Thought I'd post this up since it was sitting about in my Kuro folder. Hope you enjoy it readers of fics about people doing things!

Every night she closed her eyes and saw it. Her home in flame. She heard the screams of her husband as he burned alive in their bed. She saw the last, desperate look of fear in her child's eyes before he was crushed by the collapsing roof.

The death of the Phantomhive family... except for one. Rachel Phantomhive lived. Despite the pain of the fire, the collapse of her home, the kidnapping and slavery and starvation and rape.

Rachel Phantomhive lived.

She tried not to sleep. It only brought on nightmares and horror, even when unwelcome opium was swimming through her bloodstream. She wanted nothing to do with the land of dreams. All she had were her memories and while she was awake, she could command them with ease.
Being asleep only brought them on in uncontrollable waves of terror.

She had been beaten half to death by her pimp because she terrified the customers in the dark, east end brothel that she had been chained too. When her home had burned, she had been knocked unconscious. When she awoke she had watched as a hooded figure was given a small sum of money for her life, for her body.

Then the rapes had begun. At first it hurt, at first she screamed and fought back as best she could. But she was only a lady, and a lady does not know how to fight. She knew how to read the poetry of Byron, Wordsworth and Keats. She knew how to knit quietly, smile on command and make small talk in a crowded room.

She was taught how a whore was supposed to act.

They thought that by keeping her doped on opium they would chain her to the whore house. But she was a Phantomhive. Several times they had chased her down in the streets, tackling her to the ground and dragging her back to the brothel. She would not be chained down by drugs and abuse, no matter how much blood ended up on the sheets of the bed.

She would not go quietly into a shallow grave.

Perhaps thats why they sold her.

Because she simply would not stop. She would not give in. She would not let her world end in a dark bedroom, eyes wasted away on opium as some obese man took her without her consent.

The carriage rattled as it moved down the country lane. It was an old cow carriage but it was filled with women. It stank of animal dirt and vomit and piss. Women dressed in terrible, ruined dresses and rags. Most of them were skin and bone, some had the shape of women who had delivered too many children. All of them had dead eyes, staring forward into their own memories.

But not Rachel.

Her eyes were not dead. Not yet. That once sparkling sapphire blue had dulled like a uncared for sword. Becoming ice cold and deadly. She sat in the corner, refusing to lock eyes with the others. She was the Lady Phantomhive. She had her name, above all other things, above the abuse and the broken bones and the burn scars still etched on her body. She had her name.

Rachel's stomach growled softly, she hadn't eaten all day. Not before this journey out of the city started at least. She could smell the fresh country air and had to wonder just where they were going.

At least she was out of the brothel. Maybe it would be easier to escape out here, she could run into the forests and hide and try and find her way out of her living hell.

There was another bump and a sharp pain accompanied by a jostle of metal came from her ankles. She would have to find a way to remove the chains around her feet first. Her captors had long since learned to keep her weighed down.

She could tell it was sometime in the evening, streams of a deep orange sunlight were peering through the small cracks in the woodwork of the carriage. Night would be coming, and she didn't know if she could hold off sleep.

How long had it been now? Two, maybe three days?

When you didn't sleep, all days seemed to blend into one. Time behaved differently and things didn't seem as real. She swore once, on one dark and dank night, that she saw a woman with long, flowing red hair dancing across the rooftops of London.

Or perhaps that was the opium.

She felt so sick. She hated being doped on that horrible stuff. Though in some ways she was thankful for the opium, she was sure it was the only reason she had never conceived a bastard child. It made her body too weak, too sick, to dazed to take another child.

She already had a child... and he had been robbed from her.

In the first few days of her capture, she had done nothing but cry, wish for death on swift wings and fall into despair.

Then slowly. Slowly. That despair had turned to a cold, deathly fury. Someone had started that fire... someone had killed her family. She was the last of the Phantomhives line... and by God she would have her revenge.

She could feel it, eating at her insides, gnawing at her heart, at her very sanity. The deprivation of sleep and the opium that had been forced into her system had only amplified it. The nightmares existed to remind her of her one mission.

To kill those who had taken her world from her.

From beyond the walls of the carriage there was shouting, and sharp, terrible blue eyes shot to the door. Some of the other women looked, most didn't. It opened and the dull evening sky washed over them, casting all of the passengers in a deep orange. The fresh country air almost made Rachel cough, but she held her tongue. She couldn't allow a moment of weakness.

"Get the bitches out, the master want's 'em for the sacrifice."

"Alright you 'hores, get da fuck outta there."

Two men, eyes covered in flatcaps began grabbing the women and pulling them out, pushing them onto the floor. Another two began shoving them into small cages, obviously far too small for grown women. But they didn't care, all they had was their orders.

When they worked their way to Rachel, they paused.

