InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Mystified ( Chapter 13 )

~~Chapter 13~~

~Mystified~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Samantha watched the second hand on the clock as it moved with painfully slow precision, willing her brain to ignore the throbbing pain in her arm as she deliberately thought about things that made her happy, instead. Practicing with Grandpa or Uncle Ryomaru . . . knowing that they didn't really have to pull their punches as much as they did when she'd first started training . . . the scent of leaves falling on the earliest days of autumn . . . the crisp wind blowing off the ocean, tingling in her nostrils as she breathed deep . . . Running free for hours on end through the majestic trees in InuYasha's forest or along the craggy coast of Maine . . .

 

They were testing her nerves—at least, that's what she thought they were doing. They never, ever told her anything directly, of course, but the series of pins they'd stuck into her arms and chest and legs were soldered to tiny, thread-like electrodes. They had spent the majority of the day sending small electrical shocks into her via those needles. It had become a game to her to ignore the pain. They were watching the monitors they'd affixed to her as well as the expressions on her face to get a reading on her pain thresholds, she supposed.

 

As if she'd ever give them the satisfaction of knowing when or if they hurt her. That was something that she wouldn't do, no matter what. Bad enough to be stripped naked; to have everyone passing by eyeing her like she was no different from any other animal, strapped spread-eagle on the cold, clinical table, but to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they could hurt her . . . `No,' she thought stubbornly. `No . . .'

 

“It's weird,” one of the white-coats said as he shoved one of the needles just a little deeper into her skin. “None of the other ones were this docile.”

 

“She's scared,” another commented. He was on the other side, and she couldn't see his face, not that she wanted or needed to. She could tell from his tone that he was smiling. “Damn, though . . . Never thought that there were demons that looked like her.”

 

“Makes you a little worried, doesn't it?” the first one went on. “Meet a girl in a bar and take her home, only to find out later that you went and screwed a demon.”

 

The second one laughed. “Like that'd matter,” he commented. “I'd screw this one . . .”

 

“Oh, man, that's messed up,” white-coat one said.

 

“Like you wouldn't!” white-coat two argued. “Her vagina looked normal enough, and she's got nice breasts even if they are a little on the small side . . . Besides, something like that . . .? It would all feel the same with your eyes closed.”

 

Gritting her teeth as she tried to ignore the feel of their eyes on her, she gritted her teeth and concentrated on the clock.

 

One more hour . . .

 

That thought was enough to strengthen her resolve moments before another painful jolt rattled through her. They were upping the voltage little by little. It was a battle of wills, she figured: hers against theirs, even if there really wasn't anything on the line. `Nothing but my pride,' she thought absently. `At least, what's left of it, anyway . . .'

 

She wondered for what had to be the millionth time in the time since she'd woken up, only to discover that she was trapped in a place that she didn't know. `Why am I doing this? Struggling to hold onto my pride? What's the point?'

 

`You know why,' her youkai voice replied.

 

`Do I?'

 

`You want them to win everything? To give them everything? It's the last thing—the very last thing—that separates you from them, and you know it. Hand them your pride, and you've got nothing left: nothing at all, and what would you possibly say to your family—to your mother and father—if you let them win?'

 

Wincing inwardly at the blatant reminder, she felt the rawness resurface again. Her mother and father . . . kami, she missed them. Did they miss her, too, she wondered?

 

`Don't answer that,' her youkai commanded.

 

No, she supposed that she was better off not answering that, wasn't she? Better to think of them, sitting at the kitchen table as they quietly chatted about their plans for the day over breakfast . . . better to think of them, her mother sitting in a comfortable chair as her father played song after song on his baby grand piano in their living room . . . better to think about the warmth, the pervasive feeling of complete and total safety that she'd felt as a child, snuggled between them in the huge bed: so close that she could hear both of their hearts beating as one; close enough to feel the warmth of their arms wrapped around her to protect her as she slept . . .

 

Isabelle and Alexandra: her sisters . . . She knew well enough that they loved her—the blind love of siblings who never really stopped to consider that the baby they'd first encountered really wasn't a baby anymore . . . Still, that was all right, too, wasn't it? She didn't doubt that they loved her, and that was more than enough . . .

 

Only one more hour . . .

 

They all went home around five. They would put her back in her cage and leave her alone in the blessedly quiet room . . . alone to think, to listen, to wonder . . . alone with nothing but her thoughts and feelings and silence . . .

