InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Nightmares ( Chapter 30 )

~~Chapter 30~~

~Nightmares~

 

-=0=-

 

 

He stumbled in the blackness, fumbling for something—anything—yet knowing deep down that there was nothing—nothing to grab onto, nothing to steady himself . . . Just nothing . . .

 

It was the darkness that he knew and despised. Negotiating the passages and the eerie corridors yet knowing deep down what he would find when he reached the inner sanctum . . . It was always the same, so why . . .?

 

“Kurt . . .”

 

A row of shackles hanging from the wall . . . five sets . . . five skeletons that laughed at him . . . one set that hung limply, the cuffs agape: waiting . . .

 

“Kurt . . .”

 

Candles burning on a table inside a room to the left, molten wax pooling around the misshapen stone candelabras . . . five empty plates . . . one filled with maggots and cockroaches and millipedes . . .

 

“Kurt . . .”

 

The steady, dull plop of something dripping just out of view: a constant, a never ending monotone . . .

 

“Kurt . . .”

 

A dull whine: almost a whimper . . . a scrape against the cold stone floor . . .

 

“Kurt . . .”

 

Slapping his hands over his ears, he ran deeper and deeper into the undulating, twisting maze. He wanted to escape, but he couldn't . . . He knew he couldn't . . .

 

Stumbling over something firm but yielding . . . a ragged cry; an unvoiced plea for help . . .

 

`Not again . . . not again . . . not again . . .'

 

Cold, grubby fingers stretching out to grab him, trying to stop him, pulling him back and pushing him forward. The floor was soft and squishy under his feet, squelching like mud after a healthy summer rain . . . but . . .

 

It was flesh; a giant throat. The humid air was hard to breathe. `Carbon dioxide . . .' The stench of bile that lingered, a putrid sourness . . .

 

Struggling onward; there was no escape—no turning back.

 

The countless groans and cries mingled in his ears. They meant everything, and yet they meant nothing at all. Grimacing, running, stumbling, faltering . . . The rattling of the two gold hoops dangling from his left earlobe rang in his head . . . He couldn't escape, couldn't escape . . .

 

But he couldn't tell if it was him or if it was a child version of him; the sounds, the cries . . . were they from a different place and time—a different Kurt . . . or . . .

 

The menacing laughter that filled the corridor echoed off the walls: laughter mixed with indeterminate sounds: not human and coming closer and closer and closer.

 

“Kurt . . .”

 

Panting as he tried to run faster, he could feel the hotness of breath hitting his face. Losing his footing, faltering, falling . . . Opening his mouth to scream, but no sound would come . . . Falling, falling . . . falling . . .

 

Landing on his knees in the midst of a slimy, pungent mass, Kurt grimaced and pushed himself to his feet, and this chamber . . . the entire room was pulsating, living . . . breathing . . .

 

The blackness seemed to thicken; the air was stifling, horrifying. He could hear the beat of a heart—a savage and bitter thing.

 

A slow haze congealed in the darkness; a glow that seemed even brighter against the stark black . . . “Uncle . . .”

 

Blood dripping everywhere: from the gash on his head, the ragged stump where his arm should have been . . . Blood gurgling and belching, tiny droplets spraying with each of his words: “What are you doing, Kurt . . .? What are you doing . . .?”

 

“N . . . no . . .”

 

His body faded as another appeared in his wake . . .

 

“Monsters, Kurt . . . why can you see those monsters . . .?” Aunt Mary, silvery tears streaking down her blood splattered face; her chest ripped wide open; her arms keeping her intestines from spilling out . . .

 

“How could you? You wicked, wicked boy . . .!”

 

“Mom . . .” he whispered, closing his eyes against the sight of her—her chest ripped open, her crushed heart in her hands . . .

 

“I told you not to tell, Kurt . . . I told you not to tell . . .”

 

“. . . Daddy . . .”

 

Too much blood, too much gore, too much . . . just too much . . . Hands shaking, body quivering, too many memories—too much bitterness . . .

 

A tiny hand slipped into his. He screamed; he jumped, but the little hand hung on. Fearful, fearful . . . Looking down, he saw her . . . “C-Carrie . . .”

