InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Winter Wonderland ( Chapter 19 )

~~Chapter 19~~

~Winter Wonderland~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“If you do it, you'll be sorry.”

 

Isabelle hefted the snowball in her hand and shot Griffin her most winning smile. “How sorry, Dr. Marin?”

 

He snorted, still staring at her out of the corner of his eye. “Very.”

 

“Hmm, I'm not sure that's enough to stop me,” she said as Froofie ran around her feet, yapping like crazy.

 

“Speaks volumes for your level of intelligence.”

 

She laughed. It was easy to laugh, she supposed. The sun was shining, and everything felt normal again—a welcome change from the worry that had plagued her for the last couple of days while Griffin had been recuperating. It hadn't set well with her that he'd been hard-pressed to move off the sofa the day after she'd found him in the woods, but the more she tried to check him over, the more closed-off he became. In the end, she'd just done what she could by bringing him tea and making sure that he was comfortable enough—more difficult than it sounded since he hadn't seemed to be able to get comfortable, at all.

 

His situation had really bothered her the following morning when he hadn't seemed much better off. He'd even called in to cancel his class for the day—something that he never did. In the end, she'd called her father on her lunch break to ask him a few things.

 

“Baby Belle,” he'd greeted, his tone warm and welcome and strong. “I'm glad you called.”

 

“Me, too, Papa . . . I wanted to ask you something . . .” she'd said, frowning thoughtfully at the half-cold cheeseburger that she didn't really want.

 

She heard the creak of his chair as he pushed away from his desk and paced around his study. In her mind's eye, she could see him with his sleeve rolled up a couple of times, his hand stuffed casually into his pocket as he moved, his glasses reflecting the ambient light of his desk lamp, and she smiled wanly. How often had she played on the polished wood floor while he worked, while her mother read a magazine or talked quietly, recanting the events of the day for her mate's delectation? He'd paused often to set his work aside, to smile indulgently at his wife and daughter. If she'd fallen asleep on the floor once, she'd done it a million times with Alexandra curled up beside her while Kichiro and Bellaniece worked.

 

“You sound serious . . . all right.”

 

She sighed, propping her elbow on the desk and rubbing her forehead with a weary hand. “I wondered . . . how is it possible for a youkai to scar?”

 

“Youkai scarring?” he echoed, his tone a little surprised by her question. “Huh . . . that's pretty rare . . .”

 

“I know.”

 

He let out a deep breath. “I guess in theory, a youkai could scar in a few different ways . . . an infusion of spiritual power might react much like a cauterizing agent if the person who inflicts the injury has that sort of ability . . . If the wound was inflicted by a youkai whose strength significantly surpassed that of the one who was wounded . . .” His voice grew muffled as though he were covering his mouth with his hand. “Possibly if the youkai doesn't feel he deserves to heal, that would do it, too . . .”

 

“How can that be?” she asked as her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She didn't like any of the ideas presented, and yet who would know better than then acclaimed youkai researcher, Izayoi Kichiro?

 

He chuckled a little sadly. “Baby, you know better than most that there is a very strong connection between the psyche and the physical body of the youkai. That is why there's no way to stop the physical deterioration of a youkai who loses his or her mate . . . The body just loses the will to fight regardless of how desperately the youkai might wish to survive.”

 

And she knew that, too, didn't she? If a youkai's true mate died or rejected them, it always—always—resulted in death. Her grandfather, as much as she adored him, had almost lost Gin that way. It'd taken so long for them to admit the truth to one another that Gin had nearly died . . . Still, that really didn't have a thing to do with Griffin's scarring, but she'd wanted answers . . . “Papa . . .” she began slowly, carefully striving for a calm, a detachment, that she certainly wasn't feeling.

 

“Mmm?”

 

She licked her lips and sat back in her chair, letting her gaze wander out the window at the gently falling snow outside. “Scar tissue . . . if it's bad enough, it could hinder certain functions, couldn't it? Circulation or even gross motor skills . . .?”

