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The Devil's Smile	By : Kinnikuman Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 1968 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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A/N: This is a joint story. Updates fortnightly.

'The Hatter' will be writing even-numbered chapters. 'Robin Mask' will be writing the odd-numbered chapters.

The prologue is by The Hatter.

The Devil’s Smile

Prologue

Darkness is closing in, enwrapping everything it touches in the insatiable black of the night, reaching and raping and consuming. That is the true nature of the night, to tear down and absorb, to expand its hold on the world and all creation. Which is why in the dark of the night, demons are always found.

In the streets of London, underneath an East End bridge, a man the locals called Old Jack, whose real name was Mathew Sharkey, was hurrying through the night. The man, who concealed his true name, thought he knew true darkness. He had seen it, lived and breathed in, back in the Old Man’s manor, where he had worked for the devil himself. The things he had done, the things he had seen and let happen haunted his every step. He had started working for the master when he was twenty-one, recently married; he had thought himself so lucky to become a serving man to the Lord. It was a well-paid job, better pay than a lot of places. Of course he’d find out why the pay had been so high later. He had sold his soul to the devil himself to give his Jane and the children all the nice clothes and food they wanted. His family never suffered, never gone without. But his soul starved. The parks of the money and comforts of being a servant in that house soon drifted away to insignificance. And now it was hardly worth it, he had abandoned his family; he could not hold his little children after what he had seen happen to so many others, so many boys no older than Bill and Eddie – he ran as far from that place when the old man died. He drank away his shames and sins in every London tavern, once a distinguished servant now a dirty old tramp getting pissed on in the street. He had cleaner hands now than he ever did as a servant.

He could change his name; change his appearance, cut away from that old life. He could flee as far from the manor as he could, he could even think sometimes that the old life was far behind him now, he could think that his sins could not find him here. He was wrong; your sins always catch up with you in the end. There is no exception, everyone is judged before the righteous gaze of God in the end.

Mathew stumbled and fell against the cold cobbles of the pavement, the ground biting into his knees; he let out a ragged sob, his hands in his filthy matted hair. He could remember their faces, tiny hands reaching up from the cold damp cellar; hear the terrified sobbing of the little children. ‘Please help us, please let us out-!’

The master called them his ‘dolls’. He liked them young, but even then there was a type. He liked them innocent, sweet, happy. Of course a child can only be so innocent, sweet and happy in a place like that, eventually all their eyes become cold and empty and not long after they lose their youthful spark, they die. The master was like a monster, he sucked away their youth and essence and one by one, the children died.

And you let it happen

And I let it happen, Mathew sobbed into his hands, I let it happen again and again!

Some of the boys tried to run, not that they got far. With little food, little water, starved and damaged and broken, how far could they get? The wood stood behind the manor, kept from the boys by a slim metal gate, easy to see and easy to get to, it was not guarded. It was a reminder that they could stay here or they could risk dying cold and alone in the woods. None of them ever returned once they left, Mathew had once been able to pretend those boys who ran were off in the world living happy, better lives; that their time in the manor was merely a bad dream. But that had been a long time ago, he was wiser now, and his soul covered in innocent blood. The woods outside the manor were like a graveyard, all those boys in unmarked graves. The other servants turned the other cheek, they hated it, they had to have – how could they just stand and watch? But nobody said anything; everyone was caught in the spider’s web; those poor boys and the servants too, everyone entwined together, powerless and unmoving.

Let me go to the woods

Of course in his long list of regrets, there were those who stood out. There was Carin; he was a little younger than the others with olive skin and curly black hair and bright brown eyes. The master took to him right away; he gobbled up the innocent ones with a terrifying ferocity. On countless times it was Mathew had carried Carin back to the cage the master had made for him; his had a bed unlike the cold floor the other boys slept on. He did not catch the same illness that destroyed the rest of the children, Mathew watched the little boy’s olive skin begin to grey and his bright eyes dim and die. He stumbled around the manor like a man who had lived a hundred years, not a child of ten. Richard had carried him back to his room one night when Carin touched his sleeve and said in that sad, broken voice ‘Let me go to the woods.’

He carried him down to the kitchens instead of going back to the cage. He went to give him a walking cape, ‘The master would not like it if his doll caught a chill,’ he had said in that voice all the servants had come to use – to speak as though nothing was wrong, to talk as though the madness did not exist. Carin shook his head, ‘I shan’t be needing one.’ He had brushed it aside and walked naked through the gardens, his thin wrist reached out to open the little metal gate and then he was gone. A tiny, bright light extinguished in the darkness of the spider’s gaze.

