This Immortal Coil, Part 7
Title: This Immortal Coil
Chapter: 7
Series: Kuroshitsuji
Summary: William searches for answers after a mysterious attack leaves Grell's life hanging by a thread, though he finds himself dealing with some long-buried emotions about his old friend.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: William, heavy references to Grell, and references to Ron, Sebastian, Ciel, Eric, and Alan.
Word Count: 5,149
Warnings: Some language, speculative violence, and some off-color references
Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji and recognizable characters belong to Yana Toboso.
This Immortal Coil
Part 7: Searching inside Pandora’s Box
16 March, 1890
Reaper Dispatch Offices - London
8:49 p.m.
William admitted a small amount of apprehension as he approached the door. This was Grell Sutcliff’s room, his private space. Sutcliff was well aware of the conditions of his reinstatement and it was unlikely there would be anything overly ghastly that could trigger disciplinary action. Still William couldn’t help but imagine what he might be walking into: paintings of rotting corpses, mannequins ripped apart and covered in blood, walls covered in cryptic writing. Perhaps it would be more like a bad bordello; red curtains and pillows everywhere and paintings of naked men lining walls. Neither option sounded too pleasant.
William immediately pushed out the thought that he had been in Grell’s room once in ancient history. It was his old room; the tiny cell all novice reapers received after graduation. The image of a red painted wardrobe and the feel of a soft feather mattress passed through his mind for a split second before it was crushed under more important thoughts. Grell now had one of the larger rooms reserved for higher level officers, meaning he could put more furnishings and decorations. This would mean there would be more places to search. Such a search was a prospect William hardly relished though it had to be done. He had to find something to bring to Kittredge or even the bosses; any formal complaints would require solid evidence.
He put his back to the wall by the door. As predicted the usual foot traffic moved past him; his form was fully invisible and no one seemed to notice anything amiss. Two reapers stopped in the hallway for a brief chat; William decided to stay where he was for a moment before making any moves. One skinny reaper with short, strawberry blond hair, Tom Clary, leaned into the ear of a more athletic looking one with streaks of yellow through his mid-length black hair, Peter Miles-Graystone.
Blond streaks seemed to be the thing now; just a few years ago it was pitch black hair, a year before that they were using blue and purple before Personnel cracked down. This wasn’t just the juniors who were playing with their new alteration power, this was also older reapers like this one wanting a change of pace. William tried not to think of another senior who turned half of his wavy brown hair yellow. William tried not to think of the current senior who molded his teeth to points right in the middle of his Alteration class and decided to keep them that way. The teacher made a comment in William’s class warning against making one’s appearance look too scary, too inhuman; it would frighten the deceased.
“I’m not a human anymore, why the bloody hell would I want to keep looking like one,” the student in question said to William later, leaning into his face with those pointed teeth in full display. “I am, we all are, the embodiment of death now; that carries more than a little weight with me.”
“I have to ask but are you still doing that…pool?” Tom said.
The whisper pulled William from his reverie and put his attention front and center. Peter took a look around and bit his lower lip with a growing smirk.
“It’s up to a pound now,” he whispered back.
“Christ, that’s brilliant,” Tom said. “I want to get in on this.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like four shillings and handed them to his colleague.
“And your prediction, my good man?” Peter said.
“Molly hasn’t got a chance,” Tom said. “He’ll linger for another week and then kick off.”
William’s blood boiled and his heart pounded. He pressed his form harder against the wall and put his hands together lest he summon his scythe and do something he might regret. Perhaps this little covert exercise served a dual purpose; he was made fully aware of the amount of disrespect some of his subordinates were showing toward their gravely injured colleague. He wanted to wait until this transaction was completed and drop his invisibility to speak his mind on the matter. Then these idiots would spread the word amongst their peers or perhaps even to the bosses that Mr. Spears enjoyed hanging about the hallways invisibly to spy on his subordinates. William would never hear the end of it; he was already unpopular with most of the staff, this would just undermine his authority or get the bosses on his back. He would have to file away this information and use it at the opportune moment. He wasn’t happy about it, but he had no choice.
“That seems to be the popular opinion,” Peter said, pocketing the money and pulling out a small piece of paper and a pencil. “But they say he’s doing better.”
“Of course they say that, want to keep things on the up and up before the inevitable; keep up morale,” Tom said. “Ever since that Yorkie plunker knocked off his boyfriend and got his head sliced off by that demon, they’re scared we’re all in the doldrums. The last thing we need is a third corpse in the office, they say.”
“They should give us more credit for recognizing the embodiments of bollocks as we see it,” Peter said, making his paper and putting paper and pencil back in his coat pocket. “I hear you, chap.”
“I’ve got no sympathy for these insults to reaper kind who get their rocks off cutting up humans for sport. It’s bloody revolting.”
“Cheers to that mate.”
A set of steps came into the hallway. Both reapers looked at each other, gave each other generic farewells, and went their separate ways. William felt ill, though he knew to expect this. Reapers were among the most arrogant of creatures, even among their own kind. They were also the most instinctively protective of their own kind as well; these two were right to keep their dealings quiet. Their opinions might have been quietly common, but they were openly reviled in the extreme. William couldn’t count how many fights he had to break up just as scythes were coming out and all because someone made some sideways comment about Eric Slingy or Alan Humphries.
The foot traffic took its normal pace and William unglued himself from the wall. He stood in front of Grell’s door, taking a key out of his pocket, putting it in the door lock, and turning it. He heard the soft click and felt the energy snap of the ward breaking on the door. William drew his key back and passed through the door, taking a few looks back to make sure no one was looking in his direction. No one was, everyone passing by kept to their own business without even a glance.