 

“Well, sure . . . if the scarring is bad enough and in the wrong places, it could do some pretty excessive damage.”

 

She sighed again, nodding slowly, as though she thought that he could see her. “I thought so,” she allowed. “But that could be fixed, couldn't it? Reconstructive surgery . . .?”

 

“In theory it could,” he agreed. “Then again, it also depends on the severity of the scarring and the initial scope of the damage that was done, to start with. Why the sudden interest in youkai scarring?”

 

Though he'd asked the question mildly enough, she didn't miss the hint of forced nonchalance in his tone, either, and she cleared her throat. “I just wondered . . . for a patient . . .”

 

“A patient, huh?” He sighed. “Gotta tell you, though . . . the surgery can be damn expensive. If the scar tissue is really deep, it can take a number of surgeries to correct it.”

 

“I thought as much,” she allowed. “But if the scar tissue is old . . .? What then?”

 

“How old are we talking?”

 

“I . . . I don't know . . .” Tapping her claws on the desk, she slowly shook her head. “I think he's had it awhile . . . It's just . . . it's bad . . .”

 

“How bad?”

 

Letting out her breath in a rush, she sat up a little straighter and shoved the cheeseburger into the trashcan beside the desk. “Bad enough to give him problems . . . Messing up his circulation and drastically affecting his mobility.”

 

Kichiro cleared his throat as he considered what she'd said. “So it's bad,” he murmured. “It'd be hard to say without seeing him personally, but if it's bad enough that it's affecting those things, then I'd say it should have been taken care of a long time ago. How did this guy get the scars?”

 

“I . . . I don't know,” she admitted. “He, um . . . he won't tell me.”

 

His silence was telling, and Isabelle grimaced. Cursing herself for letting that much slip, she wasn't at all surprised when her father finally spoke. “A patient, you say.”

 

“. . . Sort of . . .”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Papa, it's not like that, honestly . . . I just want to help him.”

 

“Why don't you tell me what really happened?”

 

And she had, at least for the most part. She left out a few things, like Gunnar's interference since it wouldn't really do any good to dwell on. Kichiro had ascertained enough to get an accurate picture of the situation, anyway, and that was really all that mattered. As it was, he wouldn't really be able to give her any solid advice unless he actually examined Griffin, and that, unfortunately, was something that just wasn't going to happen.

 

She'd been surprised, all things considered, when she'd headed outside awhile ago to shovel the driveway behind her car. Griffin had followed her, obviously feeling much better, which relieved Isabelle more than she could credit. With a grunt and mumbling under his breath about worthless girlies who didn't know the proper way to hold a shovel, he'd taken it from her and nudged her aside to finish the task despite her worries that he would aggravate his joints again. She'd cautiously voiced her concern one time and had gotten a narrow glare for her efforts.

 

But he seemed to be all right, she allowed as she watched him finish clearing away the snow. He knocked the end of the shovel against the now-cleared driveway and lumbered off to put it away as Isabelle set her snowball aside and scooped up another huge glob.

 

The snowball whizzed through the air seemingly out of nowhere, smacking into Isabelle's arm as she let out a small shriek of surprise. Glancing around quickly, she spotted him—Griffin—leaning against the side of the house with an entirely smug look on his face. He wasn't smiling, no, but he didn't have to. His eyes were positively sparkling, and just for a moment, Isabelle couldn't move; could only stare as the earth spun out of her control.

 

`Devastating,' she mused absently, unable to lend any real coherence to her jumbled thoughts. The way the sunlight reflected off the snow and pooled in his eyes . . . the wind blowing his shaggy bangs, lifting it on invisible fingers . . . the slight pinkness in his cheeks, undoubtedly from the chill in the air . . . and just this once, he didn't seem to be uncomfortable with himself or with the world at large. No, he was a beautiful creature, as untouchable as he was mysterious, and Isabelle . . . She loved him, didn't she? Loved him more than she'd ever loved anything, ever . . .

