himself.

“This case does indeed look a strange one. I won’t dally into shinigami business, but I bet William already has a few ideas about what’s causing it,” he glanced at Grell over his shoulder, smirking darkly, “One imagines all kinds of possibilities.”

“Will isn’t the only one with ideas… I suspect a demon is involved.”

“Miss Sutcliff is awfully fond of demons,” the Undertaker chuckled, “Would you like a biscuit?”

Grell folded his arms, frowning, “No I would not. And I am not fond of demons, just Sebas-chan. Not that’s it’s any of your business.”

The Undertaker smirked, “A shinigami who’s fond of a demon. Now there’s a story I haven’t heard for a long time. Here is your tea,” he passed Grell a brightly coloured cup. “I told you I have proper tea cups, didn’t I?”

“Why are they so brightly coloured?” he asked, “They don’t really fit with your… ah, theme?”

He giggled behind his hand darkly, “I wanted to get something that the little lord Phantomhive could enjoy when he visits. Not that he appreciated it much when I showed him the last time he came, no he didn’t.”

“Such a serious child, poor Bassie, no wonder he’s so cold,” Grell rolled his eyes, “Though these mugs are tasteless. I suppose it makes sense one such as you thought they’d be a nice gesture.”

The Undertaker took out a sugar pot from one of the drawers of his desk, “Would you care for some sugar with your tea?”

“Oh, yes please.”

He went through a stage where he drank his tea without sugar; Will never had sugar with anything, even his coffee. Grell hadn’t done it as much to impress William as he had enjoyed saying, ‘No thank you, I’m sweet enough’. In truth, he found people who had their tea or coffee without sugar were usually serious, bitter types, who wouldn’t think to use such a sweet catch phrase as that. Ronald had three sugars in his tea and even more with coffee, but he really was a kid.

The sugar pot was small with a pretty pattern along the side, though it was so faded Grell couldn’t quite make it out. He watched as the Undertaker piled a spoonful and dropped it into Grell’s tea with a wet plop, he loaded another. “No, I think that’s enough-” Grell tried, but the second was dropped into his tea. He moved his cup away to prevent him from adding another, the Undertaker laughed again, “Oh, do forgive me, my lady, I am so used to doing my own. I have at least five or six, you see.”

“Sadly that explains so much,” he rolled his eyes, crossing his legs.

The Undertaker finished loading up his sugar and took a sip, sighing blissfully, “So you ditched your little partner for today?”

“Ronald will be fine on his own,” Grell sighed, “Besides, our ‘dust biter’ is sleeping through most of the day.”

“Ah, but don’t you know a demon likes to watch its prey? Didn’t you want to stay to feel the vulture circling over the soul?” he chuckled, peering up at him, tilting his head to the side. For a split second Grell saw the brilliant yellow green of his eyes, before they were lost beneath the shadows of his hat.

“Well I couldn’t sense a demon was close. Besides, this particular demon, if it is a demon, isn’t marking its prey,” he scowled, taking a sip – this tea was too sweet… it would be a pain to drink it. “It’s what’s baffling us at HQ, only a demon could be responsible for the killings, yet it isn’t touching the souls, just leaving them for us to find. It goes against a demon’s very nature, surely?”

The Undertaker shrugged, “Perhaps this particular demon is after a more… precious soul? Or it has been ordered by its master not to feast? There are strange little ways in demon law. I am sure you studied it in your days as a young reaper, miss.”

Grell remembered studying demon law, different codes, and different types. You could recognize certain demons from their mark – the symbol they would mark their prey with. As the demons were the number one enemy of the grim reaper, it made sense for new recruits to learn all they could about them. But of course you could never know everything about them, they lived for so long and most reapers wouldn’t come into contact with them anymore. No doubt the Undertaker would have some stories of times where reapers and demons truly clashed.

“I wonder why nobody in your department has taken the time to study the cinematic records more closely,” the Undertaker frowned, “They are all stored in the library, has nobody taken… a peek?”

