InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ The Girl Who Has It All ( Chapter 29 )

~~Chapter 29~~

~The Girl Who Has It All~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

The trill of the telephone was almost lost below the din of the running vacuum cleaner as Maria Masta shut off the appliance and straightened her back with a marked grimace. She wasn't exactly feeling old, but she'd been up all day, trying to get the house spotless for the upcoming holiday. When the telephone rang again, she jumped and hurried over to the receiver that she'd left on the coffee table, dragging the canister vacuum behind her. “Hello?” she said, answering without checking the listing on the caller ID, expecting to hear the voice of one of the ladies she'd been working with in planning a Christmas party for the underprivileged children in her area. It was probably Lola Fleurent, the woman in charge of snacks. There were two days before the party, which meant that it was high time for Lola's annual freak-out over the smallest details that would eventually work themselves out, just like they did every year . . .

 

“Uh, hi . . . Maria?”

 

Blinking in surprise, it took a moment for her brain to accept the irrefutable knowledge of just who had called her. “Osezno?”

 

He snorted. “You know, you could call me `Griffin',” he grouched.

 

She smiled, brushing an errant lock of raven hair out of her eyes. “You will always be my `Osezno',” she chastised.

 

He snorted again. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“Attean's not home yet, but he should be soon . . . you did call to talk to him, no?”

 

“Uh, no, actually,” Griffin mumbled. “I just, um . . .”

 

Leaning to the side and propping the vacuum against Attean's recliner, Maria laughed softly. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice?” she prodded.

 

“Oh, I . . . well, you know, it's almost, um, Christmas, and . . .”

 

“Uh huh . . .”

 

He coughed once. “I just thought I should . . . call and wish you a happy—er, merry—a nice Christmas.”

 

She bit her lip and lowered the receiver for a moment, staring at the device as though she was trying to ascertain whether or not it was functioning properly. “And merry Christmas to you, too,” she said, bringing the receiver to her ear once more. To be honest, she couldn't remember the last time Griffin had willingly called her, and to be told that it was simply to wish her a merry Christmas? No, there was definitely something up; she could feel it. Griffin, as far as she knew, never celebrated holidays, Christmas or otherwise. There had to be another reason for his call; she just knew it.

 

Clearing his throat in a decidedly nervous fashion, Griffin paused before speaking again. “So, um . . . d-do you expect anything . . . special . . . from Attean this year?”

 

“Anything special . . .?” she echoed, shaking her head as she sank down on the edge of the sofa with a thoughtful frown marring her brow. “You mean a special gift?”

 

“Uh . . . yeah . . .”

 

“Well, anything he gives me is special,” she began slowly.

 

“Of course,” he blurted. “That sounds about right . . . but you know . . . did you, um . . . did you ask for anything . . . special?”

 

Narrowing her gaze as suspicion dawned, Maria took her time before answering him with a question of her own. “Having trouble thinking of something to buy anyone in particular?” she asked, careful to keep her tone as neutral as possible.

 

Griffin sucked in a sharp breath. “N-no,” he blurted. Maria had to wonder if his face was completely red or not. “Nothing like that. Just . . . making conversation . . .”

 

“I see . . .” she replied as the suspicion grew steadily worse. He was acting entirely unlike himself, and to that end, she couldn't help the perverse desire to prolong his agony. `After all,' she reasoned, `if he isn't going to tell me the truth . . .'

 

He cleared his throat. “So . . . did you?” he finally ventured.

 

Hard-pressed to keep from laughing outright, she wasn't able to restrain the soft laughter that slipped out of her despite her best effort not to do anything of the sort. “Oh, well . . . you know, just the usual things.”

 

“U-usual things?” he repeated, obviously unsure about the things that Maria would consider to be the `usual' things.

 

She smiled, unable to hold her amusement entirely in check. `So he's fishing for gift ideas, is he?' she mused. “Yes, the usual things.”

