InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Tear ( Chapter 31 )

~~Chapter 31~~

~Tear~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Samantha sighed as she glanced at the clock and bit her lip, her ears flattening as she wondered just where he could be.

 

Nearly seven, and still no sign of him . . .

 

`He'll be here. Don't worry.'

 

He would be there, wouldn't he? Letting out a deep breath, she told herself not to look at the clock again just as her eyes shifted to the side to stare at it one more time.

 

`Listen, dollbaby . . . he'll be here, and maybe he'll talk to us tonight. After all, his bad mood can't really last much longer, can it?'

 

Sighing again at the vague optimism in her youkai's voice, she wrinkled her nose and huddled further into the corner of the cage.

 

He really had been in a weird mood lately—for nearly the last week, hadn't he? The problem was, she had no idea why. He'd barely spoken to her—barely looked at her, actually. Yes, he fed her, and he'd open her cage shortly after he arrived, grunting and motioning that she should stick out her feet so he could shackle them, but then he'd pretty well left her alone, and no amount of talking had gotten him to speak, either. Still . . .

 

`If I knew what was bothering him . . .'

 

`You know something? I think maybe I was wrong about him. You know, I don't think that he's a bad person . . . I think that he simply needs to understand that you're not really so different from he is . . . Maybe he's just never met one of us who wasn't a monster . . .'

 

`A monster . . .'

 

She frowned and sat up a little straighter. She wasn't sure when her youkai's attitude had started to change. The normally pragmatic voice had been completely against the taijya from the start. Lately, though, it had taken to trying to encourage her, hadn't it? Strange . . .

 

`It made sense, what you thought before,' her youkai pointed out. `If he thinks he has a reason to hate us . . . you know? I mean, remember how Griffin said that he hated humans for a long, long time for what they did to his family?'

 

That did make sense, didn't it? If only she had an idea of why he felt the way he did . . .

 

Making a face, she dug a handful of dog kibble out of the bowl and dropped them neatly down the drain. She knew well enough that the white-coats were just assuming that she had been eating the crap all along. It gave her a rather skewed feeling of accomplishment that she was able to fool them, though.

 

It was a little warped, wasn't it? Feeling like she was actually doing something to fool them when the taijya had been feeding her every evening for awhile now.

 

Heck, despite his obvious irritation of late, he still brought her food every night, didn't he? That aside, she knew well enough that he wasn't actually angry at her. She didn't know why she knew that or how, but she did know . . . and wasn't that enough?

 

The dull thud of footsteps coming down the hallway outside the holding area drew Samantha's attention, and she couldn't help the way she sat up just a little straighter, watching the doorway, knowing the familiarity of the taijya's scent moments before he stepped into the room. His eyes were smudged with black shadows beneath, his face looked a little paler than it had even last night, but it was him.

 

Striding over to the desk to deposit his knapsack, he took his time removing the black leather jacket and gloves. She frowned. It wasn't the first time that she'd wondered about those gloves. In the end, she'd figured that he wore them to help contain his spiritual energy, and while he did take them off, he did tend to wear them a lot, too . . .

 

He rubbed his face in a tired sort of way before striding over to release the door. He said nothing, rolling his wrist to indicate that she should stick her feet out. She did, and he wasted no time in securing her ankles with the shackles.

 

That accomplished, he turned around to double check the barrier that covered the door. It must have been activated already, because he checked the panel over then returned to the desk once more.

 

Samantha took her time washing out the water bowl and refilling it again. He seemed even more agitated than he had been the rest of the week. She only wished that she knew why . . .

 

Digging into his knapsack, he pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in plastic. He dropped one on the corner of the desk and unwrapped the other. Samantha figured that was his way of telling her that it was for her, so she wandered over to take it.

 

She blinked and almost smiled at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she unwrapped. She hadn't had one of those in years, she supposed, and it had always been a bit of a treat when she was a pup. Her grandfather, Cain would sometimes send care packages though Samantha had always suspected that they had come more from her grandmother than from her grandfather. Still, there were always at least a couple jars of peanut butter inside, and Samantha had always loved the sandwiches that her mother made for her on the soft, white bread that was always sent, too.

 

“Are you feeling all right?” she ventured though she really didn't figure that he'd answer.

 

He didn't, and she sighed, heading back toward the cage since he didn't seem to welcome her company.

 

After a minute, he got up and strode over to the monitors, reading through her chart in silence.

 

She ate her sandwich quite happily despite the obvious tension.

 

“Blood testing?” he finally said, obviously referring to the chart.

