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They say Master Killua locked his brother away in the dungeons.
Down the stairs, through the torch lit tunnel, two miles down and through a set of heavy metal doors, then another set, twice as heavy, then another, and another. And at the other side of the final set, another door — this one smaller, inconspicuous save for the dozen or so locks that adorned it.
They say that beyond that door is where the Master’s brother used to be held. Not that one; the other brother, the one whom the Master calls sister, because that’s what she is, Master Killua made sure of it, back when he locked his other brother away. The room used to be colourful, back when the Master’s sister lived there, furnished in soft pastel tones and covered in toys just as soft. Soft because she was soft, and needed to be protected and cherished, despite her fearsome power.
Not so with its current inhabitant.
To accommodate him, the room had been stripped bare of all its cheerful tones and reverted to its true form — a prison, complete with chains and shackles, none strong enough to subdue the prisoner, whose claws raked jagged marks down the concrete walls as he screamed for them to bring the Master to him, Master Killua loved him, he would never do this to him, not to the one who had raised him, trained him, loved him more than anyone else in the entire world.
Master Killua never did go down to the dungeons. He could, of course, see everything that went on in that cell through the multitude of cameras that lined its walls, but he rarely glanced at that particular monitor, it was merely one among many, and there were much more important areas on the estate that required his attention.
He also, never once, referred to the prisoner as his brother. It was all just gossip, really — hushed whispers the less well-trained butlers would exchange when the master of the house had his back turned.
Tradition dictated that every new head of the Zoldyck household expel his siblings from the estate, and Killua had done the same to all of his siblings save for Alluka, who was his sister, and therefore special. She posed no threat to him, despite her fearsome powers.
In fact, it was said that whatever powers she may have had was no more — Killua had sworn off it after making one final wish, and he continued to make sure no one else would ever get the chance to avail themselves of it. Not that they would know how to. With his brothers gone, Killua was the only one left who knew about ‘the rules’.
They say that one of Master Killua’s brothers had tried to make that power his own. He had used the most heinous methods in his attempt, and was duly punished for it.
Amane remembered the day Master Killua had made his last wish.
She had been tasked with bringing the prisoner his meal, and she had heard it in the tunnels, even before approaching the final set of metal doors. It was a sound that could barely be described as human. Shrill and drawn out, at once crazed and hollow, almost primal in its despair. She imagined it was how a she-beast would sound wailing before its gutted child. It had almost made her turn tail and run, but she’d tightened her grip around the wicker basket in her left hand, and around the cattle prod in her right, and pushed on through the dingy darkness.
The prisoner cowered in the far corner of the cell, his long hair obscuring his face as he knelt hunched over a shallow basin of water, the only means of grooming allowed him. Amane watched from the doorway as he raked a shackled hand through his own hair, once luscious and flowing, his one vanity, now filthy and matted beyond repair. Strands of it floated upon the surface, and Amane realised what it was — a crude imitation of the water divination test. The prisoner paid no heed to her presence. His full attention was on the strands of floating hair before him, his clawed hands shook as they cradled the basin, his dark eyes almost popping from the effort. Frantic, strangled noises escaped his gritted teeth, and Amane could almost hear the desperate plea: move, move, move, move, move .
The air in the cell was stagnant and stale — and without making a single ripple, the strands of hair broke the still surface and sank to the bottom of the basin.
Amane watched as the prisoner raised his head.
She watched, her grip tightening on the cattle prod, as those enormous, sunken eyes stared straight past her, the prisoner’s mouth fell open, and he screamed.
She wondered if Master Killua was watching from his room. He would not have heard anything either way; the monitor did not pick up sound.
She would be lying if she said the sight did not induce a semblance of pity, deep in the pits of her conscience that still remembered the prisoner as he once was — back when he had been the young master, the eldest son, presumed heir to the family; back when his hair was shorter and his grip on sanity much firmer.
Back then he had not been cruel – not exactly, but rather callous, uncaring, as though the lives of those beneath him were worth less than a penny a piece. And in some ways he was right. His family was strong, he was strong, and to be stronger than anyone else was to be better than anyone else.
What it all boiled down to, then, was the fact that he was no longer stronger than them, and therefore no longer better.
She wouldn’t call it revenge, but rather a cautious form of retribution.
Their touches were tentative, the excitement in their eyes not nearly enough to mask the trepidation. She got the impression of a group of children poking a wounded beast with sticks. In her opinion they needn’t have worried.
The prisoner lay in the middle of the filthy floor, unmoving even as their hands pried the clothing off his emaciated body (Master Killua, of course, would never starve him; it was the prisoner himself who refused to eat). Nervous fingers roamed across his still form, almost reverent in their touch as they reached between his legs and – Amane thought she saw a hand twitch where it lay thrown out on the floor. She looked away, and met the unwavering gaze of the cameras mounted on the grey walls, one on each corner of the ceiling to ensure no angle was left unmonitored.
