FAUST
yuugiou fanfiction
ryuujitsu & co.
chapter twelve: mana's castle

Disclaimer: Saying Yuugiou belongs to us is like saying the moon is made of port wine cheddar. Everyone knows it's made of Swiss.

A/N: Um. Yes. It's been a while. I was very happy to be able to type (f)(a)(u)(s)(t) again, though it took some work. To those of you who stuck with this story through these long months…I can't thank you enough.

ITFTC:

"EPIC! TENNIS! FRENCH! REPUBLICAN! DEATH! MATCH!"

--lokogato, about the formation of the French National Assembly

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Marikku gave Malik's hand a squeeze as he made his way to the door. He lingered a moment in the threshold, frowning. Outside the sun had already faded, and what remaining light cast an eerie red glow over everything it touched. "You'll be alright?" he said, nodding at them.

Isis returned the nod grimly. "Of course, my brother." She was wearing white robes—ceremonial, passed down from centuries before and stiff to the knees with blackened blood—Ishtal battle garb. Those who came now to the castle, the ones versed in the old tongue and old customs, would know not to cross her, or any of her household. And those who were ignorant—well, the steely look in Isis' eyes probably said it all anyway.

Malik's smile looked a bit watery, and his forehead was wrinkled with worry, but he too seemed resolute and ready for any threat. They had seen, much to their shock, the first of several demonic militias marching through the streets that morning. Even now that night had fallen, distant clanking could be heard over the booming of the azor mines.

"Be careful," said Malik, staring uneasily past Marikku's shoulder.

Marikku pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and seemed to disappear entirely into the gloom. "'Bye, then."

Isis closed the door after him and stood staring fiercely at the frame, muttering as she ran her hands over the smooth wood. "There," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Malik squinted in time to make out the last glimmer of gold hieroglyphs disappearing into the door. "I'd like to see anyone try to break that down. And you," she added, rounding on Malik, who took an instinctive step back, "don't think of touching that door. From now on it will only respond to the caster—me."

From the wary look on Malik's face, Isis knew that he had not taken her warning lightly. There was anger in his blue eyes as he took another step away from her. "Are you locking me in, Lady Isis? What is this?"

"Nothing of the sort," said Isis. "But Marikku tells me you like to wander, and there are places in this city—" She cut off abruptly and closed her eyes.

Malik blinked. "What?" he said. "What is it?"

Isis ignored him. She focused and leapt for a moment out of her mind, into the wards. Yes, something had disturbed them—a small blip from the eastern corner of the castle as one of the place-markers (a vase on her mother's side, she knew) for her defenses flickered and vanished. She felt the loss as a pinprick in her left temple, and tightened her vision around the abnormality. It had been moving earlier but stood frozen now, as though it could sense her gaze upon it, though how that could be, Isis didn't know. The Big Five? she wondered. Have they sent someone? A capable magician? She found herself wishing, only briefly, for the older days of Ishtal glory, when there had been a whole slew of heirs and extended family in the castle; the wars had cut them down—wars and foolish pride, and Marikku, whose sun magicks would have been most effective against a Big Five sorcerer, had left.

They had been there for some time, she realized. More disturbingly, she had not noticed. They had slipped safely past the entrance-guards and likely would have continued on just as safely, had they not brushed against the wards. Isis was glad of the intricate netting she had woven, now. They had seemed a waste of magic before—then again, she had never thought that anyone would have been able to penetrate this far into the Ishtal castle undetected. Wars and foolish pride, she reminded herself grimly.

It would not do to send strength surging into the defenses now; that kind of magic would be sensed. She set herself to observing.

The aura was weirdly faint, she noticed—faint but familiar. As she examined it more closely she found twisting whites and a flicker of blue every now and then. She climbed deeper and found the sweet, dark memory of ancient times, the old brown tones that belonged often to humans—

She turned to Malik in disbelief. "But it's you," she said, and watched the watery browns that glowed behind his shoulders. "It's you."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The streets were dark and far from deserted. Jou stared hard at buildings, cobblestones, demons—anything that might help him to figure out just where the hell they were. Kaiba was lighter than he looked, but half-carrying him, half-dragging him through the underbrush had been no joke. Now they were standing near pavement, but the demons at the fringe of the large pedestrian mass were already giving them strange looks; Jou glared right back and felt his heart hammering erratically, sliding up his throat to choke him. Maybe we should have stayed in the fucking forest.

Kaiba was almost conscious now; he stirred against Jou's shoulder. "What," he murmured, sounding a good deal like he'd been swilling gravel but no less icy, "are you hoping. . .to accomplish, mutt?"

"Shut up," Jou hissed, uneasily. He felt sluggish, inexplicably, and a little too warm for his liking. The air was sticky against his skin; Kaiba's sweat dampened his neck. He hadn't thought Kaiba capable of sweating, and this scared him more than he cared to admit. He picked up the pace, pulling Kaiba along the receding cobblestones between dirt and city. "Just shut up, okay? We'll find someone. To fix you."

Kaiba gave a quiet little rasp of laughter. "Fix me," he repeated, and then he was silent. His grip on the front of Jou's shirt seemed to melt away. Jou grabbed him before he could slide off and squawked a bit when he realized it was Kaiba's thigh that he was gripping. I'm dead. He shut his eyes and hoped that Kaiba would make it quick and painless.

Nothing happened. Kaiba slumped heavily against him.

"Kaiba?" said Jou, glancing at him. Kaiba's head hung awkwardly over his shoulder, jolting with every step. "Shit. You still there, man? Don't pass out on me again. Dammit. Fuck."

The streets were still pretty packed, but Kaiba was probably not going to hang around long enough for Jou to circle the city on foot. There was probably a hospital somewhere. There had to be. Jou cut inward and crossed an intersection, narrowly avoiding a large flatbed truck, which swerved and sped past him with a loud curse thrown out the window. Several dark blurs moved past him, sprinting after the truck, and he pressed Kaiba closer and began a slow jog. He had almost made it to the next streetlight when all hell broke loose.

