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Devilish Impulses	By : Arianawray Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 13948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its characters, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Unwanted
- 2-Whim
- 3-Trust
- 4-Taste
- 5-Scheme
- 6-Command
- 7-Competition
- 8-Advice
- 9-Enlightenment
- 10-Sustenance
- 11-Caught
- 12-Breath
- 13-Arms
- 14-Inflammation
- 15-Imagination
- 16-Intent
- 17-Compromise
- 18-Sacrifice
- 19-Despair
- 20-Compassion
- 21-Interest
- 22-Equality
- 23-Mentor
- 24-History
- 25-Disorder
- 26-Reputation
- 27-Gifts
- 28-Admission
- 29-Watching
- 30-Bonds
- 31-Revelations
- 32-Confrontation
- 33-Struggle
- 34-Separation
- 35-Duty
- 36-Change
- 37-Together
- 38-Love
- 39-Epilogue: Heaven
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Trust

Trust is as fragile as glass, so easily shattered.

The boy no longer has complete faith in him. Sebastian knows this is his own doing; it was he who showed his master how quickly the covenant could be made void.

Ciel, panting hard, partially spattered with the woman's blood, grips the smoking gun so tightly in his outstretched hand that his taut knuckles show white between the droplets of dark red liquid marring his skin.

The butler whose body is thrust between the boy and the now-dead female looks down at the weapon, then at the hole it has made in his clothing and inhuman flesh, and back at the boy again.

Ciel glares at him out of the single blue eye on display to the world – he looks half-angry, and half-surprised.

Sebastian puts his gloved hand over the muzzle of the pistol and gently pries it from Ciel's fingers, saying quietly: "Young Master, did you really think I would allow her to run that thing through you?"

Once the firearm is safely free of the earl's grasp, Sebastian slides his own makeshift weapon – a length of rusty iron piping – out of the woman's body, and tosses the cylinder of metal aside. The dead human falls backward onto the dirty ground of the abandoned workhouse, which once used to both shelter and confine helpless children and women worked to the bone for miserable rations, many wasting away from one illness or another.

The place was shut down a long time ago. It is waiting to be turned into a proper factory which will look after its workers well – a better future, everyone hopes. But in the transition from one phase of existence to another, it has become the scene of an unearthly crime. A lady who had failed to return home after calling on her mother was reported missing by her husband and discovered here, dead and shrivelled up, only a day after her disappearance – too little time for the dessication to have been caused by normal decomposition processes.

She was the sixth person in London known to the authorities to have been killed and left in such a state. In the two months preceding her death, five others were lured to one quiet spot or another in the city, to have their lives so completely drawn out of them by something not of this world that their bodies looked like those of the Egyptian mummies that rich and adventurous European explorers are so fond of digging up halfway across the globe and shipping home.

A letter marked with the royal seal was delivered to the manor four days ago, when the cases were finally deemed "unnatural" and reported by the police to higher authorities. The earl was thus brought into the picture, and with Sebastian's help, he has at last cracked half the case.

"This woman was the one controlling the consuming spirit – you are certain?" Ciel asks, getting to his feet without Sebastian's help. His voice is quite steady. He has not cared to respond to Sebastian's remark about his lack of faith in his ability, or willingness, to protect him.

"Yes, my lord," the butler replies. "She gained control of it and used it to feed her with the life forces of other people. Our earlier investigations suggest that she did this to remain youthful forever."

"She looks young," Ciel observes, glancing at the beautiful face, which appears to belong to a woman of no more than twenty years. The woman's skin is flawless. Her hazel eyes, which remain wide open in death, are framed by long, dark lashes.

"She is eighty-five years of age, if our sources are to be believed," Sebastian tells him. "She is no innocent young woman but a self-centred beast. And I would not have allowed her to stab you with that object."

He indicates the sharp, poker-like silver weapon the woman still clutches in her lifeless hand. She had concealed the instrument within the modified handle and frame of the closed-up parasol she held, producing it only when cornered inside the empty building. Sebastian had seized the end of it before it could touch Ciel, and thrust the iron pipe through her body, ending her life. The boy, who had not seen fit to trust in his protection, had simultaneously shot at the woman, making a hole in Sebastian's garments and flesh instead.