There was a strangled sound, and she saw claws dig into the concrete floor, cracking it like dried mud. The prisoner tossed his head to the side, and suddenly she was staring right into his eyes. They were wide and uncomprehending, as though their owner couldn’t quite wrap his head around the offence that was being committed against him. The audacity, the utter absurdity of a lowly servant not just laying a finger on his master without permission, but touching him in ways that defied the basest of imaginations.
The first time they had done it, he had ordered them to stop — and they had, frozen in place as though slapped across the face. It was a mere reflex, they soon realised — their fear was no longer warranted. The real problem was Master Killua. Would he stand by and allow it to happen, just as he had allowed everything else to happen down here; or would he interfere, or worse, punish the offenders? There was but one way to find out.
His rage was palpable that night.
Even stripped of his powers, the sheer force of his hatred and disgust would have been enough to send Amane flying back down the tunnels. Instead she had watched everything unfold from the safety of the Master’s office, through the left-most monitor on the bottom row, where she had been dusting bookshelves, but found herself inexplicably glued to the grainy screen.
It took five men to hold down the prisoner’s thrashing body. His neck was bound by a heavy metal collar, and the man grasping his hair forced the chain attached to it between his teeth — to prevent him from biting his own tongue off, Amane realised.
How he must have screamed, choking on the chain and his own fury, when the sixth man had pushed himself inside him, immediately setting a punishing rhythm — and when the faces of those men twisted with grotesque, silent laughter, when they spat in his face and patted his cheek and caressed his filthy hair in a parody of affection, then, it did feel like revenge.
She stood there and watched, duster in hand, until eventually the prisoner’s struggles died down and his body went slack, save for the occasional twitch and shudder. Seemingly at the same time, the frenzy that had come over those men dissipated, their movements stuttered, becoming uncertain, and when the last man pulled out there was no one to take his place.
The men dressed themselves in their butler’s uniforms with dazed expressions on their faces, not looking at the prisoner or each other, and filed out of the room one after the other. Amane saw the twelve locks fall into place. She finished her dusting, glancing now and then at that one monitor. When she left the room an hour later, the prisoner had not moved from where he lay sprawled out on the floor.
After that first time he became pliant.
No more thrashing and screaming, no more trying to resist whatever befell him. The only thing that remained unchanged was the confusion in those enormous eyes when he shifted his gaze from her to stare unblinkingly up at the grey ceiling — she realised, then, that he was looking at the cameras. At his younger brother, who may or may not be on the other side, all the way up in the dimly lit office he had inherited from their father. She turned away from the grim scene before her and started back up the corridor.
Master Killua, she knew, was out on a mission. He was not there to see what was going on in that dark cell, tucked away and forgotten deep underground.
She wondered if he would have done anything had he known.
—
Many years ago, she had come across a young kitten — couldn’t have been more than a few days old — on an errand in town, in an alleyway beside a tailor’s shop where she had dropped by to pick up one of the mistress’s new dresses. She had developed a fascination for 19th century continental fashion, all tight bodices and flared petticoats and baleen crinolines, and was eager to dress not only herself but her children in the same clothing.
As Amane hurried back to the waiting car, a green and cream afternoon dress overflowing in her arms, she heard a small piping noise from the mound of trash bags stacked haphazardly around some bins in the alleyway. She had begged Gotou to go home without her, and, as soon as she was sure he couldn’t see her through the rearview mirror, had particularly flown back to where the sound had come from.
There, in between two bulging bin bags, was a tiny fur ball, its pink mouth wide open in a yowl.
She named it Macey.
It slept in her closet for most of the day, and at night or in the early hours of the morning, when her work was finally done and she stumbled back, half asleep, to her room, she would warm up a bottle of milk and cradle the little thing in her arms, watching in the dim light of her bedside lamp as it suckled.
Her grandmother, naturally, knew nothing of it. She thought Gotoh might have caught on at some point, when she had had to pluck a strand of cat hair from her sleeve before plating a tray of macaroons for the mistress, but if he did he never said anything. Canary became the first person to ever meet Macey after Amane had had her swear an oath of secrecy — Amane trusted her, if only because she was confident she would win in a fight if Canary ever thought of snitching.
Once, as she was dangling a piece of yarn before Macey’s batting paws, Canary had said in a thoughtful voice: ‘She’s so fragile, isn’t she?’
Amane hummed in response.
Canary went on in a hushed tone. ‘I wonder what they’ll do to her if they find out.’
Amane scowled and reached out to snatch Macey up in her arms. ‘They won’t,’ she said.
And that was that.
She never could’ve imagined such a small, helpless thing could grow so fast. Within a year Macey had gone from the scruffy fur ball she was to a beautiful slim calico, there to greet her every evening when she returned to her room, purring softly and nuzzling at her trouser legs. She had grown to be a quiet cat — quiet and subdued. It was as though she knew her existence had to be kept secret. Never once did she attempt to leave the confines of Amane’s room even when she had the chance. At night she would curl up beside her pillow or on top of her stomach, her warm body and steady breathing a reassuring weight as Amane drifted off to sleep.
It was the first time she had had the chance to watch anything grow — to nurture something instead of crushing it.
