InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 5: Phantasm ❯ The Next Generation of Hunters ( Chapter 2 )

~~Chapter 2~~

~The Next Generation of Hunters~

 

“You know the rules, Kit. Either buy something or get the fuck out.”

 

Tapping her claws on the warped old counter in the dingy little place, Kit tossed a dollar bill at the balding man with the middle age spread behind the bar. “Water.”

 

The barkeep, better known as Leech, snorted. “`Water,' she says . . . One of these days . . .”

 

“I paid for it, didn't I?” she countered, her smooth voice dropping to a near-purr as she cocked an eyebrow at the disgruntled human.

 

Leech slammed a grimy glass of tepid water onto the bar and slipped the dollar into his pocket. Leaning over with his meaty arms resting on the counter, he crooked his finger to lure her closer. “There's a guy been lookin' for you the last couple nights. Thought you needs ta know.”

 

“You don't say. What does this guy look like?”

 

He shrugged and craned his neck, scratching his chin with grungy fingernails. “My mind's goin' in my old age,” he deadpanned, eyes shifting around the bar. “You want to jar my memory?”

 

She smiled insincerely, restraining the desire to wipe the lecherous smirk off the native New Yorker's flabby face. “And how could I do that?”

 

Sheer force of will kept her from recoiling as Leech leaned in. Hiding her disgust at the grimy yellowed teeth, the squalid breath as he laughed in her face, she narrowed her eyes and waited. “We could make a deal, you and me—something mutually beneficial, if you know what I mean . . .”

 

His gaze roamed up and down her body, and she didn't even try to delude herself in thinking that the man wasn't stripping her naked in his mind. “I don't know, Leech . . . can you still get it up?”

 

Face contorting in an angry scowl, he turned his head to the side and spat on the floor. “Stupid bitch! Why don't you go into the back room with me, and I'll show you what I can still do.”

 

“You can shove your information and your stubby little prick up your ass, as far as I'm concerned. I can take care of myself. I don't need you to worry about me. Lay off the junk food, you fat bastard. You'll live longer, don't you think?”

 

Leech's expression clouded over, and for a moment, she thought he might try to strike her. Suddenly he wheezed out a laugh, his breath hollow and airy before the laughter gave way to a wet smokers' cough. “I likes ya, even if ya are a real bitch. You's got balls.”

 

She crossed her arms over her chest, tiring rapidly from the game that Leech just loved to play. “Are you going to spill your guts or not?”

 

“Ain't much to tell, thinkin' on it. He just came in and asked fer yas. `Do you know a woman named Kit?' he asks, all business-like. Stood out like a sore thumb, he did. All neat and clean and young . . . Hell!” He laughed and coughed in turns, “He even said fuckin' please and thank you!”

 

“What'd he look like?” she asked, ignoring Leech's amusement.

 

Leech made an exaggerated face as he straightened back up, wiping a glass with a dingy gray bar towel. “Tall . . . real tall: a huge motherfucker—a real brick shithouse . . . Long hair—a fuckin' weird color, like Goldilocks or some damn thing—a little darker, mebbe . . .”

 

“Anything else?”

 

With a shrug, Leech dropped the towel and grunted as he picked it up and wiped the next glass. “Yeah, one thing.”

 

To her surprise, Leech seemed unsettled, almost scared. “His eyes were the same fucked up color as his hair. Musta been contacts or some shit. Do you know who he is?”

 

She ignored Leech's question as she grabbed the glass of water and walked away. In the darkest corner of the establishment, in the hidden recesses of the deepest shadows, she slipped into the chair at the table as she digested Leech's words.

 

`They're coming for me? That was fast . . . Sounds like a different hunter, then . . .'

 

She was supposed to leave for New York City, had planned on doing that right after slipping out of Cal Richardson's apartment, but she had a few more things to take care of. By the time she was ready to go, she'd learned through the police radio she'd tapped that there was a full-scale, albeit quiet hunt for her, and while humans and their pitiful excuse for law enforcement didn't worry her, if she was detained for any length of time, she'd be a sitting-duck for the hunter that the tai-youkai had apparently sent after her . . .

 

At least she didn't have to worry too much in her neighborhood. People learned quickly that squealers normally met with their own sort of comeuppance. Everyone was an outcast. No one conformed to the standard of society's molds. It was a vast network of eyes and ears where even a hunter better expect to watch his back.

