Chapter 19: I am, thank you.

Dante raised a booted foot and slammed the door open.

Kyrie scrambled in after him, almost tripping over herself to hold the door open and prevent it from swinging shut on the unconscious twin's head. Said twin was currently thrown over his younger brother's shoulder in so careless a manner that it made Kyrie cringe at the indignity of it all. Then, as if reading her thoughts and wanting to add fuel to the fire, Dante dropped Vergil into a graceless heap on the couch. She immediately marched over to ease the man into a more comfortable position, taking hold of his shoulder and, with much effort, settling him down in a more dignified manner. Dante watched impassively and did not offer to help, even when her dress came away rust-coloured with the blood that had since caked from their fight.

"Have a seat, Kyrie-doll." Was all he said, demonstrating by leaning against the kitchen counter. Kyrie hesitantly obeyed.

"So," he waved an arm around him. "What do you think?"

Kyrie glanced around obediently. The place reminded her of a summer cottage with its open-plan kitchen and dining room. It was clean, if sparsely furnished, with whitewashed walls, rough stone flooring and a fireplace bricked in the corner. The windows were large and sea-glass paned, setting the room softly aglow with the sun's setting rays. It was a beautiful place – but Kyrie was not quite willing to be mollified just yet.

She let the silence linger and Dante sighed. "What a tough crowd. Don't worry, this is Vergil's place. You'll stay in an actual house if you follow the road down a little; Matier and her daughters live there and she said she'll give you room. You'll like Matier, I think; she's a tough little old lady."

"For how long?" Kyrie finally spoke.

Dante leaned back against the window, rendering his features shadowed and unreadable. "Till you learn to control… this." At her silence he continued. "I'll return every week to see your training. The island is, short of Matier and her children, basically uninhabited so the two of you'll be free to experiment to your heart's desires."

"You're…" Kyrie's anxiety was palpable. "You're leaving?"

The thought of being alone with Vergil, whose eyes had flamed and had spat his grievances against her Order, was more than a little worrying. Granted being alone with Dante would not have been much better, but at least he seemed to have no personal grudges about her affiliations, and was, to some extent, a variable that was easier to read. He cared about his brother and wanted him to be (relatively) safe from harm. Kyrie was more comfortable with the implications of this form of motivation as opposed to the older Sparda's desire for 'strength'.

Dante's tone softened. "I'll be back. Vergil can't concentrate with me here; we'll be fighting more than you'll be training. I can't say his bark's worse than his bite, but you two've gotten along just fine. I'm sure you'll be fine now."

"He tolerated me thus far, but… but now that he knows that I'm from the Order..." Kyrie shivered a little at the memory of the venom in Vergil's voice. "Wouldn't that mean – "

"Kyrie-doll." She gave a start when calloused fingers caught her at the chin and turned the small face up to meet his. "Trust me when I say he's probably more scared of you than you are of him. Vergil doesn't really do teamwork… that he was willing to attempt it speaks volumes on how well he thinks of you. You know how stubborn he can be, but… please. Be patient with him."

Kyrie's grip tightened around the silver bangles that decorated her arms and gave a small nod.

"Besides, we of the Sparda line are weak against pretty faces." Dante lifted his thumbs to nudge her cheeks up into a crooked smile. "Just turn those sweet brown eyes on and turn your head a little like this, and – "

Kyrie swatted at his hand with a half-laugh, half-scowl and Dante chuckled. "Yeah, just like that. All right, I'm off. Give me ten minutes before you take off the seal." He rose to his feet only to pause by the doorway, gaze fixed on his still brother. "Take care of Verge for me, Kyrie-doll."

Without another word, he was gone.

Kyrie buried her face in her hands and took a long, shuddering breath.

Once she was certain the allotted time had passed, she crept to the still man's side and began to peel off the seals that had been stuck to his body. No sooner had she removed the last strip than his hand shot out to grip her at the wrist and Vergil righted himself with fierce energy.

He was furious.

Kyrie shrank as far away from him as she physically could, mouth dry.

Vergil's brows were drawn low, eyes a thunderous blue, lips pressed so thinly together she feared he would draw blood at the sheer force of his displeasure. He didn't even spare her a glance as he dropped her hand, rose to his feet and left, slamming the door behind him.

Kyrie shivered and left, by default, to the kitchen.

There was no tap – no sign of piping or drainage or even a working sewage system, but there was a barrel in the corner that was filled with water for use. She turned on the propane stove and set a pot, for there was no kettle, to boil. Three cups of hot water (for neither was there tea or coffee) later, and Kyrie was feeling a little tired. She had considered leaving the house to find Matier, but the knowledge of an angry Vergil prowling about outdoors only fuelled her desire to remain inside. She settled into the couch to wait.

