CHAPTER 6

A/N – Hello my dear readers! Again, I want to express to you all my gratitude for the amazing feedback and support throughout this story I've written at the command of my inner demons ;) I've greatly enjoyed making this sinister plot 'come alive' and in truth I was quite surprised that it was so successful ;) And now, without further ado, here's the last chapter, followed by a short epilogue at the end to clear things.

Chapter 6 soundtrack (as you may have noticed, I ended up using a lot of the Kuroshitsuji soundtrack for this story – I just find it inspirational and fitting) :

Kuroshitsuji OST 1 ∞ Coffin man

Kuroshitsuji OST – The dark crow smiles (instrumental)

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

The Frenchman's steps were light but steady against the stony ground of the catacomb den as he walked towards his alcove, sapphire blue eyes narrowed and lips thinly pressed in irritation. Indeed, for Francis Bonnefoy had lived too long to feel pure, un-obliterated rage anymore, that too had faded with the passage of time, just like all of his emotions. And of course, he had expected to be betrayed in the worst fashion – both by his unruly pet he had yet to break for good and by his unfortunate whore of an offspring as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But it was natural, the blond reckoned, since he was always associating with those of the wrong sort. Perhaps it was because he was subconsciously seeking to be challenged, for the mere opportunity to demonstrate his supremacy again and again?

Elizaveta was slumped against the wall, in an apparent daze beyond which he was able to perceive discontent. The baronet focused his attention on her, because he was angry and because he didn't want to look at the young Englishman lying asleep on the bed, a pipe long gone cold resting between his pale fingers. He needed not even try too hard to pick up the other's scent on his prey's skin, even if he'd washed and had been given a change of clothes. The fact that Yao's arrangement was working so well for him was the only reason for which that presumptuous Scot's body wasn't lying in the gutter right now, in more than one piece.

"I thought I told you to keep an eye on my possessions," the noble spoke bluntly, towering over his vampire child with sheer disdain written all over his features. "And I'm surprised at your failure, because this isn't quite a new concept. Non, this has always been the deal. Why do you think I keep you here, anyway? Do you genuinely believe it is because I still enjoy your presence, or because the sight of you gives me any kind of thrill?"

Elizaveta looked up slowly, her gaze meeting the two cold blue gems which were her master's eyes and willed herself to stand, in one fluid motion, and look him straight in the eye.

"Well, you've certainly never held such 'possessions' before, have you? Yes, you think me unworthy because I cannot match your cruelty! Our kind has never kept slaves! Look at him – not like I care but he whored himself for some opium and a bowl of soup, because you're starving him, you're starving us both!"

Francis said nothing, a small smile beginning to form on his thin lips, but then, without warning, his hand shot up and hit the brunette across the face with such brutality that she fell to the ground, a large bloody gash appearing on her pale cheek where the sapphire ring had sliced through the flesh.

The Hungarian barely dared to sit up, shaking as her trembling fingers crept towards the ugly wound which had already begun to close, and blinking back tears. "Gilbert will hear of this! He will have your head for this, you beast!" she whispered under her breath.

But he only laughed with even more disdain, flinging himself over the sofa carelessly. "If you don't want me to rip out your throat, you will never mention Gilbert again in my presence, chere Eliza," the fortuneteller said calmly, reaching for his pipe.

Arthur had barely woken up once or twice after being returned to the Frenchman's alcove and he'd already felt the regret of having lost the company of other living people. Yao had of course politely explained that he couldn't risk Bonnefoy's wrath even more by keeping him around, despite Allistor's obvious enjoyment of him. And thus he'd been brought back here, clean, fully clothed and tucked under the blankets, and the Chinese had even sent fresh opium supplies for which the vampire would have asked anyway.

There was no denying that his health was deteriorating more and more – now the fever wouldn't cease and kept him unconscious for most of the time. But even under that haze, the Englishman was horrified at what was to come. He had moments when he thought of death as a relief, but in truth he was afraid, he wouldn't even dare imagine what his master was going to do to him upon his return. He was so scared that he wanted to cry, only he was too tired even for that and his tears seemed to have dried up. But in the end nothing happened.