The first thing he noticed was his shadow—it was growing longer and longer, and the heat on his back was incredible—hot white light swallowed it, swallowed his body. Six years of video game arcades and obsessive reading of military manuals had finally come in handy; he yelled and threw himself flat, felt Kaiba sliding away from him. The concussive roar knocked him into the air and forward fifteen or twenty meters, where he was halted abruptly by several trashcans. As he landed he realized he was still yelling against the noise, trying to drown it out. Lids clattered around him; blood spattered; dimly, he was aware that he was in a mess of garbage, and that there were demons and assorted pieces of demons lying around him, and Kaiba Kaiba where is Kaiba

He breathed in and could taste the tang of burning rubber and flesh in the air. "Fuck!" he shouted; there was blood in his mouth. He spat and yelled again: "F-fuck! Oh, shit, oh, oh my God—ngh—Kaiba! Kaiba!" And then he wasn't really sure what he was yelling anymore; he was struggling to get to his feet and groping around, squinting against afterimages. "Kaiba! KAIBA!" His mind had gone blank with panic; all that remained was the name.

Another blast rocked the ground beneath him, and he fell forward, covering his face. Bits of metal were raining down, he realized, sharp as knives. "Kaiba!" he screamed into his hands, and then into the road as he scuffled against it, trying to pick himself up. Pain burst in his left arm, his side. He crawled doggedly forward, away from the heat.

The next explosion lit up the scene, and he saw Kaiba lying a good distance away, crumpled like a broken puppet. "Kaiba," he wheezed, a harsh exhalation of breath that made his ribs wail, "Kaiba. Oh, Jesus—ah." He gritted his teeth against it and used his right elbow to pull himself forward.

He reached Kaiba as another boom shook the street. The demon's eyes were closed, his brow pinched. But he was breathing; Jou saw the quick rise and fall of his chest, the garbage that spilled out around him. Blood ran from his right temple; his hair was matted with it, and he looked so goddamn irritated. Jou choked on a laugh and immediately groaned, curling around his side.

There was a truck burning, he realized gradually—the one that had almost run him down. "Shit," he muttered, watching it. The twisted metal frame and shreds of tire were all that was left. Thick blue-black smoke funneled into the sky; a firestorm was building, fast consuming the other cars. Another explosion, a good deal smaller, sent another cluster of flames spiraling into the air. Fragments of bluish coal littered the ground between twenty or thirty dark lumps—the bodies.

Jou coughed and felt blood in the back of his mouth. "Shit," he said again. The street shook with the drumming of feet. The flames were crawling steadily closer to them, feeding on the coal and growing higher with each piece they consumed. Jou figured this was a fitting end, dying in hell surrounded by flames, but all the same he thought it was pretty stupid, pretty goddamned stupid—

"Fuck this," said Jou, deciding that it really was stupid. He moved behind Kaiba and sat back on his heels, hooking his hands under the demon's arms. "Don't think you want to die like this. Shit, you're a bastard. Wake up and carry me! Motherfucker." His ribs were probably broken again, and his arm, too. He'd snapped it in two places falling from a tree once. They were probably going to make it, though. They were going to make it. . .

Feet thundered past, too close to Jou for his own comfort. He turned to yell an obscenity and stopped dead, his jaw dropping. The explosion musta happened seconds ago, he thought numbly. Demons were yelling around him, screaming for each other, for water, for help, for Shaitan. They milled about in a blind panic, wailing and shouting—trampling the dead and the dying and coming right at them.

"Stampede," Jou breathed, staring at the rising tide of running bodies. Like hell they were going to escape this one. He grabbed Kaiba by the shoulders and started to shake him, shouting all the while. "Oh fuck, Kaiba, get up, get up, wake up, do something!"

He pushed Kaiba onto his back and crawled doggedly on top; maybe they could avoid the worst this way—tuck your head under, goodbye kidneys—

"Shizuka," he said into Kaiba's shoulder, tasting the sweat and the dirt and the blood, clutching at Kaiba's elbows, "Shizuka, gomen—Shizuka. Shizuka." He oriented his thoughts on her and braced for the impact, tried not to think about anything else or where the first foot might land, and maybe they could make it through this—

Something caught him by the scruff of the neck—a booted foot, maybe—and tossed him up, lifted him into the air like he weighed nothing. Gagging against his shirt, which was choking him, Jou opened bulging eyes and found himself gaping at his own dangling feet and the bleeding demon sprawled beneath them.

The high shrill of sirens cut through the deadened reverberations in Jou's ears as Otogi smiled fondly down at him. The vampire had Kaiba in the crook of his left arm. He was using little flicks of his fingers to push his way through the throng.

"Otogi," said Jou weakly. "How. . .?"

"I thought I told you to get out while you still had the chance?" said the vampire sweetly, giving him a shake. "You're both idiots."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"This is incredible," Yami muttered. He was staring at ANKH's tightly barricaded door in open-mouthed astonishment. No booming beat sounded from beyond the walls. The sidewalk where they stood was horrifyingly vibration-free and deserted; there were no waiting crowds or approaching groups of would-be clubbers. "ANKH is never closed—not even on bad nights. Dahlia. . .the city must really be falling apart."

Yuugi slipped his hand into Yami's. "What do we do?" he said.

"There are lights," said Yami, eyeing the fluorescent glow escaping the shuttered windows. "Someone is probably inside. We have to get off the streets, but. . ." He trailed off and cast a worried glance over his shoulder. The intersection was dark behind him; sirens screamed in the distance. "It could be a trap, don't you think? Bakura may have already left the city. Whoever it is inside now might not be friendly. Though," he added as an afterthought, "Bakura wasn't exactly agreeable the last time we met, either."

