The Lady of Phantomhive; Ciel's Sister {Sebastian x Reader}

[22] Mediocre Substitutions

The next few hours passed as one might expect in such a dire situation: steeped in an eerie, bland boredom occasionally met with blunt eruptions of fear as, one by one, guests continued to disappear. After Mr. Phelps was found with two bloodied holes in his throat, each of your guests seemed to fixate on the terror that surrounded them. And understandably so.

"Perhaps it was a n-needle," Bard mutters, offering himself a slight bit of comfort by bringing his shaking palm to the back of his neck in an attempt to cease his trembling.

"Looks more like.. a vampire to me," Finny gapes, his eyes wide yet still as innocent as always. Luckily for him—albeit unlucky for you—Lau chimes in, rearing in Finny's vivid imagination before it could spiral down the fictitious path that you knew it was heading. Yet, Finny's imagination wouldn't have been so far from the truth. Vampires are, on many accounts, quite similar to demons, are they not? They must at least occupy the same fictional realm. Dark statues, cold hands and eyes, pale skin, and a devious grin that, when bared, showed fangs entirely too inhuman to offer the typical comfort a smile was meant to.

"Don't be ridiculous," Doyle coughs in an attempt to mask his own discomfort, his dark eyes already scanning the room for some sort of explanation. "Here," he announces as he pulls a shelf clock from under the edge of Mr. Phelps' bed, "Judging by the cracked face and the clock's misplacement, considering it was on the floor, I'm betting we could assess that Mr. Phelps was attacked." Arthur's conclusion seems to have the room in a chokehold and each breath hitches as they wait for him to continue. "The clock must have been knocked from the nightstand during his struggle and most likely kicked under the bed before he collapsed."

"Keen eye, Mr. Doyle," Ciel muses, the small smile he offers just barely reaching his tired eyes. "So if that's the case, it looks like Mr. Phelps would have died at 2:38 in the morning."

This is at least what the clock deems true. Ciel hooks a finger under his chin and his eyes dart around the room before meeting with your own. An unspoken understanding passes between you, confirming that this was neither of your doing, and therefore unlikely your butler's as well. It seems you truly do have a mystery on your hands.

You kneel, the skirt of your nightgown ruffling as you make an effort to avoid disturbing the late Mr. Phelps, and your fingers ghost over the two little holes that grace his neck. The action pulls a grunt of dissatisfaction from your servants and your guests open their mouths to protest. Surely a young lady should never have to touch a corpse of all things. But you're quick to interrupt whatever protests that might arise as you bring yourself back to your feet and make your way over to Ciel.

Something about this seemed oddly... familiar. Where had to seen such a marking before? Why was this so out of the ordinary? It was clear to you that it was not, in fact, a needle as Bard had suggested, but seeing as how you had no other solution to offer, you figured it best to keep your observations between yourself and your brother.

"Yes. While your deductions are as witty as ever, my lord, might we discuss this further over tea? Or perhaps at least while sitting down," Lau chimes from the doorway, his voice flitting over your shoulder as your gaze meets once again with Ciel's tired one. Your brother only grumbles in response before Tanaka is ordered to bring a tray of tea and, for Lau's sake, a plate of scones into a room down the hall. Better to be as far away from the deceased as possible when eating, yes? At least, that's what Sebastian would say, and no doubt Tanaka as well.

"So this is what we have thus far," Charles starts, pausing just long enough to sip at his tea before sending everyone in the room a brief yet studying glance. "Lord Siemens's death is recorded at ten past one this morning if we're expected to go off his pocket watch, which was also rather conveniently broken, as I do recall." The last few words are almost missed, even from where you sit beside him as his eyes trail across the nervous, anxious, or outright bored visages around him as if he could deduce the killer just from the guilt in their eyes. "Meanwhile, we have Mr. Phelps who supposedly passed at thirty-eight passed two this morning. That only leaves the butler's time of death unverified." Venom coats the word 'butler' as it slips past his lips and his lingering, steel eyes find yours immediately with a gaze that's only broken when you decide to look away first.