CHAPTER 4

A/N – Hello everyone! (Damn, I really need to come up with new greetings or something, because this is becoming super-boring…) As usual, I am very grateful for all your feedback, my inner demons feel appreciated and encouraged. That is to say, recently I have been plagued by other FRUK plots, and last night put up the first chapter of a brand new one – it's called 'Midnight Hours', so feel more than welcome to check it and let me know what you think ;)

Chapter 4 soundtrack:

Marilyn Manson - If I Was Your Vampire

Evanescence – Lies

Kuroshitsuji OST – The dark crow smiles (instrumental)

Apocalyptica - Fade to Black

AFI – Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep


"I'm actually curious as to what he'll have to say for himself," Alfred said, pacing around the small room as he got dressed for the day. "The Spanish doctor, I mean. Did you not say he is to be interrogated today?" But all the energetic youth got in reply was a low groan and his face fell a bit as he sat down on the edge of his friend's bed. An almost shy hand felt for Arthur's shoulder over the blanket, rubbing it gently.

"Arthur? It's time to wake up… I brought up some hot water, the boiler's working again."

Dried sweat made the nightshirt stick to his back as the other blond shifted between the sheets, letting out a deep sigh. Good God, he was so tired and his body ached horribly, as if a carriage had run him over. His throat felt raw and lips dry, probably he'd coughed in his sleep a lot.

"Are you unwell? Can I get you anything?"

The Englishman licked his lips, forcing himself out of lethargy and dreading how his voice was going to sound. Unwell was an understatement. But today was an important day and he had to be on his feet, he would bloody be on his feet until the end and not burden the boy who saw him like an older brother.

"I'm f-fine…" he managed with a small nod. "Go on, Mrs. Briggs must have the breakfast ready. I'll… be down shortly."

It was almost a relief when the door closed behind the younger constable, Arthur would have hated for the boy to witness his pathetic struggle for getting out of bed. Damn, he would have to pay the doctor a visit again, he'd not been told that the illness, if confirmed, would make such rapid progress. Also, although fever wasn't a new occurrence, the doctor had not said anything about hallucinations and the detective had ended up fearing them more than the physical symptoms. He'd been convinced that the first dream had been because of opium smoke, but the previous night it had happened again, much, much worse, far more vividly, therefore it had to be the fever. Arthur could ultimately deal with the thought of dying, but still, he hoped he wasn't losing his mind as well.

With considerable effort, the blond dragged himself out of bed and pulled his nightshirt over his head, moving to stand over the still steaming copper bowl and reaching for a washcloth. The hot water soothed his aching muscles a tiny bit, but the sudden sight of the bruises marring the usual paleness of his skin startled the constable and made him flinch as he stared in horror at his reflection in the bowl in the crude morning light. There was a particularly foul-looking one just above his collarbone, several dotting his arms and some even on his… hips?

Arthur blinked in shock, his mind replaying the memory of the Spaniard jumping onto the table from nowhere, then lunging at him viciously, punching his side (his ribs ached in proof of that) before slamming his head into the doorframe. He'd collapsed to the ground and that had been it… hardly justifying the other marks he was now observing. No, the other marks matched the dream, here was where Monsieur Bonnefoy had bit his neck first, after he'd gripped his arms to hold him still and afterwards…

Washcloth abandoned, the green-eyed young man propped his hands on the table top on either side of the bowl, absently curving his body backwards, in an instinctive attempt to stretch. It turned out to be a very bad idea. The same sharp pain he'd felt when sitting up in bed returned, shooting up his spine with renewed force and forcing a yelp from his lips. A confused scowl showed on his face as he panted, struggling for an explanation. Even if he'd had his (rather limited, if he was to be honest) share of experience with certain ladies' paid service, like most of his colleagues, Arthur had never given thought of how a man could force himself on another and besides… it was impossible! It was absurd to entertain the idea that somehow he'd been taken out of his bed during the night – or made to go to that god-awful place again without his will or knowledge for that matter – subjected to those unspeakable things and then brought back just like that, without anyone noticing. After all, Alfred slept in the same room!

There must have been a logical explanation behind it all, but what he was speculating now was simply madness. Whatever it was, Arthur momentarily decided that he would not give in to madness.