 

She shrugged since she really hadn't done much other than just sitting there while they'd drawn a few pints of her blood again. “I don't know what they were doing,” she admitted, popping the last of the sandwich into her mouth.

 

He grunted and walked back to the desk again.

 

Samantha sighed and drank the water, pondering exactly how she could get him to talk to her again. “Don't suppose I could read the comics?” she ventured at length, wrapping her hands around her ankles as she scrunched up her shoulders and tried to look as innocent as possible.

 

“What makes you think I brought a newspaper?” he countered evenly.

 

“You always bring the newspaper,” she pointed out. “Please?”

 

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Pain in the ass,” but didn't reply to that otherwise, either.

 

Samantha smiled to herself since that was probably the most like a real response she'd gotten out of him in days.

 

“I don't suppose you brought me two of those sandwiches,” she ventured.

 

That earned her a suspect frown. “You don't need two of them,” he replied.

 

“But I love peanut butter and jelly,” she protested.

 

He shook his head. “What a pig . . . You should be saying `thank you', not bugging me about having seconds,” he pointed out.

 

“Thank you for the first sandwich. I really appreciate it; it was delicious. I don't suppose you brought me a second one so that I would be even more grateful, did you?”

 

That earned her a bout of eye rolling as he dug the newspaper out of his bag and set about ignoring her.

 

All in all, though, Samantha figured that it was all right. Even if he wasn't interested in a more in-depth conversation, at least he didn't seem to be as troubled as he had been.

 

So if she could just figure out how to get him to talk a little more, she'd be ahead of the game, right? Besides, she rather enjoyed his company, such as it was. The conversations that they'd had were interesting enough, and if she had to be stuck in a place like this, at least she'd found someone she could talk to.

 

Strange, though, really . . . He was the one who had captured her, yes, and he'd used his power against her when she'd freaked out upon seeing the cage, true. The thing was, he still treated her with a modicum of decency—decency that she didn't get or expect from the white-coats. He wasn't a bad person, she knew that. She could tell that he wasn't, and while she couldn't put it into words, she could feel it, couldn't she?

 

Youkai and hanyous . . . they tended to be intuitive creatures. Many of their thoughts, their actions, were dictated by the things that they perceived, weren't they? Their ideals, their beliefs . . . all governed by the things that went unseen . . .

 

The taijya . . . There was a certain understanding, wasn't there? A part of her knew him, didn't she? A part of her that she hadn't realized was there for so long . . . Something about him spoke to her in quiet whispers and in breaths and murmurs, so subdued that she had to strain to hear it, and yet . . .

 

That was the reason that she'd never been scared of him, wasn't it? That was the reason she was able to hold onto a semblance of her sanity. He was that reason . . . He was the one who reassured her that everything really would be all right, and even if he didn't realize that he'd done it, he had, and no, it wasn't something that she would ever be able to put a face on or words to, but she knew . . .

 

A wounded heart, scarred so deeply that he didn't realize that he walked the earth in a constant shroud of pain . . . Samantha could sense it, could feel it, and she wanted to help him—to help him realize that it didn't have to be that way—to help him understand those things that she couldn't rightfully understand, herself. If she could just figure out what those dreams were that woke him in the night; if she could only discern those things that he hid behind those startling violet eyes . . . Those secrets that he held much too tightly . . . He was kept in a cage, too, wasn't he? Trapped in one that he'd created for himself a long time ago—a cage that kept the rest of the world from touching him; a cage with invisible bars that was much, much smaller than hers was . . .

 

He needed her, didn't he? He needed her even if he didn't realize it, himself . . . He needed her because he couldn't escape his cage by himself, and maybe he didn't even know he existed inside one . . . He needed her, and she . . . she couldn't turn away from someone else who was suffering as much as she was—maybe more . . . because if she could . . . if she could just help him . . .

 

If she could do that . . . she could be free, too.

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

“You heading back tomorrow?”

 

Gunnar started and turned around to face Bas. Hands dug deep in the pockets of his formal slacks, he had lost the jacket of his tux awhile ago, untying the bowtie at his throat and letting it hang open on either side of the crisp white collar flaps. Black hair hanging loose, free, blowing into his face at the capricious whim of the wind blowing off the Atlantic Ocean, he shook his head slowly as he shuffled his feet and shrugged. “No . . . Cain asked me to check into a potential sighting in Philadelphia.”

 

Bas nodded. “I'm being dispatched to Miami,” he admitted. “God, what a fucking mess.”

