katikat | Fic: Innocent Souls

Title: Innocent Souls
Author:

katikat
Fandom: Gorgeous Carat
Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply here.
Words: ~10.000
Warnings: Past NCS and drug abuse as found in the books. Attempted NCS.
Rating: Mature
Summary: Noir does everything he can to protect Floréan but Azura just won't give up...
Notes: This story was beta'ed by

yami_tai. Thank you, sweetie, and I apologize for all the mistakes! *huggles*
Notes2: I still use the German version "Floréan" for the main hero because that's what I'm used to, having the books in German.
Notes3: I like dependent Floréan, the way he is portrayed in the manga. He isn't weak, what he went through in Azura's hands kind of broke him, as it was shown in the books.

It was snowing when Noir and Floréan exited the theater. Masses of people were streaming all around them, cars were stopping by the sidewalk, their lights shining into the darkness. The rumbling vehicles swallowed the people two or three at a time; men in dress suits and women in long robes and pelts. The two young men waited until the space in front of the large building cleared somewhat before heading down the snow covered, slippery steps.

Descending the stairs, Floréan pulled on his white gloves and pulled his white cloak more tightly around himself to keep out the bone-numbing cold. "That was rather... hm..." He tried to find the correct word to describe the horrendous spectacle they had just witnessed. "Interesting," he finished diplomatically.

Noir snorted, wishing desperately for a cigar. "It was horrible! The next time we decide to spend the evening in town, please, remind me that I hate opera?"

Floréan raised his eyebrows and looked at his companion. "Then why did we go to see one tonight?" he asked bewildered.

"I just forgot how much I hate the screeching." He stuck his little finger into his left ear and waggled it. "God, my ears are still ringing. It will take days and who knows how many bottles of bourbon to recover from this ordeal."

Rolling his eyes, the blond man shook his head. Typical Noir. Master thief and loan shark. And what was even worse, an incorrigible brat. "So, what now? The night is still young." He looked at the dark sky that showered them with heavy, moist snow flakes.

"Home! Please, home!" Noir moaned theatrically, touching his forehead with the back of his glove-covered hand.

Floréan rolled his eyes at his companion's antics just as they reached the sidewalk and turned to the left to head for the parking space three blocks down where Jacques was waiting for them with their car. They came late for the performance - Noir's fault of course since he couldn't go even one night without stealing anything - so they were forced to leave the car a good distance away from the theater.

"Count Courland!"

The shout stopped them mid-stride just as they were about to cross the street.

This time it was Noir's turn to roll his eyes. He cursed silently but turned around with a smile of false sweetness on his lips. "Baron de Montfort," he greeted the balding man with a paunch of a belly and red swollen cheeks. Noir had hated the sleazy councilman before but since the Baron met Floréan, he kept throwing the blond man lustful glances even with his wife present. The master thief swore that one day he would punch the man right in the face, consequences be damned. "How good to see you and your lovely wife." He ignored the old sack's outstretched hand and instead bent down to kiss the hand of the mousy looking woman beside him. She blushed and for a moment, she actually looked pretty. "How did you like tonight's performance?"

The councilman dabbed at his face with his white handkerchief. Even though it was freezing cold, he was sweating. "It was fabulous, didn't you think so too?" His pig-like eyes immediately sought out Floréan's face and glued themselves to his lips. "And what about you, my dear Rochefort?" he asked, emphasizing the word 'dear', giving it a perverse meaning.

Floréan shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. The fat man gave him the creeps. He felt as if the councilman was undressing him with his eyes.

Before Floréan could say something, Noir answered for him. "Floréan is rather tired. He hasn't been feeling well the whole evening." He then turned to his blond companion. "Why don't you go and fetch our car?" he asked, offering him a way to escape. "I would bet that Jacques is already getting impatient."

Floréan smiled at him gratefully, then took his leave with courteous nods to the Baron and his wife, fleeing quickly before the fat man could stop him with another obtrusive comment or question.

The councilman frowned, watching Floréan disappear into the night. "I hope he gets better soon. It would be a shame for such a lovely young man to fall ill," he commented, barely hiding his disappointment at the quick depart of the object of his lust.

Noir smiled thinly. "I'm sure he feels all better now," he assured the Baron caustically.

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Floréan walked through the almost deserted streets, his steps quick and brisk. He shivered, pulling the cloak closer. Every time he met Councilman de Montfort, he felt soiled and dirty. And in a need of a long, hot bath and a thorough scrubbing. The man was a slimeball but he had enough power to make Noir's life rather miserable so he couldn't just spit in his face and tell him to stick his wandering hands where the sun didn't shine.

He would have never believed that the moment would come when he would actually look forward to leaving Paris. He would never admit it to Noir but he enjoyed traveling with him to distant, exotic places he never thought he would see. Even though some of the things that happened to them there were less then enjoyable. He shuddered when he remembered Azura, the white-haired leader of the Black Hand organization. Sometimes, he could still feel the piercing look of the one visible blue eye and the rough hands on his body. Floréan shivered again, retreating further into his cloak.

The blond man had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the three men, lurking in the shadows, watching his progress down the street and toward their hiding place. In the moment that Floréan was passing by the mouth of a dark alley, they seized their opportunity. They fell upon him, one of the villains grabbing his legs, the other his torso, crushing his arms to his sides, and the last one clamping one shovel-like hand down on his mouth, cutting off any sound he could possibly make. Unnoticed by the few pedestrians rushing down the street on the opposite side-walk, they dragged him deep into the shadows of the narrow alley.

Floréan opened his eyes wide, struggling against his attackers, trying to cry for help. But they wouldn't let him go, their hands so strong that they were leaving bruises on his body even now. He tried to kick and push but that only caused them to tighten their hold on him. The man holding his mouth shut, snaked an arm around his throat choking him, cutting of his air supply until everything went dark around him.

When he came to again, he could hear the men arguing but his ears were ringing too loud to discern what they were talking about. He could now move his arms and legs, but the arm was still tightly clamped around his neck, barely allowing him to breath.