 

“You're supposed to dodge it, Jezebel,” he murmured, his voice carrying to her despite the trademark quietness of his voice.

 

“W-was I?” she asked, her tone breathless as she stared at him.

 

“Yes, you were,” he maintained, pushing himself away from the building and making his way along the cleared driveway toward the mailbox.

 

`It's just not fair,' she thought with a soft sigh as she watched him go. `He shouldn't be able to get to me so easily, should he?'

 

`And that's a bad thing?' her youkai demanded. `You've got to be kidding . . . it'd be weird if he didn't make you feel that way, you know. Lusting after the man you want to have as your mate isn't necessarily a bad thing . . .'

 

`My mate,' she thought with a secretive little smile. `I like that . . .'

 

`Yes, well, don't count your chickens before they're hatched. You've still got to convince him that he wants that, too.'

 

`Oh, I don't know . . . I think he's coming around,' she mused as she took careful aim.

 

`Now, this isn't a good idea . . .'

 

`This is a great idea . . . after all, he did it first, didn't he?'

 

With that thought, she let the snowball fly. Griffin's head snapped to the side when the snowball struck him on the arm, his gaze moving deliberately slowly as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. His expression was inscrutable despite the heightened glow in his eyes, and she felt her breath catch yet again.

 

Stuffing the mail into the pocket of the oversized red and black quilted flannel jacket he wore, he paused long enough to scoop up a handful of snow—much, much more than she could have picked up with one hand—and packed the snow between his huge palms. Isabelle was faster, though, snatching up the snowball she'd already made and whipping it at him before he got a chance to retaliate.

 

It hit him in the middle of his chest as he stalked toward her with the light of mayhem bright in his eyes. He didn't say a word as he kept moving toward her.

 

With a yelp, she turned on her heel to dash away but not before Griffin's snowball hit her in the leg. If he'd packed it very much, she couldn't tell because it broke apart easily on impact as she twisted her torso to heave another snowball at him. He smacked it away like he would a fly in the summer, and somewhere along the way he'd managed to scoop together another massive handful of snow.

 

“Bad aim, Jezebel?” he taunted.

 

She wrinkled her nose and stooped to gather more ammunition.

 

“Here,” he said, digging a bright red envelope out of his pocket. “This is for you . . . who'd you give my address to?”

 

Sparing the envelope little more than a cursory glance as Griffin turned it over to examine the handwriting, Isabelle took the opportunity to slip behind him. Reaching up to drop a chunk of snow neatly down the back of his shirt, she laughed and darted away as Griffin swung his arm to catch her.

 

“What's the matter, Pooh Bear? Jezebel a little too quick for you?” she goaded.

 

He narrowed his gaze and uttered a curt grunt, catching the envelope between his teeth so he could shake the snow out of his shirt. Satisfied that he'd gotten it out, he packed the snow he still held tightly before whipping it at her. She barely had time to raise her arms before the snow smacked into her. If she had been a little slower, she'd have ended up with a mouthful of snow for her efforts . . .

 

“Oh, so that's how you want to do this,” she said, lowering her arms and cocking an eyebrow at him as she slowly bent down to scoop up another handful of snow.

 

“That's what happens when you don't play nice,” he informed her, pulling the envelope out of his mouth and sticking a corner of it into the snow as he smashed together another snowball.

 

“Bring it, big boy,” she retorted.

 

“I think I might,” he grumbled, shoving the new snowball at her without straightening his back.

 

She dodged that one easily enough and sprinted toward him, catching the neck of his shirt and shoving the snow down his back yet again, only this time, she laughed loudly, smashing the snow under his shirt and coat as he growled and tried to jerk away from her. She held on tight, and he retaliated, catching her ankle and jerking her feet out from under her before straddling her to pin her in place. “Griffin!” she squeaked, shoving at him in a vain effort to dislodge him. Her short coat rode up; her back was fast numbing from the snow beneath her. Griffin shot her a droll sort of look and leaned down, extending his arms out at his sides, only to bring them up, smashing the snow around her like he was going to bury her.