For once the detective wished his younger colleague had been his usual cheery, talkative self instead of this brooding mood Alfred was currently displaying while stealing worried glances in his direction every now and then. It really wasn't helping. He stopped on the large, rain-washed steps of the police station and turned brusquely, looking the other in the eye.

"Alfred, you must swear to me that you won't tell anyone anything about… my condition. I can't have the Chief Inspector bury me before my time," Arthur said, forcing a wry smile as his words were lost in an ill-humored grumble.

Baby-blue eyes shot up full of dread, but the younger nodded wordlessly, unable to conceal chagrin in any other way than by silence. In turn the other blond sighed, patting his shoulder in a fashion he deemed comforting, while secretly hoping that things would be progressing soon between Alfred and Lilly Zwingli. Alfred was young, he ought to be thinking of happiness, of his future, of more promising stuff than this. Arthur himself was barely twenty-four, now that he thought of it, but he would probably not live to see thirty, so he didn't have to bother making plans.

The captured Spaniard – Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo – had been taken to the basement for interrogation, before he was to be sent to prison until the trial. There was an atmosphere of anticipation in regard to this and the detective thought it was to be expected, seeing how the man had turned out to be the perpetrator of a long string of horrible murders.

He imagined that the Chief Inspector must have had his hands full with the press in the past hours, but not enough to have the smug smile wiped from beneath the thick mustache. And in return for his success Arthur expected not any particular praise, but at least a couple of days off to rest for a bit.

Indeed, unaffected by supposed fatigue, the Chief Inspector wanted to conduct the interrogation himself, which proved somewhat of a relief to the worn out blond. Alfred was fretting impatiently by his side through the proceedings, probably oscillating between curiosity and revulsion, but Arthur found himself unable to follow the words beings said for the most part, instead caught in a sort of sick fascination to observe the man. Carriedo didn't bother answering many questions anyway, and he showed neither remorse nor fear, even if a while spent in shackles in the damp police basement usually managed to crack the toughest of people. Unless they were mad and the doctor was undoubtedly a madman.

His wounds were doing unexpectedly well too – Arthur noticed with a scowl – he wasn't even slumping in his bonds after standing for what must have been hours. But then he had proven unusual strength all along, tossing poor Alfred against the wall like he was nothing, and the lad was pretty sturdy. On top of it, the Chief Inspector shoved a truncheon in the man's stomach every time his angry questioning was met with disdainful laughter, but to little effect.

Eventually, it was over and the people gradually retired from the room after finding next to nothing new. Carriedo had offered no rational motivation (if 'rational' motivation was to be expected) for what he'd done to his victims, other than he'd enjoyed the taste of their flesh. A madman through and through, if the look in his eye left any room for doubt.

And things would have been left at that, if he hadn't made one odd request at the end.

"A word if you don't mind, detective… Kirkland, is it?" the Spaniard panted, an amused gleam in his eyes as the policeman turned.

Arthur suspected the man had something to say to the one who'd personally captured him, perhaps some threat of sorts, a curse even, but in the end he found himself complying, seeing no harm in listening to a bit more filth for the day.

"Well?"

He walked up and stopped right under Carriedo's nose, with a stern expression and expectant, and the doctor's gaze travelled interestedly from his face down to his body, slowly, as if he were assessing the blond. The man's tongue darted to lick his chapped lips, then he chuckled lowly.

"My Master still speaks to me, you know?" he whispered, leaning to murmur secretively in the detective's ear. "He tells me of his doings… For example, last night he told me about how he punished you for what you did to me… He told me how the whole of the Little Underworld heard you squealing as he took you against the wall…"

The Englishman's eyes widened ever-so-slightly as they stared blankly somewhere past Carriedo's shoulder, on the dirty wall. His stomach cringed for the second time that day as he was pulled from apathy and washed over with a cold wave of fear. That was to say… everything… was… true? No, no, what was true? What the Frenchman had done to him? No, there was something else, something worse, it was… the truth about the murders.

'Not as delicious as you, but quite so… and since I am a good master I am in the habit of feeding my dogs the leftovers of my meals. Besides, the body was an inconvenience and I had to get rid of it, n'est ce pas?'