He willed his body to be still, trying to relax his muscles and act as though he were still unconscious. It was only a matter of time before Noir would come looking for him. He would find him, help him for sure. Floréan was frank with himself. Although his fighting abilities had improved over the last couple of months thanks to Noir's insisting on training him in some sort of self defense, he could not take three men, possibly armed, by himself. For now, it would be better if he played possum until he figured out what the men's goal was. If it was money, he would give them everything he had. Noir had enough coins lying around his mansion and they were not worth losing a life over them.

But his decision to stay calm dangerously eroded when the ringing in his ears finally subsided and he caught the gist of what the men were talking about.

"... bad idea, Jean," one of the attacker hissed. "The boss said to kill him."

There was a dark chuckle and a rough, stinking hand touched his hair. "Why, wouldn't it be a shame to kill such a pretty boy without taking a taste of him?" The hand moved down to his chest and pushed the lapels of his suit coat aside. "I bet he is a sweet apple."

The first man spoke again, his hesitation obvious. "I don't know, Jean... The boss made himself pretty clear. If we don't kill him..."

The second man, Jean, obviously waved his hand dismissively before answering. "You worry too much, Robert. We will kill him. But before we do that, we will have a bit fun. What do you think, Paul?"

The man holding Floréan in place and quiet, laughed. "Count me in, brother. He feels so nice and hot, so pressed against me." He pushed his hips forward, making his arousal obvious.

It was too much for Floréan. His heart was beating wildly and he couldn't hold still any longer. It was too much, too similar to things that happened to him only in his dreams. His eyes snapping open, he started to struggle anew, kicking out and trying to tear the arm away from his throat.

Jean barked out a laugh. "Look at him. He is a real wildcat. I think we should cool him down a bit." With that he tore Floréan's shirt open, exposing his chest to the cold air and sliding his hand under the expensive material.

Panic gripped Floréan. He kicked out, hitting his attacker in the groin, then he buried his elbow into the stomach of his captor and bit down on the hand keeping him from shouting out. The man holding him tight cried out and pulled his hand away. There was a wound on his palm that bled profusely.

"You bitch," the man, Paul, shouted while Floréan screamed for help. Before Floréan could call out again, a sharp knife was pressed to his throat. "Now we will see if we can tame this wildcat."

But every rational thought fled Floréan's mind. He kept fighting and struggling, heedless of the damage he was causing to himself. He could only think of what they wanted to do to him. Death didn't terrify him as much as their other plans. He would not go through that again. Not again. Never again. He would rather die than allow anyone to take him by force again. Never, never, never, never...

The three men tried to get a hold of him, to catch his flying limbs but Floréan was fighting like a trapped animal that was ready to bite its own limb off just to get away. He caught the first man, Robert, in the head with the heel of his shoe, losing that piece of his wardrobe in the process. He didn't even feel it when his sock clad foot touched the snow, soaking through to the skin immediately. The second man, Jean, fell victim to another of his kicks that connected with the attacker's ribcage, breaking one or two ribs with a loud crack. The man behind Floréan tried to keep a hold of him, pressing the knife so hard against the skin that he drew blood. But Floréan refused to keep still. Waving his arms wildly, he hit Paul hard with his elbow in the temple. The man groaned, relaxing his hold just a tiny bit but that was enough for Floréan to tear himself away, leaving his cloak and coat in the man's grasp, pulling his arms frantically out of the sleeves in a desperate attempt to get away no matter what the cost.

Before the men could pull themselves together, he was running, blood streaming from the wound on his throat, soaking his white shirt.

Never, never, never, never...

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Noir stamped his feet and breathed into his clenched hands to return feeling into his frozen extremities. The snow was now falling harder and the drop in temperature was more than palpable. With a frown on his handsome face, Noir pulled his watch from his vest pocket, opened it and peered at the clock-face. Ten minutes. He had gotten rid of the fat idiot ten minutes ago already and Floréan still wasn't back at the car. How long could it take to walk three blocks?

Slipping the watch back into his pocket, Noir was about to head in the direction where the car was waiting too, hoping to meet his blond charge and the driver halfway, when the lights of a car lit up the dark street. They were coming closer down the empty street and Noir squinted into their glaring light. With a relieved smile he recognized the Rolls Royce his cousin Michele insisted on Noir having. He stepped closer to the edge of the side-walk, waiting for the vehicle to stop.

When the car slowed down and then stopped, Noir didn't wait for the driver to get out and open the door for him, he did it himself. With a grin he had every intention of teasing Floréan about his inability to find the nose in the middle of his face. But finding the passenger seats empty, the smile froze on his lips. Frowning, he raised his head over the cab, straightened and after glancing up the street from where the car came, he bent down and looked at the driver.

"Where is Floréan, Jacques?" he asked the young man behind the steering wheel.

The brown-haired driver blinked at him in surprise. "I haven't seen him, Mr Noir," he answered in bewilderment. "I saw all the cars drive past and when you didn’t come, I decided to pick you up here."

Noir's frown deepened and the faint nervousness that entered his thoughts the moment Floréan was out of his sight started to turn into an ice cold fear. "But I sent him to bring you here," he insisted, his hands gripping the doorframe tighter.

Jacques shook his head helplessly. "But he didn't come, Mr Noir. If he came from this direction, I would have noticed him and he would have seen the car."

Straightening again, Noir narrowed his eyes, studying the street intently. "Leave the car here and come with me," he ordered, closing the door with a bang.

The young driver shut off the engine and stepped outside. "Is it wise to leave the car unattended? What if...?"

Noir glared at him. "I don't give a damn about the car. Something must have happened to Floréan. He is directionally challenged but even he couldn't get lost on such a short distance." Reaching into the inside pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a small revolver and checked the magazine. "Are you armed?" he asked the driver and when the man nodded and pulled his gun out, Noir said: "You take the other side of the street. Check every alley, every nook you come across. It's just two blocks. He couldn't have simply vanished into thin air."

