~*Chapter Eight*~

                The stairwell was silent as Quatre, the blood lust evident in his usually calm eyes; it was a shame that it was all a façade. He could feel the cool metal through his thin waistcoat pockets; just waiting to be plunged eagerly into the heart of his next victim; the one that awaited him below…in the last candlelit cell. He guided himself down the rickety steps in the impenetrable darkness until he felt his foot hit the solid stone floor; he long ago had learned the different feels; the stairs were uneven and rugged under his feet, but the floor at the base of the stairs was smooth and flat. Quietly, he crept carefully past Catherine and the others, making sure to make not even the smallest sound; he had no time to waste on pointless kills.

                As his hand reached for the rusty, grime covered doorknob that led to the asylum; he smiled morbidly, for he could smell the oncoming carnage with delight. He opened the door swiftly and quietly, smirking to himself as he remembered the oil he had deposited in the hinges the night before. Stepping inside the dank, narrow corridor, he quickly and efficiently closed the door behind him and grabbed the keys that hung upon the nail in the side of the wall. He treaded lightly through the dark puddles of water, his footsteps echoing slightly though the oddly quiet area. He turned the corner at the end of the first corridor and stopped, watching the light flicker from the Irishman's cell. He quietly jangled the key chain around his finger then slowly made his way forward, taking long, resolute strides.

                As he stopped in front of the cell door, Duo looked up from the wet stone floor with a passive, blank look on his roguish face. He watched as the doctor unlocked the cell door and stepped in, closing it behind him with a resounding click. His cobalt eyes followed the British man carefully, then as Quatre turned to face him, Duo nodded in understanding.

                "I've been expecting you…I knew you would come for me sooner or later…"        

                Quatre chuckled a bit; overtones of wickedness in his voice. "So, you alone awaited death. I shall enjoy smelling the wonderful aroma of your blood upon my hands!" In a flash of silver, the scalpel was out, and Quatre lunged for the Irishman, rage in his eyes. In that moment of incomprehensible action, Duo felt his calm, unafraid façade fall, and he jumped back and cried out the doctor's name; although he knew it was in vain. He cried out in agony and threw his head back as he felt the searing, heated pain; the scalpel slipped forcefully through his bared neck and into his windpipe, his breath suddenly going short. He could feel the warm outpour of his own crimson blood flow from the gaping wound, and his eyes were wide with amazement. He felt blood rise up through his ruptured esophagus and leak into his mouth, but he was too stunned to react to the bitter, warm fluid. He was barely coherent enough to see the spattered flecks of his own blood in the doctor's fair hair and in his pallid face.

                Quatre twisted the scalpel and ran one of the smaller blades in next to it, ripping into more of the warm, tender flesh. He could feel Duo's hands clasp wildly onto his shoulders, and he shrugged them off, turning his smoldering gaze up to look into the young man's tear filled eyes. As he felt the rush of Duo's warm lifeblood over his hands and saw it dripping onto his pale, trembling arms, the blood lust lifted, and Quatre, whose eyes had just been filled to the brim with hatred and malice, now gasped in horror at the cavernous wound that spread across his love's lower neck. His eyes caught the gleam of blood-covered steel, and immediately, realization, terrible, mournful realization struck the doctor's mind, and he sank along with his beloved to the floor. Duo saw the change in the doctor's demeanor, and a glitter in his eyes told the doctor that the change had been too late.

                Sitting on his knees now, Quatre watched as Duo fell into his lap upon his back, the blood spattering across his trousers and the Irishman's long disheveled braid. The wound was lethal; the flesh inside his love's neck was horridly mutilated beyond recognition. The cobalt eyes had lost their luster, replaced with the glaze of Death's icy hand. But instead of a look of pure horror and fear, Duo looked up into the doctor's horrified eyes and groaned, barely able to breath. He smiled a bit and coughed, more blood spattered out from his severed throat.

                "Oh…oh God…what have I done…please, tell me this is all a hell spawned dream…" Quatre whispered, brushing a few blood smeared bangs from Duo's deathly pale face. Duo simply looked up at him silently and opened his mouth lightly, taking in a final breath.

                "Quatre," his once smooth tenor rasped, "You are one of us…and…I love you…"

                The doctor felt the mangled young man in his arms fall limp, his face calmly smiling even as death gripped around his soul; even though blood soaked his body.  Quatre shook his head in disbelief; not wanting to accept the fact of what he had just done.  He was silent for a few as he nodded his head back and forth slowly, then suddenly let out a insane cry, a wail like that of a man gone over the edge to meet madness. He then felt the stinging tears, tears of guilt and of torture; flow down his face, and he bent over the dead, ashen body of his love and wept. He could feel the oncoming madness coming once again; but he welcomed it this time; he no longer had anything to stop his madness for…