The sickening smell of blood hung around the room. A little peasant boy collapsed on to his parents' decaying corpses as his vision is invaded by darkness. He was half-dead, helpless, unable to move, senseless...the experience was painful and traumatising. Blood trickled out of his fresh wounds and he did nothing to staunch them. He would run if his limbs could move, but they couldn't, so he could only await his disasterous fate...the cause of his despair would be here any minute, looming over him with sharp things and a gun and kicking him around like a football, drunk and mentally unstable.

He was frightened.

He made a stiff sign of the cross on himself as well as his limbs could allow and whispered the Lord's Prayer hoarsely. He had not gotten further than 'Hallowed be Thy Name' when the door was kicked open and his kidnapper grabbed him by the ragged remains of his collar.

" Yer still 'live? Guess 'em lads 're a bit tou'er than 'em's Da n' Ma...henh henh henh...'

The intimidating giant staggered, walking in a wierd loop, flung him towards the wall and slammed his hand towards his neck. A nauseating crunch told the poor mouse of a boy that the man had broken, or at least sprained his neck; his body began to feel dangerously numb. He grabbed the thick wooden arms and tried vainly to wrestle it away from his neck.

Why had he been subjugated by this cruel, cruel knave, the man who tore his life apart and happily used it to wash his feet? Why was he the one enslaved and not somebody else who deserved it? Why had it been him that was imprisoned? Why? Why? What had he done to deserve this? He had been a good little boy, he always said his prayers daily and never sinned. What had he done to anger God so badly?

Or did God hate him? That thought depressed him even further. If God loved him he would not be here, strangling to death by a foul-smelling adult who wanted nothing but alcohol, drugs and women; God must have abandoned him. Otherwise, he would still be at home, snuggling into his warm fluffy blankets after a bed-time story.

His mother was a great story teller; so was his aunt. He wished his aunt was here. She would coo over him and tickle him and give him clothes that didn't smell of cigarette smoke and wash his tear-stained face and tuck him into bed and smuggle him Funtom biscuits after tucking him into bed. He wished she was there. He wished anybody was there.

Anybody but God.

He hated God now. If it weren't for God he wouldn't have to hear his mother's pitiful screams as she was raped and his father begging him in an odd strangled voice that he had never heard before to please, please let her go, I'll do whatever you want, just let us go and I'll give you anything...please, please...

A gunshot cut his father's pleading and life short, along with his train of thought. A burning bullet pierced his flesh and he did not scream-he was to weak to scream-and he could only manage a small gasp and moan softly as he watched his blood trickle down his torso and stain the floor. He felt sick and dizzy from the stench of his own body fluids.

He hated God.

His thin, brittle arms gave out and fell limply to his side, his muscles slashed into strips from the strain. He looked up and could only see the face that leered insanely. The big butcher's knife that he had used to kill his mother was drawn from the man's belt; her blood still glittered on the blade, and he was wearing that very same psychotic,victorious smirk that was only further twisted by drink.

He hated God.

The lunatic before him sliced his thumb open and lapped hastily at his blood. The cut stung from the disgusting mixture of alcohol and cigarette ash.

He abandoned God.

An uncomfortable squishing noise probed his confinement space. A clawed arm penetrated from his kidnapper's chest, decorated wonderfully with crimson-moistened body tissue and glinting dangerously. The appendage was attached to a slender figure cloaked in silky black, whose unmerciful red eyes scanned the sorrowful child who was dressed in unchildish tatters and who slumped to the floor weakly.

"...well, isn't this intereesting...? Anothe child who has abandoned God...I must say, there seems to be an abundance of them lately."

The child tried to pull himself away from the black-clad stranger that drew his bloodied hands from the chest of the murderer and began to taste the blood inquisitively. "I have nothing to do with you," he groaned, pushing back the impulse to place his stinging thumb inside his mouth, " I want nothing to do with you either."

"Oh, but you have summoned me."

"...summoned...? You are a witch?" Whispered the boy in an awed, yet terrified tone.

"A witch?" The odd stranger burst into a frenzied laugh. "How degrading. I have nothing to do with witches, as much as their sex appeal intrigues me. I am a demon."

A demon?

"But you look undemon-ish..."

Tch, humans. "Would it comfort you to put on a pair of horns?" He asked mockingly. "Or perhaps bat wings?"

The boy could not answer any more. His throat felt like it was on fire, for he had not drank water for days and the fact that the barred room was dusty did not help. He knew he was hanging on the brink between life and death. "Water," he croaked, "...need...water..."

The demon only chuckled a little and produced a small blob of the liquid, which the parched boy crawled up to and began sucking at eagerly. When he had finished, he thanked the demon-albeit very hesitantly- when a dreadful thought entered his mind. Suppose the water was poisoned...?

His companion chuckled again, recognising the fearful look on his face. "I will not hurt you...yet. You have something very important to me and I desire it. What is your name, boy?"

"Kyril..." The boy choked out, "Kyril Manehart, Sir"

"Well then, Kyril-kun," said the demon, impressed by the unusual amount of manners within a street urchin. "What do you desire?"

Desire...? "I want to be rich...and have a comfortable life...but, Sir...I, I really want my aunt. I want me and my aunt to live happily and...I..."

He stopped short in the middle. The demon knew; he wanted revenge fo his parents. But that was impossible, for the murderer was dead.

"I heard him...there's more of 'em."

A sinister smile.

"I want...I want 'em dead, " stuttered Kyril, before he realised how sinful a desire to kill someone was and immediatly covered his mouth in terror. God wouls surely strike him down for this. He was making a deal with a demon, and wanting to kill others...

He was a bad boy! He told himself.

But he didn't care. God had abandoned him...or the other way he would not die if he did something bad. Tommie Jenkins did bad things every day and he never died! Then...

Kyril turned to the Demon.

"...and I want the other murderers dead, too, Sir"

"Very well then," murmered the Demon, peeling off a thin, black coating that covered his left hand, the malicious smile still plastered on his pale, inhuman face, "We shall begin. What would you like to call me?"

"Eh? Um...I'm not very good with names..."

Why was he not surprised?

" What emotion do you feel right now?"

The response was instantaneous. " Sad, Sir."

" Then I think it shall be quite fitting to name me Nicholas Tristalis...don't you?"

"I...I don't know Latin, sir."

" Latin is a respectable language in the knowledge of Humans, I believe. You shall learn. But for now, let's finish what we started, hmm?"

"Yes, sir."

Nicholas was about to say ' There is no need to call me sir', but decided against it; it was satisfying to have a human-a child, but a human regardless- to be in his control. Nevertheless, time was an invaluable gift, and he needed to take full advantage of it.

There was no turning back.

There we go, most (I think) typos corrected and chapter lenghtened and improved (Hopefully).

The name Nicholas (appparantly) means ' people who triumphed' or 'people of victory'. It is of Greek origin, and Tristalis is a combination of two latin words; 'Tristis' (sadness) and 'Mortalis' (death).

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(Please forgive my abysmal typo and grammer, if there are any feel free to point them out)