Author's Note: Enjoy! Again, this is the abridged. There's more to this chapter that you can find on my Adulfanfiction account, should you so choose.

Kurama finally succeeded in rousing himself from the attack of nerves that had overtaken him, cursing him with a few desperate minutes of listening to the rain beat harder and harder against the slatted roof and threaten to wash away his hope and sanity with its frenzied hiss. The water that oozed in through the caulking, awry after only a few years of use, taunted him with puddles and patches of slick mud on the dirt floor, which he put forcefully from his mind, fighting to regain himself from the cliff his soul was perched on.

He stood up slowly, both hands clenching onto the splintered lip of the worktable as his arms tensed. His tight grip allowed him to to pull himself off the ground, hissing in pain as he flexed muscles stiff from cold and fear. Kurama hooked his arms over the broad plane to try and correct his lopsided balance, pulling his upper body along the pitted wood until he leaned against it, blinking thickly into the murky darkness.

Cat eyes, round and green, dilated in the restricted light of the iron lantern Aniki had left on a rotten bench to the right of the table, surrounded by dilapidated tools that lay collapsed and abandoned on the ground, glimmering between cobwebs sparkling with jewels of rainwater in the flickering candle glow. He turned his mind from it willfully, his chest numb with fatigue and hopelessness as he placed his wrists against the cool iron of the knife, beginning to saw at his bonds, and trying not to choke on the dust that the swirlings of his lacy cuff stirred up. He would remove his clothing now and be done with it, he decided—it would be foolish to risk being dressed when Karasu returned.

The rope came apart after a few minutes of painstaking effort, the knife, despite all the care he'd taken, etching into skin and flesh and drawing droplets of blood, which leaked down the blade's polished edge and mixed with the dirt, water, and wood dust on the table to make an ugly dun paste. Kurama unwrapped the cords from his wrists with a strenuous grunt, seeing that the rough strands had chafed him until he bled, leaving bruised marks where the coils had pinched.

He hesitated a moment, glancing down at what he could see of his livery in the guttering candlelight. The servant's tunic he was wearing tonight in honor of his lordship's party was fitted and tailored to perfection, masterfully embroidered with the insignia of the House of Kurogawa, an argent raven, which was stitched carefully into the sleeves and chest with silk and silver threads. In and of itself, it was a very costly commodity to keep and maintain, and replacing it would come from his own pocket, he was sure. Kurama came to a decision quickly, and took the livery off with some concern, hoping that his nakedness would be enough to appease Karasu. He folded it carefully and used a bare arm to wipe away the dust from the relatively dry portion of the worktable he'd chosen, not wanting to sacrifice his already unsteady income to re-outfit himself with new formal attire.

The cold, without his usual covering, bit at his skin and traveled straight to the marrow of his bones, undoing him until he was curled clumsily in a corner of the room, rubbing his naked arms for the slightest illusion of warmth that afforded him. The walls, the floor, everything was damp—the gaps in the tool shed's roof from poor outfitting allowed the rain free entrance, welcoming it in to rot and warp everything left inside. Kurama began to shiver miserably, the shivers getting heavier and heavier as the candle burned down to a muted, sputtering flicker, occasionally stoked into rising by the wet hiss of the wind, and then dulling again, almost to nothing. He prayed fervently that Karasu wouldn't leave him here all night.

Attempting to turn his mind from the approaching danger, he closed his eyes and focused all his thoughts on the quiet little cottage his mother resided in, tucked into a far corner of the mansion's expansive grounds. Built of four walls of white-washed stucco and stone and topped by a fine maple roof, ordered erected by Lord Karasu after Kurama had done some minor pleasing trifle for him, it was an attractive place, alive with flowers and comely touches of cleanliness and beauty. Around its southern corner, behind a root cellar and a little picket fence Kurama had built and painted himself, was her vegetable and herb garden, where Kurama sometimes thought he could spend forever and be happy. In this charming home, his mother and her pretendant, Mr. Hatanaka, a groundsman of Karasu's and a very nice man, lived with Hatanaka's young son Shuuichi. Shuuichi's name was almost amusing to Kurama; he saw much of himself in the boy, though that was an occasional irritation.

