InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Discontent ( Chapter 37 )

~~Chapter 37~~

~Discontent~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle scowled at the closed basement door and let out a deep breath that lifted her bangs straight up off her forehead. She'd arrived home a couple hours ago, and Griffin, as usual, had yet to show himself.

 

`This is getting a little ridiculous,' she fumed, crossing her arms over her chest and heaving a sigh as she shook her head in abject frustration. `Why's he acting so weird?'

 

`Acting weird?' her youkai scoffed. `We're talking about Griffin here. You're damn lucky he didn't make you leave. You should have known he'd freak out. Is it really that difficult to understand?'

 

Her scowl turned mulish. `It was just one little kiss,' she asserted.

 

`One little kiss? Don't be stupid, Bitty. It wasn't just one little kiss, not to you and certainly not to him.'

 

Isabelle sighed again, turning away from the door with an indelicate snort. Of course it wasn't `just one little kiss'. No, it was more than enough to throw her for a loop, so she could imagine what he must have been feeling. She'd come to understand long ago that Griffin most likely had little to no experience as far as women were concerned, and while the idea pleased her, it was also the biggest reason for his unfathomable reaction, she supposed.

 

Still it had been nearly three weeks since that fateful night and that kiss, and in the space of those three weeks, Griffin had taken to avoiding her at all costs, or so it would seem. Holed up in the basement for hours on end, more often than not, he skipped supper completely like he truly believed that she was evil or something—absolutely ridiculous, really, if one stopped to think on it. He was the one who had done the kissing, wasn't he? She'd been a little too stunned to do anything more than let him do it. Caught up in the moment, she supposed . . .

 

And it didn't really help that she could understand his feelings. It scared him, didn't it? For that matter, it had scared her just a little, too. She'd never, ever felt so many emotions from just one kiss, and while it had begun a bit clumsily, she couldn't help but get a certain weakness in her knees if she dared to stop and dwell on it, too.

 

She'd thought that they were making progress. The holidays had seemed like such a wonderful time. He'd been almost unguarded, and while she'd appreciated it, maybe it had lent her a false sense of accomplishment when she ought to have realized that Griffin was just too damn shy and too damn stubborn to give in that easily.

 

Unfortunately, that solitary kiss had only served to solidify what she knew intuitively to be true: he was her mate, no doubt about it. If she could just make the obstinate man admit it, she'd be one step ahead of the game . . .

 

The trouble was that she'd tried nearly everything she could think of to get Griffin to stay in the same room with her for more than a minute, but nothing she tried seemed to have any effect. No, if anything, he'd seemed even more resolved to stay away from her.

 

All in all, she felt like stomping her foot and basically having a temper tantrum. In the end, though, she didn't, heaving a longsuffering sigh and shuffling off toward the kitchen to start dinner.

 

If it weren't enough that Griffin was acting so strangely, she'd spent the bulk of her day restating over and over that she didn't do anything wrong in the Baby Girl McKinley case. The panel she'd been brought before hadn't indicated in expression or body language what they'd been thinking, either. If they decided that there was enough evidence to add gravity to the McKinley's case against her, then she'd have to go to trial, and while she couldn't help but feel guilty over the situation—it was normal, wasn't it?—she also knew that she really hadn't made any mistakes in her treatment. Logic assured her that she'd be exonerated in the end, but that would hardly offer any consolation to the couple who had lost their infant daughter.

 

“It's not a perfect world, Baby. Sometimes you'll be the hero, and sometimes you won't,” her father had said in his philosophical sort of way when she'd called him last night. Too worried about the preliminary hearing to get any real rest, she'd dialed the number without considering what time it would have been in Japan. Luckily, it was early afternoon there, and her father had been in the lab working on some of the samples he'd had to reassemble after the break-in.

 

“I know,” she said, smoothing the blankets over her legs as she sat up in bed and scowled at the lump of her feet.

 

“Do you want me to fly out there?” he asked, his voice gentle and soft, and she didn't doubt for a moment that he absolutely would if she wanted him to.

