#curly hair that just vanishes and (hopefully) eventually returns

[uygfiug]

thank you for tagging me @chronically-enthusiastic <3

this is a lot more pastel than my usual vibe but whatever :)

@zipquips @smalltimenerd @study-inscarlett @r2y9s-notartblog @not-equippedforthis and anyone else who wants to <333

I’ve seen like 10 posts of Picrew chains today and while I only have 1 mutual on here I wanted to do it so

Make yourself with this Picrew and reblog

@moodlevoodle and also anyone else who wants to

[ivanshatov]

double date

wc: 3.1k

it’s 11pm post-superbowl sunday night and i finished writing this fun little oc oneshot so i’m gonna drop it here bc why not? anyways, what the hell gay vampires

The sun had just barely set, but Edel was busy working away at the theatre’s lobby; stringing up lights, watering the plants, lighting the candles, cleaning away the blood, the usual cleanup checklist. With all the ruckus coming from Edel’s radio of whistled showtunes and the sound of hurried housekeeping taking place, Mia appeared in the doorway. She was dressed modestly in a corset and skirt that dropped to her heels, her hair up and traces of blood beneath her lips. “What in the name of— are you doing?” she asked, rubbing her head with a yawn.

Edel beamed, fully dressed, with petticoat, makeup, and all. “Didn’t I remind you yesterday?” they asked, lifting the sides of their gown and prancing to Mia. “Sujani’s love is coming over today. She’s introducing him to me. Is that blood on your face? Make sure you clean it, you’ll scare the poor man.”

“Sujani’s love, huh?” Mia thumbed beneath her lip and raised an eyebrow. “Well, does he know?”

“Know what?” Edel looked up from their busywork, wide-eyed and oblivious. 

“Does he know about the—“ Mia gesticulated and threw up her hands. “The vampirism?”

“Oh! Oh. I’m not sure. Best not bring it up. Just to be safe,” Edel replied, twirling the broom she held and resisting the urge to strike some Fosse-esque pose. “You can come out if you’d like to say hi. Maral and Libera know too, but they’re off doing lines in the mezzanine.”

Mia tilted her head. “And the rest of the cast?”

“Laundry, props, helping Igor with the set, cleaning the apron, the like...” Edel replied, tending to a spiderweb in the corner. “I don’t want anyone eating him, so I’m trying to have them all occupied. Sujani made it very clear she will be very upset if her beau gets devoured. And then who will manage our stage if she is upset with me? This has to run very smoothly. You see? So, my dear, if some lost-looking breather is wandering through the halls, please redirect him here. No blood-sucking involved, preferably.”

“And no hypnotism, right?” 

Edel turned around, leaning the broom against the wall and wrapping their arms around Mia’s waist. “No hypnotism, promise.” The couple linked pinkies and Mia rested her head on Edel’s chest.

“Alright. Be safe, dear. Check for stakes, crucifixes, the like...” she sighed, pushing her hair behind her ear. “We don’t want any guest appearances.” Giving Edel a kiss on the cheek, she unlinked her hand and started down the hall. “I best get dressed, too. Perhaps I’ll show up when I’m prim and proper. Make it a double date, as they call it these days, hm?” 

Flashing a fanged grin, Edel nodded with excitement. “Oh, please do! Double date,” they repeated, eyes sparkling. “Please, you’ll look radiant. Love you,” Edel called as Mia vanished down the hallway. 

Alone and back in the grandiose lobby, Edel continued to tend to the dust bunnies around the lobby, humming some musical jingles underneath her breath. As she got stuck replaying the songs of Les Mis in her mind, her eyes flitted to the clock. Fifteen minutes until 8’o’clock! Oh goodness, darling Sujani would be arriving any moment. Gathering the cleaning supplies and taking one last look around the lobby, Edel hurried back to the stage to dispose of the swiped supplies. The door slammed behind them as they entered the backstage, and a few heads downstage were turned. 

“Eeeeedel!” Pasha called out, bouncing upstage and meeting Edel’s side. “Can I take those off your hands?” he asked, batting his childlike eyes. 

“Sure,” Edel muttered, smiling down at him. “Please remember. Don’t start wandering. Sujani is bringing a guest with her tonight.”

“Ooh, a guest!” Olga interjected, sticking her head up from the catwalk. “A guest of what sort? A prince? Duke, maybe? The President?”

“No, her boyfriend. And, and, please don’t drop those 2x4’s, Olga,” Edel shouted, waving their arms. 

Olga signaled a salute and nearly dropped the wooden planks, managing to narrowly avoid an accident with the flyweights. “I didn’t know Miss Sujani had a boyfriend,” Pasha said, saccharine. 

“No, you cannot eat him. No, you cannot play some childish prank on him. Whatever your next question is, the answer is no. Alright? I’ll give you a candy later, or something,” Edel mumbled, booping Pasha on the nose and ruffling his hair. 

“I can’t eat candy,” he maintained.

Edel exhaled, exasperated. “A book, then.”

“Books are boring!”

“One with illustrations,” she said with a wave of her hand, disappearing back in the direction of the lobby. 

As Edel reentered, briefly admiring their handiwork, a bell chimed at the box office and sent them peeling down the hallway.

“Sujani! Sujani, darling! I’m so glad you’ve come!” Edel announced, bursting in through the threshhold with a wide grin and open arms.  Sujani, relaxed and smiling, was dressed in her usual fare— a simple green sweater, a long skirt, Oxfords. Her hair was nice and curled and Edel noted the use of false eyelashes, something Sujani seldom indulged in. Her eyeliner was nonetheless bold. As Edel’s eyes met her guest, however, the color (or lack thereof) drained from her face. “I know you,” Edel mumbled, enthusiasm dying. Her eyes trailed back to Sujani, and she glared. “Luca Betschen? The Luca Betschen, of all men in this city crawling with them?”

Luca Betschen, standing opposite Sujani, with her hand around his waist and his around hers, was a short and plucky little man. His hair was curly and brown, and he had the most lovely, enticing young eyes, and was ruggedly handsome despite his unfortunate smallness. And Edel knew his face very, very well.

The Theatre has a strange relationship with the Press. The Theatre can function just fine independent of the Press, but their relationship is reciprocal. The Press is a necessary predator in the ecosystem in the fine arts, regulating the bad and safeguarding the good. But as hundreds of years pass by, between the un-dead and the living, tastes tend to change, and perceptions of otherwise fine Theatre may appeared skewed. A six-hundred year disparity, as one could imagine, would intensify these critical differences. Luca Betschen, a fresh-faced journalist at some irrelevant, wretched, Winterthur newspaper, embodies it. One ruthless review two years ago on Edel’s production of The Seagull has left them burning ever since. “Contrary to the beliefs of archaic director Edelgard Veice,” Betschen wrote, “Chekov’s works are better left boring and lifeless, not thrown into a kitschy, unexplainably Tudor delirium of color and light.”

She spotted his face in the audience opening night a year ago, received another scathing review, and has been plotting her revenge over her production. And now, that wretched man stands in front of her, alongside her darling Sujani, of all people! Sujani has no time to respond before Edel, seething, retreats back into the lobby. “I am retracting my gracious invitation!”

“Miss Edel—”

“Get him out of here!” Edel roared, stomping down the hallway in her one-inch heels. 

Two humans stand in the box office of a vampire nest, hands linked. It’s a hot summer evening in one of Europe’s most beautiful cities, tourists bustling on the streets and the stars shining above. “Shall we just... go?” Luca asked, clearing his throat. “I hope I haven’t upset her. That was certainly not my intention.”

Sujani shrugged her shoulders and peeked down the hall into the lobby, and then at the door marked Employees Only that led to the backstage. “Edel... tends to hold grudges for a long time. She’ll warm up to you eventually,” she insisted with another lukewarm shrug. “Hopefully.”

***

The sound of Edel’s heels clicking on the theatre floor echoed loud and clear disapproval through the walls of the theatre. She stormed past the auditorium, stomping with irate force, and up to the dressing rooms, up another flight of stairs, to where Mia should be. And, without a hint of hesitation, she slammed her fist down on the door, knocking the ancient oak with unrelenting fury. Mia swung the door open, doing up her corset, eyes wide as Edel stumbled back. “What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you be with Sujani? And her… human love-friend?”

Edel slammed the door behind them and dropped down in one of Mia’s empty seat, bristling with rage and chewing on her lip. 

“Edel…?”

“Do you remember,” Edel began, heated, “when that pathetic little Winterthur paper smeared my good name? That 2.5 star review? You must remember.”

“Uh, was that The Seagull, or Romeo and Juliet, or Anything Goes?”

Edel was silent. 

“No, Anything Goes was one star,” Mia murmured, returning to the ribbons on her corset. When she looked up, Edel’s face was hidden in their hands. “Oh, dear.”

“She’s dating that bloody critic! That wretched critic! And they will marry and reproduce and my darling Sujani will bear wretched little critic children. Oh, Mia, I don’t know what to do! My reputation as a host will turn more repugnant than my critical reviews if I turn him away, and I will break my darling Sujani’s heart, but I can’t stand the thought of inviting him into this sacred place! This sacred place he’s desecrated!” Edel burst back into tears, taking a bloody handkerchief from Mia’s desk and blotting her running makeup.