 

“Oh . . . right . . . Stuff like, um . . .?”

 

“Hmm, well, last year he got me a really great vacuum cleaner,” she replied brightly, brushing aside the momentary twinge of guilt for telling a blatant lie.

 

She could hear the scrape of a door opening and a low grunt followed by the soft tap of claws against a hardwood floor. `A dog?' she wondered briefly then dismissed the thought just as quickly. Griffin didn't like having animals in the house, and she knew it. It had always bothered him that Attean had allowed their pet raccoon inside the cabin so long ago. Some things didn't change, no matter how many years or centuries passed between . . . `No . . .'

 

“Attean bought you a vacuum cleaner?” Griffin mumbled in a disbelieving tone. “For Christmas?”

 

Snapping out of her reverie, Maria bit her cheek and cleared her throat. “Absolutely!”

 

“And that was . . . okay . . .?”

 

“Of course it was!” she insisted. “Why wouldn't it be?”

 

Griffin grunted softly. “Well, it's just a vacuum . . .”

 

“Hmm, true, but last year he bought me a fabulous ceiling fan . . . it has a remote control to drop it down for easy cleaning.”

 

He didn't respond right away. He was probably trying to figure out whether or not she was being serious. “Does he always buy you . . . appliances?”

 

“Come to think of it, I suppose he does,” she agreed amiably enough.

 

“I see . . .”

 

Pressing her palm against her lips to keep from laughing outright, she couldn't resist the urge to goad him further since she knew well enough that he was fishing for information without trying to appear as though he were. Unacceptable, she figured. After all, she'd be more than happy to give him gift suggestions for the mysterious Isabelle, but if he couldn't be honest with her . . .

 

The door opened and closed, and she sensed the proximity of her mate. He'd be very interested in the subject matter under discussion, she didn't doubt, but he'd also give in and offer the desired information without making Griffin fess up, too . . .

 

“There's a really nice dishwasher I saw advertised,” she went on airily, wondering just how long she had until Attean figured out who was on the other end of the phone call. He breezed into the living room and headed straight for her, pausing long enough to kiss her cheek before striding off toward the kitchen for something to drink.

 

“Don't you have one of those already?” Griffin countered.

 

“Sure, but this one has quad jets and is a lot more energy efficient. It washes the dishes in a fraction of the time because of the new jet system.”

 

“Uh-huh,” he allowed since he probably didn't really understand what Maria was raving about.

 

“It's a very thoughtful gift,” she pointed out brightly. “Anything that makes my job easier, you know . . . Attean is very good about that sort of thing.”

 

“I see . . .”

 

“That's right. It's the season for giving, so what better than to give a gift that will make things easier year-round?”

 

Griffin grunted. “I never really thought of it that way.”

 

“But you should. You certainly wouldn't want to give someone something that isn't useful at all, would you?”

 

She didn't have to turn to know that Attean had slipped back into the living room and that he was leaning casually in the doorway, probably with an ice-cold beer in his hand and even more likely with a raised-eyebrow look directed at her. “If you say so . . .”

 

“A couple years ago, he bought me a car,” she pointed out. That one wasn't a lie, though she'd told him exactly what make, model, and color she'd wanted, which had simplified things dramatically.

 

“Are you sure he only buys you appliances?” Griffin asked suddenly, the unmistakable suspicion rife in his tone.

 

“Would I lie to you, Osezno?”

 

He grunted, and Attean choked on a swig of beer. “Yeah, I'm starting to think you would.”

 

“Of course I wouldn't,” she contradicted. “Shame on you! That you'd even think so little of me hurts me more than you realize . . . though if you're looking for suggestions about what to get a certain woman . . .”

 

“Wo-woman?”

 

“Yes, woman,” she stated again.

 

“Oh, uh, her? W-why would I get her anything?”

 

“I don't know, Osezno . . . why would you?” she asked sweetly, wondering if his face was as red in truth as it was in her mind.

