Chapter Text
The halls were silent. The rooms lining the hallway were quiet as well. Despite being filled with people, the entire building was unnaturally still. Blue light pierced the windows and shined on the cold, marble floors, reflecting a soft glow onto the vacant walls. Six stories into the sky, time was thick like molasses and stagnant like muddy waters. The sharp tick, tick, tick, of analog clocks stretched on forever.
William was in his office but not at his desk. He stood, sharply erect, in front of a large window. He looked out at the city below. Miles beneath his feet, coaches whirled and people bustled like ants struggling to rebuild a hive as it crumbled around them. No matter how he struggled, this tiny world would not change. If he died, it would continue without him.
On William’s desk, which he ignored, was a note. Angry red scrawl cut the paper and bled a message:
Mr. Spears,
It is my misfortune to inform you that, on the suspicion of homosexuality, you are released from your position. We do not wish to be associated with such degenerate and unlawful behavior. Please remove yourself from the office before next Monday.
Regretfully,
J Luther Simons
William’s blue eyes were uncharacteristically distant. He was made of fog and snow, his heart a block of ice inside his shattered rib cage. He was perfect and prided himself on being so, but he had made a mistake. Perfect people did not make mistakes, and so something was wrong. There were two certainties in William’s life: his job and his perfection, and now both were missing and there was nothing left.
He was used to being alone and was content with being so, but Simon had broken him. Simon Turner was the pinnacle of perfection, surpassing William himself. Ethereal and scintillating; beautiful beyond belief, perfect beyond doubt. Simon was not whiny or lazy in the way that all people were. He worked hard to get what he wanted, smiling all the while. His pearly smile was dangerous. Everything about Simon was dangerous – soft, golden hair, a jawline that could cut stone, and chocolate brown eyes. He was statuesque and cold as marble, and William had admired him for it. Well, perhaps it had been more than admiration.
Opium. Dried latex derived from seed capsules of the opium poppy Papaver somniferum. Partially made of analgesic alkaloid morphine, processed chemically to produce heroin. It distanced him from it all. He was high up in the sky in more than a mechanistic sense, far away from London and people and the tribulations of life. Far from his job and from Simon, wherever he was. Far enough and objective enough to know what he had to do.
The eerie tranquility in the halls was broken by the erratic slap of his uneven footfalls. His shoulders swayed dangerously like a canoe on stormy waters, threatening to tip and send him plunging into the icy sea. The tick of the clocks filled his ears as he raced for the stairs, struggling up endless steps until he reached the top. The cold, metal door to the outside world loomed over him and he threw it open, tumbling past it.
Pink sunlight warmed his face as he emerged onto the silent rooftop. A gust of summer wind ruffled his hair. A sparrow flew, chirping as it searched for a forest. The soft clouds were pastel pink and glowing with orange from the setting sun. The world seemed to sigh, and through the delirium, so did he.
The corners of his eyes burned. His last thought was of Simon before he let his body fall off the ledge.
.
“Mr. Spears, do you know why I’ve summoned you here?”
“No, sir.”
“If you spoke more with the elder Shinigami you might know already, but I suppose you’re a quiet one. We have enough quiet ones down here, don’t you think? It’s almost a prerequisite to committing suicide, I suppose.”
“That’s an interesting observation, sir.”
Laurent Goodman of the records department sighed, his fingers expanding over his tired eyes.
“Personal record analysis, that’s why you’re here. It’s paramount that all Shinigami analyze their records. Don’t ask me why, it’s tradition. You don’t have a choice. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to sit there, and I’m going to tell you where you went wrong with your life. Stay quiet, be polite, and you’ll be out of here within ten minutes. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good.”
Mr. Goodman shuffled the papers in his hands. It was two in the afternoon, so the tidy black lines blurred together. He adjusted his wire-rim glasses, well aware that there was no issue with his vision. Any confusion was a result of his brain rebelling against the monotony. If only he could kill himself a second time.