"Look at 'er, they fuckin' chained 'er feet up."

"She must be a right cracker, eh?"

They laughed at her. Rachel allowed her eyes to speak for her, and with a glance, they were silenced. They growled at the silent show of defiance and grabbed her roughly, throwing her out the carriage and into a cell, already tightly packed with women.

The cells were wheeled into the mansion but as they did so, each had a huge black cloth thrown over them. Rachel pulled her knees up to her chest, her dirty, stain covered dress smelling terribly of the sick and dirt of living the life of a whore. Her unwashed yet still golden hair fell about her face like the mane of a lion...

Or a wolf waiting to strike.

Whatever it was they were doing, she would find a way out. A big mansion like this, all these women... she was thinking it would be some kind of orgy. Maybe something worse. She wasn't sure.

They stopped pulling the cart suddenly and for a long, long time, Rachel sat waiting. Then she began to hear voices echoing around her. For a moment, she wondered if she was having a waking dream, as some of them seemed so terribly familiar. Voices of the socialites she once called friends.

The room must have been big, as more and more of them seemed to be filling it. Rachel looked around the dark cage. She knew she could pull the sheet off the cage if she tried, but she also knew she would probably be beaten if she did that.

No. She needed all her strength for her escape attempt.

The room suddenly went quiet and a dread washed over Rachel.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Loyal worshippers of our Lord Satan. I bid you welcome to our sect. Last month's attempt was an admitted failure. The souls of children are not enough to summon the demon we desire. But tonight, we bring you the souls of the truly tormented. Tonight we will summon our demon, and our wishes, no matter how terrible and carnal, will be granted!"

There was a loud and yet polite clapping from the crowd. It seemed, sickeningly, that there were a lot of them here.

The cover was suddenly whipped from the cage and Rachel's eyes widened from behind her hair. The room was huge, practically the size of the main room of the Phantomhive manor. However, almost everywhere there was red and black, and horrific symbols carved into the floor, into the wall.
All in a sickening blood red.

She was surrounded by people, nobles, wearing feathered masks across their eyes, black clothes and red cloaks. And before her was a small table... one covered in the stains of blood.

She suddenly realised why she was here. This wasn't some drunken orgy or some whorehouse auction. This was a sacrifice. They would kill her, here, tonight, on that table to bring forth a creature that didn't exist.

The door to the cage opened and out was dragged a woman. She made no effort to struggle or fight back. Her eyes were dead, her will crushed. She had already gone from this world a long time ago.

Rachel watched with wide eyes, frozen to her small spot in the cage as they threw the woman onto the table. One man with a large mask, ornate and satanic, raised a long, jagged dagger before shouting. "HAIL SATAN! BRING FORTH YOUR MINIONS TO US!"

There was a rousing call of 'Hail Satan!' as the blade came down.

There was a scream, the smell of blood filled the room and immediately began flowing over the sides of the table. But there was no demon. Just a dead whore and a bloody knife.

Two large men pulled the body from the table and began dragging it to one side, dumping it without ceremony in a small box.

"Another!" The call was taken up by the crowd, and again, another poor woman was taken from the cages and dragged to the table.

Five times Rachel watched. Five times that knife came down, that blasphemous shout was heard, five times the crowds cheering got louder.

Then it was her turn.

She screamed as they grabbed her, thrashing against the arms of the thugs who dragged her towards the table.

The murderer in the mask laughed. "This one has spirit! Perhaps she'll help us get lucky!"

The crowd laughed and Rachel wished them all dead. She was not afraid to die, not since her family was taken from her. Her life had ended in flames and the screams of those she loved. But that did not mean she would be given over to this. She was Lady Rachel Phantomhive. She would not go down in this world as a forgotten whore stabbed on a table.

"Let me go!" She screamed, her voice horse and hurt from the months of abuse. "Someone! ANYONE! HELP ME!"

"Hold her down." The masked murderer ignored her and his thugs obeyed.

The air grew colder.

She watched with wide eyes as the blade rose, her thrashing becoming impossible against the arms of the men. All she could think about in this moment was her son and husband... and the revenge they would never have. "PLEASE! STOP!"

The shadows grew darker.

"Hail Satan!"

Rachel didn't hear the cheer of the crowd of the laugher of the masked heretic. She only heard her own scream of pain as sharp steel pushed through her stomach. Blood and fire roared through her and her vision went almost black with agony. "SOMEONE, PLEASE, ANYONE! HELP ME!"

And then the lights went out.

"... Who summoned me?"

The knife was suddenly out of her body and she heard it clatter somewhere to the floor. The pain of her wound was reaching every part of her... and yet, there was no longer any fire of blood or hurt. There was only a terrible cold, like that of the void. She forced her eyes open to behold a terrible sight.