"Are you sure no one comes looking for him?" Yao was asking, while sitting upright and picking nervously at his sleeve.

Francis smirked, showing sharp white fangs. "No one… worth mentioning," he replied, reaching out to run his elegant fingers through the young constable's unruly strands, now damp with sweat. Arthur moaned softly in his sleep as the cool hand traveled down to his forehead, to the side of his cheek and then along his neck, soothing the heated skin. But then the green-eyed blond's eyes opened brusquely, wide with unspeakable horror, as his gaze travelled from the Frenchman hovering above him to the den owner.

"I-I don't want to die! Please… I don't want to die!" he whimpered pitifully, hands helplessly clutching at the blanket as he panted.

"Shhhh… it's alright. Everybody dies, mon petit lapin."

"Yes, everybody except for you, crazy dead man," Wang muttered. "How annoying!"

The fortuneteller scowled, waving his hand in dismissal as he reached down and collected his prey in his arms, whispering soothing words to the sobbing blond. Yao stood from the sofa, throwing one last unsettled glance at the twin wounds marking the pale skin of Arthur's neck before he walked away.

Alfred had spent several sleepless nights since the dreadful moment in which he'd discovered the letter hurriedly scribbled by his friend, along with his unmade but empty bed with bloodied sheets. He'd shown and told everything to the Chief Inspector, only to discover, much to his horror, that the ambitious man had been quick to write Arthur off upon the news of his illness and given the fact that the detective had pretty much served his purpose in finding the long sought-after murderer. He would not be bothered with tales of hellish creatures and was sure that Arthur had left the letter in a moment of liquor-induced madness before disappearing God knew where. It was of course regrettable, but he would not have any of his men waste their time looking for a dying drunkard.

In truth, the American didn't really know what to believe. In his childhood in New Orleans he'd heard all sorts of tales of otherworldly occurrences, ghosts, evil spirits and the like, but the true faith to which he was devout asked that he be distrustful of such superstitions. Yet Arthur's words made some sense in the light of Dr. Braginski's baffling experiment, bringing a shadow of doubt upon his beliefs, and then there had been the equally disturbing and unexpected visit from Father Beilschmidt.

As expected of him, the priest had not wasted time with any complicated subtleties, instead he had simply described what he'd seen the night the Englishman had visited the neighborhood church and had his hand burned by holy water as if by acid. The sight had shaken Beilschmidt to the core and he wasn't easily shaken, as he'd never witnessed anything of the kind before. But in any case, the priest was unwilling to make judgments as to why Arthur had gone down the path of darkness or what might have befallen the poor man. He only had a word of warning for the young man – Arthur had become unholy and wherever Arthur had gone, Alfred had best not follow.

Only he couldn't. Alfred could not bring himself to abandon the man who had shown him so much kindness, the man who'd felt like his family after the tragic loss of his mother. He could not give up on his friend, at the very least he would make sure Arthur didn't meet his end in some God-forsaken place. If the Frenchman had taken him – as the letter made him suspect – he would have to confront the fortuneteller, even if that meant to go down into the Little Underworld all alone.

Wiping cold sweat off his brow and breathing deeply to calm the erratic pants from the hurried descent, the blue-eyed blond decided that the God-awful underground den owned by Yao Wang looked far more dreadful than he remembered. It had the stale, suffocating darkness of a tomb, which no amount of flickering fires, sounds and people moving about could disperse and the young constable was unable to comprehend how some could find any solace in here.

He was paid no attention by Wang's ever watchful men – mostly because he was alone – but this only meant he wouldn't get any help either from anyone. Could it be true, though? Was the French fortuneteller behind all those horrors? Or maybe, maybe there was some truth in the Chief Inspector's assumptions and Arthur had simply chosen to come down here of his own volition and ease his suffering with opium. That was something he could understand, something he could ultimately deal with, even if he didn't approve.