 

Gunnar turned around, his gaze shifting over the familiarity of the place. “How much longer are we going to do this?” he finally asked, his tone quiet, flat—hopeless. “Every time we think that we're getting somewhere . . . We're no closer to finding her than we were in the beginning, and maybe . . .”

 

“You want to give up?” Bas challenged just as quietly. “You want to, what? Throw her away? Say we've done all we can and just walk away?”

 

Gunnar sighed and shook his head. “That's not what I'm saying at all.”

 

“Then what are you saying?” Bas demanded through clenched teeth. “Just what the fuck are you saying?”

 

Gunnar finally turned back, his eyes glowing in the dim light filtering out of the living room—squares of false brightness like a beacon . . . like hope. “How many cases are lying on your desk right now? How many other parents are waiting for their children to come home while we're fixated on this one? Sure, Sam's family, and yes, I want to find her, but damn it . . . At what cost, Bas? At whose cost?”

 

“Those cases on my desk have been languishing for years. A few more months isn't going to help any of them.”

 

Gunnar uttered a terse chuckle: a sound devoid of any real humor. “Is that what you think?” he demanded. “Is that really what you believe? Some of these families have been waiting a lifetime to get some sense of closure—to know that the person who hurt them cannot ever hurt someone else again . . . But ask yourself this: if Samantha wasn't related to us—if we didn't know her personally—would we honestly be dropping every single thing to look for her?”

 

Bas stared at him for a long moment, his gaze fierce, angry. Gunnar could understand that; of course he could, and he didn't think that they should give up, either.

 

But the youkai world had come to a screeching stand-still, and while he understood it, that didn't mean that he couldn't see the other side of it, too—the people who still waited by windows, jumped at the sound of the telephone . . .

 

“And if it were your child out there . . . Would you be saying the same thing now?” Bas growled, narrowing his eyes on his cousin.

 

Gunnar sighed, rubbed his forehead. “You're misunderstanding me, Bas,” he said.

 

“No, I don't think I am,” Bas countered. “Look . . . I—”

 

“You fucking bastard . . .!”

 

Gunnar didn't blink and didn't back down as Kichiro shoved the door open and strode outside. Heading straight for him, Gunnar knew damn well that Kichiro was about to punch him, and he didn't try to avoid it, either. Head snapping to the side, shoulders jerking back at the force of the blow, he ignored the explosion of pain as he slowly turned his head to face his uncle once more.

 

Shrugging off Bas as the younger man grasped Kichiro's arms and tried to pull him back, Kichiro shoved him away before rounding on Gunnar once more. “You think that this would be different if you were missing? You think that I wouldn't drop every last damn thing to look for your miserable hide? Damn you, Mamoruzen! Damn you!”

 

“That's not what I meant, Uncle,” Gunnar explained slowly. “I want to find her as badly as you do. I just meant—”

 

“Come on, Kich,” Bas said, grasping Kichiro's arm and dragging him back. “Infighting's not going to help us, anyway.”

 

Gunnar said nothing as he watched the two go inside. Kichiro struggled for a few seconds, casting Gunnar a dirty look but finally seemed to decide that it wasn't worth it. Jerking out of Bas' grip, he stomped back inside. Gunnar heaved a sigh and shook his head.

 

“What was that all about?”

 

Turning slightly at the sound of his father's voice, Gunnar shrugged. “I was trying to explain to Bas that I think that one of us should stay here and start looking at the files that just keep piling up.” Balling up his fist, he rapped his knuckles on the high stone railing. “I wasn't trying to say that we should stop looking for Samantha. I just think . . . I just think that we owe it to the rest of the youkai not to lose sight of them, as well.”

 

Toga let out a deep breath, wandering over to his son's side. He held a steaming mug of tea. “Is that what you want to do?”

 

“I want to do all of it,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “But I cannot . . .”

 

“And you don't think that Kichiro feels the same way?” Toga mused. “Wanting to be out there, looking for his daughter . . . feeling as though he should be here, watching over his mate . . . worrying about his clinic back home . . . Mamoruzen . . . this entire situation has us all on edge, but the last thing we want—the very last thing—is to give in to the anger and frustration . . . Surely you understand that.” Clapping him on the shoulder, Toga turned around and started back inside.

 

“Father . . .”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I didn't mean for it to sound as though I thought we should stop looking for her.”

 

Toga considered that and nodded. “I'm sure you didn't, and I'm sure that Kichiro understands that, too, even if he is a little ticked off at the moment.”

 

Gunnar clenched his jaw.

