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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Important A/N: Screwed up the numbering, so skip ahead for Six, then come back to this one . . . sorry!

Chapter Seven

By Robin

Alois huffed loudly and tried to find his resolve.

He was supposed to be an earl! His word was law, what he wanted he would get, and he would get it because he deserved it. He deserved it because he was earl. If status wasn’t enough then the very fact he had worked hard, toiling and struggling for so long, should have been plenty to impress the less discerning of the masses. Granted, it might not have been as horrifying to be a mere ‘slave’ as opposed to a sexual toy, but the very story of slavery should have been enough to garner some sympathy!

It hurt! It hurt that Claude knew the truth; he knew the humiliating and agonising fate that Alois had been forced to endure, and he didn’t even care! The only thing that made his past life worth it, his secret life, his sordid secrets . . . the only thing that made it all worth it . . . was Claude. He couldn’t go back to being the boy he was. He couldn’t! He wouldn’t be a nobody begging for scraps and fighting to survive, and he wouldn’t let himself be used and abused by some disgusting old man. He would be someone new, someone better! He would be Earl Trancy, and Earl Trancy was well loved by everyone and had everything he wanted, because that’s what earls were! So Claude would love him, because he wanted that love!

Alois pulled loose some of the strings of his night-shirt, letting it fall to one side to expose his shoulder and long column of neck, then – in a graceful and elegant movement – slid out of bed and made his way to the windows. It felt nice to smile. He felt alive for once and as if he had reason to smile, and he liked that he was the only one in the manor to smile. The demon triplets were nothing but filthy vermin with a job to do, and Hannah always tried to steal the attention! They didn’t deserve to smile . . . not like Alois did.

He pulled back the long drapes with a quick gesture. In came a beautiful stream of silver moonlight, slithering inside such a way that it seemed to penetrate the very depths of the room and light up the place. The moon was full and seemed to fill the sky, and he could even see the stars so bright that – if he wished – he could have made out each and every constellation . . .

Good, that should make the room bright enough . . .

Alois quickly ran to the door and peered through the open gap to make sure that there were no demons around, and then he closed it softly so that no light from the hallway could come through. His heart began to beat rapidly in his chest, causing him to draw in a shaky breath and bite his lip hard, and as he looked about the darkening room he felt a claustrophobic feeling overtake him. It was nerve-wracking. He felt as if at any moment something bad might occur, and he was alone too . . . alone.

He ran to his best as fast as he could and jumped under the covers, then – before he could change his mind – he swept out his hand across his bedside table and swept the lamp onto the floor. It was his last source of light, other than the moon outside. The smash was loud enough that it caused him to jump, and even though the moonlight took the edge off his panic it wasn’t enough. He was scared.

It wasn’t quite as bad as when he was immersed in utter darkness, but he could still feel cold, clammy, calloused hands touching his neck . . . fearing in his uncertainty whether he was to be strangled or caressed, but with those hands beyond the grave it could easily be both, or it could be neither. He could feel those hands even in the shallowest of shadows . . . on him, around him, in him . . . he would never forgive those hands. The only good thing that came from them was Claude. He deserved some reward and now he had it. He had Claude.

He needed someone. He needed someone to quell the loneliness . . .

“Claude! Claude!”

In a matter of seconds he could hear the familiar footsteps outside his door, followed by the sound of the bedroom door echoing open and a beam of light being cast inside the darkened room. The sight of his butler filled him with reassurance. He knew Claude would come! The handsome man just couldn’t deny Alois anything! He wouldn’t always be by his side! Always!

The butler stopped in the centre of the room. His oil lantern was held upwards so that his glasses shone almost white in the dark, blocking his powerful golden eyes from sight, and his black hair looked slightly messy, but . . . Alois was sure demons didn’t sleep. He hoped that no one had touched Claude! If that disgusting maid had dared touched him then he would order Claude to kill her! Claude was his and his alone! His cute little bow, his fashionable yet practical suit, his pale skin, his ability to flamenco dance at any moment and make it seem like a simple tap-dance . . . all of it was Alois’ and no one else’s! He would never share Claude!

“Oh, Claude!” Alois gasped, leaning forward on the bed with both hands flat against the silken bed-sheets. “The door slammed shut and I was so scared! I – I managed to open the curtains, but then the lamp fell over! I – I didn’t – I didn’t know what to do, and – and . . . oh, Claude! Please hold me!”

