Wanted: Dead or Alive, Chapter II: Nothing wrong with a bit of irony
Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive x Reader
Description: As a reformed gang member, you no longer take up your dual derringer pistols in an endless pursuit of wealth. Now, you serve a new purpose: working alongside seasoned professionals as the Earl of Phantomhive’s undercover private army.
Story Warnings: explicit descriptions of violence (with a focus on gun violence) and murder, gore/assorted injuries and pain, death, grief/loss, elaborate theft, explosions/fires, vehicle hijacking, abduction, period-accurate sexism, period-accurate depictions of British imperialism. Story also contains cursing, drinking, smoking, lying, betrayal, explicit sexual content, and class differences. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions about these warnings! Your health and comfort come before any of my creative media.
Author’s Note: Hi Everyone!! It’s been a long time coming, and I’m so, SO excited to finally get this chapter out. I had so much fun working on the research for this story. Guess how many times I had to add “I’m a writer” for each Google search for this one hahaha. Anyways, I hope you all like it. Let me know what you think!!!
I’m hoping to get updates out about once a month.
Happy Reading!!!
Dan <3
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MASTERLIST
. . .
February, 1895
The Phantomhive Estate’s Dining Room
Before the day could have a real chance to start, you had a dreadful sense of it.
Heavy rain drummed dramatically against the estate’s roof, droplets streaming like rivers down the tall vertical windows that lined the north corridor. The sun didn’t stand a chance against the hefty blanket of grey clouds, which decisively sealed away the first light of dawn. Rumbling thunder rattled the wood floorboards as you stalked towards the dining room, fresh tea pot steaming in hand.
About twenty minutes ago the chief of Scotland Yard, Arthur Randall, called Phantomhive urgently, alerting him of yet another robbery in London. This time, it was a high-profile jeweler with significant losses. Three fatalities.
That call roused the entire manor into action about two hours ahead of schedule. No civilized person would be walking a teapot down to a noble before sunrise without a good reason.
The dining room door was open, revealing a dour Earl sitting behind it, making impatient work of swallowing down a scone. He stared at the photographs spread out on his dining table as if they’d personally cursed his family name. That glower scared a great many people, so you’ve heard.
To you, it was just another morning.
Sebastian was in the middle of arranging the last photograph, a wide-lens shot of an exquisite pearl necklace.
“All of this?” Phantomhive questioned, disbelieving heat smoldering in his tone.
The makeshift collage in front of him contained at least a dozen photographs of different sizes and films sat scattered against the varnished mahogany table, precisely cut from an assortment of periodicals. Each one pictured a gem or full jewelery piece. “You mean to tell me it wasn’t just that bloody oversized ruby?”
Oversized ruby? Your eyes widened, and you nearly stopped your approach to the end of the table cold. With a heartbeat’s hesitation, you topped off Phantomhive’s empty tea cup, you took advantage of your proximity to the table to investigate.
The largest print sitting in front of him featured an ornate necklace with five gems encrusted. It was a 16th-century jewel set in a considerably modern mount. The metalwork was recently constructed, given that the gem was in the artisan’s possession at the time of the robbery, instead of the Tower of London’s Jewel House. The Jewel House was the royal family’s vault, holding all of its most valuable artifacts and jewels throughout its lengthy history.
At the sight of this familiar gem, your stomach dropped, dread expanding heavily in your chest like ink bleeding through paper.
Someone stole the famed Timur Ruby. Consequently, Lord Phantomhive, the everlastingly loyal Queen’s Guard Dog, was on the case at five in the morning.
But—
“It’s not a ruby,” you interjected urgently, capturing the Earl’s attention. Failing to recall the look of that historic jewel would be like failing to recognize your reflection. Your next words came automatically as you met Lord Phantomhive’s frustrated gaze. “The Timur’s an irregularly-shaped, red magnesia, spinel.”
The gem’s misnomer originated from the historical understanding that the crimson gem was a ruby. They were practically twins gemologically, but certainly not identical. Until recent history, artisans lacked the chemical science to distinguish a spinel’s signature crimson shade from a ruby’s.
That gem was one of the most prized in the royal collection.
The artisan responsible for refurbishing that 361-carat cabochon from time to time was the monarchy’s first official crown jeweller: Garrard & Co. Not even you were foolish enough to attempt robbing the artisan responsible for all royal commissions.
Regardless of your history there, you never would have risked touching it. As far as you knew, only The Band would, for the right price. A flare of range made your shoulders tense. You wanted to punch someone.
“Y/l/n,” Phantomhive nodded familiarly. A wrinkle creased between his furrowed brows. Exhaustion sat in a dark circle under his eye. He looked a shade paler.
With more force than necessary, the noble dropped two sugar cubes in the cup you just topped off. Then a third. He considered a fourth. After hesitating a moment, he seemed to think better of it. “This investigation would benefit from your expertise. Have a seat.”
That didn’t sound like a request.
You tilted your head and glanced at Sebastian. It was his responsibility to set your schedule for the day. After you served morning tea service, he usually tasked you with polishing pieces of silver, an endless task on this estate. You didn’t understand the utility of having so many sets of the same utensils, and you really didn’t care to learn.
It was ironic if nothing else. You could polish endless piles of silver in your sleep, having mastered the procedure before learning your vowels. The butler had been shocked to see your flawless polishing work. During your first day at the manor, he presumed to give you a thorough start-to-finish demonstration.
You didn’t interrupt, but when he told you to take your time and give it your best, the spotless serving spoon you polished spoke for itself. Evidently, you didn’t confess a word when Sebastian asked how you’d perfected your technique. If you told him… well. The answer included only one of multiple reasons you were wanted by law enforcement at the moment.