Time passed all too steadily and the room began to darken.

Kyrie had found some candles and lit them before returning to her seat. She had just begun to doze when the door swung open and Vergil entered the room. Their gazes met.

Vergil had always prized his ability to read people, be it by body language, words or facial expression. He appreciated nuances, paid attention to subtleties and used the information according to how it would best suit his purposes. That said, he had never needed to employ this particular skillset with Kyrie before - she was the epitome of 'heart on sleeve', eyes unguarded and trusting. It reminded him of everything pure and innocent in this world, and he coveted that kind of simple honesty even as he disdained it. He had also become well acquainted with those eyes: glowing in laughter, deep with thought, flashing with gentle wit and, when directed at him, always warm. Now however, she gazed upon him warily, with something akin to fear.

He made to march towards her, only to stop in mid-step when she flinched.

Two splotches of unhappy red bloomed upon her cheeks and he was a little angry at his own surprise at her distress. It was what his actions had always been calculated to do, Vergil had reminded himself. People generally feared and disliked him anyway; this was not anything new. Just, he was just a little unaccustomed to seeing that expression on her face.

Yes, that was all.

All desire of sleep fled Kyrie and she cleared her suddenly dry throat. "Good evening." She squashed the impulse to fidget under his gaze. "How are you feeling?" When Vergil didn't answer, she continued talking, if only to fill the strained silence. "There wasn't a lot of food in the pantry, but I made some oatmeal... Would you like to have some dinner now?"

And still, silence.

"Dante said he'd be back in a week." Kyrie tried to speak evenly, ignoring the sudden tremble of her hands at the stranger who stood in front of her. "He said no one lives here except for Matier and her children. He said this is your house." The silence stretched on and Kyrie could take it no longer. She rose to her feet.

"I'll turn in for the night and see you tomorrow, then."

"Where do you think you're going?" He finally spoke, voice low and syllables sharp.

"To Matier's." Kyrie was grateful for even that short response. "She's supposed to have a room for me."

Vergil studied her a moment longer; the way she practically tripped over herself to escape from him with that wide-eyed look of vulnerability sorely tempted him to be cruel. How easy she had found it, to cosy up to him, feigning friendship, and then changing her allegiance to Dante when their fight had revealed the extent of his weakness. That he had not learned his lesson sooner was his fault.

It was Dante. It was always Dante. The chosen one, the beloved, the hero and the favourite – it had been so in the past and there was no reason for the present to be otherwise. Why had he expected something different in the first place? With this realization, all anger, disappointment and shame left Vergil. There was a folding in, a choking off and a putting away of something inside him; drawing his defences up, reverting to how he had been before he had indulged in all those sentiments that something deep and real had been changing.

Vergil took a deep breath. "I understand."

Kyrie was stunned at the sudden change in his demeanour. "You… you do?" She asked hesitantly.

He nodded and she shivered at the mirror-blank sheen of blue eyes, unfathomable and distant. "Of course. This is what being weak means."

Vergil refused to say anything else after that and Kyrie left the house – the silence behind her almost too terrible to bear.

Credo stared sightlessly at the kitchen before him and allowed himself the indulgence of a heavy sigh.

It was a well-known fact that Credo had never missed a day, not even in vacation or sick leave, for the duration of his career in the Order. He was a conscientious worker, instilled with such feelings of responsibility and pride in his job that it was even more rare to not see him around the precinct or on a trip for some form of business or another.

But for the past few days, Credo had been close to marring his exemplary record. He felt sick: a cold, churning in the pit of his stomach that made him physically nauseous. It wasn't because of some bug; Credo took care of his health and as seriously as he did his own job; but because of the niggling anxiety caused by none other than his little sister.

Kyrie was missing.

And for the shame of him, he couldn't even tell from when.

It was not unusual for him to spend nights away from home, stopping by only long enough for a shower and change of clothes. Three days ago, he had come home to do just that, dropping on his bed in an exhausted pile to fall sound asleep. He woke in the middle of the night to stillness.

Silence was not the absence of sound, Credo decided. It was a sound all on its own: a stifling, selfish, gluttonous thing that permeated the air and swallowed all else.

He padded to Kyrie's room and gave the room a quick once-over. The white gauze curtains (trimmed silver in the moonlight), the bookshelf (cookbooks, old diaries, poetry) overflowing; the stuffed animals (worn, patched, frayed, loved) on the oak dresser; the wall tacked with memorabilia (old photographs, poster-bills of community events, a delicately folded origami crane); the broken-in sneakers beneath the chair (shoelaces blue, the plastic soles worn away); the vanity (hair clips, pens, macaroni string necklaces and a golden paper crown) cluttered.

