Standard Disclaimer: Not mine; everything is Kaori Yuki's.

Warning: Graphic homosexual non-con, other graphic sexual situations, blood, gore, and general violence. Not for the young.

On the Coldest Winter Night

Chapter One

"Riff, get my coat. Mary Weather is waiting for us. Lady Isabel, I must take my leave; do excuse me." He bent down to kiss her hand, sharp golden-green eyes fluttering almost shyly.

The lady wore the prettiest blush upon her fair cheeks, and she quickly stammered out a goodbye before leaning heavily against the wall. The Earl's presence was overwhelming, rendering her unable to intelligibly converse. Finally able to regain her composure as she watched his retreating back, she straightened the skirt of her gown and re-entered the lavish mansion, ready to boast to her friends about her encounter with the infamously beautiful Earl.

As the carriage rolled forward, Cain huffed, face scrunching into an expression of displeasure. "I'm tired of these mindless parties, Riff," he complained, "the girls are all the same. I dread the day I must marry one of them."

"Marry, Master Cain?"

"You don't expect me to remain a bachelor my whole life, do you?" Cain replied, obviously amused. "You think me that unpopular that I cannot make a good match?"

His manservant, Riff, was quick to reassure him otherwise. "Ah, of course not, Master. I just… never realized that you would think about marriage already is all." After all, you're but a boy, he could almost hear Riff silently add.

At seventeen, well, yes, he was young, as most of London's high society was quick to remind him. It still stung a little to have his most trusted steward treating him like he was still that little boy in the garden all those years ago.

"We're stopping by the toy shop, Riff," he announced imperiously, "I promised Mary I would get her a new stuffed bear."

"But my lord, you just bought her one last week!" Riff exclaimed. "Are you sure Miss Mary would like another bear?" after she threw her last one at your head, he silently added. "Wouldn't it be best to get her another kind of toy, or perhaps a new dress? Or…." He paused, lips pursing in thoughts. "Perhaps a live pet?"

That wasn't a bad idea, Cain grudgingly admitted. He knew that his gifts of stuffed bears and dolls were getting tedious to his beloved little sister, but he didn't know what else he could give her. She was his angel, his most beloved little sister. She couldn't want for anything. But perhaps she had wanted some company, and since he couldn't always be with her….

"Alright," he said with no small amount of resignation. A pet in the house… it was difficult enough already with a ten year old girl and an irresponsible guest that always overstayed his welcome. "We're bringing home a friend with us, it seems."

It wasn't that he minded the pain. He was used to it: the cadence of the whip flying across his bare back was almost relieving, the blood dripping onto the frigid tiled floor cleansing, the sharp sting of pain cathartic. He was no innocent. Every whistle of leather through air was well deserved; there was no other way that he could survive without spilling his sins out to the world. His frail body was just that—too frail, too delicate to bear the weight of his crimes. He had long learned that these whipping sessions were for his own good. His father, the only one who loved him in this world, had always helped him to atone for his sins, and he had always been grateful. Each whip from his father was a caress from God himself, firmly absolving him of all transgressions—though of course he was still no innocent. He couldn't be; father had given him away because the sight of his sinful body was becoming too much for Alexis to bear, and he couldn't blame his father. After all, the wicked needed their punishments.

"He's yours now, Cassandra," his father voice reverberated in his head, authoritative and cold. But surely that was just a mask to cover his father's pain and disappointment in him. He had wronged his father again; his attempt to prolong Riff's alternate personality had succeeded at the cost of his own father's love. He wasn't so sure if it was worth it, in the end. But there was something in Riff's and Cain's bond that ignited something within him, perhaps hatred, or perhaps some other unnamed emotion that he hadn't been able to sort out yet. That bond—idiotic beyond belief, of course—held such innocence, such purity; he wasn't able to stop himself from giving them just a little more time.

Just a little more time and Cain wouldn't turn out like him, because one of them in the world was one too many.

