Bad girls are locked in the dark.

That was the truth in Carrick's Charity School for Young Girls. What a bad girl was, however, depended on a lot of things and the headmistress would pass judgement as she saw fit. Even when the girls only stole, sold themselves and lied because Mrs Packard ordered them to. And a good, grateful girl should be obedient.

Laughable.

Yes, they were taught to read, write and count so they could grow up to be teachers and governesses because the School was supposed to be an upstanding and respectable institution. But who cared if a couple of unwanted orphaned chits went missing?

Evelyn was very good thief because of such a rule, proving her usefulness so Mrs Packard would be reluctant to let her go while her age made her vulnerable. She had brought money and goods, jewels that could be sold or pawned off, smuggled food for her and some of the girls from time to time, a treat or two, a thicker blanket... small things.

Mrs Packard said sins had to be purged in the dark, smiling gleefully while she dragged the screaming girl of her choice into the cellar, tossing her down the stairs into a darkness so solid one could drown in it. Screams fuelled her delight while she dragged the poor victim through the floor. Then the sobbing echoed through the corridors, slightly muffled by the thick doors.

Evelyn was not a screamer, at least not when the cellar was her sentence. There were other punishments harsher than a few days alone in the dark with no food and just a bit of water.

It was quite a similar place to the cell where she found herself at the moment though the cellar had been stocked with coal, the supply rarely used for more than the kitchen needs and the amount required to keep Mrs. Packard's room and office warm and comfortable, smelled of the dark dust, smoke and dirt, was also quite bigger than her current lodgings and crushed coal could be made into a much more comfortable bed than the straw mat under her and lacked the chains that bound her to the mossy moist stone wall. Useless things those. What kind of thief would she be if she couldn't escape from those simple manacles? They were accessories she used when they came to deliver her food, faking fear, innocence and helplessness.

A few tears, a sob, hiding behind her hands… tricks of the beggar's trade.

No one came for her, family or good folks, while in the orphanage and she made sure to scare away the men that came, trying to drag her to a whorehouse or the workhouses. She preferred to keep stealing and even kill, if needed, making a place for herself in the street, for the future. So Evelyn got locked in the dark cellar so many times for her sins, for her insults, for her insubordination, for her existence, that the dark no longer felt a punishment.

Darkness was a sanctuary.

Evelyn had been on the alleys of London, stealing only for herself, working only for herself, surviving for the sake of it, for years now, having left the Charity School for Girls as soon as her age permitted, so there would be no chase, no retribution, no laws to drag her back, eyes used to the night, her hands nimble and step quick, burying herself into the most twisted of areas so she would be forgotten. A proud street rat, as it were.

Mouser was the name everyone in the seedy underworld called her, most not even realizing her gender. Her baggy, mismatched and worn clothes helped the illusion, as did the short dark brown hair that fell messily around her face, shaggy tips brushing her chin, a small braid dangling on the left side, touching her shoulder, a thick and red glass bead gleaming on the tip. Looking either too clean or too pretty in the streets was a problem that a handful of coal and ash fixed right quick.

The issue with her current way of life was a kidnapping made by a bunch of "demon cultists", as they had introduced themselves as soon as she was chained in place, that intended to use her as a virgin sacrifice. Said, word by word, with references of innocence and her ability to protect her untouched flesh to such an advanced age in such circumstances. After a lot of talk and praise about how unexpected a prize she was.

Utter nonsense.

Virgin she might be but innocent was another issue altogether. She did warn her captors about that but she was sure no fanatic would not believe her. And her attempt had been a bit half-hearted… Not that escape was difficult as they believed her caged and weak, lessening security and care. But she was in the dark, with food given to her and she was warm and had a quite sturdy roof overhead. Why change the situation? She would run when the threat grew but for now she felt happy with her forced reprieve.

Mouser sorely needed a rest as Smiling Jack was running her ragged, running in circles because of the kidnappings and murders that had had an increase that summer. People talked. And she heard. And dealt with it. A lot of things were stirring in the underbelly, most of them unpleasant and with shades of occult and otherworldliness that just felt… off. Whether one believed or not it was irrelevant. The damage would be done.

The last three days had been easy and calm.