 

“No,” she replied, rubbing her forehead with a weary hand. “It's all right . . .”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

The concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes, and she blinked furiously to stave them back. She'd been so lonely lately, and for reasons she didn't really want to consider, the idea that her father would fly so far just to be with her . . . She sighed. It was strange, really. She and Griffin were living in the same house, and yet she felt so completely removed from him. “I'm sure, Papa,” she insisted, inflicting a false brightness into her tone. “I, um, I think I should go. I should at least try to get some sleep, right?”

 

“I'd feel much better if you were taking someone with you,” Kichiro went on. “Even if they can't come in with you, they can at least offer moral support by being there.”

 

“It's fine,” she assured him, wishing that she believed her words. “Anyway, would you give Mama and Sami my love?”

 

“Absolutely. You call me after the meeting, understand?”

 

“Of course.”

 

He snorted. “Keh. That's the same tone your mama uses when she's just trying to humor me.”

 

“I will, Papa, I promise.”

 

“You'd better.”

 

Isabelle slapped raw pork chops onto a roasting pan and grimaced. She still needed to call her father. She'd promised, after all. Somehow faking cheerfulness and pretending to be optimistic . . . It was completely beyond her capabilities, at least at the moment.

 

It was simply intolerable, in her opinion. Griffin's illogical behavior was enough to send her emotions careening out of her control, alternating between abject frustration and bouts of near tears, and all in the matter of moments. Maybe she could better understand him if he'd just talk to her, but of course, that was apparently out of the question, too . . .

 

Heaving a sigh borne of abject frustration, Isabelle slapped the broiling rack into the oven and let the oven door slam closed before reaching for the knob that set the temperature and giving it a good jerk, too. It didn't do much to appease her current pique, and with a shake of her head, she turned around to scrub her hands.

 

If Griffin followed the same ritual as he had for the last few weeks, he'd reappear long enough to grab a plate of food, mumble something about being busy, and disappear into the basement once more, but as much as she'd love to come up with a way to circumvent it tonight, she was drawing a blank.

 

`Face it, Bitty, you're just not good at this sort of thing.'

 

`This sort of thing?' she echoed.

 

`That's right. You've never really had to work this hard to garner a man's attention, have you? And you hate it; you really hate it.'

 

`Hrumph,' Isabelle snorted, wrinkling her nose and tossed the towel onto the cupboard as she turned to stomp out of the kitchen again. Maybe a nice, long soak in the tub would do her some good. In any event, it couldn't really hurt, now could it?

 

With that thought in mind, she strode into the bathroom to start the taps before heading into her bedroom long enough to grab a change of clothes.

 

Her youkai had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. She really hadn't ever had to try so hard to get a man's attention. Normally it was the other way around, actually. She tended to lose interest quickly enough—understandable, she supposed, since none of the guys she'd ever dated were even close to mate-material. Unfortunately it also left her at a distinct disadvantage. After all, she'd tried practically everything she could think of, and not a damn thing had even come close to working.

 

Closing the bathroom door, she slumped back against it, letting her head fall back as she closed her eyes. In the end, she was no closer to coming up with a viable solution to the problem at hand than she had been three weeks ago.

 

`Some new year,' she thought sourly, pushing herself away from the door and slowly working the buttons of her blouse. It had to get better, didn't it? After all, it couldn't really get much worse . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Crumpling the paper in his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Alastair Gregory uttered a terse growl and ground his teeth together. He was no closer to solving the mystery of where the research was than he had been a month ago, and the lack of viable progress was enough to irritate the hell out of him. Used to getting results in short order, he couldn't stand the unsettling feeling that something was escaping his notice.

 

That damned Zelig, that hanyou-lover. Foolish enough to have taken a human to mate the first time around and then to possess audacity enough to take a hanyou mate the second time? His spawn might well be considered youkai, but the tainted human blood that ran through the veins of the next Zelig was nothing more than a mark of shame. Still, it was his fault, wasn't it? What sort of game was he playing? Common logic should have dictated that the reasonable choice to complete the research was Izayoi, but that wasn't the case, and whether by accident or by design, Alastair couldn't help but feel like they were all playing him for a fool.