By day she was her grandmother’s shadow, the perfect and demure butler in training, silent and efficient, hearing but never speaking, seeing but never prying. But by night, when she was alone in her room with Macey, away from the bowels of that gigantic mansion, it was as though everything beyond her small dusty room ceased to exist.
—
The first time she’d heard tell that the master of the house bedded his eldest like he did his wife, she had been no older than ten.
The mistress was a great beauty, and as her firstborn grew older it had become clear to all who laid eyes on him that he was her spitting image, much to the disgust of Tsubone. ‘The young harlot from Meteor City,’ was what her grandmother called Kikyou (she was allowed to, because she had been there when Silva took his first step as a toddler). ‘No good will come of that one, you mark my words,’ she would say to Amane as they watched the young master slink through the halls, dark and wraithlike, not a trace of his father to be seen in him. He reminded Amane of the hinamatsuri dolls Kikyou loved to fuss over, a relic of wherever her family had been from before they ended up in the slums of Meteor City. And just like every little girl of her age, Amane had had an undeniable fascination for pretty dolls. So while her grandmother watched the young master with disapproval, she watched him with tempered curiosity.
It was that curiosity that had led to her standing outside the master’s office one afternoon, a thin manila envelope in hand, the other poised trembling over the door knocker.
She had every reason to be here, she reasoned with herself; the young master had forgotten to bring the files on today’s mission with him when he had been summoned to his father’s chambers, an uncharacteristic mistake. But if he was to complete the hit with his usual precision, surely those files were indispensable. And if a small, shameful part of her felt a shiver of excitement at the thought of speaking to the young master alone, well — what her grandmother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
She knocked, and waited. No response. Knocked again. Waited some more. Still no response. She pressed her ear to the heavy mahogany doors, but heard only silence.
Strange, she thought. She was sure the young master was in there with his father; she had delivered the summons herself, after which he had excused himself from the breakfast table while she finished clearing up his untouched plate.
It was then that something possessed her to do the unthinkable.
Before she could stop herself, before she could pause to think, her hand was on the door handle, and the door was sliding open — not fully, just a crack. But a crack was all it took.
Even as she sat on her bed that night, Macey purring in her lap and pawing at her hair, she wasn’t sure exactly what she had seen. The light had been dim — it always was in the master’s office. A faint blue light from the countless glowing screens reflecting every corner of the estate.
On the mound of pillows where the master usually received his guests, Silva’s hulking body moved in a steady rhythm, and beneath him lay the young master. His eyes were closed, his face pinched as though in pain, and his mouth hung open, but no sound left his lips. His bare legs rested on his father’s shoulders, jerking in time with Silva’s movements.
Amane watched, rooted to the spot in terror, as Silva’s enormous hand closed like a vice around Illumi’s throat. Illumi’s eyes flew open, his own slender hands flying up to scrabble uselessly at the grip around his neck as Silva’s movements stuttered above him.
Amane took a step back. The carpet muffled her footfall, but she thought she saw Illumi’s dark eyes flicker to the door before she turned tail and fled down the hallway, her own heartbeat deafening in her ears.
The next morning, Macey was gone.
She searched high and low, turned her room inside out looking for her, but no luck. Perhaps she had finally had enough of being cooped up in that tiny room and had managed to slip out a window in the middle of the night. Shaking, her head filled with gruesome images of Macey encountering one of the many bloodthirsty beasts roaming the estate grounds, she dressed in her uniform and left for her job. Anything else would have to wait. With any luck, Macey would be waiting for her in her room by the time she finished work.
At breakfast, she tried her absolute best to keep her eyes low and her hands steady.
It was as though nothing had happened. Silva was talking to his wife about an upcoming meeting with a client; Kikyou was considering wearing her new evening gown — and they had to find someone to take care of baby Killua, his old babysitter just wasn’t up to task. Illumi was wearing a jacket over his shirt, the high collar hiding his neck from view. He ate silently and deliberately, his eyes fixed on his plate, pausing now and then to stop Milluki from flinging his vegetables onto the carpet.
When Amane leant down to fill his glass, she thought she saw those dark eyes linger on her profile. A shudder went down her spine.
‘Amane,’ he said, when she had straightened up. ‘Come to my room after breakfast.’
She snapped her eyes to him, but his gaze remained on his glass as he raised it to his lips and took a sip. She inclined her head.
‘Yes, young master.’
Illumi’s chambers had originally been in the west wing, next to his mother’s, but after Killua’s birth he had offered to move next to the nursery; it hadn’t taken them long to discover that he was the only one who could calm baby Kill down during one of his midnight tantrums.
Amane made her way up to his room, her heart heavy in her chest at the thought of Macey, probably lost and frightened somewhere on the grounds. She was still thinking about her cat when she knocked on the door and heard Illumi’s calm voice tell her to come in.
He was sitting at his desk, his body turned to face the door. On his lap, lying completely still, was a ball of calico fur.
Amane felt the ground drop beneath her feet.
‘Close the door, please,’ Illumi said.