Robert was a street urchin from Lincoln; he was fourteen with a rebellious streak. Yet there was innocence about him the master liked. Mathew stood at the lord’s side, serving him wine as the new boys were brought in one by one. The master would approve them, some he merely nodded at, and others he openly appreciated. The boys would hold back tears, others wouldn’t, but they would stand bare to be judged all the same. Robert walked in with his chin held high, silently raging, but when he saw the lord’s lustful judging eyes he stepped forward and snatched the wine from his hand. Before anyone could do anything he had thrown it over the master’s face, shouting curses at him. Mathew had thought that would be the end of that… but the master had liked his rage. He wanted to break him down, turn the boy into his obedient doll. Robert fought him valiantly; he lashed out and tried to avoid his fate. He tried to rally the other boys against their captor, but none had his spirit. They were too afraid or thought him foolish for trying to break free of the web. Robert stabbed the lord with a dinner fork he had hidden after two weeks of receiving the master’s ‘special attention’. Mathew tried not to think about the master’s response, but it had been him who found Robert’s body after the boy hung himself.

And then there was Jim.

Jim. Jim had dead eyes long before he stood before the lord’s gaze. He was a handsome boy, feminine looking, everything about his pretty features said he should have been the master’s type; everything except those cold eyes. He had not the slightest bit of fear when they brought him to the manor with the others, nor when he was brought before the master. The master didn’t like that; he hated those world-weary eyes. He called him ‘dirty’ over and over again; he struck the boy in rage. Mathew saw the other boys break down in fear and lose themselves to the night, but Jim remained as he was.

He had found him once, by the metal gate, peering out at the wood with those empty eyes. ‘Come along, Jim, best get back inside, you’ll catch a cold,’ he had said gently. The boy didn’t answer, and Mathew walked back into the kitchens. Another dead boy, at least this one would not be missed by the master; at least this boy had not been touched by his darkness, though Jim seemed touched by a darkness all his own. But Jim wasn’t like the others. He went into the woods and after an hour or so he came back. He was not natural that child. There was always something… wrong with him. His eyes suggested he had lost everything, yet in the weeks that passed Mathew saw those eyes transform into sweet, childlike eyes, seductive eyes, vibrant ones. He did not have a childish spark, but he could play at one. There was always something not quite right, always something that seemed… wrong about that child.

You could run far as you could from your sins, you could run to distant lands across the sea, but your sins would find you again. They always find you in the end.

Mathew heard someone walking towards him, sensed someone close by. He spun around, gripping the wall for support. His heart pounding against his chest, he couldn’t see who it was in the darkness. “Is someone there?” he called stupidly, the alcohol heavy on his breath, his movements were so slurred. He was as revolting in appearance as the master had been in soul, he could sleep in the dirt every night and it still wouldn’t match the grim under his fingernails, the blood on his hands, the filth on his skin, the filth of hundreds of tiny hands clawing at him, dragging him to hell with them.

“Is someone there?”

He thought he saw a glint of a knife in the darkness; heard the fast tapping feet moving towards him. Mathew Sharkey closed his eyes, stumbling away from the wall, he put his hands over his head and dropped to his knees, “I never stopped ‘im, I let ‘im – I let ‘im – Oh God, forgive me, all those kiddies-! I never stopped ‘im-!” he sobbed weakly, “I deserve to die-!”

“Why yes,” whispered a smooth, sultry voice. The speaker was behind him, how were they so close? He could feel their breath against his cheek, cold and fresh; this man had come here for him tonight. “Yes, you do.” He thought of his wife, his boys, of Carin and Robert and all the others one last time, as the talon like fingers pierced his flesh.

***

“Third son of labourer, Daniel Sharkey; real name Mathew Sharkey; husband of Jane and father to William and Edward Sharkey. Cause of death: blood loss. Today the 19th May 1889. No particular further notes.”

William T Spears glanced down at his notes; this was the thirtieth unusual death. Strange flesh piercing wounds usually originating from the victim’s back. These souls were dying at a range of ages, young children to pensioners, men and women, all over the country with the same cause of death, same wounds. It was… puzzling. He sensed something unnatural at work here. Demons most likely from the way the last seconds were presented in the cinematic records he had observed… but these did not seem like a demon killing. For why, of course, would a demon leave the souls intact?

Hopefully no reapers were involved, namely one Grell Sutcliff who never seemed to be far from trouble… Not that he could question Grell at the moment even if he wanted too. That ridiculous man was being quite impossible at present, particularly where Will himself was involved. He frowned, peering over his notes again before he closed the book and glanced around the dank streets of London. The city always had that repulsive smell of corruption and disease; he preferred not to come here. William pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh; there was something fowl going on behind the scenes with these unusual deaths. No doubt it would come to light eventually, these things always did. It was the reaper’s job to observe and do what was due.

He left Old Jack – or Mathew Sharkey’s – body to be found in the morning by a couple of street children, who would loot through his filthy clothes before kicking it into the river.
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The Devil's Smile

The Devil’s Smile

Prologue