InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Incandescence ( Chapter 25 )

~~Chapter 25~~

~Incandescence~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin grimaced, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand in an effort to alleviate the stiffness that had set in shortly after Isabelle and he had returned from dinner. He hadn't pushed himself too far, but he had to admit that he was a little sore. Drumming his claws against the steering wheel of Isabelle's car, he scowled at the hospital entrance and wondered if it wasn't a mistake to let her go inside alone.

 

They hadn't been back at the house for ten minutes when she'd hurried through the living room, stopping only long enough to grab her purse before heading for the foyer, and he'd followed her in time to catch her stooped over, tugging her shoes back on.

 

“I have to run past the hospital,” she reluctantly explained as he crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his gaze on her. “I need to check on her . . .”

 

He could tell from her expression that going back to the hospital was the very last thing she wanted to do, not that he blamed her. He didn't figure he'd enjoy going back to the place where such hurtful memories lived, either, and as much as he wished he could talk her out of going, he also knew that she'd insist. It was her responsibility, after all, even if the very idea of doing it was enough to draw a marked grimace from her.

 

“Give me the keys,” he mumbled, shaking his head and reaching for his coat.

 

She stared at him for a long minute but did as he told her without comment.

 

Letting out a deep breath, Griffin killed the engine and fumbled around for the door handle, deciding that the least he could do was to go inside and wait for her. He could understand the family's anger at the situation—anyone would be upset—but he'd also be damned if he'd let them take their frustration out of Isabelle, either. She was a doctor, but she wasn't a god, and it didn't matter what she wished, she couldn't change the past. She prided herself on her work; he knew that. There was no way she'd have overlooked anything in her treatment of the woman, of that he was certain. She cared about people far too much to do something as careless as that, and if she said that what she'd done was standard procedure, then he believed that, too.

 

He just started to climb out of the car when Isabelle stepped out from between the automatically sliding doors. She paused for a moment, rubbing her forehead, and despite the distance, he could sense her rising upset, but he got back into the car, unmindful of the terse little growl that rumbled out of him unbidden.

 

She dashed a hand over her eyes and lifted her chin proudly before squaring her shoulders and adjusting her grip on the black leather bag she had slung over her arm. Striding over to the car, she didn't speak as she opened the door and slipped inside. “She's doing better,” Isabelle finally said as Griffin started the engine and waited for her to fasten her seatbelt. “She'll probably be able to go home tomorrow . . .”

 

He grunted.

 

She sighed, turning her attention out the window as he navigated the parking lot and turned out onto the street. “She blames herself,” Isabelle murmured softly. “I wish she didn't . . .”

 

“Sounds familiar,” Griffin retorted almost mildly, squinting as the harsh street lights seemed to stab at his eyes. For some reason, they were worse on him than sunlight. He figured it had something to do with the darkness of the surroundings; the marked contrast in the prefabricated brightness of the streetlamps . . .

 

“I'd rather that she blamed me than herself,” Isabelle confessed softly. “The mind can do terrible things to people . . . the guilt and the recriminations . . .”

 

He didn't respond to that. There wasn't really anything to say. It was a true observation, after all. Sometimes, the recriminations and the self-disgust were worse than trying to believe that someone else had caused one's misfortunes . . .

 

That was something that Griffin knew first hand, wasn't it? No matter what he thought or wanted to believe, certain things just weren't meant to be forgotten, and no matter how much time passed, the saddest truth of all was the inevitability of a lifetime of emptiness that couldn't be avoided in an insular moment in time . . .

 

She didn't speak again during the drive back to the house. Lost in her own contemplation, she could have been a million miles away instead of sitting right beside him. He didn't like the feeling that he couldn't reach her; that it wouldn't matter what he said or did, that in the end, she was already just beyond his grasp, and for once he didn't try to lie to himself, either. Even if it wasn't something that could ever last, maybe . . . maybe at that time and in that moment . . . Maybe it was alright for him to want to bridge the gap . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

The unmistakable sound of labored breathing echoed in the silent room as the scent of two bodies; of passion and of sweat tingled in his nostrils. She'd been in town, and he'd needed the distraction. It had seemed like the natural thing to do . . . She keened softly, shaking with the tide of need, her ass as she reared back, her body meeting his. Holding onto her hips, fingers dug into the supple flesh, jaw ticking as he enjoyed the sight of her body bearing down on his, savored the unrelenting sultry heat that drew him deeper and deeper.