Jacques nodded hesitantly to say that he understood, then crossed the street to the sidewalk on the opposite site.

Noir lowered his arm and hid the hand with the gun in the folders of his cloak. Scanning the street warily, he headed in the direction that Floréan had gone just minutes ago. Just a few minutes... How things could change in such a short time!

Would he ever learn? Would he always forget that the safety they lived in was just an illusion? He cursed himself for his carelessness. How stupid was he? What would have to happen for him to finally get it?

He checked the first alley he came to. It wasn't more than a narrow passage, filled with garbage cans overflowing with rubbish. It was a blind alley too and the snow, covering the dirty pavement, was smooth and unblemished. Nobody had passed through here since it started to snow.

What could have happened to Floréan? he wondered, continuing walking down the street. Could he have fallen victim to a robber? No, that couldn't be. Since they had returned from Morocco, he started training Floréan in self-defense. Noir knew that now his charge could take on a man twice his weight and get rid of him easily. Or at least disable him enough to get away. As long as he didn't panic.

From their early lessons Noir found that as long as their practice stayed impersonal, then no matter how dangerous it got, Floréan was able to keep a cool head. But as soon as the touches of Floréan's opponent became more personal and suggestive, hinting at anything remotely sexual, the blond man panicked. Then all his concentration and calm went out the window, replaced by hysteria-like frenzy, the controlled movements turning into clawing, biting, flailing. And when pressed for too long, Floréan turned into a small, shaking bundle or curled up on the ground with his head covered with his arms in a vain attempt to protect himself from an enemy that didn't win but managed to cause enough damage sneering with glee in the darkness.

No, it truly wasn't the petty thieves he was afraid of, he thought and shuddered when his mind went back to what happened in Morocco, to the dark-skinned Tuareg with platinum blond hair, one ice blue eye and a cruel streak that Floréan fell prey to. He himself experienced Azura's whip on his skin and he still tended to forget that as long as the boss of the mob-like organization, the Black Hand, was alive, they would never be completely safe.

Hoping that he was wrong, that Floréan's disappearance had nothing to do with Azura this time, that his blond companion did manage to get lost after all or that he slipped and broke his leg, anything but that he had fallen into the hands of their arch enemy, he stepped into another alley.

The passage was wider this time, but just as dark as the previous one. The light of the lanterns on the main street became just a dim glow the farther he advanced into the alley. He noticed the trampled snow, the deep, dark footprints that the snowflakes that were falling from the heavens in heavy curtains now had yet to cover. Walking past the overthrown garbage cans, he noticed something on the ground. Frowning, he bent down and lifted a large white piece of cloth, shaking the fallen snow off it. And the breath froze in his throat.

It was Floréan's cloak. Even in the darkness of the passage he recognized the garment because he helped his companion select it for tonight. Slipping the gun behind his waistband, he ran his hands over the fabric, seeking holes or tears and with some measure of relief found none. But then he touched the cloak's collar and noticed the dark fluid that clung to his fingertips. Turning around he lifted his hand into the light and his stomach clenched with ice-like fear. Blood. There was no need for bullet holes. All that was needed was one cut across the throat...

Overcome with fear, Noir gripped the bloodied cloak in one hand and the revolver in the other and started running for the opposite end of the alley, for that was where all the footprints were headed. Arriving at the mouth of the passage, he looked wildly around, but the narrow street to which the alley led was devoid of any signs of life, the snow slushy from the wheels of suppliers' wagons.

Unable to hold the dread inside anymore, Noir threw his head back and screamed. "FLORÉAN!"

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Floréan ran. He didn't how long he had been running or where he was headed. It had been some time now that he had lost his pursuers but he didn't stop. He operated on instinct and it told him to run, to escape from the place where he had been hurt, the memories of unwanted hands touching him too fresh in his memory.

His sock clad foot was frozen and numb, the shoe on his other foot soaked from the slushy snow. He tripped a couple of times, falling, scraping his hands and drenching his clothes. But every time he got up and ran further.

Lowering his head against the falling snow that kept blinding him, he turned around the corner and with a silent cry collided with a solid mass. His one shod foot slipped on a snow covered ice and he lost his balance, falling backwards and hitting the ground with a dull thud, his head smacking against the cold pavement.

The fall stole his breath and for a moment he lay there with his eyes tightly closed, gasping for air and trying to ride out the wave of nausea that accompanied the blow to his head together with the loud ringing in his ears. Over the rush of noise that assaulted his hearing, he could hear deep male voices but couldn't discern specific words. He tried to gather his wits but he felt too tired and too cold to react. It wasn't until he felt the strange hands on his arms that awareness returned to him with force.

Floréan's eyes shot open and he screamed breathlessly, trying to scramble away from the tall men in black that crouched near, extending their hands towards him and gripping his upper arms tightly. He kicked out desperately, his arms flailing as the men grabbed him, one catching his upper body, the other his legs and tried to restrain his movements as much as possible.

The blond man screamed, thrashing in their arms. "Let me go!" he wailed, then kept repeating this sentence like a mantra under his breath while he tried to pull away. But the men had no intention of letting him go.

And when Floréan finally threw his head back, smashing the man's nose in an attempt to break the hold his captor had on him, the other man lashed out and hit Floréan squarely on the jaw, toppling his panic ridden mind into nothingness, his body slumping boneless onto the snow covered ground.

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It had been two days, two days since Floréan disappeared, leaving only a bloodied cloak behind. And one shoe as the police found out after searching the scene. Noir wasn't loosing hope of finding his companion but with each passing hour it was less and less likely that Floréan was alright and free. If he were, he would have already come home or contacted him somehow, letting Noir know where he was. But as the situation was...

Noir got up from the armchair in his study and threw the butt of his cigar into the ashtray, lighting another one immediately. In the last two days, the cigars turned from a guilty pleasure to necessity. They were the only thing that managed to calm his vibrating nerves. Savoring the smoke on his palate, he stepped closer to the frost covered window and looked out at the beautiful winter landscape. Although his eyes were fixed on an icicle that was slowly thawing in the noon sun, he wasn’t actually looking at it, his awareness turned inwards.