"Hae," said Yuugi, his wide eyes fixed on the street, "someone is coming." Yami cursed and, folding them both into his cloak, backed into the shadows.

It was another demon in a similar traveler's cloak. The dark folds were draped over his forehead and drawn high around his nose, effectively hiding most of his face from view. He had stopped for a moment, seemingly just as puzzled as Yami was about ANKH's closed door. Recovering, he began moving even more quickly, navigating around the streetlights with long, easy strides. He kept the cloak clasped tightly over his mouth as he walked. He was a bit too tall to be Bakura, Yami thought, but the added height might be part of a magic-based disguise.

He reached the door in another step and pressed his hand flat against the metal. Yami leaned forward, listening intently. "Bakura!" the demon hissed, into the back of his hand. "Hey, Bakura!"

"Why is he doing that?" Yuugi whispered. "They won't be able to hear him unless he shouts. . ."

"He's addressing the wards, I think," Yami whispered back, though he wasn't too sure himself. "If Bakura made the wards, he'd be able to feel the disturbance. He'd answer the door, if that were the case." Shoddy wards, he thought—we managed to get by them easily enough before.

The hooded demon thumped the heel of his hand against the door and spoke a bit louder. "Oi, Bakura. Bekhara."

The door opened—the tiniest of slivers. The demon released his grip on his cloak in surprise, and it fell away from his face, revealing dark skin and a mess of blonde hair. The girl who'd answered the door—Yami remembered her—seemed to know him; she nodded once and drew it open a little more, just enough to allow the blonde demon to slide in. She shut the door after him with a hollow, decisive boom. It didn't seem likely that she would open it again tonight.

"Come on," Yami said to Yuugi, still whispering. She looked grim. Something isn't quite right here. "We can't see Bakura right now, it seems."

Yuugi looked rather cheerful for someone who was going to have to wander back into a bomb-ridden city. "Should we find a hotel, then?" he said. Yami smiled, somewhat bitterly: the angel's stomach was rumbling but he was resolutely ignoring it; he hadn't mentioned food since he'd Fallen. Yami wasn't going to push him. He hadn't felt particularly hungry since the Fall himself, not since he'd had to—

"Yes, I think we should," said Yami, stopping that thought short and throwing an arm around those thin shoulders. There were only assassins, thugs, and explosions to look out for, after all, and he wanted to bathe and go to sleep in a nice bed with Yuugi curled around him. They would come back once Bakura had sorted this out, when things were as close to normal as they could get.

"Let's go, angel-mine."

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Mana was silent as she shut the door behind them. For a long time they stood quietly in the cold parlor, looking at one another. The demoness' eyes were grave. The hands she slipped quickly into the pockets of her apron were burnt red from casting—black magic seals, it looked like. Blue-lipped in the chill, she finally murmured, "You've come to see Bakura."

"Yes," Marikku said, a bit uncertainly. The last time he'd visited, she'd greeted him with a broad, pink-cheeked smile; Welcome back, she'd said. "I'm sure he's been expecting me."

She nodded brusquely. "He has been. This way, please."

She led him through the kitchen. The torches lining the walls had been neglected; one or two sputtered weakly in the darkest areas. In the purple gloom Marikku could just make out the chipped and dirtied yellow tiles, the dishes that had been piled in the sink and abandoned. A large pot sat forgotten on the stove, the remnants of its contents caked thickly to its sides. The countertop was filthy; Marikku brushed a wondering hand across its surface. His fingertips came away covered in a heavy film of grime.

Mana moved fast, though unsteadily. Her shoulders were stooped—unconsciously, Marikku thought; as they made their way up the second flight of stairs she seemed to catch herself and straightened.

The stairwell was dark, too, and, not wanting to break his neck, Marikku muttered a sun spell under his breath. Mana greeted his summoning and the subsequent glow of light with a wan, grateful smile. "There's so much to do these days," she said, withdrawing her damaged hands from their pockets and looking at them ruefully. "I don't have enough magic to care for this entire castle. It's all I can do to keep his study warm; I'm sorry you had to see it in such a state—"

"It's only you?" Marikku interrupted with a start. "What about—what about the others?" He remembered—only days earlier, it seemed—the mind-numbing beat of drums, the dancers, and the dozens of immaculately-dressed souls there to serve and clean, Bakura reaching over with a laughing smile to jolt the alcohol out of his system. He recalled, just as sharply, the same damp quality that had haunted Malik's Egyptian catacombs. There was none of that desert heat here, and he tightened his cloak around his body with a shiver.

They had been climbing for some time—Marikku's head was beginning to swim—before Mana replied. "They've run away," she said hesitantly, then clarified. "We had. . .a security breach."

"Shaitan," Marikku said, running his hand over the dust-choked banister. It ended beneath his fingers, and he stopped in surprise. They had come to the top of the tower.

The study door was no longer gleaming. All traces of gloss had faded and even the iron rivets were beginning to wear, though to the maker's credit he could see no rust. Mana formed a fist and rapped smartly on the wood. "Master Bakura?" she called, loudly. "It's Master Ishtal come to visit."

The voice that answered was muffled. "Tell him to come in, Mana-doll."

Mana met his eyes soberly. "He's not himself lately," she warned him. "I'll come back later. I'm expecting his landlady sometime tonight, too."

They exchanged a nod and she moved out of sight. A moment later he heard her footsteps tapping briskly down the staircase and a heavy sigh, a long exhalation that echoed upward. Marikku opened the door and stepped in.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"But it's you," said Isis. Malik, eyeing her nervously, was smelling bemusedly at his shirt and on the verge of apologizing.

"Er, not really," said a voice from the doorway, with a polite sort of half-lisp. Isis whirled, her heart pounding, fingers shifting into a basic defensive rune. Disguised his aura—he's fast—careless of me—

She had expected Malik to follow her movement, and she had expected him to dart behind her. She had certainly not expected him to leap up with fire in his eyes, jab forward an accusing finger over her shoulder, and exclaim, "You! Bin sharmuta, I thought I told you not to find me again!"

