[Fanfic] Monster Mash 3 (original) (raw)

Title: Monster Mash 3

Characters: Francis, Arthur, Alfred, Gilbert (non-nation AU)

Rating: 18

Warnings: Slightly less blood and gore than the last chapter, but still contains graphic descriptions.

Summary: Originally inspired by this. (Link to pic for those who don't have Pixiv here.) Due to popular demand, what was a oneshot has now spawned a fic.

Silence fell.

Arthur went still, forgetting his meal entirely, staring open mouthed at Gilbert and the circle that had been charred into the ground from his entrance. Was that a pentagram he’d burned permanently into the basement floor? Francis was trying to think of what to say to his once-friend. Hello? Long time no see? When did you die and become a soldier for the legions of the damned? How did you still recognise me like this?

Luckily, Alfred was there with his loud voice to break the stalemate. “Er, Arthur?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the demon in front of him.

“Yes, Alfred?” the vampire said after a pause.

“Why does the devil look like he was dragged backwards though Hot Topic?”

Francis couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. Arthur snorted and covered his mouth to hide his amusement, which Alfred seemed genuinely bemused as to how a demon could be wearing a hoodie with a skull stitched on it, some quite tight jeans and running shoes. Gilbert’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, a red flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Sh-shut up!” was his final, coherent response. Francis tried to control himself.

“He has a point, mon ami.” he chuckled. Arthur smirked.

“Yes, whatever happened to that flowing black cloak you used to sport not one hundred years ago? I’m sure that was much more fetching.” he snarked, flapping the severed limb at the demon, who only gritted his teeth and blushed harder.

“Shut the fuck up you vampiric little shit, the day when I come back for your eternally damned soul will be fun for only one of us.” he snarled, tail thrashing back and forth. Arthur leaned forward challengingly, the stance of a predator with a grin full of sharp teeth.

“If you want it, come and get it, wanker.” he growled back. Francis stepped between the two.

“Not right now, merci.” he held his hands up, as two on either side of him looked annoyed. “Don’t you have other business to attend to?”

Gilbert blinked twice, and remembered. “Oh yeah! Anyway, you, Alfred F. Jones, serial killer extraordinaire, how about it?”

Said teen looked like a deer in headlights for a moment. “Er, I...” he stopped, and thought about it. “Why would you want me?”

The demon snorted. “Because you’re good at killing things. Wrath is a pretty freaky Sin, but I’m sure she’d be happy to have you. Not really my department, but hey, I was sitting around, so they sent me on up here.”

“What’s your department?” asked Alfred, leaning forward as though interested.

“Pride. I think your department is asking too many questions.” He stepped out of the circle, and the ground charred and in some places caught fire where he stood. “It’s a yes or no question, kid, not that hard.”

The pondering expression on Alfred’s face might have been adorable if he weren’t covered in blood. “Umm.” he hummed for a moment, drawing it out. “No.”

“Great, then we- wait, what?” Gilbert seemed quite thrown by this response, staring at the blood covered teen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Y’know, because ‘burn in hell’ is generally considered a bad thing?” the blonde gestured slightly, flicking blood everywhere from where it dripped off his fingers. “Besides which I still got stuff to do. A person to find. And, you know, brutally tear limb from limb and then set fire to.”

Francis swallowed silently. Gilbert’s red eyes darted his way momentarily, before he sighed, scratching the back of his head in exasperation. “Well this blows. I was kind of hoping I’d get a promotion for this. I only need one more damned soul before I get an upgrade. Scheisse. Nothing that’ll convince you? Gold, women, food?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Alfred shrugged, but grinned, brilliant white teeth standing out against the red. “I’m sure you’ll find that last soul somewhere.”

“Well, your loss.” The albino demon snorted. “What the fuck ever, I’m out of here. Francis, finish up with that body whenever and come on down, hang out, ja? And Arthur, I’ll be back for you later.”

“I await the day with baited breath.” Arthur said sarcastically.

Gilbert flipped him the bird, and the ground started shaking again, a circle of black fire that seemed to absorb light rather than give it off appearing at his feet. “Later losers!” cackled the demon, sinking down into the ground with a rumble, until the hole closed up, and the flames were extinguished.

As soon as it was, Arthur threw his now drained severed arm at the circle where Gilbert had stood. As soon as it touched it, it went up in the same black flames as before. “Well, he’s managed to ruin my basement until the next lunar cycle.” he sighed, turning towards the stairs. “I think it would be best if you laid off the killings for a while, Alfred.”

The teenager whined like a child. “But Arthuuuuur...”

The vampire was unaffected. “Gilbert, as much as I hate to say it, had a point. 100 people in 6 months; people are definitely going to start noticing, if they haven’t already.”