He had sent his men to hospitals and police stations and - god forbid - even to morgues but each inquiry turned up empty, each trace a dead end. It was as if Floréan had vanished from the surface of the earth. In his desperation, Noir even contacted Solomon to tap into his connections to the underground and cops. But even he didn't find anything. If it had been a local mob boss or some small crook that kidnapped the Rochefort heir, there would be hints left somewhere, someone would have noticed something... But since there obviously was nothing to be found... it left only one dreadful possibility.

Azura.

Noir clenched his hand in a fist and touched the frozen glass with his forehead. Damn it! Damn it to hell! Why didn't he kill the bastard when he had the chance? Even Floréan, his sweet innocent Floréan found the courage to pull the trigger but he, the master thief Noir of Paris, wavered and let the mob boss escape. And now he was out there somewhere, enjoying himself at their expense.

"Floréan," he whispered, his face contorting with pain he never dared to show in front of others. "Where are you?"

Suddenly, there was a loud bang somewhere in the estate. Noir frowned and turned around. There was no one at home since he sent everybody out to search for his blond companion. Remembering the events of the past months, he reached for his gun, hidden in the desk by the window and hearing feet running over the thick Persian carpet in the corridor, he cocked it and leveled the barrel at the ornate entrance door of his study.

When the door finally burst open and revealed Detective Solomon, his face reddened with the cold, Noir's hand shot up, pointing the gun at the ceiling.

"Damn it, Solomon!" he snapped at the blond man, his bad mood finally finding a convenient target. "I almost shot you in the head! Can't you enter like a normal man?!" He put the safety back on and glared at detective who once promised to send the famous thief of Paris to prison.

For once though, Solomon didn't answer with a cutting remark, but grinned at Noir widely, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I found him, Ray! I found Floréan!" he yelled.

Noir froze. The gun fell out of his suddenly numb fingers, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. "What did you say?" the thief whispered, his heart racing with renewed hope. As if in a dream he headed toward Solomon, his steps slow at first, but then he increased his speed and when he finally crossed the vast room, he was almost running. Stopping short in front of the grinning detective, he grabbed him by the coat and shaking him wildly, he demanded in a harsh voice. "Where? Where is he, Solomon?"

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Their footsteps echoed through the long dark corridors as they followed the white-clad orderly. Noir wasn't prone to feeling disgust lightly, but walking along the rows and rows of doors behind which men and women cried, screamed and made sounds that didn't resemble anything remotely human he had to fight the instinct to cover his ears and wrinkle his nose at the foul stench that hung in the air. The orderly, a stout middle-aged man of small height and no hair, continued walking, undisturbed. At one crossroads in the endless corridors, one that looked just the same as the other five they passed already, the man turned to the left, leading them deeper into the maze that was St. Anne's Hospital, an asylum for the crazed and mentally disturbed.

Solomon told him what happened two nights ago. Two gendarmes on their night watch found Floréan, bloody, ragged and scared out of his mind, running half naked through the streets. They literally collided with each other. But when they touched him, Floréan started to scream and fight them. Not knowing what to do with the man and with Floréan behaving like a madman, they brought him to St. Anne's with every intention to write a report about him, filing him as a missing person, since he had no papers on him. Unfortunately, as soon as they left the hospital, they saw a person, matching the description on a "Wanted" portrait. When they tried to stop him, the man killed one of them and put the other in a hospital. And thus they never returned to their station to fill the report as they intended. It was just hours ago that the injured gendarme woke up in the hospital and mentioned the young blond man in front of Solomon, who had came to visit him, still feeling responsible for his ex-colleagues.

Noir did feel sorry for the men who paid for doing nothing but their job, but on the other hand, it was them, no matter how good their intentions were, who brought Floréan to this... hell. Because it couldn't be anything but hell for the blonde. Noir didn’t want to think about what the so called doctors did to his companion when Floréan started to fight them. And fight he did, of that the master thief was sure. Strange hands touching him, that was the biggest ordeal anyone could put Floréan through...

"Here we are." The orderly's squeaky voice, so unlike his stout body, tore Noir from his dark thoughts.

They stood in front of a door that didn't look any different from the other ones in the corridor, lit only by dim electric lights. But there was a number on it, 113, that made it different after all. That and the patient behind it.

The orderly, Noir didn't bother to remember his name, shuffled his feet nervously, which made Noir even more wary. "You have to understand, sir... sirs," he included Solomon quickly, although his eyes kept returning to Baron Courland, "the patient was rather volatile when they brought him in. The doctor had to... they... uh." He shuffled his feet again and looked away.

Noir frowned. "Just open the door," he snapped, ready to wring the man's neck.

The orderly hurried to obey.

The heavy door creaked open loudly. The room behind it was completely dark. Noir threw the men a look.

The orderly stammered. "The doctors... they found out that... darkness helps keeping the patients under control and..." His voice trailed off. "I will bring light," he said and hurried away, Noir making him more nervous than all the crazies he had to take care of.

Not waiting for the light, Noir stepped into the cell. Because a cell it was, as his eyes that got used to the darkness found out. Nothing but a bed, standing in the middle of the windowless room. And on the bed... the breath caught in Noir's throat and he froze, unable to move... Floréan lay tied down securely with straps on his hands and feet and throat.

"Oh my God," Solomon whispered, as he followed his younger companion inside the small room.

Before Noir or the ex-detective could move though, the orderly stepped inside, and making his way passed them, he lit the oil lamp he carried in his hand. Only then the extent of damage done to Noir's friend became visible.

Floréan was lying naked on a bare bed, his limbs and throat tied firmly to the mattress. His fair body was full of abrasions and scratches, the skin under the restraints rubbed raw, blood caked and encrusted around the leather. But the worst... the worst was his face. It was empty, blank... his eyes open and staring at the ceiling, unseeing, unblinking, dry tear-tracks marring his cheeks, his lips split and bloody, bitten through...