 

She pushed the water glass away and sat back in the chair, eyes darting over the room, she took in the same faces she'd seen a hundred times if she'd seen them once . . . The man at the bar who never spoke sat slumped over the one mug of flat beer that he would nurse all night until closing time . . . The haggard woman at the table by the window . . . She had to wonder if the woman had ever seen whatever it was she was looking for. Precious few strangers milled into the establishment. They drew attention to themselves in a strange sort of way. More transient than the seasons, the unfortunate few who wandered through the doors. `Just how do people end up here? Is it by accident or design? Is it something destined to be? Preordained or just a fluke?' Frowning as she considered her own questions, she bit her lip and sighed. If it was the luck of the draw, could she accept that? Maybe that was the bitterest of ironies. Maybe there wasn't any real choice in it, at all . . .

 

The tired bell above the door announced the arrival of another shapeless stranger. She glanced up and started to look away only to stop as her eyes darted right back to the man who had stepped inside. “Youkai . . .” she murmured softly, leaning her elbow on the armrest and letting her chin fall into the `L' of her thumb and index finger. `Dog-youkai? Interesting . . .'

 

Impossibly tall, he had to duck to clear the doorway, and he stood in the entrance as his eyes traversed the room. There was a strange tinge in his aura, a predatory sense of dexterity in his movements. Golden bronze hair that caught the dingy light behind the bar, he seemed to be looking for someone. She could feel him extending his youki, felt it brush over hers with a tentative air. Probing, searching, he was. He must have realized that he wasn't the only youkai in the room. He stared at the shadows where she sat, and for the briefest moment, she thought that perhaps he could see her. Leech asked him what he wanted, and the man turned. Black leather duster flaring around his lean legs, she wasn't surprised to see the flash of the sword hilt strapped to his side. He was young, she noted—very young. She couldn't see his eyes from where she sat, but the wash of curiosity that surged through her was electric.

 

`Golden,' she thought fleetingly, a whimsical notion, the fleeting breath of a transient dream. He looked younger than he seemed. The commanding air of his youki . . . `A fool's arrogance? He's not a hunter—he's not a killer. Could he really possess the tenacity to perform the task?'

 

`Don't underestimate him . . . it might well be the last mistake you ever make.'

 

She smiled lazily, gaze narrowing as she studied his mannerisms from the security of the shadows. Broader of build than most youkai, he moved with a strange sort of grace, an elusive sense of something untamed with eyes that could see right into her soul . . .

 

As though he could sense her ardent perusal, he slowly turned around, gaze sweeping the barroom once more.

 

`Well, well, well . . . if it isn't the hunter . . .'

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Bas stepped into the grimy bar on a whim. He'd already been there a couple times, but having had no luck anywhere in the week since his arrival in Los Angeles, he figured it couldn't hurt. If anyone knew Kit's whereabouts, they were keeping their mouths shut tight.

 

Ignoring the curious glances he garnered, Bas glanced out over the thin population. The place was a study of shadow. One long fluorescent bulb illuminated the bar but did little to dispel the pervasive darkness. “Water,” he said in a low tone to the slovenly barkeep.

 

The barkeeper snorted. “I don't serve fucking water, pretty boy. Try again or get the hell out.”

 

Bas cleared his throat. “Fine. Whiskey.”

 

The man glared at him for another moment before slamming a shot glass onto the counter and sloshing the whiskey into it and shoving it across the counter. Bas dropped a five dollar bill onto the counter and turned away with the drink in hand.

 

There was a youkai in the back of the room. He could sense her there. `Cat youkai . . . it couldn't be . . . could it?' Then again, that would be way too easy, wouldn't it? He sighed inwardly.

 

Slowly, deliberately, Bas straightened his back and ambled into the darkness.

 

“Excuse me,” he said, clearing his throat as the pinpoint flashes of light from her eyes flicked up to meet his gaze. “May I sit here?”

 

“It depends. Do you bite?”

 

Bas shook his head, feeling the rich smoothness of her soft alto voice flowing over him like water. “Not unprovoked.”

 

“Oh? And if I provoke you?”

 

He didn't even crack a smile. “I'm a fairly patient man. It's not that easy to provoke me.”

 

She sighed. “Well, that's a shame, then.”

 

Slipping into the chair across from her, he set the glass down and waited for his eyes to adjust to the trace light.