He let himself get on the other side of the door before taking a serious look, still a little nervous as to what might be waiting for him in the room. It was a sea of red all around him, no surprise there. The walls bore a bright red wallpaper with a gold pattern, the bed was covered in a thick burgundy comforter with a floral pattern and matching pillow shams. There was chaise lounge off to the side upholstered in red velvet against dark hardwood. The rest of the furniture was dark hardwood and looked to have the same styling; a bed table, a bureau against the side wall with a writing desk next to it, a large wardrobe at the other end of the room, a vanity table in the opposite corner next to a large bookshelf, and a stand-up mirror by the door.
William allowed himself the thought that this was a significant step up from Grell’s original cell. All of this furniture had to have been from the same set and couldn’t have been cheap; then again it wouldn’t surprise him if Grell spent the majority of his pay on pretty things and pinched every other penny. William was a bit surprised at how neat everything was; no speck of dust anywhere, no clutter, everything perfectly symmetrical. The styling wasn’t to his personal tastes, but it was significantly more subdued than he thought he would ever find in Grell’s room.
There were a few paintings on the wall, mostly flowers though he saw reproductions of Fuseli’s “Macbeth and the Witches” and Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” One painting by the couch caught his eye; an image of a red sunset over a seaport with a bit of a familiar style. William looked at the bottom for a signature, seeing “Claude Monet” on the bottom. This was an original Monet, Grell probably came upon this one when the artist was in London. This couldn’t have cost a few pennies; still not a surprise.
William caught sight of another framed piece right beside the vanity, taking a closer look and recognizing the face of Sebastian Michaelis in one mid-sized pastel work. The demon was sitting on a black throne surrounded by fanged imps, a red sash going across his bare, muscular chest and covering his unmentionables, red horns emerging from the front of his head, one of those unnerving smirks on his face. Did some artist actually do a piece on this vile creature? Did Grell commission something? William took a look on the corner of the piece, the initials “GNS ‘89” on the corner in what looked like Grell’s handwriting. Grell did this piece himself? William had no idea he was this artistic.
He pulled himself from the painting and took a sweeping look over the room. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in aesthetic details, he was here to search and that was all. William first scanned the tops of the furniture in case Grell left anything out, paying specific attention to the top of the desk and the small table by the couch. He found no papers anywhere, just a few accessories and a few vases of flowers. He went through a few boxes on the desk, only finding pens, paperclips, ink wells, all the usual office materials. His bookshelf only contained various volumes of Shakespeare plays, classic novels, even a few philosophical works. Everything was neatly placed, nothing sticking out from anywhere.
A few boxes on his dresser contained a few bottles of perfume, rosewater, and other toiletries. Small drawers on his vanity contained mostly make-up kits and brushes. Everything was organized perfectly, nothing was left clumsily out and everything was in immaculate order. He took such care with his room but not with his main work desk, then again perhaps he was more pristine about his living conditions and looser when it came to his working environment.
The next stage would be going through the bureau drawers, the place where everyone hid everything. He carefully opened up drawers, seeing only dress shirts, waistcoats, and trousers all painstakingly folded. Looking under them was no problem, though it revealed nothing. There were a few different colored waistcoats he must have worn for undercover work or even event wear. One drawer contained various socks, though there were a few lacy stockings and garter belts stuck off to the side.
William reached the bottom drawer, finding a collection of ledgers and folders. It was probably all of his personnel paperwork, the most likely place he could have slid any correspondence. He knelt to the floor and started going through the collection. One folder was indeed personnel work, still no letters bearing Bernard Kittredge’s signature or talking about the demon. He went through another ledger, seeing a series of tallies, figures, and company names. William skimmed down the information; all of it was in Grell’s handwriting and he saw pound signs in several places. Just what the hell was this? He picked up another folder, seeing a series of papers and correspondences bearing the letterhead of a few different individuals and the words “financier,” brokerage,” investments.” The letters were addressed to a few different names, though he recognized Grell’s handwriting on all of them. Another folder solely contained stock declarations, all of this was starting to come together.
William looked through the ledgers again, matching up some information from the letters and the stocks. It looked as if Grell was doing a good amount of investing in the human world. William was seeing modest investments, though large returns. He couldn’t believe what he was reading; according to this paperwork, Grell was seeing returns of several thousand pounds. No wonder he had such a collection of ornate furniture and one-of-a-kind art and these purchases likely didn’t scrape the surface of his wealth. Was this paperwork even all there was? If he was doing this under several different names, was he collecting things in several different locations?
William took another numb page through the stock folder, the name “Funtom Company” catching his eye. Turns out he bought a few shares of stock from that miserable child’s company, only appropriate. He did another page through, seeing a glimpse of a stock that said “Sutcliff” on it and paging back to it. It was stock for “Sutcliff Agricultural, Ltd.,” William recognized the name as a leading producer of farm equipment. Was the company’s name unrelated to Grell’s investments, or did he have blood ties to this particular corporation?
There was a note on Grell’s personnel file, a perpetual prohibition from taking clients with immediate blood ties to the Sutcliff barony. All reapers were prohibited from reaping family members, though the ban usually lasted as far as the third generation. Perpetual prohibitions were only done if the family in question was a noble house, though more limitations were being put on other prominent families. Wealth and prestige didn’t necessarily require a title in this day and age, though Grell’s connections were apparently a bit more formal. William filed the information away in his head that Grell came from titled nobility; whether he was a baron himself or a bastard child he never knew nor cared to know. Judging by his demeanor, specially during their final exam, he guessed he must have been raised with that proverbial silver spoon.
What if this was his family’s company? Naturally he would know if this particular one was worth his investment, or perhaps he did it in some form of sentimentality; or perhaps he did it to act as a perpetual shadow over his family. The name on the stock was “Richard Morris,” did that hold any significance?
William paged through the rest of the folder, finding nothing else but the usual. He was getting too distracted. He needed to focus on the task at hand and so far he was coming up with nothing. That was the last folder in the drawer and there was nothing else left. He closed the drawer and came back up to a full stand. Where was the next likely place he could have hidden something? William thought to look through the wardrobe next, though perhaps it would be best to get the bed table out of the way. Wardrobes did not tend to be conducive to storing papers, plus it was likely Sutcliff kept all of those garish dresses in there and he wanted to spare his eyes.