Claude lowered his gaze for a moment to observe Alois over the rim of his glasses. There was no emotion within his expression, no hint that he may have been annoyed at such a commotion or even pained at his young lord in discomfort, no hint of sorrow or joy, of boredom or excitement . . . just indifference. Alois bit his lip hard to the point he tasted iron. Could nothing rouse Claude’s feelings of love and adoration? What had he been doing? Where had he been?

“C-Claude? I’m scared! I order you to hold me! I order you to!”

“Yes, your Highness.”

Alois was sharp, or at least sharper than Claude gave him credit for . . . he could see the butler casting a sidelong gaze towards the door, and – when he followed the butler’s gaze – he saw the figure of the maid clad in purple. He felt sick. She was there, watching them, invading on their privacy and taking Claude’s attention from him! Claude shouldn’t be looking at anyone else but him!

The young lord moaned in frustration and touched his lip as if in thought. It stung. It was only when he removed his hand that he saw the blood and felt a sense of revulsion, because the blood reminded him of his abuse, but the blood would be what would coax Claude to his side . . . he would have to play by Claude’s rules if he wanted to win the game between them. He had won against Lord Trancy, he could certainly win against a demon whose age and race would make its desires more primal and harder to resist.

“Close the door!” Alois snapped. “Close it first, then hold me! Close it!”

He watched as Claude walked to the door, and he wondered what the strange expression it was that he wore as he closed the door, looking dark and dangerously at Hannah, almost as if he were gloating or mocking her . . . she seemed sad and afraid in response. She cast Alois a longing look and seemed to be silently begging him. What did she want? It hurt him to imagine her in pain, but at the same time she was just upset because Claude wanted him, not her, but him.

“I hate her,” Alois whispered . . .

Alois touched his lip and again and this time ran his hand downwards, smearing the blood over his neck and shoulder. He glared at his reddened hand when he drew it back. Sickening. This was what Claude wanted? He bit his lip and again and tore at the skin, letting the blood flow down his skin whilst he continued to smear it over his bared neck and shoulder. He would bathe in blood if that were what it took.

He began to tremble a little, partly in fear and partly out of a true need to show Claude that he needed him, because to be needed was to be loved . . . if he could prove he needed Claude then maybe Claude would understand how much Alois loved him, and then maybe he would love him back! That was what men wanted. They wanted someone to submit to them fully, but with enough initiative to give them what they wanted before they knew that they wanted it, whether blood or sex or a good meal. He would ensnare Claude in his own little web, because Claude wanted to be ensnared, all men wanted to be ensnared . . . and ensnaring was what Alois did best!

Claude turned and began a slow walk to Alois. It sparked a dark fear in his for a moment, because men only came to bed when they wanted to make use of it, and to be used without being loved was a fate worse than death . . . but to be used was what led to love. He – he wouldn’t be afraid! He had no reason to be afraid! It wasn’t as if he would be winning the love of some abusive twat, he would be winning the love of Claude! If only Claude would use him . . . if only he could use his body to prove his love and win Claude’s love likewise . . .

“Does my blood intoxicate you?”

“The smell is tempting,” Claude said without emotion. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his lantern upon the beside-table. “It is a rich and sweet aroma that travels across all borders, but I would not call it intoxicating, anymore than you would call the scent of a fine wine to be ‘intoxicating’.”

“With a tongue as bloody long as yours you could at least learn to lie!”

Alois threw himself down against his feather pillow, burying his head deep into their soft recesses so as to hide his tearing eyes from view. Rejection! It was always rejection! A man couldn’t reject you . . . at least not whilst you warmed his bed! Alois had seen even the ugliest and filthiest of sickening creatures warm Lord Trancy’s quarters, and he was far more beautiful than any of those creatures . . . wasn’t he? It wasn’t fair! Claude was his! He would shed rivers of blood for him, which was infinitely more than what Ciel would ever shed . . . Ciel could never love Claude.

The sheets wrapped around his pale, hairless legs, but his nightshirt had worked its way high so that the soft round of his buttocks could just be seen poking out from under the flimsy material. His bloodied shoulder was on show still, but his blonde hair covered his neck due to his position upon the bed. He could feel the bed dip a little, but he ignored it . . . he wouldn’t let Claude win him over this time!

“You misunderstand, your Highness,” Claude whispered, close to his ear.