 

It was a feeling that Alastair Gregory didn't like, and more to the point, it was a feeling that he simply wouldn't accept, not by a long shot . . .

 

Well, the Zelig would find out, wouldn't he? Accept defeat? `Never,' he vowed, narrowed eyes shifting to the thickening darkness outside the window. Knowing damn well that there was no way that Zelig would be stupid enough to trust anyone other than family with the research, it was simply a matter of narrowing down the potential candidates, wasn't it?

 

`Patience, patience,' he told himself, chanting it over and over again like a mantra. He'd waited this long, hadn't he? He could wait just a little longer.

 

Exhaling slowly, he dropped the crumpled bit of paper into the trashcan beside the ornately carved desk and paused long enough to consider his options. It was best for him to get control of the research as quickly as possible. He couldn't afford for Zelig to figure out exactly what it was, after all. It was too valuable—more valuable than those short-sighted fools would ever realize. Alastair knew. He knew too well exactly what could be possible with knowledge of that nature. The very idea of what it could do was as abhorrent to him as it was enticing. The things that could be accomplished with that sort of understanding . . .

 

He broke into a thin smile—more of a smirk than a show of amusement—as a malevolent inflection entered his stony gaze. It could bring about the world he'd always dreamed of, couldn't it? An insular world where youkai were given free reign, where the sovereignty of the most perfect beings could be a reality . . . a world where the blight of man would be eliminated, as it should have been long, long ago . . .

 

“Call Willis,” he rumbled, his voice deep, commanding.

 

The telephone hummed to life for a moment before the intonation of the dialed number impeded the silence.

 

“Hello?”

 

“I need you to do a task for me,” Alastair said without preamble.

 

“My lord Gregory? Have you returned from your travels?”

 

“Dispense with the pleasantries, Willis,” Alastair growled. “I need you to gather information for me.”

 

Jeremiah Willis cleared his throat. In the background, Alastair could hear the rustle of fabric, as though Willis had been sleeping. “Information? All right . . .”

 

“I need you to find out everything you can about the Zelig and his spawn.”

 

“The Zelig . . .?” Willis repeated, his voice betraying his surprise at the order. “A-a-all right . . .”

 

Tapping his claws against the thickly lacquered desktop, Alastair rumbled a throaty sound of acknowledgement. “And I do mean everything. Are we clear?”

 

“Absolutely,” Willis agreed quickly. “The Zelig . . . information on his lot is difficult to come by—almost classified . . .”

 

“Of course it is,” Alastair scoffed, nostrils flaring slightly at the mere thought of the unassuming tai-youkai. Though he hadn't had the opportunity to deal with him first-hand, the things he had heard over the years were enough to leave him seething in resentment. Too kind, too soft, too weak to have ever become tai-youkai, the only reason the Zelig bore the title was because of the capricious hand of fate—a privileged birthright that wasn't bestowed upon him because of any real measure of strength. Long to think and slow to act, he was, and that would eventually lead to his downfall, wouldn't it? “You have connections, Willis. I highly suggest you call in a few favors.”

 

Willis uttered a half-hearted laugh, as though he didn't believe that it would be as simple as Alastair made it sound. “No problem.”

 

“Good, good . . . don't let me down, Willis,” Alastair saw fit to warn him. “I do not like it when people let me down . . .”

 

“Yes . . . o-of course,” Willis replied, his tone betraying the reluctance of his spirit. “W-when do you need this information?”

 

“I won't saddle you with a time frame,” Alastair said, “but do not keep me waiting.”

 

Tapping the flashing button on the telephone to end the call, Alastair turned away with a flourish and strode over to the row of windows that overlooked the darkened forest. The glow on the horizon drew his attention, and he narrowed his gaze, despising the arrogance of the human world. They spread like vermin, running rampant over the land and laying waste to everything they touched in their search for convenience while perpetually patting each other on the back as they marveled at their own ingenuity.