"I have little doubt that you would not have allowed her to kill me, but a stab is something rather different, is it not?" Ciel asks in a deceptively casual manner. "I wouldn't have put it past you to let her cripple me for life in order that you might derive more entertainment from it."

"My lord," says Sebastian seriously. "I would not have allowed her to touch you with it."

"We should have kept her alive. We could have made her summon the spirit," Ciel remarks, more to himself than to his companion, as he changes the subject.

"The young master ordered me to kill all the parties responsible," Sebastian responds reasonably.

"Yes," Ciel mutters irritably.

"The woman appears to have worked together with the spirit by using her own well-dressed and well-bred appearance to lure victims away from crowded streets and into quieter areas, possibly under the pretext of requiring assistance with something," Sebastian says, directing the earl's attention away from his annoyance to the bare facts. "We know by now that that is how she operated when she lived in France, then in Holland, until several communities grew suspicious, and she moved to England. But I miscalculated when I believed that the spirit would remain by her side at all times. I was mistaken, my lord, and I do apologise. It seems that she unleashes it occasionally to allow it to feed on human souls for its own nourishment rather than for hers."

"Now the thing is loose."

"It is indeed masterless."

"A hungry beast without a master is uncontrollable," Ciel comments, not without casting a glance at his devil.

Sebastian smiles cryptically, and replies: "An accurate observation."

"Can we stop it before it kills again?"

"We may hunt it down by tracking its scent from what remains on its mistress' body."

"Are you able to do that?"

"Certainly, like any good dog, my young hound-master," Sebastian smiles.

"Then do it."

"At once, my lord."

They hurry out of the workhouse and back onto the pavement, making their way to the spot where the earl's carriage waits, watched over by a street urchin who has been paid to do the job with more coins than he would ordinarily see in a week.

Sebastian gives the street boy yet more coins, to deliver a note Ciel quickly scribbles to their primary contact in Scotland Yard, apprising him of the location at which his men may retrieve the remains of one of the parties responsible for the mysterious deaths. The unwashed child eagerly takes the money and the note from the butler, and sprints away. Then Ciel steps up into his carriage. Sebastian jumps lightly onto the box, and takes the reins. It would be quicker to pick his master up and leap over the rooftops to follow the spirit's scent. But the sun has not quite set, and they may be seen by others if they travel in that fashion.

So by carriage and over the cobbled streets they briskly go, avoiding collisions with other carriages and negotiating the crowds of people crossing everywhere – well-dressed folk heading for the theatres, poorer ones rushing about their business in the hope of earning enough to buy their supper for the night.

Ciel dislikes the crush and bustle of the city, but duty frequently calls him here. Sebastian, without having to glance down into the carriage, knows that the boy must be leaning one cheek on the backs of his fingers, glaring out at the mass of humanity, and thinking how much he hates London.

The butler smiles to himself and urges the horses to pick up the pace, steering them skilfully around all obstacles as he follows the general direction of the spirit's scent, while the sun sinks below the horizon. It is not a difficult task, considering that the creature has been bound by a long but distinct leash of spells to its mistress. The leash snapped when the woman died, but its trail is in the air, and the devil can sniff it out as easily as a hound can follow the scent of his dinner.

They are at the river now, hurrying along the bank. The winter sky has grown dark, and the new electric street lighting, installed here only a few years ago, has switched on like magic. Sebastian briefly wishes for the older eras, when humans had only moonlight, starlight and firelight to see by in the hours of darkness. Even the gas lighting that came into use not so long ago could not illuminate a street like this, so swiftly and easily. He wonders how much longer it will take mortals to invent devices that will make cities glow like daylight even on the deepest nights; he wonders how much longer he will be able to soar over treetops and rooftops unmarked by human eyes.

The butler pulls up the horses gradually, until they slow to a trot, and finally reach a smooth standstill. He springs out of the box seat, opens the carriage door, and extends a hand to Ciel.

"Your Lordship must come with me," he states, respectfully but matter-of-factly, even as he lifts the earl's hat off his head, takes the walking stick from him, and leaves both objects on the seat of the carriage. "It would be unsafe for you to remain here while I pursue the spirit. Vagrants and bands of thieves would never leave one such as you alone."