 

“So what brings a puppy like you out to play?”

 

Gritting his teeth at the allusion to his age—or lack thereof—Bas shrugged and pushed the grimy glass away. “Funny thing coming from a feline.”

 

“Aww, did I touch a nerve?”

 

“Nope, not at all . . . tell me something. I'm looking for a woman named Kit. You know her?”

 

“Should I?” she countered.

 

He didn't miss the almost defensive way she'd asked her last question. “I hear she's a cat like you. Do you know her?”

 

“I know . . . of her . . . why are you looking for her? Tired of playing with the mutts?”

 

“I just want to talk to her. Is that a crime?”

 

“Talk is cheap. Haven't you heard?”

 

“If you don't know her, just say so.”

 

The girl didn't answer right away. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft snick of a zipper. Moments later, she struck a match to light the end of a cigarette. Bas blinked in surprise. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to see in the harsh flare of light. In those seconds, those fleeting heartbeats, he saw her face. Unsure what he had really expected, she caught him completely off-guard.

 

Golden skin warmed by the paltry light accentuated the delicate curves and hollows of her face. Hidden in shifting shadows and brushed with a softness that belied the age he saw in her emerald green eyes, he could tell that she was young, at least biologically. If she was twenty years old, he'd be amazed. Her eyes, though, bespoke an age that had nothing at all to do with her physical body. How much had she seen in her lifetime? Shaking the match with a painfully bony hand, she dropped the burnt stick into a bent tin ashtray. Bas tamped down the desire to growl. He wanted to see her face in better light.

 

The glow of the cigarette's ember gave the enveloping shadows a hazy feel. She exhaled softly and blinked. “I know her,” she said, her voice little more than a breath. “I probably know her better than anyone.”

 

“Can you tell me where to find her?”

 

“Kit?” she asked with a jaded little laugh. “Kit . . . she's easy to find.”

 

“You don't say,” he mused and shrugged. “Go figure.”

 

“Why do you want to talk to her?”

 

Bas sat back, narrowing his eyes as he tried to discern more than the vague outline of black against black, as her silhouette blended a little too easily into the shadows. “I just want to ask her a few questions.”

 

She sighed. “So ask them.”

 

He snorted. “I'd rather ask her, if you don't mind.”

 

“Oh, right . . .” She was quiet a moment. Bas could feel her gaze on him even if he couldn't really see her expression. “I could . . . take you to her, if you want.”

 

He frowned. “And why would you do that?”

 

She chuckled. “I don't know . . . maybe I feel a little sorry for you.”

 

“Sorry for me?”

 

“You look so lost and miserable, puppy. Let's just say I'm just feeling magnanimous tonight.”

 

She moved so quickly that Bas had trouble covering his surprise. He stood up slowly as the girl laughed. “How do I know I can trust you?”

 

“You don't.”

 

Not comforted at all by her admission, Bas followed her anyway. It was the best lead he'd had so far. Even if the girl was just toying with him, he didn't have anything better to do.

 

She didn't say anything else until they were out of the bar. The light from the streetlamps cast the area in grating shadows, severe misshapen things, dilapidated buildings and contortions of life. Casting her an appraising stare under the cover of his thick bangs, Bas narrowed his eyes. She looked even younger than he had first thought—definitely younger than himself. If it weren't for the knowing glint in her eyes, he would have thought she was no older than his fifteen year-old brother and sister.

 

Rubbing her bare arms against the chilly night air, she glanced up and down the street, eyes ever-moving, as though she expected someone to leap out at her from the shadows, and while she didn't appear to have a weapon on her, he didn't doubt for a moment that she knew how to use her razor-sharp claws. Flexing them almost nervously as she turned on her heel and started away, she stopped long enough to glance back at him, to jerk her head, indicating that he should follow.

 

Absently wondering just how she could move so fast as he shook his head and stared at the four-inch stiletto heels she wore, Bas strode after her, trying not to gawk at the tiny tube of black spandex—he supposed she considered it to be a skirt—that barely covered her bottom.

 

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, breaking the lull, the shocking quiet. Didn't the girl have enough common sense to wear a jacket or something? He wasn't cold, but he was from Maine, and the weather there was easily twenty degrees cooler back home. Los Angeles might be a hell of a lot warmer, but the girl kept rubbing her arms, crossing them over her chest in a pitiful attempt to retain body heat. The black tank top didn't reach her navel, and she adjusted the left shoulder strap before snatching at her purse, protectively cradling it against her chest.

