Author's Note: Hi there! I don't know much about demon hearts and whether or not the demon can live without it, but for the sake of the story let's pretend they can. This takes place after the camping trip while Rin is learning to control his powers. And don't worry, this is the only time you see Bast; the majority of the story is focused on Amai and Rin. Also, and I think this goes without saying, but Amai is going to be incredibly out of character after this first chap.

Some of you who are familiar with my work may notice that the layout is a bit different. I wanted to try switching character PoVs in the middle of a chapter and decided to do a different layout altogether, so hopefully it looks ok. Anyway, enjoy and please review if you want more!

Blue Exorcist belongs to Katou Kazue and Co.

Chapter One
. . .
Always Pay Your Debts

Amaimon studied the building from a distance, rolling a blue raspberry lollipop around in his mouth. It had been a warehouse before it was a nightclub, with large windows darkened by spray paint, a flashing neon sign precariously perched on the edge of the flat roof, annoying, muffled bass, and a long line of young, raucous humans. Normally, the king of earth would have avoided such a disgusting, crowded place, but he owed Bast a favor, and the man was widely known for following through with his threats, no matter how impossible they might seem.

He stood and raised his eyes to the sign again, a group of twisting, misshapen lights that spelled out the club's name: The Demon's Horns.

Amaimon wasn't sure whether Bast was trying to spite him or if he was just that stupid—though he assumed the latter. He snorted to himself at the thought and spat out the stick, clearing the ruined building before him in a single leap. The demon landed lightly and walked up to a burly man in a black outfit blocking the entrance of the club.

As a 'special guest' of the owner, he didn't have to wait in line, not that he would if he wasn't given a VIP card; the line for the nightclub seemed endless at this hour, with scantily clad humans sweating in the humid, fall weather and screaming with laughter. They were insufferable and he didn't have enough patience to wait with them.

He grimaced when he entered, his senses immediately disorientated by the overpowering music and intense, flickering lights.

A thin fog from dry ice and smoke machines made the dance floor appear as if it were part of a dream, a hazy atmosphere of colliding bodies. The bright, flashing colors hurt his eyes, the music pounded in his head, and the people swayed and spun around him. Everywhere he looked, humans were dressed in gaudy costumes meant to look like monsters: vampires, zombies, skeletons, demons, and everything in between. Most of the dancers eyed Amaimon as he passed—some with interest, some with distrust, and some with lust—but he ignored them all. It took him a while to learn how to move where he wanted, to weave and dodge and shimmy through the packed crowd. Eventually, he made it to the other side of the room, and was allowed up the stairs to Bast's lounge after showing another brusque man in a black shirt his VIP card.

The music faded to an annoying, pulsating beat in the background. No one looked up as he entered, too busy kissing or drinking or sleeping to notice his presence. The second floor was dimly lit by scarcely placed candles befitting the gothic décor. Dark couches were accentuated by pillows meant to look like gore, wine glasses shaped like skulls decorated the table, and the walls were covered with distasteful glow-in-the-dark stickers: fangs, bats, coffins, crosses, wings, and even cartoon devils. This was why he hated humans-turned-vampire—they were always so cocky about it, like they were some superior species instead of a weak, bastardized version of a demon.

Amaimon had to show his card to another man in a black shirt to get him to move and open the door to Bast's office. Two women exited as he did, one dragging the other; his latest victim, most likely. He followed the demon inside, closed the door behind them, and stood in front of it with crossed arms and an expression that fell somewhere between a grimace and a snarl. Bast was picking out a wine bottle from behind his desk, dressed finely in his usual outfit: red vest over a white, collared shirt, black pants, and that eerie, pulsating, crimson jewel at his throat. His black hair was styled in a slight mohawk, leaning to one side of his face, tips fading delicately to a light shade of gray.

His office was, thankfully, decorated much more plainly than the outside lounge. A pair of lavish, plush chairs sat across from his large, polished desk, and behind that was a bar that extended the entire length of the wall. There was only one window off to the side, covered by thick, black curtains. Bast, like all vampires, covered his windows and slept during the day to avoid the sunlight's damaging effects on his body—making a nightclub the perfect hiding place. No one would suspect a prudent club manager to be a demon, especially when he didn't leave behind bite marks.

Two holes in the neck was the trademark of normal vampires, but Bast wasn't, by any stretched definition of the word, normal. The man deemed himself a psychic vampire—a demon that fed off the energy released by specific emotions as though they were blood. His abilities didn't end there, however—he could manipulate vulnerable humans and demons alike, steering their thoughts and making them more agreeable or convincing them to obey without question.

