InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 4: Justification ❯ Maelstrom ( Chapter 61 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

"Thank you."

Kichiro stopped mid-stride and turned to look at Bellaniece.  Leaning back, staring up at the few stars that managed to permeate the ever-present haze that blanketed the city, she slowly lowered her chin to gaze at him as her enigmatic little smile widened.  "What are you thanking me for?" he mumbled.

Bellaniece shrugged and caught his hand in hers as the two strolled further down the street.  "For making sure my birthday was one I'd always remember."

He grinned, thankful for the darkness that hid his pinking cheeks.  "As long as you enjoyed it."

"I did!" she exclaimed softly.  "I can't believe your father got hakama for me."

Kichiro grinned.  "Well, sure.  Standard training wear.  Must mean he likes you."

She laughed, but her happiness seemed to fizzle out.  Sighing softly, Bellaniece shook her head and shot him a rueful smile.  "I was kind of afraid . . ."

Frowning when she trailed off, Kichiro glanced down at her and shrugged.  "Afraid of what?"

Bellaniece waved her free hand, as if she were trying to brush away some irritating thought.  "To tell the truth, I was sort of afraid that Daddy wouldn't like it . . . The party, I mean."

"Why wouldn't he like it?"

"Well, he's never really said, but . . . Sometimes I wonder . . . I think my mother died on my birthday.  I think maybe that's why he never wanted to celebrate.  Does that make sense?"

Kichiro started to scoff at that, but stopped when the thinnest strand of doubt flashed through his head; the question of how he would feel if something happened to Bellaniece.  If he survived—and he didn't believe for a moment that he actually could survive without her—would he want to do anything on that day: the anniversary of something so terrible?  'No,' he realized with an inward wince.  'No, I don't think I really would . . .'

"I mean, so, he never wrapped my presents, right?  That doesn't really make him a bad father.  He loves me, you know?"  She laughed a little sadly.  "Of course you know."

"That's why you were so upset, isn't it?  You thought your father would be ticked off?"

"A little . . ." She grimaced and shook her head.   "Well, a lot."

He sensed her reticence, as though she were afraid to voice her very real concerns.  "He didn't seem upset to me."

"He didn't, did he?"  Bellaniece's smiled brightened as Kichiro grasped her hand and kissed her knuckles.  "You know, I realize that I told Daddy you were going to take me dancing, but . . . Would you mind if we went to your house, instead?"

"I thought you wanted to go dancing."

Bellaniece shrugged.  "I do . . . but we could do that another night, right?  I think it'd be nice to be alone now . . ."

"When'd you tell your father that you'd be home?" he asked, unable to completely cover the irritation in his tone.  He really hated the idea of having to take her back to that tiny apartment.  Bellaniece didn't belong there.  She belonged with him . . .

"Daddy said he wouldn't wait up, if that's what you're asking," she said with a giggle.  "I told him that I was eighteen now—an adult, right?  At least, in the States, it's legal age . . ." Her laughter died away as she stared at him.  He must have looked sadder than he thought.  She winced.  "You know, Kichiro, I tried to tell him today . . . about us."

"You . . . did?"

She sighed as they wandered down the street.  "Yeah.  I asked him what he'd say if I told him I'd found my mate."

"And?" he prodded, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"It wasn't so much what he said; it was more that he just looked so . . . I don't know—shocked?  Panicked?  Overwhelmed?"  She drew a deep breath as Kichiro squeezed her hand.  "I think I reminded him of things that I shouldn't have: like the vow he made to my mother."

"It's all right," he assured her.  "You care about your father, and as much as I wish I didn't understand that . . . I do."

She stopped abruptly, turning to face him as an enigmatic little smile twitched the corners of her lips.  Eyes shining in the dusky light of the street lamps, she reached up, cradled his cheek in her hand.  "You're really something, Kichiro Izayoi.  Thank you."

"For what?" he asked with a decisive snort, ducking his chin to hide his blush in deep shadows.

"For my birthday party.  For being you.  For everything."

"You're my princess, right?"

Bellaniece nodded as Kichiro turned his face to kiss her hand.

"Then it's my responsibility to ensure the princess's happiness."

"I'm happy," she assured him before casting him a sidelong glance.  "Then again . . . what else did you have in mind?"

He chuckled and scooped her into his arms before leaping onto the nearest building and sprinting with her through the night.


Gin closed the door and stared around her blessedly empty apartment as she rolled her head from side to side and smiled.  Bellaniece had really enjoyed herself.  Everyone had, hadn't they?

'You know, doll, there's one person who didn't seem like he was enjoying himself at all.'

Sighing as she opened the cupboard for a trash bag, Gin stood up and let the door close.  'He said he had a headache . . .'

'Be serious.  Cain's youkai, and youkai normally don't get 'headaches'.  Maybe . . . maybe we could check on him . . .?'

Gin grimaced.  She'd wanted to go after him when he'd first slipped out of her apartment, but with her family's close scrutiny, she hadn't dared.  Ignoring the feeling that the entire situation just felt completely wrong, she retrieved the small nondescript cake from the oven—she'd hidden it there—and let the door snap closed.  She'd made a smaller version of Bellaniece's cake for Cain.  Maybe it would cheer him up, and he was certainly more important than cleaning up her apartment.

