InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Frantic ( Chapter 49 )

~~Chapter 49~~

~Frantic~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Grimacing as he jerked his head to the side and smashed his nose against his bicep in a valiant effort to keep from sneezing, Griffin sniffled loudly and grunted as he reached higher to scrub at the inside of the chimney.

 

Normally he didn't have to clean the damn thing until spring, but he'd decided to do it early since he'd been burning more and larger fires during the winter because of Isabelle's presence, especially in the basement so that the floor above would be warm. Normally he only bothered to build up a fire big enough to take the chill out of the air, and he didn't mind having the house a little on the cooler side, but he'd also realized that she would have been cold otherwise. To be honest, he didn't usually bother with turning on the heat in the house, either, but he'd done that, too. She really had turned his life upside down, hadn't she?

 

He sighed. Of course she did, and it was entirely distraction that he hadn't needed. He was glad she was gone, wasn't he?

 

`Don't answer that,' he told himself sternly as a build up of ash dislodged and rained down. Griffin ducked out of the fireplace just in time to avoid getting a face full of soot.

 

The sudden intonation of a strangely familiar song cut through the stillness of the house. Scowling in confusion, he pushed himself to his feet and pulled off the bandana he'd tied on as a mask. He couldn't quite remember where he'd heard the song before. Turning his head from side to side as he tried to ascertain where the noise was coming from, he headed for the stairs.

 

A vague flash of memory took root in his mind: one of the little girls in the preschool where he volunteered had a stuffed animal—Winnie the Pooh—who sang a song that sounded remarkably like the one coming from upstairs. But why would he be hearing that song . . .? Eyes widening, he snatched the smudged glasses off his face as late realization ebbed through him. Quickening his pace with a growl of exasperation aimed at the song that the insane woman had programmed into that damned cell phone she'd given him for Christmas, he nearly tripped in his rush. Irritation aside, he couldn't help the surge of absolute panic that shot through him—panic that he didn't fully comprehend. She was the only one who would have that number. He hadn't bothered to give it to anyone else, and while she'd come over numerous times, she hadn't tried to call; not once.

 

But it was more than that, wasn't it? Why couldn't he shake the feeling deep down that something was terribly wrong?

 

Stopping at the top of the stairs for just a moment, he tried to remember where he'd stuck that phone. `The desk,' he realized. Lengthening his stride, he hurried over, shoving things aside in an effort to locate the device.

 

“H-hello?” he said, smashing the phone to his ear. The music kept playing, and he uttered a frustrated growl, lowering it once more and scowling at the keypad. “A million damn buttons . . . which one . . .?” he mumbled. One of them kept flashing at him, illuminated from beneath the key. Pushing the button as he mentally cursed his thick fingers, he held the device up a little cautiously. “Isabelle?”

 

The sound of muffled crying greeted him, but she didn't respond. “I-Isabelle?” he said again, forcing himself to lower his tone, forcing himself not to panic.

 

She sniffled and whimpered softly. “Grif-fin?” she choked out between hiccups. “He's not moving, and I don't know what to do,” she half sobbed.

 

“What? What? Who?” he demanded a bit more harshly than he'd intended.

 

His questions only served to make her wail louder, and what he figured were supposed to be words came out as a high pitched garble.

 

He winced, despising the helpless feeling that was fast coming over him. “Isabelle, you have to calm down. Who's hurt?”

 

She choked back a sob. “My baby,” she whimpered.

 

He shook his head, unable to comprehend exactly who she was talking about. Striding through the living room, he headed into the foyer to tug on his shoes. “I'm coming over, okay? Just . . . d-don't hang up . . . Are you all right?”

 

“Yes,” she squeaked. “He's bleeding!” she wailed, hysteria creeping into her voice.

 

“What happened?” he asked in what he could only hope was a reasonable tone. Catching the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he shrugged on his coat and yanked the door open.

 

“I d-don't know,” she sniffled, her voice cracking. He winced at the ungodly squeak but kept the phone plastered against his head.

 

He pulled the door closed behind him but didn't bother with locking it, breaking into a sprint before he ever cleared the porch. “You're home, right? Your house?”

 

“Yes,” she sniffled. “Help me! Please help me!”

 

“I know,” he said, soothing her as best as he could over the phone. “It's all right. I'm . . . I'm on my way, okay?”