 

Her head was at an odd angle, her legs akimbo but holding her up. She smiled at him—a gruesome, vile distortion . . . “Kurt . . .”

 

Awaking with a jerk, he sat up straight, chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. That dream . . . that dream—he hated that dream . . . Five consecutive days of that same nightmare . . . Waking up in a cold sweat, babbling . . .

 

Stumbling to his feet, he barely took two steps before he hit his knees, his stomach lurching, heaving, as he closed his eyes tight. The stench of his vomit brought back the nightmare with startling clarity, and he squeezed his eyes tight, pushing against the floor, drawing back into himself . . . Hating . . . loathing . . . despising . . .

 

It took several minutes for him to regain control of himself, and he sat back, closing his eyes, dragging in lungful after ragged lungful of air.

 

They were condemning him, weren't they? From the hell in which they were cast, locked together for all of eternity in a medley of hatred, they could see him, always, like angels with malice in their hearts, and he might well have believed that if he actually believed in heaven and hell . . .

 

He didn't. As disturbing as those dreams were, that's all they were: dreams. He'd stopped believing in everything and everybody a long, long time ago. The only one he could rely on was himself . . .

 

Himself and the vengeance that he craved . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

“What do you think you're doing?”

 

Isabelle shifted her gaze in the mirror as she fastened the simple diamond stud earring. Meeting her mate's troubled expression, she smiled wanly before turning around and smoothing the form-fitting black dress over her figure. “How do I look?” she asked, holding her hands out at her sides.

 

Griffin's trademark scowl deepened, and he slowly shook his head. “Why are you all dressed up?”

 

She waved a hand as she leaned over to pull on the two-inch heeled black pumps. “It's Papa and Uncle Ryomaru's birthday. You'd better get ready for the party.”

 

“Party?” he echoed, eyeing his mate as though he thought that maybe she'd lost her mind. “I don't think—”

 

“We have this party every year,” she reminded him.

 

“You think your father's going to want this?” he reiterated.

 

Isabelle's thin smile grew even more transparent. “Mama does.”

 

“Your mama.”

 

She nodded. “Yeah . . . and . . .” faltering, she stared at her hands for a moment before lifting her chin once more, her smile back in place. “Sami would want us to have it, too.”

 

Griffin heaved a sigh, unsure whether or not he actually was buying into this, but Isabelle . . . She looked so damned determined, and maybe this was a small way for her to feel as though she were helping, even if it were only an illusion.

 

“I don't know, Isabelle,” he muttered, shaking his head. The entire thing seemed so . . . so fake . . . and he wasn't too certain that anyone else would welcome this particular idea . . .

 

“I'll bet that she's singing `Happy Birthday' right now, wherever she is.”

 

Griffin didn't say anything as he reached for the clothes that Isabelle had laid out for him and headed for the bathroom. In the end, he supposed it didn't really matter, did it? Whether they had this party or not . . . but maybe it would help her mother, at least.

 

A crisp knock sounded on the door, and Isabelle stepped over to answer it. “Lexi,” she greeted. “You haven't changed yet.”

 

“Have you lost your damn mind, Bitty?” she demanded without preamble, her dark blue eyes sparking dangerously. “A party? Are you mad?”

 

Isabelle grasped her sister's arms and smiled gently. “Calm down, sweetie. You know as well as I do that we have this party every year.”

 

“Not this year!” she hissed, yanking herself away from Isabelle's grasp. “What the hell has gotten into you? Don't you get it? Samantha—our baby sister—is missing! Missing! Can't you comprehend that?”

 

Isabelle flinched, blinking rapidly as a suspect brightness entered her gaze. “Of course I know that,” she replied stiffly. “This is for Mama. Isn't that all right?”

 

Alexandra heaved a sigh and shook her head, glaring at her sister before turning on her heel and stomping out of the room, leaving Isabelle with a sad frown on her face as she watched Alexandra's abrupt departure.

 

In truth, the party was the last thing that she really wanted to do, but . . . but Bellaniece had seemed so adamant that she simply hadn't had the heart to gainsay her on it; to point out how entirely unwelcome some of the others, Alexandra included, would find it. Her mother seemed so damned determined to conduct things as though nothing at all were amiss, and as much as Isabelle could understand that, it frightened her, too.