"What about the horses?" Ciel asks. "We can't leave them here."

"I shall send them back to the town house. They know the way."

Sebastian goes up to the beasts and addresses them in words Ciel cannot decipher. He takes the additional precaution of hauling out a scarecrow-like figure from the storage compartment under one of the seats, draping a cloak about it and jamming a hat over its head, then tying it to the box seat, and binding the reins to it. It looks, in the night, like a bundled-up coachman.

As instructed by Sebastian, the horses obediently turn and leave, pulling the carriage along.

"They'll be stolen," Ciel grumbles.

"If they are, I shall hunt down the thief who dares steal Phantomhive property."

"Hmm. Which way now?" the boy asks, looking down the Embankment and across the river.

"Before we go anywhere else, please allow me..." Sebastian says, whipping out a white handkerchief, dampening it with water from a small glass bottle he takes out from his pocket, and wiping what he can of the droplets of the woman's blood from his master's face, hair, hands and clothing.

Ciel submits with a good grace, certainly with very little squirming, the butler notes, even though the water is cold.

"There – almost as good as new," the devil remarks, studying his work with satisfaction. He puts the bottle of water and the damp handkerchief back into his coat pocket, then asks: "Would the young master prefer to ride on my back or in my arms?"

"I would prefer to walk."

"Alas, we are going across the water, so that mode of transport would be inadvisable." His tone of voice is suitably regretful for a butler.

"That's what bridges are for."

"The nearest bridge is half a mile away. We have wasted enough time in the carriage. If we walk, we will only catch up with the spirit at daybreak."

"It's too bright here, you idiot. We'll be seen."

"The street lighting ends not so very far from here. I can leap from there to the roofs of the boats on the water."

Ciel sees where the darkness begins, and nods, so they hurry over to the stretch where the blackness of night is barely relieved by artificial lighting. Sebastian drops to one knee, allowing Ciel to choose how he will use him as a mount. Ciel considers the crouching figure for a moment, then stands before him so that he may lift him into his arms.

"A sensible choice, my lord – you can ride much more comfortably in my arms than on my shoulders," Sebastian says, as he rises with his easy burden, his left arm supporting the backs of Ciel's knees, gloved hand resting high on the child's right thigh, and his right arm going around the boy's back. Without pause, he launches them both off the wall of the Embankment and lands so impossibly lightly on the cabin roof of one passing ship that its captain dismisses the little bump as nothing more than a pebble dropped by a passing bird of the night.

The speed of their flight from roof to roof, and mast to mast, leaves Ciel unable to reply. The sharp, biting chill of the rushing wind seems to push any choice words he might have for his butler back into the depths of his lungs. He tries not to cling to Sebastian, for he remains resentful of the devil, but they are going so very fast that he cannot help grasping his collar with his left hand, while his right crushes in its small fist the fine wool lapel of Sebastian's overcoat.

He will not, however, give in to the extent of burying his face in the butler's neck – he is too proud for that. He only tucks his head down to prevent his eye-patch from being whipped off by the wind, feeling as if he has not drawn breath at all since they stepped off the thick Embankment wall.

Sebastian feels his resistance. He knows what anger and pride lie behind it. The devilish one thus cannot resist taking an unnecessary detour to a particularly high mast, feeling a whisper of satisfaction as the steep ascent and descent draw an involuntary gasp from the child in his arms.

"There must have been an easier way," Ciel states disapprovingly, when they at last land on solid ground again, on the other side of the Thames.

"Perhaps, but it would not have been so enjoyable, would it, my lord?" Sebastian asks.

"Enjoyable for whom?"

But the butler is on the move again, whisking his little master over the treetops, and the rooftops, speeding after the scent of danger and death.

"Is that... what is it?" Ciel demands in a hushed voice after several minutes of speeding over London, as Sebastian sails down from a tall tree towards a churchyard on the fringes of the city. They have found their quarry. Even Ciel can see it now that it is manifesting itself – an eerie wash of thick white fog that floats amongst the gravestones on a night when there is very little mist. Someone, a man, is backing away from the inchoate shape, stumbling over mounds and bumping into headstones, puffs of vapour rising rapidly from his mouth and nostrils as the fear he feels causes him to breathe hard and fast.