Kurama cursed the paths of his thoughts as he felt the familiar bitterness, long suppressed, eat at him in a hard little corner of his heart, knowing that the place of beloved son was day by day being displaced in his mother's soul by little Shuuichi, and that he, so often called away when Karasu needed him or embarrassed by the bruises Karasu left, could never be there for her in the way he wished he could. Besides, he knew better than anyone that Shiori, his mother, looked on him with the regretful memories of her first husband, the only reason she and Mr. Hatanaka were not yet, and could never be, married.

Remembering that Karasu would undoubtedly punish him all tomorrow, leaving him no chance or ability to attend the celebrations for his mother's birthday, he let out a tearless sob. Even if by some miracle Karasu did let him go, he would show up with no present, no cheer, and almost certainly in a physical state that, though only God could foresee it at this time, would cause his mother worry and pain. His lower lip trembled, and he got up and began to pace, trying once more to put all of his torment behind him and strengthen himself for the castigation that was soon to come.

Karasu, for his part, had been preoccupied throughout the gathering, his fingers noticeably tightening and then relaxing on his glass, shifting it from his knee to the ornate mahogany side table at whim—but never letting it out of his hand or sight. Aniki, too, having arrived minutes before Karasu, was in an intensely foul mood, sitting far away from the others with his muddy buckle-downs crossed irately on a satin pouf, and occasionally, as the night wore on (and his boredom and inebriation became more acute), muttering to himself, too low for the other gentlemen to hear.

Finally, the discussion was wrapped up, and all the men—feeling ill-at-ease that they had been so bluntly forced into showing their loyalties—retired to guest rooms or to the entranceway, where they could rouse their servants from the platefuls of food and flagons of ale they'd been enjoying and ready horses and carriages for drives to neighboring villas or their own homes.

Sakyo made a small gesture as he arose to leave as well, informing Bokuyo, summoned by Karasu via the bell-pull, to ready his carriage and call up his servants. He smiled as Toguro offered to walk him to the door, Karasu clearly too preoccupied to give them that courtesy. The two men had no eyes for their lavish surroundings, and were much too comfortable with each other to exchange any quixotic words as they departed, Toguro slightly behind and Sakyo slightly ahead. They turned from the main hallway into a bare corner of the mansion, bereft of eyes, and Sakyo leaned in close to give them the illusion of privacy.

"That was almost foolish, Toguro, to plot so obviously. It's very unlike you."

Toguro chuckled, tapping his chin while looking at a tapestry of a man and a horse—woven of too rough material to be in a main hallway, but perfect for the little nook it had been hung in. "I wanted to pull some of our more reticent supporters out into the open, as you well know—and maybe allow Mukuro to pick the weaker ones off. Besides, it's past time when we can conspire in the darkness. Yomi is forcing the issue more and more every day, as is her majesty, in her continuation of this senseless war—we must as well."

Sakyo stifled his laughter by biting a knuckle, not wanting to draw attention to their murmured conversation. He was tickled by Toguro's clever intrigues, and amused that a Field Marshall commended for his military brilliance dared to call Mukuro's war senseless. "I assumed you had an ulterior motive or two. Karasu's manor is hardly a secure location."

"Nothing is a secure location," Toguro grunted, "Karasu's estate least of all. That man is a fool." He paused. "Though there is much to be said for his wealth and simplicity. But enough, let's depart. My lady sits at home, waiting for me. I am due for an earful."

"You say that with so much less fondness than you once did, Lord Toguro."

Toguro said nothing, and strode towards the direction of the entrance with uncanny ease, leaving Sakyo to stand a moment longer, rubbing his chin, his eyes on Toguro's broad back and a searching, intrigued expression on his face.

