First and foremost, I do not own (or make money from) any of the characters or scenes in this work of fanfiction.

Second I want to apologize for the long wait; We are Phantomhive was stuck on the second paragraph until i got a review while rereading it and it sparked the muse. Third, ok so i had some people who really didn't like the fact that Harry lost his arm and that his magic isn't helping, i will attempt to explain. Well think of his magic like a psycho ex also we are working with a fixed world model as with most of my works so major plot points still happen and trying to meddle leads to consequences, even if the meddling seems pointless to the original storyline. We are also working with the anime mainly as stated in previous chapters.

Lastly let's all give a hand to Sebastian who finally makes an appearance and on with the show.

Storm

Chapter 11

Unknown

Hadrian sobbed heavily, his right hand clutching his mutilated shoulder. The pain of the poorly cauterized wound left every nerve fiber in his body on fire and it never stopped. It was slowly chipping away at his sanity as the only time it lessened even the slightest was when one of their captures came to pour the sickly sweet liquid down his throat so that he would sleep. As the days passed in their dark confinement the strange fluid had been his true comfort, even Ciel had not been able to distract him long from the pain of losing an arm.

"Brother," called Ciel from the other side of the cage where he had been watching the masked workers lighting candles and drawing on the floor. Hadrian lifted his head slightly from its slump and looked at the boy; his injury and the drugs effects combined with weeks of little water and a definite lack of food caused even small movements to sap his energy but he would be damned before he ignored his dear brother anymore then need be, especially in that place. "Something bad is going to happen."

It was a statement.

Hadrian let his head fall back against the bars, his filthy, matted hair only slightly dulling the crack of bone on steel, and all around the room the dull pressure of anticipation and fear began to stir. He shuddered; a sharp pain came from his… arm… but he wrenched his remaining hand from the wound and reached to Ciel who had crawled closer. He ignored the blind, ugly pain and the numbing thirst for sweetness; not caring for anything in that moment but his desperate need to keep his brother alive.

The boy curled close to his chest, desperate in justifiable fear for the only comfort he had left. It broke the green eyed boy's heart but, before he could do more than clutch his brother to him as tightly as physically possible, the deep, thumping beats of music began. Hadrian's head snapped up as the masked figures began to surge from the giant double doors. Soon the tide trickled off as all of the spaces that covered the room where filled the vibrating bodies of their kidnappers.

From the rear of the pack, unmasked as always, came the Duke. His face had a loose smile on it and the sins behind it almost seemed to grow with every step into the room he took. Hadrian forced his bone dry throat to swallow against the taste of rot and darkness on his tongue as he followed the man's approach to their cage. He cursed fate, Death, magic and his own bloody luck because it seemed that the finale had begun.

~0~

Somewhere, Somewhen

In the very darkest depths of all humans, where sins sit most heavily in all their cantankerous glory, there was an unyielding potential. The potential for evil, wicked deeds and indeed most demons had little problem drawing the simple darkness out of most souls. However, petty instant gratification from shallow souled human beasts held little appeal to The Raven, Blooded of His Line. No, The Raven liked a deeper taint, a dash of bittersweet innocence and the burning knowledge of the hourglass looming in the wings really did add so much depth to a meal.

It was a complex order truly, needing all the proper pretty bits, bobs and grand sweeping schemes to lure the perfect subjects into their destruction. To sate both the gnawing ache that was existence and a discerning palate The Raven laid out bait across the Timestream, swooping in whenever a nibble was felt but more often than not was still left with a rumbling belly. So when it felt the subtle but familiar stirring in the Fabric of Time The Raven, Blooded of His Line, surged from the feathered throne in near ravenous hunger.

Across floors of equal beauty and ruin to the tallest tower in the domain where rested a place so near the warped, voluptuous edge of the infinite that madness grinned back in one's face and the veil of reality was twisted and weak. It was simple even for one not of The Raven's power and age to peer through the clinging gossamer strands of energy that composed the Fabric of Time in such a place. To gaze out from the heart despair in the domain of The Raven, Blooded of His Line, to the dank creeping filth of Victorian London.

The Raven grinned with charcoal lips and razor fangs as the glorious stink of rotting souls pressed too close to the edge threatened to overwhelm His stretching senses. London was a jewel in any era, old cities where too many suffered for too few to gain always were, and it was testament to the sinister nature of the human beast that she thrived in her decay. Intrigue touched garnet eyes at a flair of crimson on fresh snow but a different, twisting innocence called to him.

Up and away it led; into finest areas, where the richest and most influential resided, it tugged at him begging to be taken and shaped until it dripped with tangy debauchery and the cutting sweetness of blood. He followed it ever so carefully through the veil; the cruel impartiality of Time meant no one was a favorite, not even one Blooded of His Line, and a wrong move would leave The Raven having to scavenge the scattered bits of himself into the void of eternity. With every step closer to the other side of reality he became both more real and less substantial, changes that really had begun as soon as The Raven, Blood of His Line, had risen from the feathered throne.