Alois drew in a choked breath and held back a sob. A hand pressed itself against the bed by his head, causing him to turn his head just slightly to see the white-gloved hand suddenly far closer to him than it usually was. He could feel the warmth of Claude’s body directly over his own, something that sent shivers down his spine, and he could even begin to feel the warmth and moist breath against his neck . . . when he had thrown himself against the bed he had essentially moved the bloodied spot from close to Claude to the other side of Claude. He had to lean over Alois to reach it.

“The intoxication,” Claude said, his lips touching Alois’ neck, “comes from the consumption . . . I must devour to taste . . . I must taste to be overwhelmed. If my master orders me to taste, I cannot refuse.”

“Then I order you to taste me.”

It – it couldn’t be so simple, could it? He had spent so long wishing for Claude, longing for Claude, and with one simple phrase he could finally have it . . . he couldn’t believe it! He didn’t want to believe it, not really, because if he dared to believe it and anything were to stop it from happening -! It was like a dream come true. He knew that if he wished hard enough he would finally get what he wanted! He always got what he wanted! This was perfect!

Alois waited purposely for Claude to be perfectly positioned above him, before he rolled his hips upwards and pressed them into the private area of the man so close to him, rubbing in such a way that his nightshirt fell down his back, tickling him slightly, and exposing himself completely to Claude. The butler froze for a second above him. It was a strange reaction . . . he should have gasped or pressed a growing length against him or laughed and taunted him . . . he shouldn’t have done nothing. It was like he was truly indifferent and that couldn’t be the case! Claude had to want him, because he had to love him! If he didn’t then – then . . . Alois would order him to!

It was then that Claude leant down and placed his long, hot tongue against Alois’ neck . . . a movement slow at first, but then quick as it lathed a long line along Alois’ porcelain skin. It felt rough, but it sent such shivers down Alois’ spine that the young boy couldn’t help but writhe and moan. He reached behind him to entwine his fingers in Claude’s hair. He wanted more, it was just so perfect, so arousing, and Claude finally loved him . . . Claude was finally showing him love!

“C-Claude!”

Alois rolled onto his back with a flush. His whole body felt hot and tingly, and he couldn’t help but automatically spread his legs to accommodate Claude’s chiselled body between them. His hardened groin was revealed, his plump lips waiting on show, and his heavy panting only accentuated the bloodied and bared neck that was eagerly anticipating more and more . . . he wanted to prove his love to Claude so much! It was such a romantic moment!

“C-Claude! You will do it, won’t you? You’ll make love to me?”

“Hmm?” Claude looked down with eyes glowing in the darkened room, illuminated only by the oil lantern and the moonlight. “You have made me hungry the way an entrée makes one long for the main course, but you do not have that which I wish to consume. I could tear into you and take that liquid I so crave, but I would destroy you if I did, and then I would lack something to snack upon.”

“S-snack? I am more than just a snack, you fool!”

“Perhaps, when you are older and you have ripened like a fine wine, then I will consume you and take that which is owed to me,” Claude said, climbing off the bed with a disinterested demeanour. “Until then I am merely your butler. The web is still being woven, perhaps you should tempt me back into your bed when it is complete.”

“But I want you now! You just licked me! You tasted my blood! You –”

“My, you should know better than anyone sex does not equal love.”

Claude walked around to the curtains and drew them closed, before coming around the bed and turning the dial upon the lantern so as to illuminate the room and remove some of the fear from his master’s heart. Alois was certain Claude could hear his beating heart. The demon could probably smell his tears, see his fear emanating through his entire being . . . he – he had been rejected. He wasn’t man enough for Claude? He had been enough for the Lord Trancy, but not Claude . . .

“You didn’t think that Lord Trancy loved you, did you?” Claude smirked. “My lord is a naïve lord it seems. Well, I hope you sleep well. I shall awake you in the morning as per usual, and if you need anything else I shall send Hannah to service you.”

“Claude?”

The demon had already reached the door when Alois crawled across the bed and reached out to him, his hands clambering for the man who was already out of reach, who was forever out of reach. He hated Claude’s smile. No one should smile but Alois! Not even Claude! Claude should only smile for Alois; he should only smile when Alois made him smile and no one else . . . nothing else . . .

Suddenly the lantern wasn’t enough. He could feel the hands of darkness encroaching, enclosing around him, telling him that he was worthless, reminding him that his worth was only as far as who wanted him . . . if he couldn’t please Claude then what was he?

He was nothing. He was nothing without Claude!

He cried himself to sleep that night . . .

Claude listened to him. He smiled.