“Of course we have,” Grell wasn’t exactly sure when they started talking about the private matters of the grim reaper society, but somehow they were, “Our research department has reviewed the records, attempting to get a good look at the killer. It is very important for us to understand what it is this demon is after.”

He chuckled, glancing back at him, “Reviewing over and over again, just to look at the end?” he laughed loudly, a hand over his mouth to stifle his giggling, “How blind the life of a reaper can be.”

This man was so irritating, so infuriating – the way he’d look down at them, like he knew everything, like everyone else was dependant on him. Grell had not come to this dingy little place to hear some ex reaper rant on and on about how he could do his job better. Grell scowled, slamming the tea cup down on the desk, “Don’t you forget that you were one of us once! A deserter is worse than a reaper, the only reason we haven’t come after you is because you are not worth it yet. There are worse problems out there. You maintain this ridiculous lifestyle at our mercy!”

The Undertaker moved so suddenly, he seized Grell by the hair, twisting it around his palm like a rope and jerking his head back, Grell nearly fell from his seat, or would have done if the Undertaker hadn’t been stood behind him. One sharp nail ran down the front of Grell’s neck, he stared up, wide eyed into the Undertaker’s bright eyes. He was smirking, his hat slightly dislodged from the sharp movement.

“Do you think you could stop me?” he whispered, “Do you think any of you could? There’s a reason everyone still remembers me… and you witnessed it first hand, I believe, when I gave you that tiny little scar you hate so much,” he purred, grinning down at him with such a warm smile, seemingly immune to Grell’s struggling, “You lecture me, but you are hardly an innocent one either, Miss Sutcliff, are you?” he lowered his head, his lips drawing closer and closer, Grell cringed for a second. “A grim reaper in love with a demon,” the finger running along his throat lowered to his collarbone, Grell’s heart almost stopped. “It’s a tale I haven’t heard for a long, long time… Did you know there is an old poem about that? I think Miss Sutcliff is a little young to know it, but this is how it goes…” he lowered his voice, whispering into his ear,

            Beware the devil’s smiles;

Death upon your rotten perch,

            The doors of your bone cage unlocked,

Turn your eyes from the flames,

Soar high above but do not see,

            Look not into the fires of Hell,

            Look not at the demon,

            At the beast who wears the sweetest form,

            Beware the devil’s smile.

            For if you land

            To take the devil’s hand,

            To dance together

Upon hallowed graves,

            You will lose yourself to shadow,

            And your heart will be stolen away.

He sang it in a soft, sing song voice; the words were beautiful and frightening. Grell had stopped struggling; he couldn’t stop staring up at those eyes. The Undertaker leant down and laid a soft kiss upon his forehead, the touch was fleeting and gentle. It brought Grell back to his senses – he never been kissed in such a place-! The gesture was so soft and tender, it filled him with fear. It should not be the deserter touching him like that-! He slammed his elbow into the other man’s stomach, the hand clasping his hair relinquished and Grell stood up, grabbing him by the collar of his robe, “How dare you-! How dare you grab me in such a way! Who do you think you are?! I am not the sort of lady who allows herself to be tossed around so!” he gave him a good shake before dropping him to the floor. “Good day to you! I’ll paint you red once William gives the order, then we’ll see a new deadly legend born!” he slammed the door behind him and walked down the street in a temper. He fumed for twenty minutes before remembering he had no idea how to get back to the ugly little apartment in the East end.

Oh dear… Where was Ronald when he needed him?

**

When he went to sleep, Samuel Carter dreamt of the symbol he had seen in Old Rosa’s special book when he was a boy. He remembered drawing it on the dirty ground of the cell the Spider put them in. He remembered the words, the words he’d have to say to summon the fairy… Hoheo Taralna, Rondero Tarel, it was Spanish, because Old Rosa was Spanish. She told him about growing up in Madrid all the time. She’d been a rickety old thing, walked with a cane and had a bad eye, her English wasn’t brilliant but good enough so they could talk. The other kids would go and touch her door as a dare, but Sam hadn’t feared her. He would take her medicine from Doctor Jones, or drop by with her shopping. His aunt and uncle told him he was a good, kind boy for helping her out. He had lived to impress them; and Old Rosa would give him a sweet and he would sit at the little wooden table, so their arrangement was completely worth it. She had talismans and rosaries from all over the world, and a big magic book which told you how to summon fairies and all sorts of magical creatures.