 

“She'll get enough presents from her doting family. She sure as hell doesn't need anything from me.”

 

“You could get her a pretty dress.”

 

Griffin snorted. “There's not enough material in Maine to cover her fat ass,” he countered, his voice growing drier with every passing moment, and he sighed.

 

Maria tried again, deciding that she probably ought to attempt to give Griffin some real ideas. “Or a foot soak . . . she's a doctor, right? So she spends a lot of time on her feet.”

 

“The bathtub's not big enough for clodhoppers like hers.”

 

Maria rolled her eyes but let his cryptic commentary pass. “There're always gift certificates if you're not sure what she'd like.”

 

That suggestion earned her a noncommittal grunt. “I'm not buying her a damn present,” he grumbled then sighed. “Well, anyway . . . uh, merry Christmas . . . and I hope you enjoy your . . . dishwasher . . .”

 

She laughed and clicked the `off' button as she lowered the telephone receiver from her ear. Maybe she'd give him another call later to let him know that she was just teasing. Then again, maybe not . . .

 

“A dishwasher?” Attean remarked rather drolly. “You should have told me sooner . . .”

 

“So you heard me,” she allowed, flashing him a bright smile as she hurried over to drop the receiver onto the charge stand.

 

“I hope you were teasing, Maria,” he went on as he pushed himself away from the door jamb and sauntered toward her.

 

“Think so?” she teased, resting her hands on his chest as he pulled her close and kissed her cheek again.

 

“Tell me why you were lying to Griffin?”

 

“I wasn't lying,” she maintained with a shake of her head as she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “You did buy me that vacuum last year.”

 

“Good God, you didn't tell him I bought you that thing for Christmas, did you?”

 

She laughed. “I might have . . .”

 

“You're a wicked woman, Maria Masta . . . tell me why you'd say something so bad?”

 

She made a face and waved her hand in blatant dismissal. “That's what he gets for lying to me.”

 

“He lied to you?”

 

“Yes, he did. He said that he was calling just to wish us a merry Christmas, and I might have bought that if he'd ever done so before . . . then he started asking about presents you'd gotten for me . . . If he wanted a suggestion on what to buy that Isabelle, then he should have just said so.”

 

“`That Isabelle'?” Attean echoed. “You make her sound like a communicable disease.”

 

Maria wrinkled her nose and pulled away from her mate to pace the floor that she'd just cleaned. “Not really, but tell me: what do we really know about this woman?”

 

Attean rolled his eyes and smiled, not surprised to hear the bite of possessiveness enter into his normally mild-mannered mate's tone. “What do we need to know? She's staying with Griffin, yes? We have nothing to do with her. Besides, you wrote her a letter, didn't you? What changed your mind?”

 

Maria made a face. “He says she's fat,” she pointed out grudgingly.

 

Attean cocked an eyebrow. “And for that you will dislike her?”

 

“Of course not, but you have to agree that he shouldn't be settling for someone just because she's there, so to speak.”

 

“Who says he's `settling'?”

 

She shot him a droll look that stated quite plainly that she thought her mate was being simplistic. “If she's fat with huge feet? I'd say he's `settling'. My Osezno is a very good-looking man! He deserves to have a mate as good-looking as he is!”

 

“Be that as it may, don't you think that it's Griffin's choice to make? Maybe he is looking past the surface.”

 

“But if there isn't any attraction—”

 

“And you're just assuming things.”

 

She snorted and shook her head before pinning him a level scowl as Maria resumed her pacing once more. “No, the more I think about it, the more worried I get,” she maintained. “Osezno is like a son to me—”

 

“Highly improbable since he is a far sight older than you,” Attean pointed out.

 

“That hardly matters,” she countered, waving her hand to brush aside Attean's words once more. “We nursed him back to health, remember? He's family—as close to family as we have.”

 

“Of course,” Attean agreed though she could still hear the trace amusement in his tone. “I wouldn't argue that.”