“To be honest, I’m surprised this isn’t international news by now.” Francis added, folding his arms. “How are you doing it?”

Alfred shrugged. “I dunno. I’m good at getting people that nobody would miss.” He grinned slightly. “Though Arthur complains if I bring home hobos.” The man in question sniffed haughtily, walking up the stairs in a silent huff. Alfred chuckled at him, getting up and shaking his hands off so he wouldn’t drip blood too badly all over the house. Arthur always yelled if he did that. “Well, that’s enough weirdness for me tonight. I’m going to bed. See ya, Francis.”

“Good night, Alfred.” the Frenchman replied, watching the murderer ascend the stairs. Making sure he didn’t look back at the butchered body, Francis, too, went back to the hallway, but decided he wasn’t tired enough to go to bed. The large, antique clock in the hallway told him it was 11:30pm, a sensible enough time to be still awake. With that in mind, he turned towards the door across the hallway from the dining room. Last he had been here, it was a library, a normal one, unlike Arthur’s collection of the occult in the basement. He turned the door handle and poked his head in.

As always, the sheer size of the rooms in Arthur’s house were a little staggering, especially when one had ceilings so high as they were, and bookshelves tall enough to need ladders that slid along on wheels to get to the top shelves. It was clear what were Arthur’s favourites, as many of the books were slightly more dusty but new-looking than other, more well worn tomes. There were several sofas and chairs all positioned around a fireplace, jutting out of the wall and well kept so the embers wouldn’t escape and damage the books. Aside from the fire, there was a reading lamp on, hanging over where one of the chairs was occupied. Arthur wasn’t currently reading a book, though there was one on the table beside him, but instead was engaged in another activity which quite surprised Francis.

“Where did you get a cat from?” he asked, walking into the room and shutting the door. It was a ginger, fluffy thing, and as he came closer it opened one eye from where it had closed them in contentment. Grey-blue tracked him as he moved closer to the fireplace.

“Hmm, she followed me home one day a few years ago.” the vampire sounded quite relaxed with the cat in his lap. “I killed her owner in a fit of hunger, and she just followed me wherever I went, didn’t you Bess?” he scratched under her chin, and Francis could hear her purr from where he was standing.

Wait...

“Bess?” he asked, surprised. “You actually named her-”

“Shut up, she was already called that when I got her.” Arthur snapped at him, looking over at the fire. “She comes in here and sits on me after I’ve fed because my body generates more warmth than your average human. It only happens when I’m still digesting the blood, though. She’ll clear off when I’ve gone stone cold again.”

“A shallow affair, then?” Francis smirked. Arthur picked up the book and held it threateningly.

“Piss off, Frog, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Francis sat down in the chair across from his “friend”, looking up at the titles on the wall. The whole Harry Potter series. Why was he not surprised. “I’m not tired yet. Strange, since I’ve been so busy today. You’re staying up longer than usual as well, with the days getting longer and all.”

“I like winter. I can actually go to the shops while they’re still open.” Arthur replied, watching Bess stretch and stand from his lap, jumping off and gracefully making her way out of the room. “Hmph. That’s her gone.”

“And then what, you actually talk to people?” Francis’ comment was met with a venomous green glare.

“I’m beginning to wonder why I haven’t kicked you out of my house.”

“Somewhere in your dried up little heart, you love me really, mon cher.” the ghost winked. Arthur looked like he’d just stepped on a bug. A bug that had exploded all over his bare feet, with sticky green slime and crunchy shell bits.

“No.”

“You lie to yourself almost as well as you lie to other people.” Francis chuckled, reaching over for the book at Arthur’s side. He scanned the cover, eyebrows raising. “Boethius? How long have you been into philosophy?”

“I’m bored.” grumbled Arthur, leaning an elbow on the armrest of his chair, resting his head on his hand. “I’m nearly always bored. It’s something to think about.”

Francis sat back in his newly adopted chair, and looked at the other seats scattered around the room. Very few of them matched, seeming like they’d been brought in over time as more and more people needed them. Most of them were pushed into corners now, just the too-heavy-to-move-alone sofa and two arm chairs he and Arthur were sitting in left next to the fire. On the mantelpiece were a few pictures. Painted, not taken with a camera; Arthur would never show up on film so easily. They were mostly of the vampire on his own, over the ages, in various different forms of dress. He stood from his chair, going over to look at the A4 size portraits. Francis could say what he liked to Arthur just to rile him up, but the painters he’d hired captured the smooth line of his jaw and shape of his nose wonderfully, long neck sometimes covered with a ruff, but skin always a pale white. The healthy red taint must have been artistic license; Arthur himself never looked healthy, either stark white or blushing bright red, never in between. Though, in the glow of the reading lamp and the fire, he could almost be mistaken for human, if it were not for how unnaturally still he was.