William walked to the side of the bed and knelt to the table; a small rosebush was kept in a planter at the bottom, the flowers reaching to the drawer at the top. He opened the drawer, seeing a few red handkerchiefs that seemed to cover a few other things. He lifted the red fabric and immediately saw a pack of cigarettes. William carefully lifted the pack and took it out. William himself used to smoke a pipe on occasion and would regularly get some sideways comments from Grell about the “stench” on his clothes and how many wrinkles one can get from doing that. What a charming bit of hypocrisy this was.
William looked in the pack to see it held half its contents plus a few loose matches. Grell could have collected these from someone else; he had seen Knox smoking on occasion, maybe Grell stole them from him. Maybe Grell was sneaking a habit from everyone. William had heard somewhere that reformed drinkers would smoke to take the edge off their cravings for liquor, perhaps such was the case; perhaps this was why he was so secretive about it.
He put the pack on the bed, this didn’t count as “drugs” so there was no need to confiscate it. His eyes went back in the drawer and landed on a large card with the illustration of a muscular faun on it. William lifted the card out, carefully opening it and seeing a photograph tucked inside. The photo featured five men with wreathes on their heads, bodies loosely draped in little more than sheets that barely covered their business. All were gathered around one man with wavy dark hair sitting in a grand chair wearing an ornate embroidered coat and lacy white cravat from the last century; a glass of dark liquid in his hand and a wide smile on his face…a wide smile showing an obvious set of fangs.
William knew exactly who this man was and rolled his eyes. He was known as Victor da Vinci: the proprietor of The Shade Garden, a highly secretive yet infamous den of vice staffed with fair male vampires. Most of their clients were human men with a fetish for being in the clutches of such dangerous creatures. All the reapers knew it well because at least one dispatcher was there every few months to collect a client who received a rougher service than he should. It used to be at a rate of one or two per week, but that changed after William politely had a talk with Mr. da Vinci.
Vampires were considered unscheduled deaths with lost souls, though reapers didn’t make it their business to “liberate” such souls; it was a waste of time and there were more efficient organizations focused on that sort of thing. They were permitted to eliminate any vampire on sight. William gave Mr. da Vinci a little demonstration of this privilege right in front of him; fortunately Mr. da Vinci proved himself to be reasonable. Why the hell was this thing sending Grell a photo?
Beneath the photo was written:
“Dearest Grell,
Happy 130th birthday from your old friend. Consider this photo a gift from the boys and I.
Kisses always!
Love,
Victor”
What in blazing hell was this? Was Sutcliff patronizing these monsters? William asked him that same question after a reaping there.
“Absolutely not,” he had said with one of his dismissive huffs. “I’d never bang a corpse, no matter if it could scream my name.”
It could have been a lie; William didn’t want to think on what depraved fetishes Grell had and he could only imagine Grell wanting to take part in something nauseating with these creatures. Reaper blood was toxic to vampires, though that was the only limitation. Grell obviously told Victor a few things about himself; why else would he know how old he was? Grell didn’t even like talking about his age to other reapers, though perhaps a vampire made a better confidant. This also meant he was fraternizing with unsavory creatures, which was frowned upon by management. That was unless he was told to investigate Victor de Vinci and his brood; a little research on vampires, possibly at someone’s behest?
William pocketed the card. If Grell was ever conscious enough to miss it, William would tell him everything. As a supervisor he needed to have physical evidence in case something went awry involving vampires; if a reaper was caught in one of those rumored necromantic powers older vampires had, Grell would be the first one questioned. Then again it was hard to question a breathing corpse; William mentally kicked himself for the thought. He could also bring this to Kittredge if he had reason to inquire about any other potential field research.
He put the cigarettes and the handkerchief back in the drawer, slowly closing it but finding the drawer stuck a little. William tried to slide the drawer back in, though the friction against the wood was frustrating him. He shoved the drawer closed with a muted slam. A small pencil box and a copy of “The Athenaeum” on top of the table flew to the floor. William froze for a moment, hoping the next sound wasn’t voices right outside or any knocks on the door; all remained dead silence. Everything that fell was of a light weight and didn’t make any real noise, with the traffic in the hallway no one noticed anything.
William allowed himself a deep breath and moved to pick up the items on the floor. His eye caught on a cream-colored envelope a few centimeters from the magazine. That was not on the table; it looked like it came out of the magazine. He carefully picked up the envelope, the words “Mr. Grell N. Sutcliff” written on the outside. William sprang to a stand and took a clumsy seat on the bed, pushing out the thought that Grell had gotten a softer comforter since last he was in his…room. The envelope had already been opened, likely with that bone-handled letter opener that was now lying on the floor. He carefully reached inside and pulled out a thin, folded letter.
William put the envelope aside and slowly unfolded the letter, looking for any additional contents or perhaps powders or wards that would activate when handled by an outside party. Thankfully the letter opened without incident, William scanned the contents though immediately saw the name “Kittredge” signed on the bottom. His hands trembled slightly and he gave a few excited breaths; he had his answer already and it had been right under his nose, though he needed to read this carefully to understand the full implications.
Mr. Sutcliff,
By now you have examined your list of deaths for tomorrow. No doubt you have read the entry for Matilda Cornwall - scheduled to die at 11:22 a.m. from massive organ trauma and blood loss - and seen in the preliminary narrative who will also be present. As with the previous cases, you have been given this one for a reason.
William almost dropped the letter; his hands were shaking and his teeth clenched. The bastard had arranged this. Grell had been set up on that assignment. Did Kittredge know about the angel? Had Grell been tasked to investigate an angel no one else knew about? Did Kittredge have blood on his hands? William’s thoughts were racing; he thought of that smug bastard sitting there at the inquiry that morning. Was he lying about everything? Did he have something to do with this? Was he responsible for Grell’s injuries?