 

Except for him: the holy man. He'd be there, too, wouldn't he? He'd be there, and she'd know that she wasn't really as alone as she felt sometimes. It was a strange thing, wasn't it? Here, in this room, surrounded by the white-coats, she was more alone than she'd ever been, and though she knew that the holy man didn't really like her, she didn't think he hated her completely, either. Oh, sure, he wanted to think that he did, and maybe he even believed it, too. But she'd seen him when he found himself staring at her, a myriad of questions lost among the lonely shadows of his haunted gaze.

 

It wasn't the first time that she'd wondered what, exactly, could create such a void in one's very existence? She'd never seen that sort of expression before—the complete emptiness, as though there were nothing and nobody . . . as though there were just another day to wake in the morning without the basest of comforts . . .

 

Had he forgotten how to smile, how to care? Had he ever known these things at all? Somehow, she thought that maybe he had. If he didn't know what those things were, in the first place, why would he be so lost without them now?

 

Stranger still was the underlying feeling that she somehow knew him, too. The familiarity of him, of his very presence . . . She didn't understand it. Like a whispered secret that she hadn't been able to grasp, it lingered there before her—truth that she could not comprehend.

 

Closing her eyes for a moment as another jolt of pain ripped through her, she almost smiled when she opened her eyes, when she looked at the clock and the retreating minutes.

 

`Forty-six minutes,' she thought. `Forty-six minutes . . .'

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

“It's a barrier.”

 

All eyes turned to stare at Kagome as the miko's soft voice echoed in the quiet.

 

“You're sure?” Cain asked, shaking his head as he stared at the ofuda in Kagome's hand.

 

She nodded slowly, her expression clouded over in concentration. “Yes . . . I remember . . . Miroku used ones like these . . .”

 

Cain heaved a sigh. “Right. That's what InuYasha thought, too.”

 

“Miroku used proper ofuda. This one is pretty crude, but they're the same idea, and the kanji . . .” Kagome heard herself saying. It felt as if she were talking in a dream, as though she could remember every detail, as though time were slowly inching by . . . surreal . . .

 

“Wh . . . what does this mean?” Bellaniece asked quietly, her eyes flashing from Kagome to her father then back again. “That ofuda . . . what does it have to do with Samantha?”

 

Cain didn't answer right away, staring at his daughter as though he were trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say. “It means,” he said, casting Kagome a quick glance, “that whoever took her . . . meant to do it. It meant that they knew what they were doing: that they'd thought it through long enough beforehand to secure the area.”

 

A strangled sort of sound escaped her, muffled by the back of her hand. “Meant . . . to . . .?”

 

Cain grimaced and stepped forward, tugging his daughter into a comforting embrace. “We're looking into it now, Bellaniece: anyone who could possess the wherewithal to create this kind of barrier . . .”

 

Kagome eyed him for a few moments as he struggled to comfort his daughter. It was a harsh thing, wasn't it? Cain was trying desperately, but he was struggling, as unsure as everyone else. It made no sense, did it? Also something that she was certain that Cain understood. Why would anyone want to hurt Samantha?

 

Turning abruptly, she slipped out of the room, needing some quiet, some room to think. The rest of the mansion was silent as she let herself out the front door. The frigid air of the early November afternoon cut through the thin sweater she wore, lifting her hair and tossing it unmercifully.

 

Stepping off the porch, she pulled her sweater closer around herself as she wandered toward the yellow painted bench swing suspended from the lowest branch of a white ash tree that stood beside the looping driveway. All the children who had come to visit had scratched their names into that swing. The paint was faded with age, the wood that peeked through was grayed and old, but the chains that secured the swing into place were newly replaced, likely by Cain, himself, and likely at Gin's request.

 

Samantha's name was easily found. In the center of the middle slat on the back of the bench, she'd sat and scratched her name . . .

 

`Was it warm that day, Samantha?' she mused as she sat and lovingly traced the bold lines. `Were you just sitting out here by yourself as you watched the clouds drift by? Were you talking and laughing with Cain or Gin as you idly etched your name here?' Lifting her gaze as she saw the thick, gray storm clouds rolling in, she knew that they were in for a heavy snowfall by nighttime. `Where are you, Samantha . . .? Help us to find you, can't you . . .?'

 

“M-mama . . .”