Noir's knees buckled. "Oh, Floréan..." he whispered, throwing himself toward the man he swore to protect. "Don't worry, I will get you out right now," he said and started undoing the thick leather restraints on his slender ankles first, receiving no reaction at all from his friend though.

The orderly stepped closer, catching Noir by the sleeve of his black jacket. "You can't do that!" he protested. "The doctors... You have to ask the doctors first... the patient..."

Noir threw him off with a furious snarl. The man stumbled, backing away quickly with his little pig-like eyes open wide in terror. "Try and stop me. Do me the favor!" he challenged the orderly. "Look what you have done to him! Allow me the satisfaction to do the same to you!" He made a step in the man's direction and the orderly quickly scrambled away, whimpering and made a wild dash for the door.

"Ray!"

It was Solomon's voice that brought Noir back to reality. He looked at the bespectacled man, reason returning to his green eyes.

"Floréan needs you right now more than you need to take revenge," Solomon's voice was calm but there was a deep undertone of sadness there when he looked at the usually brilliant soul, lying there still like a corpse or like a puppet with its strings cut.

Noir turned back to the bed that contained the young man he promised to protect with his life. A deep feeling of failure filled him and he swallowed hard, clenching his hands into fists. He took a precious moment to breathe in deep to calm his rage. Floréan needed him rational and focused.

Thanking the luck that the fleeing orderly left his lamp behind, he started to work on the restraints again with Solomon keeping watch by the door, giving them the illusion of privacy. As he opened the buckle on the leather strap on Floréan's left ankle, the body of his friend, that lay as still as the dead until then jerked slightly and Floréan whimpered quietly. A single tear slid down his pale cheek.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Noir whispered, rubbing the blond man's calf gently. As he pulled Floréan's leg out of the restraint, he hissed angrily at the sight of the deep, blood encrusted abrasions that oozed clear liquid. He was no doctor but even to his eyes the wounds looked raw, painful and infected.

Repeating gentle apologies and rubbing Floréan's skin in reassurance, Noir freed his friend from the restraints. But even though tears kept streaming down his stained cheeks, the blond man's gaze remained empty and dead, his body taut but unmoving.

Noir leaned over his friend, laying his hands gently on his wet cheeks as he spoke quietly, but urgently to him. "Floréan? Floréan, please, listen to me. It's me, Ray. Please, come back," he pleaded unhappily, tapping the tear stained cheeks. "God, he is as cold as ice," he realized suddenly, and laid his hands on his friend's arms to rub some warmth back into his limbs, careful of the bruises and cuts that marred his marble white skin. "Is there a blanket somewhere?" he asked Solomon looking around the empty dark room with wet stains and mold on the walls where the peeling paint was the only decoration.

"Just a minute," Solomon said, then disappeared into the corridor, only to return a couple of seconds later with a scratchy blanket of an awful color, but a blanket nonetheless. "A couple of turns back we passed a cabinet with these," he explained, handing it to Noir.

"They are really helpful, locked away in a cabinet," Noir muttered angrily under his breath as he sat his blond charge up carefully and with Solomon's help wrapped him in the blanket. Handling Floréan as gently as if he may break any minute, he pressed the blond head to his shoulder, rocking him slowly while he stroked the other's matted hair.

It pained him so much to see Floréan rendered to this puppet like state again. All the good that the last couple of months had done, gone. It made him so angry that he felt like breaking things and punching some pretty deserving faces. Thanks to all the worry that had pent up within him in the last couple of days he was shaking with tension, torn between the need to hurt the men who did this to Floréan and the desire to help him and get him out of there immediately. The latter desire won.

He lowered his hand to Floréan's and whispered into his ear. "I will take you out of here now. You just hang in there and leave everything to me." Laying one arm around his friend's back and the other under his knees he lifted him up and pressed him to his chest. "Just a minute and we will be out of here."

But before he could do more than turn around, Solomon backed inside the room with a dark frown on his face. "We've got company," he warned.

As soon as he said the words, a small group of men led by an older man with heavy spectacles stepped into the doorway of the windowless room. The man in charge, obviously a doctor, behaved with an air of self-importance. On his heels, the bald orderly rushed in with a smug expression on his face, wringing his hands happily. As the last ones, two men in dark uniforms walked in, big gorillas of men, all brawn and no brains.

"And where do you think you are taking my patient, mister..." the doctor said in a squeaky voice, pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger.

"Baron Courlande," Noir ground out through clenched teeth, tightening the hold he had on his friend. As soon as the men heard his name, an uncertain look appeared on their faces and they all shot a look at the doctor. Even the white-haired man froze suddenly when he realized exactly who he was facing. Noir pressed on. "And this is Floréan Rochefort. I'm sure you know who the Rocheforts are, don't you?" he added, his voice suddenly all false sweetness.

Their uncertain look changed into an expression of outright panic. It was one thing to treat a patient whom nobody knew or cared about in such a way. But to get tangled up with royalty from an old house and of such an importance too... That could lead to a lot of trouble.

Now it was Solomon's turn to take over. "You have two options, gentlemen. Either you keep the boy here and we will have to ask for his release the official way, which would of course start an investigation and generate interest in this whole... debacle, or you could release dear Rochefort into our care and we will forget the whole... thing," he offered in a casual voice.

Noir bristled at the thought of letting the men go without punishing them for what they did to Floréan, simply letting them go and possibly allowing them to do the same thing to another poor innocent soul was unthinkable. But at the same time he knew that should this case reach official ears, Floréan being committed would become common knowledge which would destroy all the good reputation he had left, giving him the black mark of a mentally unbalanced individual. And that was the last thing his friend needed right now.

Suddenly, as if sensing Noir's predicament, one of Floréan's hands moved, gripping the front of his rescuer's white shirt tightly. Noir looked down in surprise. Floréan's head still rested on his shoulder but his amethyst eyes where now closed and his pale, trembling lips moved, silently repeating one single word. "Home."