He remembered that one best because he liked the symbol; it was an upside down star with a little shape inside it. In the book the star was the colour of the sunset, dark orange, whilst the shape was almost purple, almost red. It was beautiful; he had liked it so much that Old Rosa told him how to read the special words that went with it.

“I’d like a fairy to be me friend,” he told her one day.

“No, no, child,” she shook her head, “It is not something to be lightly done.”

“Fairies are nice though, like in the stories.”

“Not in old stories,” she said dismissively, “I am old woman, I know these things. You learn.”

She said that a fairy could be summoned at a time of great need, but the price was high, too much for a young boy to pay. She had been so insistent and scary about it. He never truly understood, but he heeded her warning. It was no light matter to summon a fairy.

Of course, as he grew up, Old Rosa passed away, so did his uncle and aunt who raised him, and for the first time of many in his life, Sam ended up living on the streets. It was harsher then because he didn’t know how to cope. He lived in an alley way with a large group of other orphan boys, the older ones would try and steal and the littler ones, like Sam, would sit on the side of the street, relying completely on the sympathy of rich folks who walked by. They just scraped by, just. Sam had been there for a couple of weeks when he met her. She said her name was Ms Greenway, she had little glasses on the top of her nose and she wore her hair up in decorations like a proper lady. She asked him and a couple of other hungry boys if they would like warm food and hot baths every day. She said she had a very kind employer who liked to look after hungry kids who didn’t have anyone.

Sam was too young to be truly suspicious, all he could think about was the fact he was so hungry it kept him awake at night. So he went along with her, he climbed into a wagon with six of his friends and giggled excitedly together about all the nice things they’d eat, on the journey to the manor in the countryside. Ms Greenway gave them warm bread to nibble on, and for a few short hours Sam felt as though everything was going to be good again.

He started to worry when they reached the little village on the outskirts of the manor and all the people looked at them with such… pity. It was the same look the villagers had when his parents died when he was little. But why would everyone be feeling sorry for them?

The looks of sympathy vanished at the manor, save for two gardeners working on the bushes when their wagon passed them.

“Poor little mites don’t know what’s coming for ‘em…” he overheard one of the gardeners mutter to another.

“Shut up, do you want the master to hear?” another hissed.

He should have guessed then. It wouldn’t have been too late to jump off the carriage and run away, but why would he do that? Sam convinced himself that those guys weren’t talking about their little wagon; they must be talking about something else. He had no reason to think there was anything but good fortune here. This would be a good thing. Sam and the other boys were all quietly excited; the only kid who wasn’t was the blond boy lying in the back of the wagon. Ms Greenway had picked him up along the roadside; he’d been wandering around aimlessly. He was a little scary so Sam and his friends hadn’t wanted to talk to him.

Their dreams of somewhere better were shattered as soon as they arrived. The manor was beautiful and grand, red and gold in decoration with lots of grand paintings and things about the walls. Of course they didn’t get much chance to look, one of the boys had reached out to touch one of the paintings and a scary man, they found out later was called Lincoln, smacked him with a riding crop.

“Filthy animals – You don’t touch anything! These are the Master’s things!”

They were stripped down, washed and led up in a line to a room where the monster was waiting to inspect them. They were all to wear little short green cloths around their crotch, it was too short, but one of the servants said to pretend they were going swimming. A couple of the littler boys were crying, nobody seemed to understand, once again, the only one who was silent was the blond boy from the roadside. Sam was confused, was he looking at them for bruises or marks? Did he want to see if they had an infection? He asked and asked a couple of the servants if he could have his clothes back.

“It ain’t right to be nearly naked infront of an important person, right?”

“Be quiet,” one of the maids said stiffly to him, “The master must inspect you to see if you’re clean enough.”

“I’m plenty clean, I just had a bath.”