Glimpses of the dead, doll-like faces and of puncture wounds carefully hidden beneath fine silk ribbons, the Frenchman's smile, his unnatural, hard and perfect flesh, his sapphire gaze burning with a secret lust for blood flashed before his eyes as all the dots were suddenly, horribly connected even if everything was beyond absurd and Arthur was suddenly sick, he couldn't take it anymore, he wanted to drop dead right then and there.

"It looked to him though as if you enjoyed your punishment, because you moaned and begged like a little slut! But don't worry, little bunny, he will take you and ravish you again, and again, and-"

The man's words were cut short when Arthur's fist flew up viciously and collided with his jaw, hard enough for the detective to hear a slight crack of the other's bones.

"Very soon you will hang for your crimes, so worry about that instead, Doctor!" the blond hissed, gripping the Spaniard's chin onto which fresh blood was now trickling from his mouth and forcing his head upwards. "But do not be troubled, after your neck has snapped I will make sure that your beloved Master follows you down to Hell!"


Fortunately, Alfred had agreed to respect his desire to brood in solitude for now, the Englishman wandered aimlessly down the rain washed streets, uselessly trying to fight off the growing feeling of dread eating away at his very core. If that had been a dream, then how could the doctor know about it? And if it hadn't been… it meant that the Frenchman was in fact the murderer and he'd only given one of his sinister minions into their hands. But then, who was this man? Or what?

'Something impure, unholy.'


Admittedly, Arthur didn't know what he was doing anymore. Usually a methodical man, he was now without a plan, without as much as a trace of logic left. Looking up at the grim façade of the church looming in the fading light, the detective told himself that what he was about to do was only going to feed emerging insanity. He walked in nevertheless, his steps slow but determined, eyeing his surroundings carefully. Maybe going to their neighborhood church had not been such a good idea for what he was about to accomplish – it would have appeared odd to say the least if he were to be seen – but to his momentary relief there was no one in sight for now.

The green-eyed blond stopped in front of the holy water barrel and took a deep breath before slowly removing his leather glove. He looked around for a cup of sorts, but there was none – people brought their own recipients to take away – so there was no choice but to hold his hand directly under the faucet and let a bit run over his bare skin.

And he did.

The pain erupting in the flat of his palm and rapidly spreading to his fingers and shooting up his arm as his skin was literally scorched made his knees go weak and Arthur desperately pressed his other hand over his mouth to muffle a scream. Tears stung his eyes as he pulled the wounded appendage to his chest, fingers curled and digging helplessly into the fabric of his uniform.

Impure. Unholy. That was what he'd become, after being touched by that beast with human appearance.

"May I help you, constable?"

The voice nearly had the detective jumping out of his skin, but the blond fought to straighten his back and compose himself at least to some extent before turning around to face the newcomer. Naturally, he'd recognized Father Ludwig even without seeing him – by his strong voice and heavy steps – but now he suddenly experienced a visceral fear of the man, as if upon discovery the priest would capture and rip him apart or something. It was an absurd assumption, but still… Arthur turned around slowly, making an effort to look the taller, solid blond in the eye. Could the other tell what happened to him?

"No, I… Well, I was looking for someone, but they're not here, it seems," he offered as naturally as he could, letting his gaze wander over the pews, past the priest's frame.

Father Ludwig Beilschmidt stepped forward, eyes taking in the Englishman's frame and his awkwardly held hand and he scowled slightly, as if gripped by suspicion. "Are you sure that everything is alright, sir?" he insisted.

"Quite sure, Father, I'm sorry to have disturbed you," the other said quickly, retreating towards the exit. "I must be on my way now, so… have a good evening."


To bed… He was too exhausted to sit up at the desk any longer. Alfred had gone to see Lilly again and he was late, Arthur could no longer wait for him to explain anything. Judging by how he was feeling, he would pass out soon from sheer fatigue. Holding his head propped in the heel of his palm, the detective held up the letter he'd been scribbling frantically for the past half hour, wondering if his younger friend would make any sense of it. His handwriting was messy as usual and there were a few splotches of ink as well marring the sheet, yet he deemed the text intelligible enough.

But would Alfred actually believe any of that? The only palpable proof was the horrid burn the green-eyed blond had hastily bandaged with a piece of clean cloth and he had no intention of explaining the whole story behind it. He'd had to put everything to paper though… who knew what was to happen once he laid his head on the pillow? Maybe he was to be taken again, maybe he was never to wake up, either way Alfred had to know.