* * *

“My clients are so lucky . . .”

The Undertaker laughed to himself. His head was flat against the table, his fringe covering his eyes so that the vibrant green was hidden entirely from sight, and in front of him sat a long tray made of a dark metal. It was eerie to see a man against a desk – dreamily, sleepily – as he worked upon a human organ . . . a stomach . . . lying like a full water balloon fit to burst upon a surgical tray.

A scalpel hung lazily from long index finger and thumb, manipulated between two long nails that swung it as nonchalantly as a pendulum . . . Ciel winced at the sight of such a thing. How could one act so indifferently to the flesh of another? The smell that emitted from it was rancid and could not be described, and mixed in with it was the clinical scent of disinfectants and bleach, and even though the stomach wasn’t bloody it was certainly bloated. How could that be ‘lucky’? If death meant to be dissected into little pieces, cut into squares for analysis, then Ciel would hope that his body would be never recovered. He would not suffer such indigence as death.

“Every customer of mine gets to be pampered and treated by my humble hands,” the Undertaker said with a giggle. “They are bathed and perfumed, they are given fine clothes and make-up fit for a model, and then they are chauffeured personally to their own personal plot of land. They are given a beautiful slumber never achieved in life. They even have their own private room to lie in . . . so beautiful . . .”

“What is beautiful about being cut open and having one’s organs weighed and opened like an animal in a butcher’s shop window?” Ciel snapped, holding a handkerchief over his mouth. “You make it sound like a spa treatment.”

The Undertaker laughed and spun the tray around, revealing a long cut in the stomach that had been expertly stitched up so as to close the wound, before beginning to cut into the clean side. Ciel watched with a morbid fascination. He felt hot and clammy at the sight, because never – in all his life – had he ever been truly desensitised to the sight of blood or gore. It brought about in him a horrid feeling of helplessness and fragility, and were it not for Sebastian by his side or the task at hand then he would doubtless have left long by now.

Soon the scalpel was replaced by two long metallic objects that Ciel had never seen before, but reminded him very much of the process of having a tooth pulled or removed, and – little by little – the Undertaker seemed to be opening a small flap in the lining of the stomach . . . pulling it back, opening it up. He seemed to be inspecting something inside, and – at that point – his concentration was piqued and the Undertaker sat up rigidly and awkwardly, before he peered inside the stomach and worked on something deep inside it. Ciel felt nauseous. He moved over to a coffin and sat down, not noticing how Sebastian seemed to pull a silvery cloth from the air and throw it on the coffin for him to sit upon. Had the Undertaker lain out some cloth beforehand? Why?

The Undertaker moved the tools carefully into one hand, and then used a medical clip of some sort to pull back his fringe and keep his eyes free from hair. It seemed now that his secret was out that he had no need to hide his green eyes. Ciel watched him work, thinking of how – in retrospect – the skills of the mortician must have always been so precise and spectacular, for who else could have been so involved with the events of the Campania? Only a man with the highest of expertise could have done what the Undertaker had done . . . even Madame Red would have paled in comparison.

“They are also lucky to have left their organs to my research,” the Undertaker said with a cool and detached voice, casting a dangerous and rather subdued gaze to Ciel as he spoke. “Research does not need to be dull . . . it can be fun . . . like toying with a man’s heart.”

Ciel felt the control of the man break as his smile broke. It was eerie to see, his smile fading as his green eyes darkened considerably and his mouth worked into a narrow line, but then – as if the smile had never broken – it was back with full force. A low and terrifying chuckle escaped his lips and he suddenly reached down and pulled out a long line of thread, using it to work around one of his surgical items and reach inside the stomach to perhaps fix whatever error had occurred.

“Do you know how to win a man’s heart, Earl?”

“I came here to ask you questions, not to play games.”

“You win a man’s heart,” the Undertaker said casually, “through his stomach.”

Why did the room suddenly feel so cold? The young earl looked to Sebastian for assurance, silently asking a question that need not have ever been asked, and in return Sebastian merely nodded at him slowly and subtly, in a way that the less observant may have missed. It was hard to tell what Sebastian thought when his eyes were so unemotional and void of expression, but Ciel was sure he could detect a flinch of disgust and a slight curl of his lip that indicated contempt. There was a respect for the Undertaker, but it was very hard to condone or approve of him . . . or to tolerate him.