“I will see to your tasks for the day,” the butler said brightly. His voice always seemed to carry this polite cadence, even at the most inappropriate times. Such as five in the morning, in the middle of this dismal downpour. “Allow me,” he seamlessly tugged the teapot out of your hands.
Suddenly empty, your hands dropped to your side, fingers flexing uselessly. You frowned, disquieted by the butler’s unprecedented speed and agility.
“What do you want to know?” You reluctantly pulled out the chair next to Phantomhive and settled. He gestured to the wide collection of photos in front of him, and you scanned over their glossy surfaces. The monochrome images featured deep shadows and silvery highlights. Fine lenses caught their intricacies flawlessly.
You raised your eyebrows, inviting a question.
Typically, you weren’t one to spew information out unprompted like a fountain. Like a fool. At a minimum, you usually knew better not to insert yourself in a conversation. You couldn’t say what caused this interjection.
Phantomhive studied you, his stare digging into your periphery. He slowly stirred his tea with one of the smallest spoons you’ve ever seen—or polished—within your lifetime. Balanced between the Earl’s dexterous fingers, the proportion was almost amusing to you. He meticulously broke down the sugar cubes with the bottom of his spoon.
“How did you know the Timur’s a bloody spinel?” Phantomhive replied. The query hinted at something akin to disbelief and suspicion. He sat back in his seat and continued stirring in his sugar, the side of his utensil chiming against the china cup.
“You identified it from this photograph alone.” He set his teacup down and tapped the photo’s glossy surface impatinently. The film was shot in greyscale—you recognized the gem by its shape and luster alone. Even without color on the film. You’d know that spinel anywhere, anytime; frankly, if you were a betting woman, you’d venture to say that you’d know it by handfeel and weight.
“I was a bound apprentice at Garrard until I was, I don’t know, fourteen?” You answered flatly, shifting uncomfortably. Despite your best efforts, you failed to keep your voice free of intonation. The Earl’s unsettling tanzanite stare made your chest feel tight—mumbling out the truth of your life never came easy, anyway. That discerning look burned into you like a bullet. “Guess I picked up on a few things here and there.”
Your earliest memories took you back to a dilapidated orphanage before some local official dragged you to Garrard’s to learn a trade.
Binding out, they called it. Apparently, the crown legislated these involuntary labor contracts between orphanages and assorted trades to dissuade orphans from taking up street crime. So, you spent much of your childhood as an aide to master jewelers, wielding fine steel needle files, engraving chisels, and pliers.
Most of the time, your meticulous eye and steady hands kept you out of trouble. You burnished cast metal and polished silver around the clock. Until your fingers cramped, trembled, and bled.
“You were a contracted apprentice, and yet, you robbed jewelry shops up until a month ago,” Phantomhive enunciated slowly, piecing together the logic of it all. That background taught you what to lift, where to hit. When. How. That expertise made your solo heists so quick and bloodless—you knew your targets on sight.
“I never robbed Garrad’s, evidently,” you shrugged, pursing your mouth into an unrepentant line. You wouldn’t have even ventured to call the site of your former apprenticeship a shop. Its brand was far too venerated, being the monarchy’s chosen artisan. “Nothing wrong with a bit of irony, Phantomhive.”
“I suppose not.”
“If you were a bound apprentice, you would’ve been contracted until adulthood. Why, how, did you—” Lord Phantomhive started, evidently well-versed in the legality enshrined in those contracts. Had you followed your contract’s terms, you would’ve been legally released from Garrard’s around a year ago. The penalties for contract runaways were severe.
Clearing your throat, you pointed to one of the images of the spinel, sitting in an ornate necklace. It’s not like Phantomhive needed that personal information for the good of his investigation.
The nerve of him, you seethed to yourself.
“Garrard designed the gold and diamond setting you see here. It must’ve been there temporarily for refurbishment. They crafted it for versatility. The queen can switch the Timur out with one of her diamonds.”
The Earl’s dissatisfied stare weighed heavily on your skull, but he didn’t interrupt, and you refused to falter. With a fountain pen, he smoothly copied down notes of your commentary on a pocket-sized pad. His loopy script was elegant and small, neat within the thin lines.
Phantomhive wore his focus sternly.
“These here are spinels, too.” To punctuate your point, you tapped the other four jewels encrusted on the necklace’s hardware. They were much smaller than the Timur, seamlessly drawing the eye to the gleaming centerpiece.
The rest of the photographs captured assorted strands of pearls, Ceylon sapphires, and emeralds. The cuts on all of the gems were distinctive—broad and flat to emphasize the color instead of the shine. That was stylistically non-European. It was strange that The Band would target such specific pieces. They tended to favor traditional jewels that would appeal to European tastes throughout the mainland.
You hummed, short and flat.
“Natural pearls are some of the most expensive materials on the planet right now. Do you know the odds of twenty-some oysters producing pearls with the exact same luster, color, size, and shape?” You ventured.
Phantomhive started to answer, but you shook your head and continued your train of thought. He looked impatient, but you had found your bearings. “At the end of the day, they can always dig up another Ceylon, another spinel.”
“—But there’s no forcing an oyster to produce,” he finished for you. Your eyes rolled.
Phantomhive was an atrocious listener. An arrogant one, at that.
“Right. Divers cut open hundreds of thousands.” You said shortly, frustration sharpening your tone. Pearl harvesting was a game of chance, entirely—there was no manufacturing organic nacre, the iridescent substance mollusks secrete to create pearls.