Lincoln smacked him hard on the side of the head, “Shut it and keep in line!”

He was shaking when he entered the room, he watched as a man with tiny blue eyes and a big monstrous face sat back in his chair, watching each naked boy as they were brought before him. He wouldn’t inspect, he’d just stare and then nod, and then call ‘Next’ to usher the next boy over. His smile was… frightening, Sam had never seen a person smile like that… not at a child anyway. His hands were shaking so he put them behind his back. The man had a big expensive looking cane, he was well dressed, and probably the best dressed person Sam had ever seen his whole life. But he looked so scary. He could feel a great sinking feeling in his belly, like something terrible was going to happen. Sam covered the tops of his legs instead as he was brought before the Monster-Man, it was more important to cover that, instinct told him.

Monster-Man’s eyes fell upon him and he smiled, chuckling and amused, “Such a shy little doll,” he murmured, “Hands by your sides.”

Sam found his hands moving without his consent, tears brimming in his eyes. He did not like being looked at this way, like was a girl from a street corner.

“What an obedient thing you are,” he laughed, “Very nice… yes, yes… away with you now, boy.”

He was ushered out by a maid; he burst into tears once they were out of the room. She was leading him and two others down the stairs when they heard a crash and the Master shouting ‘Dirty’ and ‘Disgusting’. Seconds later another maid followed them, leading the blonde boy along with her. Sam wondered what he did to make the Master react like that; he also noticed marks blooming on his chest and arms from where he’d been struck with that cane. He wasn’t crying though. By the end of the evening, he was probably the only one who wasn’t.

As the weeks went by, regular meals in the little cell he shared in the basement of the manor, regular baths, watching as boy after boy disappeared into Monster-Man’s bedroom. Everyone who went returned quiet and dead eyed or sobbing and terrified. Sometimes they wouldn’t come back for a very long time, at others they would be gone for just a night. Sam would hide every time Lincoln came down to get a new boy.

Their only understanding was that if Monster-Man took you away, he’d do something terrible to you. Sam imagined being bitten like a creature from a story, but soon they all found out what he’d do. One boy, Freddie tearfully explained to them that the Master would give you sweet wine, make you sit on his bed with him, and then his hands would go everywhere. Sam felt sick, “Like a lady?” he said, “He wants us to be his ladies? But we can’t… That can’t be true?”

“Well it is!” Freddie snapped, “It is true an’ it happened to me, an’ it’ll happen to all of you!”

Some of the boys tried to escape that day, they didn’t get far. Two were caught by Lincoln, another died in the woods. There was always screaming in the night, everyone had nightmares, sometimes you were too afraid to go to sleep. Sam would remember living in the alley with all the other boys, how safe he had felt because they were all together. He’d give anything to go back there.

Jim, the blond boy from the roadside was quiet and withdrawn. Once he saw Lincoln pin him to the wall after the group of them walked back down into the cells. He saw the man’s fingers digging into the white skin of his arm.

“The Master might make a gift of you to me,” he snarled, “So you best watch your back. I’ll ring your neck if you cause any trouble? You understand?”

Jim didn’t answer, but he didn’t nod either. He just stared right back at him and Lincoln shoved him to the floor and stalked off.

That was the first time Sam thought about summoning his fairy to help him out. As they were waiting to be washed down by the maids, he tapped Billy on the shoulder – Billy was his friend, had been since their days on the streets.

“They have these fairies, see? All you have to do is make a pact with ‘em… and they grand you any wish you want…” he touched his shoulder, trembling.

“Cut it out!” he slapped his hand off, glancing at him with frightened, angry eyes over his shoulder, “Are you a bloody idiot? Didn’t you hear what that old man is gonna do to us?”

“But…” he trailed off, lowering his chin into his knees, when he felt a hand clap upon his shoulder. He jumped and peered across to see Jim leaning over.

“How do you do it?” he asked, there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

They sat in the dark by all the other little beds as the boys slept and whispered the words together, ‘Hoheo Taralna, Rondero Tarel’ over and over until Jim learnt them. Sam drew the symbol onto the dust on the floor, “This is the fairy’s mark.”