“Don’t use that hanky…” Mia scratched her head and placed her hands on Edel’s shoulders, then leaned forward and placed her head in the nape of their neck. “My dear dead thespian. You are a wonderful host, a wonderful director, a theatrical icon, with wonderful ideas, productions… Why are you letting some breather spit on you? He’s just a breather.  And you are an immortal being capable of flight, shapeshifting, and hypnosis who could suck all of the blood out of him instantly. Just some critic. And nobody cares about Winterthur, anyways. Screw Winterthur.” Mia lifted her hands off of Edel’s shoulders, working her first layer of ballgown up the crinoline hoopskirt. “Show him who’s boss. Show him those lovely host skills of yours. You worked so hard on that setup. And I saw you baking those cookies last night. See, you’re thoughtful, clever, and much better than he could ever be. No review will ever determine that.” 

“Mmm. I love you.” Edel said, rising to her feet and kissing Mia on the lips, cupping her hands around her face and touching their foreheads together. Stretching out a gloved hand, she smiled and pushed the door back open. “Come with me to the breather guests?”

“Certainly.”

***

The humans had, perhaps unwisely, let themselves into the theatre. Sujani kept glancing around the many hallways, praying to catch a possible vampire before it could catch blissfully unaware Luca. He was stuffing his face with a few of the store-bought human luxuries that Edel had purchased. “Are you alright? You seem uneasy.”

Sujani shook her head and smiled. “Not exactly your idea of a date night. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I feel underdressed, seeing Miss Veice in that ballgown. That’s gorgeous. Where did she get it?” he mused. “Anyhow, I didn't really notice how beautiful this theatre is. I don’t really have the time to sit around and enjoy it when I’m here, but the architecture’s lovely.” Sheepishly, he looked down one of the halls. “May I see the auditorium?”

Sujani briefly considered a future where a mob of hungry vampires sicked themselves on her helpless boyfriend, and shook her head. “Probably not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

It was a fair question. “Technical things…” she started. 

“Without a director or a stage manager?” Luca asked, confused.

“Uh…” 

Fortunately, the sound of four heels clicking on the ground interrupted the conversation, and Edel and Mia appeared in the doorway. Edel smoothed her ballgown and grinned weakly as Sujani got to her feet. “My darling Sujani,” Edel began, wrapping Sujani in a tight hug and then turning her attention to Luca. She looked him up and down, and stuck out a hand. He took it, smiling shyly. “Mr. Betschen,” she said, tilting her head. “I must love you, and suit to know you better.”

“King Lear,” he correctly identified. “I shall study deserving.”

Edel eyed Sujani with reluctant approval, and patted Luca on the shoulder. She waved Mia over, who stretched out her hand to Luca. “Mia Kleinmann, my producer and my lover.” 

“Mr. Betschen,” Mia said, taking his hand. “Sujani,” she greeted with a nod.

“I apologize,” Edel said, “for the rough opening. I’m happy to have you in the Theatre with me, Mr. Betschen, and I’m happy to finally meet you.”

“Please, call me Luca,” he said, taking a seat back in his chair. “I adore your ballgown. It’s so classic! It looks like a true regency classic. Yours too, Miss Kleinnman! I feel a bit underdressed, I must admit. Oh, thank you for inviting us. Sujani was dying for me to meet you.”

“Really?” Edel asked, eyeing Sujani as she forked a burnt tea cake in her mouth.

“Mhm,” she confirmed, mouth full. “Thought I’d try and ease the waters a bit, no?”

“I suppose. Nonetheless,” Edel said, drawing the curtains shut. “Pleased to have you with us, Luca. You seem a proper young man for my darling Sujani. Well-read on theatre…” She sighed and took a seat beside Mia, linking their hands together. “You know your stuff. Now, did you know I’m a playwright myself?”

“Oh? Tell me more,” Luca said, popping another tea cake in his mouth and handing one to Edel. They politely declined with a wave.

“Well—” Sujani interjected. “You know, I wanted to bring this up to you earlier, Miss Edel, but did you know Luca and I actually met after The Seagull?” She linked her hand with Luca, who grinned.

Edel raised her eyebrows and shook her head and Sujani continued, twirling her hair. “Opening night cast party. Met him in this very lobby and he took me for a drink down the street. Couldn’t change his mind on the production, though,” she said, elbowing him. 

“The wheel is come full circle… Also King Lear,” he noted.

“Sujani’s third production with me,” Edel mused. “And now her eighth! Stage managing, set construction, lighting design. A real wünderkind.”

“And a wonderful costumier,” Mia added.

“You’re one lucky gentleman,” said Edel.

“Treat her right!” Mia chirped.

Sujani grinned and rocked Luca back and forth. “Oh, he’s just a gentleman. So very polite. And I love a man who loves the Theatre.”

“I live for the Theatre. Oh, I’m just some lousy critic. I hope one day I can go on the stage again,” he said, taking Sujani’s hand.

“Again, you say?” Edel asked, fiddling with her necklace.

He smiled sheepishly. “I was in some productions in grade school, and college. Mostly Shakespeare-related. I suppose I’m more techie-inclined, though, like Sujani.”

Edel brightened. “Well, you simply must try out for one of our Shakespeare productions! After my original play is staged, though. I try to cast unknowns, and broaden the scope of my casting, and—”

“Maybe not, though,” Mia said quickly.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Sujani continued, tilting her head towards a confused Luca. “Just because Edel has been thinking of staging more original plays as of late!”

“But we’ll give you a call when the Bard shows his face around here again,” Mia said with a wave. “I love producing Shakespeare. So classic.” 

“Yes, so classic.” Sujani said, popping two cookies in her mouth and letting out a relieved sigh.

“Right,” Luca commented. “I’d love to be in a show again. Get a taste of your direction style from the inside. Because it’s truly unique, and very interesting,” he said, shooting a nod at Edel.

Edel cleared their throat and nodded. “Well, it’s been great,”

“Um, what?”

“It’s been great, Luca. But, erm, I think Sujani and I have some blocking to look over!” Edel said, getting to her feet. “May I walk you out?”

“I’m his ride, Edel…” Sujani said, rubbing her forehead.

“Then l will go over the blocking and you’ll look over it tomorrow! Go! Get some sleep! You hu— busy people!” Edel waved her hands and started to the door, ballgown bouncing behind them.

“Alright? Well, thank you,” Luca said, a bit startled as he hurried out, hand linked with Sujani. 

“Why don’t you two visit that bar you went to? After The Seagull. Take a quick trip down memory lane! Oh, my darling Sujani,” Edel said, taking Sujani’s free hand. “May I have a word?”

Sujani looked back at Luca who shifted his weight and gestured back to the box office. Edel pulled Sujani inside and Mia appeared in the door. Luca hid his hands behind his back and stared at the pavement. 

“You haven’t told him?” Edel asked. 

“No?” Sujani replied, sticking her hands in her pockets. “I’m not trying to scare him off with mad ravings of vampires and the undead. I’m not doing that with him.”

“You best tell him soon,” Mia commented. “Before he figures it out. Is he into the supernatural, by any chance?”

“Not that I know of,” Sujani said. “Look, I don’t know. I’ve kept it from him this long. Well, we only started dating recently. After Anything Goes.”

“Anything Goes? Jesus. That was one star, I thought,” Mia muttered.

“Yeah, couldn’t change his mind on it. Trust me, I tried.”

Edel crossed their arms and huffed indignantly. “Well, please do tell him. Sooner, rather than later. Or just let him find out on his own. Just make sure he doesn’t have any stakes lying around. Or homemade crucifixes.”

“He’s Jewish,” Sujani replied.

“Well, still.” Edel uncrossed her arms. “Take care of it. And see me about the blocking tomorrow. Okay? I’ll see you around, my darling Sujani.”

The vampires disappeared into the lobby and Sujani exited the theatre, taking Luca’s hand. He kissed her on the cheek and tilted his head to the marquee. “They’re kinda odd, aren’t they?”

“I never noticed it.”

He pointed at the lights on the marquee, dazzling and untouched since their installation in the 1970s. “You should tell Miss Edel to turn that off. That must be a sizable electricity bill.”

“Nothing we can’t handle, I’m sure,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder and kissing him on top of his head. “Thanks for putting up with me, Theatre Kid. Want a drink?”

“For sure,” he said, kissing her back on the cheek. Taking each others‘ hands, they started down the street, the lights of the theatre behind them.

[alarawriting]

Inktober 2020 #2: Wisp

“I don’t know what it is,” the ghost exorcist said, “but it is definitely not a ghost.”

Mark had already sent a couple of his demons to check the entity out. They hadn’t reported back yet, which meant it wasn’t a ghost… ghosts were easy to identify. He knew nothing had happened to the demons; they were just having difficulty figuring out what the thing was, as far as he could tell.

“I feel you,” he said, agreeing. “I’m guessing you ruled out psychokinesis as well?”

Melvin Farber, the best ghost hunter Mark knew, nodded. “Nothing’s being thrown around. Nothing’s breaking mysteriously. The family just sees a wisp, a vaguely human shape in shadows, and then it’s gone. But…” He shook his head. “Normally, if you’ve got a ghost, you can command them with the names of God, and if you’ve got a psychometric projection or a fragment of a ghost, you can tighten up reality to dissolve them. When I tried to tighten reality… nothing happened.” He shoved graying, curly hair back from his forehead, where sweat-soaked curls had fallen forward.”

Kabbalistic magic was not Mark’s strong suit. “What does it mean to ‘tighten’ reality?”