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It had been two days since Noir brought Floréan back home, back to the safety of the Courlande estate. Two days during which Floréan lay curled in a painfully tight ball on his bed, his nightgown covering even his toes, down covers pulled up to his chin even though there was a fire roaring in the fireplace, turning the lush bedroom into a smoldering furnace.

Noir spent the days with him, keeping him company and trying to bring his blond companion out of the safe shell he had pulled himself into. From trying to coax Floréan to eat at least a couple of spoonfuls of the delicious broth Jacques brought in from the kitchen to reading the latest stock market listings aloud, Noir did all the talking, keeping the chatter comforting and leisurely, just letting his friend know that he was there whenever Floréan was ready to return.

But Floréan wasn't talking. He kept staring out of the frosted window or sleeping, leaving the bed only when absolutely necessary, barely breathing, barely functioning at all. And with every passing hour, Noir grew more and more desperate. He knew that Floréan was afraid, that he was terrified out of his mind and Noir, not knowing who caused him this distress, wasn't helping.

Noir comforted himself at least with the thought that he got Floréan out of that horrible asylum. With Solomon doing some quick talking and Noir looking all dark and intimidating, they - the doctor and his orderlies - let them go in the end. Noir wasn't sure what he would have done if they hadn’t. He knew only one thing for sure - he wouldn't have left Floréan there a minute longer. But now, looking at the bundle of misery, so incredibly small on the large bed, he wondered if he maybe hadn't come too late for his friend who was locked once more inside his own mind and that was the one place that the infamous thief Noir couldn't break into.

Reclining against the head of Floréan's large bed, legs stretched in front of him on the beige comforter and the morning newspaper open at the society news, he finished reading the latest gossip about Madame Le Grange who during last night's ball in the Bouchard residence obviously tripped over the hem of her own overly long robe and poured hot tea into the bodice of her greatest rival - accidentally of course. He was about to start on another one of those humorous blurbs, when his breath caught in his throat and he froze, crumpling the paper in his fists.

Floréan moved. The blond man turned around on the bed and still coiled tightly, he laid his head on his companion's thigh.

Noir was careful not to move, not to even twitch. Breathing shallowly, he looked down at the blond head, resting so trustingly on his leg. He wasn't sure what to do, what to say but he knew that he had to do something because obviously, Floréan had given him an opening, given him a chance and if Noir blew it, his friend might flee inside himself once more and not come out for another two or maybe more days.

Taking a deep breath, Noir slowly folded the newspaper and laid it aside, then he gently lowered his hand to Floréan's head, caressing the tangled but now washed curls, letting the other man know that he was there but giving him the necessary time, not pushing.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Floréan spoke and Noir almost winced at the hoarseness of his voice, realizing that his friend must have screamed his throat raw in the asylum and before that.

"They... they wanted to kill me," Floréan whispered, gripping Noir's trousers tightly in his fist, as if afraid that the other man might disappear. "Three... there were three... And they wanted to kill me. Had their orders." The blond man's breath hitched in his chest and he almost whimpered. "But they wanted... wanted t-to p... wanted to play first."

With Floréan's every word, Noir grew more and more furious. He had to force himself to keep his breathing even and not to clench the hand he tangled in the silky blond strands into a fist by accident. But even though his emotional state, his rage centered around the hideous reality that three men wanted to force themselves on his friend and then kill him, his agile mind already zeroing on the fact that they had had orders, that someone ordered Floréan's death.

A silent sob escaped Floréan and hot tears soaked into the dark material of Noir's pants. "I was so scared, so scared, so scared..." He repeated it over and over and over until the words trailed off, leaving only a desperate, soul-shattering keening sound behind as Floréan shook and cried.

Noir bent over the weeping man and engulfed him in his arms as best as he could in this awkward position, bringing the blond head to his chest. Floréan virtually climbed into his lap as he tried to burrow himself into the safety of Noir's arms, hugging him tight. And Noir rocked his friend back and forth, holding him close, whispering nonsensical reassurances in his ear, everything else forgotten for the moment in the face of Floréan's naked fear and desperation and horror.

"I've got you... Shh... I've got you... You're safe now... You are safe."

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"Three thugs, Solomon," Noir said softly, eyes fixed on the roaring flames in the den's fireplace. "He sent three thugs after Floréan and ordered them to kill him. If they hadn't..." He swallowed hard, gripping the marble mantelpiece so tight that his knuckles went white. "If they hadn't decided to... play," he spat the word out, hitting the mantelpiece hard with his fist, "he would have been dead now." He laughed bitterly, then turned to the detective who was sitting on the couch with a grim expression on his face. "I guess I should thank them, huh? I should thank them that they tried to rape my friend and not kill him outright!"

Solomon stared into his cognac glass intently, not saying a word. There was nothing to say. Ray summed up what he was feeling perfectly. He started though when Noir whipped around, grabbed a crystal carafe and threw it against the wall where it shattered, leaving a dent in the paneling, the expensive scotch running down the marred wood, filling the room with its sweet smell.

"Azura, that bastard," Noir ground out through clenched teeth. "He won't leave well enough alone! He will never leave us be." He was gasping for breath, face red with fury.

After a moment of tense silence, Solomon asked softly, twirling the stem of his glass between the thumb and the forefinger of his right hand: "What will you do now?"

"I don't know!" Noir yelled, throwing his hands up in despair. "I don't know..." he repeated softly, raking his fingers through his dark hair and closing his eyes in defeat.

Solomon, his face somber, swirled his cognac in the fragile crystal glass, watching the flames in the fireplace sparkle in the depths of the amber liquid. After a moment, he looked up at the dark-haired youth, his gaze intent. "Yes, you do, Noir."

Hearing Solomon say his name, the name of the infamous thief of Paris, Noir narrowed his eyes, suddenly looking like a dangerous animal seizing its prey. But Solomon's face stayed impassive. It didn't matter what he knew or suspected. This wasn't the right time or place and the detective wasn't accusing, only reminding Ray of who he is and what he could do.