William forced his eyes away from the letter and took a few deep breaths. He needed to focus, he needed to calm himself immediately. For some reason he thought of sitting in his mother’s lap in her private lounge, his small child’s hand pressed against his abdomen with mother describing how to breathe from his belly to relax. William put a hand to his abdomen and took deep, cleansing breaths; imagining the collection of bonsai trees in the back of her room under the tapestry of a kitsune by a pond. It was a memory he needed to recall more often, his blood was cooling rapidly to the point where he could continue reading.
At last he slowly lifted the paper, taking a few final breaths to calm himself. He needed to find out what this was all about and he needed to do so with a clear head.
Though we of course do not know the exact play of events, though it is assumed the demon will act before his master.
Tomorrow we would like you to pay special attention to the following:
-A few more details on the demon’s fighting style.
-Any specific otherworldly powers.
-If possible a clearer description of the contract mark on his hand to decipher any specific scripts or symbols.
William looked up from the letter with a small sigh of semi-relief, so many things making perfect sense. He had been asked to view the demon; he had been asked to view the demon on all those occasions. “As with the previous cases…” this was all about that. Sometimes William hated being right. There were more details, he took another deep breath and read on.
At this point we are asking for only minute details for clarification. We are very close to knowing the true identity of this creature and that is all thanks to your intelligence.
Kittredge wanted to know the beast’s true identity; he wanted to know if they were dealing with some low level incubus or Satan himself. It made perfect sense; William himself would be curious to know what they were dealing with every time Earl Phantomhive was involved. What was the level of danger around Sebastian Michaelis, or perhaps was there no real danger at all? Perhaps he was a boastful fool with the power of some demonic insect. Perhaps the only option they had was direct field observation; Grell had held his own against the demon and learned not to show any vulnerabilities. Besides it seemed as if he was on neutral terms with the earl and the demon; the demon even praised his performance after that last fight. Who better than Grell to pick up details on him that could lead to some form of identification and knowledge about what this creature was.
The angel was a surprise detail; when hearing about Cassius during that meeting, Mr. Kittredge and Mr. Rollins looked like children given a pony for Christmas when they expected a rocking horse. This was not planned out. Probably the last thing they wanted was for their main field researcher to take a nasty blow to the head as he was collecting key pieces of intelligence. Even if Grell woke from this experience with all his faculties, what was the chance he would retain any of the details he was asked to bring back? He would be fortunate if he remembered what a demon was after waking up. Now they had a few Cinematic Records to rely on to get that information if they were lucky; certainly it was a worst case scenario.
You will receive £1 for your efforts as usual, but, as promised, we will give you an additional £10 as a final reward once our researchers confirm the identity of “Sebastian Michaelis.”
It was a bit more compensation than dispatchers normally received for missions deemed extremely high risk. Grell was getting himself into a dangerous situation being around this demon and Kittredge was paying him accordingly. It was a generous amount considering the work he was doing. Such compensation had to have been included in Special Projects’ budget, perhaps it was simply included under a line item for books or perhaps field services.
The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Grell was doing this only to make more money, have a little more for investing or perhaps for buying more clothing and art. After all, the rich always seemed to find ways to be richer. No, most likely he was doing it to get close to the demon; the fact he was getting paid for it was simply the proverbial icing on this rich cake. It was only an ideal situation for Grell, not to mention he seemed to have a lust for danger.
William had every answer he needed. He put the paper back in the envelope and put it in his pocket, then leaned down and picked up the items from the floor, placing them back on the table as they had been. He would go to Kittredge tomorrow morning and inquire about the mission. This had everything to do with an ongoing investigation and he had better be prepared to present everything. If the bosses already knew about the assignment, William would insist on being informed under the circumstances.
William returned to a stand and walked toward the door, though his eye caught on the large wardrobe off to the side. His search was done, he found all he needed to find, though a sense of morbid curiosity was getting the best of him. Perhaps this search wasn’t complete unless he had indeed checked in all places; maybe this wardrobe hid all sorts of illicit things and it was his responsibility to find them.
William stepped in front of the mahogany wardrobe, taking a look at the floral carving at the top before taking hold of both brass handles of the double doors. He carefully opened the doors, immediately seeing a collection of gowns. Red and black were the common themes as were rich fabrics and an abundance of lace and feathers. It looked like the collection of a burlesque house. Several pairs of shoes and boots were neatly lined up on the bottom and William saw a few parasols leaning against the side. He did look through a drawer on the top, only seeing a few sets of red nightgowns, some hats, and few fans.
He looked to the back of the wardrobe, suddenly seeing a set of button eyes and a sewn on mouth. William shoved the dresses to the side and tried not to jump at what he was seeing, instead he kept himself composed and carefully examined the disturbing sight. A series of floppy rag dolls hung from the back of the wardrobe by twine nooses. All of them had button eyes and yarn hair, some were ripped and spilling tufts of stuffing, some were strung up by their arms and legs.
There was one doll on the side with short black yarn hair and an eye patch over its right eye. Another doll with choppy black yarn for hair and red button eyes hung right next to it. The way their hair was constructed made them look like poppets of Earl Phantomhive and his demon. They were torn in a few places, though were for the large part intact. William did look for any specific tears from pins, stains of wine or blood, or flecks of candle wax to suggest he was doing anything greater than using them for decoration. Fortunately there were none, save for what looked like a lipstick imprint on the demon’s effigy. He didn’t even want to think on what Grell was doing with these things. William did give all of them a cursory squeeze in case something was stored in there. It was an unpleasant experience, though all of them were simply loaded with stuffing and nothing else
William pulled his gaze away from the poppets, happy he wasn’t recognizing anyone else. He slowly closed the doors, his business here was done and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He went invisible and cautiously walked through the door.