 

The soft trill of the cell phone split the stunted quiet, and he leaned to the side without breaking his rhythm, fumbling around for the device and squinted to make out the name that registered on the caller ID.

 

Myrna Loy.

 

Abruptly, Gunnar pulled out of Katarina and rolled aside, snatching the condom off as he gave the cell phone one good shake to slide it open as he headed for the bathroom without a second glance at the woman left in the middle of the huge bed.

 

“Find out something?” he demanded without preamble as he tossed the condom into the garbage can and made a face and snatched a thick white wash cloth off the shelf over the toilet in the starkly bright hotel bathroom.

 

“Maybe,” Myrna replied, her honey smooth voice just as dulcet over the phone as it was in person, “and good evening to you, too.”

 

Gunnar snorted, standing with his hand under the faucet until the water warmed a little before grabbing the washcloth and sticking it under the tap. “Yes, well, immaculate timing,” he said rather dryly as he wrung the cloth out with one hand and started to wash himself off with a grimace. He'd rather take a shower, but that'd just have to wait . . .

 

“Oh?”

 

“Hmm,” he countered. “Tell me why you called.”

 

She heaved a long sigh as he dropped the washcloth on the counter and strode out of the bathroom to locate his clothing. “Thought you'd want an update on the search for the Great Bear of Legend and Lore.”

 

Hooking the phone between his shoulder and the side of his head—good thing he had excellent hearing since the action muffled Myrna's voice dramatically—he snatched his pants off the floor and pulled them on. “Go ahead.”

 

“As I told you, it's slow going,” she remarked in a somewhat cryptic tone.

 

Gunnar's expression darkened into one of irritation that he brushed aside since he knew damn well that Myrna never would have called him if she didn't have something worth saying. “Spare me the sob story,” he grumbled, shrugging his shirt on before catching the phone with his other hand to repeat the process once more.

 

“Hmm, Gunnar,” Katrina protested from her place where she lay, curled on her side on the rumpled bed. “You're not really leaving, are you?” She'd tried to cover the sulky tone in her voice with a teasing sort of drawl, but he wasn't dull enough to miss it. Even if he hadn't heard it punctuating her words, the slant of the fire-youkai's deep hazel eyes, the slight moue that pursed her pouty lips gave her away . . . Slowly turning his head, he pinned her with a blank stare, an almost bored sort of insignificance in his gaze, he very pointedly narrowed his eyes, and she paled slightly, drawing the sheet up over herself and swallowing so hard that he could see the motion of her throat. She was breaking the unspoken rules, and she knew it. Questioning him, demanding anything from him that he didn't freely offer . . . it simply wasn't acceptable. Satisfied that he'd made his point, Gunnar sat down to pull on his socks and shoes before standing up and grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

 

Myrna chuckled. “So how is your stock broker these days?” she asked, her amusement evident.

 

Gunnar didn't answer as he strode across the floor and grabbed the door handle. “She's just fine,” he replied, pulling the hotel room door closed behind him and heading toward the stairwell. Katarina's scent still clung to him, and he made a face of obvious disgust. He'd be lucky if it came out when the clothes were cleaned—one more thing to add to his already growing sense of frustration. Katarina didn't smell bad, no, but Gunnar also hated to have anyone else's stink clinging to him . . .

 

“She sounded a little upset with you,” Myrna pointed out.

 

“She'll live, I assure you,” Gunnar stated as he took the stairs two at a time in his haste to get out of the building. “My car,” he said, lowering the phone as he stopped beside the hotel's front desk.

 

“Right away, Mr. Inutaisho,” the receptionist demurred.

 

Myrna sighed again. “Are you so sure about that? If you really are any good in bed . . .”

 

“Oh, I'm damn good, Myrna,” Gunnar assured her, a trace hint of a smile quirking at the corners of his lips. “Anyway, that's not really why you called me, was it?”

 

“No, it isn't,” she agreed with a soft chuckle. “There were just a few interesting things I found as I navigated those websites.”

 

“Do tell.”