 

With every day that passed, a little more hope slipped away: hope that Isabelle, like everyone else, was struggling to hold on to.

 

Griffin slipped out of the bathroom in the clothes that she'd put out for him. She felt his presence though he didn't make a sound. A moment later, he slipped his arms around her, drawing her back against his chest in a comforting embrace. “You . . . okay . . .?”

 

“It'll be two months tomorrow, won't it?” she murmured quietly. “Two months . . .”

 

Griffin grunted in response then shrugged. “She . . . she's all right.”

 

Isabelle nodded slowly, letting him offer her his silent support—his strength.

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

“Zelig-sensei, are you ready?”

 

Cain looked up from the stack of papers he'd been reading over, frowning at the sight of his mate in the festive red dress. She looked like she'd just stepped out of some fashion magazine, and he knew damn well that he'd never seen that particular outfit before. Letting out a deep breath, he slowly set the papers aside and stood up.

 

“Let me straighten your tie,” she offered, stepping around the desk to adjust the bow at his throat. “There. Perfect.”

 

“Gin . . . Do you really think that this is a good idea?”

 

Her little smile faltered slightly before she could catch herself. “Sure, it is,” she insisted. “Bellaniece really wants it.”

 

He nodded and rubbed his face. “I know. I just don't think . . .”

 

“Kichiro needs this, too . . . I think . . . I think he's forgetting how to smile.”

 

“It's not that,” he said.

 

She leaned back, staring up at his strange expression. “What's the matter?”

 

He shook his head, shifting his scowl at the blackened windows behind his desk. “I've gotten no less than eight calls since those flyers were released to the generals: eight different youkai in eight different places who swear they've seen Samantha in the last few weeks.”

 

“But that's good, right? Leads . . .”

 

“Maybe, but if we have to chase down every lead we get, only to find out that they're flukes or . . . or someone's damn idea of a joke . . . We'll be wasting time . . .”

 

“If one of them is pans out . . .”

 

“That's a big if . . .”

 

She nodded slowly. “But worth it if it'll bring Samantha home.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Gin smiled again and took his hand. “Come on. Kichiro and Ryomaru will be here soon. They called awhile ago to say that their plane had landed safely.”

 

Cain said nothing as he let his mate drag him out of the study. The trouble was that not one of the leads had seemed solid enough to track, but he just didn't have a choice, did he? He'd already dispatched all three of his hunters to check into the most promising leads, and even those were vague, at best. “I might have seen her . . .” “I thought I saw her . . .” “Well, it rather looked like her but her hair must have been dyed . . .”

 

The front door opened as they stepped out of the study, and a very worn-looking Kichiro stepped into the house with his twin brother. “Oh, surprise!” Gin hollered, hurrying over to greet them properly.

 

The brothers exchanged looks. Cain grimaced since neither looked very pleased about the apparent ambush. Having heard Gin's exclamation, the others hurried into the foyer to greet the birthday boys, too. Cain stepped over and slipped an arm around Gin's waist to draw her back, away from the two since it looked like Kichiro was about ready to lose his temper.

 

But the hell of it was that Cain couldn't really blame him for it, either. When Gin had first mentioned that Bellaniece wanted to throw the annual party, he'd told her that he didn't think that it was a good idea. Already pushed to the very limits of his tolerance, the hanyou looked like he thought that the entire thing was in poor taste. Unfortunately, Cain could understand Bellaniece's point of view, too. Desperately trying to cling to anything that she considered normal or status quo, she'd wanted—needed—the distraction to get her mind off the constant worry, the incessant questions. He could only hope that Kichiro would understand it, too.

 

To his credit, though, the irritation in his expression disappeared quickly enough, and he even managed a wan smile as he kissed his mate and daughters in turn. Ryomaru managed to sneak away, grasping Nezumi's arm to lead her into the living room. Isabelle called out, making her way through the gathering with a very large sheet cake with the brothers' names in blue icing.