 

“Never learned that you ought not to tease a bear?” he asked as he scooped more snow together with his arms.

 

“It's cold!” she protested, unable to keep from giggling as he packed snow in around her.

 

“Good. Maybe next time you'll think twice before deciding you can take me on.”

 

“But you started it!”

 

“That'll never hold up in a court of law.”

 

Her laughter died as quickly as it had come, though, when he rose up on his knees and leaned forward, so intent on burying her that he wasn't really paying attention to anything else. Staring up at him, she gasped softly. His face was mere inches from hers though his gaze was trained above her head as he supported his weight on one hand and piled more snow around her.

 

He was close enough that she could feel the waves of heat radiating through his clothes, close enough that she could feel the welcome caress of his youki on hers. The cold seemed to fade from her mind as she stared at him, as she drank in the sight of him, committing this moment to memory. The heady wash of emotion that coursed through her made her grit her teeth to keep from moaning, and as if he could sense the unsettled feelings inundating her, he dropped his gaze suddenly to meet hers.

 

The determination in his eyes faded slowly, only to be replaced by a troubled sort of light that whispered to her soul, and while she knew that he really didn't understand exactly what he was feeling, she could sense that he realized on some level that she felt it, too.

 

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the almost desperate action, and he shook his head slightly, as though he were trying to clear his mind. His dark eyes glowed with open admiration—something he normally sought to hide from her—as he licked his lips, as he uttered a sound: not quite a groan, not quite a growl—a possessive sound, wholly foreign coming from Griffin, and completely welcome to her. Closing her eyes as a tumultuous tremor raced up her spine, she lifted her hand to touch his right cheek, marveled at the smoothness of his skin despite the light sprinkling of stubble that had already started to grow back after his morning shave, and though he stiffened for a moment, he didn't jerk away, and she couldn't help the trembling smile that quirked on her lips as he unconsciously leaned into her touch.

 

`Careful, Bitty . . . be careful,' her youkai whispered.

 

Savoring the complete acceptance, she was loathe to acknowledge the interference. `. . . Careful?'

 

`He's still not ready,' her youkai went on. `If you press him; if you push him . . .'

 

She reluctantly opened her eyes, and stifled a sigh. Griffin had his eyes closed, his expression a heartbreaking mix of contentment and longing, and she bit her lip. As much as she wished it were otherwise, her youkai was right . . . Though he might welcome her attention at the moment, in the end, it'd only serve to make him raise his defenses that much more, wouldn't it?

 

It was enough to make her want to scream, really. They were close—so close, and . . . and she sighed. “Griffin?” she said softly, letting her hand fall away as she told herself that she really was doing the right thing.

 

He didn't respond right away, and she had a feeling that he really hadn't heard her. “Griffin,” she said again, a little louder this time though not by much.

 

He finally opened his eyes very slowly, his gaze unfocused and a little bemused. She forced a smile, willing her pulse to slow, willing her body to relax before he discerned exactly how badly she wanted him, but she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “It's starting to snow again.”

 

He blinked as his eyebrows drew together in a scowl, and as his eyes cleared, she wasn't surprised to see a tide of color blossom in his cheeks. He jerked upright, as though he'd been scalded. The sudden loss of his body heat hit her hard, and she shivered.

 

He snorted, his scowl darkening as the ruddy hue deepened, and he pushed himself to his feet before grabbing her hands and pulling her up, too. He let go about the moment she was standing, though, and she stifled another sigh as he shook his head, mumbling about getting inside before she froze.