It was a vampire, Isis was sure of it. Skin bluing around the jaw, green eyes just a little blank, mouth graying and dry, but otherwise entirely human in appearance. The aura radiated centuries. Shaitan! that something other than demon could live so long, and yet look so young.

"You're here alone?" said the intruder, in disbelief. He took two swift steps forward. "Malik—it's really—what about Pegasus?" He was smiling now, a sharp grin with somewhat stained canines. "It's really you, kid!"

To this Malik gave an unmistakable and decidedly watery sniffle. "Motherfucking bloodsucker!" he shouted. And then, vehemently: "Moron!"

Isis blinked.

The vampire blinked, too. "Malik," he said, "I've been traipsing all around Demon Land looking for you and sleeping on rocks and eating unhealthy things; let's not go through this."

Isis stared between them. I will not leap to conclusions. I will not—oh, hell. "Am I to understand, Malik, that you have been two-timing my brother?" She rounded on Malik, who blanched and stumbled back—into the vampire, who ignored Isis and quickly snatched him to his body.

"Idiot!" yelled Malik, wriggling furiously against the arms that held him. "What are you doing? What will she think? Let me go!"

"Well?" said Isis dangerously, fingers clenching and unclenching. There were bonding rituals she could invoke, if necessary. More painful ways to test fidelity; if Malik thought he was already in hot water, then he was sorely mistaken. She'd always known that human boy was no good. Promiscuous! Involving himself with a vampire of all things!

Malik looked ill. "No," he said. He seemed to be choking. "No! No! It's not what you think. At all. Well, it might be. Or it was. Lady Isis, I can explain—"

"You'd better," she snapped, folding her arms.

"Oh," said the vampire, awkwardly. He was controlling the struggling Malik very well with a single hand, using the other to stroke the boy's hair. "Um. Well. You see—Lady Isis, is it?—you see, there's been a bit of an accident—two friends of mine were injured in a blast, and I've put them on your front step. . ."

A loud crash sounded just beyond the door. The vampire brightened. "That'll be them!" he said. "I'll just—"

Isis slipped into the wards she'd placed on the door and looked past them; too dark to see well, but there was a human boy slumped against the steps, his fist against the wood, the other hanging limply at his side. There was someone huddled beside him. . .her eyes widened, and she wrenched herself away from the scene so swiftly that she felt a headache coming on. I know that signature. Kaiba Gozaburo!

"Can they come in?" asked the vampire, smiling at her. He patted the squirming Malik on the shoulder. "You've certainly grown," he said to Malik, who sputtered and began trying to throw punches.

Gozaburo is dead, Isis reminded herself, as her fingers twitched and the migraine rushed forward ruthlessly. He's dead.

She turned her back to them both and disabled the magic binding the door. The Kaiba heir—this I must see for myself.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"About fucking time," Jou groused, as the door slid open. He hadn't known what Otogi was playing at, dragging them around like that, all fluttery and We're almost there, getting warmer and squealing. He'd set them on the steps and disappeared into a back alley. The burns on Jou's face and arm were beginning to throb and itch again; adrenaline from the bomb had lessened the pain, but only momentarily. He supposed that he was coming out of shock.

There was a woman standing there, looking down at him. Not him—at Kaiba. Her face looked pretty empty, but spending so much time around Kaiba's poker faces had taught Jou a thing or two about blank looks; this woman was worried. He could see that tiny dip between her brows.

A moment later, Jou also realized that this was probably the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. She was not exactly his type, but her eyes were an incredible blue—he could tell that even in the darkness.

He looked past the sheet of black hair falling over her shoulders and saw Otogi, holding some kid in an expert headlock. Otogi waved; the kid gasped for breath.

"Well, come in," said the woman. Her tone was bitingly cold; Jou decided he rather liked it.

He shouldered Kaiba, groaning a bit, and crawled past her, collapsing in the foyer a moment later. He lay panting on the reed mats, trying to ignore the sharp pain that each gasp brought. The woman shut the door again and muttered to it; Jou felt a weird hum in his ears as she spoke, and the knot in his chest seemed to grow tighter. Her dress was caked to the knees with something rather like mud—it smelled metallic, and Jou understood suddenly that it was blood. He meant to warn Otogi, but all that came out was, "Otogi, it's," and he had to close his mouth and breathe through his nose.

"Now," said the woman. Her nostrils were flared, her lips whitened. "Explain everything."

Otogi cleared his throat delicately. "Lady Isis—their wounds?"

"Broken bones and overexertion!" she snarled, her hair rising and crackling around her. The windows rattled. Otogi recoiled; the boy he was holding looked terrified. "Nothing that needs immediate magical attention! Now, I want you to explain. Who are you to Malik? How have you come to know a Kaiba?"

Gozaburo is dead. Jou heard it as an indistinct whisper; he'd been hearing whispers since the blast and he was really hoping there was nothing wrong with his head. If things got any more fucked up, he was going to ask Otogi to put him out of his misery.

Gozaburo is dead. The name made him shiver, for some reason.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

The heat of the study engulfed Marikku in a wave as he entered. Bakura was bent over his desk with his back to the door, quill held loosely in one hand. The other hand was poised over his skull, plucking and pulling at the silver strands that grew there. The skin of his arms had become almost translucent, his fingers even more spidery. He was wearing a dark green shenti that ended just at the ankles; soft and silken, its red fringe pooled over the knotted, purpling veins of the bridges of his feet.

He was wearing a strange sort of cape, Marikku thought—the kind that Isis might wear, a wide white cloth that he had wrapped around his shoulders once or twice. Beyond a pile of books, three of Medusa's tails flickered and hissed. The giant cat was sleeping, it seemed; every so often she would give a great sigh of breath, loud as a panting dog.