“I’m afraid, mon cher, that I am now bored as well.” Francis announced. “So I think I shall head to bed myself. Bon nuit.”

“Night.” Arthur mumbled to himself, still staring at the fire. Francis left him behind in the library, going up the stairs and down the west hallway, feet padding lightly on the carpeted floor so as not to wake Alfred. It was then that he noticed something. At the end of the hall, there was a door slightly ajar. It wasn’t Francis’, and he was fairly sure Alfred was too paranoid to leave a door open like that, so quietly, he peeked in.

The room was a cluttered mess, boxes piled up haphazardly. A wardrobe full of clothes was wide open, and from what Francis could see it was full of Arthur’s clothes. He stepped a little further into the room, minding where he was stepping carefully. There were dusty books and bags of clothes and pictures all over the place, some of which had the canvasses ripped to shreds until the picture was unrecognisable. The Frenchman nearly tripped over a box full of old books, and squinted at them in the dim moonlight that shone through the window.

‘Diary’ said the front cover.

He really shouldn’t look at it. But the whole box was full of them, and the next one over, all in different sizes, colours and shapes, some leather-bound, some with spirals for spines, some just pieces of old paper bound together with string, covers long lost. Tentatively, Francis picked up the one he’d tripped over, and turned to the first page he could.

January 23rd, 1854 Food is easy to come by this month, which is a welcome treat, since I recently sired Daniel (he insists to be called Li Shui still, but we’ll see how long that lasts) and he’s absolutely ravenous nearly all hours of the night. I worry for Brooke; his last meal disagreed with him something chronic, he was violently ill for hours. Still no sign of Alfred. Matthew is still not speaking, without his best friend.

Surprised, Francis stared at the page. Was Alfred a vampire after all? But he showed no tendencies, no lust for blood aside from the disturbing need to get it all over himself. Intrigued, he turned a few paged on.

August 12th, 1866
I loathe summer every time it comes around. It’s difficult to hunt and my coven is starving. Brooke nearly wandered outside at dawn a fortnight ago; it was lucky he had Katherine there to pull him back inside before he could get badly burned. Maya is being troublesome again. Easily sorted out. But really, should an older woman such as herself be so prone to tantrums? Asrai claimed she’d summoned a demon in the early hours of the morning, but we couldn’t find any evidence but a charred circle on the ground. Yet another year without Alfred. Soon, it will be a century. I fear he’s...

The entry stopped there. Francis turned to another page, entranced by this life of Arthur’s that he’d never really known.

July 1st, 1867
Matthew went missing before the rest of the house had even woken up. We all searched everywhere we could think of, but had to come inside as the sun came up. I can only hope that he has found somewhere safe to sleep. We shall double our search tomorrow night. No Alfred.July 4th, 1877 Found Matthew. He was at Land’s End, sitting on a cliff and staring at the sea. George found him, and took him back home. He still hasn’t spoken, but he was crying when we brought him inside. He had a few burns, but was otherwise fine. 100 years without Alfred. I am beginning to lose hope. If what he really said about telling the hunters about us was true, why hasn’t he come back with them? If they’ve killed him... I don’t know what I’ll do.

Francis put the book down, having reached the last page, and thought for a moment. So, Arthur had sired a young vampire called Alfred, who had supposedly sold them out to the hunters, but then ran away and never came back. This explained Arthur’s unusual attachment to the human Alfred, if it was only in name alone. He reached for the next book in the box, checking it was the next chronologically as well.

November 5th, 1877
The younger ones really enjoyed the fireworks. Strapping that poor chap to the St Cathrine Wheel might have been a bit much, though. His leg flew off and nearly set the rose bushes on fire. Adeeva had to put them out with water from the river, tripped, and spilled some on herself. No Alfred. He loved fireworks.

Francis skipped through the book, scanning dates. At the end of every entry, there was always something about this Alfred boy. Arthur was clearly obsessed with him, or else constantly worrying as a parent would. Or maybe as a lover, who knew. Francis hadn’t read that far back, to when he’d been sired. He reached the end of the book with little interesting things apart from siring yet more vampires. How many did Arthur intend to collect? He found his answer when he opened the next volume.