And on the bed, cotton sheets neatly made, was no one.

Credo had near turned the house upside down, but his search proved fruitless: Kyrie was missing.

The following days were a blur of activity and a lack of news.

Not only was he busy with trying to find hints of where his sister could be, but the progress with Nero had also increased his own share of work. According to Agnus, Nero's 'surgery' had gone smoothly; Gloria was beside herself with expectation at his waking and never left his side. It was time for the next stages of the plan and it followed that, as the High Commander of the Order, Credo had been called to Fortuna to Sanctus' side. Everyone within the Inner Circle had already been recalled to Fortuna, and Credo's absence was glaring.

Credo had delayed his departure for as long as he could, making excuses of the need to tie up loose cases, making personnel hierarchy arrangements, even taking up paperwork. In every spare moment, he scoured the city for any sign or hint of his sister's location. The other policemen had been remarkably understanding and had supportive. He had never seen them work harder or longer, many joining in the patrols with more fervour, taking longer hours and doing all they could to free up Credo's time so that he could concentrate on the search for Kyrie.

The only clue he had, led nowhere.

Credo had stormed into the house where she had worked, but the place had been emptied – its owners had stripped the room bare of all personal items and possessions, the entire place wiped clean of prints and even aural residue. Nothing the forensics or scryers did could lead to a clue of the house's occupants, profile or otherwise; not even the real estate company could shed light on the case with the contract signee, Mr Tony Redgrave, him being non-existent in the city census. Credo was almost beside himself with anger at his own bad judgment.

He had already known working at that house was unsafe; why hadn't he stopped her sooner?

He had seen her in this very kitchen, sitting troubled and fragile; why had he not asked further than her 'I am, thank you'?

He hadn't seen her in days; why had it taken him so long to realize?

How could he protect the world when he couldn't even protect his family?

Credo shook his head. There was no time for indulging in shame – rather he should be looking for Kyrie. He had just enough time for one more sweep in the Underground before the train for Fortuna left.

He gave the empty kitchen one last look before he swept out the room and shut the front door. The click of the lock was full of cold finality.

"Oh - Credo, was it?"

The general turned to catch sight of a middle-aged woman (Hair greying at the temples, shoes comfortable and well worn, bag full of groceries, plump and motherly – a clear civilian, low threat; Credo classified the stranger instinctively.) who hurried over to him.

"I heard – oh, dear, dear Kyrie missing! Has there been any news…?" The woman's concern was clear and Credo instinctively straightened up and squared his shoulders, looking every bit the professional.

"Not yet." He spoke curtly, but not impolitely. "But the task force is doing its best and I have no doubt we will find her soon."

"I'm sure you will! She's such a good girl… There's no reason for anyone to harm a sweet thing like that. I'll keep my eyes peeled and make sure my friends do as well!" The woman bobbed excitedly. "Are you doing alright?

"I am, thank you." He responded automatically. "Now if you'll excuse me – "

Credo was startled at the warm hand that closed upon his arm.

"No, you're not." The older woman's eyes were bright with concern, voice gentle. "I'm sorry for such an insensitive question. She'll be okay, Credo. Kyrie will find her way home."

For a moment, Credo fought to breathe. But he was a warrior, and more than that, he was a leader. He straightened his back and gave her a stiff nod.

"I am most grateful for your concern." Credo gave a small salute. "May the Saviour be with you on your journey."

And before the woman could say anything else, he left.

It wasn't working.

Vergil gripped his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass as Kyrie lay motionless on her back.

For reasons unknown, the two hadn't been able to replicate, much less complete, the bonding process.

When Kyrie had returned on the second day they had quickly set to attempting to figure out what to make of the Magnet-Consort situation. Kyrie had pulled off the bangles and gingerly laid her hand atop his waiting own and the response had been instantaneous.

All strain and stress was swept away and for a moment, Vergil could breathe once more. Even as he revelled in the strength that flowed into his body, he slowly became aware that there was something a little different about this joining. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something… restrained about it. Perhaps it was because this was their first conscious attempt; but there was none of the flood of reason-numbing feeling or ticklish warmth that had accompanied their previous unions, which suited Vergil just fine.

But suddenly, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far, too thin, the connection between them snapped. Kyrie let out a whimper and Vergil had to blink away the vertigo.

"What happened?" Kyrie couldn't fight off the shiver that clawed its way up her back. "Did you pull away again?"

He felt a niggle of alarm at her words and raised an eyebrow. "I did not. Come on; one more time."