 

`Ignorant creatures,' he scoffed, his lip curling back to reveal a razor-sharp fang. Their time was coming, wasn't it, and along with them . . .

 

`Do not fail me, Willis,' he thought as he turned his back on the window. `If you fail me . . .'

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Smashing his hand over his nose and mouth, Griffin stomped up the stairs and slapped the door open with a loud thump. Blinking against the tears that stung his eyes, he waved his free hand in a vain effort to dispel the haze of smoke that was filtering out of the kitchen—out of the oven. With an irritated grunt, he hurried into the room and jerked the oven door open, coughing despite himself as a cloud of acrid smoke engulfed him. The oven temperature was set as high as it would go—better than five hundred degrees—and while he wasn't sure exactly how long the food had been in the oven, he didn't have to be brilliant to know that whatever was in there had been cooking for far, far too long . . .

 

They used to be pork chops, or so Griffin figured, as he reached for a towel and jerked the roasting pan out of the oven. He started to set it on top of the stove but thought better of it since the charcoaled meat absolutely reeked. Worse, the pepper that Isabelle had applied a little too liberally was exacerbating the smoke. He'd never realized that pepper could burn, but he certainly did now, and it was going to kill him, he was certain . . .

 

`What in the world was she thinking?' he fumed, stomping toward the back door and wondering absently if she hadn't managed to ruin the roasting pan. Jerking open the back door, he strode out onto the porch, dropping the pan onto the small table beside the chair where he usually sat to watch the squirrels. It sizzled when it touched the trace moisture on the wood.

 

Heaving a sigh, he dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face, wrinkling his nose and wincing at the stench of burning pork chops that seemed to be caught in his nasal passages. One thing was certain: he couldn't stand to stay in the house with that reek. He'd smelled it all the way in the basement, which was the reason he'd been galvanized into action.

 

`Serves you right, you coward,' his youkai pointed out indelicately.

 

`What serves me right?' he grumbled, shaking his head slowly as he stared at the steam still rising off the charred meat. `I'm not a coward . . .'

 

`Oh, yes, you are. You know damn well that she's been a little preoccupied the last couple of days, and you know why, too.'

 

Griffin snorted, stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket as he shuffled back inside. `Dunno what you're talking about,' he countered.

 

`Right, you don't. It's because of you, you know. Do you honestly think that she hasn't noticed that you're avoiding her lately? And before you say you aren't, you might as well know that I don't believe you, so save your breath.'

 

Griffin snorted again but didn't bother trying to rebuff his youkai, either. It didn't matter what sort of face he tried to put on it, even he knew that Isabelle was far too perceptive not to have noticed it, too.

 

He'd known at the time that kissing her was a huge mistake. Hell, he'd known that dancing with her was a huge mistake, hadn't he? He still didn't understand exactly why he'd given in. Given in? He grimaced. `All right,' he reluctantly allowed, `so it was my idea . . .'

 

He just hadn't quite realized how badly he'd regret it later.

 

If he thought about that kiss once during the course of a day, he'd thought about that kiss a thousand times or more. She'd been entirely too accepting of him; entirely too welcoming, and as much as he hated to admit it, he'd noticed that her body had fit, if that made any sense. Her curves had melded against his so perfectly that it was almost like she'd been carved out just for him—only for him—and as much as that thought had frightened him, he had to admit that it had thrilled him, too.

 

But even with thoughts like those plaguing him during the daylight hours, the nights were even worse. He'd been stupid enough to think that he could still look in on her at night; that he could sit beside her and watch over her and be unaffected by her mere proximity. He'd been wrong—very, very wrong. Watching her as she slept was torture, plain and simple. Every little breath she drew, every flutter of her eyelids as she dreamed seemed to speak to him, to call to him, to pull him closer and closer than he dared to be. He'd caught himself coming way too close to kissing her, and yet it seemed out of his ability to get up and leave her.