The hallway was cooler, the change in temperature quite welcome after the warmth that had come from having so many guests.  She wasn't sure how Kichiro had managed to get so many people to come over for the last minute party.  Bellaniece had been so excited, though; that all the hurrying Gin had endured had definitely been worth it in the end.  Traversing the distance between her door and Cain's, Gin balanced the cake on her left hand as she raised her fist.

The door opened before she could knock, and Cain stared at her for a moment, his expression blank, like he didn't really see her.  Completely dressed with his shoes on and his keys in hand, he stepped back to let her inside as she bit her lip and hurried over to set the cake down.

"You were leaving?" she asked, deliberately trying to sound happy despite the reek of cigarette smoke—despite the smell of scotch that lingered on Cain's breath.  She'd been told that Cain's favorite alcoholic beverage was scotch.  Somehow it seemed strange.

He rubbed his temple and sighed, his eyes glassy and reddened, likely from the stagnant stench of the tobacco smoke.  "Yeah, I . . . I ran out of cigarettes."

Opting to refrain from comment since he didn't look like he was in the mood to argue the bad points of smoking, Gin brushed her hands off and shrugged, forcing a smile that he didn't return.  "Oh . . . I could go with you, if you want."

Cain jerked his head toward the door and held it open as Gin scooted past him.  He pulled it closed and locked it behind him.  Gin waited until he was finished before stepping toward the stair well.  "Are you all right?  Is your headache gone?"

"It's fine," he mumbled.

"You're sure?" she pressed.

"Never better."

Her questions were only serving to further his irritation.  She bit her lip for a moment and forced a smile.  "You missed a really great party."

"I guess I just wasn't in the mood for that."

"I know it meant a lot to Belle, though.  I'm glad you came, even if you didn't stay long."

"You think I wouldn't?  It was my daughter's birthday."

The barely masked hostility in his voice made her flatten her ears.  "Of course you would.  You've really tried to be a good father, and it shows, I think."

"That wasn't the impression I got," Cain grumbled.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."  Pushing open the front door, he stepped outside and waited for Gin.  She slipped her hand into his as they crossed the street to the small convenience store.

He bought a couple packs of cigarettes, stuffing one in his pocket while he smacked the other against the heel of his hand.  Gin made a face when he tore open the pack and lit one after stepping back outside.  Shaking his leg as he let his head fall back, he inhaled a long drag from the cigarette and stared up into the sky.  "It's going to storm," he remarked casually.

"Do you think so?"

"No stars," he explained.

Gin followed the direction of his gaze and nodded.  "You're right."

Tendrils of smoke escaped through his nose.  Either he didn't notice or just didn't care.  Gin almost sneezed, just watching him.  "Come on," he mumbled, taking Gin's hand and pulling her back toward the street.  Cain didn't speak again as they returned to the apartment building.  

Gin sneezed as the cigarette smoke pulled in closer.  The confines of the stairwell kept the stagnant fumes much too close.  Cain glanced at her but didn't snuff out his cigarette.

"Belle's not here?" she asked as she stepped into Cain's apartment again.  He shoved the door closed and strode past her to smash the offending cigarette in a glass ashtray that was heaped with used butts.  Making a face as she grabbed the ashtray to dump, Gin hurried off to the kitchen as Cain slouched against the window frame, his gaze solemn, unreadable.

"No, she went dancing, and I've asked you—"

"Here," Gin said as she set the emptied ashtray on the table beside him.  "Who'd she go dancing with?"

He sighed.  "Your brother."

"Oh . . . Well, I'm sure he'll watch out for Belle.  Kich's good that way."

"Bellaniece.  Her name is Bellaniece.  She's never been 'Belle'."

Gin blinked and grimaced.  "Oh, sorry . . . I forgot . . . Everyone was calling her 'Belle', and—"

"Yeah, I know.  They all called her 'Belle', and they all talked about what a fucking bad father I am.  I heard it, Gin.  I was there, remember?"

"But you're not a bad father.  I don't think you are . . ."

He snorted.  "It doesn't matter what you think, Gin.  Damn it, you could have warned me about what you'd planned, don't you think?"

"Cain?"

"Do you know how stupid I looked?  I didn't even have a present for my own daughter!"

Gin winced as Cain's voice escalated.  He hadn't moved and yet the shift in his youkai was as tangible as he was.  Angry, hostile, hurtful . . . Gin shook her head and cleared her throat.  "But you bought her presents today, right?  I don't think anyone—"

"The hell they didn't think it!  Damn it, I thought it!  And what?  I'm negligent because I didn't let my daughter have birthday parties?"

"No."

"None of your family gets it, do they?  Or do you just not care?  Bellaniece never had a mother to take care of her.  She never had a mother to teach her things and to fix her hair, and birthday parties?  Pfft!  She never had those things, and I did the best I could."

Gin started to go to him, wanted to hug him as his pain cut through her.  'He . . . He isn't angry at me, exactly, is he?  He's . . . he's just angry . . .'

"Don't!" Cain growled, stopping Gin with a fierce glare.  "Just don't!"