The cell door opened suddenly, breaking the quiet with a sharp bang.

Mouser narrowed her eyes, jumping, startled, slipping the chains in place, reacting to the brightness of the lantern, watching as a boy was tossed within, rather roughly, the guards chaining him to the walls as tightly as she faked to be bound, moving away without a spare glance for either of their captives, the darkness returning abruptly as the door was closed and locked. Just grunts doing their jobs to lord that did nothing but to laze around, complain and demand.

So they had started to gather the blood to fuel the actual summoning, as they prattled on. They didn't think that it was worthy to keep quiet in front of the people they would soon kill.

So it was time to leave.

Silently she discarded her chains, standing, stretching, watching the boy carefully. Noble, rich and carrying a pair of very nice rings, despite being disguised as a street kid with an injured eye. But people saw what they wanted to see and if had been captured the cultists weren't looking too hard at what they were picking up. Her breasts were not that small even under the binds, the male shirt, the wool sweater and the shabby jacket she wore and still few seemed to notice the suspicious lumps.

"You hurt, boyo?" She asked in a low soft voice, crouching smoothly in front of him. Her eyes were an inky brown, its shape and colour almost doe-like, framed by long lashes but that was not what was remarkable about them. The colour was common and their form mattered little to her. What was important about her eyes was that they had adapted to the darkness. Shades of gray and black showed her the world when no light shone through. Colour became apparent when a sliver of light shimmered.

She saw his shape, his clothes and his attitude quite clearly. And every instinct she possessed was pointing sharply at all the oddities of his presence and demeanour. Smooth capture because there were little bruises that she could see at least. Almost no resistance while they dragged and chained him. A bit too much of relaxation and smugness in the way his eye scanned the darkness, blindly but unafraid, waiting for it to adjust.

"No." His voice showed no hint of fear of hysterics either. Good. It also sounded surprisingly worldly for a kid that should be barely thirteen and was most definitely of upper world origin. It was a voice she would expect to hear from another orphanage kid, the street rats and the broken men Smiling Jack catered to.

"I'm Mouser. Do you want to get out?" Her tone might have been a mite too cheery for the situation but she was making plans. Maybe a nice reward for being so good for the rich kid that had been playing poor and gotten caught. Some nobles did that often... go into the streets to fool around in the part of poor people, to go to the seediest brothels and gambling hells. Or when they searched for some street runner to do their dirty work. They had the fun and reassurance that their warm houses and armed footmen were waiting so only the thrill would stay with them.

"What can you do?" There was a slight mocking in his voice and a smirk as he looked up from his sitting position. Such a common attitude for his kind. He seemed to be unable to see her but was quite sure of her position as the tilt of his head allowed her to see. And then he realized she was right next to him, a slight jump of his shoulders marking shock and surprise, as he turned fully into the darkness. "Aren't you... wait..." His eye narrowed in the dark. "You were chained."

"I ain't now boyo." Mouser chuckled. Sure you ended up with bleeding wrists and sore hands on the first tries, and if one wasn't careful broken bones, but freedom made it worth it. Any cutpurse could slip out of a constable's cuffs as soon as they went into the street. She looked away, towards the door. "We have a few hours. You want out?"

"What can you do?" He repeated the question carefully, a bit of calculating interest infiltrating his expression but still no real fear within his eye. What was the little rich kiddo playing at? Waiting for a rescue? Was he the bait, the lure? The sacrifice, one used when trying to pinpoint the location of a rival gang? Had he been followed there by a small force? Had he been sold by richer or poorer familiars that saw him as an obstacle in the succession and inheritance lines?

Mouser parted her lips in a half smirk, tilting her head.

"Rude." She pretended to complain, reaching for the inside of wool sweater with its many hidden pockets, slipping her hoarded keys out. Stolen from the cultists, stored carefully. Never even felt her hands at work. Yes they had stripped her and bathed her like a disobedient pooch when she arrived, proceeding to verify the status of her lady parts, after the shock of realizing she was a woman, but they had been unable to find all the trickery and tools hidden in her clothes. That was the whole point to them. Any proper lady would have suffered a fit of vapours. Mouser… well… the orphanage was no different in their treatment when they were made presentable for their very rich and respectable patroness or were prepared as an exhibition of female flesh for possible brothel buyers. She had been redressed in her belonging and she was not sure why. Also she fit very few of the requirements for "proper lady" labelling. "Here ya go boyo." Mouser said as she snapped the chains free after a few second of tinkering.