 

She broke into a fresh round of sobs. “He-he-he's just a b-ba-baby,” she cried.

 

She was close to hysteria, he figured as he pushed himself faster. Vaulting onto the top of the small grocery store at the end of the block, Griffin ignored the trace burn that had set into his right hip. Her upset was a powerful thing, reaching him despite the distance between them and leaving him with the impotent desire to drive away whatever it was that hurt her.

 

Crossing over the rooftops as he headed straight to Isabelle's home, he mumbled things that she didn't understand—ridiculous things meant to calm her. It worked, to an extent though not nearly as well as he might have liked. She was still sobbing, but it was a bit quieter, and she seemed to understand that he was almost there. “I c-can't stop the bl-bleeding,” she whimpered. “I can't stop it! I ca—”

 

“Isabelle!” he growled tersely. “Stop it!”

 

His tone cut through the anxiety that gripped her. She whimpered and sniffled. “O-okay,” she allowed in a shaky breath. “Please hurry . . .”

 

Griffin dropped off the top of a nearby apartment building into the darkness of an alley. “It's all right,” he told her for what had to be the millionth time. “I'm almost th . . .”

 

Trailing off as he strode out of the alley and stopped short, he scowled at the door of her house. Hanging wide open with wan light spilling out, she hadn't bothered to close it when she'd walked inside, damn it.

 

Forcing himself to take it slow, he glanced up and down the street before darting across and up the steps onto her porch, grimacing at the overwhelming scent of blood that reached him long before he ever stepped over the threshold.

 

He spotted her on the floor covered in blood and clinging onto the lifeless body of her beloved dog in the midst of complete disarray. Shoulders shaking as she held the phone to her ear, she sobbed quietly. He wasn't sure if she even realized that he was there as he strode over to her, tossing his cell phone toward the sofa without bothering to shut it off. Uttering a harsh curse under his breath, he had to step over the piles of books that had been yanked off the shelves and tossed around the room haphazardly. The place had been thoroughly ransacked, but all of that took second place in his mind as he grabbed Isabelle's arm and pulled her to her feet. “Are you hurt?” he demanded, his eyes raking over her as he tried to discern whether it was just the dog's blood he smelled or not. “Answer me!”

 

“Fro-ofie,” she whimpered. “Help me, Griffin!”

 

“Damn it, Isabelle, are you hurt?” he growled, shaking her just enough to snap her out of her rising hysteria.

 

“Uh, n-no,” she murmured, the tinge of hysteria rising like a malignant vapor. She blinked quickly and shook her head, tugging her arms out of his grasp and dropping to her knees again. “Help me; help me!” she whispered, her voice harsh with emotion.

 

Closing his eyes against the wash of relief that surged through him, he let out a deep breath and swallowed hard. Satisfied that she wasn't hurt, he knelt beside her and grimaced at the sight of the dog. A deep slash ran down the length of his side, and for a moment, he thought that the animal was already gone. “I-Isabelle, I . . . I don't think -”

 

As though in response to Griffin's voice, Charlie's tail thumped just once. “He's still alive?” he said, more of a question than a statement. “Call your vet,” he commanded as he yanked off his coat and wrapped it around the dog. “Tell `em we're bringing him in. Can you do that?”

 

She didn't look like she quite understood, but she nodded and groped around for her phone. “Okay,” she said with a nod. “He . . . he'll be okay, right?”

 

“Y-yeah,” Griffin replied in a tone that sounded completely unconvincing as he wrapped the dog in his coat and carefully picked him up. “Give me your keys. Hurry.”

 

She ran over to grab the purse she'd dropped just inside the doorway. “He'll be okay,” she repeated, digging her keys out and handing them over before delving back into her purse for her cell. “Yes, this is Isabelle Izayoi. I'm sorry for calling so late,” she said, pacing in a small circle as she spoke into the phone. “Froofie's hurt . . .”

 

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder, maneuvering through the disheveled room and outside. “Where's your vet's office?”

 

“The one on Main Street,” she said, snapping the cell closed and darting around him to open the car door.

 

“Dr. Brandon?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She slipped into the back seat of her car to sit with the dog. Griffin laid him carefully on the seat and got in behind the steering wheel. “What happened?” he demanded as he pulled onto the street and glanced at her in the rear view mirror. “Did someone break in?”