 

“I emailed what I found to you along with links and excerpts,” she chided.

 

Gunnar snorted. “I trust you've realized that I'm not at home,” he pointed out as he nodded at the doorman and strode out onto the sidewalk.

 

“I didn't think you were,” she quipped. “You never take your ladies there, do you?”

 

“Having someone else's stench in my bed isn't exactly something that I'd prefer, no,” he agreed easily enough as he waited for his car to be brought around.

 

“You sleep with them but are concerned about their `stench'?”

 

Gunnar's lip curled back in a derisive sort of grin. “I can tolerate it for brief amounts of time if the benefits outweigh the inconvenience,” he explained. “Besides, I have yet to hear any complaints.”

 

“You really are a bastard, aren't you?” she mused drolly.

 

“Absolutely,” he agreed as the carhop stopped before the hotel in Gunnar's shining black Jag. He slipped some bills into the young man's hand and got into the vehicle, gunning the engine as he took off out of the parking lot. “About the legends?” he reminded her.

 

“Oh, those,” Myrna said, a hint of disgust creeping into her tone. “Well, as I said, I told you that it was going to be a pain, but . . . that aside, as I read through website after website, trite story after trite story, futile effort after fut—”

 

“I get the picture,” he cut in brusquely, pulling to a stop at a red light and drumming his claws against the steering wheel impatiently.

 

She chuckled—a husky sound that Gunnar was certain had gotten her a fair share of attention when she was able to roam freely. “Do you? Good . . . but then something occurred to me—it didn't take that long, actually. See, every one of the stories that I found initially referred to the `scarred bear of the north', so I started to reference the legends only to find that all of them were from websites based in the United States, with a couple notable exceptions originating from Canada or Europe but interestingly, the stories were all ones told to them by their relatives or friends who lived in the States.”

 

Gunnar pondered that for a few moments then shook his head. “And your point is?”

 

Myrna ignored him as a somewhat gloating tone crept into her voice. “So I actively searched Canadian sites for the legend, and the most interesting thing happened.”

 

“What's that?” he asked after counting to ten to cap his impatience. Myrna loved dangling information in front of his face, as it were. He'd have thought she was a cat-youkai instead of a hawk-youkai if he didn't know better . . .

 

“The legends I found that originated in Canada . . . a couple did talk about the scarred bear of the north, but a few of them referred to him as coming from the east or the west . . . there was even one that talked about the bear from the south . . .”

 

“Good . . .” he drawled, his eyes brightening as he pulled into his driveway and killed the engine. “So you have a region?”

 

“A rough one,” she allowed. “I looked up some maps to see where the different sources lived—one of the legends was an Abenaki tale. Another was a different Native American tribe and so on, so I did a topographical overlay. The region I'm looking at is still pretty broad, but it's a starting point . . . best lead we've had thus far.”

 

“Excellent,” he said—high praise from him. Dropping his keys onto the small table beside the door in the foyer, Gunnar kicked off his shoes and started unbuttoning his shirt as he headed straight for the stairs: his destination? The bathroom . . .

 

“I emailed all that to you, including the overlay map. Of course, there's a bit of tolerance that must be considered since the regions are only rough average. Still, it's a start . . .”

 

Gunnar pressed a button on the phone to transfer the call to his house intercom system and pushed the connector on the wall panel beside the bathroom door. “So tell me about these legends,” he said, smacking the phone against the heel of his hand to close the device before dropping it carelessly on the counter beside the sink. He turned on the shower taps and shrugged off his clothes, considering whether or not he ought to just throw out the outfit instead of bothering with trying to rid them of the offending odors.

 

“Hmm, you know, that's the interesting thing,” she remarked almost absently. He heard the squeak of her chair as she stood up. It was drowned out moments later by the eruption of water from the shower as Gunnar slapped his hand against the control panel before sauntering out of the bedroom to look for a pair of hakama that he casually tossed onto the huge bed in the center of the room before heading back toward the bathroom once more.

 

“Interesting, how?” he asked when she didn't offer any more information.

 

“Well,” she began with a brisk exhalation, “the legends run the gamut, you see. In some regions, he's regarded as a saint, saving children from certain doom, driving away the evil spirits of the forest . . . in others he's described as a monster, luring little ones away from their unwitting mothers and devouring them . . .”