With an agitated sigh, you picked up a photograph of a cluster of emeralds and slid it closer to him. “And these look like a collection. Antique, I’d bet. The sapphires, too. This is all beyond market. Royal grade.” You added, thinking out loud. “None of them are locally mined.”
“From India and Ceylon, presumably?”
“Yes. That includes the pearls,” you confirmed. “But it’s unusual. The Timur spinel is the headline here, but its value essentially comes from its history. Not its gemological value.” You could think of hundreds of other gems that were more valuable, had less notoriety, and were significantly less defended than this spinel was. Even the collections of impeccable Ceylon sapphires and emeralds made for too complex a target for what buyers would pay.
Thunder rattled again. You were decently sure you heard Mey-Rin or Finny squeal a ways down the corridor.
“Of course. Professional thieves target nameless jewels that will disappear into the luxury market without a trace,” Phantomhive’s expression only darkened the longer he thought, that stormy look contending with the violence drumming in the thunder outside. The piercing lightning strikes. “These all have some form of provenance.”
“If all they were after was the value, they would have chosen easier targets,” you said. Near-nameless and small-time artisans and jewelry labels, just like one of the shops you targeted in the weeks before Phantomhive tracked you down. As a professional thief, you lifted and promptly sold off the unengraved gems you clawed into your pockets. They certainly weren’t prized possessions of the bloody crown.
“That means this was an ideologically-motivated hit,” he concluded.
“I suppose.” You worried your lip, thinking over the complexity of this situation. All of your operations with the bandit group in the past targeted gemological value. They’d only go out of their way like this for a hefty commissioner. Who would pay off The Band to carry out such a specific, ideological operation?
And what were you going to do about it?
The gang was hunting you. This was your chance to hunt them with something of a tentative alliance with the Queen’s Guard Dog—a man you once presumed was a myth among London’s underworld. You couldn’t trust the Earl as far as you could throw him, but you knew an opportunity when you saw one.
You had to recognize these circumstances for what they were: suspiciously advantageous.
“We should take our leave, Sebastian. This storm will only slow the carriage down. Are you coming along, Y/l/n?” Phantomhive asked, his tone indiscernible to you. He finished off the small remainder of his tea and pushed his chair in.
“No chance,” you insisted tenaciously, crossing your arms. As much as you itched to examine the scene for clues of The Band yourself, it wasn’t worth risking your neck for it. “The Yard will nail me for bailing seven years early, or if not, for—”
The Earl exhaled through his nose, exasperated. You’re also quite accustomed to that frustrated look, the flare of his nostrils. He always worked his jaw.
“I outrank them. They can’t touch you,” he answered with an edge of finality that competed with yours. Your dubious expression remained unchanged, set definitively like forged cast metal. The set of your mouth clearly communicated your determination.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” you remarked flippantly, tilting your head derisively.
“Y/l/n.” Phantomhive said impatiently, shrugging on a heavy jacket Sebastian brought for him as he rose from his seat. He gestured vaguely with the notepad in his hand, emphasizing the volume of information you’d offered in the past few minutes.
“I have silver to polish,” you snorted derisively, sitting back against the back of the dining chair.
“You have a unique perspective—I need you there more than I do here.” His nostrils flared, betraying the beginnings of exasperation.
“Unique, why?” You answered with an incredulous lift of your eyebrow. “Because I was an apprentice there or because I robbed shops?”
Phantomhive didn’t miss a beat.
A self-satisfied grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, caustic and irritating. “Can it not be both? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of irony,” he said snidely, borrowing your irreverent remark.
He had you there.
“Oh, alright,” you grumbled, sighing through your parted lips. You rolled your eyes, dangerously close to reflecting that smug smirk yourself. That stuttering, warm feeling spreading in your chest perplexed you. “But if I catch so much of a glimpse of handcuffs, I’ll shoot.”
. . .
About an hour later
Garrard & Co., London
The rain was still pounding down by the time the carriage rolled into the city. Drops pattered aggressively against the roof. You watched the grey world roll through the window, peering carefully through the downpour. Isolated rural roads slowly transitioned into the main city’s narrow, uneven streets. The cobblestone roads made the carriage wheels bounce unevenly.
You sat across from Phantomhive, your leg bouncing restlessly underneath your black gown. The gesture made your boot’s thick heel knock against the floor repeatedly, the staccato rhythm of your mounting anxiety. Journeying back to Garrard’s with the Queen’s Guard Dog was one of the most senseless decisions you’ve ever made.
Almost as ridiculous as the trust you once put in your old comrades. If one could even sagely refer to a band of criminals comrades. Never again. Loyalty was a fickle thing. A foolish thing.
A chill ran down your spine, a tangible reminder of how paralyzing the winter wind felt after being pummeled half to death. You sighed, squeezing your eyes shut and opening them.
The incident happened weeks ago, but it could’ve been yesterday.
“Relax, would you?” Phantomhive mumbled under his breath, keeping his stare level with his book. “You’re going to put a dent in the floorboard.”
For the extent of the ride, Phantomhive had been reading the same book, keeping the cover balanced casually in his lap. Expression impassive, almost bored, like a painted portrait. Pensive and meticulously crafted. You couldn’t understand how he could sit still for so long.
Your boot reluctantly slowed to a stop. You released a breath. Then he met your eyes, a step beyond certain.
“Y/l/n. I have complete jurisdiction over this investigation,” he reminded you. “They won’t dare act otherwise.”
“I’m aware,” you answered a beat too hastily. Your fingers tapped aimlessly on your kneecap. “It’s been around nine years,” you stressed. The buildings and pavement around you were only growing more familiar by the block. Even in this rain.