 

She hung back as he trudged toward the porch, watching him go as he carefully stomped his feet to knock off the excess snow. The memory of the expression on his face haunted her, hanging onto the edges of her mind as she shook her head and tried to tell herself that she'd done the right thing. It was one thing to know that her youkai had been right. It was another thing, entirely, to convince herself that she really didn't need to scream in frustration.

 

`Just remember, Bitty. Griffin's worth it; you know he is.'

 

`Yeah,' she allowed but couldn't quite muster the enthusiasm that she supposed her youkai wanted from her. `Yeah, he is. Of course he is . . .'

 

Spotting the scarlet envelope still sticking in the snow a few feet away, Isabelle let out a deep breath and stooped to pick it up. She didn't recognize the handwriting, and she hadn't given Griffin's address to anyone, and even then, the card was addressed only to Isabelle—no last name—care of Dr. Griffin Marin. In fact, he went over to her house at least every couple of days to grab her mail so that no one grew suspicious unless they were watching her home.

 

With a mental shrug, she turned the envelope over and slipped her claw into the miniscule opening and sliced it open and pulled out the simple yet elegant Christmas card . . .

 

 

 

`Dear Isabelle,

 

`Hello, and please forgive my forward greeting. My husband, Attean told me of you but sadly did not have your last name. My name is Maria, and I am one of Osezno's oldest friends. Attean says that you are staying with Osezno as his guest, and while this news is surprising, I cannot say it is unwelcome, either . . .'

 

 

 

Her eyes widened as she read the letter. She supposed that was normal enough, considering Griffin never talked about anyone, and while she wasn't certain, the way Maria referred to this `Osezno', Isabelle guessed that the woman was talking about Griffin . . .

 

 

 

`I wanted to take the time to write to you in hopes that you can help him where Attean and I failed. That is to say, we tried to show Osezno many times that the way to live was not in dwelling in a past that cannot be changed, but in looking for the beauty of the future. Though he never told us exactly what happened, we understood that it was the past that burdened him, and I'm ashamed to say that while we did what we could to heal his broken body, there wasn't much we could do to heal his broken spirit. Maybe this is something you can do. Attean tells me that Osezno talks to you in such a way that he has never heard before. This is good; very good, and I am glad that he has found someone after all.

 

`He is precious to us, you see. He is the brother that Attean never had, and he is the prodigal son that I'll never understand. I hope that after the passage of time that the nightmares that plagued him have stopped. I've always believed that they would if he would only open up and speak of them to someone; someone that he can trust . . .'

 

 

 

She frowned and bit her lip, brushing aside the snow that had fallen over Maria's neat script. `Nightmares . . .?' she mused absently. `Does he still have those . . .?'

 

A sudden chill ran up her spine, and Isabelle sighed. Why was it that she knew—just knew—that these nightmares that Maria spoke of hadn't really gone away?

 

 

 

`I hope that you can be patient with him, and that is the true reason I write this. I know better than anyone, just how stubborn Osezno can be. It is one of the things that I have always admired about him, for it has served him well in many things, but there are times when it is to his detriment, too. He wants to protect you, and that is something that Attean has always said is the gravest of vows to their kind. If this is true, then I am glad. It means that Osezno has finally found someone he can believe in, even if he doesn't really believe in himself. While I wonder if this makes sense to you, it is something that I've always hoped he'd find.

 

`I suppose that in the end, all I really wanted to say was that I hope you take good care of him. He's been alone for far too long.

 

`All the best,

 

`Maria.'

 

 

 

Letting the card fold closed over her thumb, Isabelle pondered Maria's words. Who was she, and what sort of relationship did Attean and she really have with Griffin? She talked about him in terms that made him sound like a mere child, and yet she knew better, didn't she? He'd lived a long time, and while she didn't know exactly how long that was, she did understand that he was probably older than even her grandfather, Cain . . .

 

`Nightmares,' she thought suddenly, frowning at the card she still held. Would he tell her if she asked him? She sighed. Probably not . . .