 

He really hadn't meant to irritate his uncle. He just wondered how they were supposed to go on from here? Two months of searching had availed them nothing. How much longer were they going to keep going on, ignoring all their other responsibilities in the process?

 

And how fair was it to the people who relied on them for answers? Everything—everything—had ground to a screeching halt, and while he understood and acknowledged that they had to find Samantha, he also understood far too well that there were others who needed them, too—others who had no way to help themselves.

 

So where did that leave anyone? Up in the air without any idea how or when they were supposed to remember those other obligations . . .?

 

Unfortunately, there were no answers . . . the reason he'd asked Bas wasn't because he was suggesting that they call a stop to the search efforts, no . . .

 

It was in hopes that maybe Bas had a better understanding than Gunnar, himself, did.

 

“Damn it . . .”

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

`One hundred seventy-nine . . . one hundred eighty . . .'

 

“Please?”

 

`One hundred eighty-one . . . one hundred eighty-two . . .'

 

“Pretty please?”

 

`One hundred eighty-three . . .'

 

“Is there really something so wrong with wanting to read the comics?” the little demon demanded, crossing her arms over her chest with a pronounced huff.

 

Wrinkling his nose, he had to admit that it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore her. That might be because she was currently sitting on the edge of the desk since talking to him from the cage hadn't worked at all. The chain that joined the shackles around her ankles clanked against the metal leg, grating on his nerves even more.

 

`So give her the comics so she'll shut the hell up already,' his conscience prodded.

 

Pinning her with a longsuffering scowl that she completely missed since she was too busy looking around the room as she continued to kick her feet, he tugged out the page that she wanted and rattled it at her. “Take it,” he grumbled, hoping against hope that it shut her up, even if it were only for a few minutes.

 

She blinked and twisted around, staring at the newspaper page that he held out to her. “Really?”

 

“Now or never, little demon,” he growled.

 

He could only blink when she snatched the page and scooted off the desk, making a beeline to the cage as though she were afraid that he was going to snatch it right back from her.

 

`Weird little creature,' he thought to himself as he shook his head and folded up the rest of the paper.

 

Digging the notebook out of his knapsack, he thumbed through the pages until he found a blank one. `Says she can read,' he scribbled with a scowl. Too bad he wasn't entirely certain that she could read or if she was just saying that.

 

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. To be honest, he was still feeling a little out of sorts. That dream . . . he couldn't stand it—that feeling of being completely helpless and afraid . . .

 

Standing abruptly, he snatched up the paper to drop it in the trash can but stopped when he glanced at the little demon. Hunched over in the cage with the page spread on the floor, she looked like she was tracing her claw over something, but what?

 

He watched her for a moment. She picked up something—he couldn't make out what it was—and leaned back, pressing her hands over her chest as though she were cradling something dear . . .

 

`What is she . . . doing . . .?'

 

Frowning as he moved in closer, he hunkered down in front of the cage. “What do you have?” he demanded.

 

She shook her head, her eyes downcast. “N-nothing,” she whispered.

 

“Don't give me that,” he grumbled, reaching into the cage and snagging the newspaper page. His frown deepened as he stared at the page. She'd cut the dateline off the page . . .? Why? “Why did you want the dateline?” he asked, his tone telling her plainly that he expected her to tell him.

 

“Is this . . . today's paper . . .?”

 

Caught off guard by her softly uttered question, he blinked. “Today's . . .? Uh, yeah . . . well, for another twenty minutes . . .”

 

“So . . . today is the thirtieth . . .?”

 

He nodded.

 

She shook her head. “December thirtieth?”

 

Scowling at the almost desperate tone in her voice, Kurt nodded. “Yeah, so?”

 

“. . . Oh . . .”

 

“What's special about December thirtieth?”

 

A strange noise slipped from her—almost a sob but muffled. His ducked a little lower, trying to get a look at her face, and he drew back when he saw the huge, fat tears glossing over her gaze though they didn't spill over.

 

“December thirtieth . . .”

 

“Little demon . . .?”

 

“Do you like parties?” she asked suddenly, her voice oddly strong despite the tears standing in her eyes. Her chin lifted defiantly, and she pressed her lips together as though she were struggling to keep herself from breaking down in tears.

 

“Parties?” he echoed absently, stupidly.

 

She nodded and drew a deep breath to steady herself. “Parties,” she repeated. “Like . . . like birthday parties . . . You know, with those silly hats and those things . . . You blow into them, and they stretch out . . . sometimes they make noise . . .”