Sebastian stopped the carriage and opened the door. He handed off an umbrella to Phantomhive, a rush of wind causing it to flutter in his grasp. The umbrella was large enough for you to fit underneath without having to crowd Phantomhive. You kept in stride with him easily.
The butler left to tend to the carriage, leaving you and the Earl to the crime scene for the time being.
He shared a curt nod with the officers surveilling the workshop’s front door. Part of the window to the front entrance was fragmented, hastily blocked off with corrugated cardboard to keep out the rain as well as nosy press.
You followed your employer as he crossed the familiar threshold. He closed the umbrella, shook it out, and held it low at his side. While he met a man’s stare in begrudging acknowledgement, you took the opportunity to survey the storefront before you.
It was chaos, to say the least. Bustling with officers, shop managers, artisans and apprentices meticulously taking inventory of the works present, display case by display case. Insurance representatives meticulously ticked off paperwork on their clipboards, their somber expressions taut and grim. Senior clerks and managers exchanged with officers solemnly.
Despite being the perpetrator of countless, you had never seen the aftermath of a jewelry heist.
You assumed most of the damage would be in the back workshops and the cellars, where the most valuable gems and projects remained secured during off hours. Only the artisans with the highest authority wielded the keys to those vaults, but the concrete and steel locks couldn’t have withstood controlled explosives. Whether the target was trains or vaults, The Band was always sure to pack some heat.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it Lord Phantomhive?” Arthur Randall, called out in a gruff, disdainful greeting. The man sported a standard navy officer’s uniform, though his chest pockets were embellished with a variety of colorful insignias to denote his seniority. He extracted himself from a harried conversation with a man you knew to be James Garrard, one of the artisan’s owners. He and his brother, Sebastian, inherited the company from his father.
A look of disdain sat plainly in your honest features.
“Idyllic,” Phantomhive commented, devoid of humor. He didn’t wait to entertain further pleasantries. “What do we have here? Three casualties, correct?”
“Yes. All security. You heard word of all the stolen pieces, we haven’t noted more. The staff is nearly finished accounting for the rest of inventory. Head designer, William Spencer, and Sebastian Garrard are in the middle of questioning,” the chief said absently.
Randall gave you a long, hard look. Two gloved fingers pushed his frameless glasses further up his nose. Recognition flashed across his face; his pursing mouth made his greying mustache twitch.
“Of course you’re foolish enough to show your face here,” Randall glowered, stalking a step closer. You immediately reflected the man’s threatening expression, straightening your spine and standing your ground. You sized up his broad shoulders; he had a number of centimeters on you, but that didn’t mean anything. “I could arrest you right here for…. Where do I begin? Abandoning your parish apprenticeship, half a dozen counts of armed robbery at lea—”
“Keep talking, and we’ll have another crime scene on our hands,” you warned, your dominant hand snapping down to the leather holster fastened carefully around your hips. Your fingertips grazed one of your guns’ polished frames.
Randall started to draw his pistol. Your fingers mechanically unclipped your holster, grazing your derringer’s handle.
Lord Phantomhive raised a dismissive hand, quickly stepping between you and the Yard. “That is quite enough. Both of you: Stand down,” he insisted, steady and authoritative.
Your glare could’ve cut someone. Your eyebrows pinched together, conflicted. Without meaning to, you noticed you were holding your breath. Phantomhive had insisted that he could handle this. Could he?
This might’ve been a mistake. Your chest felt heavy, and each shallow breath came quicker. If this went wrong, you’d be walking out cuffed.
Trust was fatal.
Phantomhive fixed his attention on Randall. “As you know, Y/l/n is employed by my estate. On my authority and good name, she is present today as an informant. Ensure all units under your discretion are aware of that fact. Anyone with concerns, answers to me,” he enunciated loudly, for the rest of the crime scene to hear. Unwavering.
“I anticipate you have received Her Majesty’s permission?” The police chief demanded.
“Randall. Surely you know better than to insult me with such a query,” Lord Phantomhive remarked scathingly, a biting finality rising in his words. He loomed tall, painfully composed for a man willingly standing in the path of two firearms. Stoic as anything. “We are all at this scene for the same bloody reason. Understand?”
Randall studied you suspiciously, gaze glowering. Your hand remained resolutely on your holster, but you didn’t provoke him further.
“Stir up a hint of trouble here, and I won’t hesitate,” he warned you, his grey eyes just as thunderous as the storm outside.
Neither will I, you almost answered, but you thought better of it. Instead, you scoffed indignantly and crossed your arms, drumming your fingers against your overcoat’s thick sleeve.
“Abberline.” Randall barked over his shoulder. With one last visible pulse of hesitation, he released his holster and waved haphazardly to a younger officer with auburn hair. He fidgeted with a pen between his fingers. “Show the Earl to the back vaults.”
“Certainly,” Abberline stepped forward. He’d been in the middle of a discussion with another officer during Phantomhive and Randall’s power struggle. “Good to see you, Lord Phantomhive.”
You could’ve led Phantomhive to the back vaults yourself.
It’d been a little less than a decade since you stalked down this narrow workshop corridor, but you’d know it blindfolded. Years of tireless labor worked the space’s intricate layout into your muscle memory.
The competing scents of metal filings and heavy haze of coal permeated the air. Wood shavings. Polish. Shellac.
Bright gas lamps illuminated the main workroom, crafted especially for gloomy dawns like these. They swung suspended from the ceiling’s wooden beams.
You’d spend hours slouched over the short work benches in this wide space, Garrard arranged them in rows; they were semicircular cutouts where craftsmen and their aides sat. The main furnace was unlit in the corner.