 

So he'd forced himself to stop going to her in the night, and instead he stretched out on his bed—funny how it had never seemed so lonely before—and willed himself to sleep. Too bad it hadn't worked very often. It was the reason why he'd been in such a god-awful mood the last couple weeks—at least, that was the excuse he told himself. Lack of sleep was enough to make anyone miserable, wasn't it? He simply couldn't quite bring himself to consider any other reasons for it.

 

Stomping through the house with his hand over his mouth and nose once more, Griffin veered to the side and into the hallway. For a moment, he thought that maybe she'd decided to take a nap—rather stupid, really, when she was cooking. But her bedroom door was wide open, and he frowned as he scanned the neatly made bed that looked like she hadn't touched it since she came home . . .

 

He didn't have time to ponder that, though. The muffled but distinct sound of sloshing water registered in his ears, and with a snort, he wheeled around and stomped across the hall to thump on the bathroom door. “Isabelle,” he called, his voice muted by the hand that he refused to lower. The stench wasn't quite as bad here, but he wasn't taking any chances.

 

“Hmm?”

 

He rolled his eyes and snorted again since she didn't sound at all as though she realized that she'd damn near burned down his house. “You burned dinner,” he complained.

 

“What's that?” she called.

 

He could hear a rush of water—she must have sat up. “Dinner's burnt,” he called back, raising his voice enough to be heard through the thick door.

 

“I'll check it in a minute,” she replied.

 

“I already got it,” he grouched, smashing the heel of his free hand over his good eye to staunch the watering. “Get out here, will you?”

 

“What?”

 

He growled under his breath, unable to make up his mind whether he thought she was just being stubborn or if he believed that she really couldn't hear him. “I said, `get out here',” he said, raising his voice a little bit more.

 

“I can't hear you,” she called back. “Your voice is all muffled.”

 

“Would you just hurry up?” he growled, letting his hand drop, his exasperation evident in his tone.

 

That worked well enough. He heard a loud slosh as she got out of the tub, and he sighed, rubbing his temples as the dull throbbing behind his eyes escalated into an incessant ache. Stepping back, he slumped against the wall to wait.

 

He didn't have to wait long. Isabelle threw the bathroom door open and stomped into the hallway, wrapped in nothing but a towel with water streaming down her neck and shoulders from the length of her hair. She stopped short, eyes flaring wide as she smashed her hands over her mouth and nose in much the same fashion as Griffin had earlier.

 

And Griffin? Well, he could only stare. One end of the towel was tucked snugly in to hold the scrap in place, but the swell of her breasts over that was entirely too visible. Smelling of the lightly floral soap she favored with her damp hair spilling over her shoulders, dripping water that disappeared into the edge of the towel, he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only stare as her cheeks pinked and as she slowly shook her head. “Oh, no,” she murmured.

 

Griffin swallowed—hard. “W-w-wh . . . where are your clothes?” he blurted. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as he struggled in vain to drag his eyes off her.

 

“Ohh . . .” she groaned, carting around and dashing through the house toward the kitchen, coughing as the smoke assailed her, too.

 

Griffin squeezed his eyes closed, willing the unwelcome image of her from his mind. It didn't work. Somehow in the course of a few seconds, the sight of her had been burned into his brain, and he couldn't help but sigh.

 

If he wasn't sure before, he was absolutely certain now. He was a damned man—a cursed man. There wasn't any other way to explain it, and Isabelle . . . she was going to be the judge, the jury, and his executioner, wasn't she?

 

`Well, if you've gotta go, she is one hell of a way to do it . . .'

 

Griffin grimaced and pushed himself away from the wall, heading in the opposite direction to start opening windows to air the place out. `That's not even remotely funny.'

 

His youkai laughed. `I never said it was.'

 

`No,' Griffin agreed, shoving the window in his bedroom open and slowly shaking his head. `But you thought it.'

 

`Yeah . . . yeah, I did . . .'

 

 

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Final Thought fromGriffin:

Wet … Isabelle … towel …

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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~