But whatever hopes the American had entertained in that respect soared and were crushed almost in the same moment upon the one discovery he made as he reached the Frenchman's alcove. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, instead Arthur was lying on the soft cushions of the sofa, eyes closed and head tilted slightly in his sleep, his chest rising and falling almost inconspicuously. He wore clean clothes and his hair was neatly combed – better than Alfred had ever seen him wear it – and a light green silk ribbon in the very shade of the detective's eyes was tied around his neck and fastened in a delicate bow. Did this mean…?

"Arthur?!" he cried choking, kneeling beside the sofa and reaching for the hand resting over the other's chest. "Arthur, please wake up!"

But there was no reply, the Englishman didn't as much as stir and when Alfred reached out feebly and pulled down the ribbon, he was met with the sight of two very familiar wounds on his friend's throat. He froze in dread, realization dawning upon him at last and confusing him entirely as to what to do next. Arthur was thankfully still breathing, which meant it wasn't too late for him to try to-

"And you say I never do anything to feed you, ma chere Eliza, mais voila!" Francis Bonnefoy said, emerging from the shadows as if he'd been lying there in wait all along. The brunette woman who had been there the last time followed closely, an odd spark of interest in her bright green eyes as she gave the American an appreciative once-over.

"Sir, I don't know what you did to my friend, but please, he's very sick!" Alfred heard himself pleading as he still clutched the other constable's limp hand. All he felt was a cruel defeat, somehow he couldn't even muster the strength to get up and face this abominable creature.

The baronet snorted lightly, crossing his arms casually as he leaned against a pillar. "The thing is, constable, that your friend should have never come down here. Did I not tell him? Someone with long fingers would grab him eventually…" he chuckled playfully. "Indeed, he shouldn't have come here, and neither should you have, for that matter."

"Please, at least let him die in his own bed…"

"Oh, but that is such a cruel thing to say, mon ami… Perhaps I have decided not to let him die at all," the Frenchman said thoughtfully. "But I cannot say the same about you, after all… it's not for me to make up my mind about that."

The younger constable's eyes widened in shock at that, and he finally stood up slowly, letting go of Arthur's hand. He made a move to step forward, to fling himself at the mocking beast in sheer despair, but he wasn't quick enough. Elizaveta tackled him from behind, fangs sinking into the nape of his neck before he even knew what was happening.

The brunette drank greedily, not heeding the weakening struggles and moans, until her prey's body went limp in her arms. Only then she stopped, licking at the wounds before pressing a gentle kiss to the now pale lips of the boy's. "I think I may have already made my decision, cher Francis," she announced defiantly.

The blue-eyed blond only snorted. "Just don't think this will be easy."

The pale, elegant hand with long-nailed fingers laboriously painted brushed aside the beads curtain and Yao peered out from his chambers, his gaze wandering over the expanse of the Little Underworld, as much as it was visible from his doorstep. His thin eyebrows furrowed over thinking of the better rooms he had - large, lavishly decorated and furnished with soft, pillow-laden sofas and oriental carpets, which he'd built in the larger crypts and which had been quite the investment. Fortunately, they weren't that many, most available places were cramped and consisted of alcoves and cots covered in filthy rags.

Yet he was making money out of each and every place and if he were to leave Little Underworld, simply gather his things and leave everything behind to move elsewhere, all in all he would lose a small fortune. But that particular thought plagued the Chinese nevertheless, ever since he'd met the young constable held captive and reduced to a pitiful wreck by the clairvoyant monster who was draining him of stuff. Of course, he did not care about the constable per say, but the newly discovered extent of the Frenchman's malice and cruelty unsettled him greatly and Yao's gut feelings told him that this wasn't going to end well.

The owner fiddled with the end of his long braid, glancing over his shoulder to the young brunette girl busying around his chambers, setting the pillows and covers straight. Mei was pregnant with their first child, his first child. Could he allow his child to be born in the proximity and possibly at the mercy of such a creature? No, they had to leave.