 

Wiping her eyes with the back of a shaking hand, she nodded. “It was like that when I got home. I found Froofie . . .” Choking on a sob, she hunched over, hugging Charlie's limp body tight. “Why would someone do this?”

 

“I don't know,” he told her, his jaw ticking at the first hints of suspicion that entered his mind. Shaking his head quickly—he needed to concentrate, for Isabelle's sake—he pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the veterinary clinic.

 

She got out of the car and stood, wringing her hands as Griffin carefully lifted Charlie. Grimacing when the dog let out a pained whimper, he adjusted the animal as best as he could as he followed Isabelle toward the office.

 

The lights inside flickered to life seconds before Isabelle tapped on the door. Her anxiety had lessened but it was still a viable thing that he couldn't ignore. `Don't you dare die, Charlie. Do you hear me?' he thought as he frowned at the animal in his arms.

 

Dr. Brandon opened the door and held it as the two stepped inside. “Bring him back here,” she said, striding past them to lead the way to the examination room. “I gathered from your call that he was pretty bad off. My assistant should be here shortly, but let's see what's going on here.”

 

“Y-you can help him?” Isabelle pleaded, stroking Charlie's neck and choking back more tears. “You can save him, right?”

 

“I'll do everything I can,” she assured Isabelle with a wry smile. Griffin carefully laid Charlie on the examination table and pulled Isabelle back firmly when the doctor stepped over to pull the coat off him. “How'd this happen?” she asked without taking her eyes off the dog's wounds.

 

Isabelle whimpered when Dr. Brandon uncovered the lacerations traversing the animal's side. “I think her house was robbed,” he supplied, tightening his grip on Isabelle's shoulders when she made a move to pull away.

 

“Did you call the authorities?” she asked without looking away from Charlie.

 

Griffin grunted. He knew her too well to even consider the idea that she'd have called the police before attending to her precious dog. “I brought her straight here when I got there, so I doubt it.”

 

Dr. Brandon nodded and leaned over to grab a pair of rubber gloves. “Okay. Why don't you two wait out there while I check Froofie?”

 

“Charlie,” Griffin intoned automatically.

 

“Excuse me?” the woman said, sparing him a questioning glance as she tugged the gloves on.

 

“His name is Charlie.”

 

The woman looked confused for a moment but shook it off as she slipped the stethoscope into position. “I need to get him stabilized right now,” she said gently albeit firmly. “I'll be out to talk to you as soon as I assess his injuries and all that.”

 

“Come on, Isabelle,” Griffin said, turning her toward the doorway.

 

She pulled away and skittered back to the gurney again. “I'm a doctor,” she blurted. “I can help, can't I?”

 

Griffin drew her back once more, tightening his grip on her shoulders when she tried to pull away again. “You're a people doctor, not a vet,” he mumbled. “Let her do her job.”

 

“But I—”

 

“Isabelle.”

 

She grimaced and shot Charlie a worried glance before finally nodding and letting Griffin guide her out of the emergency room.

 

Heaving a sigh, he let his hands drop from her shoulders as she shook her arms, the sleeves of her oversized cream sweater tumbling down over her fingers as she started to pace back and forth. He patted his pockets only to remember a moment too late that he had tossed his cell phone aside before he'd picked up the dog. “Do you have your phone?” he asked, breaking the anxious quiet as he absently wished he'd thought to grab something else for her to wear. She was covered with Charlie's blood, and that certainly couldn't be helping her to calm down . . .

 

She shot him a bewildered sort of glance but didn't stop pacing. “My—? Oh, yeah . . . um . . .”

 

He waited patiently as she dug the phone out of her purse and dropped it in his palm. Her fingers were streaked crimson with dried blood, and he winced inwardly at the stains marring the pristine sweater. “I'm going to call your . . . your grandfather. He'd want to know.”

 

She nodded quickly, her fingers gripping the cuffs of her sleeves, and she crossed her arms over her chest, blinking rapidly to dispel more rising tears.

 

It only took him a minute to figure out how to operate the device. Scrolling through the numbers stored in the cell phone's memory, he shot her a cursory glance as he selected Zelig's phone number.

 

“Isabelle?” Cain Zelig's unmistakable voice greeted warmly after the third ring.

 

“Uh, no. Um, this is . . . G-G-Griffin. Marin,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

 

Cain hesitated before answering. “Uh—o-oh, Dr. Marin. Is everything all right?”