As if in a trance, she did as she was told.
Illumi was running a hand absentmindedly through Macey’s fur.
‘She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?’ he asked in his airy voice. ‘What’s her name?’
Her mouth was dry.
‘Macey, young master,’ she said.
Illumi nodded.
‘I trust you know that I should kill you for what you did,’ he said. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, young master,’ she managed to choke out.
‘Personally, I would’ve preferred to do so,’ Illumi cocked his head. ‘But I’m afraid Mother has grown quite fond of you, and I doubt she would take that too well. So, a compromise.’
He stood. As though suddenly coming back to life, Macey leapt off his lap and streaked across the room, wrapping herself around Amane’s legs and meowing up at her. Amane could have cried from relief.
‘Come here, Amane,’ Illumi said.
She went to his desk. Several pins were laid out on a piece of cloth, sharp, deadly, and obviously recently polished.
She knew that the young master had been honing his hatsu, only a couple months after being initiated to nen — he was an extraordinarily quick learner, befitting of a Zoldyck. She had also heard, however, that the Master had been disappointed with his water divination test. Another trait inherited from his mother — another failure.
Illumi had taken off his jacket, and she could see the bruises blooming on his throat. She could smell him, too. A sterile, bitter scent, like a pill on the back of her tongue.
‘I’ve crafted them myself,’ he said, his eyes on the pins. ‘What do you think?’
‘They’re beautiful, young master. They will serve you well in battle.’
Illumi nodded.
‘Choose one,’ he said.
Amane stared at him uncomprehendingly. Macey was meowing incessantly at her feet; she sounded nervous.
‘Choose a pin, Amane.’
Hesitantly, Amane reached out and brushed her fingertips over the leftmost one. It was long and slender, barely wider than a sewing needle. Illumi nodded again, looking almost pleased. He sat back down on his chair and pushed it back away from her.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Insert it into your eyes. Both of them, please. One at a time.’
Amane blinked. Ice spreaded through her veins.
‘Young master, I don’t —‘
‘I said I’d make a compromise, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘You’ll be helping me test the pin, too. There’s nen in it — I’ve been working on them all night.’
Amane’s knees shook.
She knew they shouldn’t, knew she should do as she was told without question, that was a part of working for the Zoldycks, her grandmother had always said —
‘Is something the matter?’ Illumi asked.
Despite her best efforts, Amane felt tears welling up in her eyes.
‘Young master,’ she whispered. ‘Please, I didn’t mean to —’
Illumi looked from her to the pins, and then back at her again. He sighed.
‘I expected better from you, you know. Tsubone always spoke so highly of you. But if you can’t do it, well —’ he lowered his gaze. ‘I suppose we could make another concession.’
Macey had sat down at Amane’s feet, her tail swishing from side to side, her amber eyes huge in her face as she stared up at her. I don’t like it here, it was as if she was saying. Let’s leave. Let’s go home.
‘Macey, was it?’ Illumi said. ‘If you’re so averse to the pins, you may kill the cat instead.’
Amane’s head swam. She looked down at Macey, then up at her young master. He sat back in his chair, his hands clasped loosely in his lap.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Do it, and you’ll be free to go. Use your hands, please.’
Macey pawed at her trouser leg, meowing in concern.
Amane knew she was crying; she could see her own tears darkening the carpet as it dripped down the tip of her nose, could feel the snot running down her chin. She should not be crying. Crying was weak. Crying wasn’t something a Zoldyck butler did.
She sank to her knees, and Macey immediately darted between her arms, nudging her hand and curling her tail around her wrist.
Even years later she would remember the feeling of her warm, soft fur beneath her palm, those amber eyes staring up at her in complete trust and devotion even as her fingers tightened around her throat.
So fragile , Canary had said. Helpless. Weak.
Throughout it all Amane felt Illumi’s eyes on her, silent and unblinking.
They followed her out of that dreadful room, back to her own empty bedroom and into her dreams, staring, always staring, two deep, bottomless pools of stagnant water.
They followed her into that cell whenever she was tasked to clean it or bring him his meals, watching her every move with eerie detachment as she scrubbed the filthy floors and cleared away his waste, and they followed her whenever she watched through the monitor as her colleagues had their fun with him.
Staring, always staring.
—
The months went by uneventfully. Down in the dungeons things were as droll as ever, except now the prisoner was bathed when his handlers deemed him too filthy.
The one time Amane had been assigned that task, all the butlers usually on the job were otherwise preoccupied.
‘He likes it, you know,’ one of them had told her. ‘Can’t get in the mood when he’s lying there looking like a corpse. Stinking like one, too. It’s the only reason he gets to wash at all, and he knows it.’ He smiled a crooked smile, and she found herself overwhelmed with an urge to slap it off his face.
That evening she descended, cattle prod in one hand and a bag of toiletries in the other, including a comb she had grabbed from her own bedside table on a last minute whim. Her heart hammered unpleasantly in her chest, her steps echoing in the seemingly endless tunnel as she went through the countless scenarios in her head.