 

But Maria wasn't finished. “—And as such, we bear a certain measure of responsibility for him. You know, it strikes me that he is just too close to the situation to be objective. What if this woman isn't interested in him? What if she's a serial murderer?”

 

Attean blinked a few times as he struggled to grasp Maria's logic. He gave up with a shake of his head and set the empty beer bottle on the stand beside the telephone. “I thought you said that you had a good feeling about her.”

 

She chose to ignore his observation. “I think we need to take a vacation. How does Maine sound to you?” Maria stated, shaking her head in such a way as to let Attean know that she believed that he was merely being simple. “It's easy to give a good impression when you're not face-to-face with someone, now isn't it? We don't really know a thing about her . . . Who is her family? What does she want from Griffin? Why is she staying with him? Do you know the answers to any of those?”

 

“Yes, I do,” he admitted in an effort to appease his wife's growing angst.

 

She pivoted on the ball of her foot and raised her eyebrows in silent question, wrapping her arms over her stomach as she pointedly waited for him to go on.

 

He shook his head. “It doesn't matter,” he assured her. “Let him alone. I think he is quite old enough to fend her off—if that is what he wants to do.”

 

She made a face and uttered a terse little `hrumph' but didn't say another word as she stomped out of the kitchen to start supper, leaving a smiling Attean in her wake. He'd call Griffin later, he supposed, and tell him that he'd never, ever bought Maria anything even remotely `useful' for Christmas . . . Besides that, there were a few other things that he needed to tell the bear-youkai, anyway; things he didn't really want to mention in front of his gentle wife who worried enough about everything, as it was . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

The creak of the stairs under his weight was the only sound to be heard in the silent house. Isabelle had gone to bed awhile ago. She'd been unaccountably preoccupied and almost distant all evening, and while it had bothered Griffin more than he cared to admit, she'd told him with a wan smile that she was simply tired. Too bad he'd seen the letter in her hand; the one she'd been trying to shield from his eyes. She was being charged with malpractice over the death of the McKinley infant, and while he knew that she hadn't done a damn thing wrong, he also knew that having to defend oneself in light of the charges was a daunting idea at best.

 

He couldn't help the feeling of restlessness that he wasn't able to shake off. Ever since she'd brought those accursed gifts out to flaunt under his nose, as it were, he couldn't help the twinges of conscience that assailed him whenever he dwelled on the thought that he hadn't as much as considered buying a thing for her, and he should have, shouldn't he? After all, with all her excitement over the holiday, it should have occurred to him sooner that she'd probably do something insane, like go out of her way to buy presents for him.

 

Then again, he supposed it was simple enough to overlook. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had given him anything for Christmas, aside from some homemade cookies or even a silly little ornament that a few of his children had brought him over the years, but a real gift? No, he couldn't say he'd ever really received anything of the sort . . .

 

`That's not true, you know,' his youkai pointed out as he trudged toward the front door to double check the lock.

 

`It isn't?'

 

`Nope. You're forgetting that lovely stuffed bear she gave you awhile back.'

 

That, in Griffin's estimation, didn't deserve much more of a response than a terse grunt, which he offered, along with a decisive scowl. The deadbolt lock was turned and secure. All the same, he twisted the knob and rattled it to make sure that it was adequately closed. The last time Attean had visited a few years ago, the hanyou had commented that Griffin ought to consider updating the device in lieu of an electronic key-card lock. Griffin had declined with an offhanded shrug. What was that old saying? `If it ain't broke . . .'

 

Shaking his head in an effort to forget his youkai's commentary, Griffin turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen. A cup of tea would help settle his thoughts. In any case, it couldn't really hurt. He'd even given in and had called Maria, for God's sake. He really couldn't get much more desperate than that . . .