The Undertaker finished whatever it was he worked upon, something which Ciel hoped – in his very heart of hearts – was nothing more than a mere stomach ulcer or some other form of innocuous illness that only a post-mortem investigation would uncover, but he knew somewhere inside of himself that it would be more sinister. It would forever be something more sinister, like living dolls . . .

“Heart surgery is so easy,” the Undertaker said, now standing as he finished his task. “It is like breaking a man’s heart, so that with time and practise you can find the quickest way to deal the most damage or soothe the deepest of wounds . . . but I am a man who likes a challenge. I do not like hearts that are easily manipulated. There is no fun in it. This heart cannot be manipulated easily . . .”

“Is that so?”

“Hmm, it is. The heart inside the stomach can only be accessed through the small incision I have made, and the previous cut I have made has been healed and stitched. What should a man do? I must make a new cut. I must hurt it afresh. Then I must break through the stomach and fix the left ventricle without causing damage to the heart or the stomach, and there is the game -! There is a time limit, the acid in the stomach inevitably damaging the heart in a way that only death can solve. I must fix the heart before it can never be fixed again.” He paused and laughed loudly. “I call it ‘Operation’. It’s fitting, isn’t it?”

Ciel clenched his hands tightly in his lap. The sound of scrunching leather pervaded the air and broke the descending silence quite noisily, but he refused to deign to give a verbal reply to such an obvious physical taunt. He didn’t understand quite what Undertaker was getting at, but he knew well enough that he was being purposely disturbing to get a reaction from Ciel . . .

It didn’t matter if he were playing with skulls, playing skittles with femurs, or drawing with blood . . . he only ever did macabre things to prove a point or get a reaction. Well, now he had one. Ciel was disgusted and such disgust would not easily go away by such an offence. He watched as the Undertaker walked about the room to a sink at a far corner, he even watched as the Undertaker washed his hands right up to the elbow with a strong disinfectant, and he even watched as the man took out his makeshift hair-clip and let his hair fall down over his eyes. The Undertaker walked about and took his biscuit tin from a wall, bringing it to Ciel . . .

“Biscuit, my Lord?”

“I suppose,” Ciel conceded.

Ciel tentatively took a biscuit from the tin and observed it sceptically, before looking up into those giggling lips and soft features and deciding that it was probably okay. The Undertaker wouldn’t attempt to hurt him for as long as he held his memento mori in his possession, and he wouldn’t attack Sebastian again whilst he was trying to keep low-key as possible. There existed a very frail stalemate between them . . . the Undertaker would not break it whilst it was in his interests not to do so.

“It’s been a while, Earl,” the Undertaker said, replacing the lid on the tin. “I was so sad that you stopped visiting. It’s so nice to have children here who aren’t being fitted for a custom-made ‘bed’ for an eternity of nights . . .”

“Then perhaps you should have thought before betraying us.”

“Perhaps you should have thought before getting on a boat that you had no place being on,” the Undertaker shot back with a rather angry and venomous glare. “I take pride in my work, more so than any demon, more so than any Shinigami. Why do I take more pride? I guess I simply have more to prove. You ruined the results of my experiments, I can’t forgive that.”

The Undertaker walked around the boy as he sat nibbling on his biscuit, and as he slid behind him he glared at the silent Sebastian and brought his hands around Ciel and touched him gently upon his stomach and his chest. He clenched his hands briefly, causing long nails to dig into sensitive skin, and as Ciel jumped slightly he pulled back and laughed to himself. Sebastian was not impressed. The demon at once stepped beside his master . . . a master now choking on his biscuit, coughing up a lung it seemed, but his master would be fine. Ciel would always be fine.

“It seems you have the stomach and the heart for what you do,” the Undertaker said coldly with a muffled chuckle. “It would be nice for you to keep them. You weren’t issued a ticket for when the boat set sail, nor did you express any plans to sail around that time of the accident, and so I wonder what made you change your mind. I always plan ahead, but it seems my little lord doesn’t. You can’t accuse me of ‘betrayal’ when you acted so spontaneously, hmm?”

“Oh, are you implying you did me a favour? I hope you don’t think I treated you ungratefully. I do very much appreciate your past friendship, but it can hardly be called ‘friendship’ when one man is willing to kill another’s fiancée and take out an entire ship full of innocent people.”

“My, of all my guests this week it seems the Earl is by far the least humorous!”