The vastness consciousness that was The Raven condensing down, twisting and folding in on itself until what was left to step in to the mortal world was just vaguely man shaped . Dark shadows pulled at the grotesquely divine form that was sin given flesh obscuring him from sightless eyes.

A tableau to the cruelty that resides in the hearts of all men was laid before The Raven, Blood of His Line, and the demon smiled cruelly for no one of them would be his master that night. Their souls too rotten from the inside to taste appetizing to any but lowly mongrels He spun slowly on the tip of one black stiletto boot taking in all of the sources of the nearly blinding corruption and the sweetly dwendling stars of innocence as he searched every dark corner seeking the soul he hungered for, the one with the seed of chaos that coiled around its pure heart. He stopped midway around, ember like eyes catching sight of Glory undone.

Of all the human beasts in the room the boy at the center of the feast was by far the most appealing. He was strapped to an altar; his naked body was covered in bloody demonic sigils that whispered The Raven's righteous name and his soul blazed a bright golden white dipped in straight obsidian. It was the echo of the mortal's Fall from Grace, caught and desperately yowling through the annals of history, that had called to his hunger even in the Bowels of Hell, and it was nearly perfect.

Such a fitting meal for one Blooded of His Line, all vibrant colors and sharp emotions in need of just a little polishing, that he almost missed the odd soul situated off to the side; it seemed nearly eclipsed by a teeming ooze of absolute indulgence that had started trying to consume it. Only the soul, which gave off the distinctly disturbing sensation of being covered with black and white polka dots brushed over with gray pinstripes once noticed, with all its broken shiny parts refused to succumb to the inevitable. It struggled and fought tooth and nail; reaching and grasping, with a sticky crimson cry caught in a scorched and spasming throat, ever towards The Raven's meal.

Around the soul circled fiery, possessive chains of bleeding green magic. They hoved just out of reach; mocking 'the soul that could not decide if it was mortal or not' in their refusal to help but showed unwillingness to be completely parted from their master. Sadly, however interesting The Raven, Blooded of his Line, found the soul with all its wounded majesty hunger still gnawed at his heels and his limited self-restraint was very nearly frayed. He left the odd shifting soul and turned on sleek wings spun of darkness to slither into the heart of the who called him into being.

~0~

Unknown

After the ritual had begun Ciel's world had narrowed down to their mocking laughter, his brother's screaming pleas and the searing pain of his own body. It was debilitating enough that it took several long moments, after it all stopped quite abruptly, for him to be able to do more than tremble and sob from the sheer relief. So it was an understandable shock when upon opening blue eyes and sitting up he was accosted by the sight of a million falling feathers ranging from the palest ivory to deep charcoal grey. He just stared at the escaped down until movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention.

However, the young Phantomhive found that no matter how quickly he whipped his head about it was impossible to fully view the person in the room with him. Just wisps of black teasingly hinting at the shape of a man with a brush of burgundy where eyes should be. Ciel was certain however, in the dankest pit of his stomach, that the creature that hid amongst the cascade could never be called something so benign as a man.

"Would you like to make a deal? I could give you the world," a voice quarried from all around him; a haunting voice that thrummed with casual cruelty and dripped with the sweetest of poisoned promises. In the distance the wind howled and Ciel wet his lips. "But think carefully. For should you reject the faith even this once, the gates of paradise will forever be out of your reach."

A mixture of disgust and loathing filled him and a fine tremble started in the tips of his fingers until it consumed him entirely. Ciel could feel that the being…. the demon…. that was before him had the power to avenge the dishonor of his family. His beloved parents murdered on the eve of his birth. Hadrian… crippled; the strong, perfect heir reduced to a quivering wreck. The vivid memory of his brother clawing at the stump of his left arm, eyes glazed with whatever drug they had been pouring down his throat, nearly overwhelmed him. The wind moaned in protest as he opened his mouth to reply, sounding all too human in the strange world that surrounded him.

"Do you think one who was among those of the faithful would ever go so far as to summon someone like you?" He shouted into the wind. For he had summoned the beast had he not. The bastards who held them had sought to capture a devil, that much was obvious in hindsight, but something had gone either very wrong… or very right. It was him, Ciel Phantomhive not Vincent or Hadrian, being offered their retribution and he would burn all those responsible even if the cost was his mortal soul.

"I will ask but once more," The demon's cat-got-the-canary smile bled heavily into his mocking words. The wind raged and ripped at his skin. "Do you wish to form a contract with me?"

"I do!" He shouted into the near hurricane with all of the emotion of a traumatized child. "Now stop asking these tedious questions and let me know if we have a deal!"

"Name me and your condition then." The demon prowled closer, the wind screaming in their ears.

"Sebastian," he shouted, giving the demon a name suited to his purposes. "I order you to find and destroy those who have brought this shame upon the Phantomhives."

"NNOOOO…" The wind seethed, the feathers whipping back and forth in the tempest and Ciel could see the phantom of his brother, single arm reaching toward him in desperation.

"So the bargain is struck!" The wind and demon roared.

