Carmine, claret, copper, crimson, maroon, ruby, scarlet. It was everywhere. Staining the walls, the floor, dripping from paintings and spattering heavily on the ceiling. Blood covered everything, leaving the house with a horror movie-esque feel. The bodies of the dead lay spread across the floor, each one missing a limb, or sometimes a head. Some even looked to have the occasional disembowelment. Only one was still alive, but barely. A slender, sandy-blonde haired man with prominent brows sat slumped in a chair, hands and legs tied to the sturdy wood. Lacerations covered his body and a large chunk had been taken out of his shoulder, teeth marks surrounding the flayed skin.

Dark blood, so dark in fact, it could be black, was smeared all over his face and the ruined, slashed shirt. But no, not all of it belonged to Arthur Kirkland. That black blood that intermingled with his red belonged to the demon who hung over him, derisively laughing in his face. Ivan forced the man's head back and he pressed his bleeding wrist to the human's mouth, making him drink the dark hued liquid that pulsed from the deep cut in the skin.

"Happy birthday, little mortal~! I hope my gift is sufficient enough for you, da?" he giggled, the noise cutting through the near silence like a knife. Ivan knew that sooner or later the man would die a painful death because of the poison that his blood contained. He didn't care. He just liked to kill and annihilate, nothing more, nothing less.

Hell had secrets, more than there were stars in the sky. Information was hidden carefully, and none knew the full power of the Underworld. The current ruler of Hell was the one who knew the Underworld's secrets, and he liked to keep it that way. Or she. No one really knew the true identity of the one in control. He or she was always working from behind closed doors, and not a soul had ever seen their face.

Looking over at the spasming body of the blonde with eerie purple eyes, Ivan snorted in annoyance. It would not last long with the amount of blood consumed. Soon, if not treated correctly, one by one the organs would be eaten away at and the human would die an excruciating and long death. But even Ivan didn't know what would help this ticking time bomb of a man. Only Lucifer himself could save this mortal.

Ivan smiled, the glint of teeth sharp and sinister in the dim light. He would have loved to watch every single second of the painful death, but he had more crowds to massacre, more lives to destroy. Whistling happily, a cheery bounce in his step, Ivan walked out of the door and disappeared into the night. The demon's large frame melded with the darkness, and he was gone.

It had been his birthday, Arthur remembered through the haze. All of his family had flown in to England to celebrate it, and for once they weren't getting into petty fights and were having a good time catching up with each other. Even his little brother Peter wasn't being an obnoxious brat. But then it had taken a turn for the worst. Something had crashed through the roof of the house and began to kill, claws slicing and slashing so quickly you wouldn't have known they were there, save for the arcs of blood that spattered the walls as they sang through the air. Through all of it, the massacre of his beloved family and friends, the agonizing pain of being beat bloody with his body being nearly ripped apart with supernatural strength, and the searing burn of the unfamiliar blood that was making its way through his body, Arthur Kirkland had kept quiet, as hard as it had been. As he sat in the empty house tied to the chair, he finally let loose his cries of anguish, pain, and grief. The screams bounced off the walls, echoing in the small space and piercing the night sky. They only petered off when he felt a black cloud sweep over his mind and he quieted, unconscious.

An inky black head poked above the bushes, appearance disheveled from sleeping in the low expanse of shrubbery. Leaves stuck in his short, obsidian hair, sky blue eyes filled with weariness. Alfred had heard a faint cry of distress, and he could feel a disturbance in the air so he figured he might as well see what it was. Slowly he got to his feet, uncurling his limbs and returning the feeling to them. He shook out his black leather bomber jacket he was so fond of and settled it around his broad, muscled shoulders. His lips pursed before he whistled a sad tune, shoes scuffing on the hard, dirt packed road.

Soon he arrived at the darkened house where he heard the cries, and he smelled the telltale scent of blood in the air. And damn, was it heavy. Underneath the rust and death scent he smelled an undertone of another demon's presence. 'Ivan…,' he thought, lip curling at the name. He had never liked the destructive and bloodthirsty demon, and the other had never liked him. It was something beyond mutual hatred, and they were at each other's throats constantly.

Cautiously, Alfred stepped into the house and searched each room, expression blank as he set his eyes on the mutilated bodies. At last, he heard the panting moans of pain and slowly pushed the door open, hinges creaking. A fleeting look of surprise was visible in his bright eyes at what lay in front of him, and he stepped further into the room.

A broken looking blonde sat tied to a chair in the center of the room, covered with blood, and not all his own, Alfred could tell. He shuffled closer and examined the body, wondering if he had yet died. He sighed when he saw black blood pooling in his open mouth. 'The bastard made him drink his blood. How many times will he do this? I hate cleaning up his messes…' he thought, blunt nails turning to sharp claws that flicked out of his nail beds to slash away the bloodied ropes.

Arthur stirred as he felt cool, gentle hands on him, his moans of pain turning to screams as he became fully conscious and felt the burning sensation raging throughout him again. 'Painpainpainpainpain everywhere!' was all he could think. He felt the weight around his wrists and ankles drop, and in a small part of his mind that wasn't red hot he sighed in relief. The almost luminous green eyes snapped open as he began throwing up blood, barely able to get a breath in between heaves. After a reprieve of choking Arthur weakly wiped his mouth and glared up at the demon.

"…The hell do you want? Are you here to finish what the other didn't?" Arthur said, automatically drawing in on himself, arms wrapping about his body in a semblance of protection. His eyes took in the tail lashing the air behind the man, and the black, dark as night wings that protruded from the back of his jacket. His eyes lingered on the curved horns situated on either side of his head. It was clear the man was similar to the other that had just destroyed everything he had ever loved and longed for. He bristled almost immediately, wary.

Despite the fact he was dying, the venom in his voice was tangible, as well as the bright fire in his eyes. Arthur knew he would be killed if this man so chose, but he wanted to die with honor, not cowardice. He wasn't the type of man to get on his knees and beg for his life. He was better than that. He felt sudden pain in the cavity of his chest, and blood started to bubble up his throat. He started to cough, violently, and fell to his hands and knees on the floor. What was happening? It hurt so much…

Alfred watched the scene with blank blue eyes and sighed, kneeling on the dirty, bloody floor. His gloved hand firmly, but also gently took Arthur's chin in his hand and turned it so their eyes met. Green to blue, emerald to azure. Arthur's breath was stolen away from him at the connection, lips parting in amazement. His eyes were otherworldly. Like chips of a cloudless blue sky, they twinkled and bored into him with startling intensity. Alfred did not acknowledge the moment and lifted a fingertip to rest right over the heart, drawing a symbol on the skin of the bared chest. The complex loops and swirls lit like a flame, dancing across the veins like fireworks. They sunk into the skin slowly, and when the last glimpse of fire disappeared, so did the pain.

Arthur drew in a ragged breath, eyes wide. "W-who are you?" he asked.

Alfred finally gave him a smile, a hint of fang flashing. "My name is Alfred Jones," he said. "And you're going to Hell."