Melvin shoved his hair up again. “Okay, so. Malkuth is the sphere we are in, the sphere of matter on the Tree of Life. The one directly above us is Yesod, which represents communication, contact with the spiritual, connection in general. Yesod allows us to connect with entities outside the Tree – the dark entities on the Tree of Death, the ghosts, the fragments of broken memory imprinted on reality, all that kind of thing. What I did was I – briefly—blocked the connection to Yesod. Without Yesod we cannot perceive spiritual realities. Obviously we can never permanently block Yesod, we’d cease to exist without the emanation of energy that comes from God at the top of the tree. But if you block it for a moment, in your local area… you cut off the spirit world’s ability to communicate with us, and us with them. So ghosts vanish.” He pointed at the small golden demon sitting on Mark’s shoulder. “Your Sharro Varánas, your demange homeland – blocked. Your demons wouldn’t be able to get through.”

“It’s not my homeland,” Mark said. His father might have been a demange, and as such belonged in Sharro Varánas, but Mark was half-human, and couldn’t go there any more than, alive, he could go to Valhalla, or Hell, or any other realm outside the human world.

“Whatever. My point is, the wisp – whatever it is – didn’t go away. So it’s not above us on the tree, or below us. It’s at our level but it’s not actually here. Or, it’s not part of God’s creation, which sounds ridiculous but it could happen. If it doesn’t naturally connect to Yesod then what I did wouldn’t have done bupkiss to it.”

“All right,” Mark said. “That gives me some idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“The family is very stressed out. I called you in because they say you’re good.” The short, middle-aged man looked up at Mark, shaking his head. “But you’re young. What are you, 18? You’re a child. A child.”

“I’m 25,” Mark said, a note of irritation in his voice, “and thanks for reminding me about the babyface right before I have to go in and get some entity to take me seriously. You’re doing wonders for my self esteem.”

Melvin waved his hand. “Oh, you know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “You must be up to your armpits in girlfriends. Wish I’d looked like you when I was 25. But you see me here? Skinny old guy, glasses, long face, big nose? I looked just the same when I was your age except I was a skinny young guy and my hair was black.”

Mark had no idea what Melvin expected him to do with this information, but he was used to it. When he first met people, either they were uneasy around him and they clammed up or made excuses and disappeared, or they were drawn in, compelled by his preternatural charisma. They overshared, they tried to give him their number if they were attracted to men at all, they hung on his words… and then eventually, the unease got through to them too. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen with Melvin – the man was a professional exorcist, he had to be pretty used to unease, and he knew what a demange was. Also, Mark hoped he wouldn’t be around Melvin long enough to trigger such a reaction.

“Well. Like you said, the family is stressed out, so I’d better go get to work. Does this wisp have a preferred place to appear?”

“Anywhere the family is. It likes to try to be around people.”

That didn’t sound like ghost behavior, no.

“Golden, make yourself scarce,” Mark told his familiar. No point in freaking out the homeowner with the demon on his shoulder.

*will do, boss*

Golden vanished, and Mark headed into the house, Melvin following.

A blonde woman met them at the door. “Mr. Farber? Any luck?”

“This is my colleague, Mark des Demanges,” Melvin said. “He’s an expert in cases like this.”

“He looks so young,” the woman said.

“I get that a lot,” Mark said, offering her his hand to shake. “You’re the homeowner?”

“Well, my husband and me. And we have two children.”

“This is Ms. Mitchell,” Melvin said.

Ms. Mitchell, who had to be 40 if she was a day, was looking at Mark with entirely too much interest, as her hand held his for just a little too long for a simple handshake. “Where was the last time you saw the wisp?” he asked.

“In the living room.”

***

The living room was exactly what he expected from the lawn and the clothes the blond woman was wearing. Lawyer foyer, hardwood curving staircase that looked downright slippery, white shag carpet, white leather couch. Glass coffee tables.

Shadowed shape of a person sitting on the overly wide bottom step.

“You see?” Ms. Mitchell’s voice was shrill with fear. “Right there! You see?”

“I do, actually,” Mark said. He approached the shadowy figure.

There was absolutely no reason for the figure to be in shadow. The living room had monstrously huge windows, and all of the rest of the staircase was brightly lit in the afternoon sunlight.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you,” he murmured. Even without help from his demons, he could tell that much.

The shadowy figure looked up at him. No features were visible, but its slumping shoulders and downward-pointing head went back and up, the figure leaning back slightly and looking up at him. With interest? Hope? Fear? No way to tell through the shadow.

“I’m gonna get some info and I’ll be right back,” he told the shadow. He turned back to the homeowner. “I need to perform a ritual and I’m going to need privacy. Are there any rooms around here with doors that actually shut?”

“There’s the first floor bathroom…”

Mark sighed. “Yeah, okay.” Obviously the hired help wasn’t allowed to go upstairs where there were actual room rooms.

***

In the bathroom, he summoned Golden back. “What have you got for me?”

*we can’t get there, boss*

“Can’t get there how?”

*anyhow*

Mark rolled his eyes. “That is not helpful, Golden. I need to know where, exactly, that entity is. If you can’t get to where it is, tell me where it isn’t.”

*anywhere. it’s not in your world. it’s not in ours. we can get to a lot of places. this one’s not one of them.*

“That gives me a good idea of what I’m working with.”

***

He returned to the being. “Okay. First we need to establish whether you understand me or not. If you understand me, and you want to say ‘yes’, nod your head, like this.” He demonstrated. “If you understand me, and you want to say ‘no’, shake your head.” He did the back and forth motion that generally meant “no”, or sometimes “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around how dumb you are.” “Now I’m going to ask you, Do you understand me? If you do, nod yes.”

The shadowy head nodded. “Great!” Mark said. “We have a basis for communication. I’m going to ask you some questions about where you came from and where you’re trying to get to. First of all, it’s my theory that you’re stuck here, between branes, and you are trying to get to a different brane, which is not where you are now. Is that correct?”

The entity nodded.

“Wait, branes?” Ms. Mitchell asked in a very loud whisper. “Isn’t it ‘planes’?”

“Don’t look at me,” Melvin said. “I just chase out ghosts.”

“Are you attempting to get into this one? Yes or no.”

The answer was “no.” “Are you attempting to get out of this one?” Mark asked, and again got a no. “Ugh. What am I missing, what am I missing… oh! Okay. Are you attempting to get to a completely different brane but you are for some reason stuck on the edge of ours?” That got a yes.

“If I open the door to let you into this one, will that help you?” No. “If I open the door to let you free of this one, will that help you?” Yes.

He turned to Ms. Mitchell. “Do you have any chalk?”

“Chalk?”

“You have kids, right? Chalk. Like the stuff their teachers use, or the stuff they draw on the sidewalk with.”

“At the summer house I think they have some… but we’d never let them draw anything on the driveway, and this area doesn’t have a sidewalk. So I don’t think so.”

“Figures,” Mark muttered. “Oh, well. I’ve got my own, it would just be more powerful if it was strongly associated with this place.” He turned back to the shadowy creature. “I’m going to have to ask you to stand up and walk forward… no, not onto the carpet, stay on the hardwood. Okay. Now, stand there and don’t move.”

Quickly he knelt down and drew a sigil around the shadowy thing. It was a lot like a banishment sigil, but it lacked the modifiers for “force” and “destination”, so instead of banishing someone to somewhere, it would give them a gentle push to get out of the universe and go find their way to something else.

“You’re drawing. On my hardwood floor!”

“It’s chalk, Ms. Mitchell,” Mark said, not entirely able to control his exasperation and keep it out of his voice. “It’ll wash up the moment the floor is mopped.” With his ritual knife, he slit the fingertip of the ring finger of his right hand – he was left handed – and dripped his blood onto his sigil. “As will this.”

Demanges – somewhere between demon and angel, or perhaps both at the same time – had enormous amounts of magical power. Mark was only half demange, child of a demange in male form and a human mother, but that still left him with far more power than most people. Melvin had to call on the names of God to perform any kind of serious working; all Mark needed was his own blood.

The sigil flared to life, glowing with excess magic. “The door is open,” Mark intoned. “Go you now in peace, traveler, whenever it suits you to do so, and good luck to you in finding your way to the destination you chose.”

The shadow bowed its head, once, and began to fade. In a few moments it was gone.

“And it won’t come back?” Ms. Mitchell asked nervously.

“I don’t think so.” Mark pulled the power he had fired the sigil with back into himself, now that the trapped entity was gone. “It never wanted to be here in the first place. Can you grab me a wet sponge? Not dripping wet, just, you know. Wet but wrung out.”

“I… I’ll see if I can find one. My cleaning girl isn’t working today and I’m not sure where she put the sponges.”

As soon as Ms. Mitchell was gone, Mark rolled his eyes. “How do you not know where your own sponges are?” he murmured.

Melvin nodded. “Rich people. Useless, the whole bunch of them.”

“Not all of them,” Mark said, thinking of his mentor. Andre qualified as rich, although rather than buying a tacky McMansion on a postage-stamp sized piece of land, he used the money to have multiple decent homes he could stay in, all over the world, and then he traveled all the time.

Ms. Mitchell returned with the sponge, and Mark knelt down and mopped his sigil up, taking care to get every last bit of chalk, and especially blood. After they’d been charged with so much magic, it was important not to leave any bit of it around. He had Ms. Mitchell show him to the sink, and thoroughly rinsed and wrung the sponge out. It’d be safest to throw it out, but he didn’t know how well supplied Ms. Mitchell kept her cleaning lady.

“All done, Ms. Mitchell. Pleasure meeting you.”

“Yes,” she said, still staring at him almost hungrily. In fact, she hadn’t taken her eyes off him unless she had to, such as when she went to get the sponge, the whole time. “A pleasure. What did you say your name was?”