 

Kagome blinked and turned in time to watch as Mikio, her youngest son, approached. Hands stuffed deep into his pockets, he came from the direction of the mansion though she wasn't entirely sure he had been inside. Smiling gently, almost absently, she stared at him. He was certainly his father's son, with his silver hair and golden eyes, but the shape of his face, the almost regal lines, gave testament to his lineage as his grandfather's son, or so she'd been told. Sesshoumaru had remarked a few times over the years that Mikio looked like the great Inu no Taisho. He sat down beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head inclined to the side as he idly fingered his left ear—a habit that he'd done ever since Kagome could remember . . .

 

“Anything new?” he asked quietly.

 

Kagome sighed and shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “The ofuda, but you've heard about that already, haven't you?”

 

He nodded. It didn't surprise her. Cain had said that they'd known about it for a couple days, but he'd wanted Kagome to see it before he said anything to the rest of the women. She'd understood, of course. He'd wanted to keep them from worrying if he possibly could. That Mikio knew wasn't really so remarkable. The rest of the men had already heard it, too.

 

“I feel so useless,” he muttered, scowling at the ground. “I mean, Sam's important to me, too . . .”

 

“I know she is,” Kagome said, hating the understated sting to Mikio's pride that he always felt whenever it became apparent that he was vastly different from the other male members of the family. He normally accepted his limitations as par for course, sure, but she knew well enough that it had to hurt him, even when he tried to hide things from everyone else in the family. “We'll find her, and I have to tell you, I think that you've been underestimating yourself, you know . . . Having you here, especially when some of the others aren't . . . it means a lot to all of us, and . . . and you know that, too, right?”

 

He shot her a grimace that told her plainly that he knew what she was trying to do and didn't really appreciate it, either. Kagome sighed. “Yeah . . . because no one else can do that, huh?”

 

“Mikio . . .”

 

He shook his head and turned a little red. “Sorry, Mama . . .”

 

Kagome drew a deep breath, her shoulders falling back as she lifted her face to the heavens. “Do you know what the hardest thing for your father to learn to do was?”

 

“No . . .”

 

Smiling a little sadly, she reached over and patted her son's hands. “Learning to let your brothers protect their own . . . and learning to let your sister be protected by the one she chose.”

 

“And Sam?”

 

“Do you believe that she's all right?”

 

He nodded slowly. “Y-yeah.”

 

Kagome stared at Mikio's profile for a long moment as her smile faltered. He looked like he believed it, and yet . . . and yet he couldn't mask the quiet anxiety that he felt deep down, either. She understood that feeling, didn't she? Knew it because it reflected her own . . . “Me, too, Mikio,” she said quietly. “Me, too . . .”

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Gunnar set aside the news reader folder and pulled off his glasses with a sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but see the constant motion of his uncle's leg as Kichiro tapped his foot. Staring out the window at the darkened skies, he looked like he was ready to snap, and Gunnar supposed that he couldn't blame him for that, either.

 

“You all right, Uncle?” he asked, breaking the stony silence that had fallen moments after the pilot had announced their flight plan just after taking off.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Kichiro muttered, his expression darkening by the second.

 

Gunnar didn't take it personally. “Getting a couple days' rest will do you some good,” he said.

 

That got Kichiro's attention quickly enough. Glowering incredulously at his nephew, he shook his head and snorted. “A couple days' rest? Is that what you call it? My daughter's out there somewhere, and you say that I need rest?”

 

“Aunt Belle needs you, too,” he remarked, letting Kichiro's tirade roll off him.

 

“Listen, pup, don't presume to tell me where I need to be right now.”

 

Gunnar nodded. Of course he could understand the predicament. His uncle felt compelled to be in both places at once, didn't he? Still, when the call had come in that they should check into the short list of people rumored to possess the spiritual power to erect any kind of barrier using the ofuda they'd found, Kichiro had stubbornly maintained that Samantha was still in Chicago; that he could feel it even if he couldn't explain it.

 

It was Ryomaru who had suggested that Kichiro return to Maine for a few days—at least long enough to get a little rest and to check up on his mate. The irony of that was not lost on Gunnar. That Uncle Ryomaru was the voice of reason was a strange, strange thing, indeed . . .

 

Gunnar, though, had said that he needed to get back to check up on things at the office. Sydnie was out—everyone was afraid that the stress of work, coupled with her acute worry over Samantha wouldn't be good for her unborn child—and Bas was heading for Idaho to check up on a young man there rumored to be able to see through youkai disguises. Evan and Morio were heading for Los Vegas while InuYasha and Ryomaru were checking into a lead in Austin, Texas. The two hunters were staying in Chicago, performing a more in-depth sweep of the city, and after Gunnar made sure that everything was all right there, he and Kichiro would be heading for Detroit, Michigan to seek out a woman who had managed to create a barrier some years ago to save some children when mass flooding had caused a nearby dam to burst.