He didn't fear the pain at all. Pain was a constant in his life, one that he almost welcomed. No, it wasn't the pain that had his head buried into the soft white pillow to hide from the world, it wasn't fear of being further tormented by the ever-cracking whip that had his body curled up as much as it could under the constraint of the Scavenger's Daughter, and it definitely wasn't his reluctance to repent that caused him to bite through his lower lip to stop from crying out loud. It was the presence of a most vile demon behind him, one of its hands entangled in his silver tresses, the other cupping the round firmness of his nude buttocks, its breath hot against the nape of his neck as it trailed liquid sins down his scarred back. There was no pain, only the dull ache of his limbs being locked into place for too long and the solid weight of the demon's body pressed against his, its crotch tight and full of lust rubbing against his unprotected backside.

He wished for the pain to come. He understood pain well. This foreign situation was baffling to him, and for the first time in ages he felt an acute wave of fear washing over him. The demon wrapped its body around him in a mockery of the loving embraces that his father used to give him, its arms curling around the iron cast that trapped his form, cruel fingers pinching the rosy nipples mercilessly until he could not help but to utter a wanton moan. All the guilt and shame in the world could not ground him when the demon reached for his member and ever so gently stroked him to hardness. His lips were a bloody mess, his teeth stained crimson, and yet all of his efforts went to waste as the demon's hand deftly moved up and down his shaft, thumb brushing over the sensitive tip to gather the single drop of clear fluid, earning a wispy gasp of guilty pleasure from him. The hand moved toward his backside, and he bit down on a scream as the wetness swiped across his puckered opening, and, concentrating not to make another humiliating sound, he vaguely felt one finger, then two entered the tight hole, and he almost sighed with relief as he felt the sharp pain—ah, he was back in familiar territory now. The fingers stretched him as well as they could, and as swiftly as they left, another, thicker intrusion replaced them in one swift thrusting of hip.

Pain blossomed in front of his amethyst eyes, and his mouth involuntarily opened in a shriek. His hazy vision could make out the outline of the mahogany bedpost on the other side of the bed—his glasses had long been disposed of—and he tried his best to concentrate on the swirling, majestic pattern, anything to distract him from the feel of the demon's body. His inside felt unimaginably tight, almost as if he were filled to the brim with the sins that they were committing. The demon moved within him, slowly at first, and then it quickened its pace, no doubt eager for its release within him. His hardness was still nimbly stroked by slender aristocratic fingers, and through the haze of pain he could feel the first appearance of the most deniable sort of pleasure vibrating through his body, through his head. The demon shifted his position, pushing him even further into the plush bedding, chafing his wrists against the metal shackles as the combined weight of both bodies threatened to cut off the circulation in his arms.

He gasped aloud as the demon's member slammed against a part of his body that he was never aware of; sure, he knew about its existence in medical terms, but never had he experienced the intense pleasure for which it was often touted. He squeezed his eyes shut, shameful drops of tears leaking from wet lashes from the intensity of the various sensations. The demon's chest rumbled against his back, its moans loud and wanton, and as he finally reached his climax under its administration, the demon found its own release through the involuntary clenching of his butt cheeks, its seeds buried deep into him as if to hide the evidence of this crime against God. It cried out his name and bit into the soft, blemished skin of his shoulder; he sobbed—not through any particular religious zeal as he had never been able to bring himself to believe in any god, but the very thought of how disappointed his father would be at him if the truth were to be exposed.

Never mind that his father had given him to the demon to do as it would see fit; his father had stressed the uncleanliness of sodomy extensively. Why was he so helpless as to accept the demon's touches passively? He was no different from those filthy prostitutes on the street corners. The demon rolled off of him, its face a perfect picture of satisfied pride, and it chuckled as it slowly unlocked his confines, its fingers dipping into the cooling puddle of his semen on the luxurious red bed sheet. It raised a finger coated in come to his lips, coaxing them to open. Its eyes were almost playful, clearly still ensnared by the post-coital bliss.

He turned back his head as soon as the metal frame of the Scavenger's Daughter slid off of him, and, tears still streaming down his porcelain skin, he spat directly into its face.

Riff's headaches had all but disappeared ever since the doctor accosted him in that alleyway and injected a mysterious drug into his arm, though his confusion had not been abated. As someone with medical training, it baffled him that he could not identify the growing weakness in his body, the headaches, and the spells of dizziness that sometimes overcame his determination to appear strong in front of his master. He had briefly wandered if it could possibly be consumption, but soon dismissed the notion. His lungs felt fine. He hadn't had a cough, and he certainly wasn't hacking up pieces of lungs; surely he would notice if that were the case. Perhaps it was just a simple flu that he had caught—it was nearing winter after all.