“I do have to get going. Melvin, call me once you’ve wrapped everything up.” Ms. Mitchell was Melvin’s client; Mark would be getting his pay from Melvin, not Ms. Mitchell. He’d have done the job for free, but when there was a ridiculously wealthy client who obviously didn’t have enough to do with her money, why not take advantage?

Outside, he whistled as he went to his car. This had gone surprisingly smoothly. They didn’t usually go that smoothly.

He looked around himself nervously, as if the universe might have overheard him and decided to do something about it. Nothing seemed wrong, so far.

Mark got in his car and headed out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

I am pretty sure that if I turn this into a full story, the universe will have heard him and decided to do something about it.

I’m not Jewish, so the Kaballah stuff with Malkuth and Yesod might not be fully accurate to how Kaballah is actually interpreted, but in this particular series I’ve never paid a lot of attention to real-life magic or spiritualism; this is fiction set in a universe where there are entities between demons and angels, so I make a lot of shit up.

I actually have a published story about Mark’s origins on Amazon.com, under my own name, called “Tainted Blood”, if anyone is interested in the character.

[the-bentley]

The Sacrifice

Crowley was correct, unfortunately.  There was some breathing space of a few thousand years before Heaven and Hell decided the time was right for their war.  And war it was.

The Earth burned and humanity destroyed in the wake as the two sides worked together to wipe out every last human alive out of fear of what the humans had become capable of through technology.  It was no longer a world for angels and demons.  Both sides feared a mortal race that was well on its way to becoming divine.

Aziraphale and Crowley could do nothing even though they still stood with humanity.  They were only two supernatural beings against an army of millions of them.  Eventually both were captured then pressed into service, the attempted executions forgotten.  Their sides seemed to think it was a greater anguish to force lover to fight against lover in the next wave of the War to End Everything.  With humanity gone, Heaven and Hell had turned on each other.

The Almighty was still absent, not speaking to even the Metatron.  The Adversary had not been merely sent back to Hell by Adam Young; he had been erased from existence when the boy told him he was not his father. The angels had been running the show for almost all of human history.  Satan’s lieutenants were the ones in charge since that first attempt at world destruction.  Chaos reigned supreme.

Beelzebub eventually had been killed by Michael in a dual between the two.  Both sides watched her crumple to the ground after a fight that could have been either one’s.  Michael was gravely wounded in the process, exiting the war until Raphael could heal her.

Crowley found himself in charge of the Legions of the Damned.  Suddenly, he went from traitor to the one who could save them all because he was the only demon with an imagination; the only one who could think outside the box. It wasn’t enough.  It couldn’t be enough, ever.

They were overwhelmed from the start – only one third of Heaven Fell in the Great Rebellion.  The angels greatly outnumbered them.  Demon by demon, Hell started to realize this, understand that even Crowley’s cunning couldn’t pull them out of a sound defeat. Crowley felt wearied by it all. All he wanted was his angel back along with a safe place to spend time with him.  Instead he was fighting to keep the carnage down and hopefully come to some kind of cease-fire until Heaven decided it was all or nothing.

He had lost Aziraphale to Heaven, half his troops had been destroyed and it looked like the remaining demons still alive would be joining them very soon.  In their anger, their despair, they blazed quite a path through the Army of the Divine.  It was a scorched Earth policy that left every angel in their path dead.  Heaven had forced Crowley’s hand in that manner. He hated himself for what he had become.

The Legions were under orders to only take one prisoner.  Crowley wanted to make sure Aziraphale stayed alive.  The best way he could accomplish this was by having him captured then delivered to him so he could personally keep the one he loved safe from harm.  If he couldn’t, they would perish together.

The life of any demon who dared to kill him was forfeit.  Crowley would make sure that demon died the most painful death possible before he followed Aziraphale to the grave.  There would be nothing left in the world for him if the angel was gone.

Currently, he was in hand-to-hand combat with Michael, sure that he wasn’t getting out of it alive when suddenly the Metatron approached to call for a parley.  Michael backed off at the appearance of her superior, standing off to the side with head bowed and sword held casually by her side.  Crowley was not fooled.  It would take the Archangel a fraction of a second to become lethal again.

At the sound of “Parley!” being boomed across the burned and broken battlefield, both sides gathered behind their leaders, the fighting momentarily stopped.  Armies stood behind both the Metatron and Crowley, the infernal looking more battered and bruised than the ethereal.  

“This ends now,” said the Metatron.  “You will be cast back into the Pit and sealed in never to surface to bother us again. If you turn on yourselves and destroy each other down to the last demon, that is not our concern.”

“That’s not much of a parley,” sneered Crowley.  “What do we get out of it?”

“You get a Realm of your own.  Rule it how you choose.”

“Ok . . . An isolated Realm of my own to rule, which I don’t even want.  How nice of you leaving me thousands of bored demons to find busy work for.  Thanks so ever much.  How is that negotiation, again?  You’ve offered me nothing I desire.”

The lieutenants standing behind the Metatron parted, revealing a kneeling figure dressed in white, hands chained, white-blond head bowed low.  Crowley immediately reacted.

“Aziraphale!  No!  What did you do to him?”

“Nothing.  He’s just been held as a prisoner.  He’s yours now,” replied the Metatron.  “It is an ancient Earth custom that the winning side would offer a member of its own tribe to the losing side as a symbol of the end of tensions between the two.  We offer you Aziraphale as that traditional sacrifice.”

“No!  You can’t.  He’s not meant to Fall.  He’s the best among you!”

“He will not Fall.  Only God can make that happen, but he’s no longer one of us.”

Tortured blue eyes met pained serpentine ones.  Not Aziraphale.  Not the purest of angels, in terms of belief, condemned to the Pit.  This couldn’t happen.  Better Aziraphale be separated from him forever than endure eternity in Hell. How could he endure the horribleness that was Hell with that unpolluted belief of his?  Crowley might be in charge now, but he was smart enough to know Hell was always going to be Hell.  He couldn’t conceivably make it a place Aziraphale could cope with.  He shed tears at those thoughts, not concerned that millions of angels and demons could see him doing so.

“And if I don’t accept?”

Michael walked over to Aziraphale, her sword re-ignited.  She stood with it poised over his neck.  To his credit, Crowley’s angel didn’t flinch.  

Aziraphale’s demon did.

“No!  You can’t kill him.  Please . . .” Crowley begged.  “Let him go. I will take him.”

Aziraphale was helped to his feet, unchained and allowed to run over to Crowley, who hugged him tightly. All around them demons screamed as they were sucked into the Earth, never to return.  Crowley unwound from the embrace, quickly taking Aziraphale’s hand. Dragging the angel after him, he leapt into the air.

“C’mon!  Beat those wings!  We’ve got to escape!”

Surprised into action, Aziraphale clumsily flapped at first then wasted no time getting up to steady strokes that helped carry both of them higher.  He gave Crowley a confused look.  Crowley returned it with a reassuring smile.

“We’ll get killed!” cried the angel.

“Is that so bad? Neither of us is going to like our “reward”.  C’mon, angel. We’re off to Alpha Centauri.  We should have done this the first time.” Crowley’s grin was feral and his auburn hair fiery in the sunlight as they passed beyond the cloud cover.  

He looked down at Aziraphale whose eyes and hair shone like the sky and sun in this utter freedom. Aziraphale smiled slightly.  It was a scared smile, but a trusting one. Willingly, he allowed Crowley to guide them up away from the carnage below.

On the battlefield, the Metatron held Michael back from following them and barked at the archers to stand down.

“You’re letting them get away?” demanded Michael.

The Metatron looked serenely at her with eyes the color of deepest metallic gold.  “The Seers foresaw this future . . . one of many.  I hoped it was the one that would come to pass.”

“Why?”  Michael watched them dwindle from a black-robed redheaded demon holding the hand of a white-robed, blond-haired angel to two dots that eventually merged into one before vanishing entirely.  “If those two don’t deserve death for all they’ve done, they surely deserve imprisonment for eternity.”

“Yes, but imprisonment means the chance for escape while death means the chance their spirits would eventually be recreated.  There are only so many spirits in the world and in the near future, the Almighty will start creating new angels and humans to replace those lost, pulling together the scattered atoms of former spirits.  Paradise will be reconstructed.  We do not need another pair of freethinkers among us,” replied the Metatron.  “Their rogue atoms will no longer be around to trouble the world.”

He surveyed the broken land containing the remaining angel army.  “Send them into the ground to kill all the demons.  We cannot risk them ever rising again.  Without Lucifer’s spirit to resurrect and those two troublemakers gone, the Almighty can re-Create them as proper, obedient angels in the future. As further precaution, the Seraphim will weave a spell around the Realms to prevent our rebellious angel and demon from ever returning.”

Michael nodded.  “It sounds like we just might get our Paradise after all.”

“We will.  We will make sure of it this time.”

 ~*~*~

 Two balls made up of motes of energy barely held together after being buffeted by the stark radiation of space for the years they traveled floated gently to the beach to manifest into two beings – one with tousled fiery red hair and yellow serpentine eyes, the other with a curly cloud of white-blond hair and sky blue eyes.  They still wore the tattered, battle-damaged tunics they left Earth in. The one in black carried a sword, the one in white held nothing.

“We are truly on our own now,” commented Aziraphale.  

Crowley squeezed his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him.  “We’ll be fine.  We survived the trip and it looks habitable here.  It should be ok.”

“What about our powers?”

“What about them?  I still feel mine.  It wouldn’t make sense if we couldn’t use them anywhere in God’s Creation.”