Karasu, meanwhile, sat exactly where they had left him, deep within his own thoughts. He swirled the liquor he had barely touched, looking down at it with a stone expression, and then looked upwards, eyes narrowed in ill temper. He stood, smiling coldly at the last of his guests, and set the glass down finally with a sharp click, stalking feverishly through the hallways and past all the exhausted, tidying servants without any feelings of pity, and heading towards a side door that led to the curving path containing the desired building.

He was thoughtless of the rain that immediately began soaking his warm, dry clothing, chilling him to the bone. When he ripped open the flimsy door of the shed only seconds later, he was almost pleased to see that slim, beautiful back turned to him, trembling noticeably from the cold. Kurama started, whipping around and cringing silently away from the venomous look in his lord's eyes. All of Karasu's good feeling crumbled to nothing, however, when he saw that the livery he had ordered ripped was instead folded neatly on the table, illuminated by the dull light of the lantern Kurama had been putting his hands against for warmth.

"Why is this not in rags?" his lordship commanded sharply, striding across the shed and picking up the livery, shaking it so close to Kurama that the cloth brushed lightly against his face, Karasu's eyes narrowed to frozen slits.

"Please, my lord, I cannot afford a new livery," Kurama said, his voice soft.

"Did I not instruct you to cut it apart, boy?" Karasu snarled, his rage increasing inordinately as he disregarded Kurama's plea.

"You did, but I—"

"Be quiet," the Viscount interrupted, suddenly restrained. Karasu's voice was honey and molasses, sweet with cruelty and syrupy with lust.

Kurama's pearly teeth clicked as he shut his mouth, clearly afraid—and that fear intoxicated Karasu. Kurama stood, a blush rising to his cheeks out of some nameless defiance, his willowy body leaning back, away from the man who looked so fully prepared for cold-blooded murder, and Karasu found himself barely suppressed. He reached forward on impulse to comb his fingers through the damaged silk of Kurama's hair, and smiled fondly at it, enamored with Kurama's flinch.

"Come with me," he instructed, lust shoving aside his anger, and then he turned and walked through the door. He paused, and glanced back a few steps out of its threshold, seeing Kurama flushed with embarrassment and hiding himself in his hand, refusing to follow.

"I—"

"You wish to defy me? You long for me to drag you forcibly through the halls?"

Kurama's eyes closed tightly at Karasu's mocking remonstrance, imagining being strutted, fully exposed, down the narrow corridors and past all the patrician guests and amused, vindictive servants, humiliated and pained beyond any account, and then frog-marched up the stairs to be tortured until all the mansion heard him screaming. In an excess of fear, he nearly fell to his knees, raising tremulous eyes up sweetly above Karasu, to heaven, wondering if that alone could save him. Karasu stopped, mesmerized, his childish longing to see Kurama abased now twisted into something much darker, and much more complete—the longing of a devil for an angel.

"Please—" Kurama whispered from between delectable lips, tinged with blue from the cold, "Please, sir, don't do this."

"You should have thought of this shame," Karasu purred dryly, "before you whored yourself, my little courtesan. Come here." Kurama, overcome, hung his head. "Or—stay there."

Kurama looked up, flinching as footsteps approached, dull on the slippery patches of compacted mud and moistened dust. He yelped loudly as a hand threaded through the back of his thick vermillion hair and forced him forward into a hard pair of lips, which ripped him apart with a tongue and flashing teeth, laying him bare with a kiss, almost too brutal to be called so.

"Come with me," he whispered into Kurama's quivering lips. Kurama cringed from the brocaded trousers that scraped over his skin, and gnawed his own lip apart as Karasu left the forlorn little shack and turned on his heel to wait for his manservant to come. Kurama shuddered, but silently followed, eyes hardening with hatred and shame, cupping himself once more in his hand and trembling, he told himself from the cold, still coughing from the preliminary results of Karasu's ravishment of his mouth. He looked at the ground as he paused to blow out the lantern's candle, before following Karasu towards a side entrance to the chateau, not wanting to see the faces of those he passed, wishing he could blind himself to the world as he thought of the debasing walk he was about to be subjected to.