January 1st, 1901
Gave Brooke permission to lead his first hunt on his own. He performed well. I may give him similar duties to Matthew, though I doubt he’ll carry them out so quietly, at least he has proven himself responsible enough to handle the task.October 15th, 1912 Henry said he sighted wolves around the property. He claimed they were much too big for normal animals, nearly the size of automobiles. If this is true, we could be in for a fight. Thankfully, we will easily outnumber them.January 21st, 1919 Just when I thought we’d got rid of the wolves, Aine vanished without a trace. While I am confident my sister dear is able to handle herself alone, the wolves are still out there, if weakened. I worry. Nobody ever knows how much.July 11th, 1921 Found Aine’s head. The cut was not from the claws of a wolf, or any other beast. There was a clove of garlic in her mouth, and a bloodied stake lying next to it. James fancied that she’d become a dullahan, riding headless in the night and splashing fools who opened their doors to her with blood. Darren laughed, but we both know it is far from funny. If it wasn’t the wolves, it must have been the hunters.

Francis took a brief breather from the book, blinking around at an old family portrait. He’d known that Arthur had turned his siblings from the very start, but he had never heard that Aine had died so brutally. He thought she’d left. Turning the pages, he read on.

April 19th, 1930
They’re slipping through my fingers, no matter how tightly I hold on to them. My control weakens every day, time decaying the bond. Only a few are staying loyal as they were before. I sometimes entertain a vain hope that it is out of love, but in reality they likely know they are too weak to go out on their own. Matthew visits often. Says he’s started anew in Canada, up north where the days are darker. He also said he was looking for Alfred still. I admire his determination, but it is clearly causing him more heartache than necessary. All the same, I can’t forget him either. I hope that wherever he is, he’s at least happy. Not knowing is what puts me ill at ease the most.

There was nothing for a few pages, blank space, before it seemed that someone had spilled blood all over the book. It was crusted brown and crumbling with age, but the stain remained. Underneath it, were some hastily scribbled words, Arthur’s spidery handwriting becoming even more difficult to read.

August 25th, 1937
They found us.

And that was it, for nearly the entire rest of the book, which was soaked through with blood, dry now but stained beyond use. But it became less and less and by the back page the paper was an old, musty yellow again, this time with a paragraph written on the last page, in the middle and without the usual attention to grammar and spelling.

they’re all gone. fled or dead they’ve all gone damn them damn them all to hell.

Francis closed the diary. It seemed there were newer ones around, but he didn’t really want to think any more about such things. He looked up, behind the boxes, and noticed a large painting. Curious, he leaned over to look.

It was impressive for an artist to have painted so many people in such detail. Francis could tell every one of them apart, Arthur sitting in the middle of the library, surrounded by others on chairs. Maya, the Indian woman, held a smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa, and behind her, Aine looked towards the window, red hair catching the light. James leant on the mantle of the fireplace with a cocky grin, Darren standing behind Arthur’s chair with a neutral expression. Many, many others filled the library, a few of them children, Brooke sitting casually on the sofa next to a boy he recognised as Matthew, who had a small girl in his lap, presumably Asrai. A few of the coven had darker skin, but the artist had gone for realism, and none of them looked particularly alive. They all looked outwards of the picture, staring at Francis as though their combined gaze could force them back into reality.

But they were dead. From the smallest beaming child to James with his laughing face, older than Arthur himself by way of being his older brother. They were all dead.

Swallowing, he pulled the painting forward to see what was behind it.

Alfred stared back.

The likeness was uncanny. The boy in the picture was perhaps a little younger than the 19 year old Francis himself knew, and he didn’t wear glasses, but his eyes were a bright blue, and his smile as wide and innocent. His nose was a slightly different shape, and his jawline wasn’t as strong, but they were so similar, practically dead ringers-

“What.” ground out a voice from the door, making Francis jump and take his hands off the picture. “Do you think you’re doing.” Arthur’s eyes glowed in the dark as they took in the diaries littered on the floor. When he spoke, his fangs stood stark white in the moonlight. Francis backed away from the boxes, but it wasn’t easy with them all around him.

“Arthur, I-” he began, but the vampire stepped sharply to the side, opening the door wider and pointing towards the hall.

“Get out.”

“Arthur-”

“**OUT!**” he bellowed, sending Francis scrambling for his life out of the door, down the hall, and to the room he’d claimed as his bedroom. Arthur couldn’t get him in here, not being able to enter another person’s room or house without permission. The semi-ghost breathed hard, heart racing as he leant against the bedroom door, sliding down until he hit the floor.

He’d done it now.

Chapter 4

Note: Thanks to everyone who's been commenting and supporting this story, it's really nice to hear from you! Also, the dates from Arthur's diary correspond more or less with a few significant events in the history of the British Empire. That said, they're not exact reflections, because the British Empire didn't end with everyone, uh, dead, except for England. >>;; Special cookies for those who could guess what dates meant what! (July 1st and 4th notwithstanding, too easy)