Gravers. Saw frames. Files. Tweezers.
As you walked, your thick heels echoed against the concrete flooring.
The cracked foreman’s bell sat in the same corner as you remembered, its chiming melody would denote the start of morning labor and release you hours before midnight.
The inventory room was still behind the door directly to the left. Ledger and commissions room to the right.
Before you could get a good look at the urgent notices pinned to the corkboard on the far side of the workshop wall, Abberline turned sharp right, towards the cellar entryway. “The vault’s just through here and down these stairs,” he explained, motioning you and Phantomhive to continue following him.
The investigator shared a stern nod with two other officers standing in front of the open threshold, a wide gap in the wall where a massive iron-plated door once stood. Now, that door sat uselessly down the corridor, discarded with warped hinges. Melted and pried off the threshold. The two officers recognized Phantomhive and stepped aside.
You followed them down the concrete steps—every night, you would carry parcels to the bottom of this narrow, winding stairwell as a child and hand them over to a senior clerk. His office was an official security checkpoint that supervised the outer iron gate. You were never permitted to step through it—only the senior craftsmen and managers were permitted inside.
As a child, this vault loomed tall to you. It was vast, unshakable. The heart of this workshop. A labyrinth of meticulously filed and numbered cabinets, stacked to the concrete ceiling.
Now, chunks of crumbled brickwork, steel-reinforced concrete, and thick steel plates sat in devastated shambles; it was nearly impossible to separate in the jagged wreckage of fallen shelves and strongboxes. Bits of brick dust flew scattered in the air, coating everything, from the wreckage in front of you, to the rest of the untouched vault room.
You had to step carefully around a considerable crater in the floor, fault lines cracked around it, the fragmentation pattern serrated unevenly. The acidic scent of ozone and burn chemicals hung low in the stale air, like a cloud, burning your nose.
Beyond the blast, The Band only pried into specific iron-plated cabinets against the North wall—evidently those that held the Timur Ruby, the antique emeralds, Ceylon sapphires, and strings of pearls. All other sections against East and West walls were just left as they should’ve been; after all this time, Garrard never altered its numbering scheme.
You knew exactly where to look. To hinder thieves, Garrard’s vault featured a meticulous and opaque cataloguing system. Senior clerks assigned gem families particular letters, and numbered individual cabinets.
“James Garrard said M-43 here held the Timur,” Abberline gestured to the wide gap between M-42 and M-44. A warped metal cabinet (presumably M-43) sat empty on the floor, its hinges half-melted and half-pried.
“Why would it be categorized under M?” Phantomhive asked.
“For magnesium," you answered flatly. “That’s the gem family’s primary mineral. This system’s supposed to act as fail-safe in the event of a robbery. The emeralds had to be in B-89. For beryl,” you pointed to the empty gap under the B row of columns, you scanned the cabinets to the right of row B and pointed to the next gap you spotted. “The Ceylon sapphires were C-64. Corundum.”
“Exactly,” Abberline said reluctantly, brown eyes warily regarding you. As if he expected you to turn on them at any second.
“Even so, they knew exactly where to locate their targets,” Phantomhive observed.
“Not to mention, sir, forensics recovered gelignite cartridge remnants from this area. Unexploded bits left behind,” Abberline spoke pensively. That information deepened the agitation in both your and Phantomhive’s expressions.
“Gelignite. Just as they found off Southwestern,” the Earl inquired, though by the finality in his tone, you guessed he already anticipated Abberline’s affirmative answer.
The investigator’s chin bobbed down in a hesitant nod as if the truth hurt to speak out loud. “Yes. The same cartridges left behind in Salisbury, the Antwerp diamond heist, and the Calais mail train station—all from this past year.”
Gelignite blasts were a trademark of The Band’s: immensely potent nitroglycerin-based explosives for industrial blasting. Gelatin was a chemical, rubbery substance mixed with combustibles, waterproof and much more concentrated than sawdust dynamite. It wasn’t at all like the consumable gelatin used for desserts.
“Then we know who we’re dealing with,” Phantomhive said decisively, scowling. He bent down, running a gloved finger along the cracked concrete floor. Near-microscopic specks of unburned nitrocellulose and nitroglycerine gathered on his black glove’s smooth surface.
“What could the bloody rodents be after this time?” He questioned rhetorically, rubbing the jelly between his thumb and middle finger and inspecting it. “A heist such as this is unusual for them. It’s not as though they can sell the Timur undetected.”
You swallowed hard.
If the Earl was spearheading this case, he had to be investigating the scene The Band left behind, just kilometers from the Salisbury Train Station, a railway owned by London and South Western Railway. Salisbury was only a handful of stops before the rail line’s London stop. Evidently, you had a hand in each one of the heists Abberline listed off. It wasn’t even a complete list of expeditions The Band ran in the past twelve months, if you were being honest.
“I don’t like the timing of this, my Lord,” Abberline said, shaking his head. He shifted his weight to his other leg and flipped through the slender notepad in his hands. “The Salisbury Explosion was just two months ago—they planned and carried out the assassination of palace architect Sir Harry Swindon. And, as if killing the bloke wasn’t enough, they stole his key to the—”
Your eyes widened. For a moment, your hand flew protectively over your sternum, just over where the key sat tucked underneath your corset. You had to mask your shocked gasp with a little cough into your sleeve. It didn’t sound natural to you, but thankfully, both the Earl and the officer seemed preoccupied with one another.