Youko leaned over the light from the lamp, peering myopically at the parchment spread before him, quill in hand. He twiddled the quill's point for a moment, stroking the proud eagle feather against his handsome chin, and then dipped the pen's nib carefully into the inkpot, shook a few hanging drops off it, and began to write.

To my friend & associate, Monsieur le Baron,

You find me well, & prospering, by which I send this letter way of Shizuru. She will tell you herself of my transgressions, I am shure, and that longue discourse will leave you farther from me than before. My heart aches. On this night so still and devoid of pashion, the little Lady is at it again; though that, I know, you have many friends to tell you, & I need not bother myself. I write to say that the old scoundral sends to our Court his own flesh, like Christ himself, and that, at least, I am shure you know nothing of. A large threat to her has been sited, too, but I will not tell you about that, it is likely old news. Give Shizuru a dumpling and a few écus should you not have heard.

YOUR BELOVÉD ASSOCIATE and faithfull servant, etc:

M. Youko.

P.S. Forgive my brevity, it is of little importance.

Youko took the point of his quill from the thick paper, frowning at it, and then cupped a handful of the sand and began to spread it clumsily over the parchment, avoiding smudging the blue-black stains of the ink. Writing, especially so obliquely, was a skill that came to him early in life and lay dormant until much later, and was thus sadly difficult for him—the abbé who had taught him his letters had spurned the new style of Makaian, and so occasionally modern conformity of spelling was lost on him. He had largely overcome this handicap, though to a person of modern education, his writing was painful to the eye.

"Rinku," he called impatiently. "Go to Rui's, won't you? Find Shizuru, and bring her here. Should you succeed quickly, you'll be given a nice shilling."

The errand boy, leaning by the doorway with closed ears and a wide smile, saluted and turned, without a word for once, and raced rambunctiously down the hall and out the door in a long chorus of thumps and bangs, dissolving into the heavy blanket of the night.

"Shizuru, I don't see why you have to continue there. The Lord will forgive you, but it's not work a woman should do," Kazuma Kuwabara said, seated at the rickety table he had gotten for a few pounds from a dispossessed house, with his bowl full of the stew his sister had made of a beef bone, carrots, and potatoes, and two hard sixpence rolls, stale from the three days they hadn't been sold, in front of the soup, seated on a pewter plate with a hunk of sweating cheese. His chair was made up of two crates, one for lettuce and one for beets, which he'd filched from the docks (produce still inside) on a night of particular hunger for him and his sister, and bound together with cords. The wood, courtesy of a barge coming to the city upriver, was much stronger than that of the average crate, and smoother too—they were even both pleasantly grayed from old paint in a manner that made him, if not proud, then content to use for his table.

With the unmistakable inflection of a person repeating an argument said many times, Shizuru began, "Then men should do it, I suppose. Little brother, calm yourself, and answer me this: you boast almost nightly that you can supplement your pittance from the dock for my own, much grander income, but do you really think we can afford to lose it? It's I, not you, who pays the rent here and puts food on the table, as I tell you every night, and yet you continue to think of yourself as the breadwinner. It's enough to drive a woman mad!"

"If I hadn't refused that bribe—" Kuwabara started stubbornly, but was quickly stopped by another diatribe from Shizuru, who was exasperated as only an elder sister can be.

"Little brother, you always refuse a bribe, or get in the middle of a fight, or drink too much and kiss your boss's wife. You'll have to admit at some point that you're not cut out for work."

"But sister—"

"No buts!" Shizuru cut in, unwilling to listen to her little brother's excuses and promises yet again tonight. "Youko doesn't overtax me, and we need the money."

