A/N: I am so sorry for this short chapter. Not because it's late (I'm a slow writer), but because of its awful content. I cried a bit while writing this.

Chapter Four

Summer was nearing her peak; while each passing day grew by only one or two minutes, every minute added up to less and less darkness of night. These shorter nights were beginning to make Francis' life a tad uncomfortable. He did enjoy the occasional moon lit walk through the woods. Seeing the pale light dance down between the darkened leaves from above, seeing the world glow in a silver bath– all of it made for a temptingly romantic atmosphere. In his younger years, he would have taken advantage of the natural glory of the night, but those days had long since passed. He was older now; his prime, while it may have not faded completely, was waning.

And it wasn't like his current target had much of an appreciation for scenery...

In the end, less night meant less time to visit said target. He had to readjust every last aspect of his life. The little town house he purchased in the nearest demon village was being left to rot; if he was lucky, maybe he would be able to visit just to keep it in good standards. As a morning demon, staying up long past his usual bed time was beginning to wear his reflexes thin. "If this keeps going, I'm going to be caught," he thought to himself with an amused grin. "But when has that ever stopped me?"

He timed his arrival at the human's village exactly a half hour after night had fallen. The mist acted as a perfect blanket for him to move under without being seen. Sure, it made it a bit difficult for him to walk without tripping over a tree root or being hit by a low hanging pine branch, but the occasional bruised shin and crotch shot wasn't nearly as bad as being skinned and dismembered. Well, most of the time it wasn't nearly as bad.

A hop over the tall wooden fence took him into the garden. He landed between two overgrown plants; one of the vegetables had been sacrificed for his cause. In a way, the cucumber deserved it– the plant had the gall to grow over the slim dirt path. He kicked the crushed cucumber under the cover of its siblings where it would rot and, more than likely, taint the soil.

Crouched among some strawberries, Francis made his home within the garden. He hovered there, watching his prey for a few silent moments. His observations gave him clues to his prey's mood; tonight, Arthur was part agitated, part depressed. The combination wasn't an uncommon one for him, but something was different. Tonight, the two emotions that cohabited the man peacefully were battling each other, trying to prove their dominance. One moment, anger pinned down sorrow and mourning, but the next, melancholy rocked his body, beating his rage into submission with soft, silent sobs.

"Good evening, ma douce," he called, not moving any closer. His lack of movement wasn't out of lack of want; the idea of being able in indulge in the man's scent was drool worthy. The distance was out of fear of being caught. Where he crouched, he wasn't within the castoff of the house's light, and should Arthur's family come to the garden, he was poised and ready to flee.

Arthur's acknowledgment came as the slight turn of the head toward Francis, but his silence remained. This wasn't out of the ordinary; conversations between the two were mostly Francis speaking out loud without any response. When Arthur did raise his voice, the occasion was to snap at the other for being an idiot or a jackass.

"It's a lovely night," Francis offered. "I enjoy summer nights, almost as much as the autumn, but not quite. There's something in the air during autumn that sets it apart from the other seasons. Maybe it's the slight nip that promises of winter? Or perhaps it's smell of roasting pumpkin wafting out of kitchens? Autumn just contains that certain magic, non?" He was given a grunt, to which he laughed. "Honhon, ma douce, your charm knows no bounds."

Francis ran a hand through his loose hair and twirled a gorgeous blond lock between two fingers. In the moonlight, his hair almost appeared silver. "Do you want to know another reason I adore autumn?" He didn't wait for what wasn't going to come, so he spoke with a large smile, "my daughters were delivered to me in the middle of autumn. Belle and Yvette. No two more beautiful creatures have ever walked this earth. Even I pale in comparison to the radiance of those lovely children.

"I was the first to hold them, other than the midwife of course, but do those women really count? Where's the joy in saying that a stranger was the first to coddle your child? The first to comfort them? The first to show them the warmth of a family? Non. They do not count." Again, Francis laughed, but the sound held a higher tone that sang his joy. "Oui, under a harvest moon I held my girls in my arms, and suddenly, my life was complete. Everything before that day was trivial and meant nothing; on that autumn day, my existence became worthwhile."

His smile wavered. His lips trembled, and slowly, his eyes widened. Tightness gripped his throat and gave a threatening squeeze, promising of worst to come. When did his hands begin to tremble? Clenching his hand to form a fist, Francis took two deep breaths. It took a few moments to regain the strength in his voice. "It was also an autumn day that I lost my Belle and Yvette."

The crickets' roar grew loud, drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat. He almost missed it. The words almost slipped away into the darkness, never to be recovered or fulfilled. But, he caught whisper by the fleeting ends and pulled. For the second time Arthur expressed interest in what he had to say, and it all came in two simple words:

"What happened?"