 

“This is all fucking wrong,” Kichiro grumbled angrily, digging his claws into the arm of the plush seat. Sesshoumaru had sent in both of his private planes so that they'd have ready transportation available should they need it.

 

Gunnar nodded. “We'll find her, Uncle,” he said.

 

Kichiro snorted indelicately but didn't refute the claim, either.

 

Gunnar stared at him for another moment before picking up the news reader again. Scrolling through his subscriptions—he was collating news from all over the United States and Japan—he navigated the listings of headlines via the touch screen, searching in vain for anything that sounded even remotely like it could pertain to Samantha. It wasn't likely, of course. Still, it couldn't hurt, either . . .

 

Missing children in Vermont . . . a crazed gunman opened fire in a Wal-Mart in Clarksburg, Tennessee . . . a thousand headlines, none of which sounded like it could have anything to do with her at all . . .

 

But it just didn't make any sense. According to records, the prepaid cell phone that Samantha had been issued still contained unused minutes. The representative that he'd talked to had maintained that the phone appeared to be shut off, so it wasn't possible to track its location, either.

 

Letting the reader fall to his lap, Gunnar rubbed his eyes with a weary hand. Why did he feel as though they were missing something; something really, really important?

 

Gaze darkening as he scowled at the open article on the softly glowing reader screen, he shook his head. He'd figure it out, wouldn't he? After all, solving this sort of case was something that Gunnar did every day, and he'd be damned if he'd fail this time, not when his cousin was at stake . . .

 

`Hold on, Sam,' he thought as a steely resolve entered his amber gaze, as the lingering mirth of her laughter rang in his ears. `We'll find you . . .'

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Kurt scrunched up his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves of his sweatshirt as he stood up to check the system panel by the door. The room had dropped about ten degrees in temperature just since he'd gotten there about two hours before. Turning up the thermostat, he shook his head. Those cheap assed bastards had it set at fifty-eight degrees, which just figured. He'd be damned if he'd wake up with icicles hanging from his nose just because they were too stingy to properly heat the place . . .

 

The groan of the heating system responded, and with a shake of his head, Kurt turned away from the panel once more.

 

The demon was strangely quiet this evening—not entirely unwelcome, really, but a little suspicious, he figured. Striding over to its cage, he frowned at the bowl of food. It was obvious to him that it had been up to its usual tricks of dropping a handful of kibble down the drain. Shaking his head since he knew well enough why it was doing it, Kurt shoved the panel open with his foot and swiped up the bowl. He dumped the contents into the trash without stopping as he headed for the utilitarian workstation nearby. Under the sink was the nondescript bag of dog food, and he frowned at it for a moment before dumping a little bit of it into the empty bowl.

 

It was watching him; he could feel its gaze. Crumpling up the top of the bag to keep the contents from spilling out in the cupboard, he tossed it into the cabinet once more and kicked the door closed with his heel, snatching up the bowl once more before heading back for the cage again.

 

He shoved it through the slot and kicked the panel back into place. “Eat,” he commanded in a tone that should have left no room for discussion.

 

The little demon's ears flattened slightly, and it didn't lift its chin from its raised knees. “No, thank you,” it said.

 

Kurt snorted and knelt down, irritation rising at the stupid creature that didn't have the common sense to eat. It was thinner—visibly so—and as much as he hated to admit it, he was starting to worry: not so much about the beast, but worried that it really was trying to starve itself to death. Reminding himself for the hundredth time that if it died, Harlan would stop paying him, he narrowed his eyes on the demon and tapped a bar on the cage with his fingernail. “I don't think I asked if you wanted it. I told you to eat it,” he clarified.

 

“I don't eat dog food,” it replied icily.

 

“Why not?” he blurted before he could stop himself.

 

It shifted its darkened gaze to meet his, and for a moment, he thought he could almost sense its anger before it squelched the emotion and slowly shook its head. “Because I'm not a dog,” it replied simply enough, as though it were telling him that it was cold outside.

 

He couldn't stave back the loud snort brought on by its claim. “Oh? Then what are those?” he demanded, reaching into the cage to flick one of its ears.

 

The ear twitched and jerked and flattened against its matted hair before popping back up into place and twitching around like a little radar. “It's an ear,” it replied in what could only be described as a haughty tone.

