Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim to the characters, story, etc until I take over the world. Then I can afford to and let the claimin' begin!

A full summary can be found at chapter one.

The quote is from Adam Phillips's excellent Terrors and Experts, page 15. It is him quoting Chesterton. If you are interested in psychoanalysis, but are afraid of reading Freud straight (like me!), Phillips is the perfect introduction.

Thanks to my first reviewer--you rock! I hope this chapter clears somethings up.
I'm afraid so far that the story is presenting itself as a series of one-shots but it is actually a story. There is actually a plot (gasp). Hopefully, one of the threads should make its appearances in this chapter.

Thanks for reading.

"The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason."--G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

The next morning dawned cold and clear. They immediately headed to a park where the bodies had been found. Three women. There were no marks on their bodies; nothing to indicate how or why they had died. Their souls had not arrived either. There was something familiar about this case. As if it had happened before.

Hisoka pulled his coat closed. He hated how cold he got. Tsuzuki noticed his partner shiver slightly as he scanned the area. There was nothing unusual about the park.

"How many days between each woman?" Hisoka asked.

"Three. We are due for another one tonight," Tsuzuki replied softly. Hisoka tensed. He knew what Tsuzuki was thinking—anything to prevent another day. He became inwardly stiff. He was tired of Tsuzuki offering himself up as if he meant nothing. He was slowly beginning to think that perhaps Touda should have been allowed to take Tsuzuki.

Stop that, he mentally chastised himself. He didn't believe that. No one did, not even Tsuzuki right? No one wanted to be swallowed up by Touda's black flames.

"Perhaps we should stake out the park tonight," Hisoka murmured. Tsuzuki nodded and they bent their heads together, figuring out their plan. Anyone walking by would have seen two people in love, perhaps, their heads close together, their hands gesturing, glances exchanged out of the corners of eyes. Occasional touches, light ones, on the hands, or legs. No one would have thought they were planning to stop a murder. One person did. One person watched. One person did not alter one's plans.

Tsuzuki could not say for sure when night arrived. One moment, they were eating and he was begging Hisoka for another piece of pie. Hisoka was his usual firm self and said no. Pouting, he walked outside with him, heading toward the park. The next moment, night had fallen. The park, which was brighter earlier, with children running and playing, trying to capture the last bit of warm sun before it went into hibernation, was now dark and dank. The leaves skidded across the sidewalk in a small current of wind. The air, once warmed by the sun, now surrounded their forms, visible only when they exhaled in a small cloud. Cold and biting.

Tsuzuki shivered and tightened the coat around him. He unconsciously glanced at his watch and grimaced internally when he caught sight of a scar, pale on pale skin, making it all the whiter. He wasn't aware of stopping and staring at his wrist; all he could remember was the relief he felt every time darkness closed in on him as the life flowed out. All he could remember was the despair—dark and sticky, suffocating—as he awoke and realized he had failed. Despair at being alive, despair at even managing to screw up dying.

"Tsuzuki?" Hisoka's husky voice failed to make much noise in the dead air. His partner did not seem to hear him. Hisoka noticed that Tsuzuki's purple eyes were transfixed on his wrist, never moving. There were no tears pooling in his eyes either; in fact, Hisoka noticed as he felt his panic rising, his eyes were losing some of their light. Without thinking, he grabbed Tsuzuki's wrist and gasped.

At that loud intake of breath, Tsuzuki's head snapped up and noticed Hisoka's hand on his wrist. He yanked his wrist back and quickly threw up walls.

"Hisoka? Hisoka!"he cried. He shook the young boy's shoulder. Hisoka seemed to be in some sort of shock. Tsuzuki felt the panic engulfing him.

I can screw up dying, but I can't fail to fuck up my partners, he thought bitterly as he led Hisoka to a bench. The young boy seemed unaware of what was going on; Tsuzuki was too; his attention was on Hisoka.

That is, until a scream tore through the air, shattering the silence. Tsuzuki, unsure of what to do, made sure no one was around to harm Hisoka, leapt up and followed the sound of the scream. It cut short and became almost strangled. His lungs burned with the cold air; his feet hitting the pavement was the only sound; he rounded a corner and his vision was filled with a crimson moon.

"Good evening, Tsuzuki-san."

It was the nightmare come alive. He had only thought that remembering his death was the nightmare; he was wrong; this was much, much worse. This was alive; this was pressing; this was real; this was Muraki, dressed in white, reflecting the glory of his bloodied moon.

He couldn't breathe. The cold filled his lungs, blurred his vision. He didn't know what to do. And Muraki's soft, tender (wait—tender?) mocking laughter told him that the doctor knew that Tsuzuki was frozen, trapped, unable to make a decision. At this point, Tsuzuki's anger, his sense of injustice would rear their ugly heads and take over, but now. Not ever, it would seem. Instead, all he could feel was fear, his feet growing roots into the soil.