What if he attacked her? Caught her off guard and plunged a clawed hand into her chest? Would Master Killua see her abandoned body on that monitor and tell her grandmother? What if he overpowered her and escaped? Even though she had nen and he no longer did, she doubted she could stand her ground in a fight against him. Could she handle the consequences of such a serious blunder? What if he had one of those fits his mother used to have, screaming and wailing in a voice so shrill it could make anyone’s ears and heart bleed? What if he did nothing at all?
The first thing that hit her when those locks slid open was the smell. The entire room stank of sweat and piss and old bodily fluids, and she had to swallow to stop herself from gagging. She thought she saw him flinch at the sound of the door opening from where he sat slumped against the far wall.
‘Master —’ she began. The word was out of her mouth before she could stop to think. ‘I have been ordered to bathe you.’
He raised his head slowly, his expression as blank as ever, dark eyes enormous in his gaunt face. His pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light of the lone fluorescent bulb suspended from the ceiling.
She approached, dropping the bag and fumbling awkwardly with the locks on his chains, unwilling to let go of the cattle prod.
‘Amane,’ he rasped.
She started, nearly dropping the bunch of keys. He was looking up at her through matted strands of hair.
‘I won’t fight, you know,’ he said, and cocked his head in a familiar gesture she had almost forgotten.
She ducked her own head, heart hammering in her chest, and slid the metal collar off his bruised neck. His hands stayed shackled behind his back.
‘Stand up, please,’ she said, and he did, stumbling slightly in the process. She reached out a hand, but he had already steadied himself. He took two shaky steps towards the door, then stopped when she didn’t move from her place.
He looked back and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
She hurried to follow him out of the cell, his back straight and his chin held high, and she was reminded with a jolt that he was more than a head taller than she was.
The small bathroom used to be adjacent to the cell back when Alluka had lived there, but, in perhaps the only act of deliberate cruelty on Master Killua’s part, had been sealed off when the room was renovated and was now only accessible from the outside, through a door in the tunnel. Amane opened it and followed her former master into the bathroom.
There were no clothes to remove; they had decided long ago that it was less work just keeping him naked all the time. He seemed utterly unfazed by his own nudity as he sat before her on a bath stool and allowed her to lather shampoo into his hair, trying her best to detangle the knots as she did so. There wasn’t a lot she could do; in fact, it was probably better just to cut it off at this point, but she didn’t have the heart to make that suggestion.
She felt her face flush when it came to washing the more intimate parts of his body. She asked him to spread his legs, and he did. She asked him to kneel on the floor so she could clean him both inside and out, and he did, presenting himself obediently as if she were another one of his male jailers.
Shame gripped her chest as she ran the washcloth over the marks they had left, and she had to cast her eyes to the floor, as though doing so would spare him some of the indignity. A shudder ran through his entire body when the back of her hand brushed the inside of his thigh, his breathing hitched, and his shackled hands clenched against his back.
When she asked him to straighten up, she was horrified to see that his body had reacted. It was as though he hadn’t even noticed.
He must have seen the discomfort on her face, however, because he tilted his head slightly and said in an airy voice: ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Father will have them all executed when he hears of it.’
Her hand stilled, just for a moment, before she said: ‘Yes, Master. I’m sure he will.’
He didn’t speak again until she was kneeling on the wet tiles to wash his feet, his gaze fixed somewhere above her head as he asked: ‘Do you know where Killua is?’
She froze, weighing her options, but he went on.
‘I told him to come straight home — no use lingering now the exam’s over. I hope he’s not still hanging out with that dreadful boy.’
Amane sat back on her heels.
‘What exam, Master?’ she asked carefully.
He looked at her like she was stupid.
‘The Hunter Exam. What else? Really, it was a mistake letting him go at all. I don’t know what Mother was thinking, letting him leave the estate like that. I managed to talk some sense into him, though — I always do.’
She felt a chill go down her spine.
‘He was so much sweeter as a boy,’ he said, fondness seeping through his monotone voice. ‘But he’s growing stronger everyday. If only he’d just learn his place.’
Amane returned to the task at hand. The prisoner’s bony ankles were mottled with sores and bruises left by the shackles. He didn’t so much as flinch when she dragged the washcloth over broken skin.
‘Master Killua has a strong will,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll find the path that’s right for him.’
He looked mildly surprised, as though impressed by her insight.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If even you can see it, then he must as well. His place is here, with his family, not out there with his ragtag band of “friends”. That country boy will never understand him. Killua might think he can, but he’ll only end up disappointed. No one understands him like I do. I was the one who raised him, after all.’
Amane ran the washcloth under the tap and wrung it dry.
‘Yes, Master,’ she said.
His hair was longer now than it had ever been before, almost reaching his knees, and she had to hold up large handfuls of it so it didn’t trail on the tiles.
Perhaps it was the roar of the blowdryer, or perhaps it was his surprisingly docile behaviour that gave her the courage, but something possessed her to lean down close to his ear and say, softly: ‘Illumi.’
