A/N: hello there!

Thanks for deciding to read "Blood Runs Deeper"!

Well, it's been two lines and I'm already at a lost cause at what else to say (or write, for a better word). Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy my story and any feedback (although not too harsh) will be very much loved.

Disclaimer: I do not own Diabolik Lovers or any of its characters.

allyelle~


Blood Runs Deeper

Chapter 1 – Departure

Prologue

This is how I was going to die.

Quite a gruesome way to go, I thought as I looked down to the dagger that was slowly cutting through the fabric of my clothes and pricking at my skin.

I always wondered how I would die. A morbid thought, perhaps, but I supposed it was the same as imagining whom you would marry: would he be kind? Rich? Old?

Imagining the reason behind ones death was something akin to this: would I go in my sleep? A car accident? Murder?

But when reality strikes, and here you were, about to die, you can't help but wonder if this is it. Was the sole reason for my existence to die at sixteen, as a sacrifice?

Maybe so.

But I was glad of it. Nobody had forced me into my untimely demise – it was completely autonomous.

My breath hitched as I felt the blade pierce deeper into my skin.

What came after death? I doubted that it would be a place brimmed with golden beams and rainbows. The place where I intend to drag her will indefinitely be to one of the blackest realms in hell.

I glanced up to the seven pairs of eyes in front of me, lips stretched into a wry smile.

I was to die in the place of something right.

Both of my hands tightly clutched the handle of the dagger as I finally plunged it into my chest.


"Mari?"

My father's voice was loud against the mellow radio music and the clinking of our chopsticks.

It wasn't often that we would eat together like this. He worked abroad with the church, and the times that he was home for dinner were sparse. Usually, my daily schedule consisted of practicing the piano, finishing off school work, then making something simple for dinner.

My life was ever-so-exciting. Then again, sometimes I liked to pull a wild-card and practice the piano after dinner. But with the addition of the sandy-haired man in front of me, I felt awkward, like my sense of normality had been shattered.

"It's the food, isn't it?" I asked with apprehension, dropping the chopsticks. "Does it taste bad? I was going to cook something safer, you know, your favourite or something," I twisted a strand of black hair around my finger. "I knew I shouldn't have tried that new recipe... I suppose I was being a little too spontaneous."

To my surprise, he chuckled. But the laughter didn't meet his eyes.

"No, the foods good. Great, even. It's just such a shame that this will be the last meal that I will have with you... For a while, at least..."

This didn't come as a surprise. How long would he be away for this time? A month? Two? I hated it when he left. But he had to work, otherwise I would probably be calling a cardboard box my home and a pair of stray alley cats my neighbours.

He didn't leave as much when I was younger. We were a lot closer, then, too. Phone calls and letters were our main source of interaction these days. Of course, even though we had grown distant, I still missed him when he left. It was lonely in a church by yourself after a few months.

But I held onto the hope that one day, he could stay and work in Japan long term. Then we could grow close again. He could listen to me play the piano, he could cook dinner, he could take me to school...

"How long this time, then?" I mustered up a smile. "If you like my cooking that much I can always give you a recipe before you go. I doubt you like the food abroad as much as homemade cooking–"

"Mariko," he sighed my name - my full name, which he only did in serious conversation. "I'm going away, and I think I'll be gone for awhile." His gaze drifted to the scraps of food that lay lamely in his bowl, flicking them carelessly with his chopsticks.

"I'm coming with you, I assume," I tilted my head questionably.

"Mariko," he sighed my name once more, this time a little impatiently.

The cogs in my brain started to turn. I was being left behind. Again.

This wasn't one of his two month trips.

I frowned and teetered forwards in my seat. "How long is 'awhile'?"

The radio battery suddenly died, the kitchen now filled with heavy silence. My father turned his attention to the large, arched window – curtesy of the buildings architecture – where outside it displayed the early signs of rain.

"Six months to a year," he clarified, voice edged with sadness.

"How specific," I laughed humourlessly. "And I suppose you expect a sixteen-year-old to run a church, too."

I knew that I was being cruel. I couldn't help it; I was masking my sadness and betrayal.

"We – no, I have sorted out that complication," he offered me a weak, reassuring smile. "Don't worry, you'll be in safe hands with the Sakamaki's. They are some relatives who live on the edge of town."

I nodded mutely and bit my tongue to prevent myself from any further arguments. I rose from the chair and gathered the dishes and put them into the sink. I knew that if I simply refused to go, he still wouldn't take me with him.

I turned away from the sink, refusing to look at him as I trudged my way upstairs to pack my cases. My mind was focused on the Sakamaki's.

Relatives? I didn't know we had any living relatives.


Sunlight peeped through my curtains. It cast it's disdainful beams in my eyes, alerting me that it was time to get up. I groaned and stumbled blindly out of the warm enclosure of blankets. Reluctantly, I dragged myself over to the dresser to get ready. My reflection was dismal. Long, wispy, inky hair ran down my back while my fringe stuck up in odd angles due to sleep.

My eyes were the same as my mothers, my father had told me.

She was dead.

I didn't feel sad. I've never met her; I hadn't even seen a photograph. I always asked my father about her when I was younger, the pinnacle age for curiosity. But the topic of her was steadily avoided at all costs.

In fact, the only thing my father had ever mentioned about her was in a letter. He had hidden it in his bureau, but I was eight, and could find these things easily. I couldn't remember the majority of the letter, but a single sentence stuck in my mind.

'I am sure you want to know. Yes, she looks exactly like her mother.'

But the past didn't matter anymore.

My future with the Sakamaki's did.

I dressed in jeans, a blouse and boots. With grave difficulty, I pulled my cases and bags along with me, stumbling and falling down the stairs in the process. I cursed my clumsiness and cringed as I rubbed my sore limbs. Poking my head into the kitchen, the air was still heavy from last nights conversation; two lonesome bowls upside down in the drainer. I sighed. I wondered how long it would be until I saw the church and my father again.

I hurried outside and spotted the sandy-haired man waiting beside the car. He ambled towards me and pulled me into a tight embrace.

"You'll be fine, Mari," he gripped onto my shoulders, blue eyes hard; as though giving me a warning which contrasted his soothing words. "I know you can handle this."

"Just promise me that I'll see you soon?" My voice was hopeful. He ruffled my hair.

"Absolutely," he smiled. "I'll be back to retrieve you the very second work is done with me."

With one last glance at the church and my father, I climbed into the car.

I wanted to believe his words; but something told me that he wasn't telling the whole the truth.