InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Dangerous Liasons ( Chapter 3 )

~~Chapter 3~~

~Dangerous Liaisons~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Samantha moaned quietly, unable to recall exactly why she felt like hell. Biting down with a grimace, she almost gagged on the strips of duct tape that were wound around her head. The room where she lay was disturbingly quiet—so quiet that she heard a faint buzzing sound that wasn't really there—the sound of nothingness, and, stifling a groan at the strange numbness in her right arm, she cautiously opened one eye.

 

She was lying on a metal and plastic cot, curled on her side with her hands confined behind her back, probably with the same duct tape that was gagging her. Her feet were also taped at the ankles, and while the constraints bothered her, her main concern at the moment was where she was and how she'd gotten there.

 

She'd silenced her target. She distinctly remembered that much of it. She also remembered hearing the sound of rapid footsteps—someone running—and she remembered seeing a blur of motion that was more of a shadow in the even more shadowed darkness. A flash of light and a sense of pain that ended as abruptly as her sketchy memory . . . The pain was still there in the center of her chest though it had dulled. Shifting her head just enough to peer down at herself, she frowned. A sutra written on a Post-It note was affixed to her shirt.

 

It was difficult to tell whether or not she'd been dealt any real physical harm, but she didn't think so. Closing her eyes for a moment as she willed her mind away from the dull ache in her chest that radiated out from the makeshift ofuda, ignoring the throbbing just above her numbed arm, she methodically moved the parts she could, starting with her fingers and toes.

 

Wiggling her thumb, she scraped at the tape on her wrists, only to gasp and groan when a sharp shock shot up her arm. Definitely a shock—her captor had must have taped ofuda between the layers. Blinking quickly, fighting back the blackness that ringed her vision, she bit down hard on the gag, telling herself that she was not—was not—going to pass out, no matter what.

 

That, however, was easier said than done, and it took a few precious minutes for Samantha to compose herself enough that she didn't. Forcing her eyes open again, she slowly shifted her gaze around the room, instead.

 

A small lamp fitted with a naked light bulb burned in the center of a bare metal table about six feet away with a few papers draping limply over one side. Behind the table was a cold gray sheet metal bookshelf. The books were haphazardly stacked on the shelves without any discernable order. A rusted old white filing cabinet stood beside the shelf, looking grotesquely stark against the perforated panel board wall. Behind the cabinet was a menagerie of equipment that she didn't recognize. A mint green metal cabinet mounted to the wall above a rusted white sink bore a stout chain and padlock. Craning her neck to continue her perusal, she frowned at the barren panel where a telephone might have once been mounted, and she took note of her coat and bag tossed carelessly in the far corner near the sink. Across the room from the sink was an open doorway—the door had been removed at some point, and the barren half-hinges stuck out like rotting teeth contorted into a permanent grimace. Through that door, she saw the side of what she assumed to be a shower stall. Grayed with age and streaked with yellowed orange against a lighter shade of gray that was the painted cinderblock wall. To the left of the gaping doorway was a dilapidated plywood dresser, so old and rickety that it bowed down in the middle.

 

The place was devoid of anything that might have otherwise told her something a bit more personal about her captor. No pictures, no nothing to give her a clue about who had nabbed or nor why. Her first thought was that someone had managed to find out that she was a hunter, but even common logic dismissed that idea fairly quickly. She was too careful, wasn't she? She'd never confronted anyone in any place where there might be a witness. It was obvious, though, that her captor knew what she was and had known that the ofuda would stop her cold, too.

 

Stifling a low groan, Samantha closed her eyes for a moment, willing away the dull throbbing behind her eyes as she flopped back down, sucking in a sharp breath when her shoulder protested the abuse.

 

The door beside the foot of the bed swung open, and a man strode in. He carried a beat up canvas bag that looked like something that was issued by the military, and he only stopped long enough to kick the door closed before continuing over to the table. Letting out a metallic groan when he set the bag down with a heavy thump, he didn't even glance at her as he tugged the drawstrings that held the bag closed and started pulling stuff out of it.

 

She recognized the field test kit. It was one that she'd never had the occasion to use, herself, but she was familiar enough with what they did. Marked with a biohazard stamp, it was a blood sample collector kit, and it could be used to test blood type and that sort of thing, but it wouldn't be able to provide much more than the barest modicum of information.