 

He trudged into the kitchen and stopped short as a strange sense of warmth filtered through him when he noticed that Isabelle had refilled his battered old teakettle and had left it on the stove over low heat to keep it warmed. She did things like that a lot, didn't she, and as much as he liked to grumble and complain about her presence in his home, he had to admit, at least to himself, that the little things she did . . . they meant something to him. He'd noticed before that she always made sure that there was a fresh, clean towel and washcloth sitting on the sink in the morning when he went to take his shower. She was forever baking little goodies like the molasses and pecan cookies that he enjoyed with his tea . . . leaving his teakettle on the stove . . . even turning his shoes so that all he had to do was step right into them before he left the house in the mornings . . .

 

Even as he reached for the clean, dry mug she'd left on the counter next to his honey jar with a spoon laid carefully over the bottom of the mug, he sighed. She deserved something, didn't she? Deserved something nice, something special . . . something that he could buy for her that would mean something to her, even if she never really understood the emotional cost of giving away a part of himself; a part that he'd never, ever shared with anyone before, not even Attean and Maria . . .

 

As if in answer to his troubled thoughts, the sound of the telephone shattered his contemplations. With a grimace—it had startled him and consequently, he'd ended up spilling some of the tea onto his hand when he'd jerked in surprise—he set the cup down and snatched up a hand towel as he hurried out of the kitchen to answer the phone before it woke Isabelle up. “Hello?”

 

“Ah, Griffin . . . just the man I wanted to speak to,” Attean said, his rich voice warm and friendly despite the late hour.

 

Stifling a sigh, Griffin grunted waited, knowing damn well that Attean was probably calling to pester him about his earlier phone conversation with Maria. “Shouldn't you be in bed by now?” he countered almost mildly.

 

“Of course, of course, but I needed to talk to you first.”

 

His scowl deepened as he turned on his heel and stalked back toward the kitchen to retrieve the mug of tea. “Oh?”

 

“Yes . . . it's about that Eaton Fellowes you mentioned . . .”

 

That got Griffin's attention fast, and he paused for a moment before carefully lifting the mug and heading toward the basement door once more. “What about him?”

 

“Well, I was speaking to one of my contacts, and I happened to mention the name, and he asked me if `he' was still using that alias . . .”

 

“You mean someone knew him? Who is he?”

 

Attean chuckled then sighed. “According to my contact, his real name is Alastair Gregory.”

 

Griffin snorted as the steps beneath him groaned and creaked. “Never heard of him.”

 

“I don't suppose you have,” Attean ventured. “He's from Europe, and he rarely travels to the States. Seems to find them a bit too provincial for his tastes, from what I've gathered.”

 

“Provincial, huh?”

 

“So they say.”

 

“He's old—perhaps one of the oldest youkai in Europe, aside from the MacDonnough . . .”

 

“Does that matter?”

 

Attean uttered a little sound of agreement. “No, it doesn't, but . . . you know as well as I do that it means that for one of our kind to have lived that long, he has to possess a certain level of cunning.”

 

“Warning taken, okay? If you have something else to say, then just say it.”

 

“Hmm . . . impatience? From you?”

 

Setting the tea on the small table beside the old sofa, Griffin dragged his hand over his face and heaved a sigh. “Yeah, but none of that explains why he was after the research to begin with.”

 

“Research?” Attean repeated.

 

Griffin grimaced, cursing himself for the blatant slip. “Yeah, research . . . medical research . . .”

 

“You don't say.”

 

“Look, Attean—”

 

“No, it makes sense. It makes absolute sense . . . Medical research . . . the project your Isabelle asked you to translate for her, no?”

 

Heaving a sigh, Griffin rolled his hand impatiently in a vain effort to hurry Attean along, letting the reference to `his' Isabelle slip for the moment. “Why? Is he a researcher or something?”

 

“No. He's a land developer. Seems a little strange, doesn't it?”

 

“Yeah, it does,” Griffin allowed, his scowl turning thoughtful. “So why would he care about youkai medical research?”