 

`It means that Osezno has finally found someone he can believe in, even if he doesn't really believe in himself . . .'

 

Wading through the two feet of snow that blanketed the ground, Isabelle trudged toward the house. Sure, she didn't know what sort of things lingered out just out of his vision; didn't begin to comprehend the things that still had the power to hurt him, and yet . . . and yet she couldn't give up, either, could she? And if Maria was to be believed, then maybe she really was the only one who could help him . . .

 

The house was silent as she closed the door and leaned against the wall to tug off her boots, setting them carefully in the shallow plastic towel-lined tub that Griffin had set out when the first snow had started to fall. It wasn't the first time she'd taken note of the almost compulsive neatness that he tended to ascribe to, and it made her smile. He'd already sopped up whatever mess he'd left; the softly shining wood floor was clean and dry, and pulling the small rag towel off the rack behind the door, she made quick work of cleaning up the few puddles of water left after she'd removed her boots, too.

 

She heard Froofie whining and ducked around the corner of the entryway to see why and smiled. The dog was lying on the floor outside the closed door to Griffin's `lair' with his muzzle in his paws, looking completely abandoned and inconsolable. It was easy to tell that the man in question had obviously disappeared down there and hadn't taken the dog with him . . .

 

Turning back to the entry, she made quick work of hanging her coat on the hook beside Griffin's flannel jacket and grabbed the card from the hallway table before padding through the house to try to console her dog.

 

`Froofie isn't nearly as glad to see me as he used to be,' she thought as she dropped the card onto the dining room table. Lifting his head, he thumped his tail a couple of times against the floor but didn't stand up to greet her. Little by little, Griffin was stealing her dog, she supposed, but since it was Griffin, she figured that was all right, too, and she smiled as she scratched Froofie behind the ears and stood up. “Maybe if you knocked, he'd let you in,” she stated.

 

Froofie cocked his head to the side as though he were considering Isabelle's claim and slowly pushed against the floor with his front paws, rear end rising in the air as a huge yawn forced his mouth wide. Stretching done, he scratched at the door once, twice, and sat down to wait.

 

It worked like a charm. She heard Griffin's heavy footsteps on the old wooden steps seconds before the door slowly opened wide enough to let Froofie in while Isabelle covered her lips with her hand to keep from giggling out loud. He peered around the door before closing it, pausing for a moment as his gaze flickered over her, and she wasn't entirely surprised when his cheeks pinked then reddened though he didn't turn and run away. “The notes are on my desk,” he muttered, scowling at the floor with the adorable tint of a blush still staining his cheeks. “Check them over, will you? There are a couple places where you need to figure out which translation is right before I can move on.”

 

“Okay,” she agreed amiably. “Griffin?”

 

He stopped and hesitantly met her gaze, his scowl deepening as more color infiltrated his skin. “What?”

 

Wisely holding back her amusement, Isabelle shrugged and tried to look innocent. “Are you sure I can't join you down there?”

 

He snorted. “Yes,” he said, pulling the door closed behind himself.

 

She listened to him descending the stairs and giggled. As predictable as ever, certainly, and yet she just loved to hear the responses she knew she was going to get.

 

Heaving a sigh as she glanced around the otherwise empty house, she bit her lip as a sense of loneliness swept over her. It wasn't that she constantly needed to have someone there, no, but the house never ceased to feel so vacant whenever Griffin was closeted away in the basement . . . and maybe she was just needing a semblance of reassurance that he really wasn't going to close her off again after the snowball fight outside . . . Either way, she couldn't help the feeling of melancholy that clung to her when she stared at the closed basement door.

 

Another thought struck her as she stood, staring at the closed basement door. It'd never work, and she knew it wouldn't. That didn't mean that she should just give up, did it?

 

The humor of the situation didn't go unnoticed, either, as she bit her lip and slipped over to the door.

 

`You've got to be crazy if you think this might actually work,' her youkai pointed out.