Amaimon didn't know how to fight that, and his uncertainty put him on edge, though he hid it behind his mask of animosity incredibly well.

Bast gave the demon a wide, toothy grin when he noticed him, teeth as straight as a human's. "Ah, there he is! How are you, my friend?" His voice was lofty, British accent thick and fake. He placed the wine bottle on his desk and gestured to the chairs. "Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?"

Amaimon sat across from him in one of the posh, burgundy chairs. "Did our meeting have to be here?"

. . .

Bast poured dark red wine into one of the skull glasses, careful to keep his countenance composed. "I know this isn't an ideal location for you, but we're busy this time of year and I can't abandon my responsibilities here to seek you out. Besides, you like traveling, don't you, Amaimon?" He didn't respond, staring with his trademark stoic expression. "Well, it doesn't matter; you're here now." He slid the cup across his desk to Amaimon and poured the remaining liquid into his jeweled chalice.

Manticore venom was a curious thing—it was largely ineffective on its own, but combined with wine...

The demon picked it up and drank from it without a second thought, dark droplets trickling down from the corners of his mouth. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Ah, yes!" Bast exclaimed as though he had forgotten. "Vampires are cousins to demons, are we not?" No response. "Family members are supposed to help each other and, right now, I need your help."

"And if I don't want to help you?"

He chuckled darkly and leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink around in his cup. "That would be a shame, Amaimon," he dragged out the words menacingly. "I seem to remember you asked a favor from me some time ago, correct?" Amaimon narrowed his eyes. "A favor you have yet to repay," he paused to shake his head in disdain. "It would be so embarrassing if any of your brothers found out, wouldn't it?"

Bast waited for his response, studying Amaimon carefully in the cold, dim candle light of the room. He was unnerved by his words—that much was certain—and it was all he needed. He reached out with his mind, using the familiar powers of his demonic blood, and pulled on the demon's emotions. Bast fed from his courage and determination, draining him until only apprehension and fear remained. He smiled to himself when the demon king shifted uncomfortably.

Amaimon didn't say anything for a few moments, debating his options. "What do you want?"

"Nothing unusual, I assure you," he said mildly. "One of my powerful friends has an exquisite item I would like to own."

The vampire was a collector. He liked to own rare, expensive trinkets from different cultures around the world. Sometimes he purchased these things and sometimes he stole them. But, oftentimes, he used other demons to do his dirty work, offering to give them money or food...or promising to keep their secrets.

He tsked, growing even more anxious to the vampire's delight. "I don't have any money. Go ask Mephisto."

Bast continued, speaking as though he didn't hear the interruption. "This man is very fond of the occult and demonic relics. He promised to trade if I can give him something of equal value." He placed the chalice down and stood, towering over him, draining his confidence more and more. Amaimon tensed, digging his fingertips into the plush fabric of the chair. "It has come to my attention that you have exactly what I'm looking for."

"I don't have anything to give you," he spat, struggling to smother the waver in his voice.

"It's a flower." There was an icy stillness in Bast's words that he knew would send chills down the demon's spine. "It's big and beautiful with light green petals around an incandescent, red center..." Amaimon stood abruptly, knocking the chair back. Bast chuckled lightly, undaunted and almost inordinately pleased by his outburst. He nodded to the man standing guard behind him.

. . .

The man in the black shirt grabbed him from behind. Amaimon ducked low, throwing him over his back. Two more men entered, but they posed no threat to him. Exhilaration took hold of him at the thought of a game with his new human playmates. The demon kicked hard as one lunged at him, sending him sprawling to the floor in pain. He was grabbed again, around the waist, but he wiggled free, twisting the man's arm until a satisfying crackechoed throughout the room. It all happened in less than a minute.

With three writhing humans beneath him, Amaimon turned to Bast, anger plain on his face.

He stepped back and raised his hands in defense. "Whoa, easy there, king of earth. Let's just calm down." He picked up the wine bottle. "Would you like another drink?" Amaimon growled and the bottle shattered. Bast flinched, cursing loudly as a piece of glass embedded itself into his palm, and stumbled back.

He launched himself at the vampire, intending to snap his neck and be done with this mess. Bast stepped aside and landed a swift kick to his abdomen. The drugged wine was beginning to make him sluggish and dizzy, and he staggered back, coughing. He could taste it in the back of his throat, sickly sweet. A pillar of earth and stone burst through the window on Bast's left, but stopped just before hitting him.

"You don't want to fight me, Amaimon," Bast mocked.

"You're right. Killing you will be much more fun."

"I don't think so." He snapped his fingers and a loud pop came from behind Amaimon.