 

“Okay, so that's a bit of a stretch,” Gunnar grumbled as he stepped under the showerhead. It was true that he didn't trust Griffin Marin, not at all, but he wasn't sure he was ready to condemn him as a killer of pups, either . . .

 

“Yeah, I rather agreed,” she admitted. “Still, the way they all speak of him, it's like he's some sort of boogeyman.”

 

“Isn't that what the youkai have been relegated to?” Gunnar countered, grabbing the bar of Ivory soap from the shelf and briskly washing his body.

 

“Don't tell me you're one of those who disagrees with Sesshoumaru's edict?”

 

He snorted indelicately as ribbons of soap suds sluiced down his chest, his legs. “Don't lump me in with that lot,” he stated.

 

“Of course not,” she nearly purred, her amusement evident in her voice. “But you can see their point?”

 

He didn't deign to answer that. It didn't matter whether or not he could see their point. They called it the pride of the youkai, and they asserted that Sesshoumaru's edicts had taken that away from them, and while Gunnar could agree in theory that youkai shouldn't have to hide their natures, he also agreed that the idea of letting the human populace know of their continued existence would cause more trouble than what it was worth . . .

 

“Look, Myrna, I don't have the inclination to argue politics or ideology with you,” he said instead, reaching for a towel as he stepped out from under the tap. “Schedule a time with my secretary after you've gotten more information for me.”

 

“No need to be obnoxious, Spot,” she retorted smoothly as Gunnar hit the panel to staunch the water flow. “Now that you've washed off the stink, I assume you're going to look over the information I've sent you?”

 

“That was the plan.”

 

It only took him a minute to towel off, and he discarded the damp cloth on the floor beside his bed in lieu of reaching for the hakama. Ordinarily he would hang it up in the bathroom, but at the moment, he had bigger fish to fry, as it were.

 

“Yes, well, the good news is that there aren't many youkai in the area. There aren't many humans there, either, for that matter. The bad news is the same. It might take some doing to track down anyone that actually knows of this legend first hand,” she admitted, her tone full of disgust.

 

“What about your sources?” he demanded, striding out of the bedroom and down the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time as he headed straight toward his study.

 

“There's only one guy who knows the region, and I've already asked him about Marin.”

 

Dropping into the thickly cushioned chair behind the wide desk, Gunnar snorted indelicately and opened the laptop. Seconds later, the window popped up announcing that he had four new email messages. He clicked on the message and waited for it to load. “Maybe he lied to you,” he remarked absently, frowning in concentration as he stared at Myrna's email.

 

Myrna sighed. “Maybe. I considered that,” she allowed. “The thing is, he isn't the type to hide things. I mean, if he doesn't consider someone a friend, then he holds no allegiance to them. If he does, then he will defend them to the end, so if he is lying, then I can't really think of a logical reason why . . .”

 

“Everyone is prone to lie if the circumstances are right.”

 

“Geez, pup, you really need to get out more. You're way too cynical for your own good.”

 

“Oh? And you aren't?” he parried, navigating through the attachments on the email. The only one he was interested in seeing was the composite she'd created . . . “Give me this guy's name. I'll see whether or not he's lying.”

 

“Like I'd give up my sources to you,” she scoffed. “How do you think I'm able to do what I do? It's because I don't rat people out.”

 

“Hmm, and here I thought that it was an order, not a request,” he contended.

 

Myrna snorted. “Isn't there a law against giving up sources?”

 

“Only if you're a journalist . . . and only if you're human.”

 

“I'll try talking to him again,” she promised. “Other than that, you're shit out of luck.”

 

“Keh,” Gunnar grunted, reaching out to tap the connection button on the panel built into his desktop. The intercom system went silent, and he let out a deep breath as he scowled at the email. As much as he hated to rely on something as unreliable as legends, he had to admit that it was the best lead they'd had so far. Now if he could only figure out how to fit together the things he knew, he'd be one step ahead of the game . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

He couldn't settle down.

 

Pacing through the living room into the dining room and back again, Griffin had given up trying to work on the translation notes hours ago. He wasn't sure why he felt so restless. He wasn't even sure that there was an actual reason behind it all. No, he just couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming; something he couldn't touch or smell or see, but something . . .