He still didn't understand why the doctor had helped him, not after the many attempts on his and his master's life. He knew the doctor wasn't a nice person. It came as no surprise to him that the doctor would figure out exactly what his ailment was; he could never deny that the man was a genius, albeit an obviously insane and immoral one. But still, he was grateful. The fainting spells had dampened his ability to serve his master, and of course he didn't want to trouble his master with such triviality as his failing health. So be it if the only reason he could be by Cain's side would be through the doctor's strange inclination for absurdity.

"Riff?"his master called, head poking into his room sheepishly. There was a fluffy blanket around his pajamas-clothed shoulders, and his hair was mussed adorably, no doubt from endless turning and tossing. "I hope I didn't wake you up, but I couldn't sleep," he admitted.

Riff hurriedly stood up and buttoned up his white nightshirt to hide his bare chest from view—it would be most improper for his master to gaze upon his scarred, naked flesh. "Would you like me to make you some hot chocolate, Master Cain? It should help with your insomnia," he said gently, crossing the room to stand expectantly at his master's side.

Cain gave an indulgent smile and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No, I don't think that would be necessary. What are you still doing up?"

It never ceased to amaze Riff at how noble, how elegant his master could be even in sleeping attire. He felt keenly the lost of radiating warmth from his master as Cain moved toward his freshly lain bed, and his eyebrows raised minutely as his master plopped down on the bed without a care as to the impropriety of it. "I was just… thinking, Master. I couldn't sleep either. I don't feel so tired." It wasn't an entire lie; he wasn't tired enough to fall asleep, which is the only way he could sleep these days. Insomnia had invaded this mansion, it seemed. "Is there anything I can do to help you fall asleep?"

Cain—only in the privacy of his mind would he dare to think of his master by name alone—bit his lower lip lightly, a small blush alighting his cheeks. "Will you sleep with me tonight, Riff? Like how we used to, when I was young. I keep thinking about Delilah and my father, about what he's planning to do next, about what my older brother is scheming for us, about the things they could do to you, to Mary…." He took a deep breath and continued in a slightly shaky voice. "Each time I close my eyes, I see your dead faces staring back at me… I… Riff…."

His poor master. If he could take away all of Cain's worries and pain and burn in hell for it, he would. Still so strong, his master, even after all that life had thrown at him. Still so pure, so untouched by the insanity that had engulfed his family; it was Riff's duty to guard that innocence from the malicious hands of Death and the Cardmaster, even if it meant breaking all societal rules and be forever branded as a sinner under God's judgment. "Master Cain, my bed isn't much, but if being here would help you sleep, then…" he hesitated, "I'll be glad to keep you company tonight, Master. I'll go get the spare cot then; would Master like to be tucked in first?"

"No! No, that's not what I meant at all," Cain hurriedly amended. "I want you to sleep in the same bed as I. Like you used to… back then."He let the rest of his sentence hang; both of them knew full well what "back then" entailed.

"Ah… Master, isn't that a little… improper?" Riff managed to choke the words out, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. Why did this simple request from Cain put him into such a state? They had done this before, though it had been a while since he had heard such a request again. Back then, Cain had been so lost and sad. Riff thought that the situation had gotten better, and yet….

Cain huffed, arms crossing in front of his chest petulantly; Riff was suddenly reminded of how truly young his master was. "Are you seriously implying that we care much for propriety around here? Just get on the bed, Riff."

Gingerly, Riff placed himself on the side of the bed, though he was more supported by his grounded feet than by the soft mattress under him. It's a totally innocent request, he told himself, though a tiny part of him wished it wasn't. "If you're sure, Master Cain. I'll turn off the light now?"

"Don't," Cain murmured, his golden-green eyes half covered by long lashes darkened with sleepiness. "Leave it on." He yanked Riff's nightshirt closer to him, forcing Riff to shift over on the bed before pulling the cover up over both of them. He inhaled Riff's crisp scent, head nestled on Riff's shoulder, and a smile crossed his face as Riff tentatively placed an arm around him and fractionally relaxed. His butler could be so rigid at times. "Good night, Riff."