Kazuma frowned sadly, and then stopped looking in his sister's eyes, choosing instead to turn their warm brown depths to the throw rug that covered up some of the worn planking of their little room, situated above Rui's disreputable pawn shop. Seeing that, Shizuru asked kindly, "What's the matter, little brother? Why are you bringing this up now?"

"I've heard—stories. Worrying stories."

Shizuru's kind look faded, and something bristly appeared on her young face. "Stories, indeed? What kind of stories?"

"That the infamous bastard, the Earl Sakyo, has been frequenting your, your—"

"My what?" she inquired dangerously.

"Your place of work. And—and you."

"And so what if he has?"

"So what if he has?" Kazuma yelled, his quick temper roused by the careless way she said it. "That one is the worst kind of nobleman, Shizuru! He has a reputation that would make angels weep! They say he once poured acid over a girl while he copulated with her, just to see her scream."

"Fairy stories, nothing more. Kyosuke hasn't harmed a hair on my—"

"Oh, so it's Kyosuke now, is it?" Kazuma interjected rudely. "That conniving bastard, wanting to overthrow our fair queen…"

"I don't care who he wants to overthrow, it's just a matter of—"

A timid knock on the door couldn't stifle the heated argument, and went unnoticed by the two combatants.

"That's treasonous talk, Shizuru! I won't hear it!" Kuwabara announced, falling easily back into the comfortable discussion of politics. He was a Royalist who believed in the divinity of the church and state, and his sister a Libertarian with no particular loyalties to anything on this Earth or outside it, and they had lively debates on every possible occasion.

"Oh, shut up, little brother, before I trounce you again!"

"Miss…" a timorous voice sounded from the hall, outside the room.

"Oh yeah? I'm big now, Shizuru! You can't—"

"Miss?"

"I can't what? Do this?" The sound of a blow and the rattle of wood and thunk of flesh were easily discernable through the door, serenaded by a stifled yelp.

"You, you!"

"Miss!" the fluty voice called, a little louder, and this time managed to make its way into Shizuru's ears.

"There's someone trying to get in, idiot!" she snapped, and then grabbed her brother by his ear, hidden in his copper-colored curls, and dragged him towards the door—mistress of her own house, as always. He cursed and swore, his big boots stomping clumsily against the wood flooring as he staggered with her and her cruel hand to their front entry. Once opened, the portal revealed Rinku, smiling nervously up at the two siblings as they glared each other down through sidelong glances.

"Master Youko sent me to fetch you," Rinku said anxiously. "What were you two fightin' about?"

"Nothing that concerns you, child," Shizuru said absentmindedly, all of her anger forgotten as she hesitantly looked down at the linen cap that was crammed onto Rinku's head, revealing curls of woolly hair that twisted above his big brown eyes, a worried look raising his features.

"What is it, sister?" Kazuma asked gently, prepared to be judicious, but quickly became offended by her quiet contempt of him. She let go of Kazuma's ear and reached up to take her long ratteen cloak, moth-eaten, but still serviceable, from an iron hook beside the door where it had been hung haphazardly. She looked intensely serious.

"I will be back in a week, if this is what I think it is. Rinku, go back to Youko before me and get your ha'penny," she announced, and then breezed out, ignoring Kazuma's protests, and stalked down the rancid hallway to the stairs, intent on dispersing quickly into the night.

"A ha'penny?" Rinku yowled, this strange scene almost, but not quite forgotten. "He promised me a whole shilling!" He ran off, determined to right this monstrous wrong, filing away what had just happened for future use. They left Kazuma standing at the altar, scared of what had just transpired, and yet confused by it, too. He barreled to the window, and stood watching the shadowy form of his sister, usually so bright and happy, slip furtively into the night, unable to hide the trepidation that was clinging to her solid form.