 

She peeked up at him quickly, shrugging her thin shoulders as her eyes darted around: constant motion, or so it seemed. “It's not far,” she assured him, tucking a strand of deep auburn hair behind her ear.

 

“What's your name?”

 

“What's yours?”

 

“I asked first.”

 

“But I'm a lady.”

 

He couldn't argue that logic. “Bas,” he supplied slowly. “Your turn.”

 

She smiled vaguely and stopped. “Sydnie. Should we shake hands now, or are there more pleasantries to exchange first?”

 

“I'd rather you take me to Kit,” he remarked.

 

She shrugged and started walking again. “Suit yourself, pretty boy, but I warn you: Kit's not exactly what you'd call a `people-person'.”

 

“I'm not really here for a social call.”

 

“Why are you here? Was Kit a bad . . . kitty?”

 

“I'm not really at liberty to discuss anything with you. You understand.”

 

She smiled. “Right . . . Don't tell me you're a long lost boy-toy? You don't really seem her type . . .”

 

Keeping his chin down in an effort to hide the hot color that filtered into his cheeks, Bas shrugged in what he hoped was an indifferent show and cleared his throat. “Ever meet her boyfriend? Cal Richardson?”

 

“Cal Richardson? Yeah, I met him . . . a real bastard, if you want my opinion. Are you a dic?”

 

“A what?”

 

“A dic? A P. I. A detective . . . a cop.”

 

“Oh . . . no.”

 

“Yeah, you don't look the type.”

 

“Don't I?”

 

“Nope. You don't look like a complete asshole.”

 

“Thanks . . . I think . . .”

 

She glanced around again, biting her burgundy painted lower lip before veering to the left, into the gaping black doorway of a derelict building that looked like it was ready to crumble.

 

Bas had no choice but to follow her into the ramshackle building. Listening intently as he scanned the darkest corners, he didn't sense anyone else and shook his head. “Listen, Sydnie . . . I don't know what your game is, but—”

 

“Ask me no questions; I'll tell you no lies.”

 

“. . . What?”

 

Standing in the center of a shaft of moonlight filtering through the line of ventilation windows that ran the length of the building, she whirled around to face him, a strangely sad, almost ironic sort of smile twisting her lips. Her bangs fell over the left side of her face, her skin glowed blue in the weak light. So impossibly slender that he could see the pronounced hollows above her collarbones, she looked somehow unreachable and altogether vulnerable at the same time.

 

“What is it you want to know, Bas the Hunter?”

 

He stifled a sigh, dragging a hand over his face as he shook his head and stared at her. “I thought you said—”

 

“I know what I said. I said I'd introduce you to Kit.”

 

“So where is she?”

 

That enigmatic little smile appeared again, and she dropped her purse on the floor, raising a small cloud of dust. “She's me . . . I'm her . . . and this is my turf.”

 

He couldn't stop the incredulous laugh that slipped out at her outlandish claim. “You're Kit? Ri-i-ight . . . Come on, Sydnie. If you don't know her, just say so.”

 

She sighed. “You don't believe me?”

 

Bas snorted. “Pfft! No.”

 

She nodded slowly, lowering her chin as she paced around the filthy room. “How can I convince you?”

 

“Why would you want to? Your friend is in some very serious trouble.”

 

“Are you here to kill me, Mr. Hunter—a nameless, faceless nobody?”

 

“Assuming I believe you're who you claim to be—which I don't—what makes you think that I'm here to kill anyone?”

 

“Oh? Isn't that what hunters do?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“They're called `hunters' for a reason, right? So what are you here for, if not to kill me?”

 

“I told you. I just want to talk to Kit.”

 

“And I told you, puppy, talk now or forever hold your peace.”

 

Grinding his teeth together in an effort to keep his irritation under control, Bas shook his head as he stared at the cat-youkai. “You really want me to believe you're Kit?”

 

She shrugged and stared at him, her eyes glowing almost yellow in the murky dark. `Cat eyes,' he thought with a slight shake of his head. `Cat eyes . . .'

 

“It doesn't make a great goddamn to me, one way or the other, pretty boy. If you don't want to believe that I am who I say I am, then you can walk out that door right now and never look back. Then I suppose you can go back to your tai-youkai and tell him that you failed, can't you?”