Aziraphale poked a bit at the green sand with his sandaled foot and stared at the riot of colors that made up the various tree leaves.  This place was going to take some getting used to.  What was he going to do without books?  Putting that thought aside, he reached inside of himself to feel for his connection with God.  It was still there, mourning for the destruction of Earth.  

“I still feel the Divine Grace,” he said to Crowley.  “God is mourning the loss of Earth.  Why didn’t the Almighty prevent it?”

“I don’t know.  It’s not like God talks to demons.  Let’s take a look around.”  

They headed into the forest with its trees of different coloured leaves.  Alien species of bird-like creatures that flew with four wings sang high up in the strange trees.  Something furred galloped by on six legs.  Unfamiliar squawks and calls surrounded them, making Aziraphale rather nervous, reaching out to grab the demon’s hand.  Crowley seemed to take it more in stride.

More deliberate sounds than those of animals moving around came from the east in the forest. Puzzled the pair moved that direction to check it out, Aziraphale holding tightly to Crowley’s hand; Crowley raising the sword in a defensive position as they moved forward carefully. Sentient life was not exactly something he was expecting.

Aziraphale ignited the blade, making Crowley almost jump.

“Don’t do that!” he hissed. “You almost scared me to death. I’m on edge enough as it is here.”

“It’s impossible to scare you to death, my dear.”

“Shh.  Just prepare some offensive magic, ok?”

Aziraphale crept up to peek through some pink-leaved bushes.  He blinked in complete surprise.  “Crowley, it’s a village.”

Crowley pushed aside branches to view the primitive but comfortable-looking village complete with humanoid creatures that greatly resembled Earth’s humans.  He almost rejoiced.  They were not here alone and he found that comforting for some reason.

“Life finds a way, right Aziraphale?  I forget what film that’s from, but it’s not exactly important anymore, is it?”  Crowley grinned.  “A whole new set of humans free to develop as they choose.”

“No ethereal plane here,” commented Aziraphale.  “I can’t move my wings into it.  That means no Heaven or Hell.  Do you think God wanted to start again without interference?  Or is it part of the ineffable Plan that we’re here?  Are we meant to guide them?”

Crowley thought a moment. “No.  They’re meant to guide themselves.  We should keep our distance and watch from afar for a while.  C’mon.  Let’s head a few miles away from here and make our own camp for the night.  Hopefully there are no apple trees on this planet; I’d like to avoid those, too.”

Aziraphale gasped in excitement, pulling at Crowley’s tunic.  “Crowley, look!  They have wings!  We’ll fit right in.”

And the humans did –  feathered wings of various colors and shades within those colors.  They spotted every color of the rainbow, silvers, even some off-white ones.  With a little help from their powers, they could change theirs enough to blend in, if they so desired.

“I know, we can’t guide them, but we can live among them like we did on Earth.”  Aziraphale got a far-off look in his sky blue eyes.  “We still get to be a part of it all over again. Imagine what they are going to be this time around without the threat of destruction hanging over their heads.”

Crowley laughed and kissed his angel.  “You’re going to invent books if they don’t, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale’s sweet, sly smile told he just might.  

They took each other’s hands, their fingers lovingly interlinking.  Together they headed off to find a patch of paradise they could call their own until they were ready to introduce themselves and integrate with the winged humans.

[the-only-straight-fander]

Dancing with the Devil

Pairing: Logan Sanders x Patton Sanders

A man is a suit stands facing the window, watching the rain pour down in sheets. His face remains carefully blank, concealing any and all emotion he feels within. In fact, his mask like, sculpted appearance is part of what gained him his name: The Devil. It is a name whispered as a curse among those enforcers of the law and ones whom he sets his wrath against. The Devil. It stands as a pillar of strength and security to many, to his clients -- those who ask respectfully for his assistance. The Devil.

As he gazes out the window, he appears cold, immovable. Yet, as we are an outside source, we know that is not so. Inside, he is livid. He is silently, calmly raging. For a man who has lost it all has nothing to lose, and war is only loss. The man is broken out of his reverie by the sound of door to the room creaking open. Logan Decker straightens his tie and turns to face the newcomer. "Have a seat. I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse." 

Let's rewind a bit, shall we? So, Logan is a big shot, as you've hopefully noticed by his aforementioned suit and well known name. He is infamous for... let's say making people and problems alike disappear. Of course, to do such a fantastic trick, meetings are required. It is at one such meeting to arrange a particularly messy vanishing and its follow-up cleanup job that Logan's structured life suddenly loses its support. He is sitting in a fairly secluded booth at a local bar, glass in hand, a clear liquid within, waiting for his client who is, disgustingly, late. He checks his watch, sighs, takes another sip of his drink, and a new performer steps on stage. He pays no attention until he hears his voice. The glass freezes in midair and stays there as the first few bars float through the room accompanied by an angelic voice. With some effort, the normally unshakeable man jolts back into motion, nearly spilling his drink, causing him to curse. After checking his suit for spots, he immediately looks to the stage for a glimpse of the performer. To say he became flustered is an understatement; his jaw drops and his eyes go wide. The singer is adorable. He's dressed casually: jeans and a flowy blue shirt that shows his shoulders and the constellations of freckles that adorn them. The freckles also cover his rosy cheeks, and the curly, sandy hair falls into clear blue eyes that are covered by glasses so like Logan's own. And his SMILE. The stranger smiled even as he sang his sweet song. Logan's staring is interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing. Realizing he is no longer alone, Logan snaps his jaw shut and straightens up, cheeks aflame. His slightly baffled client stands before him. Logan stares at him blankly for one, two, three seconds before he remembers himself. He clears his throat hurriedly. "Have a seat. We have much to discuss."

By the time the deal closes (with a most satisfactory outcome), the singer is long gone. After shaking hands and dismissing his contact, Logan beckons for his right hand/ body guard. "That singer, find out who he is. Don't cause him any problems."

"Sure thing boss!" replies Roman King cheerfully, saluting casually before strutting away, hands in pockets. Logan sighs and rubs his forehead at his friend's casualty. His precision, reliability, and obedience make up for a flare for the dramatic and constant slight insubordination, but he still causes Logan plenty of stress. However, he is trusted, and he'll do it right, as always. And so Logan puts it out of his mind........... except he doesn't. Or, more correctly, he can't. No matter what he does or where he goes, he sees his face and hears his voice. He spends many a sleepless night wondering what could be wrong. Had he gone soft? Been slipped something? Even after Roman's report on "Patton Starr," he is unsatisfied. And so he returns and watches another show... and another and another and another. Until he's there consistently every week at least twice. One day, Patton winks at him and Logan loses all composure, which seems to be -- to Logan's dismay and disdain -- a rapidly increasing occurrance. Rather than fall apart publicly, he stands abruptly and carries himself out of the room with long strides.

Leaning on a wall out in an empty corridor, Logan takes a deep breath while massaging his temples. 'I can't keep this up. It's absolutely ludicrous and a waste of-' "Hi?" His internal tirade is interrupted by a small, soft voice. Logan looks up, face stony and sets eyes on HIM. 'Oh shit.' "What do you want?" he asks brusquely, avoiding eye contact. The small man in front of him stutters weakly. "Um, well, I, uh, I winked at you kinda and I'm sorry. You were just a familiar face andIdunnoyou'recutesoI'msosorry. Forget it all!" With the last exclamation, he begins to scoot away. "Wait!" Logan shouts, much too loudly. "I just, ugh." He rubs his temples again in frustration. "I don't usually behave this way, my sincerest apologies. I, in fact, think that I- Damn it all. You too are attractive, and I seem to have become, unintelligently and against my better judgement, attached, so-" An interruption comes in the form of Patton kissing him on the cheek. Logan .exe shuts down. Patton giggles at his blank looks and, taking a marker out of his pocket, scribbles something on Logan's hand. "Call me when you wanna meet up!" singsongs the shorter man before skipping away, but not before stopping at the end of the hall to wink and blow a kiss. 

Logan calls. Patton picks up. The two meet. This cycle repeats several times and eventually, they become "official." Which means that Logan starts assigning body guards without Patton's knowledge. Logan also manages to keep his "business" a secret from his boyfriend. Overall, the relationship progresses well, and Roman - ever the romantic - dubs them Angel and Devil (ignoring Logan' pointed protests, as usual).

But one called the Devil can only dwell in heaven for so long without repercussions. These repercussions come in the form of a rather devious kidnapping of the one dubbed "Angel."

And so we reach the source of Logan's aforementioned anger. The man with nothing to lose but everything to save is broken out of his reverie by the sound of door to the room creaking open. Logan Decker straightens his tie and turns to face the newcomer. "Have a seat. I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse."

Several tense minutes later, Logan strides out of the office, hands behind his back, the front of his suit liberally splattered with a dark liquid. As he passes his guard in the hallway, the man, surprised at the short amount of time that has passed, watches and notices the gun tucked into his left pocket and that the hands sedately folded behind his back are bright red. The scene inside the room is also painted brightly. A deal was struck. The Angel walks free, the Devil acting as the guardian angel.

Deals with the Devil often end in hell.

[3dnygma]

Forged Performance

“After being awoken from a cold slumber, Ed finds himself at the Sirens - which is now called the Iceberg Lounge. Due to having no memory of how he managed to get himself frozen, he is more than delighted to meet his best friend again. However, Ed quickly realizes that Oswald is hiding something from him and acting unusually different. And Edward Nygma hates being unaware of the truth.”