Chapter: 7
Series: Kuroshitsuji
Summary: William searches for answers after a mysterious attack leaves Grell's life hanging by a thread, though he finds himself dealing with some long-buried emotions about his old friend.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: William, heavy references to Grell, and references to Ron, Sebastian, Ciel, Eric, and Alan.
Word Count: 5,149
Warnings: Some language, speculative violence, and some off-color references
Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji and recognizable characters belong to Yana Toboso.
This Immortal Coil
Part 7: Searching inside Pandora’s Box
16 March, 1890
Reaper Dispatch Offices - London
8:49 p.m.
William admitted a small amount of apprehension as he approached the door. This was Grell Sutcliff’s room, his private space. Sutcliff was well aware of the conditions of his reinstatement and it was unlikely there would be anything overly ghastly that could trigger disciplinary action. Still William couldn’t help but imagine what he might be walking into: paintings of rotting corpses, mannequins ripped apart and covered in blood, walls covered in cryptic writing. Perhaps it would be more like a bad bordello; red curtains and pillows everywhere and paintings of naked men lining walls. Neither option sounded too pleasant.
William immediately pushed out the thought that he had been in Grell’s room once in ancient history. It was his old room; the tiny cell all novice reapers received after graduation. The image of a red painted wardrobe and the feel of a soft feather mattress passed through his mind for a split second before it was crushed under more important thoughts. Grell now had one of the larger rooms reserved for higher level officers, meaning he could put more furnishings and decorations. This would mean there would be more places to search. Such a search was a prospect William hardly relished though it had to be done. He had to find something to bring to Kittredge or even the bosses; any formal complaints would require solid evidence.
He put his back to the wall by the door. As predicted the usual foot traffic moved past him; his form was fully invisible and no one seemed to notice anything amiss. Two reapers stopped in the hallway for a brief chat; William decided to stay where he was for a moment before making any moves. One skinny reaper with short, strawberry blond hair, Tom Clary, leaned into the ear of a more athletic looking one with streaks of yellow through his mid-length black hair, Peter Miles-Graystone.
Blond streaks seemed to be the thing now; just a few years ago it was pitch black hair, a year before that they were using blue and purple before Personnel cracked down. This wasn’t just the juniors who were playing with their new alteration power, this was also older reapers like this one wanting a change of pace. William tried not to think of another senior who turned half of his wavy brown hair yellow. William tried not to think of the current senior who molded his teeth to points right in the middle of his Alteration class and decided to keep them that way. The teacher made a comment in William’s class warning against making one’s appearance look too scary, too inhuman; it would frighten the deceased.
“I’m not a human anymore, why the bloody hell would I want to keep looking like one,” the student in question said to William later, leaning into his face with those pointed teeth in full display. “I am, we all are, the embodiment of death now; that carries more than a little weight with me.”
“I have to ask but are you still doing that…pool?” Tom said.
The whisper pulled William from his reverie and put his attention front and center. Peter took a look around and bit his lower lip with a growing smirk.
“It’s up to a pound now,” he whispered back.
“Christ, that’s brilliant,” Tom said. “I want to get in on this.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like four shillings and handed them to his colleague.
“And your prediction, my good man?” Peter said.
“Molly hasn’t got a chance,” Tom said. “He’ll linger for another week and then kick off.”
William’s blood boiled and his heart pounded. He pressed his form harder against the wall and put his hands together lest he summon his scythe and do something he might regret. Perhaps this little covert exercise served a dual purpose; he was made fully aware of the amount of disrespect some of his subordinates were showing toward their gravely injured colleague. He wanted to wait until this transaction was completed and drop his invisibility to speak his mind on the matter. Then these idiots would spread the word amongst their peers or perhaps even to the bosses that Mr. Spears enjoyed hanging about the hallways invisibly to spy on his subordinates. William would never hear the end of it; he was already unpopular with most of the staff, this would just undermine his authority or get the bosses on his back. He would have to file away this information and use it at the opportune moment. He wasn’t happy about it, but he had no choice.
“That seems to be the popular opinion,” Peter said, pocketing the money and pulling out a small piece of paper and a pencil. “But they say he’s doing better.”
“Of course they say that, want to keep things on the up and up before the inevitable; keep up morale,” Tom said. “Ever since that Yorkie plunker knocked off his boyfriend and got his head sliced off by that demon, they’re scared we’re all in the doldrums. The last thing we need is a third corpse in the office, they say.”
“They should give us more credit for recognizing the embodiments of bollocks as we see it,” Peter said, making his paper and putting paper and pencil back in his coat pocket. “I hear you, chap.”
“I’ve got no sympathy for these insults to reaper kind who get their rocks off cutting up humans for sport. It’s bloody revolting.”
“Cheers to that mate.”
A set of steps came into the hallway. Both reapers looked at each other, gave each other generic farewells, and went their separate ways. William felt ill, though he knew to expect this. Reapers were among the most arrogant of creatures, even among their own kind. They were also the most instinctively protective of their own kind as well; these two were right to keep their dealings quiet. Their opinions might have been quietly common, but they were openly reviled in the extreme. William couldn’t count how many fights he had to break up just as scythes were coming out and all because someone made some sideways comment about Eric Slingy or Alan Humphries.
The foot traffic took its normal pace and William unglued himself from the wall. He stood in front of Grell’s door, taking a key out of his pocket, putting it in the door lock, and turning it. He heard the soft click and felt the energy snap of the ward breaking on the door. William drew his key back and passed through the door, taking a few looks back to make sure no one was looking in his direction. No one was, everyone passing by kept to their own business without even a glance.