From the man's dressing, Ciel guesses that the intended victim of the unleashed spirit is the vicar of the church whose grounds they are about to land in. The fellow is uttering prayers that soon become audible to Ciel's ears as Sebastian's descent brings them back to earth just inside the churchyard wall. A ginger cat behind the vicar is hissing and spitting at the strange phenomenon. The man is obviously afraid, but he is not frantic yet, and continues to trust in his prayers and to shield the cat as the peculiar mist closes in on him.

"Kill that thing, Sebastian," Ciel commands.

"Yes, my lord."

The devil swoops between the vicar and the spirit. The man's astonishment at seeing an impeccably attired butler interpose himself between him and the nameless mist replaces, for one moment, the fear on his face with an expression of pure surprise. Sebastian spares him a swift backward glare, which sends him scrambling away – after scooping the ginger cat into his arms – towards the odd little figure of the young nobleman with an eye-patch standing in the moonlight by the churchyard wall.

"We'll be out of the way here," the boy states authoritatively, hardly glancing at the man.

"Who are you, young sir?" asks the bewildered vicar. "What is that unholy thing?"

"Do you refer to the spirit or my butler?" asks Ciel, without the least attempt at humour.

"A spirit – is that what it is? I came upon it as I was leaving the church for the night. It would not be driven away by my prayers."

"Save your prayers for other things," Ciel tells him. "This creature needs a stronger hand than pleas to your Almighty One."

The vicar stares at him. "Child, do not blaspheme. Your butler has not a stronger hand than God."

"Perhaps not. But he is certainly swifter to intervene in some instances than the Almighty."

Sebastian, by some dark power, has compelled the spirit to take a more definite form than mist. It is now a pale ghoul with hollow eyes, uneven fangs and long claws – a primitive species of succubus that can be manipulated by those with the knowledge of how to control and use such creatures for their own purposes.

"Dear Lord," the vicar whispers, wrapping his greatcoat protectively around the cat.

The butler, however, merely narrows his eyes in displeasure at the ugliness of the being hovering before him. He waits patiently until the creature breaks its stance and pounces – or rather, attempts to pounce on him. It shoots towards him, only to find that he is no longer where he was a fraction of a second ago. The humans watching them only know that Sebastian is suddenly behind the ghoul, whipping the glove off his right hand, and thrusting his talons through the creature's incorporeal body.

Surely no one can hold on to a spirit? Surely it will only glide off Sebastian's hand? But no – the butler has hold of something at the core of the spirit – something that keeps it where it is, impaled on his arm. The vicar wonders if it is the moonlight playing tricks on his eyes, but it appears that the butler's fingernails are black as hell.

The nails dig into the core of the ghoul, and it emits an ear-splitting shriek. A door creaks somewhere amongst the few houses further up the road from the church; a window is thrown open. They have very little time left before the churchyard becomes a theatre and the residents of the nearby houses arrive as a gawking audience.

Sebastian crushes the creature's essence in his devil's fist, making it shriek again. But in the next instant, everything falls silent, for the butler leans forward and consumes the spirit, inhaling it like smoke. He swallows, and the churchyard is still again.

"God save us!" the vicar whispers, turning pale. "What did he do? What is he?"

Sebastian, having fed, slips the glove back onto his hand and walks towards his master and the man. The man backs away, into the wall of the churchyard.

"What is he?" the vicar demands again of Ciel.

"Nothing like you," the boy replies.

"Y- yet you trust him near you?" the man asks, incredulously.

"Trust him?" Ciel echoes, turning on the vicar a cynical eye that looks in the moonlight to be the colour of the darkest forests. "I trust him about as far as I can throw him, the bastard."

Despite his statement, the boy shows no hesitation about letting his servant lift him into his arms. The butler turns his head only long enough to give the vicar and his ginger cat a formal nod before he sails over the churchyard wall and vanishes into the night with his little master held securely to his breast.
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Devilish Impulses