"You know what you have to do," Solomon insisted. "You have already some plan forming in that cunning head of yours. Stop this childish behavior. Floréan's life, his sanity, depends on you!"

Noir heard the words and he also heard what Solomon didn't say. It was Noir who brought Floréan to Azura. It was Noir who didn't believe Floréan when the blond man warned him against Azura. It was Noir who let Azura escape. And it was time that he made up for that, that he protected his present friends from his past ones.

Nodding, Noir stepped to the window. He pushed the curtains aside and looked outside into the snow-covered garden that glistened silver under the full moon. He saw two of his men walking the perimeter, patrolling in the garden, protecting their boss and his friend.

"First of all, I have to take Floréan away from here," he began, his voice surprisingly steady once again. "Some place safe. He needs to... we need to recuperate," he corrected himself.

Yes, they both needed some time. To get better, to relax, to heal. Noir didn't have any illusions that what happened to Floréan hadn't affected him at all. The dent in the room's paneling spoke volumes of his mental state. He didn't like feeling this vulnerable. Floréan was undoubtedly his weak point, something Azura, this Azura, the cold mob boss, would advise him to get rid of. But he just couldn't. Getting rid of Floréan was not an option. Whenever he thought of the blond man, remembered how trustingly he slept in the big bed upstairs, something warm unfurled in his stomach, something he didn't dare to name yet.

"And then?" Solomon asked when the silenced stretched too long.

Letting the curtain fall back in place, Noir turned around, his face hard and his eyes flashing dangerously. "And then I will find that bastard Azura and this time..." he replied, his voice as brittle as broken glass, "this time I will kill him with my bare hands."

Swallowing a mouthful of cognac in one big gulp, Solomon raised his glass in a salute. "Count me in, my friend. Count me in!"

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The driver pulled the horses to a full stop, the black coach and dark horses more inconspicuous in the scummy, run down port in the middle of the night than a car would be. A man, dressed all in black, stepped out of the grey warehouse building as if he was waiting there and ran to the dark coach to open its door.

A man stepped out of the coach, dressed all in white. Expensive white leather shoes and a linen suit, white gloves and fur coat, white hair bound at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. There was only one thing on him that wasn't white and that was the black patch on his eye, covering an ugly scar that marred his stunning face with dark, Tuareg skin. He surveyed his surroundings with an ice blue eye, he let it roam around the dirty place with disgust until they settled on his minion who opened the door for him and who now stood there, almost cowering in front of him.

The man with an unshaven face, dressed in dark clothes winced when the cold, penetrating gaze settled on him. "They... they are inside... Mr Azura, sir," he added as an afterthought.

Azura almost curled his lips in resentment. He hated cowards. Hitching the fur coat higher, he made for the warehouse. He didn't have to give the driver any orders. The man knew to wait for him no matter what he saw or heard... or lose his life.

The door creaked loudly, as the servant opened the door for the man in white. Azura stepped inside the warehouse and headed over the grimy floor to the small office at the back, the only room lit in the big place. His steps echoed loudly in the large space, making his presence known.

The office door opened before Azura could reach it, the big frame of Abdul, the only really competent man Azura had found in this part of the world. The tall Arab stepped aside, taking the fur coat from Azura without being told to, anticipating his master’s wishes.

Azura walked into the room where in the middle, three men knelt in a pool of light cast by a bare bulb, the only source of light. They were bloodied and beaten, looking nervous and scared. Azura moved closer, piercing them with the gaze of his ice blue eye. When he spoke, his voice was as chill as his gaze.

"You were given a simple order," Azura said, his tone emotionless. "By now, the young de Rochefort should have been dead. And he isn't. Why is that?"

The men exchanged scared, panicked looks, then their leader spoke, his voice shaking. "Sorry! We’re sorry, mister, sir. He was really strong and he fought us and..."

"Nonsense!" Azura snapped, his voice cutting like glass, and the men cowered. "No one can stop a bullet in the head!" Pulling off his gloves, he turned to Abdul who handed him something in the shadows that Azura's frame threw on the walls. "You have cost me a lot of money, gentlemen. You have destroyed months of planning. I'm certain that you can understand that I can’t simply forgive you."

Before any of the men could say even one word, before they could even start to protest, Azura whipped around, drawing a small revolver, shooting once, twice, three times, all perfect head shots, killing the men that failed him, the best warning for the rest of the people in his organization. The men hadn't even fully slumped to the dusty concrete floor yet and Azura was already turning away, walking out of the room with Abdul following, taking away the gun and laying the fur coat over his master's shoulders.

"Get rid of them," Azura ordered. "And the doorman too," he added when his eyes found the stubbled man, curled up and whimpering by the door.

Abdul nodded, shooting the doomed man without blinking when walking by.

Pulling his white gloves on, Azura continued, walking towards his coach. "Noir and his boy toy disappeared from their Parisian residence last night. Take care of the man who was trailing them; he is an incompetent fool." When Abdul nodded again, Azura went on. "I need you to find Noir. He can't be far. Not when he is dragging Floréan with him. And he will not leave him alone now. Check every ship, every train, every coach and car if you have to. I want them found!"

Abdul nodded again and when they arrived at the coach, he opened the door, letting Azura get in.

Setting down and leaning back comfortably, Azura added: "Meet me at the house tomorrow at noon. I want to see some progress by then." An unspoken threat in his voice even though he knew that with Abdul, it wasn't necessary. The man was excellent at his job.

Nodding silently again, Abdul shut the door and stepped back.

Azura rapped his knuckles on the roof and when the coach started, the horses' hooves clattering on the pavement, he crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knee and smiling. He would find Noir, his Ray, of that he was sure. This cat and mouse game was rather fun. And Floréan was the cheese.