He let himself get on the other side of the door before taking a serious look, still a little nervous as to what might be waiting for him in the room. It was a sea of red all around him, no surprise there. The walls bore a bright red wallpaper with a gold pattern, the bed was covered in a thick burgundy comforter with a floral pattern and matching pillow shams. There was chaise lounge off to the side upholstered in red velvet against dark hardwood. The rest of the furniture was dark hardwood and looked to have the same styling; a bed table, a bureau against the side wall with a writing desk next to it, a large wardrobe at the other end of the room, a vanity table in the opposite corner next to a large bookshelf, and a stand-up mirror by the door.
William allowed himself the thought that this was a significant step up from Grell’s original cell. All of this furniture had to have been from the same set and couldn’t have been cheap; then again it wouldn’t surprise him if Grell spent the majority of his pay on pretty things and pinched every other penny. William was a bit surprised at how neat everything was; no speck of dust anywhere, no clutter, everything perfectly symmetrical. The styling wasn’t to his personal tastes, but it was significantly more subdued than he thought he would ever find in Grell’s room.
There were a few paintings on the wall, mostly flowers though he saw reproductions of Fuseli’s “Macbeth and the Witches” and Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” One painting by the couch caught his eye; an image of a red sunset over a seaport with a bit of a familiar style. William looked at the bottom for a signature, seeing “Claude Monet” on the bottom. This was an original Monet, Grell probably came upon this one when the artist was in London. This couldn’t have cost a few pennies; still not a surprise.
William caught sight of another framed piece right beside the vanity, taking a closer look and recognizing the face of Sebastian Michaelis in one mid-sized pastel work. The demon was sitting on a black throne surrounded by fanged imps, a red sash going across his bare, muscular chest and covering his unmentionables, red horns emerging from the front of his head, one of those unnerving smirks on his face. Did some artist actually do a piece on this vile creature? Did Grell commission something? William took a look on the corner of the piece, the initials “GNS ‘89” on the corner in what looked like Grell’s handwriting. Grell did this piece himself? William had no idea he was this artistic.
He pulled himself from the painting and took a sweeping look over the room. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in aesthetic details, he was here to search and that was all. William first scanned the tops of the furniture in case Grell left anything out, paying specific attention to the top of the desk and the small table by the couch. He found no papers anywhere, just a few accessories and a few vases of flowers. He went through a few boxes on the desk, only finding pens, paperclips, ink wells, all the usual office materials. His bookshelf only contained various volumes of Shakespeare plays, classic novels, even a few philosophical works. Everything was neatly placed, nothing sticking out from anywhere.
A few boxes on his dresser contained a few bottles of perfume, rosewater, and other toiletries. Small drawers on his vanity contained mostly make-up kits and brushes. Everything was organized perfectly, nothing was left clumsily out and everything was in immaculate order. He took such care with his room but not with his main work desk, then again perhaps he was more pristine about his living conditions and looser when it came to his working environment.
The next stage would be going through the bureau drawers, the place where everyone hid everything. He carefully opened up drawers, seeing only dress shirts, waistcoats, and trousers all painstakingly folded. Looking under them was no problem, though it revealed nothing. There were a few different colored waistcoats he must have worn for undercover work or even event wear. One drawer contained various socks, though there were a few lacy stockings and garter belts stuck off to the side.
William reached the bottom drawer, finding a collection of ledgers and folders. It was probably all of his personnel paperwork, the most likely place he could have slid any correspondence. He knelt to the floor and started going through the collection. One folder was indeed personnel work, still no letters bearing Bernard Kittredge’s signature or talking about the demon. He went through another ledger, seeing a series of tallies, figures, and company names. William skimmed down the information; all of it was in Grell’s handwriting and he saw pound signs in several places. Just what the hell was this? He picked up another folder, seeing a series of papers and correspondences bearing the letterhead of a few different individuals and the words “financier,” brokerage,” investments.” The letters were addressed to a few different names, though he recognized Grell’s handwriting on all of them. Another folder solely contained stock declarations, all of this was starting to come together.
William looked through the ledgers again, matching up some information from the letters and the stocks. It looked as if Grell was doing a good amount of investing in the human world. William was seeing modest investments, though large returns. He couldn’t believe what he was reading; according to this paperwork, Grell was seeing returns of several thousand pounds. No wonder he had such a collection of ornate furniture and one-of-a-kind art and these purchases likely didn’t scrape the surface of his wealth. Was this paperwork even all there was? If he was doing this under several different names, was he collecting things in several different locations?
William took another numb page through the stock folder, the name “Funtom Company” catching his eye. Turns out he bought a few shares of stock from that miserable child’s company, only appropriate. He did another page through, seeing a glimpse of a stock that said “Sutcliff” on it and paging back to it. It was stock for “Sutcliff Agricultural, Ltd.,” William recognized the name as a leading producer of farm equipment. Was the company’s name unrelated to Grell’s investments, or did he have blood ties to this particular corporation?
There was a note on Grell’s personnel file, a perpetual prohibition from taking clients with immediate blood ties to the Sutcliff barony. All reapers were prohibited from reaping family members, though the ban usually lasted as far as the third generation. Perpetual prohibitions were only done if the family in question was a noble house, though more limitations were being put on other prominent families. Wealth and prestige didn’t necessarily require a title in this day and age, though Grell’s connections were apparently a bit more formal. William filed the information away in his head that Grell came from titled nobility; whether he was a baron himself or a bastard child he never knew nor cared to know. Judging by his demeanor, specially during their final exam, he guessed he must have been raised with that proverbial silver spoon.
What if this was his family’s company? Naturally he would know if this particular one was worth his investment, or perhaps he did it in some form of sentimentality; or perhaps he did it to act as a perpetual shadow over his family. The name on the stock was “Richard Morris,” did that hold any significance?
William paged through the rest of the folder, finding nothing else but the usual. He was getting too distracted. He needed to focus on the task at hand and so far he was coming up with nothing. That was the last folder in the drawer and there was nothing else left. He closed the drawer and came back up to a full stand. Where was the next likely place he could have hidden something? William thought to look through the wardrobe next, though perhaps it would be best to get the bed table out of the way. Wardrobes did not tend to be conducive to storing papers, plus it was likely Sutcliff kept all of those garish dresses in there and he wanted to spare his eyes.