Relationship: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma

General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply

Words: 2944

AO3 Link

Dedicated to @endless-nygmobblepot for being such a wonderful beta-reader and everyone on twitter who gave me feedback regarding the plot <3 I hope you guys enjoy this angst!

Waking up, the first memory that came to Edward Nygma’s mind was the torturing and seemingly never-ending cold that had surrounded his body. It had entered through his arms, crawled over his shoulders and laughed into his terrified face. When? Why? He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t even certain for how long his blood had been frozen instead of liquid– and he hated to be unaware of it.

His body was wet and cold, although hardly as cold as in the ice block, and moving his stiff limbs turned out to be more of a challenge than he had originally expected. Ed decided to focus on his eyes instead, as his surroundings were too quiet for him to gather any information through his ears. Luckily, the lighting was superb. Light enough to give Edward’s eyes the possibility to explore the area, yet not too bright to blend him.

Due to these circumstances, it was frankly easy for Ed to determine his location: The Sirens. Well, not quite the Sirens – what used to be the Sirens would be a better description. The interior design had changed a lot, compared to when he had visited it for the last time. Said occasion had been the night in which Edward managed to expose Butch and his Red Hood act in front of Oswald and the most important individuals of Gotham City. Simply looking back to that memory managed to draw a smile on Edward’s face.

That one, however, faded quickly, as he came to the realisation that he must have been on ice for weeks, months even. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been possible to change the decoration to…blue neon lights shaped like umbrellas. And black penguin statues. What happened to Barbara and Tabitha that would make Oswald be in charge of the Sirens? Edward knew that Oswald used to run Fish Mooney’s former club for a limited amount of time. Nevertheless, he hadn’t thought that Oswald would come back to having a club – while being mayor of Gotham City, at least.

Too many questions, not enough answers. Those questions doubled after Ed heard one of the doors opening behind him, followed by two voices. One being familiar, one not quite as much. Ed was still sitting on the floor, too exhausted and shivering from the ice to stand up and head to the source. As the unfamiliar voice vanished, Ed heard limping steps approaching him. More than relieved, he sighed.

“Oswald.” He managed to state, his voice being more of a whisper. “Thank god.”

The Penguin didn’t say anything. He simply went up to Ed, kneeled down in front of him and replied with a strong hug, wearing an usually frigid expression. Ed was surprised at first, yet ended up returning the hug within a second. Oswald’s warmth was a true blessing for his soaked body and he ended up holding the other tighter than he would have under average conditions.

Oswald eventually let go of him, took Ed’s right hand and helped him stand up. Now, Ed was finally able to view the club in all of its extravagant glory. It felt like the Penguin’s castle more than the Van Dahl mansion ever could and figuratively screamed “Oswald Cobblepot.” The other noticed Edward’s stare and, for a moment, Ed thought that Oswald would say something about it. However, it seemed like Oswald changed his mind in the end, as he kept quiet and waited for Ed to start the conversation by asking questions. The mayor knew his chief of staff too well.

Ed started with the most obvious one. “Oswald, for how long was I in this…?”

Too impatient to await Oswald’s reply, Ed turned around and looked at the cold water that had soaked him. The floor was full of it and he noticed that, right behind where he had been laying, a giant and empty podium was located. Next to it, a black hat. His own hat?

Before he could spend another thought on it, Oswald’s voice made him turn around once more. “What was the last thing that you remember? Your last clear memory?”

That question was relatively easy to answer. “We were at the mansion, I thanked you for saving my life, we talked a bit and then went to sleep.” It was a very fond memory. His throat had been sore and it had made talking more difficult for Edward – but thanking Oswald had been his priority.

“I hope that you know, Oswald…I would do anything for you. You can always count on me.”

And he still meant it, truly. Every sentence, word, and syllable.

Oswald nodded, as if he had already expected that answer from Ed. “Well, Tabitha and Butch stayed hidden. Seems like they got contacted by some of Fish Mooney’s freaks and spilled some crucial information. You remember Victor Fries, don’t you? He was the one who...did this to you.”

Edward frowned. Surely, that was an explanation – but one filled with several holes nonetheless. He took a short breath. “Alright, but-“

“We’ll have time to talk about the details later.” Oswald announced with a slightly passive-aggressive smile. “I can assure you that everything is alright. You and I are not in danger anymore, Ed.” Edward suddenly felt like a child that was being lectured by his parent.

The Penguin added, “You must be terribly cold. There’s a bath prepared for you in Tabitha’s and Barbara’s former apartment.”

Right, there was one in this building, a few levels under the club. Ed loved the idea of taking a relaxing bath, yet he felt like Oswald was almost forcing him to. Besides, why was it already prepared for him? Damnit, he had to shake those thoughts off for once. Oswald was doing all of this for him and in times of trouble, he could always trust Oswald.

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

And he did. The warm water and a certain bubble bath that smelled like pines managed to rehabilitate Edward a bit and cured him of the frostbitten temperature. As he stared at the perfectly clean white floor next to him, his mind started to wonder. It seemed like he wouldn’t get rid of all those nagging questions anytime soon. Oswald hadn’t only prepared a bath for him, but also one of Ed’s suits for him to wear. The one that he had worn at the Mayor’s party, to be exact. Ed quickly put it on and attempted to style his hair a bit in order to prevent it from becoming too curly, then went back to the Club, where Oswald seemed to have been waiting for him.

“Now, my friend, let me show you my pride and Gotham City’s newest establishment: The Iceberg Lounge.” Oswald stated while grabbing Ed’s shoulder and leading him through the place. Ed quickly understood Oswald’s pride, the place seemed quite inviting, yet at the same time noble and cool.

Edward smiled, his eyes still scanning the decorations. “It must have taken quite an effort to modify the Sirens like this.”

Oswald countered with a nod. “Right, it took us about three months in total. Do you like it?”

So Ed had managed to survive in the giant ice block for at least three months. From a scientific point, it was quite impressing to him – from a personal point, it was shocking to hear how many days of his life he had missed in what felt like a heartbeat. Like those coma patients you hear about in your everyday soap operas.

Despite his sudden distress, Ed nodded, marveling at the decor. “It’s beautiful. I couldn’t picture any other place that would fit you better than this one.”

That managed to flatter Oswald, as Ed spotted his cheeks reddening a little. “Oh, stop it. Let me show you the rest of the Lounge.”

And after they had walked around the area, Edward ended up staring at the empty podium again, questioning its sheer existence. Although Oswald was staring into a completely different direction, Edward had the strange feeling that the other knew exactly what he was thinking about and reacting before Ed might be asking any tricky questions.

“And that’s it! By the way, you must be hungry after all that time in the ice.”

Ed paused. “I…actually am hungry. But there is something that-“

The Penguin moved his pointy finger. “Promise, I’ll explain everything to you tomorrow. But for now, you need to relax and gain some energy. You should know that physical health is just as important as problems that might be bugging your brain.”

As Edward realized that there wasn’t anything that he could do about it, he nodded. It made him shut up but, as they walked to the dining room, he kept wondering. Oswald was attempting to keep something secret from him and Ed didn’t like it at all. He also hated feeling like a soulless doll that was told to do exactly what its owner wanted. Hopefully, this strange behavior of Oswald was only happening due to the times that he had spent without Edward and how much he was worried about his best friend.

Just like every other part of the Lounge, the dining hall was simply impressive. A little too much blue and gold for Edward's taste but he could see where Oswald was coming from. And much to his surprise, the table was already filled with a remarkable amount of dishes. Meat, pie, casserole – anything one could imagine. Calm music was playing and candles were enlightening the room.

It was strange, comparing this dinner to the Take-Out that they had ordered back when Oswald was staying at Edward’s apartment. How far they’d come. Ed gazed at Oswald and, for a second, they both smiled at each other. And once again, Oswald answered a question that Ed hadn’t even spent much thought on.

“I thought it was nice to have this just between the two of us.” That explained the fact that Ed hadn’t seen a single staff member since his awakening from the ice. In a way, Oswald’s effort was extremely genuine and something that not everyone would do for their best friend. Reacting to Oswald's suggestive gesture, Ed took a seat at the other end of the table and started eating. And God, how wonderfully tasty it was. He took some of the soup, then the chicken and some pie.

Words weren’t really exchanged, due to them both enjoying their meal. However, Ed sometimes had the feeling that Oswald was staring at him, as if he was expecting some strange reaction from Ed. At least Edward didn't feel like having his mind read anymore. After they were done eating, Ed noticed that Louis Armstrong’s version of La Vie En Rose had started to play, much to his own comfort; He had always appreciated that song in the past. And the Penguin seemed to notice Ed’s positive reaction, so why was he suddenly making a nervous impression?

Ed frowned after the other cleared his throat. “Oswald, is something the matter?”

Oswald took a deep breath. “…Ed.” A pause accompanied by a quick smile. “A man comes to a crossroad in his life and he has to make a choice.” While Ed was leaning forward, Oswald’s voice stiffened. “Does he choose safety and cowardice…or does he opt for courage, risk everything?”

What Oswald was saying had similarities with a monologue that an actor would practice for a play – or a project that had to be presented by some high school students. Something was bound to happen and Ed wasn’t quite sure whether he was ready for it. However, before Ed could even consider answering the Penguin's question, Oswald continued.

“I choose courage. What I’m trying to say is…the thing I have been wanting to tell you for a while now-“

“Oswald.” Ed tried to hide his emotions and state the following sentence as a fact, not fully managing to do so. “I know you – you’re my best friend. And I know it when you’re hiding something from me.”