He nodded curtly in place of any thanks, kneeling, readjusting his position to something more comfortable, eye narrowing, still scanning the darkness with the twitchy movements of a truly newly blind.

Mouser stood and walked towards the door carefully, running her hand over the surface, knocking on it with a loud bang that seemed to startle the boy, his head snapping in the direction of the sound. There was no answer nor alarm on the other side. They were most likely alone so another key was put to work and the thief opened the door and slipping cautiously into the dimly lit room. If a cell had a lock on the inside it was likely so there would be no need for a second man to open it while one had fun with who was inside. Less people who knew, less mess to curb. She huffed, amused, remembering the place.

A modified small basement with the cell created at the very end through the use of brickwork. It was like the old orphanage cellar which meant an old grand mansion. It was prepared to groom the sacrifices with a bathtub, a small fireplace, and neatly folded fabric of what seemed to be robes on the serviceable wooden table, soaps and all the little items that would be used to clean their little lambs. Not one of those titbits of information served to pinpoint their location. The kid moved out of the cell too, calmly assessing the situation.

Mouser approached the walls, sliding one of the lamps out of its support, creating a makeshift shiv before doubling back and closing the cell door once more. A safeguard if things went south and a way to pretend they were still in there if the escape was successful. There wasn't much in the room that could be used as a weapon. Throwing soaps would be distracting at most. And unless you shoved a sponge down someone's throat there was no way the floppy fluffy things would kill. Strangling someone with a towel would also be time-consuming and unpractical. No brushes, no combs. Those, bone, wood or metal could be snapped and sharpened. The bottles were too small to be more than a thrown annoyance and their glass and ceramic looked way too frail and cheap to do any damage beyond a scrape. A shard in the eye would work but the chances of such happy happening were no good.

"No guards." The boy noted, arms crossed.

"Why bother?" Mouser looked around once more, leaning against the table, stretching her legs leisurely after strapping the makeshift weapon into her outer sleeve, feeling the irregular shape scrape the fabric and touched her key pockets, listening to the slight click of the metal. "For them we're a kid and a girl. Helpless, weak, disposable."

"You don't believe I'm just a kid?" He put such an innocent façade on, turning a wide-eyed innocent look her way, voice softening just so... Mouser chuckled, straightening, unaffected.

"If you're just a kid I'm the queen." She began scanning the walls a bit more thoroughly. No windows. No gaps. No coal shoot. "Gorgeous work with the face though boyo." Everything was walled and closed off. It was obvious that they were underground and the only way out would be through the door.

She walked to it, closing her eyes, listening the sounds carefully. Dissonances were being carefully catalogued in her mind. There shouldn't be anyone there, Mouser assessed after a few moments. There were no sounds, no rustles of impatience made by the fabric of the clothes, no sound of breath, no huffs. Also any guard would have already checked the noise they had produced with the banging door and the talking… She banged the wood once more with her fist, making it groan. No response. Mouser lowered her head a bit, staring at the lock for a long moment, eyes narrowed."Did you see the way in boyo?"

"No." Blindfolded too, then.

"Tch" Mouser groaned. She wanted a cigarette so badly... It was what she missed in this impromptu vacation. Her fingers played with the braid for a moment, tapping the bead, and then the thief crouched, starting experimenting with the nicked keys. The lock opened with the clicking of well-aligned gears. Mouser sighed and appraised the boy. "Helpless us..." She whispered, amused."At what time were you caught?"

"A couple of hours or so. It was night. Nearing midnight."

Mouser nodded, considering. There would be little activity at that time in whatever was on the other side.

Softly the door opened with no creak, revealing the staircase and a second door to her right. A peek through the keyhole, as it was also locked, revealed a normal, very well stocked pantry. No coal, no coal shoot. Pity. Mouser walked softly with barely a sound but the wood tended to creak under the heavier steps of the boy. She made no fuss about it as they walked up the stairs.