William’s life was dull like any other. He’d been born into a family on the verge of poverty, transforming him into a workaholic prick before he reached twelve years of age. He’d studied hard enough to win a position at the London bank, and for two years he’d fought up the corporate latter, becoming the youngest Chief Information Officer in the company’s history. One year into his new role, he’d pursued a relationship with a young man named Simon Turner, leading to his subsequent downfall and suicide. At first it appeared to be the dullest, most average record Mr. Goodman had laid eyes on. Then the fine print caught his eye.
“Wait,” Mr. Goodman said, adjusting his glasses and squinting at the record. William, who had been ready to leave, sat back down.
“What is it?”
“Oh, this is interesting,” Mr. Goodman purred, the fog drifting from his eyes, “that Simon fellow you were involved with- it seems he wasn’t human at all.”
William’s eyes widened, “excuse me?”
“You heard me. I don’t suppose you’ve learned about demons yet, have you?”
“I’ve heard- I’ve heard of them before, but I thought that was rubbish. So you’re saying that-“
Laurent Goodman’s lips curled into a lazy smile. He took a sip of his coffee, “Simon Turner was a demon. And that’s not all, he was contracted to boot. Those buggers form agreements with humans in exchange for their soul- you’ll learn about it later. It seems this one – Simon – had a little deal with one of your coworkers. Their soul in exchange for your position.”
Time slowed before reality shattered, the pieces flying in all directions, piercing William’s skin and embedding themselves in his chest. For a moment all he could do was sit and bleed. Then time reversed itself and the shards returned to their proper places in the tapestry of tragedy known as his life, and he felt nothing again.
Adjusting his glasses flippantly, he said, “So his relationship with me was an intentional ploy to rid me of my position.”
“Yes,” Mr. Goodman said, “and I think you’re taking it rather well. You don’t display much emotion, do you Spears?”
William stood, “If that’s all, I think I’ll be going.”
“Wait, you need-“
He was halfway down the hall before Mr. Goodman finished.
.
The clunk and scratch of chalk on the black board punctuated the chattering of restless students. Unit 4: The Supernatural part 2, the professor wrote before dropping the chalk to the floor and crushing it beneath her heeled shoe. On her desk was a shining bronze bell, and she picked it up and shook it vigorously, the shrill notes ringing over the lecture hall and hushing all voices. All voices, that is, except one.
To the right of William, Grell Sutcliffe did not stop talking. If it were up to him, he would put as much distance between himself and Sutcliffe as humanly (or inhumanly) possible, but seats were assigned, no exceptions (he had asked.) The redhead was quite possibly the most irritating Shinigami in the realm, with his flamboyant attitude and incessant squabbling—not to mention constant fawning over anything with a pulse. Or without a pulse. Sutcliffe wasn’t known to discriminate.
“Will you shut up?” William hissed as Sutcliffe continued to speak. If William was honest, as he tried not to be, he wasn’t concerned with any lesson about reaping. He would rather die than become a grim reaper, but unfortunately that wasn’t an option. If anything was going to make his tumultuous existence more bearable, it was a monstrous workload and a thousand pages of boring notes. He wasn’t about to let someone stand in the way of his mundane fate.
“What’s it to you?” Sutcliffe hissed back, spinning around to glare at William. Those unnerving yellow-green eyes bit into his skin, “don’t tell me you actually care about this?” Grell eyed the notebook open on William’s desk and barked out a laugh, “You do, don’t you? How trite. Well, I’ve got news for you,” he squinted at the patch sewn on William’s chest, “Will. Nobody. Cares. And neither should you. Now do us all a favor and be quiet.”
The words were spat with a snapping of shark’s teeth and a flipping of unnaturally vibrant hair. William blinked.
“You two!” The blonde professor bellowed from below, her perfect ringlets quivering, “Shut it!” she waved her scythe menacingly in their direction, thrusting it into the candlelight so it gleamed.