 

He'd tried to convince himself that it was all his imagination; that the last couple days had been a little too stressful, that he was just overreacting because of it. Trouble was, he didn't really believe that, either . . .

 

“You don't understand . . . She kept . . . She kept saying that the baby . . . The baby looked like she was sleeping; just sleeping . . .”

 

Clenching his jaw so tightly that he could feel his teeth scraping together, could almost hear the groaning creak as the surfaces met, Griffin paced a little faster. She'd honestly thought that he didn't understand . . .

 

No, damn it, the truth was that he knew better than he wanted to admit, especially to Isabelle, and as much as he wished it were otherwise, having to watch her cry and knowing well enough that there really wasn't a thing he could do to comfort her had nearly been his undoing.

 

He stopped suddenly, dragging a hand over his face in a thoroughly defeated sort of way. He wasn't supposed to want to comfort her. He wasn't supposed to care at all. When had all of that changed? Somehow, he didn't think he should even attempt to answer that question . . .

 

A soft sound drew his attention. His head snapped to the side as he scowled at the mocking silence. He'd heard it, hadn't he? The smallest cry, as though it was stifled, and yet he had heard it. He knew he had . . .

 

He scarcely realized that he was moving, striding through the room and down the hallway, his youki drawing him forward. He was compelled to go to her, wasn't he? Something in her aura was calling out to him. He could hear her in the depths of his soul.

 

Quietly pushing open the door to her bedroom, he flinched at the consuming sense of sadness that engulfed him. She'd been so tired after dinner that she'd barely been able to keep her eyes open, and in the end, he'd had to shoo her off to bed. She'd seemed a little reluctant, not that he could really blame her. As if she'd known that she'd find no peace, even in sleep, she'd stubbornly lifted her chin and headed off toward her room without saying a word . . .

 

And now he regretted it. To be honest, he'd been hard pressed not to call her back at the time. He'd wanted to. Watching her go cloaked in silent dignity, he'd opened his mouth to tell her that maybe she should stay close to him, and yet something had stopped him.

 

The moonlight filtering through the window cast bluish shadows on her face. Curled up on her side, her arms wrapped around her drawn up knees—what was it that they called that? Ah, yes, he remembered: the fetal position. It was somehow appropriate and completely ironic, given the circumstances, and it only took him a moment to ascertain that she was sleeping, albeit fitfully, but the sadness in her youki burned him.

 

She whimpered quietly, her youki constricting around her with the palpitations of her heartbeat. Whether she was reliving the ordeal that had affected her so deeply or she was battling the inner demons that Griffin knew only too well, she seemed to diminish in his eyes, shrinking into herself and seeking whatever comfort she could find within.

 

It was worse than seeing her cry; so much worse than hearing the piteous sounds of her inner turmoil being manifested. She'd said it, herself, hadn't she? The mind could do far more damage than anything else could possibly inflict . . .

 

And it hurt. God, it hurt, bringing on more pain than Griffin could stand, leaving him raw and bleeding. Digging his claws into the callused flesh of his palms, he tried to resist the need to go to her. Lingering in the doorway, he bit his lip, his fang sinking in deep. The thin strands of reason, every single excuse he'd ever made to keep her at bay, snapped one by one, melting away before he had a chance to latch onto them, until all he knew, all he could comprehend, was the consuming compulsion to comfort her, to chase away the ghosts that he couldn't see.

 

Stumbling toward her, across the woven rug that covered the hardwood floor, he heard the soft keening sound that escaped him, grimaced as her upset wrung a half-sob from her. Pausing for a moment just to stare at her, her misery so poignant, so biting that his mind reeled with the inane sense of a man possessed, he reached for her with trembling hands, carefully scooping her up, cradling her against his chest as he tried to ignore the nagging feeling that she felt absolutely perfect in his arms as he sank down on the bed, cuddling her against him, smoothing her hair as he let his head fall back against the chunky wooden headboard with carvings of tiny birds, of cherry blossoms, of a grassy knoll that he saw every night in his dreams . . .

 

Uttering a stunted breath, she slowly relaxed against him. She didn't wake up. She didn't have to. As though she could sense his proximity, he could feel the tension in her body melting away like ice in the springtime, and while her breathing remained stilted and harsh, she slept . . .