 

He snorted. “A dog ear,” he retorted.

 

“My ear,” it corrected.

 

“Your ear that looks like a dog ear,” he shot back.

 

“Hmph!” it snorted and turned its back toward him, at least, as much as it could manage. Kurt blinked in surprise. “I don't think I like talking to you. Go away, houshi-sama.”

 

He shook his head. “What did you just call me?” he demanded.

 

It snorted again. “. . . Houshi-sama.”

 

“And what does that mean?”

 

“Go look it up,” it huffed.

 

Letting out a deep breath as the realization of the situation occurred to him, Kurt pushed himself to his feet abruptly, his irritation growing by leaps and bounds. He was arguing with a damned demon! “Eat your food or else,” he warned.

 

“Or else what?” it muttered.

 

Kurt narrowed his eyes and leaned down to peer into the cage once more. “Or else I'll force feed it to you. Don't think I won't; you hear me?”

 

“You can try,” it grumbled. “I'll just throw it up again.”

 

“How do you know that? I didn't drug it. You saw me get it out for you.”

 

“I'll just stick my finger down my throat until I puke; that's how!”

 

Drawing a deep breath, Kurt tapped his fingers against the cage as he tried to convince himself to calm down. “Do that, and I'll break your fingers,” he warned.

 

It turned his head far enough to glare at him over its shoulder. “I told you: I'm not a dog, and I refuse to eat dog food.”

 

“You're also not in a position to be so damn picky,” he pointed out.

 

It shrugged—mock bravado, he figured. “I don't care what you say,” it maintained stubbornly. “You can't make me eat it.”

 

“Listen,” he snapped, tapping on the cage a little harder. A loud hum erupted when the bars were disturbed, and it flinched slightly but otherwise made no sound. “You are not going to cost me money,” he growled, “so I don't give a damn if you like the dog food or not, but you will eat it. End of discussion.”

 

“How much money will I cost you?” it asked suddenly, levering itself up on its hands to turn in the cage once more. This time, though, it looked quite fascinated.

 

Kurt shook his head, unwilling to believe the abrupt change in temper. “A lot,” he muttered. “Now eat it.”

 

“Is that why you caught me? For money?”

 

Caught off guard by its candid question, Kurt stood and stepped back with a frown. “Enough questions,” he growled as he turned on his heel to head back to the desk. “Just eat.”

 

It let out a deep breath, and he heard the rattle of the bars as it leaned forward and grabbed hold of them. “Youkai don't need food, you know,” it said.

 

Kurt spared it a glance despite his almost perverse resolve not to do anything of the sort. That word was somewhat familiar to him, maybe one he'd stumbled across in his research. Still, it meant nothing in particular to him, and he snorted indelicately as he grabbed his knapsack to dig out his dinner. “Youkai? What's that?” he asked as he dropped the smashed and rumpled sandwich onto the desk.

 

“That's what we are . . . you didn't know? Well, to be more precise, I'm not really youkai. I'm hanyou.”

 

That wasn't a word that rang any bells, and he snorted again. “Han-what? What the hell does that mean?”

 

It laughed—an entirely pleasant sort of sound, he had to grudgingly admit. That thought drew an even darker scowl from him. Just what the hell was he thinking, anyway?

 

“Hanyou,” it repeated again. “It means that I'm only half-youkai.”

 

“Half-youkai,” he echoed with a shake of his head. “Hanyou, youkai, monster, demon . . . it's all the same to me. Now shut up and eat. You're giving me a headache.”

 

It heaved a sigh and shook its head, its ears drooping just a little. Kurt saw the response out of the corner of his eye as he carefully unwrapped the soggy BLT he'd picked up at the deli on his way in.

 

It seemed to do the trick, though. The creature finally stopped talking though it stubbornly refused to touch the bowl of food. Thanking his luck for small favors, Kurt took a bite of the unappetizing sandwich.

 

`Youkai . . .' he mused, his gaze taking on a thoughtful light. He had heard that term before, hadn't he? At the time, he'd just lumped the name in with the rest of the generic and fanciful terms he'd come across in his research. Now, though, he had to admit that the creature referring to itself and its kind as youkai was quite interesting . . . interesting enough to look into it a little more, even if Kurt knew damn well that a demon was a demon was a demon.

 

 

~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~= ~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~

A/N:

Houshi-sama: a very, very proper way to address a monk. Sango usually uses this term when talking to Miroku.

 

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Final Thought from Kurt:

…Houshi-sama …?

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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~