He blinked and when he opened his eyes Ciel was confronted by the soot and blood stained face of his brother peering down at him with a lost look. He knew without doubt that they were the only humans left alive in the building. Of course that did not mean they were alone and when he lifted his head, filthy blue-black hair falling haphazardly into his equally dirty face, he locked gazes with malevolent maroon. If the door to man's soul resided in his eyes then the demon's, Sebastian, led straight to the gates of hell and Ciel had jumped in with his head held high.

~0~

January 25, 1886

Tanaka, still not recovered from injuries sustained trying to protect the Young Masters, lay quietly in the bed of the small caretaker's shack that was almost the only thing remaining of the Phantomhive main estate. It was early morning; the sun had not even touched the horizon but sleep was not his friend and in truth he had found little in the way of true rest since he had been released from hospital. Of course he had little to do beyond putter around the little shack and try to talk, as discreetly as possible, with some of poor Master Vincent's contacts in an attempt to help Lady Angelina locate the boys.

He took a deep breath trying to keep the seething and boiling of his blood from causing his body to tremble in painful, impotent fury. Not since Charles Phantomhive first brought him to England as a small child had he felt so helpless, so completely adrift in a foreign land with no actual help in sight. However, even though Tanaka had entered the sphere of the then young Earl a weak and useless waif he had left the late bastard's service a man willing and more than able to do anything for those he cared for.

What had happened to Sir Charles that late night in '66 was just a testament to the changes twenty years at the beck and call of the devil, and the deaths of three children he had loved like his own, had wrought on him. Seeing that monster going after a then fifteen year old Vincent, who was home from Weston for the summer holidays, with that same murderous look in his crazed blue eyes had caused something to snap in normal self controlled Tanaka.

The end result, of course, was the transfer of the Blue Sapphire Ring from Father to Son by way of Tanaka's blood-stained hands. Neither of them had ever spoken again of that evening, dark secrets only remain that if you take them to your grave afterall, but the bond it forged between them had proven stronger than blood on more occasions then need be counted.

To know that he had failed the man so spectacularly had very nearly succeeded where the assassin's blade had failed. Though six long weeks removed him from the horrors of that smoke clogged hallway the heat, fear and pain still robbed Tanaka of his breath at the most inopportune of moments. Such as whilst still abed with the early morning sun creeping across the small room. The old man, he had never felt older, sighed heavily and forced his tightly clenched hands open to fan them against the borrowed careworn quilt that kept him warm. He allowed the feel of rough homespun fabric distract him from the swirling thoughts; just running the pads of stiffening fingers over it until they burned with the friction of it.

Once his heart had returned to normal, or as normal as one might expect given his grief, Tanaka pulled himself from between the sheets. While there was no longer a manor to take care of or an even Earl for whom to work it did not mean he could afford to lay about in bed all morning. He sighed again because prior to his injury Tanaka had been a fit man, even after reaching forty, but little of his strength remained so seated on the edge of his bed he began gentle stretches to help work the night from his aged and tired bones. When finally he felt a bit more human the former steward stood and turned to the window to take in the sight of the burned out shell of a manor in the late dawn light. He did the same thing every morning, ingraining his failure with a white hot iron onto his heart.

Only…

Only……

Only……... instead of the sooty ruins that haunted them, THE MANOR rose high and noble to greet the morning light. It was as if time had reversed and a shuddery feeling of unease settled into his soul even as he rushed to dress. Tanaka's heart beat hard and heavy against his ribcage as he slipped out his front door, hand tight on the cane he was forced to use for long distances, and made his way toward the estate house. He stood at the edge of the building's shadow, just looking up and taking in everything that should not be there but was. The juxtaposition of the situation left him torn between wanting to race inside so as to figure out what was happening and the very real fear that coursed through his veins.

He must have looked a sight standing there; roughly dressed and rocking on his heels with a no doubt indecisive expression painted on his face. Until he took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and charged forward; he reached the kitchen door and paused again fingers an inch from the knob. Tanaka knew that if he entered the manor there would be no going back; whatever witchcraft was at play lay heavy on the grounds and did not have the feel of anything pleasant.

Tanaka let his hand fall to his side.

The door swung open on oiled hinges and from the dark depths of the kitchen stepped a man, or so it seemed. As both an old man and the Former Steward of the Phantomhive Estate, Tanaka had met men of every color, creed, and religion on God's green earth (princes to paupers, the sick and infirm to the well preserved, saints and sinners) but never in all his long years had he ever laid eyes on a man like the one who walked from the darkness. Tall, thin, sharply angled with hair like shadow and skin paler than snow. Everything about him set something in the Japanese man on edge but it was the blade sharp smile and star bright maroon eyes that had him taking a single step back, much to the creature's amusement.

"The Young Masters have need of your services, Mr. Tanaka." It was said a feral grin that whispered all the dark temptations of the night but Tanaka did not care. The devil in human skin had already won after all; had stripped away every ounce of fight in him with just that one simple sentence, after all the old man would let the world burn to protect his boys. He followed, when it stepped back into the house, with the odd sensation of having just sold his soul to the highest bidder.

Long live the Phantomhives.