"Tsuzuki-san, enjoying a stroll this evening?"Muraki said softly. At his feet lay another woman, lifeless. Tsuzuki could tell from the blank look on her face. But there was no blood, no evidence of how she died. His frustration began to slowly fight back the fear as Muraki glided down the steps separating them. Muraki was chuckling.

"You are being quite rude, Tsuzuki-san. Not only have I greeted you, but I asked about your welfare and you've said nothing. I will forgive you this once and ask where your insufferable companion is."

"Right here." Hisoka's voice, firm and unwavering, shook Tsuzuki out of his fear. He turned and saw the young boy standing tall, glaring at Muraki. The doctor laughed, this time harshly.

"And here I was thanking the gods for your absence. It seems, even now, they abandon me."

"The only thing you believe in is yourself," Hisoka sneered. Muraki laughed again and Tsuzuki shivered. He remembered that laugh as Muraki's hands slowly trailed up his chest, as he slowly unbuttoned Tsuzuki's shirt. He shivered; this was one trip down memory lane he did not want.

Come to think of it, he never wanted to walk down memory lane.

Focus! He scolded himself. He walked over to his partner and stood firm next to him. If I can't protect Hisoka from me, I can at least protect him from Muraki. Oh yeah? The voice of doubt murmured. You haven't done real well in that department yet. And how the hell are you going to protect yourself from Muraki? Tsuzuki shook himself free of these thoughts and glared at Muraki who laughed again.

"Jeez, can you do more than laugh? No words at your disposal?" Hisoka said, his straight back betraying his regal heritage. His tone, cold and removed and emotionless, showed more contempt than any of the obscenities or insults Tsuzuki had in his arsenal. His chest swelled with pride. He had a great partner; he should feel lucky.

"How are you killing these woman, Muraki?" Tsuzuki said softly, his voice laced with threats. Muraki cocked his head and regarded the pair with his one good eye. He looked no different than he did in Kyoto. No, wait; he appeared thinner and, if possible, more lost in his insanity than ever.

"What? No questions about how I made it out alive after you called up that vile snake?" Muraki asked. "I've been wondering about that magnificent creature. How does it destroy everything? How does it make black fire?"

Tsuzuki did not answer, but glared more fiercely.

"A Shikigami of incredible power. But, again, how did you know I was alive?" His silver eye glinted as he took in Hisoka for the first time. A sinister chuckle escaped his lips. "Ah, yes, the boy. I suppose my curse appeared again. Tell me, boy, how does it feel to have your body eternally marked by my caress?" Hisoka snarled and took a step forward, as if to engage Muraki in a battle. Tsuzuki's arm stopped him.

"Don't. It's what he wants," he said softly. "You're forgetting why we are here."

Hisoka nodded and went to examine the woman. Muraki watched both of them.

"Tsuzuki-san, I'm surprised you are still with this boy. I thought your partnership would have disintergrated by now. I mean, after all, your partner does spend his nights at a brothel." Tsuzuki could not stop the surprise from coloring his face. A quick glance at Hisoka showed that Muraki was not lying; the boy's face was scarlet. With shame, a part of Tsuzuki snarled.

"Muraki, prepare yourself!" Tsuzuki snapped as he pulled out a fuda. The doctor laughed and held out one hand. In it was a vial which glowed softly, like an opal, reflecting different colors.

"Fight me and you lose any chance of saving this woman's soul," he said, his enjoyment apparent in every word. Tsuzuki struggled; he wanted to blast the doctor into oblivion.

"What do you want?" he finally snarled.

"Ah, so now, you get down to business. Always so slow, Tsuzuki-san. But I suppose that's why it took you six years to finally die. Screwed up even your own death." He laughed, but it was hard and screechy, like nails on a blackboard. Nothing like the seduction of which he was capable.

"What do you want?" Hisoka said.

"Not you, little boy. I don't want to touch anything soiled by other men." Hisoka blanched before he colored scarlet again. Muraki smiled softly. The seeds were being sown.

"I will tell you what I want later. Meet me here at this time," he ordered, holding out a card. No one moved to take it. He smirked. "Well you could always ask the boy; it is his favorite brothel." The silence couldn't be any thicker. "I'll see you tomorrow at 8 in the evening." With that, he left in his usual dramatic style—there one moment, gone the next.

And still the silence remained.

Updates will be less frequent because the amount of work I have to do is sooo much it's not even funny. Again, thanks for reading, and please review! Especially if you have any advice about how to write Muraki; he troubles me.