 

Attean coughed delicately. “Why, indeed?”

 

“Attean . . .”

 

Ignoring Griffin's unvoiced threat, Attean went on, “More to the point, how would he have gotten wind of the research, in the first place?”

 

And there was that, too . . . It didn't really make sense, did it? “Fine, so this Gregory knew about the research and tried to get his hands on it . . . where is he now?” Griffin demanded, deciding that he should focus on the things he could try to figure out instead of worrying over motive.

 

“That's the interesting thing—the one thing that didn't really make sense until you mentioned the research. It all makes perfect sense now . . . You see, according to the information I've uncovered, he was recently in Japan for a couple of days.”

 

“All right,” Griffin prompted when Attean fell silent.

 

“That wouldn't have been very noteworthy, except there was an incident about that time.”

 

“What sort of incident?'”

 

“A break-in—according to the public records, it was an apparent robbery and vandalization of the Izayoi Clinic . . . Ever heard of it?”

 

“I-Izayoi?” Griffin repeated, snapping his mouth closed and swallowing hard, his throat suddenly having gone bone-dry.

 

If Attean noticed Griffin's distraction, he didn't remark on it. “Yes, the Izayoi Clinic . . . it was founded by Kichiro Izayoi a few years back—a veritable hospital for youkai and hanyous, and the perfect cover for his research facility . . . The greatest medical mind in the world—that's what they call him. Sesshoumaru's nephew—InuYasha's son—and from what I understand, he's got certain ties to the Zelig, as well. Anyone in the know would assume that he would be the one to possess the research, don't you think?”

 

Griffin made a face and flopped back against the sofa, scowling at the ceiling as he tried to tell himself that the unease he felt was little more than a normal response to something of that nature. He wasn't buying. “Break-ins happen all the time,” he muttered. “Call it coincidence.”

 

“I said, `according to public record' . . . Did you know that Kichiro Izayoi has a twin brother? The hunter, Ryomaru?'

 

“And I'm assuming there is some sort of connection here other than familial bonds?”

 

Attean uttered a sage `hmm'. “One of my contacts in Tokyo said that Ryomaru arrived on the scene shortly after the young man who had apparently broken into the clinic fell to his death from the skywalk above.”

 

And Griffin understood. Why would the hunter—especially that hunter—be called in to a routine investigation of a random break-in? Still . . . “So he slipped . . .”

 

“Or was pushed.”

 

“Spoken like a true detective . . .”

 

Attean grunted. “The police report said that, according to eye-witness accounts, he landed on his back.”

 

“So?”

 

“So,” Attean said with a sigh, “that's not possible; not if he slipped and fell normally. It's too short of a distance. If he had tumbled, chances are that he'd have landed head or feet first. If he'd been leaning that far over the edge . . . to slip backward over the railing on those skywalks . . . well, it would be quite something to accomplish.”

 

“Hmm,” Griffin allowed. “I see . . . then why would the coroner label that the death was accidental?”

 

“Simple enough . . . the man landed in front of oncoming traffic that couldn't stop fast enough to avoid impacting with the body. By the time the coroner got it, it might well have looked quite different to him.”

 

“Is he that inept?”

 

“The boy was accused of breaking into a prestigious establishment—he had a bag containing all the drugs he'd stolen on his person . . . and I'd imagine that Dr. Izayoi wanted the publicity over the robbery to be kept to a minimum so that humans wouldn't find out what kind of research he was doing there.”

 

It made sense, certainly. If he was doing youkai research, he would try to keep humans from learning about it, whether by accident or design. Still, it seemed a little too obvious, didn't it? “Wouldn't it look like something was being covered up?”

 

“Perhaps . . . then again, perhaps not. While I have little doubt that Dr. Izayoi is beyond repute in the matter, I have noticed over my years as an investigator that it's amazing what one does not see when they are not looking for it.”

 

“So you think that the hierarchy just didn't notice the discrepancies because they didn't want to?”