“It looks like a star,” Jim mumbled.

“Yeah…” he rubbed it out, “It’s just a story. Old Rosa also said if you wear a spider web the fairy will be able to smell you out.”

“You mean like any regular spider’s web?” Jim asked, “There are lots in the manor.”

“That’s right… It’s a silly story,” he mumbled, “Billy’s right.”

“Probably,” Jim got up to get into bed, “I’m gonna go t’ bed.”

Sam redrew the symbol in the dust, imagined its colours, he closed his eyes tight, thought about saying the words. But he couldn’t. He was too afraid, and it was just a story… Just a silly story, there was no place to be a child here.

**

“Sam! Hey-! Sammy-!”

He opened his eyes and saw Jasper leaning over him, “It’s almost time t’ get up! Wanna go sit by the bridge for a bit?”

The stench of their little room was overpowering, Mrs Boots had a cough which never seemed to go away. She’d shuffle into her corner late at night and cough so violently. He gave her his blanket; he didn’t need the warmth to sleep, most of the time he passed out from exhaustion. That was just how things were now.

“No, Jas, I’m gonna rest up a little more… We got a long night ahead of us, right?”

His friend had his hair done up, he often did to sleep; Sam could see the scar of where his ear had been cut two years ago. He felt sick to remember it; he had come back to the room here. Flora was crying and there was blood everywhere. He had wrapped his scarf around Jasper’s head to try and stop the bleeding, kept talking to him to try and stop him from going into shock. They couldn’t see a doctor until morning; they had to get through the long night before then. He had thought Jasper would die. Sam had seen friends die before, the fever caught Billy and Freddie hung himself when the Master took a fancy to him. He had seen friends die before, so he told the girls and Mrs Boots to try and go to sleep, and he stayed up all night with Jasper, though he doubted they could sleep as his friend sobbed and cried out in agony. He passed out from the pain and Sam slept close to him, wondering if he’d wake up beside a dead body once again. By some miracle in the morning he was still alive. He carried him on his back to the hospital; none of the doctor’s would see him. The woman at reception said she’d call the police unless they moved on. ‘We don’t want your sort here’, she had said.

Sam had despaired, but then a lady doctor with bright red hair came and dismissively told him to bring the girl into her studio. He had cried a little out of joy, whispered to Jasper that he was going to be alright. The lady doctor told him he was smart to keep pressure on the wound, she was also not surprised to see that Jasper was really a man; she said she’d ‘seen it all before’. When they left she told them to take care. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for them on the streets.

“Jas, you be careful, ok?”

He laughed, “Don’t worry,” he was tugging on his trousers, “I’m wearing me men’s clothes, I won’t get into trouble.” He buttoned up his shirt and tugged on his flat cap, gathering his hair inside it and lacing up his boots, “You ok, Sammy? You were moaning in your sleep again?”

“I’m fine; I’m always fine,” he lay back on the floor, the creaky wood cutting into his back, “You have fun by the bridge.”

“Will do,” he whistled to himself merrily as he walked out the door.

Sam sat up and peered around the room. He had a small bag full of his things, not that he had much. Mrs Boots had a little table with drawers where she kept her stuff, she had a little locket with a baby’s picture in it she wore it around her neck in the room but left it here when she went out to work. He never asked who the baby was. It did better not know that sort of thing sometimes.

He sat up and peered out of the dirty window, he watched Jasper walking down the street, passed lots of others, and nobody would bother him. You were safest by daylight, though you were never completely safe. It was the first thing you had to learn about life. Sally, the girl who’d lived with them for a bit, turned up in the river with her throat cut, before that, Mary was killed by Jack the Ripper. Sam had been beaten within an inch of his life more times than he liked to remember. He carried a small knife in his boots just in case someone tried to beat him, bugger him and walk off without paying. He had stabbed a man for that before, stabbed his hand against the wall and demanded his money.

He wasn’t so defenceless then.