Marikku closed the door and leaned against it, reveling in the warmth. "I hear Lady Anzu is stopping by," he said, grinning. "You just can't get a break, can you, Bakura?"

He jolted as Bakura turned to face him and sucked a frightened breath through his teeth. The silver fiend's eyes were glittering a strange, feverish red. They were lined immaculately with kohl, though the lips were bitten raw and the sunken cheeks tinged with yellow.

"Bekhara!" Marikku said, slipping into the old tongue in his shock. He looked away from the gleaming eyes. "You look—"

"How do I look, Ishtal?" said Bakura with a twisted smile. He rose to his feet in a single liquid movement and clapped his hands together with a disturbing grace. The fringes on his clothing gave a soft rustle as he stepped forward.

"You look like shit!" Marikku blurted. "What's happened to you? Shaitan, Bekhara,you look ill."

Above his shaking mouth the rest of Bakura's face was almost angelic in its serenity. Staring at him, Marikku could see again the day of that last battle—Stay by me, Azhar, Bakura had said. Marikku had done exactly that, had stayed by him during the slaughter, and it was the only reason he was standing where he was today. He remembered, convulsively, the dark anger burning in Bakura's eyes and the new red shine that had replaced it, the smooth new skin on Bakura's palms where the hard, scarred calluses had existed only hours before—What have you done, Bakura? he had asked. What's happened to you? And Bakura had never answered.

"Set your cloak down at least, Ishtal," said Bakura, in that same lilting tone he had used so long ago, an exaggeration of his usual playfulness. "You must be hot." Numbly, Marikku undid the clasp and threw the cloak aside. The heat had grown stifling; sweat was beginning to prickle against his scalp.

"Bekhara. . ." That was a girl's woolen shawl Bakura was wearing, he realized. Mana's, probably.

"We haven't much to offer you here, I'm afraid, but at least it's warm," said Bakura with a tinkling laugh. He dropped back into his chair and set an elbow on his desk, let his chin droop against his palm. "I thought we weren't going to use those old names anymore." He picked and pinched at his lips and tore away another strip of skin with a wince.

"You surprised me," said Marikku, watching him warily. "Bakura. Tell me what you did to—how you made your eyes so."

Bakura sighed, dabbing his lower lip with the shawl. "Nothing in particular, I assure you," he said airily, gesturing at his eyes. "A little kohl, a little water, smear and you're done. Mana keeps excellent magazines in the foyer for that kind of thing. I don't know where she gets them. Don't be so dreadfully guarded; we're all friends here—isn't that right, Meddy?"

At her master's summons the giant cat yawned and rolled to her feet, padding silently over. "We're having An Cafeteria here next week," Bakura continued blithely. "Meddy likes them, don't you, darling? Like those songs about pudding and rabbits?" He caught her behind the ears and scratched until she purred. Her seven tails lashed and twined about her hind-paws.

"She's lost another tail," Marikku said, disbelief overwhelming worry for a moment. "Look at her, Bakura—she'll be the size of a common housecat soon. What happened?"

Bakura smiled wide, stroking a snake-tail with the back of a finger. "We had a run-in with the Big Five," he said. "It didn't end well. They found me, you see. They couldn't believe that I wasn't quite dead. Oh, the berserker from eighty years past, they said. They were rather excited. Easily excited fellows, the Big Five." His hand went to his twitching mouth again. "How is that human you went to steal?" he said suddenly. "Malik, was it?"

"I have him," Marikku said, forcing his horror down. He would have to play along if he wanted any answers at all. Shaitan, Bakura couldn't have gone insane. Not like this. "He's alright. We're alright." You aren't, he thought, and left it unsaid

Bakura was quiet a moment. "My souls have gone," he said. "They fled when the Big Five came. They left me for dead."

Marikku sifted through that half-drunken conversation, pushed past the memory of a throbbing headache. Blushes seven shades of crimson if you know how to. . .ah. . .you know. "The one you liked so much—he went along with them?" he said. He gave a wavering grin. "I don't think you ever told me his name."

"Ryou," said Bakura flatly, the playful tone melting away from his voice. His hands stilled and fell from his lips. "That was his name."

Marikku tensed.

Bakura's face had lost its coquettish expression. He wiped again and again at his bloodied mouth, dark horror shining in his eyes. "Marikku," he rasped, "I'm going mad. I'm going mad and I can't stop it. Can Medusa save me from madness?"

"Bakura," Marikku said, in anguish. He sagged against the door. "Oh, Shaitan. Tell me—tell me what you did. That day before the battle. Please. We can fix it—Isis and I can fix it—just tell me what you did."

"'Thrice dev'lish'—Shaitan, I can't; the contract—" The words rattled and died in his throat, and he tried again, the cords in his neck bulging. "Ryou. This isn't lovesickness, Marikku; he does something, fixes me—I need him. I need him. My magic is bleeding away but he stops it—ah, Sara. Give me my Sara. She's mine; I bought her—give her to me—" He brought his hands to his face and gasped into them.

When he straightened a moment later, he was biting hard at his knuckles. His bloody eyes were wide and bright with dread. "I made a deal," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "With something older than us—older and much darker, and powerful, Marikku. Power like you wouldn't believe. I sought them out; I called them down. I told them, 'Give it to me. That's what I want—I want to crush them.' The angels—" He broke off with a chuckle. "We must have crossed the border between Arachne and Dertres a thousand times—retreating, advancing, retreating again, eh, Marikku? The underworld was slipping—we had lost the advantage; we were weakening. They meant to humiliate us. But I didn't care about that—I wanted blood. I found what made our world—even before the war, I'd been searching, you remember—I found them, and I asked them to give it to me: magic enough to destroy armies. Shaitan, that magic. . ."

He'd been staring into space as he spoke, his face alight with the memory of something—death, Marikku thought numbly. "That magic ate holes through me. And now I'm going mad, Marikku," said Bakura grimly. "There's no stopping this—only Ryou, and he's long gone from me."