 

He dropped the kit rather carelessly on the table and delved into the bag once more. The next kit he pulled out was a bit more perplexing. In truth, she hadn't seen one of those before. It looked much like the blood kit, but it was slightly larger. He tossed that one down, too, and shoved the bag off onto the floor.

 

He stared at the table for a long minute before slowly turning on his heel to look at her. She didn't make a sound, but she didn't look away, either.

 

He was human—something that she hadn't really realized right off, probably because her sense of smell was altered. In fact, all of her senses felt dull. Still, she couldn't help but think that he didn't look completely unfriendly, despite the marked scowl on his face. Brusque, businesslike, but not exactly cruel . . . She couldn't put her finger on why she felt that way, but she couldn't shake the feeling, either.

 

But what did he want . . .?

 

It seemed to Samantha that he spent an inordinate amount of time staring at her, his gaze so intense that she had to control the urge to fidget. One arm crossed over his chest with his other elbow propped on his hand, he chewed on his thumbnail as he continued to frown at her. Most of his face was lost in the darkened shadows cast by the paltry light behind him, his black hair shone with a soft bluish hue. Eyes that were reduced to little more than pinpricks of light, he didn't move, and she wished that he'd straighten up or turn his head—anything to allow her to see his face just a little better.

 

Nodding curtly, as though he'd figured something out, he let his arms drop as he strode over to the rickety metal shelf, shuffling stacks of books aside until he found the one that he was searching for. Turning slowly as he leafed through the pages, he took the two steps that separated him from the table and sat in the folding metal chair, thumping the dog-eared book down with a heavy thud.

 

Stifling a groan as she mustered enough strength to push herself onto her back, she bit down on her gag to keep herself from vomiting as a wave of nausea shot through her with a vengeance.

 

Unable to staunch the low moan that seeped out of her as she tried in vain to lay impossibly still, she squeezed her eyes closed. The scrape of the chair—the legs had worn through the rubber shoes that would have kept the noise to a minimum long ago—resounded in her ears like nails on a chalkboard. Footsteps, neither soft nor heavy, moved away from the table . . . the rattle of a chain, the vague sound of metal scraping against metal in arbitrary contact . . . ripping paper mingled with other sounds that she didn't quite recognize . . .

 

After a moment, the footsteps drew closer, and with a dull sort of expression, she forced her eyes open as a stabbing prick—more of a nuisance than a pain—erupted in her shoulder.

 

He'd given her a shot of . . . something; what, she had no idea, but the effects of it were almost immediate and intense. Scowling in concentration, he lifted the empty syringe and narrowed his eyes at it, and for a crazy moment, she wished that she could ask him what color those eyes really were. A sudden surge of drowsiness bore down on her despite her best efforts to keep herself awake, and she blinked quickly at the bizarre thought that occurred to her.

 

`He . . . reminds me . . . of Grandma . . .'

 

And then the blackness descended.

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Kurt frowned at the lifeless form of the demon curled up on its side in the middle of the cheap old cot. It was breathing, and that was enough, as far as he was concerned. The things he needed to do were easier accomplished with it knocked out, anyway. Glancing around the unremarkable cube of a room in an unremarkable building he rented by the month, this was where he brought the demons he captured so that he could haggle with them before he attempted to make a delivery . . .

 

Its eyes disconcerted him, damn it.

 

To be entirely honest, a lot of things about it disconcerted him.

 

How could such a tiny demon possess that much power—power that he'd sensed and that he had to admit, he'd almost feared, at least for a moment.

 

`Don't be stupid, Drevin. Fear one of those things? Hardly!'

 

No, it wasn't fear, exactly . . . more of a healthy understanding of exactly what things like it were capable of. He'd seen it firsthand, hadn't he . . .?

 

Besides, fear in and of itself pissed him off, didn't it? He'd vowed to himself long, long ago that he would never, ever fear a damn thing, ever again. Those things might be powerful, and they were definitely monsters, but they still bled, and they still breathed . . . and, ultimately, they still died, too.

 

What was it about this one? Why was this one so much more powerful than the others he'd come across? It shouldn't be, should it? It was the smallest monster he'd come across in all his years of hunting them. Freaks of nature or nightmares come to life . . . Kurt didn't give a damn, what they were. All he cared about was finding the ones who had attacked his family, to make sure that those demons would never hurt another soul, ever again.