Cellars and basements like that were always linked either to the kitchens or some secondary storing house to supply the manor. Another locked door whose key should only be in the hands of the butler, cook and governess blocked their way. And sure enough it was not one of her keys. Mouser grumbled and leaned against the door using the key from the cell, deforming it methodically in the process as the kid watched. Finally the tumblers and gears were either too broken or in place because the door was opened.

It was a kitchen. Empty and silent. Mouser smirked smugly, glancing at the kid, to check if he was still following, placing a finger in front of her lips, winking, asking for silence. She discarded the shiv nonchalantly, picking up a trio of wicked looking kitchen knives, balancing them. Then she picked a new one and passed it to the boy.

"Pointy end goes into people that you dislike." She whispered leaning against his head, ruffling his hair playfully, hiding the blades in her clothes. They had taken her pocket knives, her guns, her dagger, the darts and the razors… it would be a pain to replace all of that… He just watched her, expression almost unreadable. The outer doors were easier to open from within and with the materials the kitchen could readily provide. The downside to it was the silence required of the operation. The servant's quarters were near. Too near. An out of place sound and the curiosity would overwhelm them. Perhaps they had orders to ignore sounds due to the corral in the basement but one could not be too sure.

Mouser stopped looking around in the settling darkness as they stepped outside into a wide garden.

"Well… hell's blighted spit... We ain't in London." She groused, closing her eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of her nose, looking around. It was the outskirts surely. Such wide grounds, trees, landscaping… Few town manors could have those. The windows above their heads were dark and dead, the nobles either drunkenly sleeping of under the influence of poppy, laudanum of some such. No danger there for now but often the houses outside London's streets had guards because of the fear of highwayman and burglaries. Often it was ineffective. "Still good boyo?"

"Hoxton's estate." The boy whispered softly, eye narrowing as he did his own exam, holding the knife with a steady grip but keeping it lowered.

"Nothing like nobles playing demon baiting..." Mouser shook her head, turning to look around once more, trying to find the path to the outer wall that surrounded the richly elaborate manor. Just a few weeks ago it was prostitutes gone missing. Then the thieves started to freak about some rumours, then the kids had reported that a man had tried to grab them from the streets into a coach… Blighted hells she had been bloody busy because of a bunch of bored morons.

"They're escaping!" A voice suddenly shouted, lanterns flaring a glaring light through the flowers, shrubbery and decorative statues, the sound of gravel being crushed under heavy steps, other voices answering the shout, converging.

The boy thinned his lips, eye narrowing in annoyance as a trio of guards spotted them and gave the alarm, running, determined to stop them, recapture and re-cage. That gave them a slight advantage. They were not trying to kill them otherwise the guns would be out and would already have tried to punch a few holes into their sorry carcasses.

"Are you squeamish boyo?" Mouser whispered keeping a relaxed stance, hands in her sleeves as he shook his head slowly. "Good. This might get messy." Her dark eyes hardened a bit as the first man reached them, lunging forward, up close as someone used to close quarter's and fighting dirty, the kitchen carving knives held in both hands, her elbow going for the throat, delivering a solid hit, the knife in her hand digging itself into the stomach of the attacker, twisting viciously without hesitation, releasing the improvised weapon, going for the pistol he carried, holding it with her right hand, aiming, firing a couple of shots towards the guards, a scream letting her know she had a hit. But the third was still coming and more were approaching, their steps loud and echoing, shouts clouding the night. A few lights in the estate started to glow.

"Sebastian..." The boy's voice rose behind her, harsh and cold.

Mouser stepped back, dispatching the man, the one who had avoided her shot, knife in the throat, a shot in the chest, grabbing another gun, stuffing it into her pocked as backup, turning to shoot, grabbing the kid by the scruff, tossing him out of the way before pressing the trigger, aiming towards the guard that had gone for the grab, raising a sap to knock the boyo unconscious. The guard fell, the bullet opening a red bloom on his chest when a sudden shadow moved, the screams echoing around, each of the men that had appeared falling, some lanterns going off, one creating a small fire in the bushes, a silver knife deeply sunk in each corpse. Mouser crouched in the strange calm that followed, curious, recovering it and another pair of fully loaded guns a couple of pocket knives and a dagger before returning her attention to the implements that had delivered death. Actual silver. She closed her hand around it, pulling it out of the corpse, sliding it close to her wrist, inverting it to hide the blade alongside the inner arm. Another weapon was always useful as odd as it looked.