 

`Don't be so pessimistic . . . and even if it doesn't work, it's worth a try, don't you think?'

 

`If you say so, Bitty . . . I'll give you points for effort . . .'

 

She couldn't contain the smile that broke over her face as she raised her hand and scratched on the door. `It worked for Froofie, didn't it . . .?'

 

`You're not your dog.'

 

She laughed and scratched once more for good measure, her smile widening when she heard the tell-tale creak of the steps moments later, and she stepped back to wait.

 

He did open the door and peer out at her, his expression unchanging as he slowly shook his head. Lifting his chin, he deliberately sniffed the air and snorted. “I don't smell any testosterone, so forget it, Jezebel,” he said.

 

She tried not to smile. “I should hope not.”

 

That earned her a definitive grunt. “I told you, right? This is man's domain,” he stated flatly.

 

“I know,” she agreed, clasping her hands behind her back.

 

“And you're not a man,” he reasoned.

 

“Not the last time I checked, no . . .”

 

“So go away . . . find something . . . girly to do,” he grumbled.

 

“Okay, okay,” she hurried to say before he managed to close the door. “I'll leave you alone, I swear, if you tell me what you've got down there.”

 

Griffin glanced over his shoulder, slowly shaking his head. “I've told you before; it's none of your business.”

 

“Dead bodies?” she deadpanned.

 

“. . . Yes.”

 

“Nosey wenches?”

 

“. . . Yes.”

 

“Some sort of voodoo haven where you're gathering your legions of undead minions?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Can I help?”

 

“No.”

 

She broke into a smile. She couldn't help it. Something about Griffin, standing in the doorway with a thoughtful scowl on his face as he readily agreed to the outrageous things she was saying . . . “Oh, come on, Griffin! You can't keep me in the dark!” she complained.

 

“I can, and I am, and you can like it,” he informed her, a hint of smugness seeping into his expression as he crossed his thick arms over his chest and nodded.

 

“But that's just mean,” she told him, stomping her foot.

 

He raised an eyebrow at the perceived childishness in her reaction. “I beg to differ. `Mean' is insisting that I tell you things that I obviously don't want to tell you,” he pointed out.

 

“That's just curiosity,” she retorted. He looked completely nonplussed, and Isabelle figured it was time to try a different tactic . . . “I have an idea! Why don't we go for a nice, long walk?”

 

“It's snowing,” he reminded her. “Twelve to eighteen inches by night, they said on the news.”

 

She wrinkled her nose. “I could . . . I could make tea for you,” she offered.

 

“Already had some while you were him-hawing around in the yard.”

 

“Oh, come on, Griffin! What do you really have down there?” she demanded.

 

No doubt about it, he actually looked completely amused though he didn't quite smile, she figured. Too bad she wasn't. Griffin's mysteries were enough to make her want to scream . . .

 

“It's a secret,” he maintained.

 

Isabelle heaved a sigh, wrapping her arms over her stomach as she tried not to pout and failed. Shifting her gaze to the side, she remembered the Christmas card that had come in the mail, and very slowly, very deliberately, she reached out to snag it off the dining table as a calculated grin surfaced on her face. “I'll make you a deal, big guy,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky purr.

 

His eyes darkened in complete distrust as he carefully regarded her. “A deal,” he echoed with a shake of his head. “I don't think so . . .”

 

“Hear me out, Griffin,” she went on, making a deliberate show of tapping the edge of the card against her chin. “Aren't you even remotely interested in who this card is from?”

 

“Not really,” he replied as he started to pull the door closed once more.

 

“Oh? Then you don't mind that Maria sends her regards.”

 

That stopped him dead in his tracks, and she supposed she ought to feel at least a little bad for springing it on him like that, but it had the desired effect: he slowly pivoted on his heel, leveling an inscrutable eye on her as he crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his gaze from her to the card and back again. “Regards, huh?”