"To say I was a bit of a wild card as a young adult is an enormous understatement. Neither women nor men were safe from the extent of my sexual appetite. I traveled far and wide, from village floating on top of water to cities carved into the side of mountains. I saw things that would make lesser men fall to their knees in wonder and awe, but my goals were too selfish to be offset by mere man-made dwellings. Every night on end, I went to the local tavern and found a willing or overly drunk partner to have my fun with for the night, then the next morning, we would go our separate ways never to touch again.

"Experiencing the full bounty of the night life was an exciting existence, for awhile, but as time goes on, the wine begins to taste stale. The women lose their appeal, and men become too possessive. Even the joy of traveling evaporated, and before I realized it, I had drifted back to my clan.

"Men in my clan marry early; fifteen is the average age if I'm not mistaken. Well, when I returned, I was an old man of nineteen, and as expected of me just before I went on my adventure, marriage was the only option for me upon my sudden reappearance. I would like to say there was a number of able yet voluptuous women simply dying to carry my seed, but there was only one little lady around my own age who had yet to wed.

"My dear Agatha wouldn't be my first or second...or third choice of a life long partner, but alas, I was given no choice in the matter. You see, Agatha was of... humble origins. In her own way, she was attractive; however, that was only if round and grounded were your type. Where I spent my life bathing in the riches of a fellow's flesh, she found comfort in more mundane rituals. Morning to night she busied herself with little things. She would cook, knit, read, and sing (if you could call her squawking such). Cleaning, oh mon dieu, she was always cleaning something. If so much as a plate was a centimeter out of line, she had to rearrange it to fit with the others, and she always had the time to chastise me for being a slob.

"For the first three months of our union, we acted not out of love or even acceptance; our interactions with each other were based on expectations of our clan. By our age, we should have been knee deep in children; not having any was enough to exclude us from certain social standings. For that reason alone, our love making was frequent but boring. Painfully boring. It was only with Agatha's pregnancy that we were able to retire the monotonous act; much to our equal relief.

"The birth of our girls brought bliss into our union. Although what we felt wasn't love, our ceaseless adoration of our children brought about a stability to our lives and tolerance for each other that hadn't previously existed. We were able to act as a unit, not for our sake, but for the sake of the two anges we brought into this world.

"When Belle and Yvette were five, we were able to move our family out of the clan's reach. We relocated to a beautiful cabin in the woods. The building was small; there was one room for us to share as a bedroom, and the common room was cramped and littered with knickknacks and toys. I had saved months worth of pay to buy all new furniture. From the table to the chests, everything was made of a deep reddish-brown wood. The wood was so new, so perfect, that it glistened even in the dimmest of lighting. Belle was so fascinated by watching the rays of light chase around the flat surfaces; I swear, she would just stare at the table, waiting for the sun to move in the sky simply so the light rays would dance.

"Belle was the quieter of the two; she was interested solely with watching and listening. She spoke when she had something of meaning to say. Any other time, she was silent, observing the world around her with hawk eyes. Agatha insisted Belle was the sharpest girl for her age; she said that Belle just knew things without needing explanation or reason, as though the knowledge had been with her from the start. I never doubted this.

"Without a doubt, Yvette took after me. She was a spit-fire; nothing was off limits for her, no matter how hard Agatha and I tried to parent. Her words flowed from her mouth without stop. Anything that popped into her mind was soon vocalized. She would be climbing trees one moment and shooting a bow and arrow the next. Her aim was awful, but I'm sure, with practice, she would have become a master. Although, I image all parents feel that way about their children– children are full of endless opportunities and chances, and it's a parent's wish that they do as much as they can.

"Belle was with me that day. We were down by the river most of the morning. Our goal was to catch enough fish to last us a few days; my mother had sent us the gift of a basket full of salt, so we were looking forward to having a seasoned meal for once. The waters weren't flowing in our favor. Five hours on the river wielded nothing more than a small number of fish too small to consider even a light snack. I was bringing in our net from the sandy banks when Belle called out to me, 'Papa, fumee.'

"Sure enough, when I turned to where she pointed, smoke rose up from above the trees. It was a harsh black against the boundless blue sky and seemed to stain the trees below. The leaves of brown, orange, red, and yellow suddenly took on an ashy appearance as though I was looking at them through a grey film. I wasn't certain what to do. It didn't register in my mind that the smoke was coming from the direction of my home. Little Belle came up to me and pulled on my shirt.