"Young Master." A tall man clad in black stood in front of the boy, lean and proper, smirking slightly, red eyes gleaming with amusement amongst the black hair of his fringe. So it was Ciel Phantomhive after all as the crest on his ring said. There were not that many kids with eye-patches and pierced ears running around too. Much less kids with butlers at their beck and call. And the Queen's Guard Dog was infamous in her world. "Should I kill her too?"

Mouser slid the knife out of her sleeve, on the left hand, raising the almost emptied gun and tilted her head smiling, challenging. Viewing the corpses around her might be frightening and she knew a similar fate awaited her if the kid ordered it, but she would show no fear despite the situation. Her life was survival. There was bound to be a day where she would die because of a misstep. Her stance seemed to mildly amuse the man, a smirk parting his lips, red eyes softening. Handsome man. She scoffed. Devils hid behind pleasant faces, that she knew all too well. Seen her share of them in the pits of London even though she had never seen one who was this good at killing.

"Leave her be." No emotion, no gratitude just a no-kill.

Good enough for her.

All tension faded from the trio. She slid the gun into her jacket carefully and shifted her position. The third kitchen knife was poking her slightly, guns weighting her pockets, threatening to slide the loose pants down her hips. It was some repayment for the things she had lost from the... what was it again? Hoxton's.

Ciel Phantomhive turned away and started to walk towards the gate, clearly expecting them to follow like overeager puppies, giving the guards and the ruckus behind the lit windows of the estate no spare glance.

"Were you really trying to kill me with such an unsharpened blade?" The man asked almost jokingly, approaching while still dutifully following his master. He apparently did just what he was mocking with ease. Mouser followed too, nonchalantly, sliding her hands into jacket's her pockets, cold fingers finding silver and gold trinkets from last week's market run in the inseam. They needed to be pawned.

"Jab it hard enough somewhere soft and squishy and it won't matter, mate." Mouser tossed him the blade without a care. He caught it flawlessly, bowing slightly, making it disappear with a flourished sleight of hand, breaking his step for a fraction of a second, watching her with unsettlingly clever red eyes.

A carriage waited for the Earl of Phantomhive beyond the highly decorated gate, the horses shaking their head quietly. Beautiful, slick, well trained. All that screamed rich. He'd be waylaid in the streets by the first group of ignorant brutes that didn't recognize the crest. The man named Sebastian opened the door and helped his master into the dark cabin. Prim, proper and stiff. And still something was off. There was something not truly submissive about the way he seemed to obey. Ciel looked at her for a moment, standing in the opened space, one hand holding the carriage's roof for balance, staring at her from above, gears clearly clicking neatly behind his eyes.

"Don't you need a ride back to London... Mouser?" He asked softly.

"You offering boyo?" A slight smirk was his answer. She smirked too, sliding her braid behind her ear, revealing a row of silver and gold earrings, the emergency money of a thief, pirate and sailor. One of them was always reserved to pay for their own funeral as no one would provide that much for them. "No need kiddo. Safe journey." Sebastian inclined his head formally before closing the door and taking the driver's place the horses obeying easily to the first movement of the reins.

Damp, dirty, smoky and full of some the worst scum in London, too near the Thames and ripe with its stench. The heavy smog also seemed to find its way easily into the rooms regardless of floor and whatever protections they nailed to the doors windows and cracks. That's how the Dancing Pig, Smiling Jack's den was. Then one added cheap booze, cheap entertainment, cheap over-painted, overripe whores and the picture was as foggy as it was clear.

It was almost night again as she reached the place whose creaky attic she called home. It had been a long day of walking and sneaking into farmer's carts, navigating through London and making a few appearances on her usual haunts to reassure her allies and tell Jack's enemies Mouser was still not dead. She was greeted rather warmly as she walked by, her step sure and silent weaving through the clientele and furniture. Most of them would sell her, their mothers and left testicle to the devil for money, at least half of them had tried to kill her one time or another. It was just business. But they all put on the face of a friend while under that roof. It was an unspoken, unwritten rule that always was held true while in the Dancing Pig.