“Abberline,” Lord Phantomhive cut off the man’s train of thought sharply. Warning gleamed into his tone like a freshly sharpened blade, glaring under the sunlight’s riotous rays. “You are not permitted to speak of that matter in non-secure spaces. Most people do not possess such clearance.”
Like The Band, The Yard and the Guard Dog were also in pursuit of the key the target gave you the day of the accident.
What did Abberline call it?
The Salisbury Explosion. You never thought of the incident in such sensationalized terms—you simply thought of it as the worst day of your life.
With one simple lie, the only person you’d ever considered a friend manipulated you into pouncing on Harry Swindon the moment you located him in his train car. You pressed your pistol to the architect’s forehead moments after your gang detonated gelignite 150 yards up the railroad track, according to plan.
That gave the train conductor just enough time to pull the emergency brake, but the massive locomotive’s momentum was far too great to stop it entirely, causing its front wheels to slip off the disintegrated track. It skittered to a screaming halt, the wheels grinding painfully into the earth.
You clutched a railing inside the train to keep upright, holding Swindon tight by the back of his collared shirt. The moment the train car stabilized again, you kept your pistol’s muzzle flat against the man’s head.
He babbled, begging for his life. In his hysteria, he’d shoved a key into your hand, sobbing, “I know what you’re after. Here, take it. Just don’t hurt me. I have a family. They need me—I love them.”
“That doesn’t mean much to me.”
After fastening the key around your neck and tucking it safely underneath your shirt, you shot him square in the forehead, fulfilling your mission. Or so you thought. With a triumphant grin, you dragged his body out of the train car to your awaiting superiors. Your arms strained with effort, but adrenaline more than made up for it.
“Swindon cried like an infant,” you reported flippantly, carelessly dropping the man’s body into the snow like a limp doll. You were seconds from presenting the key to Captain Menter; you parted your lips to ask him what or where it would unlock, but what came out was a pained gasp.
The captain struck you hard across the face. Pain exploded across your cheek, and you stumbled back, touching the red impact wound disbelievingly. Salty reflex tears shone in your eyes.
“Why is he dead as stone, Y/l/n?” He demanded, frostier than ice. “Your orders were to retrieve the key, and take him back here breathing. Damn you. You have no idea what you’ve cost us,” he hissed, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.
Your vision blurred as you scanned your gathered comrades rapidly for your friend. “Take him alive?” You questioned, completely aghast. “The lieutenant told me that priorities changed—”
“Lieutenant Menter?” The chief barked. He’d been ready to strike you again, but he hesitated, sparing his son a burning, hostile look. Incredulous that his own blood would be the root of such a blunder. That trust would always beat a gang’s star shot. Save for Chief Menter himself, every member of The Band was replaceable. That understanding kept every active member working to their fullest capacity.
“I told her to take him alive, father. But she lost her temper and shot him. She’s a liability,” he spat resentfully, looking you smugly in the eye. There was no trace of familiarity, the closeness he regarded you with just hours ago. Your mind’s eye torturously recalled the day he told you that your life was worth more than polishing useless rubbish and handed you your first pistol.
He looked like a complete stranger to you, sneering so maliciously. Signing your death warrant and savoring every moment of it. You couldn’t comprehend why.
“What?” You asked helplessly, panic rising in your chest. Then, white-hot rage. Your voice was thick, wavering as your throat tightened. “No—just before A-Team set off to blow the rail, he told me—”
“She’s lying. You know she can’t control herself. She’s a bloodthirsty jade.”
“No! I—” you couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You know we don’t tolerate liabilities, foolish girl. This operation was priceless.” the chief seethed smoothly. “You’re finished here. I ought to kill you for the inconvenience,” he looked to his top enforcers. “Teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”
They swept your boots out from beneath you, landing you back first in the powdery snow. The impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, forcing you to heave for air. Chief Menter’s steel-tipped boot landed an angled kick against your ribs, causing a bolt of jarring agony to tear through your chest. Someone nailed your lower back.
You exclaimed, raw and unmeasured, trying to form the truth, but it couldn’t surface. Instead, the animalistic noise caught in the base of your throat and you choked on it. All you could do was sputter and curl inward on yourself in a desperate attempt to defend your most vulnerable points. You shivered violently as snow soaked through your clothes; those winter layers were your only saving grace against those merciless kicks.
Evidently, nine years of dutiful service, careful shooting, and grit meant nothing against the word of Lieutenant Menter. The boy who first pulled you out of that miserable workshop and gave you your first semblance of agency in this world.
Someone tore your guns off their holsters.
Between the anguishing haze of being beaten into the snow and your mounting rage and fear, you thought the distant explosion had been a figment of your imagination. It was a deafening roar, a blurry blast of red flames and smoke, the blinding color illuminating the countryside’s nightfall. The ground trembled under your bleeding body.
Like you, the locomotive had reached its breaking point. Must’ve been the boiler room.
Horrified civilians screamed and sobbed. Some limped uncomprehendingly around the rubble, in search of loved ones or their possessions. It seems most passengers had already dismounted the grounded locomotive, but there had to be numerous casualties.
The bandits around you instinctively covered their heads, taking defensive postures. Once they recovered from their shock, they refocused on the chief. Awaited orders.
Using every bit of strength you had left, you dragged yourself away from the group, every battered muscle in your body ached. Icy snow crunched around you. Warm blood dripped from your nose, running down your chapped lips and chin. Your ears tingled, but through the static, you distantly heard Chief Menter speak again, as apathetic as ever. “Forget her. Check his body for that damned key. If it’s not on him, search the wreck. Be quick about it. We gotta get out of here before the Yard gets word.”
Your world went black.