If not for the minuscule tilt of his head, she would’ve thought he hadn’t heard her at all. It was the first time she had ever dared call him by his name; she wondered how long it had been since he last heard it.
She waited for him to snap at her for her indolence, but he simply sat there, his back facing her, and said nothing at all. She turned off the dryer.
‘Do you — do you remember Macey?’
‘No,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘Who’s that?’
‘My cat,’ said Amane. ‘You — she’s dead, now.’
Illumi hummed.
She swallowed thickly, and said: ‘You ordered me to kill her.’
There was a beat, during which she desperately wished she hadn’t left the cattle prod by the bathroom door, and then he spoke in a voice as even as ever.
‘I did not order you to kill it, Amane,’ he said. ‘I allowed you to keep it. You chose to kill it yourself.’
She felt the hand holding the dryer trembling, her throat tightened and her eyes burned, as though she were suddenly eleven again, standing by his desk while he towered over her, watching as she cried over Macey’s lifeless body.
There had been no malice in those eyes, she realised. No cruelness, no mirth or even anger — there had been nothing. Nothing, like the painted eyes and lips on Kikyou’s hinamatsuri dolls.
With a bit of shu, she could bash his head in with the hairdryer right now (‘Not a single thought in that pretty little skull’, her grandmother had once said). She could probably strangle him with her bare hands, if she did it now while his guard was completely down — but was his guard completely down? You could never tell with a Zoldyck.
No one would mourn him, certainly not Killua. The master of the house would simply go on with his life, glancing now and then at the monitor on the bottom left corner and wondering absentmindedly where the prisoner had gone. Curled up in the far corner, perhaps. No one would bother to come down here looking for him, save, perhaps, for the men who seemed to have made it their job to torment him in every way imaginable. Would she not be freeing him from this wretched existence?
She looked down at his still form. His head was bowed, damp hair parting at the base of his neck. She could see the grotesque scars left by that collar, where the skin had been chafed raw repeatedly, never allowed to fully heal, and she thought of the way Macey’s neck had felt in her grip; so frail, so defenceless.
He had had bruises on his neck that day as well — bruises the shape of thick fingers, laid bare without long hair to hide it. He could have turned up the collar of his shirt, but he hadn’t; it was as though he didn’t even notice they were there.
She could reach out and snap that neck like he’d ordered her to do to Macey, and no one would know. No one would care.
He turned his head, a quizzical look on his face, and she saw the bruises that marred his jaw.
‘Why have you stopped?’ he asked. ‘You’re not done yet, are you?’
Amane blinked. She let out a long breath, and turned the blow dryer on again.
‘No, Master,’ she said. ‘Right away.’
It took well over an hour for his hair to dry completely. When it had, she went and retrieved the comb from her bag.
‘I’m going to brush your hair, now,’ she said. ‘Is that alright?’
That expression of mild surprise came over his face again, as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what she was suggesting. Finally he said: ‘Yes. You may.’
The rest of their routine proceeded in near complete silence. She kept her movements gentle, as though grooming a small child, and now and then he would sigh in contentment when she ran the comb across his scalp.
When she had led him back to his cell and was fastening the collar around his neck, he said her name again.
‘Amane. Do you know where Killua is?’
She did. She had brought dinner to his office just a couple of hours ago.
‘If he comes home, tell him to come and see me,’ Illumi leant his head against the concrete wall, eyes sliding closed. ‘Maybe Father was right. He does need to see the world — but I haven’t seen him for so long. Tell him to come see me, will you?’
‘Yes, Master,’ Amane said.
He smiled.
‘He’ll be missing me too. He’s growing stronger everyday, but he’s too soft. Still, he’ll make a fine head of the family one day.’
‘Yes, Master,’ Amane said. ‘I’m sure he will.’
—
The end came in early spring, almost five years since Master Killua had locked his brother away, and it was as uneventful as everything that had come before it.
Killua was planning to take his sister on a trip to Jappon — she disliked spending too much time on the estate, and the two hadn’t visited that country since they were small, when the entire family had gone to celebrate an eight year old Killua’s triumphant return from Heaven’s Arena. This time around it would just be the two of them; Alluka had decided they wouldn’t be taking any of the servants.
‘We’ll be fine,’ she assured a hovering Tsubone. ‘I’ll take care of him, promise.’
She stood on her tiptoes to ruffle Killua’s white hair. The master of the house laughed and let her.
‘I’ve heard the cherry blossoms are beautiful this time of year,’ he said. He opened the door to the driver’s seat and turned to face Tsubone and Amane, who were standing dutifully by the car after stuffing Alluka’s mound of luggage into the trunk.
‘Well then, we’re leaving the house to you. I’m sure you can manage things better than I ever could, Tsubone — and Amane, thanks for the trouble.’
Amane felt a blush crawl up her cheeks. ‘Of course, Master Killua,’ she said.
And then they were off.
The gigantic mansion seemed suddenly empty and cold without Killua’s calm, reassuring presence and Alluka’s bell-like laughter filling the hallways. Amane was changing the sheets in Alluka’s bedroom when one of her colleagues burst through the door. She recognised with mild disdain that he was one of the dungeon regulars.