He lapsed into silence. His mind was wandering; deep in that brilliant red Marikku could see the old, coal-black fury, and he remembered the wild, screaming laughter the day of that battle, so long ago. Bakura was dangerous. He had been dangerous then; he had also been sane. What was left of the Bakura—Bekhara—that Marikku remembered was splintering apart before his eyes—into some warped caricature of himself, a lilting, sweet-voiced creature that terrified Marikku like no other. There was time to gather the pieces, though—if only Bakura would tell him more about this Ryou!

"You're not going mad," said Marikku, as calmly as he could manage. If there ever was a time to run screaming for reinforcements, it was now. "Blessit, Bakura, if you think I'll stand by and let this thing eat away your sanity—tell me where that soul's gone. Ryou. Tell me where he's gone."

Bakura shook with soft laughter. He squinted with those red, red eyes at Marikku's expression, came forward and took Marikku's hand between his own. His smile was cajoling now, his fingers cold in the heat. He spoke sibilantly in the old tongue: "Don't look so horrorstruck, Ishtal; that face doesn't suit you at all."

Marikku stood petrified at the door. He wondered frozenly why Mana did not come.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

"Beliaf and Mammon," Marikku breathed, slumping against the banister. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his eyelids. "Shaitan. Shaitan." It was difficult to keep from shouting aloud. He wanted to destroy something. He could feel his magic straining against his body.

"Not you, too?" said Mana dryly. He heard a soft flump as she sat down beside him, arranging her skirts.

They'd met often enough before to be informal. Fuck etiquette, thought Marikku. Bakura was—oh, Shaitan. "I wouldn't make light of it," he snapped at her, and turned to glare. In the faint light he could just make out the crooked grimace she was giving him—another smile, he realized. She looked down at her lap.

"You know it too, don't you?" she asked dully. "He's losing his mind. I don't know if it's—if it's because of the loss of so much magic in such a short time, or something entirely different. Some days he's been entirely lucid. He'll tell me, 'Mana-doll, do this for me,' or 'let's get such-and-such a group to perform next week.' And he wants me to buy new help for the castle." She broke into a real smile at the memory. "'Mana-my-sweet, you can't do this by yourself. Get yourself some new souls, burly ones. Give them feather dusters. You'll get old and dumpy if you keep this up,' he said."

"And the other days?" Marikku prompted.

Mana's smile turned bitter. "They aren't pretty," she said wryly. "That's for certain. But it hasn't been anything I can't—I mean, I can snap him out of it, most of the time." She looked at him, twisting her hands. "You know, don't you? Bakura is a berserker. The one who destroyed the angelic army, eighty years ago."

"Yes," said Marikku heavily.

"He's being hunted," she continued, playing with the starched hem of her apron. "The Big Five are after him. Marikku," and she grasped his wrist with cold fingers. "Marikku! You were with him—tell me what he did—tell me how he did it!"

Marikku stared at her. She had a bright, greedy gleam in her eyes. "Tell me," she whispered.

"I don't know," he said, and jerked away from her grip, repulsed.

Mana blinked, and the eagerness evaporated from her face. She slipped the rejected hand back into a pocket and gave an awkward laugh. "Sorry. Maybe I'm going mad too. I just—"

He cut her off. "Never mind it," he said. "Tell me about this Ryou. When. . .?"

She was silent a moment. "It was an auction a month ago, I think," she said, giving him a puzzled look. "Yes, Keith and Mai's. Bakura had gone there with you, at your invitation. You didn't notice. . .? Mm," she said knowingly, at his rapidly souring expression. "Purchase gone wrong, I see."

"You are an annoying little whelp, boy." Pegasus smiled and held out a massive feather that glittered like a black diamond. "Ten thousand severs, and this delightful roc's feather. See how the sun shines on it?"

Marikku's stare was dark with fury. Teeth clenched, he turned abruptly and stalked away from the platform, his cloak billowing out behind him.

"Marikku!" He heard Malik's desperate scream and paused in his incensed stride. He didn't turn back.

"Yes." He would have given a hundred thousand severs to forget that morning, the way Malik had screamed. "Bakura did mention later. . .that he'd bought someone. And that was Ryou?"

She nodded. "Uncanny resemblance to Master Bakura, face a bit rounder, green eyes. Quiet, though—nothing like Bakura in personality. Bakura thought the similarities were interesting. He. . .er."

"Enjoyed him?" said Marikku, grinning a bit despite himself. "On kitchen countertops, and the like?"

Mana blushed to the ears and clicked the heels of her shoes against the stone. "And study floors, against closed doors, in storage closets, yes. Bakura had a habit of pouncing on all of us—on the souls, I mean—but he was starting to border on monogamy with this one, definitely a frightening thing. Certainly, the other souls resented it."

"But they let him escape with them?" Marikku said. "That doesn't make sense. These are corrupt beings—"

"No—he's only just gone. The rest went when the Big Five came." Mana shuddered. "Bakura—he loosed some kind of shockwave against them. Ancient magic. Shaitan, it was. . .I was in the room, then. I was sure we'd all become dust—but they had Sara, somehow, and used her to counter the blast. You know that Bakura purchased her to support his magic?"

"Yes," said Marikku. "It was my sister who suggested it to him."

"Sara fainted, and after that. . .Bakura fell. Crumpled where he stood. He was bleeding—there was so much blood. I thought he was dying; I really thought. . ." She shuddered again, violently. "His magic was failing and the wards around the castle had fallen; the souls escaped. I don't know exactly what happened to me. When I came round again, Ryou was lying there beside him; Sara had pulled them apart—the entire study was in flames—

"But Bakura wasn't bleeding anymore," she said, a note of triumph creeping into her tone; it was the joy that came when one's theories were proven. "I knew then that Ryou had done something—somehow, he'd managed to save him." She continued unbidden. "I think Bakura realized it too, gradually, and that made him afraid—that something so powerless—a soul slave!—held so much power over his life. But he couldn't stay away.