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The railway station was a chaos. People standing, sleeping, running everywhere, children laughing and crying, trains whistling and shrouding the platforms in white clouds of steam and smoke. And amongst all this, Noir and Floréan walked, accompanied by Solomon and a score of Noir's men that shadowed their leader and glided through the crowd unnoticed, making sure that Noir's departure wasn't raising any undue attention.

Noir's plan was simple. A friend of his from Sorbonne had been inviting him to his castle in southern France for what seemed like forever and now, he decided to accept this invitation and drop by unannounced. Only his closest friends and companions knew where he and Floréan were headed and Noir hoped that they would get lost in the melee of the railway stations along the way.

Both he and Floréan were dressed in plain clothes, Floréan's golden hair hidden underneath a winter cap. Noir had one arm laid around his friend's shoulders, supporting him and protecting him from the pressing crowd. Floréan leaned into him, eyes half closed, shivering. The doctor gave him a sedative to help him cope with the stress of the journey and now he was half out of his mind, barely noticing what was going on around him. Noir was frowning, his features set in stone. He didn't like to see the blond man drugged in any way, not after Azura forced Floréan to smoke opium, but he didn't have any choice right now. He couldn't wait until Floréan pulled himself together, not with Azura on their trail.

Arriving on the platform, they headed for the nearest carriage. No luxury for Noir and Floréan this time, no private compartments until the next change of trains.

At the steps, Noir slowly transferred his charge to Solomon. Floréan whimpered but Ray hushed him with a touch to his cheek, then climbed into the carriage, looking around quickly. He noticed his men, spread out on the platform, as they got into the train, one or two to a carriage, checking them all to make sure there was no threat in sight. Nodding to himself, Noir reached down for his friend, the urge to get them both out of sight almost overwhelming.

It was no easy task to get Floréan into the carriage for he was pliant like a rag doll, no strength in his muscles, focusing only with difficulty on the here and now. The blond man stumbled up the steps, hitting his knee here, his elbow there, brows drawn in confusion, not really understanding what was going on but trusting Ray implicitly.

"Send me a message when you arrive, " Solomon said as Noir finally brought Floréan close again, allowing his friend to lean against him as his knees buckled. "I will keep my eyes and ears open and let you know what I find out about our mutual… fiend."

The steam-engine whistled loud, the sound almost deafening, and clouds of steam sizzling in the cold air. Then, with a mighty heave and a lot of groaning, the train started to move, one slow roll of the wheels after another.

Noir quickly gripped the metal railing as the carriage jerked under his feet and brought Floréan even closer to his chest, and just keeping his companion from losing balance.

"I will," Noir promised, his face grim as he regarded the bespectacled man that walked alongside the slow moving train. "But be careful. Should he find out about your investigations, he’ll show you no mercy."

Solomon grinned. "Aww, I’m touched that you care, Ray. But I will still get you after this whole thing is over!" he added – a promise and a threat in one – though there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Noir smiled. Yes, he would be happy to play a game of cat and mouse with the detective once again. He nodded. "It’s a deal, detective!" he confirmed, the devilish smile in place for the first time in what felt like forever.

And then the train sped up, leaving the railway station and Solomon and hopefully Azura behind.

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Abdul didn’t bother to knock, knowing his master awaited him. He entered the lush dining room and stopped at the one end of the long table, waiting respectfully for Azura to acknowledge him.

The blond man took his time, finishing the article he was reading then folding the newspaper carefully and laying it aside. The silence was filled with the loud ticking of the trunk dial clock. Sipping his hot coffee, Azura regarded Abdul’s stony face that didn’t reveal any of his thoughts. He truly liked this man, in his own detached way. Too bad that not all of his aides showed this much potential.

Setting the delicate cup to one side, Azura said finally: "What did you find out? I trust you have good news for me."

Abdul bowed slightly. "They left Paris this morning," he said, his voice deep and rumbling. "They took a train headed south."

Azura raised his eyebrow. "The train? How… unsophisticated," he commented dryly, wrinkling his nose. "I would have expected much more from my dear Ray." He chuckled, shaking his head. "The little blond puppy is really making him dull. I trust you know their destination."

Walking around the table, Abdul fished a slip of paper out of his pocket, then handed it over to his master. Looking at it, Azura smiled contently, his lips thinning into a cold, icy smile. Not only their destination but the whole route too. There would be no need to pursue them now and risk exposure.

"Excellent. Our little spy is doing very well." Folding the piece of paper neatly and setting it aside, Azura picked up his newspaper again. "Prepare everything for an immediate departure, Abdul. We are leaving in an hour. I hear that Southern France is rather charming in this season."

Abdul bowed silently, stepped outside and closed the door softly, leaving his Master to his newspaper and coffee.

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Sitting on the hard wood seat in the rocking train, Noir watched the landscape rush by through the dirty window. Floréan was curled by his side, leaning against him heavily, asleep. Noir laid one arm around his friend’s shoulders, hugging him gently, paying no attention to the disapproving looks of the elderly couple that sat opposite them. He didn’t give a damn about what they thought.

One of Noir’s men passed through the carriage, giving his boss an inconspicuous nod, signaling that everything seemed to be fine and there were no pursuers on their heels. Noir let his eyes roam, giving no outward notice that he knew the man. So far so good.

He allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit. Floréan must have felt Noir’s muscles loosening for he mumbled something, rubbing his cheek against Noir’s jacket. His lashes fluttered and he made an inquiring noise.

"Shh…" Noir whispered, touching his friend’s cheek, drawing small circles on Floréan’s cheekbone with his thumb. "Sleep. You’re safe," he assured the blond man in a gentle voice. "I’ve got you."

Sighing contently, Floréan burrowed his face deeper into Noir’s chest, falling asleep once more.

Noir smiled, throat constricting and heart heavy with a strange feeling he didn’t dare to examine too closely yet. Humming softly, Noir rested his head against the back of his seat and closed his eyes. He had Floréan at his side, safe, Azura was - hopefully - far away and they were headed for the safest place he could think of.

And so he allowed himself to fall asleep.

The End

Prequel: "Carnival of Souls"