 

Heaving a sigh as he tossed the empty syringe into the dented metal trashcan near the door, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the huddled form. It looked entirely too human, didn't it? That was what bothered him most. Strange, fuzzy little triangles atop its head—dog ears, they looked like—and fangs—he'd seen those while he was gagging it—nasty looking claws that he knew were made for the express purpose of tearing things to shreds—pretty little girls in pink sundresses with golden curls and bright violet eyes . . . Those things aside, though . . .

 

Gritting his teeth so tightly that his jaw bulged slightly, Kurt let his right hand hover just above the beast's silvery hair, murmuring the same incantation he'd used earlier to remove the disguise that it clung to.

 

Something was barring him from removing the concealment completely, wasn't it? That was why it still bore such an unsettling and uncanny resemblance to humans. If he could remove that, then his business would be much simpler, wouldn't it?

 

There was no change. He didn't figure that it'd work, anyway. After all, it stood to reason that if it were going to have an effect, it would have showed the first time he did it. Well, it had worked, to a point. It had revealed the dog ears and fangs; the claws and the strange slits of its pupils . . .

 

Giving himself a mental shake, he whipped around and strode over to the table, retrieving the blood sample kit so that he could get to work.

 

It didn't take long to draw a sample and test it, and he wasn't at all surprised at the unreadable results, either. Those things didn't seem to have a true blood type like humans did—at least, not one that was classified by the standard tests. The only reason he bothered was because they insisted, citing that anomalies occurred often enough that they wanted to be sure before they paid him.

 

`Cheap ass bastards,' he thought with a decisive snort. They'd use any reason they could to keep from having to pay his full fee. Not this time, though—not if he had a say in the matter. If anything, he'd charge them more since it was obviously more powerful than the others that he'd caught before. How much more powerful remained to be seen, but if the strength of its aura meant anything at all, then it was light years away from those demons he'd already handed over . . .

 

He'd heard it talk, hadn't he? It had actually spoken to the other demon—the one he'd originally targeted. It had spoken in a low, melodic tone—definitely a woman's voice. Articulated despite the lingering hint of some sort of accent that he hadn't been able to place at the time, it had surprised him, of course, but it hadn't deterred him, so he supposed that he should be grateful for that . . .

 

A rapid tapping drew his attention to the careless heap where he'd tossed its jacket earlier, and he frowned. It sounded almost like something vibrating, and he strode over to inspect. It didn't take him but a minute to locate the cell phone. The number that it showed was unremarkable. It hadn't even bothered to enter a name into the memory. Kurt flipped the device over in his hand a few times before switching it off, and he dropped it into the drawer beside the sink without a second thought.

 

Turning back to the table once more, he pulled the small amber bottle of pills from his pocket, staring at them thoughtfully as he dropped into the rickety metal chair once more. He wasn't sure what those were, but he aimed to find out. He'd never seen one of those things carrying anything that resembled medicine before—just one more thing to add to the list of peculiarities regarding this demon . . .

 

He took his time, setting up the equipment he needed for testing. Opening the nondescript bottle with a marked scowl, he shook out a couple of them and dropped them into a clean mortar. Smashing the pills into a fine dust with the thick stone pestle, he tugged on a clean pair of sterile gloves and used the flat side of a knife to carefully dump some of the powder into a clean plastic vial.

 

He ran about seven tests on the substance, and not one of them was conclusive. He'd figured that they wouldn't be. As it was, the tests would have only given him a base amount of information, to start with, but what surprised him was that the alkaline test that he'd conducted hadn't showed any results, either. He might not have been able to pinpoint exactly what the drug was, but he would have been able to rule out whatever it wasn't.

 

Lifting the securely closed bottle to examine it against the wan light of the lamp on the table, he frowned. There were only five or so left, and while it didn't matter to him if the beast needed some sort of medication, it might well matter to them . . .

 

Setting the bottle aside with a heavy thump, he stood up and made quick work of disposing of the testing kit.

 

None of his books said anything that he didn't already know about the removal of illusory spells. He knew they didn't. Still, he had thought that maybe he'd missed something along the way, so he'd re-read them. There was nothing.