‘Where’s your grandmother?’ he asked. His eyes were wide and he was slightly out of breath, as though he had just sprinted across the house.
‘She’s gone to town,’ Amane said. ‘Why?’
The other butler clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘Just as well. Best if you go down and take a look for yourself, I guess. I think he’s dead.’
‘Who?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘The Master’s — the prisoner. But before you do, just know that we — that I had nothing to do with it. We found him that way. So don’t go telling your grandmother any nonsense.’
The tunnels were freezing cold, untouched by the warm spring air. Amane walked the first mile and ran the second, her hands empty, her heart pounding in her chest.
This time, when the locks slid open, the frigid air in the cell smelled like nothing at all.
He lay in the middle of the floor with his head turned to the side, facing the cell door. His hair, now so matted it almost resembled sheep’s wool, hid most of his face from view. One arm was draped across his chest, the other was thrown out to his side with fingers outstretched, as though he had been trying to reach towards something.
As she approached, she noted how clean he was — there was no trace of grime or dirt on his naked body, save for some dried blood between his legs. They must have recently bathed him. His hair, though, they had long since given up on. Slowly, she knelt on the cold floor and brushed his hair aside. His mother’s beautiful face had long since wasted away; his skin was pulled taut across the cheekbones, his lips were a mangled mess that barely covered his teeth. Huge, blank eyes stared up at her.
For an awful moment she was sure he was still alive — those eyes weren’t any deader than they had been when she was last down here. But he was as cold as the chains that bound him, and the rational part of her brain told her that he must have been dead for more than a day. Grimly, she thought of how lucky it was that her colleagues had decided to pay him a visit on this day in particular, otherwise who knew what grisly sight would have awaited her if the corpse had been allowed to bloat and fester.
There were no visible wounds on his body, at least none that would be fatal to someone like him. Perhaps all those years of imprisonment and torture had finally taken its toll; perhaps one of the butlers had gotten carried away. Perhaps he had simply given up. Somehow, she doubted that was the case.
She removed all his restraints for one final time. Some of the sores on his wrists and ankles had rotted to the bone, but in the absence of fresh blood they were no longer inflamed, merely gauges in the pale flesh that made it look like spoilt meat.
The smell, however, lingered. She would have gagged had she not been so used to it. Instead, she folded his stiffening arms across his chest and smoothed out his hair as best as she could. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she shrugged off her jacket and laid it across his torso, shuddering slightly in the cold.
His eyes posed a different problem — she passed her hand over them, the cold skin like rubber beneath her fingers, but it was as though they refused to close.
For some reason she became acutely aware of the ringing silence in that cell, punctured by nothing but her own breathing. She tried again, but only succeeded in pulling the eyelids down half way.
Beneath long lashes, those dark, fathomless eyes continued to stare accusingly up at her.
Amane, do you know where Killua is?
She felt a shiver run down her spine, and pulled her hand away as if burned.
If he comes home, tell him to come and see me.
She stood so quickly her head swam, suddenly finding it unbearable to stay even a second longer in that cell. She stumbled over the threshold and out into the tunnel, pulling out her phone and dialling a number as she went. She dared not look behind her.
Tsubone was quiet for a moment after hearing the news.
‘Get yourself out of there, love,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to be in there with that thing.’
Amane was already halfway to the exit.
‘Master Killua —’ she said. ‘We have to tell Master Killua.’
‘No,’ her grandmother’s answer was decisive. ‘No point bothering them on their holiday. We’ll take care of the body, and he can do whatever he wants with it when he comes home.’
Amane pushed open the heavy gates to the tunnels. The spring breeze felt like heaven on her face after the stale air in the dungeons, and she gulped in mouthfuls of it, blinking in the bright sunlight.
How would Killua react when he came back?
She found herself unable to imagine what the master actually felt about his disgraced brother. Whatever it was, she thought, it hadn’t been enough to bring him down to the dungeons.
In all five years of his imprisonment, Master Killua had never once visited his brother.
—
They did, in fact, take care of the body.
The same people who had destroyed it now scrambled to erase the marks they had left; the corpse was thoroughly cleaned, open wounds were smoothed over with stitches and nen, and makeup was applied to the face in an attempt to emulate some semblance of serenity. The hair was recognised as a lost cause and shorn off, giving the body the impression of a much younger man.
Amane understood the rationality, but the idea of an open casket funeral was the most stupid she had ever heard.
‘Master Killua would want to see his brother for one last time,’ her grandmother had explained, not without kindness. ‘It’ll be an assurance to know he died of natural causes.’
Amane chewed at the inside of her mouth and said nothing.
The funeral itself was a quiet affair. Killua was there, as well as Alluka, but not the rest of the family. Kalluto was travelling with the troupe, and Milluki was off doing god knows what. They had not returned to the estate since Killua assumed his role as patriarch.
The master of the house stood in the spring rain, his face unreadable, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, speaking only to refuse Canary’s offer to hold an umbrella over him.