William walked to the side of the bed and knelt to the table; a small rosebush was kept in a planter at the bottom, the flowers reaching to the drawer at the top. He opened the drawer, seeing a few red handkerchiefs that seemed to cover a few other things. He lifted the red fabric and immediately saw a pack of cigarettes. William carefully lifted the pack and took it out. William himself used to smoke a pipe on occasion and would regularly get some sideways comments from Grell about the “stench” on his clothes and how many wrinkles one can get from doing that. What a charming bit of hypocrisy this was.
William looked in the pack to see it held half its contents plus a few loose matches. Grell could have collected these from someone else; he had seen Knox smoking on occasion, maybe Grell stole them from him. Maybe Grell was sneaking a habit from everyone. William had heard somewhere that reformed drinkers would smoke to take the edge off their cravings for liquor, perhaps such was the case; perhaps this was why he was so secretive about it.
He put the pack on the bed, this didn’t count as “drugs” so there was no need to confiscate it. His eyes went back in the drawer and landed on a large card with the illustration of a muscular faun on it. William lifted the card out, carefully opening it and seeing a photograph tucked inside. The photo featured five men with wreathes on their heads, bodies loosely draped in little more than sheets that barely covered their business. All were gathered around one man with wavy dark hair sitting in a grand chair wearing an ornate embroidered coat and lacy white cravat from the last century; a glass of dark liquid in his hand and a wide smile on his face…a wide smile showing an obvious set of fangs.
William knew exactly who this man was and rolled his eyes. He was known as Victor da Vinci: the proprietor of The Shade Garden, a highly secretive yet infamous den of vice staffed with fair male vampires. Most of their clients were human men with a fetish for being in the clutches of such dangerous creatures. All the reapers knew it well because at least one dispatcher was there every few months to collect a client who received a rougher service than he should. It used to be at a rate of one or two per week, but that changed after William politely had a talk with Mr. da Vinci.
Vampires were considered unscheduled deaths with lost souls, though reapers didn’t make it their business to “liberate” such souls; it was a waste of time and there were more efficient organizations focused on that sort of thing. They were permitted to eliminate any vampire on sight. William gave Mr. da Vinci a little demonstration of this privilege right in front of him; fortunately Mr. da Vinci proved himself to be reasonable. Why the hell was this thing sending Grell a photo?
Beneath the photo was written:
“Dearest Grell,
Happy 130th birthday from your old friend. Consider this photo a gift from the boys and I.
Kisses always!
Love,
Victor”
What in blazing hell was this? Was Sutcliff patronizing these monsters? William asked him that same question after a reaping there.
“Absolutely not,” he had said with one of his dismissive huffs. “I’d never bang a corpse, no matter if it could scream my name.”
It could have been a lie; William didn’t want to think on what depraved fetishes Grell had and he could only imagine Grell wanting to take part in something nauseating with these creatures. Reaper blood was toxic to vampires, though that was the only limitation. Grell obviously told Victor a few things about himself; why else would he know how old he was? Grell didn’t even like talking about his age to other reapers, though perhaps a vampire made a better confidant. This also meant he was fraternizing with unsavory creatures, which was frowned upon by management. That was unless he was told to investigate Victor de Vinci and his brood; a little research on vampires, possibly at someone’s behest?
William pocketed the card. If Grell was ever conscious enough to miss it, William would tell him everything. As a supervisor he needed to have physical evidence in case something went awry involving vampires; if a reaper was caught in one of those rumored necromantic powers older vampires had, Grell would be the first one questioned. Then again it was hard to question a breathing corpse; William mentally kicked himself for the thought. He could also bring this to Kittredge if he had reason to inquire about any other potential field research.
He put the cigarettes and the handkerchief back in the drawer, slowly closing it but finding the drawer stuck a little. William tried to slide the drawer back in, though the friction against the wood was frustrating him. He shoved the drawer closed with a muted slam. A small pencil box and a copy of “The Athenaeum” on top of the table flew to the floor. William froze for a moment, hoping the next sound wasn’t voices right outside or any knocks on the door; all remained dead silence. Everything that fell was of a light weight and didn’t make any real noise, with the traffic in the hallway no one noticed anything.
William allowed himself a deep breath and moved to pick up the items on the floor. His eye caught on a cream-colored envelope a few centimeters from the magazine. That was not on the table; it looked like it came out of the magazine. He carefully picked up the envelope, the words “Mr. Grell N. Sutcliff” written on the outside. William sprang to a stand and took a clumsy seat on the bed, pushing out the thought that Grell had gotten a softer comforter since last he was in his…room. The envelope had already been opened, likely with that bone-handled letter opener that was now lying on the floor. He carefully reached inside and pulled out a thin, folded letter.
William put the envelope aside and slowly unfolded the letter, looking for any additional contents or perhaps powders or wards that would activate when handled by an outside party. Thankfully the letter opened without incident, William scanned the contents though immediately saw the name “Kittredge” signed on the bottom. His hands trembled slightly and he gave a few excited breaths; he had his answer already and it had been right under his nose, though he needed to read this carefully to understand the full implications.
Mr. Sutcliff,
By now you have examined your list of deaths for tomorrow. No doubt you have read the entry for Matilda Cornwall - scheduled to die at 11:22 a.m. from massive organ trauma and blood loss - and seen in the preliminary narrative who will also be present. As with the previous cases, you have been given this one for a reason.
William almost dropped the letter; his hands were shaking and his teeth clenched. The bastard had arranged this. Grell had been set up on that assignment. Did Kittredge know about the angel? Had Grell been tasked to investigate an angel no one else knew about? Did Kittredge have blood on his hands? William’s thoughts were racing; he thought of that smug bastard sitting there at the inquiry that morning. Was he lying about everything? Did he have something to do with this? Was he responsible for Grell’s injuries?