As Jasper disappeared around the corner, Sam spotted two men in suits heading to the dingy little apartment building across the road. One had bright blonde hair at the top with dark hair beneath and his companion was a feminine beauty with long bright red hair. It was unusual here to see gentleman who could afford suits and spectacles around the East end. He wondered briefly who they were before settling back down on the dirty floor, listening to Flora and Kathy snoring and Mrs Boots humming tunelessly to herself.

This would be the peace before the night.

London was a harsh place to live but it was the only place he could work a wage. He was fourteen when he left the manor, he didn’t know how to do anything else. Nobody would take him on in any other trade; he knew how to do one thing. The fear of the old man, the disgust he’d feel all over his body after the monster took him to bed, began to dull. He would have to use the trade he learnt at the manor again and again.

First with a ship’s captain who’d give him a bed and food for letting him take him like a woman. After that he came to London with a merchant, who was well known for fiddling with young boys. That man was arrested; Sam took what he could from the house and ran off on the streets. The money he stole didn’t last him long, that road led to where he was now; sleeping in a room that smelt of blood and piss and dirt, getting fucked and beaten in the damp city alley’s. This was his life now.

All the while he was aware it could have been different.

Jim made it different. He was the only one who didn’t get sick with the rest of them. He was washed and scrubbed and was brought to the Master’s chamber. The maids had put him in a beautiful red robe from an Eastern country – that was what the other boys said. They had all feared, they all knew how the Master disguised Jim. He had once joked about feeding the boy to his dogs if he didn’t keep those ‘dirty rainwater eyes to himself’. When Jim Macken walked up the stairs of the cells, up into the bright manor, many wondered if it would be the last time they ever saw him. But it was different that time, he didn’t come back broken and damaged. In fact he didn’t come back to the cells at all. He was given a room in the manor; Lincoln grumbled that the Master had ‘taken leave of his senses’.

It was rumoured that Jim Macken had been given a new name, that the Master was parading him around, telling the world he had found his beloved lost son. It was fine clothes and fine food for Jim now. Looking back Sam now understood what the Master had been looking for in his dolls, something even more dark and vile than it first appeared. He was looking for his true son, the child who vanished, the child, Sam would think bitterly, the Earl had probably killed in sexual rage. The lie of the child vanishing was just a cover; that was probably why his lady wife killed herself. Jim had seen that, understood it, in a way that a child shouldn’t have been able too.

He called the Earl ‘Father’ or ‘Papa’, Lincoln told him with a revolted sneer, ‘Stole away the old fool’s heart from the off’. It wasn’t long after Jim became the Master’s son that the Master’s health started failing. He still took a vast interest in his dolls, though it was no secret that his ‘son’ shared his bed every night. He would stagger down to the cells, leaning on his cane, his breathing heavy, his once sharp eyes bleary.

Once he had picked Sam out of the cells, dragged him upstairs by the arm, snapped at a maid who said she would wash him before the Master needed him to entertain. He dragged him up into the manor, muttering to himself, holding a wine glass in his other hand, red wine splashing onto the floor as he walked. He shoved him inside one of the upstairs drawing rooms. Sam opted for the only defence he had learnt in the manor: lie back and let it happen. He closed his eyes, trying not to cringe as those wrinkled hands ran over his body, that odious stare, like he was a piece of meat on the chopping rack. He felt new bites at his neck and cried out in pain. Sam heard the Master fumbling with his belt, he raised his hands to help him and was slapped sharply on the cheek. The boy lay still, shaking and bare, peeking slightly through his left eye, he saw the Master wasn’t erect. In fact he was struggling, trying to maintain one. They lay there like that for a few minutes; Sam was trembling with fear, not sure how to react. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t offer to help, he could see the rage in the old man’s eyes. Suddenly those eyes were upon him, “You filthy boy! This is your fault!” he curled his claw like hand into a fist and punched him hard in the face. Sam had tried to twist onto his side, the blow struck him hard. He heard a crack and felt his tooth come lose, tasted blood in his mouth. Sam shrieked and scrambled off the desk, ducking as the wine glass sailed passed his head, shattering on the wall. He seized the doorknob, pulling it open and almost walking straight into Jim Macken. Jim’s eyes scanned over him briefly, without fondness or recognition. He just walked passed him, dressed in a fine little suit, a purple ribbon at his throat, heeled boots tapping on the floor as he walked. There was a spring in his step, like he was gliding rather than walking. Before Jim had stumbled along like a walking corpse, Sam had thought that when they approached him in the wagon upon the road.