 

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming the book closed. Unconsciously, his gaze rose to linger on the tiny form in the center of the cot as an irrational surge of irritation shot to the fore. No demon was going to get the better of him, especially one so diminutive . . .

 

But it was, wasn't it? The strength of the concealment was proof enough. It was knocked out, wasn't it? Why the hell could he still feel such a lingering power? He'd dealt with more than his fair share of the beasts over his years of hunting. Once before he'd felt an aura as strong as that one, but he'd been reasonably sure at the time that it had belonged to a collective group of them—at least, that was what he'd thought at the time. Now, though . . . now he had to wonder.

 

Making a completely disgusted face, he stood up, striding over to the cupboard once more and reaching for the nondescript stoneware jar shoved to the back behind the sparse contents therein. Heaving a sigh since he couldn't quite believe that he was actually about to try what he'd always called `ridiculous', he flipped back the wire that held the top in place and set it aside before striding over to the cot once again.

 

He dug a generous handful of the grayish brown dust out of the jar and flung it on the demon, only to shake his head in frustration when nothing happened. “Crazy old coot,” he grumbled to himself. He should have known, all things considered. The old man hadn't actually done much of use for years, and while he'd maintained time and again that his peculiar kind of witchery worked, Kurt had been a bit more dubious.

 

Sometimes it really sucked to be right.

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Samantha awoke slowly, feeling the strangest sense of déjà vu creeping over her as she stifled a groan and forced her eyes open.

 

The same darkened room that she felt she'd seen before despite the fogginess that surrounded her brain . . . the same reluctance to let go of the obliterating blackness that she'd felt all along . . . it took a minute for her to realize that she'd seen everything in the place already when she'd woken up before. The drugs that her captor had forced into her, wasn't it . . .? They were impairing her senses . . .

 

Stifling the urge to whimper as a handful of different aches in her body demanded her attention, she bit down hard on the gag but couldn't contain the revolt in her belly. Whether it was the drugs or the gag, itself, she wasn't sure, but to her horror, she couldn't stop the rise of bile, either.

 

Choking on the vomit that she couldn't get out of her mouth because of the gag, she barely managed to turn her head to the side to let some of it out, as the rapid approach of footsteps, the low, hissed expulsion of breath preceded the rough jerk that brought her upright.

 

The harsh tug on her head was abrupt, as was the sudden freedom as he jerked both the length of her hair, as well as the gag, away. She swayed just a little as she spit out the last of the purge before slowly lifting her head—her eyes—to meet his.

 

He'd taken a step back, her hair and the tangled duct tape dangling limply from one hand, a nasty looking bowie knife held slack in the other, and he didn't look angry, exactly, but he was definitely quite irritated. Swallowing hard, she focused on telling herself that she did not have to throw up again, Samantha licked her lips with a swollen, dry tongue and cleared her throat a couple of times before she could trust her voice to work. “W . . . water . . . please,” she croaked.

 

He didn't answer, and he didn't move. Samantha sniffled—her nose was suddenly leaking like a sieve—and let her head fall forward onto her chest as she closed her eyes and drew a few deep, steadying breaths.

 

She heard him set the knife aside; heard him toss her hair away. Grabbing her arm, he hauled her to her feet, letting go as soon as she was standing so that he could turn to the dingy old sink. She watched in silence as he used the handheld sprayer to wash the cot clean. The water ran along the slightly tilted floor, ebbed around her bare feet, and gurgled down the drain hidden in the shadows under the table.

 

Biting the inside of her cheek as a thousand stabs of pain shot up her leg straight to her brain, she wondered vaguely just how long she'd been here already. It was obvious to her that he wasn't out to avenge someone she'd hunted, but the trouble was that she really didn't know what he wanted, otherwise. Maybe he was after money . . . maybe he'd figured out who her family was . . . A sudden surge of panic swept through her as the idea solidified in her head. She was related to far too many powerful people, wasn't she? A scrap of memory from her training years ago edged closer . . .

 

“If you're ever caught, you don't tell them who you are,” Ryomaru had said. Bright golden eyes flashing in the wan sunlight of the late summer afternoon, he stared at her hard for a long moment before shifting his gaze away to drop his sword into the nondescript magnolia wood scabbard strapped to his hip. “There're far too many bastards out there who'd dearly love to get a-hold of one of Sesshoumaru's kin . . . or Toga's . . . or Zelig's . . . hell, even the old man's . . . Don't tell them who you are, and don't let on that you're hanyou, either.”