For the first time today, Edward had said something that Oswald wasn’t prepared for. Instead of countering with a short excuse or shallow promise, he was speechless.

Ed used that pause in order to elaborate on his concern, standing up and walking towards his friend. “Almost everything that you’ve been saying today seemed…staged. And you’ve been avoiding every essential question that I’ve faced you with.”

Now standing next to Oswald and staring down at him, Edward raised his voice. “Something happened between that night at the Sirens and today, a puzzle that you don’t want me to solve. Please, I just want to know the truth regarding all of-“

And for the second time today, Oswald acted unpredictably. Because instead of standing up and talking to Edward face-to-face, Oswald grabbed Ed’s tie and pulled him down to him. The next thing that Ed perceived was the soft feeling of Oswald’s lips and the warmth that he had felt back when they had hugged earlier today. Only that this was different. More personal, more intimate…more honest. After a brief moment of surprise, he gave in and returned the kiss, suddenly realizing that maybe this was the way he had always felt about his best friend.

Eventually, he pulled back, taking a deep breath and gazing into Oswald’s wide eyes, his own voice sounding more like a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you.”, Oswald whispered back, excited and anxious at the same time.

And Ed remembered how they had stared at each other after Oswald had saved his life. How they had talked at the mansion later that night. How he had gone to sleep afterwards, not knowing where to place that subconscious feeling. It made sense now – and if the current conditions had been different, Ed would have had a more light-hearted approach to it. But this…this didn’t feel like an actual confession. It was rushed, like something that Oswald had to do right now, as if it wouldn’t be possible after this dinner was over.

And that realization confirmed his concerns. “What really happened between us, Oswald? If you’re talking about choosing courage, then do it. Tell me the truth.”, he asked as his voice gained more strength.

Finally, Oswald stood up in order to truly face him with a pained expression, covered in a chuckle. “You always end up asking those questions, don’t you? Is it so bad for me to want just a single day with you?” His volume increased, grabbing Edward’s arm. “One day where we can finally abandon our past and pretend that everything's perfect?”

The Penguin’s eyes got wet and Edward was overwhelmed by all these sudden events. Anger started hitting him. “So you’re keeping up this mellow show because you’re in denial and scared to move on? God, Oswald, I just want to know the truth!”

Within seconds, they were screaming at the other, neither of them wanting to give in. Maybe that’s why something like a romantic relationship between them could only work in their own fantasies. Maybe they were both incapable of true love.

Suddenly, Oswald’s screams turned into one single word. “Help!” And quickly after, Ed heard steps approaching him from behind, just like those he had heard after waking up. His body started shivering, which seemed to be a mix of the slight change in temperature and the subconscious feelings that something was coming to get him. But instead of turning around, he kept his eyes fixated on Oswald, who was suddenly giving into sadness again.

“I’m sorry, Edward.” After he whispered those last words, sounding similar to a death sentence, he pushed Edward as far away from him as possible. Before Ed could turn around and face the true danger behind him, he heard a peculiar, mechanic sound and, all at once, it hit him again: the freezing pain and pure darkness.

Wiping the tears from his face, the Penguin watched the procedure – and once Edward Nygma was fully frozen again, he sighed, then looked up to Victor Fries.

Worried, Victor disclosed, “Two more minutes and he might have killed you.”

Even though Oswald wanted to let his anger out on Victor, he knew that it wouldn’t profit either of them. “I know…thank you.” He took a deep breath, looking at the floor. “I managed to get so far today, there must be a way to keep him satisfied until-“

“Until you can fall asleep next to him, then freeze him and say goodbye for good?”, Fries inquired, then added. “This has been the fifth time within two months, he might not survive the next procedure.”

“Don’t worry, it will be the last time.”

Victor sighed. “Just like today was supposed to be the last time.” And quite surprisingly, he added, “Just admit it to yourself, you’re nothing better than a junkie who’s telling himself that this is going to be his final shot. He’s going to die before you’re going to end up having your perfect day.”

Gritting his teeth, Oswald replied, “Then I suppose he’ll have to.” He didn’t care if it meant risking his own or Edward’s life. Or whether it was even possible to share a positive outcome with Ed without telling him everything about Isabella and their hellish circle of revenge. He would try again, make more preparations and learn his lines like a professional actor.

Because he was the performer – and Edward Nygma, having amnesia with each awakening, was the audience. And Oswald Cobblepot wouldn’t stop until he could satisfy the audience with a forged, yet pleasing, performance.

[thestarsofthenight]

Chapter 2: The Land of Horror and Blood

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler

Pairings: mainly Ciel Phantomhive/Elizabeth Midford

Summary: “There is nothing more ridiculous than living in a country in which an orange-skinned man won an election,” Francis had said, ending the Midfords four-year-long stay in the USA. Three days later, Elizabeth lives in gloomy London, wishing to be back in sunny LA, when a murder case suddenly turns her life upside down, entangling her with Ciel Phantomhive, his duty to the crown, and his school-intern detective agency…

Navigation: Chapter Index

“We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.”  ― Stephen King

Countryside, England, United Kingdom – November 2016

“I see... In any case, I have no intention of fighting you, Mr Butler... I yield. But you know...” Azzurro Vanel said while grabbing Ciel Phantomhive by his hair and pulling him into his arms before he held a gun to his head. “I’ll be taking those goods you managed you get.”

It was Monday morning – and no, Ciel Phantomhive usually did not spend his Monday mornings bleeding and hurt in the arms of a madman who pressed a gun against his temple. Not that this had never happened before – just not on a Monday morning.

In what kind of world were they living where madmen ignored the fact that you should not kidnap anyone before midday? Especially thirteen-year-old children who had to go to school on Mondays?

“You wouldn’t want your cute master to have breathing holes in his head, would you?” Azzurro Vanel, Italian mafia boss, traitor, and madman who did not know that you were not supposed to kidnap anyone on Monday mornings, said. Mondays were already worse enough without a kidnapping. Particularly the mornings when you were fully confronted with the fact that the weekend was in the past now, and you had to go out and socialise again.

Ciel almost shuddered at the thought of socialising.

“If you’re really a butler, then you know what you should do.”

“The thing you gentlemen are looking for is right-” Sebastian Michaelis, manservant, Phantomhive family butler with a secret, calmly replied. The moment he put his hand into his pocket to get out the item Azzurro wanted, he was shot in the head. A second later, Sebastian was shot a dozen times again.

And no – that Ciel Phantomhive’s butler got shot was also not something which often happened.

“Did... we get him?” Azzurro’s henchmen asked their boss from behind the perforated painting which had hidden  them earlier.

No. You have just turned him into a piece of Swiss cheese – but no, you didn’t get him, Ciel thought.

“... Hahaha,” Azzurro chuckled. It sounded horrible. “Sorry, Romeo... but I’m the winner of this game!!”

That’s what you call a Large Ham, crossed Ciel’s mind right before Azzurro pulled him by his hair again to force him to look into his ugly face. Now, the Mafioso was pressing his gun against Ciel’s chin. “And right when he’d finally come for you... too bad, huh? Little Phantomhive. If you’re up against the Phantomhives, the Queen’s Watchdogs, then even I’ll keep an ace up my sleeve.”

For centuries, the Phantomhive family served the Royal family as Watchdogs who guarded the Underworld. And when Ciel’s parents had died three years ago, the family duty had been passed to him.

Normal citizens didn’t know about this. For them, the Phantomhives were rich entrepreneurs and Ciel nothing but a poor, poor child who had lost his family in tragedy.

But in reality, the Phantomhives had been murderers all the time – shadow detectives and silent killers, executing every one of the ruler’s wishes.

Therefore, you could say that Ciel Phantomhive was definitely not a nice boy. He was the most calculating and manipulative evil boy of this century – not counting fictional Artemis Fowl.

“All that’s left is to kill you,” Azzurro said to Ciel, grinning, “and it’ll be perfect. You’ve been in the way for a long time now, always watching us like the police. Eh? We’ll erase you... and bring change to England through our own methods.”

I am better than the police. Don’t compare me to these incompetent fools.

Azzurro pulled away Ciel’s eye-patch with the gun barrel and continued to talk. Ciel did not even bother to listen to his words anymore.

This man is a master in wasting time. I need to be in school in twenty minutes.

I guess, I should call out for Sebastian now.

“Hey,” Ciel said aloud. “How long are you going to play around for? I wouldn’t have thought that that was such a nice place to sleep. Just how long are you going to play dead like a racoon? I am going to be late for school.”

With a chuckle, Sebastian Michaelis – manservant, butler, dead just a minute ago – sat up. “The efficiency of guns has been going up recently. It’s a big difference to one hundred years ago.”

Azzurro Vanel, crying like a child who had seen a ghost, started yelling to his henchmen to kill Sebastian.

Idiot. Can’t even figure out that you couldn’t kill Sebastian.

Without much effort, Sebastian killed Azzurro’s men with their own bullets which he had earlier retrieved from his own body.

What a show-off.

“Ah... What a mess,” Sebastian sighed, looking at his damaged clothes. “My clothes have become ruined.”

“It’s because you were playing around, you idiot,” his master replied.

The butler Sebastian Michaelis’ secret was that he was not a real butler. Or a manservant. Or even a man.

“Sebastian Michaelis” was the name Ciel Phantomhive had given to the demon he had made a contract with three years ago.

If Ciel were to tell the boulevard press what he had been doing in his month of absolute absence, they would definitely not believe him. But when “accidentally summoning a demon” was the truth what else could you do but to stay silent?