Ciel watched as Sebastian walked around the coffin on which he sat and came behind the Undertaker. He bowed slightly with his hands behind his back, an arrogant smile upon his face, and – whilst Ciel was so oft loath to let such arrogance go unpunished – Ciel felt it best to wait and see what his butler had planned. His butler reached out to the Undertaker and tapped him on the shoulder.

The silver-haired man turned around and gave Sebastian a curious gaze of confusion, to which the butler merely cocked his head to one side and closed his eyes; he gave such a wide and peaceful smile that Ciel couldn’t help but smile back. It was always amusing when his butler won any given battle. He leaned forward on his hand and watched with a mildly detached interest, wondering how it was that even after so long his butler always managed to surprise him and go beyond his expectations. There were times Sebastian worked against him, but times – like now – he worked for him.

“There is a hair upon your coat,” Sebastian said cheerfully. “Allow me.”

Sebastian reached out and pulled a long, red hair from the shoulder of the Undertaker. Ah, so that was it . . . the Undertaker had some very interesting guests indeed, and it would make things far easier for Ciel as there would be no doubt that the silver-haired man would not want mentioned anything of his previous visitor. No one ever wanted to be reminded of a redhead, least of all someone who had recently been in contact with one . . . an adult had once told Ciel it was like being reminded of a one-night stand when sober, but Ciel hoped he would never be in a position to know if such a comparison was correct or not. He only knew that redheads were a chore.

“I am not in the mood for jokes,” Ciel said with a smile, “and I doubt that even Sebastian could tell a joke as funny as that,” he added, pointing at the string of hair. “How about a compromise? I’ll answer any question of yours if you can answer one of mine. I imagine that the Shinigami asked you the same thing, so this should be easy for you: what is causing the string of suspicious deaths?”

“Information could potentially lead to the greatest joke of all,” Undertaker said with a grim smirk, “and – as you say – nothing could be as funny as that. Hmm . . . very well, for once I will allow an exchange of information without a joke as payment.”

The Undertaker moved away from the coffin and made his way to his desk, pushing aside a skull so as to search through an array of documents underneath it . . . Ciel had never seen a skull used as a paperweight before, and he hoped to never see such a thing ever again. There was also one other thing Ciel wished to never see . . . a letter clearly marked with Alois’ handwriting. The frown on Ciel’s face made the Undertaker smirk, which – in turn – made Ciel growl loudly and darken his gaze in the Undertaker’s direction. This certainly wasn’t a laughing matter.

“You wish to know about the recent deaths and disappearing persons, correct?”

“I’m not here for tea and crumpets.”

“What a shame,” the Undertaker said with a soft chuckle. “I miss taking tea with you, it was such a breath of fresh air . . . still, I have two pieces of information for you, the first being this letter. I think you might find it amusing. I did.”

Ciel took the letter offered to him. It was written in Alois’ handwriting and contained the broken wax-seal of the Trancy family, but – the strangest thing of all – it was addressed to the Undertaker. Ciel frowned and tried to make sense of it, but the letter explained everything he needed to know, and – frankly – he wished that he could somehow erase the information from his mind. Alois was a tricky bastard. How did a boy so common in façade become so intelligent in his manipulations?

‘Dear Undertaker,

‘I am writing this letter to all of Ciel’s wonderful friends! I wish to dedicate my ball to my dearest friend, Ciel Phantomhive, and as such I would like to cordially invite all of Ciel’s friends and family to celebrate (this same day next month) held in his honour! There will be a wonderful banquet, and you can also please expect great entertainment that nothing in your wildest dreams could compete with!

‘Those of you who are mere servants, or unable to afford the luxurious transport required, will be offered a horse-and-carriage on the expense of the Trancy House. We will also send forth a tailor so that you can be adorned with such fashions as to make Ciel smile and laugh with joy! No expense shall be spared! Ciel’s happiness depends entirely on your arrival, so please do not make him sad by refusing to attend, because one absence is enough to cast a pall over the proceedings! Please reply immediately, the party is only a month away!

‘Remember: Ciel’s friends are my friends! I welcome you all!

‘Yours faithfully,

‘Earl Alois Trancy’.

Ciel rolled his eyes. It was pathetic, he had clearly written the exact same message to a multitude of people and merely changed the name to accommodate the addressee, and – more than that – he had not even investigated which of Ciel’s acquaintances and associates had changed in recent months. He was also inviting an undertaker. A damned footman rated more in society than an undertaker!