But the subsequent attempts proved equally fruitless.

At first, he had attributed the less than perfect bonding due to his lack of research, or her nerves, or his exhaustion, or just a plain lack of practice. But as attempts bled into each other, hours ticking, and then flashing to days, his patience was worn thin and angry. It was like trying to hold water within the cusp of one's fingers; try as they might, they could not hold unto the connection for any extended period of time. Each attempt lasted shorter than the previous one, each rebound harsher than the last.

Now, five days later and with nothing to show for their efforts, Vergil was close to despair.

Without warning, he reached out to lay his hand against Kyrie's bare arm. There was a feeling of brittleness, like ancient paper or very dry kindling, which quickly crumbled into a nothingness that threw Vergil and Kyrie back into their respective consciousness.

"Wait!" Kyrie gasped, jerking herself away from his reach to sink to her haunches. The constant fluctuation of feeling, both physical and emotional, was making her nauseous. Their bonding had always felt so beautiful and completing that she hadn't quite realized just how invasive the entire process was. "I'm feeling dizzy… May we have a break?"

Vergil didn't answer but he walked a little ways off to gather his thoughts about him. He leaned against a gnarled fir tree, rubbing his temples, kneading the strain from his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Then, without warning, he drew his fist back to slam a blow against its trunk. It gave a keening moan of protest, but he did not stop his assault.

What was going on? Why was the entire process so disjointed? Was it because they had broken off in the middle of conjoining during the first time? Could be because he was only half a demon? Had the aforementioned rush of strength been a fluke? Was he only given power in measure to the danger that Kyrie found herself in? Had he put too much hope in this as a solution…?

Suddenly tired, he gazed sightlessly at the remains of the unfortunate fir that took the brunt of his displeasure.

He was a fool to have hoped for anything more.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts, that Vergil gave a start when hesitant fingers wrapped themselves around his clenched fist.

Kyrie carefully brushed away the splinters and chips of wood and bark from his bleeding hand, drawing out a handkerchief from her pocket to bind his scratches up.

He caught her at the wrist, wondering why he had ever put his hope in something so fragile.

"It's not working." Vergil spoke hollowly. "Nothing's changed. I'm as weak and powerless as always."

"You have a funny concept of powerless." Kyrie's voice was soft. "The poor tree didn't even stand a chance."

He threw her a half-hearted glare, which she returned with a smile.

Kyrie was surprised at how rusty that expression felt on her face and was stunned at the realization that this was the first semi-friendly conversation they'd had since they had arrived on the island. He had refuted all her attempts at communication other than what was necessary to attempt the bonding, withdrawing in himself to the extent that she wanted to give pre-abduction Vergil the Congeniality Award. There were no more walks anywhere, or comfortable silences nor thought-provoking conversations, and not even a whisper of the sharp jibes that he had so copiously heaped upon her before. Vergil had retreated into stillness and silence; Kyrie felt this indifference to be crueller than his anger.

"Vergil." Her fingers curled around his. "Do you really hate me now?"

He gave a start, snatching his hand back as if burned. He watched her warily before slowly speaking.

"And if I said yes?"

"Then we may have just hit upon the reason for why we can't bond." Came the quiet reply.

Vergil felt a glimmer of interest, despite himself. "Elaborate."

"From what I understand, we are in a… symbiosis of sorts. This is a survival mechanism. Our connection was created because I was in danger, and, seeking safety I turned to you – which leads me to this theory." She drew herself up with a breath. "We can't… can't 'bond' when we can not feel safe with each other."

Vergil watched the tips of her fingers tremble before she gripped the pleats of her skirt tightly, craning her neck up to meet his gaze: earnest and pleading. "This is not a business contract - this is a partnership. I am entrusting you my life, and in a way, you are doing the same with me. Didn't you wonder - there was Dante, apparently Trish, not to mention all the other demons in the vicinity – but why did I bond with you? The first time may have been a fluke, but the subsequent times were deliberate and focused. It may have been a subconscious choice, yes, but I believe it was my choice."

"I chose you because you were strong, that much is true, but more than that because I trusted you – you're my friend." She was sure she was rambling again, but Kyrie couldn't have stopped the flood of words even if she had wanted to. "But of course, this is not one-sided. I am a Demon Magnet, but I can only be properly so because of my Consort. I don't think this can work unless we both want it to."

"Vergil," Kyrie took a brave step forward and he swore his skin could feel her warmth. Vergil became aware of the sun as it began its descent and turned the sky, heavy with its burden of clouds, into shades of crimson, slate and aubergine. The air was filled with the scent of rain, thick and stifling. "You have to talk to me."