The constable's eyes snapped open, body tense and ears alert at the sudden sound. There was someone in the room, someone who was not Alfred. Arthur's hand moved slowly, slipping under the pillow to retrieve the pistol as he shifted lightly under the blanket. He had yet to see who the intruder was, but his intuition was hardly in need of confirmation. As he eventually propped himself up a bit on the pillows a tall figure came into view against the faint light coming in from a street lamp – and it was none other than the accursed Monsieur Bonnefoy.

The detective's hand rose, pistol at the ready and pointing it at the man before asking sternly. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"My fingers have known every inch of your skin and my body has become one with yours, yet I have still to know your first name, constable," the Frenchman said in lieu of any other explanation, his long pale fingers resting against the low window frame.

"Arthur…" the other grumbled, right before a nasty coughing fit shook his lithe body under the covers. He resisted the need to pull them tighter around himself, his gaze never leaving the man standing at the foot of the bed. Why was he the one answering the questions?

"Well, then, mon cher Arthur, let me tell that you will not pull the trigger. And even if you do, the damage inflicted to my body will be minimal and easily remedied, thus the effort of your movement will be an utter waste."

Green eyes blinked sleepily as their owner struggled helplessly to focus, the hand holding up the pistol surprisingly steady, its aim still without flaw.

"You sir, are an abomination."

"Quite so."

The next moment - barely registered by the smaller blond – the dark shadow lunged forward, over the bed and his free hand was gripped and pressed against the sheets. Francis leaned over, a few long and curly strands escaping from the midnight blue silk of the ribbon and their tips nearly brushing against the side of the detective's face.

"In this truly dark and unfortunate hour, I have a mind to ask of the ultimate forbidden pleasure, mon petit lapin. So… Arthur… would you give me your lips? Would you give yourself to me at last, completely, body and soul?"

Arthur moaned softly, a light scowl creasing his brow as his thumb pulled back the hammer and the muzzle of the pistol was pressed into the blonde locks, where the predator's temple would be.

"Give you, Monsieur Bonnefoy?!" He breathed hard, sensing he was about to choke again in another fit. "What is there left to give, have you not had everything already?"

Dark blue bore into light green as the Frenchman leaned lower, the tip of his nose nearly touching the other man's. Then he spoke slowly and softly, as if in confession. "I have indeed, mon cher. I have had almost all of my heart's desires and more than any man could ever dream of. But you see, everything I've had I have taken. Shamelessly so…" He chuckled at the last word, his cold breath adding to the lack of heat in the small room."And now… I crave to be given… more. Will you give me what I crave, Arthur?"

"Monster… I swore to destroy you! I… "the detective shook his head weakly. "I cannot let you live! You must not live further!"

Teasing lips brushed against his ear as his words only seemed to bring mirth to the beast hovering above him. "But I am not alive at all. I haven't been in a very long time. Thus, you cannot hope to kill me with lead, only pain me with rejection. Will you truly do that?"

The Englishman somehow managed to yank his other hand free from the man's grip and his fingers shot up, clawing at the frilly collar and seeking to dig into the throat underneath. The muzzle of the pistol left Francis' temple and slipped down, under his arm and over his side, until it found its way right under his ribcage. A faint smile crept upon Arthur's dry, pale lips.

"I've nothing left to lose, sir, so I might just as well spare you of further pain as it is," he whispered. "You can have my lips, as well as my lead."

Three gunshots resounded in the small, cold room, muffled by the flesh they were directed at. Francis paled, his smile faltering as he gripped the offending hand, pushing it away from his injured body and intertwining his long, slender fingers among the smaller ones, such that the pistol dropped to the floor with a clatter. His other hand was used as support as he moaned in pain and leaned in lower, kissing at last – kissing and biting in the same time – the mouth at last offered to him. A trail of blood slid down the pale cheek from the corner of Arthur's lips, the Frenchman sighing against them as the body beneath him went limp.

To be continued

A/N – Uh-oh… I've been meaning to ask this from the very beginning, my dear readers, how do you think this story is going to end? Will Francis be right and 'someone with long fingers' get their hands on his petit lapin? And no, it's not a poll, what is meant to happen will happen anyway and your hearts will be broken. The question is whether I'll find some superglue afterwards…