 

`But . . . she can't be . . . can she?'

 

`She could be, sure. Stranger things have happened. Red hair, Bas . . . She does have red hair . . .'

 

Assessing her where she stood in the shaft of moonlight, she looked completely harmless, didn't she? Hair cascading around her like a silky waterfall, translucent skin stretched so taut over an otherwise bony frame . . . Youkai could exist without eating, of course. If they didn't, though, they ended up looking much like this girl. Painfully thin, every bone of her body seemed visible. Under the short shirt, he could see the discernable lines of her ribcage, and he winced inwardly. There was a vast difference between word games and murder. This girl, no matter what her story might be . . . His mother always said that he should trust his heart, trust his instincts, and those instincts were screaming at him: she wasn't a murderer. She couldn't be a murderer, and he knew it.

 

“Prove it.”

 

“Prove what?”

 

“If you're Kit, then prove it.”

 

“And how shall I do that?”

 

He shrugged. “Find a way.”

 

She smiled slightly; a cynical expression devoid of humor, of emotion. “Nine days.”

 

“What?”

 

She sighed, pinning Bas with a look that bespoke her disgust at his ignorance. “Nine days . . . To be more precise, nine days, twenty hours . . . some odd minutes . . .”

 

He shook his head without taking his eyes off her.

 

“You poor stupid puppy . . . Isn't that what you came here to find out? You wanted to know, right? I killed Cal Richardson—that miserable bastard.”

 

Her words stung him, and yet his mind still refused to believe. Could someone so young, so innocent-looking despite the age writ in her eyes really be a murderer? “Reciting a time of death that is of public record barely proves guilt or innocence in this world.”

 

“Did you go there?”

 

“Go there?”

 

“To Richardson's apartment. Did you go there?”

 

“Of course I did.”

 

“You didn't smell me there?”

 

“It's a crime scene. There have been a hundred people parading in and out of that place. Picking up a scent is nearly impossible.”

 

“I suppose it is. Makes your job harder, doesn't it?”

 

“Why do you want me to believe that you're Kit?”

 

“Why do you want to believe that I'm not?”

 

He shook his head. “So you tell me you are her, and then you say you killed Cal Richardson? Just like that?”

 

“Just like that.”

 

“Tell me why you killed him.”

 

Sinking down on a broken cinder block, legs askew but knees together, she seemed to be considering his question. Bas draped his hands on his hips and waited for her answer. “It doesn't really matter, does it? To kill . . . to live . . . to die . . . it all circles back on itself.” She didn't move as her gaze shifted to meet his, green eyes glowing with something akin to amusement . . . or maybe it was something a little deeper, a little more frightening . . . “I don't fear you. I don't fear any of Cain Zelig's hangmen.”

 

“All right,” he allowed slowly. “If that's the case, then you have to come with me.”

 

“I do?”

 

“Those are my orders. The tai-youkai wants to talk to you.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint him,” she remarked in a rueful tone. “I'll have to decline his offer.

 

“You don't have much of a choice.”

 

She stood up slowly, refusing to drop her gaze. He saw the fleeting glimpse of regret flash through her eyes. “In another life,” she murmured softly. “In another time or place . . .”

 

“What's that?”

 

Her smile was sad, mysterious, and the flash of her movements startling. Caught off-guard, Bas started to draw his sword as he whipped around to face her. Blinding pain flashed, an explosion behind his eyes, and he slumped to the floor with an expelled gust of breath.

 

Sydnie caught him, carefully lowering him onto his back despite the immense weight that accompanied his very solid physique. He'd be safe enough here, in this building. No one dared to enter it. She'd made sure of that, herself. Kneeling beside the young hunter, she bit her lip and sighed. Pushing his bangs out of his face, she almost smiled at the boyish features he hid behind those startling golden eyes. The angles and planes were tempered by the wide set of his jaw, by the smoothness of his skin. He might well be older than she was, but not by much. Why did looking at him make her sad? She shook her head, pulled her hand away from his cheek. “Why didn't you listen to me? Why didn't you just turn around and walk away?”

 

His only answer was the even rhythm of his breathing. “I'm sorry, Bas the Hunter . . .”

 

With that, Sydnie stood up, retrieved her purse, and disappeared into the murky shadows of the night without looking back.

 

 

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Final Thought fromBas:

Who the hell is she?

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Phantasm): I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~