He wanted to rip the damned invitation into shreds, but he couldn’t rightfully destroy another man’s correspondence. He, instead, screwed the paper into a ball and flung it forcefully across the room. The Undertaker steepled his fingers together and smiled an eerie grin . . . he watched in amusement as Ciel stood and began to pace slightly, his cane striking the floor hard with every step. Ciel wondered who else had received a letter like this. If Lizzy or Soma were to attend such a party then he would have no choice but to attend himself, he would need to protect them and prevent them from revealing anything important to Alois Trancy, but what if Alois had invited the servants too? Ciel would never live it down!

He stopped pacing and stood in front of the Undertaker. The man had seemingly taken the long red hair from Sebastian at some point and had tied it around his pinkie finger, a long line of red falling from it like a string of fate . . . no doubt he found it amusing . . . Ciel found it disturbing, and he doubted that the fool of a redheaded Shinigami would find it any more romantic either. Ciel glared at the silver-haired man and ignored the giggling. There was nothing funny about this situation . . . nothing.

“You said you had another piece of news for me?”

“Ah, yes,” the Undertaker said, tapping a long fingernail against his chin in thought. “Miss Sutcliff and her little Ronald had failed to notice the obvious, and even poor William seems blind to the light . . . when you’re so used to living in darkness, the bright lights can be a little . . . overwhelming. Why does only death hold the answers of life? Does life not also hold the answers of death?”

“In English, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well. A young boy came to me the other day to be fitted for a coffin.”

The Undertaker reached down and knocked three times on the coffin upon which Ciel had sat, almost as if expecting some form of reply . . . none came. He looked up to Ciel though and giggled. He had been sitting inches above a person’s corpse? He had been allowed to make his seat of comfort upon a person’s final resting place? It was sick and disturbing! He could feel an acidic taste in his mouth, a burning in his throat, and suddenly breathing was difficult . . . he was gagging, and – were it not for Sebastian holding him firmly by the arms and leading him away – he would have expelled the contents of his stomach then and there.

“Don’t fret, I’m sure he was used to people sitting on him like that,” the silver-haired man laughed in a disrespectful manner. “He had a friend come with him, a living friend, albeit a ghost of his former self. It seems a fair few young prostitutes have been dying lately, matching the description of the missing persons on your list, but – alas – who takes note of a dead whore? They aren’t worthy of investigation. The services they provide . . . why, even I – a humble man who deals with the dead – get more respect than they . . . but we all have to make a living, hmm?”

“There are other ways to make a living.”

“There are other choices? Ah, I see. So this is a choice? The Earl chooses to run a company, I choose to open up the hearts of the dead for my studies, and the boy chose to be beaten black-and-blue in an alley after being taken by a man thrice his age. It must be a fun job for so many to choose it!”

The Undertaker moved quickly. In a second he had thrown Ciel from Sebastian, knocking the demon back just enough that Ciel was completely out of his reach, and the young lord was forced flat upon his back on the lid of the coffin. Ciel’s face went white as paper, as colourless as the dead, and he seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack when the Undertaker descended. He climbed onto the coffin and let his long hair fall around the young boy’s face like a curtain.

“I wonder,” the Undertaker said into Ciel’s ear softly, “were it not for our friend Sebastian here, were it not for your manor being restored, were it not for so many things . . . had you survived . . . would you have ‘chose’ it too?”

“L-let go of me!”

“Our Earl does not wish to lie with me? Hmm, then he would never choose to lie with many, would he not? If you cannot force even me away then how would you exert your choice? Is it really your choice to make?”

The Undertaker moved so quickly from Ciel it was as if he had been burned, and – at once – there was a glint of silver beside Ciel’s head. The glimmer of silverware was painfully obvious, and if Undertaker hadn’t moved he would have suffered a knife to the head. He smirked and bowed to Sebastian, who was now reaching down to his young master and pulling him into a rather paternal embrace.

Ciel clutched at Sebastian’s coat as if he had truly been in danger, and the dangerous look that Sebastian sent him spoke volumes of hatred and disgust. The knife was still embedded in the coffin. It seemed unfair that the Undertaker merely taught Ciel a harmless life-lesson and yet the butler repaid him with an attempted assassination. The Undertaker reached down and pulled out the knife with a sharp yank, he twirled the knife in the air and let the remaining sunlight catch it at an angle, casting a white light on the earl’s cheek as he clenched hard upon Sebastian.