"Good night, Master Cain," Riff replied, though his eyes refused to close. The situation was almost surreal. Cain was no longer a child; this was no longer the innocent comfort that he had offered Cain long ago. If only Cain knew the demon lurking within his mind, wanting things it shouldn't want, wanting C….

Cain would never know because Riff would never allow such a thing to take place. He couldn't; it was his duty to protect Cain from harm at all cost. As Cain snuggled closer to him and his breathing eased into the gentleness of sleep, Riff briefly tightened his hold on the boy—no, no longer a boy, a young man—and promised himself that Cain would never again be hurt and broken by anything. Not even if he need to kill a part of himself to make it possible.

That night, he dreamt of smiles on a face more beautiful than Raphael could ever paint, of laughter as clear as Avignon's summer sky, and of a pair of golden green eyes crinkled in a sort of happiness so pure, it was as if he were looking directly at the sun.

"Dr. Zenopia? Have you seen Dr. Jizabel lately?" A boyish voice, forever stalled at the cusp of puberty, rang out in the quiet room. The corpses displayed prominently on the pristine steel tables were drained dry of blood, their faces peaceful and shallow in death. No doubt they were better company than most of the cards in this building; it was little wonder that Jizabel would prefer to spend his time secluded here with The Hermit. "I haven't seen him in days…. Usually he would call on me several times a day to help him dispose of the carcasses. Not that I'm worried!" he hurriedly added, a quick blush rising to his cheeks. "I just don't want the Cardmaster to be on my case about losing my superior, that's all!" Of course, the Cardmaster would be most displeased to lose his favorite whipping post. That's all he cared about, the cruel king in his throne who would break an angel's wings just to see how long it would take him to fall.

Dr. Zenopia, the Hermit, a short, stout man long past his prime, pushed up his monocle with a gloved hand, glanced disinterestedly at the lower card at his door, and turned his attention back to the barely cooling corpse of a young blond with half of his face covered in fresh burns. "You should really not worry about such things, Cassian," he grunted good-naturedly. "I'm sure Dr. Jizabel is fine. The last time the Cardmaster came here, he was talking about Jizabel's initiation into the Major Arcana. They're probably just off somewhere celebrating still; after all, he is the Cardmaster's son."

Zenopia's own initiation into the Major Arcana had been rather unusual, as he was one of the first members recruited by the Cardmaster. He imagined that the initiation was some sort of rite being recited, perhaps a duel between the initiated and a veteran member… in all, nothing too strenuous for Dr. Jizabel, that was sure. But then again, the Cardmaster was known for his cruelty to his offspring; Jizabel might even be recuperating from his strenuous ordeal as they speak. Still, Cassian worried too much sometimes, bless his stunted little body. Zenopia shook his head exasperatedly, forgetting for a moment that the younger man was still in the room. "I just hope that he isn't spending too much time with Head Priest Cassandra. That man unsettles me."

"Cassandra? Why would Dr. Jizabel associate with him?" Cassian demanded heatedly.

Dr. Zenopia shrugged and started to make a long incision on the corpse's chest, the scalpel tearing through flesh as easily as pudding. "Mind your language, Cassian. He's your superior," he chided, though in all honesty he had no desire to address Cassandra formally either. "Lately Death has been seen in his company quite often. It seems the two have taken a liking to each other." His eyebrows rose in mirth. "They do make quite a pretty pair, don't you agree?"

The room fell deadly silent. He chanced a glance backward and was not surprised to find Cassian already gone. It was expected. He wasn't blind enough to ignore the obvious affection the stunted man felt for his direct superior; as much as Cassian would deny it, he cared deeply for Jizabel. It was evident in how he would follow the Doctor's every step even when he was not required to, how he would express genuine concern whenever Jizabel's sickly body was acting up or when the wounds in his back—oh yes, Zenopia knew—would ooze blood and pus and torment Jizabel. Being the Hermit had some perks; he was often left to himself and his research, but his solitude had honed his perception exponentially. There wasn't much that he didn't notice.

Later, he would curse himself for not noticing that something was terribly wrong.

Author's Notes: That's it for this chapter! I have a pretty good idea of how this story will progress, and I'm in the process of writing the second chapter; I'll post it immediately once it's finished. I'm also looking for a good beta-reader; please contact me if you're interested! Thank you for reading.