 

“Entirely possible.”

 

“And the coroner?”

 

“Even a coroner can misjudge something—especially something that looks so cut-and-dried.”

 

“You think that this Gregory person set the whole thing up?”

 

“There's that . . . Of course, he obviously didn't get his hands on the research, but . . .”

 

Griffin grimaced and sat up, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees as a dull throbbing erupted behind his eyes. “So he doesn't know who has the research. Good.”

 

“Griffin . . .” Attean said slowly, almost carefully, “suppose you tell me how your Isabelle came to have it, in the first place? If this research is that volatile—”

 

He sighed, rubbing his forehead with a slightly shaking hand. “She . . . she's Zelig's granddaughter . . . Kichiro Izayoi's daughter . . .”

 

Attean sucked in a sharp breath. “You don't say.”

 

It wasn't a question.

 

“I do say.”

 

Attean sighed. “And this is why you were worried about Alastair Gregory, to start with,” he concluded.

 

“He's already killed to get his hands on the research,” Griffin reminded him.

 

“Mm,” Attean agreed. “But it is just a matter of time before he learns who has the research, don't you think?”

 

Wrinkling his nose and snorting loudly at the unnecessary reminder, he sighed, too. “Anything else?” Griffin asked pointedly.

 

Attean didn't answer right away. Griffin had a feeling that he was trying to figure out a good way to ask whatever demented question that was swirling around his head. “Maybe,” he said slowly, as though he didn't expect that Griffin would take whatever he had to say very well, “maybe you ought to consider telling the Zelig about your suspicions.”

 

“No,” Griffin stated flatly, his head snapping up as an irrational surge of anger shot through him at the suggestion. “No.”

 

“Think about it: he has the wherewithal to do something about this before Alastair Gregory figures out that she—and by association, you—have the research. You are worried about her safety, no?”

 

Unable to staunch the rapid flow of blood that infiltrated his cheeks, Griffin shot to his feet and paced the length of the basement floor, clenching and releasing his fist time and again in a futile effort to alleviate the rising irritation that was curling around his very being. “Are you implying that I cannot protect her?” he bit out evenly.

 

Attean cleared his throat. “Absolutely not,” he replied mildly. “What I am saying, though, is that you do not have to let yourself be involved any more than you already are.”

 

“It's too late to worry about that,” he grumbled, shrugging his shoulders as though he were repairing the unseen dents left in his pride. “Besides, there isn't anyone else who could translate the research.”

 

“Of course not,” Attean remarked then drew a deep, cleansing breath. “So suppose you tell me the real reason you called Maria earlier?”

 

Griffin winced. He'd figured that Attean wanted to ask that. To be honest, he'd figured that Attean would ask long before now. That didn't mean that he was any closer to answering the question. Hell, no . . . the last thing he really wanted to do would be to admit that he'd been fishing for gift ideas for Isabelle's godforsaken present . . . “I already told her; I was just calling to wish you a, uh, good Christmas.”

 

“And you think that she believed you? She didn't, by the way, and I don't, either.”

 

Griffin grunted and sank down on the sofa once more. “Don't know what you're talking about,” he grumbled.

 

Attean sighed and paused. In the background, Griffin could hear the unmistakable sound of ice cubes ratting in a glass. “Since you seem so hell-bent on not telling me why, I suppose I should be the bigger man and offer you my bit of advice, anyway.”

 

“How magnanimous of you,” Griffin muttered.

 

Attean chuckled. “I thought so. Anyway, if you are searching for gift ideas for your Isabelle—”

 

“She isn't `my' Isabelle,” he interjected.

 

“That's trivial, and besides; if you are going to buy her a Christmas gift when you've never done so before, then she most certainly is your Isabelle.”

 

“Demented is what you are. Besides, Maria said you buy her appliances.”

 

“Maria lied.”

 

Griffin snorted indelicately. “Maria never lies.”