 

Samantha blinked to clear away the memory, she willed herself to clear her mind—no small feat, considering. As her body woke up from the forced position she'd held for far too long, one pressing idea entered her mind, drawing a wince from her. Her captor was kicking the bottom of the cot, sending remnant droplets of water in a fine spray. That done, he turned toward her, lifting his hand to grab her again. It seemed as though he were moving in slow motion, and she uttered a small whine as she twisted out of his grasp. “P-please,” she whispered, unable to summon her voice to be stronger. “I . . . I have to . . . pee.”

 

He pulled his hand away and stood still for a moment or two, contemplating her claim with an air of dubiousness. He thought she would bolt or something, didn't he? Samantha grimaced inwardly. Maybe she would have if she didn't still feel like she could throw up all over again. At the moment, though, the insular thought in her head was that she sorely, desperately, absolutely needed to pee. “Please,” she whispered once more.

 

He let out a deep breath—not a sigh, but a very irritated sort of sound, shaking his head as he hefted her over his shoulder and strode toward the bathroom.

 

Samantha clenched her jaw, closing her eyes against the bile that was rapidly rising in her throat again, but she couldn't help the sharp whine when her feet hit the floor hard again. The consuming pain that reverberated up her legs—still not used to bearing her weight at the moment—was intense, and she had to blink back the blackness that seeped into the edges of her vision.

 

The bathroom was filthy—deplorably so—the toilet worse than some gas station ones she'd seen before. The only reason she could see in the room was because of her advanced vision, which likely meant that he couldn't see anything at all though he didn't reach for a light switch or anything, either. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers, could they, and the mere sight of it nearly brought tears to her eyes as she waited for . . . well, something . . .

 

He grunted at her, jerking his head toward the stool, obviously indicating that she should go. Samantha slowly shook her head. “I-I . . . my pants . . .” she forced herself to say.

 

That drew a real sigh from him as he seemed to consider her words. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out something, and she heard the soft click as the blade of the pocketknife snapped into place.

 

It took everything she had to keep from gasping . . . screaming . . . as he stuck the end of the blade beneath the waistband of her pants, cutting through the fabric with one deft stroke before he repeated the process on her other pants leg. The material fell away as he repeated the process with her panties, leaving her naked from the waist down. She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it as he pushed her down onto the toilet and pushed together the scraps of her clothing with the toe of his boot. Despite the pervasive thought that the stranger wasn't really going to hurt her—she had no idea where that idea had come from—she didn't figure that she ought to test it, either, given the situation . . .

 

“Nothing. Funny,” he stated flatly as he stooped over to grab her clothes.

 

She blinked and watched as he turned on his heel to toss them away despite the absolute embarrassment that she should have to do something as base as pee in front of him. His back was only facing her for a moment, but in that breath of time that it had taken for him to turn and discard her pants, she'd seen a glimpse of his face in the meager light of the lamp on the table. There was a measure of hostility, wasn't there, and yet, she knew it wasn't exactly directed at her . . . a sense of melancholy that tightened the muscles at the corners of his eyes . . . How she knew that it was melancholy, she wasn't sure, and yet she felt in her heart that it was so . . . but what bothered her most was the emptiness in his darkened gaze. She hadn't been able to discern a true color, but that didn't matter. She'd seen that expression before on the youkai that she'd hunted over time—the vast emptiness that bespoke a life that had been abandoned long before the flesh had been sent to follow . . .

 

She didn't stand up right away. In truth, she doubted that she actually could. Her legs were too weak, her body still affected by whatever drugs he'd shot into her, and while she'd wanted to move of her own accord, her body simply wouldn't allow it.

 

That irritated him more. Satisfied that she'd finished what she needed to do, he jerked her to her feet once more, his movements efficacious, direct, but not cruel. Forcing her feet to move, she stumbled a little but caught herself, though it seemed impossible to close the distance to the cot once more.

 

The long shirt she'd chosen for the day tumbled down as she moved, affording her at least a modicum of cover that she could be grateful for. When she finally reached the cot again, he pushed her down with a hand on her shoulder. “Try anything stupid, and I'll bind your ankles again,” he warned.