To the servants’ surprise, he had given the order to open up the family mausoleum. Amane watched from her place beside her grandmother as the heavy marble gates built into the side of the mountain were pushed open, allowing the casket to be swallowed by the candle-lit halls beyond. As the gates slid closed, the servants bowed in respect. Amane did not raise her head until she heard the heavy thud of the gates closing.
As they were walking back to the mansion, Amane holding an umbrella over Alluka’s head, the young mistress spoke in a voice so quiet it was almost drowned out by the pouring rain.
‘He used to carry me on his shoulders, you know.’
‘Mistress Alluka?’
‘I never understood why he did the things he did,’ Alluka went on. Her gaze was somewhere far away. ‘Killua says he was sick, like Mother was. But back then, before I was in that room — I don’t know. I guess I’m too young to remember.’
She turned her head.
‘What do you remember, Amane?’
Amane paused to think. She remembered Macey, the feeling of her fur beneath her fingers; she remembered bruises on a pale neck and cold, unblinking eyes; she remembered a steamy bathroom and the weight of the dryer in her hands.
She shook her head.
‘He tried to kill you, Mistress Alluka,’ she said.
Alluka bit her lip. Her expression shuttered, and she didn’t speak again for the rest of their trek across the wet, grey grounds.
A couple weeks after the funeral, Amane was summoned to the master’s office, along with her grandmother and Canary.
Killua sat upright on his father’s couch, his face awash in the faint blue light from the monitors.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘Of moving.’
Tsubone frowned in confusion. ‘Master, you can’t possibly mean —’
‘I do,’ said Killua. He sounded tired. ‘To be honest, Tsubone, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. It’s a long time coming, don’t you think? This house — this family’ — he gestured at the room around him — ‘it’s all been falling apart for years.’
‘Master Killua —’
Killua licked his lips, as though bracing himself. ‘Now that he’s gone, there’s no point in me staying here anymore.’
Amane watched her grandmother from the corner of her eye. She had never once seen her cry, but it seemed now that she might be on the verge of doing so.
‘Master Killua,’ Tsubone said. ‘I must urge you to reconsider. Your father spent his entire life building this business, and his father before him. It is their legacy —’
‘Yes,’ said Killua. ‘Their legacy. But that’s what it is, isn’t it? That’s what it’s always been. A business. But I am not my father.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Father always believed I would make the perfect heir. That I would lead this family to greatness. I suppose he was wrong.’
Tsubone sounded ready to break down in tears. ‘Master,’ she choked out.
‘I’ve made up my mind, Tsubone,’ Killua said. ‘I gathered you three here to tell you that. You have served the family well over the years, and I thank you, personally, for your contribution. Not just as employees, but as part of the family. As friends,’ he inclined his head towards Canary, who blushed slightly.
‘Where are you planning to go, Master Killua?’ Amane asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Killua. ‘But Alluka liked Jappon a lot the last time we were there. Maybe somewhere like that. Some place far away. Oh, and Amane? You don’t have to call me master anymore. Just Killua is fine.’
It was Amane’s turn to blush.
‘Of course, Killua,’ she said, the name sounding strange on her tongue.
‘Well,’ Killua slapped his knee and stood up. ‘I guess that’s that, then. I’ve wired next year’s pay to your accounts — but you’re free to go whenever you want. Me and Alluka will manage the moving just fine.’
And that was that.
That evening, after having dinner with Killua and Alluka and all the rest of the household staff, Amane returned to her room as if in a trance.
She must have spent hours just sitting on her bed, staring at the peeling walls and the dusty wooden floor, her hands resting in her lap, her head filled with a thousand thoughts and none at all. Eventually, she dozed off, and when she woke, her back aching from the awkward position she had fallen asleep in, it was already near noon. For a moment she was seized by an overwhelming sense of panic — she was late, her uniform was unpressed, her tie was wrinkled, and her hair was an abysmal mess, stuck to her cheek where she had drooled all over it.
But then she remembered.
Slowly, Amane stood up and walked to the window. The spring shower, which had shrouded the mountain in a never-ending drizzle for almost two months, had lifted overnight. She drew open the curtains and looked out over the grounds. The trees and grass glistened in the late morning sunshine, the scent of lily-of-the-valley and wet soil filled the clean, crisp air. Amane took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
—
Killua did not attempt to sell the estate after moving out — it was unlikely that anyone would have the means or nerve to buy it, anyway.
The testing gates were left intact, but a set of smaller ones were opened to the side, and by day groups of tourists swarmed the grounds while guides filled them in on the history and deeds of the infamous family of assassins. By night, however, the estate transformed into something else entirely. Locals whispered stories about a brother who was once locked away in the dungeons, about the hideous crimes he had committed to land him there, and about how his restless spirit still haunted the abandoned halls in search of his younger brother, the last heir to the Zoldyck legacy.
Over the years the mansion was slowly swallowed up by the nature surrounding it, and eventually even the ghost stories became shrouded in time, more myth than memory.
Amane never returned to Kukuroo mountain.