 

“Ah-ah . . . Maria never gets caught telling a lie. There's a big difference. Anyway, your best bet would be to find out what she likes. You know, do a little reconnaissance of your own.”

 

“And how would I do that?”

 

Attean stood up; Griffin could hear the creak of the chair he'd been sitting in followed moments later by the splash of liquid. “I would never propose that you pry into her personal effects, but . . . Maria did have a trunk when she came to live with me, and that trunk proved to be invaluable during our first Christmas . . .”

 

“I knew it. You can't be trusted,” Griffin muttered.

 

Attean sighed. “Now do you want to hear my suggestions or not?”

 

“. . . Let's hear it.”

 

Attean's laughter forced Griffin to grit his teeth so hard that his jaw ticked under the strain. “Buy her something entirely frivolous,” he said, oblivious to Griffin's irritation. “A porcelain figurine . . . a crystal bauble . . . an expensive bit of jewelry or a fur . . . Of course, if she's an animal rights activist, then the fur might be in poor taste . . . Women like pretty things. It really isn't that difficult.”

 

Griffin digested that for a moment. It seemed like better advice than the appliance idea. Too bad he still wasn't quite sure exactly what to get the woman in question. “What did you get for Maria this year?” he asked instead.

 

“This year? I bought her a very lovely, very expensive strand of pearls. Granted, I might have to return it and buy that dishwasher she has apparently been coveting . . .”

 

“Thought you said that was a lie,” Griffin remarked.

 

“It was, but she did tell you that it was what she wanted, yes?”

 

“Sounds like you have a death wish.”

 

Attean grunted. “How could she hold it against me when I am simply trying to please her?”

 

“Yeah, I'm not going to your funeral,” Griffin pointed out.

 

“Sure, you will.”

 

“You can think that . . .”

 

“I do, absolutely . . . In any case, you cannot go wrong with jewelry. Just don't buy pierced earrings for her if she doesn't have pierced ears—and pay attention to the clerk. If she gets that polite little smile on her face, then it means that the bit of jewelry is gaudy or otherwise undesirable.”

 

“And you know this because . . .?”

 

Attean laughed—one of those laughs that said clearly that he thought Griffin was being obtuse. “I've bought Maria a lot of jewelry. Let's leave it at that.”

 

Griffin snorted and shook his head. “Jewelry, huh?”

 

“Absolutely. Anyway, as much as I am enjoying our little conversation, I have a warm bed to crawl into—and a warmer mate waiting there for me. I'll see what I can do, as far as getting more information on our friend, Gregory . . . keep me posted if anything should come up.”

 

“Yeah,” Griffin allowed, letting out his breath in a long, slow gust. Lowering the receiver and clicking the `end' button, he stared at the device for a long minute. “Jewelry . . .”

 

It sounded like decent advice. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. Then again, his brain just wasn't wired to think in terms of frivolous, he supposed. Too pragmatic, too serious, the idea of something like jewelry really hadn't occurred to him. It made sense, though. After all, Isabelle had everything else, didn't she? She was a successful doctor, even if she hadn't been practicing that long. She could afford to buy everything she wanted, and even if she weren't a doctor, she belonged to one of the richest families in the world.

 

No, the idea of buying something like that for Isabelle was the best one he'd had since he'd started thinking about getting something for her. The only real problem was that he hated—absolutely loathed—the idea of having to go into a place like a jewelry store. He always felt so out of place the few times he'd been forced to go somewhere like that. He supposed that the real question was whether or not he believed that buying a gift for Isabelle was worth the trouble of setting foot into what had to be the real No-Man's-Land . . .

 

He heaved a sigh and winced as he downed the now-cold tea, setting the mug aside with a heavy thump.

 

`Yeah,' he supposed as he frowned thoughtfully at the fire dancing on the hearth. `Yeah, she . . . she is . . .'

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought fromAttean:

A gift for Isabelle, hmm …

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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~