The next time you returned to consciousness, you found yourself in a workhouse infirmary, bedridden and in a great deal of pain. You snuck out that night—before a nurse could check on you—and rapidly rebuilt your life. You stole from city jewelers for days on end, until Ciel Phantomhive tracked down your new doorstep.
“Something wrong, Y/l/n?” The Earl’s posh tone tore through your stupor, snapping you back to reality. He and Abberline had turned back towards the stairwell, and you lingered several beats too long, eyes wide and detached on the rubble under your boots.
“No,” you lied, fighting the knot rising in your throat. “We should get moving, we have work to do.”
Apparently, you and Lord Phantomhive had a common purpose.
But the timing was too serendipitous, come to think of it. He was leading the Salisbury Explosion investigation, the assassination of Royal Architect Harry Swindon that you committed. He and his butler tracked you down after a month and a half after the accident. With a convenient work offer.
The Earl never took unnecessary action—he had to have some idea of your involvement in Salisbury, then. Your employment was a tacit strategy to keep a close eye on you and use you as an informant.
You laughed wryly to yourself, climbing the steps behind the noble and the investigator. So, that was why he refused to let Abberline talk about the key’s destination out loud. Not even the press reported on the missing key.
Considering your minimal trust in Phantomhive, you couldn’t be offended without being a hypocrite. At least, your hesitation was justified.
Sebastian waited in the workshop for Lord Phantomhive. Once Phantomhive, you and Abberline crossed the busted threshold, he bowed at the waist like the smug bastard he was.
“My Lord, Miss Y/l/n. Apologies for my absence,” the butler said, righting his lean shoulders again. Despite the pouring rain, he seemed mostly dry. You assumed he left his umbrella at the shop’s front door; the Yard had to be familiar with the Earl’s Head Butler.
“The Yard found gelignite at the explosion site,” Lord Phantomhive said, extending his glove towards Sebastian. Some of the gelatin remained on his glove—his butler swabbed it. You didn’t know Sebastian had an understanding of chemical compounds, but somehow, you weren’t surprised. “I want you to do a sweep of the southwest countryside again. They hit Garrard’s around four in the morning—they can’t be far.”
As Phantomhive updated Sebastian, you showed yourself around the main workshop. Pausing at the urgent notices board you passed by earlier, you couldn’t help but laugh.
In the center of the bulletin featuring shop safety posters, newspaper clippings, design mockups, and comedically large calendar was a clipped news handbill. It was a photograph of you as a fourteen-year-old apprentice with the blocky text beneath it reading Wanted: Dead or Alive. Smaller print underneath it listed some of your crimes: Murder, abandoning your contracted apprenticeship, armed burglary, abduction, destruction of property.
You’ve seen that handbill all over the city—different variations of the same idea. The same photograph, even, it was all they had. This was nothing new.
“Is that all?” You asked ambivalently, shrugging your shoulders. “They certainly missed some.” If you hadn’t been surrounded by officers, you might’ve suggested they add a few more, for accuracy’s sake. Receiving stolen goods, railway sabotage, possession and/or use of explosives…Perhaps, printing your long paragraph of crimes would’ve required too much ink.
Your sarcastic snicker caught the Earl and his butler’s attention. Phantomhive’s stare cut to you, darted to the news handbill behind you, and returned to your irreverent face. He raised an eyebrow, begrudging amusement slipping through his noble facade.
He hummed shortly, a low note of observation. “That would’ve taken up the whole page of the pamphlet.”
“True,” you shrugged, a short chuckle escaping your lips. The easiness in it took you by surprise, a light, fluttering feeling jumping in your stomach. You wound the bottom of your braid around your index finger tightly. You felt strangely hyperaware of your body—what your hands were doing, how close you stood to him.
“In any case, you were meant to dispose of the last of these, Sebastian,” Phantomhive said, forcing the remnants of sardonic humor out of his tone. That had to be why Sebastian was late—he’d been using his unsettling speed to rid the main city of each copy. Although you weren’t especially ashamed of your reputation, you couldn’t afford to let The Band locate you before you were prepared.
“Forgive me,” Sebastian sounded about as apologetic as you felt. “That copy should be the last of them,” he said.
“For now,” you tutted. Stepping past the butler, you tore down the poster and neatly folded the thin paper in half. You stuck the handbill in your pocket, eager to take it back to the manor as room decor for your quarters.
. . .
That Night
The Phantomhive Estate
You could see your breath in the chilled night air. The rain finally stopped, leaving behind the earthy smell of petrichor. Moisture sat heavily in the air. Grass squelched under your boots and your heels dug into the soft, water-logged dirt.
The moon peeked out from the clouds covering the black sky. The silver light illuminated the property around you just enough for target practice. Sharp gusts of wind made the tips of your ears feel numb.
Rolling your shoulders back, you aimed your right pistol at a wooden target nailed to a distant tree and pulled the trigger. With a clamorous blast, the bullet landed precisely in the middle of the panel. Your left pistol nailed the makeshift target just below it.
“Isn’t practice supposed to challenge you?” Lord Phantomhive’s voice cut through the night’s quiet, making you startle. You bounced on the soles of your boots, immediately turning on your heel to face him. “Might as well shoot a fish in a barrel.”
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” you asked sarcastically, tilting your head.
The Earl didn’t immediately dignify the remark with a real answer. The corner of his mouth twitched with the beginning of a smirk and he shook his head. Bits of warm firelight from the lamp in his hand highlighted his angularfeatures. “Not when the crown jeweler’s been robbed of historic jewels.”
You raised your eyebrows once, offering an acknowledging nod. Fair enough.