Glorious hate red eyes peering out of a black shadow that formed above her. There was a body somewhere within it, yet, the shadow moved like smoke across it. Hinting at an arm, a leg, a sharp toothed grin. There was no more cheering now. Only blind panic from the crowd. People were screaming, running, some however were shouting.

"Who summoned me?" The voice called out louder. It was terrible, like the cawing of a thousand crows.

"I did! Grant me eternal life and wealth!"

"No, me! Make me forever young and beautiful!"

"Give me my arm back!"

"Give me my neighbours husband!"

"... No." The shadow's eyes moved across the nobles. "You are not worthy."

From somewhere deep inside Rachel, she found the strength called out softly. "Demon. Give me my vengeance."

"... you." The eyes locked onto Rachel and she saw that smile once more. The smile of a hungry tiger. "You summoned me. What is your name?"

From somewhere far away she heard the panic of the nobles, someone screaming to kill the whore off, another shouting that something horribly wrong had happened.

They were miles away though. All Rachel knew, was darkness around her and the eyes of the hell born beast. "I am Lady Rachel Phantomhive. Last of the Phantomhive name."

"You have already paid the price to summon me, now I give you the choice. Form a contract with me, a demon of hell. Sell me your soul and I will grant your wishes." His voice was like nails on a chalkboard and yet, terribly seductive.

The choice was before her. The path of hell. The path of revenge.

It was no choice at all.

"Demon, I command you." She coughed and she could feel cold blood seeping through her dress. And yet her voice grew bolder with every word. Her cold ice eyes grew harder. Her body felt stronger. "Form a contract with me!"

"So you have chosen the torments of hell." The demon grinned widely. "We shall complete the contract with a seal. The more visible the seal, the more powerful the contract."

"Anywhere is fine, demon." Rachel spat out, her eyes narrowing, locking to the fire-red of the beasts gaze. "I want the strongest power. Strong enough to get revenge on those who took my family from me."

"So greedy for a Lady." The demon moved closer suddenly, the darkness pressing against her body like the hands of a harsh lover. "Fine. I shall place my mark on your eye, filled with fury!"

A hand shot out of the darkness, covered in a skin-like texture that felt repulsive to the touch. It grabbed her eye and for the second time that night, Rachel felt fire and pain. But this was deeper than just her flesh. This was scarring something inside her, deep into her core.

Deep onto her very soul.

Then it was gone, and she was gasping for air. Suddenly she felt no pain, no agony of the knife wound. She sat up and checked her body. There was blood, pain yes, but no wound. Her demon had healed her, in his first act of power. The chains were gone from her feet, torn apart into shreds.

"Now, my lady." His voice had changed, becoming soft, noble, commanding and seductive all at once. It was no longer dominated by the demonic.
Rachel turned her head and her eyes widened.

Before her was a butler dressed in black, all black, with sharp, handsome features and a tall yet powerful build. A butler with glowing red eyes. He smiled at her softly. "Command me."

The nobles in the room looked terrified, and rightfully so. Rachel looked around the room slowly before looking back to her butler. "Kill them. All of them."

His smile became a grin. "As you wish."

Rachel had never seen such devastation, such carnage, such unhinged violence. And yet she didn't bat an eye. She walked through the bloodshed without a flicker of care, moving slowly through the home to the entrance. She ignored the screams, the cries for help, the blood splattering across walls.

When she opened the door to the manor, there was a rising head behind her. Fire. He was burning everything, removing the bodies and the stain of the terrible satanic alter all at once.

She walked onto the grounds slowly, feeling the grass under her toes. She was exhausted and hungry and weak... but she was alive.

And finally she had her tool of vengeance.

Rachel walked a while, ignoring the world until she stopped at a hill and turned. Behind her the mansion lit the night sky like a bonfire. She couldn't help but compare herself to the phoenix. Rising from the flames to begin again... though she was a phoenix now with black wings.

The butler appeared at her side out of the shadows, and for a long moment they simply stood there, side by side, watching the mansion and the past burn away.

"I have three requests." Rachel suddenly announced without looking to him. "Firstly, you will be my butler. You will protect me until the day I gain vengeance for the slaying of my family and never betray me. Second you will obey my orders immediately and without question. Thirdly, you will never lie to me."

"Agreed, my Lady Phantomhive." The butler bowed softly. "Anything else?"

She paused. "... Do you have a name? I cannot call you 'butler' forever."

"My name is unpronounceable to your tongue." The butler replied simply. "But you may name me anything you wish."

"Then you will be Sebastian." Rachel announced, turning to look at him. "Sebastian Micheals."

HOPE YA LIKED. People do love satanic imagery and mass murder with fire after all.

Review if you want, or not, whatevers yo. Just hoped you liked it, dear reader.