He instantly realized he was shot in the leg. It wasn't a normal bullet—those he could ignore—it was a silver bullet used commonly by exorcists. The wound burned intensely, as if a searing fire had consumed his entire calf. He fell to his knees and the rock retreated.

Bast howled with laughter. "Idiot! Even demon kings aren't immune to me! You're afraid, aren't you? I can see your legs trembling!" The excitement in his voice made him drop his fake accent. He grabbed the demon by the collar of his striped dress shirt and lifted him off his feet. "You can't beat me, earth king. Give me your heart and I promise I won't hurt you."

Amaimon spat in his face. "Mephisto will find you." Bast frowned and the demon felt a stab of pleasure at surprising him. "And, when he does, he'll kill you."

He gritted his teeth in anger and failed to compose himself. "I don't care! Hand it over!"

The demon grunted as his heart began to emerge against his will. He wasn't strong enough to fight Bast, but he could slow the process. "B-Big brother will hunt you," he gasped. "You... You're afraid of him, and he knows it."

"Shut up!" Outraged, Bast whirled and slammed him hard against the desk, holding the injured demon down with one hand. He grabbed the heart and pulled. It was such a weird sensation: Amaimon could feel his fingertips digging into the soft petals, tugging on the center where they connected, and ripping it from his chest.

He screamed, finally wordless in his anguish, but someone wrapped a cloth around his open mouth from above, muffling his cries. Two other people grabbed his wrists and, between the agony of having his heart torn from him and the exhaustion of being mentally drained, Amaimon couldn't fight back. He struggled against the darkness, digging his nails into his palm to keep conscious. But it was too much too quick, and he succumbed to the inevitable tide.

. . .
The Next Day

Mephisto was frozen in place by feelings he could neither understand nor control. His little brother was strapped to a hospital bed in a comatose state, his face pale and haggard, his fringe stuck to his brow with sweat. He breathed slowly, and made no movements other than the steady rise and fall of his chest. "Amaimon, what happened to you?" There was no reproach in his voice—just concern. But his brother couldn't hear him, so it didn't really matter.

"He had his heart forcibly removed," the demon doctor answered him regardless, black tail swishing back and forth as he checked Amaimon's vitals again.

I know that, you ungrateful beast. Mephisto gritted his teeth to keep himself from snapping at the doctor. The draining effect of seeing his little brother so weak and helpless had left him feeling agitated. He let out a short sigh to release his irritation. "What now?"

"Ah, well..." The doctor hesitated, fidgeting with the too-long sleeves of his lab coat, tail curling toward his body as he tensed. One glance at the demon's expression sufficed to tell Mephisto that he would not like what he was about to hear. "Here's the thing: having one's heart removed like this is incredibly traumatic." He paused to scratch the fold of his nose and push his glasses up. "He'll be asleep until his body recovers from the physical damage. And, when he does wake up... Ah, it's highly unlikely he'll retain any of his memories."

"Amaimon won't remember anything?"

"He might remember his name, but it's doubtful."

"...How long will it be until he wakes?"

"Hmm," he stroked the stubble on his chin as he thought. "Could be tonight. Could be in a week. It all depends on how quickly he heals."

He pressed his lips together tightly, swallowing the anger that rose from his vague answer, and averted his gaze back to his unconscious brother. "Who did this to you, Amaimon?" he spoke through clenched teeth. "Tell me, and I'll kill him."

"We found him in the owner's lounge of a nightclub called 'The Demon's Horns'," the doctor said, scratching at the long, unruly mess of hair he had.

"Sebastian Belis," he growled the name.

He hated seeing Amaimon in such a state, especially now that he knew it was brought about by a vampire—a cocky, pathetic human turned into a fake demon. It made him angry, insulted him, disgusted him, but still, this was his baby brother—he couldn't just leave him as he was. After all, big brothers had to take care of little brothers, no matter how stupid they were.

"Thank you for your help, doctor," he said finally, straightening his posture. "I'll send someone over to get him when he wakes up."

The doctor was surprised by this. "Ah, you... You're not coming back for him?"

Mephisto grinned mischievously, eyes glittering with a terrifying amusement. "I would love to, but I'm afraid I'll be on a plane to Paris first thing tomorrow morning." He tittered, "I need to visit my dear friend Monsieur Belis."

"Ah, okay then." The demon king's giddy tone frightened the skittish doctor, and he knew better than to ask questions. "I'll give you a call when he's ready to leave."

"That would be ideal—thank you." Mephisto turned to Amaimon one last time. He grabbed his brother's hand and kissed his knuckles. "I'll be back soon, Amaimon. Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."