 

Cain sighed and intercepted the strangely horrified look on Mikio's face. He was certain that Mikio understood what was going on, but seeing it happening was just entirely too much for the young hanyou to bear witness to. “What the hell is this?” he muttered, casting Cain the same kind of look that he had when he was younger, when he hadn't understood why Cain would ask him to do odd jobs during his visits: tasks that he never asked anyone else to tackle. Cain had understood back then, hadn't he? He'd known the unspoken battle deep within Mikio because he simply didn't want to be treated differently from his nephews or Gunnar.

 

“They—we—need something normal,” Cain replied quietly.

 

“Something normal,” Mikio repeated. “Y-yeah . . . I'm starting to forget what that means.”

 

Cain nodded. To be honest, he'd thought the same thing, himself . . . but he also knew damn well that, until Samantha came home, nothing would ever be normal again . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Alexandra fell back, skirting around the gathering that was smiling too widely, laughing too loudly. The entire thing was completely contrived, and no one played her part quite as well as her mother. Watching as though the entire thing were little more than a gross farce of a play—a tragic comedy, at best—Alexandra just couldn't bring herself to try to laugh, to carry on.

 

She couldn't understand exactly what they were doing; why they were doing it. It made no sense, did it? For all they knew, Samantha could be . . . Swallowing hard, she forced that thought away, unable to bear the idea of completing it, even if it were only in her head.

 

Still, with every day that passed, ever moment that ticked away, she couldn't help the ugly voice in the back of her mind—the one that sounded cold, clinical—reasonable. Two months was just too long. If Samantha really were okay, she'd have tried to contact them by now, and Alexandra knew it.

 

She didn't want to think about the idea that Samantha might not come home, but . . . but she was also just a little too pragmatic to keep up the fake pretenses, too. “If we only knew . . .”

 

Slipping through the living room unnoticed, she indulged herself in a moment of relief as managed to step outside unnoticed. The cold wind was a balm on her raw nerves, and she breathed deep despite the burn in her lungs.

 

“You're going to freeze out here,” John said as he stepped outside. “Shouldn't you be inside wishing your father a happy birthday?”

 

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of the gross display. To her surprise, a high-pitched, incredulous laugh surged out of her. “It's entirely insulting,” she rebuked. “Am I the only one who hasn't lost her mind? Throwing a party like Samantha . . . like she doesn't even exist, and . . .”

 

“And you don't really think that's what they're doing, do you?” he chided quietly, slipping his arms around her in an entirely placating sort of way.

 

“I don't . . . I don't know,” she admitted quietly. “I just know that it doesn't feel right. Mama says that Samantha would want us to do this—Can you imagine . . .?”

 

John exhaled out slowly, his breath condensing in a hazy cloud against the sober hues of the night. “And if you were the one missing, Lex? Would you want your father to have his birthday party?”

 

His question caught her off guard despite the idea that it should have been the most natural one in the world. She shook her head, tried to consider it, but couldn't. “I . . . I don't know.”

 

He smiled gently. “You told me before that your parents have always stood behind you, no matter what, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Reaching out with a gentle hand, he tucked her hair behind her ear and rubbed her cheek softly. “Well, then, maybe you should think of this party as your way of . . . of supporting them—of supporting your mother.”

 

She knew deep down that John really did think that she'd tell him that he was right; that she'd march back inside, plaster on a happy smile, and go along with the charade. She couldn't. She really couldn't, and if that made her a bad daughter, then so be it.

 

“I can't do that,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pulled away from him. “It's just not right. It's not like Samantha was just sent off to summer camp or something. She's missing. Someone took her. She's been missing for two months, and all I can do is go in there and pretend like nothing in the world is happening? I can't, John. I . . . I can't . . .”

 

“Lex . . .”

 

“No!” She drew a deep breath, staring at him, long and hard. “No . . . and if that makes me a bitch, then so be it.”

 

He shook his head and smiled a little sadly. “It doesn't. No one can make you feel any way that you don't, just like you can't make anyone else feel the same way you do.”

 

“I get the feeling that you're lecturing me,” she pointed out with a sigh.

 

He shook his head and smiled just a little. “No, not lecturing.”

 

Alexandra turned to face the ocean, wondering absently why nothing in nature ever seemed to change, even when her entire family was being ripped apart . . .

 

 

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

A/N:

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Final Thought from Alexandra:

What a joke …

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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~