“Papa, don’t get so upset,” Jim said cheerfully, “Come now, I’ve fetched you another glass. Shall we go and sit outside for a little while? The weather is so lovely today!” he took the monster’s arm and led him out of the room.

It was terrifying, that boy didn’t seem at all like the Jim he had known in the cells. Whilst the Master drained other boys of their smiles and bright eyes, Jim had gone to him drained and returned fulfilled and youthful. He had his own manservant, the servants whispered, a handsome young man of a stoic nature. They called him ‘the young master’s man’ and spoke as though this person had always existed in the manor.

After the Master reclined to his bed, everyone in the manor knew it was a matter of time before he died. Some of the servants ran off already, others waited until the end. Many prayed that it would be the Master’s brother, Arnold, who succeeded him. Sam and the boys knew better. Lincoln tried to stop the young master from going in to see the Lord on his death bed. Sam heard two of the maids gossiping about it, Lincoln had called the young master ‘a disgusting whore readying to finish his poor master off with poison in her ear’.

Whether or not the Master was poisoned, he died all the same. On that day the servants fled and the new Master’s manservant came down into the cells. He let them out of their cells and said, “My Master grieves for the vile way his father treated you all and he sets you free. There are carriages waiting at the front of the estate and you will all be given money for your trouble. He wishes you find happy, fulfilling lives and let the nightmares of this manor disappear forever,” he bowed politely, glancing up at them. He had startling amber eyes, almost golden in fact and such a presence about him. There was something, unsettling… about him.

For a moment their eyes met and Sam thought, ‘Oh my God, Jim actually did it. He summoned a fairy’. Before telling himself that it couldn’t be true, it was just a childish story. He had entered this place a child and that had been sucked out of him. No, it couldn’t be true, if it was, then he’d be faced with the bitter true of it; why hadn’t he summoned the fairy?

‘I wonder’, he thought, as he drew the symbol in the dirty floor of the room that smelt of blood, piss and dirt, ‘If I had said the words and drew the symbol, would you have made my life better?’

“Sam, come on, what are you doing?” Kathy called, she was doing up her hair clumsily as Flora used their tiny mirror to apply her make up. It was nasty old rouge which four of them shared. The girls wanted to have fine things like nice dresses and make up; they had quite childish dreams, it made Sam feel sad that he would watch that fade in them.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention much,” he got to his feet, “Is Jas back yet?”

“No, he’s been gone for ages.”

He glanced out of the window – he truly had, it was dark. How was it so dark already? Sam stood up, tugging on his scarf, “I’ll go and find him. Idiot’s probably lost track of time, yet again.”

“Alright,” Flora said with a sigh, “But make sure you’re out on Broad Street with us in half an hour? I don’t like being there without you.”

He had, on occasion, fought some bastard off them. He was stronger than he looked and he had his knife. Of course being underfed and naturally very short and thin there wasn’t much Sam could do in the case of a real fight, but in a dark alley it was easy to jab a knife between a man’s ribs, kick him and beat him, then grab your friend by the hand and pull her away. He glanced in the mirror at the bruise under his left eye and wondered if tonight would be another hard night.

“Take care,” Mrs Boots called in her half awake, dreamy voice. She was addicted to opium; it was where her little funding went. On the good days she’d sit about singing to herself, not able to recognize any of them when they spoke to her, and on the bad days, when she was having withdrawals, she would weep and sob and break things. Today she was so placid; Sam wondered who she thought she was talking too.

Fifteen minutes to time of death.

The girls waved to him as he walked out the door and Sam felt that familiar chill on his bones. London streets were so cold at night, and with winter coming they would only get colder. He shivered, drawing his arms around his middle as he walked. There were only a few street lights around here and even fewer people about. The bridge wasn’t far away, Jas wouldn’t have gone far.