"I just want to help you . . ."

A rasping chuckle, more of a dry sound than anything even vaguely amused, escaped him.  "What would you do if you could?  Would you wave your magic little cake fairy wand and make it all better?  Would you bring her back?  Would you do that for me, Gin?"  He stopped abruptly, shaking out another cigarette and lighting it before he spoke again, his voice barely more than a harsh whisper.  "Why do you think, in eighteen years, that I've never once celebrated Bellaniece's birthday?"

Gin shook her head, twisting her fingers together as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.  "I . . . I don't know . . . I—"

"You know, of all people, you should have realized why.  Of everyone on this earth, you should have known!"

"Known?"

"Don't be stupid, Gin!  Would you really want to celebrate the day your mate died?"

Gin winced at Cain's words as a soft little wheeze was forced out of her.  "I didn't know . . ."

"No, you didn't, and you didn't fucking bother to ask, did you?  Everyone's precious baby girl, right?  How could you possibly understand?  How would you know what it feels like, to stand over your mate's body with her blood dripping off your goddamn claws?  How?"

She shook her head miserably, unable to refute his anger, unable to buffer herself against his tirade.

Shoving himself away from the window to stalk around the room—around her—like a predatory creature, Cain stared at her incredulously, eyes flashing as he glowered, as he seemed to be trying to make her understand something that just didn't make any sense at all.  "The first time I held Bellaniece," he muttered, voice thick, choked, "was with hands that were soaked in her mother's blood—in my mate's blood.  Bellaniece was tiny and perfect and beautiful, and you know . . . Her father was a fucking monster.  Now tell me again that you want to help me."

"But you can't have . . . You wouldn't have . . . That isn't . . . You're not a killer . . ."

"You wanted to know, right?  You wanted to know what happened to Isabelle?  Well, there you go, Gin.  Does that not suit you?  Truth isn't as pretty as the fantasy you've created, is it?  You wanted to go on believing that there was some great tragedy; some sort of injustice?  There wasn't one.  There were only monsters and illusions and things that you'll never, ever understand."

He stepped toward her, the anger in his youkai snapping, crackling, jagged edges that cut at her. Gin stumbled back a step, needing to distance herself from the overwhelming sense that the demons that haunted him were somehow very, very real, and if she weren't careful, they'd come after her, too.  He stopped suddenly, wincing as she bumped against the table, as a small whimper escaped her.

Turning his back on her again, he crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head as his shoulders slumped in a completely defeated manner.

'He's not a killer . . . He can't be . . .'

"Cain?  Cain, you didn't . . . kill . . . Isabelle . . . I know you didn't . . ."

"Yeah," he rasped out.  "Yeah, I did."

"But you—"

He wheeled around to glower at her, his rage suddenly spiraling out of his control, thicker and heavier than the weight of any emotion Gin had ever known.  "Don't make excuses for me!  Don't stand there and look at me with pity in your heart and horror in your eyes!  I'd rather you hate me than pity me, damn it!  Take your justifications and your good intentions and get out, Gin!  Just get out!   I don't even want to fucking look at you!"

Choking on a ragged sob, Gin stumbled toward him, fighting against the cloying, stifling rage that sought to push her away.  He needed her despite the ugliness of his words, the raw pain, the intense agony . . . He needed her . . .

Cain's hands shot up to stop her, and he was the one to back away this time.  "Run, will you?  Run away, and don't ever look back."  He shook his head, swallowed hard; let his gaze fall away as he glowered at the floor.  "I don't . . . don't need you, and you sure as hell don't need me."

She stared at him for a long moment, unable to believe what he was trying to tell her.  Feeling the weight of his words pressing in on her, choking her, Gin couldn't help the tiny gasp, the stifled cry as tears swelled in her throat, behind her eyes.

Turning on her heel, she ran toward the door, unable to hold back her sob as she jerked on the door handle.  'He didn't mean that . . . He couldn't mean that . . .'

Gin staggered to her apartment and wrenched the door open.  Shuffling inside, over to the sofa, she sank down slowly, clutching her stomach as panic and desolation warred for control.  Rocking back and forth as she hugged herself, as she told herself not to cry, she had never felt quite so alone, quite so lost.  Everything that she thought she'd known, everything that she had dared to wonder . . . She couldn't help him, could she?  The only one who could help Cain was himself, and maybe he really didn't want to do that, at all . . .

A violent lurch in her belly made her draw back, made her stumble to her feet.  Smashing her hand over her mouth as she doubled over, as she ran toward the bathroom, Gin barely managed to control herself until she threw back the toilet seat.  Sobbing made her feel sicker, and feeling sicker made her retch harder.  When she was finally finished, she fell back, slumped against the wall as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as she closed her eyes and tried to block out the hurtful things that Cain had said.

"I don't . . . don't need you, and you sure as hell don't need me."

'Don't think about it, Gin . . . Don't think about anything at all . . .'

She wasn't sure why she found that amusing.  'Don't think about . . . anything . . .?'  The harshness of her welling laughter—the bitter tinge of near-madness echoing off the bathroom walls . . . If she didn't think about it, would it all go away?