“Yes ma’am,” William responded as Sutcliffe huffed and fell back into his seat. Ignoring the rising fire in his veins, he dipped his quill and poised it above his parchment, allowing the excess ink to form angry droplets on the paper.
“This is one of the most important lectures you all will have the pleasure of receiving,” she went on, “In my opinion, it’s one of the most interesting topics as well. Today we will be learning about Demons.”
William froze as the Shinigami buzzed around him, whispering eagerly in each other’s ears.
“Many of you – especially those of you with religious upbringings – begin with misconceptions about demon kind. I’ll start there. Firstly, demons aren’t small, ugly, red men with horns. They are, in fact, quite beautiful.”
Simon had been beautiful. The most beautiful being William had ever laid eyes on. He had first seen Simon when he ran into him in the hallway adjacent to his office. He had dropped his papers and bent down to retrieve them. When he looked up, his annoyance had disintegrated, and the world had been blown away as if by a strong wind. Simon’s eyes had been glimmering gems, bright and alive and full of promise. Perhaps William had first loved him then.
“Demons typically appear in human form and are often indistinguishable from ordinary humans. To identify them you must search for clues: unusual physical ability, unusual attractiveness, a sharp wit, and strong charisma are all indicators. In a word: perfection.”
Perfection. It hurt to ruminate over his past – hurt like dying – but he couldn’t resist. Every trait he had loved about Simon Turner was now being scratched out on the vomit-green chalkboard under the heading: Common Demonic Traits. Quills screamed across papers as Shinigami recorded the details of the only man he’d ever loved, committing them to memory so they would know who to kill.
“Humans find themselves easily led astray by these monsters, but you must know better. Demons are the vilest of creatures and the worst threat to mankind. They steal some human souls and drive others to suicide. They are evil beings only capable of malintent.”
As if forced by a phantom marionette thread, William sprung from his seat and left the lecture hall without a backwards glance, the oaken door thudding shut behind him. But even that heavy wood couldn’t save him from the monsters rising in the shadows. The expanse of hallway ahead seemed to stretch on for miles. He ran down it, ignoring the eyes that turned to stare. His fervor echoed off the walls, and suddenly he was back in his office building. He was climbing the stairs, thoughts of his false lover lurking beneath the surface of his mind’s waters. Simon’s dastardly smile. The way he smelled perpetually of grass and pine. The twinkle in his deep brown eyes. The way he spoke, and the way he commanded every room he entered.
But now there was something else. William remembered the time Simon confessed his love like it had been yesterday. They had been eating eggs and toast together on the way to work, dodging carriages that flew by and discussing a recent investment. There had been a pause in conversation filled only by the clopping of hooves and the shouting of merchants, and then he had done it. His face next to William’s, his breath warming his ear, Simon had whispered:
“You know that I love you, right William?”
And William’s face had colored. He’d flinched away as if electrocuted, but his lips had stubbornly curled.
“Not here,” he had hissed, “later.”
And William had thought it charming, the confidence with which his companion had confessed. He had not floundered or reddened. His words had not tumbled awkwardly from his lips but had slid from them like butter. Would any human have been so bold, so unwavering in confession? Perhaps, if they were telling a lie.
Grell Sutcliffe found William slumped against the side of a hallway, his eyes red behind glasses, his face drawn.
“What’s your problem?” Grell asked, not unkindly, “are you always so dramatic? I wouldn’t have yelled at you if I had known you would bawl like a baby in the hallway.”
When William didn’t answer, Grell took the liberty to sit beside him on the cold floor, scowling as dirt accumulated on his clothing. He took one piece of long, red hair and twirled it between his manicured fingers.
“Beautiful men are the worst.” He said, his voice unusually sober, “the most attractive of them are always the most vile. I want to kill every last one of them.” He said it venomously. He wasn’t joking.
William looked at him then, “how did you know?”
“I’m perceptive.”
Neither of them said anything after that. They sat in the cold stone hallway, millions of miles away from their previous lives. They were two people brought together by tragedy, and the infant bonds between them would never, in their thousand years of existence, be broken.