120 years after Ciel, Sebastian still wants Phantomhive soul. [SebasxOC]

Chapter 1

The Black Letter

San Francisco, California, United States of America

October 20, 2011

9:45 p.m.

 A letter arrived this morning to the Orianthe apartment complex, unit 429. Enveloped in thick paper shaded the deepest of blacks, its red wax seal had been broken in awful curiosity. Though it had been addressed to the proper apartment and proper tenant, this fashionable velvety envelope was out of place amongst the stained gray carpet that rolled down the apartment hallway like a dried cow tongue, and bare flickering bulbs which lit the way to apartment 429 for whoever neglected a community mail box to lay this letter on the tenant’s doorstep. With its seal broken, a sweet yet spicy aroma seemed to slither out of its paper lips to tickle the openers’ nose. It read in wispy black handwriting:

Dear Miss Wells,

I regret to inform you that your great aunt Madame Gwendolyn passed away October 15th at 10:00 p.m. London time. Though you may have not spoken, let alone known of her existence, you are her only remaining relative.

To keep this letter short as I’m sure you’re pressed for time, living in the bustling city of San Francisco, I must inform you that she has left her entire estate, money, and contracts to you. The funds will be transferred to your account on the 21st of this month. As for the rest of the inheritance mentioned in this letter, I will personally discuss them with you soon.

Sincerely,

The Butler

What a well written letter, at least that’s what she thought when she read it over the first time and then decided it was not just not any old sham, but a really ridiculous one. People were getting lazy, now she understood how extreme junk mail could be. However the letter had not been thrown into the trash or even burned out of spite considering her poor financial situation. Really the contents within that letter seemed to mock the fact she had outdated milk in the fridge and a cat who only ate Meow Mix that went for twelve dollars a bag at most.

For some reason she kept the letter and now as she sat on the thin windowsill, chipping away at the white lead paint with her flaking red fingernails, her tired gaze fell down upon the city streets and sidewalks drowned in autumn rain. Who on earth would bother to write such a ridiculous letter? Surely they weren’t expecting to convince anyone of such a fantastical story? The only odd thing about it beyond the fact it was a black enveloped letter addressed to her from the U.K., was some old bat left her fortune to her and didn’t ask for a bank account or social security number. If you were going to sham someone, weren’t those two things necessary?

Suddenly her phone rang, vibrating its heavy body and twisting dial nearly right off its stand. With no money for a cell phone and barely any for a landline, the phone was a fossil along with her moth eaten furniture that stank of cat urine. Apparently Goodwill had no taste, nor did she. The phone rang about several times before it’s boxy answering machine picked up to record the seventh message for today from her deadbeat ex-boyfriend. Even through telephone wires she could hear the slur of adderall and cheap forty ounces. Apparently the few months he put into their relationship were worth nights of fun she refused, so he persisted in means to collect.

“Stop calling,” she groaned, leaning her cheek against the window’s cold glass.       

As the warmth from her cheek crept a fog across the pane, there came a sudden crisp knock at her apartment’s heavily locked and chained door. Usually visitors rang first to be let up, but it didn’t strike as odd since it wouldn’t be the first time the buzzer broke. Her nosey, rat-like landlord had a system for that just in case. Every fifteen minutes she’d have her balding thirty-year-old son glance out their window down to the dirty stoop to see if anyone was jamming their thumb on the numbers.