The whip cracked again, drawing a pained shriek from Kurama's mouth, followed quickly by a second howl when the skin peeled from his back as the wet leather was ripped away. Kurama's bright eyes rolled into his head at the pain, clutching his bonds for dear life as Karasu snapped the moistened whip against his back once more, and then, grunting, leaned down to drag his tongue up the long rent, a thin puddle of red forming at the tongue's fold and dribbling down to his stained lips and the sheets below, before his mouth curled into a feral snarl.

Kurama let out a soft, syllabic cry as his head was jerked back and hard lips laid themselves against his ear. "Do you know why your mother is largely ignorant of what goes on in this bedroom, Shuuichi?"

Kurama let out a bizarre sound, half yelp, half growl, as he twisted away from the man who was treating him so brutally, his teeth gleaming in the few candles Karasu had lit to allow himself to see.

"—It was an edict I put out when she was first brought here, saying that any servant who dared to mention it to her, and later, that groundsman she took up with, would be ignobly flayed and hung upside down to bleed. What do you think would be her reaction, were she to find out the truth?"

Kurama gritted his teeth, trying desperately to hide how Karasu's words wounded him. "She knows," he grunted. "She's much more clever than you would guess, my lord."

"Does she?" Karasu said indifferently. "Now that's a shame. What then, do you think, would be her reaction upon seeing you, her slattern of a son, at your most beautiful?" There was dull curiosity about his voice that was interrupted by his harsh breathing as he took in the glorious sight before him, Kurama having never been more beautiful to him.

"Don't speak of her," Kurama hissed, his eyes flat with indignity and hatred as he glanced dangerously over his shoulder at the Viscount.

"Oh, such splendid eyes," Karasu said appreciatively, and then hissed to himself as Kurama's rage escalated to something magnificent, spurred on by Karasu's taunts.

Suddenly, stuttering pain made him growl softly and stumble backwards on the bed. "Don't speak of her!" Kurama snarled rebelliously.

Karasu looked down at the foot that had snaked forward and then hurtled back with deadly precision, and grabbed it, laying a gentle kiss right on the arch of the kicking ankle and looking at him with sudden venom. "Do that again," he hissed, low brutality in his voice, "and she'll do more than watch."

Kurama was perfectly aware that that was more than an idle threat, but he writhed, some threshold of pride forcing him to react rashly, without the circumspection and poise he needed to keep him and his out of trouble. "You will not touch her!" he shouted, and tried violently to rip his manacles free from the bed, putting his weight onto the balls of his feet and tugging until the veins stood out on his lithe arms.

Karasu, amused by this fearsome display, stepped off the bed entirely and sauntered to the wall, where a single tasseled rope, woven of heavy linen threads and dyed a rich, brilliant crimson, hung down from the wall next to the elegant rococo washstand and the clean, but gaudy chamber pot. His usual bell pull was right next to the head of the man who yelled and thrashed like a child throwing a tantrum, determined at this point to tear his tormentor apart with his bare teeth if necessary.

Kurama, absorbed as he was in his struggles, never heard the bells that tinkled a few rooms down. His inconsolable fury blinded him to anything but his efforts to free himself, which he was utterly consumed by. But then the door opened, and he froze, staring wide-eyed at Bokuyo, who stood smugly in the doorway with a perfect bow, a light smile looking sinister on his peevish face. Horror made Kurama's petal lips part and widen, his whole face transforming, as he understood the magnitude of what he'd done.

He'd done it, and now he had to pay the price.

End Note: I hope you enjoyed it! The plot itself will start to pick up soon, I promise. I'm still just planting the seeds right now. One quick note: you may have noticed by now, but Gandara, Yomi's territory, is modeled very loosely off of mid-to-late eighteenth century France (that is to say, the 1700s, and sans any of the political upheavals of the time), and the Makai is modeled after Georgian England (which covers that same time period). This won't affect much beyond clothing styles and money, but it is a distinction I wanted to explain.

Thanks for reading this! A tout à l'heure, mes amis! [See you later, my friends!]