"And, after all, there didn't seem to be an issue. Ryou was entirely in Bakura's control. He thought he'd solved the last problem. As long as Ryou stayed beside him, he had no reason to worry—but. . ." She withdrew her hands again and stared hard at the burnt palms. "Some time ago, the demon Kaiba came to ask Bakura's support—but he took Sara from him. You know the old alliance dances. That was the gift Kaiba asked, and Sara had accepted him as her new master—"

"Bless him," Marikku muttered.

"—and grave faeries are hard to come by; they know normally to stay away from soul bargains. In Kaiba's entourage there was a human boy, a friend of Ryou's, who had come to bring him back to the mundane realm—oh, Bakura was so angry," remembered Mana. "He was going mad with fear—pacing like something wild in a cage. They fought, and after that, in the evening, Ryou disappeared. Bakura's been deteriorating since then. I think—" she leaned closer, speaking quick and low "—I think Ryou was something like Sara, a hold on Bakura's magic. With both anchors gone, his magic is draining swiftly away from him. No demonic body can support that kind of rapid loss, and there is nothing a demonic mind fears more than a body without magic. It will kill him and drive him mad before he dies—that I know."

"Shaitan," Marikku murmured. "Shaitan; he left him like that! But souls have no love for demonic masters, that we know as well."

"It was different, in this case," said Mana, with a hard smile. She was collecting herself slowly. "I won't believe that Ryou willingly ran. He was stolen by Kaiba's vampire."

Marikku frowned at her and raised a bauble of light at his fingertips so he could see her more easily. Her teeth glinted. "A vampire?"

Mana was almost tripping over her words now; an eager and warm reflection of the tiny flame glowed in her eyes. "Bakura was keeping Ryou in a room with a sealed door—the hinges had been melted. When we discovered that Ryou was gone, we also found that door lying in pieces in the hallway, and a good chunk of castle wall torn clear away. It was not magical damage but the result of sheer strength, and Kaiba had a vampire with him. He'd known the other human boy, but certainly not the vampire. I think Ryou was taken—I'm right; I know I am."

"I'll have to disagree," said Marikku, rising as he extinguished the light. She rose with him. "No soul slave is that dedicated, not even—" He stopped. Not even Malik, and she knows exactly what I was going to say.

She was watching him shrewdly.

"You were listening at the door," said Marikku. "When I went in."

She shrugged. "I had to make sure. When he's raving he still recognizes me; he won't tell me anything more than I already know. Bakura is very clever. He's only careless when he wants to be."

"You're a match for him," said Marikku. He put his hand on the banister. "Always one step ahead." Bakura is never careful; he is only lucky.

She took his wrist again. "Will you look after him?"

Marikku stared down into the tower; three steps away from his feet, the stairs appeared to have been swallowed up by darkness. Pathetic drops of blue light dotted the treacherous descent. "That's your duty, isn't it?" he said. "Mistress Mana."

"Yes," she said. "That's my duty. But he needs Ryou back—that's my duty, too."

"If it were Malik," Marikku told her, when they had reached the kitchen door, "he would have stayed with me." Because I'm not his master. Because I'd kill him if he ever meant to leave me. Because he'd kill me if I ever meant to let him go.

"Ryou is different," she said, wrenching and slamming back the bolts. The locks had mostly rusted; they were difficult. "Will you?"

Marikku tugged at the hood of his cloak. "When he is better, and this Ryou has been returned to him, you will tell Bekhara that he is a sentimental idiot after all. And that I want a case of vodka for babysitting him." They shared a fierce grin, and he went out into the street. She closed the door after him.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Jou had thought Kaiba might look nice while sleeping—kind of peaceful. As it was, there was still that frown working between the guy's eyebrows and the sharp downturn of the mouth; just how was it that someone managed to look annoyed while unconscious? Jou figured it was a demon thing, and smoothed the bangs away from Kaiba's forehead. He was trying not to look at the burned strip on the demon's neck, which had gone from third-degree to an odd reddened pucker in the hours since the angels had attacked, and which scared him as much as the warmth of Kaiba's skin. You didn't just heal like that. And if you were Kaiba, you just didn't get hit like that.

Bastards, he thought dimly. He stroked a pale temple and watched the faint sheen of sweat across the bridge of Kaiba's nose.

"We didn't blow up," he told Kaiba somewhat inanely, since Kaiba wasn't getting up and trying to kill him. He said this without breathing much because the ribs were still broken, and the burned arm too, and his lungs were giving an ominous sort of crackle every time he did inhale. "You could at least grunt," he added. And then: "You asshole." He shifted, felt the upper half of arm shift with him, and winced.

Something else shifted with the lower part of the bone; it was a quiet little rustle, like papers being shuffled. Jou turned—only a bit because, hell, it really hurt to twist around—and gave a sort of involuntary gasp. The ribs protested with a loud creak.

The girl, kneeling beside him, spared him a single impassive glance, eyes like frosted glass. She seemed a bit misty around the edges, though, and Jou could see the medal-decorated wall of the room through her body. Her fingers were just ghosting into existence; she reached out and laced them with Kaiba's.

She wore the same frock as she had on the roof at Bakura's castle; the curls of her silvery hair were immaculate. It was her petticoats that had been rustling as she materialized, but now she was barely making a sound—barely breathing. Her gaze was blank as she looked down at Kaiba, following the shallow movements of his chest.

"Hey," said Jou. She turned to him again, waiting. "Er," he said, stumbling a little at the sight of her empty stare. "You're that girl—from the roof. Right?"

She nodded and resumed her watch.

"Look," said Jou, fumbling for the right words. She didn't look at him this time. Shit—what's her name? "Is there any way you can—fix him? He's warm. Oh! Er. It's Kisara, right?"