"I can still remember what she looked like at that moment. Her eyes were wide with worry; a gloss had taken over the blue, turning her irises to pools of water. Her lips were parted just the slightest. Her hair was braided into two pigtails and held together by green checkered bows. The bows matched the dress she wore, but I remember the dress was Yvette's, not hers. She was slighter than her sister and didn't fit into clothes quite the same way. 'Papa, maman and Vet are still home,' she said. Mon dieu, her voice trembled with fear, like she knew what had already happened. Like she knew what was going to happen.

"She climbed onto my back, and together, we ran uphill, back to our cabin. I saw the fire before I saw our house. The flames stuck out high in the sky and blazed with such an intense anger. It was fueled by hate. And fear. And nothing would douse those damned flames but blood. Our home was blackening in the orange glow, but it still held its structure when we arrived. I set Belle down on the swing I had made for her and Yvette when we first moved there. I told her to stay there no matter what happened. I told her to wait for me. I told her I had to find Agatha and Yvette. I told her we'd leave together, as a family.

"I knew Agatha could withstand the fire." Here, Francis paused, trying to contain his emotions. If he said too much, Arthur would begin to question how the average woman could survive in such conditions. It wasn't for the other to know that demons of his clan, by nature, were able to adapt to flames and extreme heat once they awakened to their powers. Yvette was still five to seven years before her awakening, making her as defenseless as a human.

"As ridiculous as it seems, I entered the house through the front door. Flames ate all of the furniture, not caring that it was new or beautiful or meant so much to my little girl. They weren't in the common room. I stupidly let my hopes rise; I began to believe they had escaped the fire. I would step back outside, and they would be waiting near Belle, wondering what was taking me so long. Agatha would snap at me for ruining my clothes, and we would hike back to our clan and take shelter there. Everything would be fine.

"Their bodies were in the bedroom, huddled in a corner. Agatha was crouched over Yvette's small form, trying to protect her from burning." The only signs of the fire effecting Agatha were the burns in her dress; neither the fire nor the smoke had dealt her death. "There was a hole. In her back. It was thin and oozing and deep. Someone had stabbed my wife in the heart through her back, breaking bones and blood vessels and other viscera as they did so. They left her dead body over Yvette; they let my little girl watch as they murdered her mother.

"By the time I got there, Yvette was nothing but a smoldering black mass. At first, I couldn't believe it was her; I refused to believe it was. But, the truth has a cruel way of beating you, and I knew that Agatha wouldn't have died trying to save her own skin. I'd like to think her young lungs couldn't handle the smoke, and she died almost instantly from a lack of oxygen. Her last moments couldn't have been filled with nothing more than the pain of burning alive. Her last moments couldn't have been filled with her screams of agony. She couldn't have been begging for papa to come save her."

Francis looked up to the night sky and counted twenty stars before he continued, "do you know what I thought to myself as I fled our home? 'At least, I still have Belle.' I find it strange how, even in our most dire moments, the simplest things keep us moving. I'm sure if Belle had been nothing but another corpse with her sister, I would have remained in that building until it collapsed, killing me along with them. However, the very idea of Belle remaining outside gave me enough of a reason to keep moving. She was daughter; she was more than enough to give my life value– to give my life meaning. I was still there for her, and her for me. Together, we could still be a family. Together, we could still have a normal life.

"Outside, a large monster of a man was holding my dear Belle by her hair. He had been rough enough to pull one of her bows out; the braid had come undone, and her golden hair fell in her face. She was crying. When I got close enough, I saw the man wasn't alone. There were five others of similar stature and malice. Belle was begging me, 'Papa, please. Papa, help.' I could barely hear her over the men; their collective shouts and spits of hate and intolerance created a roar that easily overpowered any desperate sob Belle could muster.

"There was no ceremony in what happened next. They didn't threaten me or challenge me in any way. They didn't offer a trade or compensation. The man simply drew a knife from his belt, pressed it against my daughter's neck, and pulled it over her skin as though she was nothing but a soulless animal. Blood gushed out of her throat. It spilled all over the ground. All over her sister's dress. Her eyes were wide as the pools began to cloud over. Her parted lips trembled. She fell to the ground without grace. I never heard her speak again."

Fucking humans.

Oh, Francis' revenge had been automatic. When Belle fell, as did his reason for living. Fighting six armed men was basically suicide, no matter how powerful the demon, but he couldn't muster the power to give a shit. Instead, his rage channeled into his flames, causing them to burn brighter than ever before, and one-by-one the humans that ruined his life met a fitting end: slowly roasted alive until charred.

Arthur shifted his body toward Francis; he was pointed to the other directly. His eyes were open, staring deadly at the other man. "Were they demons?" he asked. His voice was strange, as though he wasn't sure whether to be afflicted with sorrow, pity, rage, or a combination of all three. The emotions shifted to a sense of vague empathy.

Fucking humans.

Francis scowled at no one in particular. "Worse than demons. They were monsters."