 

She nodded, deliberately making a show of opening the card and pretending to read while paying close attention to Griffin's movements lest he should decide that he wanted to snatch it out of her hands. “So you've known her awhile, I take it? She's Attean's mate?”

 

He grunted—as close to a `yes' as she was like to get out of him. “All right,” he gave in, albeit with complete ill-grace. “Let me have it.”

 

Shifting her eyes to meet his, she smiled sweetly without making a move to comply with his obvious demand. “Tell me what's in your basement.”

 

His growl was full of irritation if not even a little belligerent. “Fat chance, Jezebel.”

 

“Oh, that's too bad, Griffin,” she remarked, closing the card and pursing her lips in a pouting moue.

 

“Hand it over.”

 

“Your basement.”

 

He snorted indelicately and shook his head. “The card.”

 

“You know, it occurred to me, Griffin Marin . . .”

 

“What?”

 

She shrugged offhandedly and slowly paced across the floor. “You've got secrets in your basement, right? Then this card . . .” She paused for dramatic effect and glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. “This is going into . . . my `basement'.”

 

His eyes narrowed dangerously, cheeks reddening though she couldn't rightfully tell if it was irritation or embarrassment that sparked the vapid blush that enveloped his countenance, and it grew darker when she slipped the card down the front of her shirt with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “If you want it, come and get it,” she goaded.

 

He opened his mouth and snapped it closed a few times, looking for all intents and purposes like a fish out of water. She could see it in his eyes: he desperately wanted to know what was written in the card, but something stopped him from asking—that old stubbornness, she supposed. She almost laughed out loud—almost. Caught between the wish that he would tell her what he was keeping from her and the nearly overwhelming desire to demand answers to the questions that Maria's note had brought to mind, she held her ground. “Jezebel,” he finally muttered, glowering at her for a long moment before turning around and heading for the basement once more.

 

“Griffin,” she called after him, stopping him yet again before he could make his escape.

 

Letting out his breath in a frustrated rush, he didn't turn to face her though he did stop walking away. “What?”

 

She bit her lip, wondered if she really ought to give voice to the question that was foremost in her mind. It had been since she'd read the card—the question that she couldn't really get out of her mind until she got an answer from Griffin . . . She'd seen it in his eyes far too many times, hadn't she? That sense of foreboding, as if he thought that he wasn't worthy of anyone's time or attention; as if he believed that he wasn't worth a damn thing in the end . . . Rubbing a hand idly over the smoothness of her blouse and the card below it, she drew a deep breath as Maria's words flashed through her mind yet again . . .

 

`I hope that after the passage of time that the nightmares that plagued him have stopped . . .'

 

“Maria said that you used to have nightmares,” she said softly, lowering her voice as if it would lessen the impact of her words. She didn't miss the way his back stiffened; didn't mistake the tension that rose and mounted as he clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides. “You still do, don't you?” she whispered.

 

He didn't answer for several moments, and Isabelle was starting to think that he wasn't going to. The ticking of the clock on the mantle in the other room resounded in her ears, louder than thunder, and she had to wonder if confronting him over the nightmares hadn't been a huge mistake . . . “No,” he finally stated flatly. “No . . .”

 

She watched him retreat in silence, his back straight and proud, and she knew deep down that he wanted her to believe him; wanted her to think that whatever it was that used to haunt him was gone forever because he had willed it to be so. He wanted her to think that there was nothing in Maria's words, or maybe he just wanted to believe it, himself.

 

As the door closed softly behind him, she let her breath out in a rush, sinking into the nearest chair as she let her head fall into her hands and sighed.

 

Too bad she didn't believe him, after all . . .

 

 

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A/N:

 

Osezno: Bear cub in Spanish …Maria's “name”for Griffin.

 

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Final Thought from Isabelle:

Nightmares …

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Avouchment): I do not claim any rights to InuYashaor 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~