It took the most of two weeks before his most trusted servant Allistor and another man discreetly carried all the valuable possessions out of Little Underworld and to a safe house in the city, near the harbor. After carrying out the last bit of his plan, Yao Wang had every intention to board a ship and leave London for good, never to return. Of course, he'd made good money here, but figured that he could very well make money somewhere else too, maybe Marseille or even Paris. He was a very enterprising and adaptable man by nature and opium never failed to sell. There would always be people who needed some dark hole to bury themselves in while their mind was off into the distant lands of drug-induced dreams.

The den's usual patrons were too dazed to notice if anything was going on, but still Yao feared that the Frenchman might catch wind of what he was about to do. That would have been a very dangerous complication, one which might have very well resulted in having him, Mei and all of his servants killed in a gruesome way.

And yet, he was going to do the right thing, the Chinese told himself every time doubt reared its head. The addicted were already doomed – opium was a slow but merciless poison and their mind was half-gone already. He would not be hurting any innocents, rather, if he were to succeed in his final attempt, many innocent lives might have actually been spared if the demon was destroyed at last.

Yao stood on top of the stairs leading down into the Little Underworld, his hands folded and hidden in the large silk sleeves. Dark eyes swept over the high brick ceiling, against which thick scented smoke floated carelessly, over the flickering lights coming from the crypts and heavy eyelids fell shut for a moment as he sighed deeply. The Frenchman was there - he had this certainty - and once they would seal the gates and outer door shut the monster would have no way out. No one would have any way out.

The bright torch illuminated the Scot's pale face and brought out even more the fiery shade of his hair and the brunet saw that his lips were pressed tightly, a tension almost palpable in his sturdy frame.

"I know what you think of, Allistor," Wang said softly. "But by now he must be long dead, aru. Not to blame yourself either, you know the Frenchman fed on him anyway. Is what that beast does. I hope now Death takes him, before he can kill more people."

The redhead nodded slowly and stooped, lowering the torch until the flames reached the thin trail of gunpowder which went all the way up the stairs. There was a tiny spark as it ignited, the small fire rapidly rushing along the trail and down the stairs.

Yao and his servant had already locked the iron gates and were making their way along the tunnel leading to the small mausoleum when the first explosions resounded, along with the panicked screams and shouts of the wretched souls trapped inside. But the den owner did not once look back to see his underground city scorched by flames.

"Let everything burn," the Chinese whispered to himself, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve against the thick, foul-smelling smoke. "Let him burn."

Epilogue

The sky was slowly lighting up in the east, shy shades of pink creeping over the dark blue. A mild wind was blowing and Francis inhaled deeply, taking in the salty, refreshing scent of the sea. Soon he would have to make his way back to his coffin, but for now he allowed himself some more time outside, in the open air. After all, the time he would have to endure confined in his sleeping 'quarters' until the ship finally reached the New World was a rather dismal perspective.

The slender, long-nailed fingers danced caressingly over the pale forehead of the young man sleeping in his arms, brushing away a few blond strands ruffled by the breeze. His lips were soon to follow, pressing against the soft skin which was now as cold as his, yet death having stolen away nothing of his prey's enticement. And Francis looked forward with delicious anticipation to the moment those gorgeous green eyes would shine with a new, previously unknown lust for life and thirst for the very essence of this world.

"And maybe…" he whispered softly, his mouth brushing against Arthur's in an almost-kiss. "You will finally come to obey me, mon petit lapin, fully, genuinely and without restraint of the wretched morals of your human life." The vampire paused, glancing back to the rest of their 'luggage', gaze trailing thoughtfully over the two other crates piled below his own coffin, and which he'd locked carefully just in case. "And I hope the same for my chere Eliza and her new… attachment. Who knows, perhaps my coven will grow strong enough and one day…"

Indeed, Francis Bonnefoy mused, if things went in the desired fashion, one day they could return and finally challenge Gilbert the Red - the king of the Old World - and his wretched minions.

THE END.