Blinding, wintry cold enveloped him. Maybe he was still shell shocked, but he sat there and took it without being too surprised. The blue glow wrapped around his limbs, rattled the broken bones like some kind of weird wind, drowned out the throbbing of his burns and cooled the pain with ice. Something was vibrating just below his throat; his fingertips tingled. And then it left him in a whoosh, sucked his breath away as it went—the girl wasn't there anymore and Jounouchi Katsuya was just beginning to realize just how damned hot it was in that room.

He could feel the distinct cool press of her hand against his, though he couldn't see it. He knew she'd let go of Kaiba's hand just then, because he could feel fingers so cold they burned working down the side of his face, then his arm.

Suddenly, without really knowing what he was doing, he stretched out his own hand and pushed the palm flat against Kaiba's neck, against that weird, knotted pucker. Held it there, counted to ten, then twenty. She'd gone—that girl had filtered out entirely—but the frigid imprint of her touch remained with him. The burn pains had eased considerably. His bones ached like they were knitting together. He imagined that he was doing the same for Kaiba.

And he had. Jou pulled his hand away and saw that the palm of it looked a little boiled; he saw the sweat on Kaiba's neck beading into frost and the dying moments of the pucker as it writhed and froze and vanished. Part of Kaiba's hair had gone stiff with dried blood; that hadn't changed, though as Jou pressed the fingers of his other hand to the cut there, it too warped and disappeared.

He whistled. "Shit."

They were still talking outside, a low murmur beneath the blood singing in Jou's ears. Some of the frown had gone from Kaiba's face; that was good. Jou looked down at his palms and examined the life-lines carefully, then did the same for his knuckles. His fingertips were looking like boiled lobster but he was otherwise alright.

Shaitan before your eyes, said a whisper in his brain. He sat fiddling with a loose string on Kaiba's collar, watching as the frown slipped and loosened and at last disappeared.

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

Getting Bakura to bed should have earned her a raise, Mana thought wearily. She bit at her thumb as she rifled through the files. She'd found them stuffed between building lease documents, recorded on fresh parchment; Bakura had recopied them perfectly.

Hatakeyama, Amano. Jansen, Kace. Sohn, Jin-Ho—Bakura, Ryou.

Bakura had drawn in the margins of Ryou's contract and scribbled stars and "important!" in the spaces not occupied by his stick figures. Mana slipped the sheaf of papers into a separate folder. She left that folder on Bakura's desk and gathered the rest of the files into a stack, hesitating a moment before grabbing the lease, too, and stuffing that haphazardly into a pocket of her apron. She didn't waste time with the stairs and switched immediately back into the kitchen.

Anzu was waiting at the table—Mana had managed to remove some of the filth—in her pink power suit, fingers resting at the clasp of a baby pink purse, blowing a pink bubble.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," said Mana. She did not sit, but withdrew the files and slapped them onto the tabletop.

"What are friends for?" Anzu replied, smoothing her skirt. She looked through the documents, tapping her hot pink heels against the legs of her chair. The bubble burst and she sucked it back into her mouth, chewing contemplatively. "What's this, then? Soul records?"

Mana bared her teeth in a smile. "I have a proposal for you, Lazy Anzu."

"Let's hear it," said Anzu, snapping her purse open and withdrawing a pad of chalk-pink paper and a ballpoint pen.

Mana struck the stack of papers with the flat of her hand. "These are the files of twenty-nine soul slaves, valued at thirty-two thousand severs, roughly eleven thousand a head. I understand that Master Bakura owes you around fifteen thousand severs." She leaned forward, feeling a hard and dark pleasure. "These are escaped slaves, Lady Anzu. Bakura is ill, and I am acting as his voice. I will free these slaves into your care. They're yours."

"Thirty-two thousand," Anzu murmured.

"Hunt them down," Mana continued, "and do whatever you'd like with them. That should cover the past year's rent and another eighteen months' worth."

"To my knowledge," said Anzu shrewdly, "Bakura had at least thirty-six soul slaves in his possession at the time of my last visit."

Mana gestured at the kitchen that was crumbling around them. "Thirty-five. We will need our own funds to refurbish the castle," she said mildly. "Thirty-two thousand is enough for you, isn't it, Lady Anzu?"

Anzu blew another bubble. "Oh, yes," she said.

"Then it's settled," said Mana. She thumped the heel of her hand against the papers again. "Here are the files for all thirty-five. Choose your own twenty-nine out of the whole; you are welcome to do as you please with them. I'd like the money generated from the sales of the remaining six, however, and a binding agreement stating that you will do as I've asked."

Anzu swept a pink-nailed finger through the air and pulled the contract from the area near her ankle. "You don't want them back?" she said, handing Mana her pen. "That's very interesting."

Mana read through the conditions, and, finding them satisfactory, signed at the dotted line. M. Kanakht. "Customers like to see new faces," she said, reveling in newfound black triumph. They betrayed us; they will not escape.

Anzu looped her own signature across the left corner. "A pleasure, as always, Mana," she said.

"Mm," said Mana. "Thank you." Anzu folded the contract primly and tucked it back into the hidden compartment hovering by her left leg. Her lower body dissolved into pixels; she beamed her shimmering pink smile at Mana and gave a little wave of her fingers before disappearing entirely.

In that moment, Mana felt that she was capable of toppling empires. She let that warlike joy carry her out of the kitchen and up the many flights of stairs that led to Bakura's study. She planned to examine Ryou's file in detail; by dawn, she would know where he had been taken. She would find him; she would bring him back to Bakura.

She said her apologies to Mahaado silently. Until she found Ryou, she would have to let him sleep cold in the earth.

I understand, he would have said. My Mana!

(f)(a)(u)(s)(t)

A/N: It's been so long! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. We get back to Ryou in the next one. (Which will likely be ready by March.) A HEARTFELT THANK YOU to all the dear readers who stuck with this story. I intend to finish it.