Note: Trying something different... I'm not used to multi-chapter fanfics, so let's see how this goes. Haha. Please enjoy.

Just as a reminder, in the future I might stop posting fics on ffnet because it's a little too restrictive so please watch or bookmark my writing LJ (syn-drome at livejournal). :D

Chapter One: Venice at Sunrise

The air was fragrant with the afterscent of rain, long since moved on from the midnight storm. A lone black carriage traveled a cobbled road alongside a canal, pregnant with extra water and nearing dangerous levels. The one looking out upon the murky lavender water seemed not to notice; it was all new to him. His pale skin was a glowing shade of rose, reflecting the blotchy dawn sky, but the look on his face was all darkness.

Ciel Phantomhive was here for business and not for pleasure; there was no time for aesthetic appreciation when murder hung heavy in the air.

"Sebastian?"

The one sitting across from him raised his chin to show he was attentive.

"Have you been to Venice before?"

"A few times, my lord," Sebastian replied. "A unique city, you'll find."

"It looks different," Ciel acknowledged, his black-gloved hand on the velvet curtain meant to shade the small window in the carriage door. The sun stole inside as a result, an atmosphere-dimmed beam shining directly on the face of the eyepatch-wearing Earl. "Smells different, even."

His nostrils flared instinctively despite the carriage being quite sealed, leaving only the faint perfume of the luxurious seating and a coolly masculine, subtle scent that Ciel recognized as Sebastian's.

Minutes of silence drifted by. The carriage's wheels spun to a halt on a particularly rocky stretch of road. Before it had come to a full stop, Sebastian was out of his seat, not waiting for the man to open the door for them. With one push of his hand, the door swung open, and he was out in the morning sun, the wind tugging playfully at his black hair and double-breasted overcoat.

His leather gloved hand reached inside with assured grace, the sort of model art students could spend days drawing. Ciel's own small hand, dressed in fine lace, fell into Sebastian's outstretched palm. Without any sign of clumsiness, he tapped one heeled boot down onto the step, and then the other onto the rain-broken street. Small rocks that had once been part of the cobbled street scattered at his steps, as if aware of who stood upon them. As soon as Ciel had his footing, he slipped his hand away from Sebastian's and stared at the building next to the carriage.

"A dreadful place to die," he remarked, his exposed eye taking in the decrepit stone walls, smudged with black stains and green blossoms of canal-born lichen. The narrow windows were covered, barred, or both. What had once been a modern building filled with desirable hotel rooms and ground-level shopfronts had decayed into the semblance of a prison.

"Indeed," Sebastian agreed. "Not the sort of place one expects high society."

Ciel started forward with a yawn—he hadn't slept much last night, since they had arrived in Venice just two hours before—and entered the double doors that led into a spacious foyer. In its glory days it must have been truly beautiful. A tarnished brass chandelier hung crookedly from the high ceiling, most of its candles missing or melted to mere stubs. An L-shaped counter ran against one wall, chipped along its surface and vandalized with scratches and carved names. The giant rug in the very center of the foyer was stained to near blackness, with puddle-shaped stains that could only stir uneasiness in any rational visitor.

All around the foyer, men in uniform stood about, a few smoking cigarettes and holding raucous conversation. They all seemed to pause, however, at the sight of the boy in the eyepatch and his tall butler. Only one of them—a near-middle-aged man in regular clothing, desperately in need of a fresh shave—came forward with a welcoming smile.

"Earl Phantomhive!" he exclaimed with a deep and overdone bow. Clearly he wasn't used to this. "We have been expecting you. Ciro Tosetti, the—"

"Venetian police commissioner," Ciel finished for him. "I was told to find you."

"And I am found!" Tosetti responded with a good-natured laugh. His accent was thankfully intelligible, and his English good. "To think something of this nature would happen in this city at this time..."

"Murderers do not take holidays," Ciel cut in. He walked past Tosetti, who smelled strongly of cheap tobacco and the faintest touch of liquor. Tosetti merely smiled and turned about, ready to lead the way for the young Earl. Sebastian fell into step behind them, and with the eyes of uniformed men watching them pass, they ascended a creaky wooden staircase to the next floor.