Even as Vergil listened, he knew that there was sense in what she was saying. The largest change, most palpable altered variable from their initial union to the near present, was undoubtedly their relationship with one another. He had to acknowledge that she had displayed a measure of willingness to remain in his presence that had almost bordered fond. He would even admit that he was willing to tolerate her interactions to an extent more than he would other people.

So then why did she try to replace him with Dante?

Stuck in stasis, Vergil had been in a half-awake but immobile state. He could hear, reason, understand, and with some effort – see. The memory of Kyrie clinging to her younger brother, begging him not to leave her alone with him, brought a resentment that sorely tempted him to be cruel. That she had gone a step further, feigning shock and hurt when confronted with this fact only further fuelled his anger, and he felt something that felt suspiciously close to betrayal stirring in his chest. It boiled in his blood and threatened to choke him, finding release only when it spilled out of his lips in the form of words aimed to hurt.

"I understand." She brightened immediately at his words but he continued smoothly. "Today, we'll talk about our feelings, hopes and dreams. Then perhaps tomorrow we can go stargazing, saving baby seals and as you teach me how to knit we can discuss strategies on how to achieve our next goal: befriending the rest of the demon worlds and making them realize that their urge to kill and eat human flesh was merely born out of a desire to be loved." Vergil felt a savage pleasure in watching her deflate. "I have never heard of anything more foolish."

She didn't flinch and burst into tears as he half-expected her to, nor turned red and begin throwing insults or weaponry at him in turn as the others at DMC might. Instead, Kyrie fixed him a steady look, dark eyes alight with desperation.

"If that is what it takes, then let us do so." She was supremely proud that her voice did not tremble. "It is inconvenient, frustrating, frightening, and I do not want this happening any more than you do… yet here we are. But regardless of whether it is related to the bonding process or not, please, I don't want to loose you too – "

"'Loose me'?" The smooth baritone never changed in inflection, though his eyes revealed his growing agitation. Gone was the indifferent calm of the past few days, instead they seemed to be lit from within with a molten depth that threatened to consume all. "I can not think of an instance that you even had me. If your ego needs reminding, then I will do so with great glee: we are not friends."

The silence was painful and jagged – Kyrie pale, the dark eyes hauntingly lovely in sorrow; Vergil agitated, filled with energy and nowhere to spend it.

"I apologise for having been overly familiar. I shall… I shall think carefully on what you have said." She had to fumble for the words around her suddenly dry mouth. Kyrie needed to leave – and fast. "It's getting dark so I'll see you tomorrow."

"I thought you said you wanted to talk," Vergil demanded, voice all silk and venom. "Come now, you've driven me into a talking mood. What else shall I set you straight on? Ah - how about your situation with the kid? So, you were jealous with the thought that he was fucking his boss and too spineless to confront him about it so – "

"Do not talk about Nero that way!" She bit back a sob.

"I will talk as I please!" Vergil roared, slamming a clenched fist against a nearby tree, which burst in a scream of sawdust and splinters. Kyrie flinched.

He took a step forward, seizing her cheek to turn her face to his. She was trembling and there it was again: that look of vulnerability laced fear that shone clear in her doe-gaze. He wanted so desperately to kiss her.

"Don't look at me like that." He spoke almost tenderly.

"L-let me go." She pleaded. "They'll be looking for me soon and - "

"Who?" Vergil knew he was being unreasonable now, but her fear was as intoxicating as it was hateful.

"You said so yourself: Dante is gone and this place is uninhabited but for an old woman and her children. You talk big for someone who is at my mercy." There was silence and he was satisfied to see the realization sink in.

"You wouldn't dare." Kyrie's mind blanked, and from her lips tumbled Dante's assurance. "You… you won't hurt me. You're scared of me…"

Vergil let out a bark of a laugh, harsh and grating.

"Indeed." His eyes were mocking and she hardly dared to breathe when his thumbs ran gently against her cheek, a parody of Dante's touch. "I'm afraid of you. But, Kyrie-doll, it would be so much wiser for you to be afraid of me."

With a startling burst of speed, Kyrie wrenched herself free to flee into growing the darkness.

AN: Thank you for your patience, everyone! I'm sorry I broke my once a month rule... The characters didn't want to cooperate. D: Kyrie didn't want to fight and Vergil wanted to do more angry soliloquies... Whew - I'm glad this one's finally out and done with!

Also - the wonder who is Clairavance, has kindly agreed to beta for me again!

Aside from being proficient with syntax, grammar and spelling, she is also a wonderful writer and I wholeheartedly recommend you take a peek-see at her works~! :D