 

For some reason—maybe it was because of the drugs—that statement struck her as amusing, and while she tried not to laugh out loud, she couldn't help the giggles that escaped her. She'd heard that line before, hadn't she? Some old gangster movie that her cousin, Evan seemed to love, maybe . . .

 

That reaction drew a narrowed gaze from him as he sat back on his haunches, hands dangling between his spread knees. With a shake of his head and an unintelligible grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and stomped over to the table once more.

 

It didn't take long for Samantha's amusement to die away, especially since the pain in her arm and shoulder was exacerbated in her current position. Her skin felt clammy against the plastic cot that hadn't completely dried, but she couldn't rightfully say that she was more than a little uncomfortable, either.

 

Settling for watching him as he leafed through a thick, old tome, she fell silent.

 

Propping his elbow on the table, he absently tapped his index finger against his forehead.

 

“Will you tell me where I am?”

 

He made no move or indication that he'd heard her at all.

 

Samantha frowned. “Do you want something from me?”

 

Still no answer.

 

“Do you need money?” she asked, her voice stark and harsh in the otherwise silence despite the quietness of her tone.

 

He seemed surprised by her softly uttered question, and he glanced at her for a moment before looking away again.

 

“I have some,” she went on. “Y-you can have it . . .”

 

He ignored her.

 

“Do you . . . know . . . who I am?” she ventured to ask when he didn't respond.

 

“I know what you are,” he growled without lifting his face.

 

His words were sharp, cutting her to the quick as her eyes flared wide just for a moment. `What I . . .? He . . . can't . . .' Struggling to regain her composure, she forced a half-laugh and shook her head. “What I . . . am? What do you mean?”

 

He didn't answer in words, but he did lift his chin long enough to narrow his eyes on her, and for the barest of moments, the briefest of heartbeats, she was almost frightened of him—almost. Then he blinked and dropped his gaze to the book opened before him.

 

`Sami . . . maybe you should stop,' her youkai voice warned.

 

Samantha blinked and closed her mouth on the next question she had been poised to ask. `Why?'

 

`He's not going to answer you, and . . . and you can feel it, can't you?'

 

`Feel . . . it?' she echoed with a shake of her head. `What do you—?'

 

`His power, Samantha . . . the gross overabundance of spiritual power—so much that it almost flows from him . . . can't you feel it . . .?'

 

`Spiritual . . .? Like . . . Grandma . . .'

 

Her youkai didn't answer, and Samantha swallowed hard as her gaze shifted back to the man at the table again. “Who . . . are you . . .?” she murmured, though it was more of a rhetorical question than one she actually expected to be answered.

 

His chair flew back with an angry screech, and he stalked over to the sink, yanking open the cupboard and rummaging around inside until he found whatever he was searching for. She could hear the sounds but couldn't quite associate them with whatever he was doing, but when he turned toward her, he didn't miss the small syringe he held in his hand as he stalked toward her.

 

Her brain seemed to freeze and yet speed up at the same time, compelling her to do something—to say anything—that might keep him from sticking her with the needle. “M-my name is—” she began only to be cut off when he jabbed the needle into her arm.

 

“Shut up or I'll gag you again, and if you puke, you can choke on it for all I care.”

 

She fought against the instant effects of the shot even as she felt her body starting to shut down again, even as the familiar void beckoned her . . . Even as she closed her eyes . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Letting out a deep breath, Kurt scowled at the demon, jaw ticking as he clenched it tight, as he tried to tamp down the irrational surge of anger that it would have the audacity to try to play some sort of mind game with him. Common sense told him that he would do well to gag it again, but the unfortunate truth was that it was worthless to him dead, and if it threw up and choked to death, he wouldn't get paid, would he?

 

`Gotta get that disguise off of it,' he reasoned with a shake of his head. In that form, it looked entirely too human, despite the ears and fangs and claws. He knew damn well that those things always tried to look like humans; tried to blend in with everyone else.

 

What bothered him most, though, was that he could normally see right through their disguises—he always could. He hadn't thought it odd or weird when he was young, no. Back then, he'd thought that everyone could do that. His father certainly could. Kurt knew that. It hadn't been until he was forced to live with his aunt and uncle that he'd started to understand that it wasn't true, at all; that most people couldn't see the demons—the monsters—and that maybe he was the odd one.