He passed a couple of the girls from Fennybrook Street, huddled together for warmth on the street side. It didn’t seem fair they would have to walk the streets tonight, or any of them for that matter. But if they didn’t have their money, the rent wouldn’t get paid. At least if they put in the long hours, they’d have somewhere warm to sleep in the day. And unlike the manor, at least now Sam was free to walk where he liked in the day, although as the days went by he had the drive to do little but sleep. He didn’t want to fret about with childish dreams like the girls, he didn’t long for someone to take him in like Jasper, and he didn’t want to waste away on opium like Mrs Boots.

Ten minutes to time of death.

“Jas,” he called when he got close to the bridge, “Hey Jas! What are you doing?”

His friend was sat on the bridge pathway, by one of the little look out benches, his knees drawn to his chest with his head resting upon them. His hat had come off, long dark hair lifting in the breeze. He was so still, surely he wasn’t… dead, was he?

“Jasper!” he grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook him, “Jasper, wake up right now!”

Jasper’s eyes flickered open; his lashes were laced with ice, his breath heavy with the cold as he sat up, “What is it?”

“You idiot,” he smacked him on top of the head, “I told you to be careful! You’ll die if you fall asleep out here! What are you thinking?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, tears brimming in his eyes, “It’s just so nice out here…”

“It’s nice out here? So you wanted to die here? Don’t be so stupid,” he tugged him to his feet, “Let’s go home. You need to get your dress on…” he held his arm as they walked; Jasper stumbled a little, finding his feet. Sam knew he was crying, he bit his lip and sighed, “I’m sorry I shouted at ya, I just… I was worried.”

“I know,” he mumbled, “I didn’t mean to make you worry… honestly, I didn’t.”

They crossed the top street and Jasper pulled away, “You’re gonna be late, I’ll go and freshen up. Mrs Boots will still be there; you go and stay with the girls.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, honestly, I’ll be fine,” he kissed him on the cheek, “I’m lucky, Sammy, you’re always looking after me.”

He smiled gently, “Go and put your makeup on, you nancy,” he shoved him playfully, watching as his friend headed up the street, tugging his cap back on and vanishing around the corner. He was fond of Jasper, they were the same age but very different. Now it was time to go to work, he closed his eyes and prayed this night would be easier.

Five minutes to time of death.

As he turned a corner to go under the little bridge, Sam felt as though someone was watching him. He could feel eyes burning into his back. He didn’t run, running would make it worse. He thought about the knife in his boot and carried on walking, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t have any money on him, if someone wanted to rob him, they’d knock him about a bit, but if he ran, they’d cut him for sure.

He heard footsteps for a second, glancing over his shoulder, but there was nobody there. Sam swallowed, walking a little faster, there was someone there, he was sure of it! He ducked into one of the alleys; he could fight them in an alley, if he needed too. He was accustomed to seeing in the dark.

“You have good instincts,” whispered a voice from behind him, so close he felt their breath tickling his ear.

Sam spun around and saw eyes in the dark; he fell to the ground, startled. His heart thumped in his chest, the eyes didn’t move. The figure masked in shadow, but Sam had seen those eyes before.

He knew why he would see eyes like that again after all these years.

“Are you here to kill me?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“I have… people who are counting on me.”

The girls, waiting for him on the cold street corner, Jasper, who was so lonely and afraid.

“And I have my orders.”

He closed his eyes, standing up, “Will it… hurt?”

“Only for a moment and then you will finally be able to rest.”

Sam looked into the shadows, a sad smile on his face, “I nearly summoned you, you know? I was the one who… told him how to do it.”

“You drew my mark a hundred times, but you never called out to me.”

“I was afraid.”

“Are you afraid now?”

“No.”

“I believe you. Sleep now, Samuel Carter. It is time to rest.”

The blow struck him from behind and he collapsed to his front. He tasted his blood, his hand stretched out into the dark alley, his flickering eyes made out a pair of tailored shoes walking away into the shadows.
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The Devil's Smile