 

He shifted uncomfortably, his hip throbbing as the dull ache escalated. Certain positions always seemed to give him more trouble than others, and lying at the angle he was just wasn't agreeing with him in the least. Still to his sheer amazement, his proximity was offering Isabelle a semblance of comfort, and while he didn't try to flatter himself into believing that he was the reason she was able to rest a little easier, the warmth that ebbed through him—cautious and stunted but present nonetheless—was an entirely foreign if not completely welcome sensation.

 

The choking hold of her youki gradually loosened, the tendrils stretching, reaching out to him with invisible fingers, with the same gentleness that delineated everything Isabelle was. With the softest sigh, she shifted slightly, the warmth of her cheek emanating through his shirt, penetrating his very core while she huddled against him, unconsciously seeking the shelter he grudgingly offered her. A long-forgotten feeling flickered to life; the lingering remains of a bittersweet memory; of another whose laughter had been able to warm the depths of him, to fill him with a sense of well-being that could banish the darkness in a time and place when he hadn't yet realized that the world was ugly and that he was damned . . .

 

His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer: close enough to feel the beat of her heart striking a rhythm that met his, matched his; a gentle strength that was so familiar to him that it hurt. The fierce need to protect her precluded all else, obliterating the need for self-preservation, shattering the resolve that had been his only real buffer against her for so long, and maybe he'd known from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her that it was inevitable. Maybe he'd known exactly what she had always claimed, even if he'd never wanted to admit it . . . even if there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it . . .

 

Opening his eyes for just a moment, he winced and squeezed them closed once more. She was radiant, brilliant in the shadows of the moonlight filtering through the window, and she looked like an angel to him, and while he'd given up believing in gods and devils long ago, the fanciful notion that someone could save him—that she could save him—was appealing. The scent of cherry blossoms and the wild summer breeze filled his nostrils—the scent of her, so fresh and vibrant . . . and for the moment, he just wanted to know that she was near, if only for a moment; a heartbeat or a blink of the eye, to believe in miracles and redemption and beautiful things . . .

 

“D . . . don't leave me, Isabelle,” he whispered as a single tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye to trickle down his cheek. “Don't leave me . . .”

 

 

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A/N:

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Reviewers

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Kikyou_104:

ok so her name is Isabelle.....why does griffen call her Jezabelle did i miss something while i was reading the story....and for the record this story is awesome just like the rest of them always enjoyed reading them

 

As stated in the A/N for the chapter where it first appeared, Griffin calls Isabelle by the nameJezebel in reference to the Biblical woman who wasalsonamed Jezebel. Through the ages, the name “Jezebel” has come to be synonymous with wicked women, especially ones that tend to use sex against men.

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Evloner:

I love this story, but I have to comment on Griffit's way of speaking to Isabelle. He's very cruel when he speaks to her-calling her fat ass and such. I know she's not offended but to be call such names in public, well let's say that I would be pissed to say the least. I know this charater must be capable of expressing loving feelings even if he's abit confussed right. Part of me believes that Isabelle is so blinded by love she doesn't care how Griffit speaks to her as long as she gets to be in his presence. Please don't take this as a flame. I love this story and I'm one of your biggest fans. I'm not asking you to change a thing about this story because I'm sure you have a fantastic ending planned. So if Griffit and Isabelle do get together he has some serious over time to do in the romance department. :smile:

 

(Sorry, I had to remove the actual smiley as it messes up chapter upload. Other than that…) I think it depends on the person. My father is also quite gruff yet there isn't a doubt in anyone's mind that he loves his family and my mother very much, no matter what he might say on the outside. Then, too, is the idea that Griffin, himself, isn't used to being around people … but hopefully this chapter will begin to make things more clear as to the truth of his feelings ... As for flaming? Oh, geez … you'd have to try harder for that to have been taken as a flame. LOL!

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MMorg

Simonkal of Inuy ------ silveraliora ------ Rawben ------ Inusbabe ------ Jester08 ------ starblade2007 ------ OROsan0677 ------ angelfire777 ------ charity-nicole ------ oblivion-bringr ------ Zetsuii ------ Usagiseren05

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Forum Reviews

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

…Did he say …?

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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~