 

But why couldn't he see past this one's concealment? It didn't make sense, damn it. He knew—knew—that there had to be an uglier façade under it all, but he couldn't see it.

 

`Because it's more powerful than the other ones,' he thought suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he continued to stare at the tiny form. `Remember what the old man said . . .?'

 

“Put that over there, boy!”

 

Kurt wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and shot Old Granger as fulminating a glower as he could muster before grasping the handles on the huge earthenware urn and scooting it across the rough plank floor. “I'm not slave labor,” he pointed out, his violet eyes reproachful as he dropped the urn into place and stepped back.

 

“Sass me again, and I'll beat you,” Old Granger warned, lifting the gnarled old walking stick that he'd picked up somewhere in the forest and shaking it at Kurt. “Didn't beat your daddy near `nough, and look how it turned him out!”

 

“Dad said you were just a crazy old man,” Kurt pointed out since he'd yet to actually see the old codger lift a hand to him. “Guess he'd know, wouldn't he?”

 

Old Granger snorted, pushing back the brim of the dusty old hat he always wore to wipe his forehead on a bright red hanky. “It was that ma o' yours fault. Filled his head with idiot notions . . . Bah!”

 

“You leave Mama out of this!” Kurt bellowed, balling his hands into tight fists at his sides.

 

The old man slammed the end of the cane into the floor so hard that the window panes rattled. “Shut up, boy, and listen good, else you'll end up just like `em!”

 

Kurt recoiled slightly, angry that he'd fear the old maniac; angry that Old Granger always—always—took potshots at his mother.

 

Satisfied that Kurt's tantrum was over, Old Granger huffed indignantly and shook himself. “Them what came after your'n wann't so tough. There be others—ornery sons o' bitches—that you won't see. They hide what they are, see? More powerful . . . and them're the ones to just laugh at you, and you never see `em comin'!” Turning away, his shoulders slumped slightly, as though the long statement had worn him out, Old Granger shook his head as he stared out the window at the small rise just before the tree-line—at the small wooden cross that stood under the spreading branches of a thick old tree. “Them's the ones you fear, boy. Them's the ones . . .”

 

Blinking away the last of the memory, Kurt shook his head and tightened his jaw as his gaze fell to the small demon once more. “Fear that . . .? Never . . .”

 

The low hum of his cell phone rattled against the pages of handwritten notes he'd left on the table, and he turned away with a snort. “What?” he barked in lieu of a proper greeting as he grabbed the phone and hit the `connect' button.

 

“How's the hunting?”

 

He almost smiled insincerely at the sound of the calculated calm in the voice on the other end of the line. “Got one,” he admitted at length, but not before giving a pregnant pause designed to make the man squirm. “It's going to cost you.”

 

“Doesn't it always?” the man quipped in a facetiously pleasant tone.

 

“Yeah, well, this one is going to cost you more.”

 

“Why's that?”

 

Unconsciously shifting his gaze to the huddled form once more, he sucked in his cheek while he contemplated how much information he was willing to divulge over the phone. “It's . . . stronger.”

 

“. . . Stronger?”

 

“I'd say one-point-five is a good place to open negotiations,” Kurt went on, knowing damn well that the cheapskate would never come close to coughing up that much for the creature.

 

The man bit out a very terse laugh. “One-point-five . . .? Does it shit gold?”

 

“You want it or not?” he went on in a deliberately bored tone of voice. “Makes no difference to me. Maybe the guys in Wichita would be more interested in paying the fine.”

 

“Wait, wait,” he hurried to say. “It's just that I've got to see it before we commit, you understand.”

 

Kurt's smile was as thin and insincere as the man's voice on the line. “Tomorrow,” he replied.

 

“All right, then. We'll be expecting you tomorrow.”

 

The line went dead, and Kurt stared at the device for a second before clicking it off and dropping it onto the table once more. To be honest, he figured he'd be able to talk them into seven-fifty, tops, but it didn't hurt to try . . .

 

Besides, even if they didn't want to pay over the base rate, he had other options, didn't he?

 

 

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A/N:

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Simonkal of Inuy ------ Rawben ------ malitiadixie ------- Jester08 ------ oblivion-bringr ------ FriskyPixie ------ Dark Inu Fan

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Final Thought from Kurt:

Time to get paid …

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