***

After Sebastian had stopped to play dead, everything had gone faster – but not fast enough. And now, it was 9.25, and Ciel had missed the registration and assembly. Hopefully, nobody noticed the quickly covered cuts and bruises on his face.

Incompetent idiot. The cake today has to be especially good to make up for this.

Ciel had just wanted to leave Grey House and take a bus to Red House for French when someone walked right into him. He fell down on his buttocks and when he looked up, Ciel saw a girl with blonde curly twin-tails. She was surrounded by the content of her magenta bag.

The girl gazed up – and stared at him with her shining green eyes.

If she recognises me and begins to pity me with empty words, I will burn down the boulevard press for real this time.

But the girl did not say anything – she just stared at him, her eyes not reflecting recognition or pity but surprise... and a little bit of disgust?

Well, that is weird.

“Are you all right?” Ciel politely asked the girl, stood up, and offered her a hand.

She took his hand without hesitation and answered: “I am fine. Thanks for asking.”

Hm... could it be that she does not know me? That she knows nothing about the fire? Strange... it was all over the news three years ago... Everybody knows about it.

But when I come to think about it – I have never seen her here before.

The bell rang, and the girl cursed right afterwards before she collected her things and put them back into her bag. She threw her books so violently into her backpack that Ciel feared that it could fall apart and she would start cursing uncontrollably.

“Goodbye!” the girl quickly said to him before crumbling her timetable in her hand and running away.

Yes, goodbye to you too.

Ciel was about to head to French when he saw something blue which was reflecting the white corridor light on the ground. He frowned and approached it. The blue something turned out to be a beautiful notebook. He picked it up and thumbed through it, but as soon as he saw the words “Dear Diary...” on one of the pages, he closed it. Ciel Phantomhive might be the ruthless Watchdog of the Queen but he was certainly not someone who read the diaries of others. Especially the diaries of people he did not even know.

It must belong to Green Eyes. The contents of her bag were scattered all over the corridor after our collision after all.

Ciel put the diary into his bag before leaving Grey House. He would surely meet the girl again – and then, he could return the notebook to her.

***

“Hello,” McMillan greeted Ciel when he entered the physics room at 10.34.

Two years ago, McMillan had been late on his very first day of school, and the only free seat had been next to Ciel. Not that this event had turned them into friends – it had just been a coincidence.

McMillan had actually begun to try being Ciel’s friend after Alethea Wordsmith’s rabbit Conan had vanished, and Ciel had deducted in a couple of minutes that Viola Fleming had stolen it as she held a weird obsession for rabbits and her mother had just forbidden her any contact with these adorable animals. Viola had been sent to an asylum, Alethea had got back her beloved pet, and McMillan had started to persuade Ciel to open a detective agency at their new school.

He had eventually succeeded, and the “Phantomhive & McMillan Detective Agency – Chocolate for Investigating” had been founded. And after a while, Ciel had even – to his own surprise – accepted McMillan as his friend. On a peculiar December day when Ciel had watched the snow falling down in front of his office window, he had caught himself thinking “I could call McMillan and ask him if he wants to build a snowman.”

Ciel had laid in his bed for the rest of the day, but, eventually, he had stopped to struggle against the fact – a really, really, strange fact – that, deep down, he considered McMillan as his friend – a circumstance which had been caused by the remnants of his childish thoughts, Ciel told himself. From that day on, Ciel became the only person to call McMillan by his first name – except his parents and siblings.

But I cannot get too attached to this “friendship” and this “normal life.” After all, it is not going to last for long.

“Hello,” Ciel replied and sat down on his chair next to McMillan’s.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

“Not out of the ordinary,” Ciel answered, and McMillan started to tell him about his weekend. “I helped my father at the library, and my mother is in the middle of an interesting case. Also...”

He talked and talked until the bell rang, and Kaizuka Taiji, their physics teacher, started the lesson.

***

Ciel saw the green-eyed girl again in the cafeteria during Lunch Break while he spoke to McMillan. The girl had been talking to Paula Sergeant and was now staring at him across the cafeteria. Paula followed the other girl’s gaze and tilted her head before saying something to her.

I can give the diary back to her now, Ciel thought and excused himself to McMillan before walking towards the girls’ table who were still deep in talk.

“You lost this earlier,” Ciel said to the girl after he had arrived at their table and took out her diary. He handed it to her and, at first, the girl just stared at him as if he was a ghost or had vomit in his hair.

Green Eyes is quite weird. Always staring at me.

Hm... wait. What if I really have something in my hair? Or if one of my cuts or bruises are visible? I need to check that later.

Then, without saying anything, the girl took the notebook. And because she had not said anything, Ciel simply frowned and wordlessly returned to McMillan.

“What did you do?” his friend wanted to know.

“I collided with her earlier today,” Ciel explained. “She lost something due to the collision. I found it and gave it back to her.”

McMillan nodded in appreciation before he resumed their conversation from earlier. “Nuala likes Marinette the most.” Nuala was McMillan’s younger sister and a big fan of Miraculous Ladybug. One day, when Ciel had been visiting McMillan she had forced them to sit and marathon the entire first season. It had been a dreadful experience. This show was too sparkly and too light and good for Ciel’s taste. He especially hated Hawk Moth, the TV show’s idiotic villain, and the fact that Ladybug had the ability to undo the damage caused by the akumatised people. The world wasn’t as simple and easy as it was shown in Miraculous Ladybug.

You cannot just turn everything like it has once been with the help of magical ladybugs.

Ciel sighed. “Of course, she likes Marinette. She is the protagonist after all. The protagonist, as long as he or she is not a complete idiot, is always one of the top three most liked characters of its source material.”

McMillan shrugged. “She’s five. So, do you think a Ladybug doll would be a good present for her?”

Nuala and Niall ‒ McMillan’s twin siblings – would turn six next week, and while McMillan knew what he could get his brother, he was a bit clueless when it came to finding a suitable gift for his sister.

“Are there any Miraculous Ladybug toys?”

“I have absolutely no clue. No – wait. I do. Toys ‘R’ Us has some. They look terribly ugly, though. I cannot give my sister a toy which could give her nightmares.”

McMillan was the sort of person who always found something good in everything and everyone. This was most likely the reason why they had become friends in the first place. So, if he thought that something was hideous, it was indeed hideous.

“What about a t-shirt or some other piece of clothes? There are band t-shirts, so why shouldn’t there be any children TV series t-shirts?”

“I looked that up already.” McMillan sighed. “They look even worse than the toys. Mostly, just the Ladybug and Cat Noir symbols were put on a plain t-shirt, dress, or jumper. The guys who make these things are awfully fanciless.”

“What about fan-made things, then?” Ciel suggested. “They tend to be better than the official things.”

“Hm – that’s a good idea! I will search for something after school. Thanks, Ciel.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It happened on his birthday?!” somebody suddenly screamed through the entire cafeteria. Ciel flinched. He whirled around to find the voice’s source – which turned out to be the green-eyed girl. People looked at her before they turned their attention to Ciel.

Dammit. That’s why I usually don’t go to the cafeteria.

Ciel Phantomhive usually spent his breaks in the office of his school-intern detective agency. But today, he had gone to the cafeteria because he had had to find the girl and return her diary.

Damn you, Paula Sergeant. I preferred it when Green Eyes knew nothing about this. Then, there would have been two pupils in this goddamn school who would not bother me with this topic.

Ciel quickly left the canteen before anybody could come and talk to him. McMillan silently followed him.

I am not someone who would turn into a cry-baby because of that. I am just tired of answering the same questions over and over again.

No, I won’t tell you where I was in that one month.

No, I have no clue who burned down Phantomhive Manor and murdered my parents.

But I am working on it.

***

After a period of biology by Caspian Darwin, McMillan and Ciel walked home together. Finnian MacCoul, who was officially the son of Ciel’s gardener, but who was actually Ciel’s gardener himself, still had German classes and thus couldn’t accompany them.

Ciel and McMillan said goodbye to each other when they arrived at the Phantomhive townhouse, and Ciel waved after his friend while McMillan walked down the road.

“Welcome back, Young Master,” Sebastian greeted Ciel, opening the door. Ciel glared at him. “I hope the cake is already ready, Sebastian.”

“Of course, it is, Young Master,” Sebastian replied. “I will serve it as a dessert after lunch.”

“No. The cake will be my lunch. And don’t argue with me – I deserve this after you fooled around too long this morning and let me be late for school.”

“A letter from the Queen arrived before you returned from school,” Sebastian told his master and handed him the letter on a silver tray. Ciel had just finished eating his lunch charlotte russe.

“If it was already here when I came back – why didn’t you give it to me then?” Ciel asked, taking the envelope.

“I thought that you might want to eat first.”

Ciel ignored Sebastian’s reply and opened the letter. It said: “My dear boy – in 1888, a person who was called Jack the Ripper murdered people, mostly female prostitutes, in Whitechapel, London. Their identity was never unveiled, and thus Jack the Ripper became one of the most famous serial killers in history. But you may already know about that.

“Lately, similar murders have been committed, and again, they have occurred in Whitechapel. Scotland Yard is working on this case, but they are as clueless as Frederick Abberline back in the late 19th century. Therefore, I removed them from this case and put you in charge of continuing and solving it. I have already informed the police about this transfer.”

A second Whitechapel Murderer? Ciel thought and put down the letter. At least, this was more exciting than searching for cats or looking into supposed beauty contest frauds. Or idiotic Italian mafiosi.