William forced his eyes away from the letter and took a few deep breaths. He needed to focus, he needed to calm himself immediately. For some reason he thought of sitting in his mother’s lap in her private lounge, his small child’s hand pressed against his abdomen with mother describing how to breathe from his belly to relax. William put a hand to his abdomen and took deep, cleansing breaths; imagining the collection of bonsai trees in the back of her room under the tapestry of a kitsune by a pond. It was a memory he needed to recall more often, his blood was cooling rapidly to the point where he could continue reading.
At last he slowly lifted the paper, taking a few final breaths to calm himself. He needed to find out what this was all about and he needed to do so with a clear head.
Though we of course do not know the exact play of events, though it is assumed the demon will act before his master.
Tomorrow we would like you to pay special attention to the following:
-A few more details on the demon’s fighting style.
-Any specific otherworldly powers.
-If possible a clearer description of the contract mark on his hand to decipher any specific scripts or symbols.
William looked up from the letter with a small sigh of semi-relief, so many things making perfect sense. He had been asked to view the demon; he had been asked to view the demon on all those occasions. “As with the previous cases…” this was all about that. Sometimes William hated being right. There were more details, he took another deep breath and read on.
At this point we are asking for only minute details for clarification. We are very close to knowing the true identity of this creature and that is all thanks to your intelligence.
Kittredge wanted to know the beast’s true identity; he wanted to know if they were dealing with some low level incubus or Satan himself. It made perfect sense; William himself would be curious to know what they were dealing with every time Earl Phantomhive was involved. What was the level of danger around Sebastian Michaelis, or perhaps was there no real danger at all? Perhaps he was a boastful fool with the power of some demonic insect. Perhaps the only option they had was direct field observation; Grell had held his own against the demon and learned not to show any vulnerabilities. Besides it seemed as if he was on neutral terms with the earl and the demon; the demon even praised his performance after that last fight. Who better than Grell to pick up details on him that could lead to some form of identification and knowledge about what this creature was.
The angel was a surprise detail; when hearing about Cassius during that meeting, Mr. Kittredge and Mr. Rollins looked like children given a pony for Christmas when they expected a rocking horse. This was not planned out. Probably the last thing they wanted was for their main field researcher to take a nasty blow to the head as he was collecting key pieces of intelligence. Even if Grell woke from this experience with all his faculties, what was the chance he would retain any of the details he was asked to bring back? He would be fortunate if he remembered what a demon was after waking up. Now they had a few Cinematic Records to rely on to get that information if they were lucky; certainly it was a worst case scenario.
You will receive £1 for your efforts as usual, but, as promised, we will give you an additional £10 as a final reward once our researchers confirm the identity of “Sebastian Michaelis.”
It was a bit more compensation than dispatchers normally received for missions deemed extremely high risk. Grell was getting himself into a dangerous situation being around this demon and Kittredge was paying him accordingly. It was a generous amount considering the work he was doing. Such compensation had to have been included in Special Projects’ budget, perhaps it was simply included under a line item for books or perhaps field services.
The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Grell was doing this only to make more money, have a little more for investing or perhaps for buying more clothing and art. After all, the rich always seemed to find ways to be richer. No, most likely he was doing it to get close to the demon; the fact he was getting paid for it was simply the proverbial icing on this rich cake. It was only an ideal situation for Grell, not to mention he seemed to have a lust for danger.
William had every answer he needed. He put the paper back in the envelope and put it in his pocket, then leaned down and picked up the items from the floor, placing them back on the table as they had been. He would go to Kittredge tomorrow morning and inquire about the mission. This had everything to do with an ongoing investigation and he had better be prepared to present everything. If the bosses already knew about the assignment, William would insist on being informed under the circumstances.
William returned to a stand and walked toward the door, though his eye caught on the large wardrobe off to the side. His search was done, he found all he needed to find, though a sense of morbid curiosity was getting the best of him. Perhaps this search wasn’t complete unless he had indeed checked in all places; maybe this wardrobe hid all sorts of illicit things and it was his responsibility to find them.
William stepped in front of the mahogany wardrobe, taking a look at the floral carving at the top before taking hold of both brass handles of the double doors. He carefully opened the doors, immediately seeing a collection of gowns. Red and black were the common themes as were rich fabrics and an abundance of lace and feathers. It looked like the collection of a burlesque house. Several pairs of shoes and boots were neatly lined up on the bottom and William saw a few parasols leaning against the side. He did look through a drawer on the top, only seeing a few sets of red nightgowns, some hats, and few fans.
He looked to the back of the wardrobe, suddenly seeing a set of button eyes and a sewn on mouth. William shoved the dresses to the side and tried not to jump at what he was seeing, instead he kept himself composed and carefully examined the disturbing sight. A series of floppy rag dolls hung from the back of the wardrobe by twine nooses. All of them had button eyes and yarn hair, some were ripped and spilling tufts of stuffing, some were strung up by their arms and legs.
There was one doll on the side with short black yarn hair and an eye patch over its right eye. Another doll with choppy black yarn for hair and red button eyes hung right next to it. The way their hair was constructed made them look like poppets of Earl Phantomhive and his demon. They were torn in a few places, though were for the large part intact. William did look for any specific tears from pins, stains of wine or blood, or flecks of candle wax to suggest he was doing anything greater than using them for decoration. Fortunately there were none, save for what looked like a lipstick imprint on the demon’s effigy. He didn’t even want to think on what Grell was doing with these things. William did give all of them a cursory squeeze in case something was stored in there. It was an unpleasant experience, though all of them were simply loaded with stuffing and nothing else
William pulled his gaze away from the poppets, happy he wasn’t recognizing anyone else. He slowly closed the doors, his business here was done and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He went invisible and cautiously walked through the door.