The hallways were in the same sorry state as the rest of the building. Wallpaper hung in tattered slumps and the rugs had been pounded into the dark wooden floorboards until they were difficult to discern from one another. Rusted room numbers lay neglected in seas of dust on the floor or hung precariously from red nails upon their doors. Not only did the floors creak as they walked over them, but the walls groaned as if the entire building would just collapse in on itself.

Tosetti stopped them at what had once been room 214. A uniformed officer stepped aside for them, and as if he'd been a stopper in a perfume bottle, the unmistakable odor of decay greeted the Earl and his butler.

"One never gets used to such a smell," Tosetti mumbled, pushing the door open and gesturing Ciel and Sebastian in first.

Sebastian produced a fine white handkerchief and held it out to Ciel, but the boy waved it away. Despite Tosetti's comment, he was indeed used to it. Not immune to its nauseating pungency by any means, but he had done this many times before. He could—and would—manage.

The room was predictably quite dark, being on the opposite side of the building as the rising sun. The blinds were drawn across the two small windows on the far wall, with barely any light seeping in around the edges. The mint wallpaper was stained to a sickening swamp green, save for the neat rectangles where paintings had once hung. A bed was pushed against the left wall, its covers out of order and hanging half-on, half-off. Beyond the bed, on the rotting wooden floor, was a thick, dark pool.

Ciel moved further into the room, circling the foot of the bed until the source of the coagulated puddle of blood came into view.

A man, face-down with a blood-stickied mass of dark hair. He wore fine garments, those of a well-to-do gentleman. His skin was grayed and his eyes closed, decaying fingers curled up in positions unnatural to the living. Flies hummed nearby, landing on the corpse every now and then.

"Chester Hinds. Englishman."

It was Sebastian's voice. He too had come over, and stood behind Ciel to examine the scene. Ciel raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly, stepping carefully around the blood and toward the windowed wall to see the victim from a better angle. Sebastian took Ciel's former place and knelt down to take a closer look.

"It seems he was beaten to death," Sebastian added, taking in the visible bruises and blunt force skull wounds with unmoved eyes.

"It would explain the blood spatter here," Ciel acknowledged, looking closely at the wall beside the bed, where red droplets scattered like stars against the green paper. "Castoff. It must have taken a while to bring him down; he's not exactly a small man."

Tosetti peered on, nodding thoughtfully. "We have received some tips that he was in Venice for... bad business."

"How do you mean?" Ciel asked, turning away from the wall to look at Tosetti across the bed.

"He came to our city on premise of legitimate business," Tosetti explained. "This is what we have been told. But others say it was underground dealing. Black market type."

"Unsurprising," Sebastian said, earning a curious tilt of the head from his master. "His name has come up in previous investigations of ours." He looked up at Ciel, who was clearly not recalling the name in the least. "He was involved with Venere, for one."

Ciel's face turned at the vile name of his one-time kidnapper. "Drugs, then?"

"It would seem so."

"This is consistent with our tips," Tosetti added. "This Hinds moved back and forth between London and Venice very often for just such business."

"Did he have drugs in his possession?" Ciel asked, immediately setting his sights on the various drawers in the end tables and within the broken armoire near the door.

"A few," Tosetti said. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Opium. Cocaine. You are free to look and examine if you please. One of my men downstairs is keeping the evidence."

Ciel nodded and walked back around the body to Sebastian, who finally stood. His deep rubied eyes took in the entire scene quickly and in-depth; Ciel never worried about missing anything.

"My lord."

Ciel perked his head. Sebastian leaned over the foot of the bed, pushing down onto a thick fold in the messy bedcovers. With a noise of protest from Tosetti—perhaps from disturbing the crime scene—Sebastian peeled the covers back to reveal something white and strangely conical in shape.

"It's..." Ciel didn't finish, squinting at the odd object.

"A mask," Sebastian finished, plucking it from the stained sheets and holding it up. It was quite unusual, unlike the masks Ciel was used to seeing. Ivory in color and beaked in shape, with two circular eyeholes like spectacles set above the conical snout.

"Il medico della peste," Tosetti said. "The plague doctor mask."

Sebastian smiled knowingly, lifting the mask before his own face, its beak pointed to his own nose. He tilted his head back and looked it straight in its hollow, unmanned eyes.

"Welcome to Carnevale," he said.