Big, burly and sporting an old and faded Glasgow grin that gave him his moniker Jack came to her, immensely bushy white sideburns trembling in outrage. But he waited until they were in the attic to actually burst as she dug through her belongings, remembering what she had to acquire to replace her disappeared trinkets, taking the pistols and knife out of their hiding places, tossing them onto the lumpy mattress. Followed by every item that had remained hidden in her threads while Jack's shouting scolding speech came to an end.

"Where were you, ya stray? Four days with no word..." His wide gestures filled the tiny room as surely as his voice. Smiling Jack thought of her as a replacement of his murdered child and behaved accordingly. But above all she was part of his gang albeit an aloof one.

"I was occupied." Mouser found the cigarettes and the spare steel lighter with a smile, placing a white cylinder on her lips, igniting the device with a sharp click, looking around, taking a deep happy drag of the tobacco. The heavy blankets that kept cold and light away, almost turning the place into a tent were still in place their colours faded and their appearance old and ugly, continuing to serve their purpose. Her narrow bed was unmade, covers and sheets haywire and her trunk undisturbed at its feet. "Apparently people still think I look helpless."

"Quit the fancy talk luv. And helpless?" Smiling Jack laughed heartily, reassured by her deadpan answer. "Evelyn I've known you for the last sixteen years ever since you were a wee thing with big shimmering eyes that earned her so many pity pennies and a pair of quick tiny hands that robbed them blind before the chumps could blink." Mouser smirked blowing the smoke away, watching it drift around. Four years old and Mrs Packard had tossed her with the others to the street to get more funding for the pretty dresses the old biddy was so fond of. Not that it kept them from the schoolroom every morning. "And that was before we taught you how to clean the poor sod's clock and teach him the time of day."

Mouser chuckled blowing more smoke with a gleeful look in her eyes.

"Do you have anything for me to do?"

"Nothing. Just rest." Smiling Jack grumbled, turning away, muttering all the way down to the tavern.

Mouser smiled, the cigarette held deftly between her lips.

Now he had nothing? Mouser stared at her feet and kicked away the boots, tossing her sorry self into the bed, besides her stolen weapons with a long sigh, shaking the ash or her cigarette into a broken pot. If she hadn't been sure Phantomhive was going to take her somewhere she didn't particularly wanted to be she would have accepted his ride. Her feet bloody hurt…

"That woman..." Ciel started, considering carefully, staring at the cake that had been placed in front of him, his expression closed. They had concluded the Queen's mission, destroying Hoxton's cult with ease, the man now imprisoned by Scotland Yard, his allies on the run or in hiding. Sebastian glanced at him as he poured the lapseng tea into the fine china not allowing a single drop to spill. "She might be a good addition to our staff..."

"Indeed." Sebastian agreed, voice kept politely neutral, thinking back, placing the cup and saucer in front of the boy, knowing his actual opinion was not being asked. Such was the duty of a butler and the part he had agreed to play. Also he had very little to add to that at the moment.

"Investigate." Ciel ordered taking a sip, eye closing solemnly.

"Understood." Sebastian answered, placing a hand over his heart bowing slightly, leaving to tend to his other duties, his mind at work, rearranging his day to accommodate the new request.

According to the Young Master the escape had been Mouser's doing, as dubious and amusing as that name was. And there was something about her soul, her scent, a spark that had shone through even though he had interacted little... He could feel his eyes grow a bit demonic. He recognized the instinct even though it was the first time he was experiencing it this acutely within a contract.

There existed no natural born females in the demon race. Even Lilith, had been created from the first human female. Over the eras they had been adding them to their ranks through deals, Sabbath and seduction. But it was a delicate procedure, from choosing the right female, soul, instinct, personality to the turning and training. It was also signified unlocking emotions giving the male demon something more, a sort of power no one seemed to understand but was highly sought after.

It was a very meticulous covenant.

Could that crafty creature be a good choice?