 

He grimaced, glancing at Isabelle who was alternating her gaze from the floor to the doorway and back again as she paced. A very tired looking woman hurried into the waiting room and straight to the room where Charlie was without bothering to acknowledge their presence, which was probably for the best. “Actually, no,” he admitted, lowering his voice. With as intently as she was eyeing the door that he'd escorted her through, he highly doubted that she was paying even the slightest bit of attention to him. Still . . . “Isabelle's house was vandalized, and . . . and her dog . . . well, we're at the vet's office right now.”

 

“Froofie?”

 

Griffin snorted. “Charlie,” he corrected almost irritably. “He's hurt pretty bad.”

 

“But Isabelle's okay?” Cain demanded.

 

“She's a little shook up, but she's all right.” His frown darkened slightly as he straightened his shoulders in an almost defiant sort of way. “I'm not taking her back to that house. She's not safe there.”

 

“No, of course not,” the tai-youkai agreed. “I'll be there in about an hour to get her. Would you mind staying with her until then?”

 

“No,” Griffin stated flatly, his grip tightening on the phone.

 

“. . . Come again?” Cain said.

 

Griffin cleared his throat, forcing down the belligerence that shot to the fore. “I said, `no'.”

 

“If you're busy—”

 

“I meant, no, there's no way in hell I'm going to let you take her anywhere,” he growled.

 

Cain didn't respond to that right away, and when he did, he spoke very slowly. “What do you mean?” Cain asked slowly, a hint of foreboding in his tone.

 

Licking his lips, Griffin grimaced, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had to wonder exactly how he was able to find the bravado to say these things. “I'm saying that you put her in danger,” he growled through clenched teeth.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“I don't think so,” Griffin snorted. “It's your damn research they're looking for. Bank on it.”

 

“The—? H-how do you know about the research?”

 

Griffin rubbed his forehead. “Because I've got it,” he admitted, a trace amount of his frustration ebbing away. “I'm translating it for her, but I figured . . .” Raking a hand through is hair, he shook his head. “I thought if they came after it that they'd . . . come after me.”

 

“They? They, who?” Cain demanded.

 

Containing the urge to growl, Griffin reminded himself that there was a good possibility that Zelig really didn't know everything that Griffin did. “That guy you picked up, Avis? He wasn't dangerous; isn't that why you exiled him?”

 

Cain considered that. “I assure you; we had him completely checked.”

 

Sighing at the warily indignant tone of Zelig's voice, Griffin rubbed the back of his neck, sparing Isabelle a worried glance. She was staring at the emergency room door again as though she were willing someone to walk out to talk to her and not paying the least bit of attention to Griffin, who rubbed his face in exasperation and lowered his voice a notch. “I'm sure you did, but . . . there were some things in the journal that implied . . . Jillian? That's her name, right?”

 

“Yes . . .” Cain allowed.

 

“The journal implied that someone was trying to pressure them into handing over their research, and it could just be me, but . . . but her biological father . . . He was a water-youkai.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Griffin sighed again. “But he supposedly drowned.”

 

Zelig was silent for a minute, considering the information that Griffin was giving him. Shoving aside the trace guilt that he should have spoken up sooner, Griffin waited, grinding his teeth together as he waited for the verdict. “Water-youkai don't drown,” he muttered, drawing the same conclusion that Griffin had before.

 

Cain cleared his throat. “I'd like to see this journal, myself, but if Isabelle's in danger, I think she belongs here with me. I'll call one of my hunters to—”

 

Taking a deep breath, he hesitated only for a moment before responding. “She's coming home with me,” he stated flatly. “I'll . . . I'll protect her, but you can have the journal if you want it. I'm almost finished translating the research, too.”

 

Cain cleared his throat. “You'll . . . protect her.”

 

Tamping down the uncertainty that nagged him, he swallowed hard. “Y-yes.”

 

“And you know what that means?” Cain asked though not unkindly.

 

“. . . Yes.”

 

Cain sighed as Griffin shifted uneasily. He wasn't entirely certain where he'd found the wherewithal to challenge the tai-youkai, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the panic in Isabelle's voice, and the unerring belief she'd shown in him when she'd begged him to help her dog. “I'll, uh, send my son over to Isabelle's house to check it out. I trust nothing was moved?”