“Do you have a better idea, then?” You asked dubiously.
“Yes.” Phantomhive’s hand dipped into his overcoat pocket and emerged balancing two glass balls, each the size of a tennis ball. The moonlight luminously refracted off their cobalt surface, emphasizing their quilted surface. “Try these. They’re Bogardus target balls. Sebastian finished them in limewash—you’ll see them in the dark,” he explained.
The brittle glass pieces looked delicate in his palm, sparkling like Christmas ornaments. The limewash amplified their shine, making them glint metallically. They clinked together delicately on his bare palm, and he set his lamp on a rock to ready one of the balls.
That smug look in Phantomhive's eye dared you.
Without warning, he took a few steps back, and flipped a target ball in the air. It soared against the black night sky, streaking blue and silver like a falling star. Immediately, your back straightened and you widened your stance. Your middle finger pressed down your pistol’s trigger.
Craning your neck up, you tracked the glass ball’s arc, predicting its movement with trained ease. The second your eyes locked on apex, you didn’t hesitate.
An earsplitting crack shocked the atmosphere as your derringer barked, spitting a led bullet that speared the glass ball in a dynamic blast. The shot echoed in the midnight silence deafeningly, the muzzle flash cutting orange and fiery.
The derringer pistol’s incredible firepower always impressed you—the barrels were only three inches—practically microscopic compared to most other arms. Despite the small diameter, the bullet’s impact immediately pulverized a target into a puff of glass, chalky mineral paint and silver dust. The remnants slowly cascaded in the air with the subdued grace of falling snow.
“Not bad,” Phantomhive tossed another, throwing you off guard. You could hardly track it through the hazy remnants in the sky. Frustrated, you clenched your teeth. That miss allowed the glass target to shatter against the grass with an anticlimactic thud. “You were only a centimeter or so off,” he said unapologetically.
A few beats of dissatisfied silence followed as you took a few steps closer to the glass wreckage, inspecting it.
“I get the sense you didn’t come out here just for target practice.” You arched an eyebrow, pulling down your pistols’ safety locks. They clicked into both holsters against your hipbones, fitting against the leather like puzzle pieces.
You fashioned your expression into something more neutral than you felt. Your eyes tore down to the broken target ball for a moment, then back to Phantomhive. After another pulse of quiet, you continued, “I have something to ask you.”
“As do I.” His expression was unchanged, composed. Entirely nonplussed. A gust of wind carded through his dark hair—it was slightly more mussed than usual, given the late hour. The moonlight made him look even paler.
“At the same time?” You suggested, taking another step closer to him. That brought you face to face.
Phantomhive adjusted his posture and tilted his head down towards the grass for a moment, giving it a disbelieving shake. His amusement registered as a short puff of air through his nose. There was a rasp in his voice, the remnants of a low chuckle he swallowed down. Still, his words came perfectly level, if a little clipped. “Alright. Go.”
“Did you track me down because you’re investigating Salisbury?" Your teeth sunk into the inside of your bottom lip.
“Were you once affiliated with a highly-mobile gang of thieves?”
You stared at each other for a moment, mirroring one another’s aggravation and reluctant admiration. A tiny knot of muscle flexed at the side of his jaw, clamping down most of a smug smirk. For a moment, only the sound of rustling tree branches stood between you.
Phantomhive was first to speak, the neutral line of his full lips unreadable. That ocean gaze unblinking. “Then I take it you were.”
You shrugged haplessly, though your heart drummed heavily. A painful ache in your ribcage pulsed dully, reminding you of the heavy kicks you sustained. The anxious rhythm reminded you of the earth-shaking thunder that plagued the city for most of the day. “It ended poorly.” Your voice escaped with a tremor.
“It ended poorly?” Phantomhive repeated flatly.
“That’s what I said,” you said impatiently, eyes widening. “I’m—we’re not on friendly terms. That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?” You asked, scouring his inscrutable face. “Being your informant wasn’t in the initial job description, I hope you’re aware.”
But then again, if Phantomhive had mentioned The Band when you had him pinned against a wall at gunpoint, his brain matter surely would’ve stained your floorboards. You wouldn’t have hesitated.
“The workhouse infirmary nurse found you unconscious and gravely wounded, kilometers away from the Salisbury wreck,” Phantomhive said. “You ran off before they even knew you were conscious. After the robberies, it wasn’t hard to locate you. Your birth certificate and apprenticeship contract are in the national registry and your likeness was posted around the city,” he explained, tugging another target ball out of his pocket. His eye gleamed in the moonlight just as elegantly as the glass did.
Those bloody handbills.
You cringed, laughing bitterly. At least Sebastian had taken the liberty to tear them down for you. That had been part of your conditions coming into your work here at the estate.
“We seem to have a common cause. It’s as I said: your unique perspective can be an asset to this investigation,” Phantomhive spoke with a calm certainty, tossing the ball in the air and catching it again. The glass clinked softly against his rings when it landed back on his palm. “Cooperate with me, and we’ll put them behind bars. We will see to it that they are brought to justice.”
Again, you knew an opportunity when you saw one.
Phantomhive could confirm the confidential destination of the key hanging around your neck. It was a bargaining chip with unknowable leverage, and you desperately needed the full picture before you made your next move. With his resources and connections, you could hunt down those heartless conspirators much sooner than you’d planned.
Spill their blood across the snow, no matter what Phantomhive had in mind.
“Fine,” you said simply. “I’ll do it.”
As you shook his hand, you had a lingering feeling that you’d just finalized a deal with a devil.
It didn't matter; you were a devil, yourself.
. . .
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