“To lose the Earl is almost like losing myself,” the Undertaker said sadly. “I do miss the sound of children’s laughter, the feel of being able to pat a small person upon the head, the urge to protect . . . to ignore the cries of a child, no matter what their profession, is surely a sin. To ignore a child is akin to rounding them up and burning them in the cages that they built for themselves . . . so vulgar.”

“My master,” Sebastian replied coldly, “is too shaken to respond, but I believe he would not wish for you to be making such statements. No one would cruel enough to burn a child alive, nor to ignore their cries for help . . .”

“You may be right . . . Did you know that the boy in this coffin is called Samuel Carter? The little rascal appeared in London a while back, but it seems that he struggled to find a living and the screams from the workhouse put him off that idea, so – sure enough – he turned to the world’s oldest trade. His friend brought him in earlier. He gave me a seven shillings and sixpence to bury his friend, and that was after he had everyone he knew chip in what they could.

“He came in last night. No one wants the police sniffing around, especially not Aberline who is in line for promotion . . . so they were pretty quick about getting his body out of the way without anyone finding out, but the river was too good for this one. They rather he meet one of my ovens instead.” The Undertaker laughed and began throwing the knife up and down and catching it. “Is that really all that better? I would rather give back to society and be worm-meat, but each to their own, hmm? I told the boy to keep his money and I’d cremate him for free. The money he offered wouldn’t pay for a tombstone or grave, plus it’s better spent on the living.”

“How philanthropic.”

“Not quite,” the Undertaker admitted. “The boy had his soul intact when he was found, the Cinematic Records support that much. I asked the boy a few questions, he answered well enough, perhaps he thought I was a priest and could somehow absolve him? Regardless, I found something very interesting that confirms a theory the Records have told me long ago.”

“Oh? What theory is that?”

Sebastian seemed to lessen his hold on Ciel, who turned to observe the Undertaker with a rather bitter expression. His eyes seemed glassy and cold, but he had found the courage to push aside his butler and stand on his own two feet, looking out to the Undertaker with a determined gaze as he set himself to deal with the matter on his own terms. It was brave indeed. It freed Sebastian to fight and defend him, but – likewise – it made Ciel wide open for attack . . . which would force Sebastian to defend him, allowing the Undertaker to get in a fatal blow . . . it was worth consideration. He would not attack today though.

“It’s better heard from the boy himself,” the Undertaker admitted. “I had him write down everything he knew and delivered the letter personally to the Phantomhive Manor. You seem to have a strange Indian prince in charge, the boy told me to leave the letter on a side-table and that Mister Snake would deliver it to you later. He seemed rather incompetent so I can only assume the letter has not been delivered to you yet. If you get it then please arrange to meet the boy. He holds the secret to answering your little mystery.

“It is certainly a demon that is committing these crimes . . . vanishing people against their will . . . killing them without a second thought . . . I would suggest that you swap notes with the Shinigami if possible. It is strange . . . such a humane demon . . . it seems that my latest guest didn’t even flinch when the final blow came . . .”

The Undertaker aimed the knife in his hand for Sebastian’s face. It was a fast blow, swift and so sudden that the butler couldn’t have avoided it even if he had wished to, but it seemed that luck was on his side . . . the Undertaker stopped an inch from Sebastian’s right eye. The butler hadn’t flinched, hadn’t blinked. He merely stood there looking at the knife with an indifferent expression. The Undertaker chuckled and quickly flipped the knife so the handle faced Sebastian, and then allowed the black-haired man to take it and hide it amongst this person.

“You wanted something in exchange for this information,” Ciel said coldly.

“Oh? Ah, so I did!” The Undertaker clapped his hands together and walked around the coffin, before deciding to sit upon its lid. “I want you to extend an invitation to one Miss Grell Sutcliff. It’s a big party next month after all, I’m sure she’ll love to attend! I’m sure you could swing her a ticket, yes?”

“You bloody -! You know what? Fine. I’ll have Sebastian will arrange it.”

“Good! Good! Now, I have work to do . . .”

The Undertaker reached out for what appeared to be a make-up case. Ciel could guess what such a thing was for, but he had no intent on seeing it used in practise . . . he failed to understand the need to dress and decorate a body doomed for flames. It was a morbid thing to think that a man could spend his day dressing bodies the same way a woman would dress a doll, and it made him feel cold inside. He would leave, but he left as he had extracted all the information he needed. There was nothing left to say.

The laughter followed him as he left and he clenched his hands in frustration . . .

Somehow he felt the joke was on him.
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The Devil's Smile