 

“Not that I know of. Uh, my phone's there.”

 

“I'll have Bas drop off some of Isabelle's things. You think whoever broke in was looking for the research?”

 

Griffin grunted. “There are bigger, nicer houses on that street,” he said reasonably. “Why would they target her place otherwise?”

 

“Right. I trust you'll call me if anything else happens?”

 

“I will.”

 

Cain paused before responding, clearing his throat before he finally spoke. “Take care of her, Dr. Marin.”

 

Griffin's gaze lifted to the woman in question. “I will,” he replied.

 

The connection went dead, and Griffin heaved a sigh, shutting off the phone and rubbing his forehead before he shuffled over to Isabelle. “Give them some time,” he said in a softer than normal tone.

 

She jumped and swung around to face him, her eyes bright with concern, with her upset, but she nodded, her gaze slipping to the side as her chin trembled precariously, as the brine of her tears filled his nostrils. “I know,” she squeaked in a very un-Isabelle-like voice.

 

Scowling as the unsettling feeling that he was completely out of his element crashed over him, Griffin slowly reached out and rather clumsily pulled her against his chest. “You're going to shrivel up if you don't stop leaking,” he rumbled, wishing that he was a little better with this sort of thing.

 

She uttered a roughened, choked laugh. “I-I'm sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest, thickened by her tears. “I just . . . I didn't know who else to call . . .”

 

“Don't worry about it,” he told her. “Charlie'll . . . he'll be fine.”

 

“Y-yeah,” she agreed, sounding more hopeful than convinced.

 

The whoosh of the emergency room door interrupted them, and Isabelle straightened up, turning around quickly though she didn't step away from Griffin.

 

Dr. Brandon rubbed her hands together, offering Isabelle a tentative smile. “He's starting to respond to the meds we've given him, but he's not completely stabilized as yet. We still need to run some tests, but it looks like he's going to need surgery to repair some internal bleeding—not bad, though. He's lucky. He's got a couple fractured ribs, so he'll be in a bit of pain for awhile, and he's lost a lot of blood. We're giving him a blood transfusion now. We'll be able to get some more definitive answers after the results of the tests come back, but for now, we've got him sedated and on oxygen. Why don't you go home, Isabelle? We'll do everything we can, and hopefully you'll be able to see him tomorrow.”

 

“But—”

 

“He doesn't need you fussing over him,” Griffin pointed out. “Besides, you're a mess.”

 

“What if something happens?” she demanded, peering up at Griffin in a pleading sort of way.

 

“Then they'll call,” he said.

 

“Absolutely,” Dr. Brandon said.

 

Isabelle didn't look at all placated despite the resignation in her slumped shoulders. “Can I see him? Just . . . just for a minute?”

 

Dr. Brandon sighed. “Okay, but just for a minute. We're still monitoring everything since he was suffering from shock when you brought him in.”

 

Isabelle nodded quickly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. She shot Griffin a quick glance, and he followed, understanding her unvoiced plea.

 

Grimacing at the tubes and machines arranged around the gurney, Griffin stopped just inside the door to allow the doctor more room to navigate through the maze of technology. A compress was arranged over the widest part of the lacerations running down the length of Charlie's side and the naked pink flesh around the ragged wounds was disturbing. They'd shaved his fur away in order to better assess the wounds, he supposed. An oxygen tube jutted out of Charlie's nose, and he didn't open his eyes when Isabelle gently stroked his neck. His rear paw twitched, but that was likely just a reflexive action. The bare skin seemed to add emphasis to the labored, shallow breathing, and Griffin scowled at the small machine that the doctor's assistant wheeled over on a cart before she hurried around to pull Charlie's mouth open then adjusting the IV drip.

 

Isabelle leaned down to kiss the animal's knobby head. She murmured something to him that Griffin couldn't quite discern before hesitantly stepping away.

 

Griffin stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder as she stepped back. Though she didn't turn away from the sight of her dog, she did reach up to squeeze his hand.

 

“Come on,” he said, leaning down to speak in her ear. “They'll call if there's anything.”

 

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly, turning to let Griffin lead her from the room.

 

 

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A/N:

Extra special thanks to inuyoukaimama for her awesome report on emergency procedures for Froofie/Charlie. Thanks tons!

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Final Thought fromGriffin:

…Isabelle …

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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~