 

He shook his head, unable to comprehend exactly where she was going with her random questions. “I, uh . . . I haven't been to a . . . a birthday party . . . in a long time,” he admitted quietly.

 

She nodded slowly, as though whatever he'd said made perfect sense. “I made him a cake one year . . . it was . . . the saddest cake ever, I think . . .”

 

“Him?”

 

She nodded, her eyes glossing over, as though she were seeing a time and a place that Kurt couldn't, and in that moment, she wasn't really there, was she? Miles and miles away . . . with some elusive `him' that Kurt couldn't see. “I was so . . . proud,” she choked out with a soft laugh. “So proud . . . It was all undercooked and runny in the middle, and I guess I forgot to add flour, but . . . but he ate it all because I made it . . . because I stood beside him, watching him. And he just smiled and . . . and ate it . . .”

 

Kurt didn't understand—didn't want to understand. Something about the pain in her expression; something about the way she clutched that damned scrap of paper to her chest . . . Why . . .? Why did it hurt to watch her? Why did it hurt him to watch her struggling not to cry . . .?

 

She smiled sadly—a horrifying expression when coupled with the tears that still stood in her eyes. “They invite everyone every year . . . and I've never missed it—not once—till now.”

 

A strange sense of foreboding crept up his spine. He wanted to get away from her, didn't he? And yet . . . and yet he couldn't. “Whose . . . birthday?” he heard himself asking, his voice much thinner, weaker than normal.

 

If she noticed, she didn't remark upon it. “It's supposed to be a surprise,” she said with a quiet little laugh followed in short order by a sniffle. “It never is, but . . . but he always acts surprised.” Her gaze cleared, shifted to meet his. “Do you . . . do you think they're having the party this year?”

 

He shook his head, unsure how to answer that; if he should answer it, at all. “Do you . . . do you want them to?”

 

She considered that then nodded. “I want them to be happy . . . I don't want them to worry . . .” She suddenly laughed, as though she'd break down completely if she didn't. “Warm and smiling and laughing . . . because they'll . . . never find me, will they?”

 

“Looking . . . for you,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the floor. He felt dizzy, nauseous . . . They were looking for her . . .?

 

“It's okay,” she said quietly, lowering her hands, staring at the paper with a tiny smile on her face. “I hope they're all . . . gathered around the piano, listening . . .”

 

Kurt winced, balling up his fist around the newspaper page in his hand. A vicious need shot through him. He had to know . . . and yet . . . “Little demon . . . whose birthday is it?”

 

Her smile faltered just a little as she bit her lip, and for one long moment, he thought that she was going to refuse to tell him. She swallowed hard, pressing a hand against her lips as though she were trying to contain her emotions—as though she were afraid of breaking down completely. “My papa,” she whispered, her voice shattering the silence. “Well, Papa and my uncle. They're twins . . .”

 

“You have a . . . papa?”

 

She laughed a little sadly. “Doesn't everyone?”

 

He flinched. The ache in his chest exploded as every single thing he'd believed flashed through his mind. Her papa? Her . . . papa . . . She had a papa . . .? `Shit . . .'

 

“Mama wears this tiara every year—Papa bought it for her just before they were married, and . . . and Papa always wears one of those goofy party hats because they make Mama laugh . . .”

 

Listening to her soft voice, the emotion that delineated her words . . .

 

“Then Papa would sit down and play the piano . . . When I was little, I'd sit beside him, just to listen . . .”

 

She . . . she had a . . .

 

“My sisters have missed Papa's birthday, but I never have . . . At least, I never did . . . till now . . .”

 

A family . . .

 

“Sisters . . .” he interrupted quietly. “You . . . you have sisters . . .?”

 

She nodded slowly. “Isabelle and Alexandra—Lexi . . . They're older than me . . .”

 

`She's the . . . n-no . . .'

 

“They're both doctors, like Mama and Papa . . .” she sighed quietly, a marked frown filtering over her features. “R . . . researchers . . .”

 

Kurt cleared his throat, struggled to keep a hold on his emotions. “Do you . . . do you have a large family?”

 

“I guess you could say that,” she ventured. “Aunts and uncles and cousins. I'm the youngest, though . . .”

 

“The . . . the baby,” he muttered.

 

“I-I'm not a baby!” she insisted sharply.

 

He blinked, feeling the blood draining from his features, hearing another voice at a different time . . . “I'm not a baby!” Carrie had insisted . . .

 

“Besides,” she went on, a hint of haughtiness in her tone. “My cousin's wife is pregnant, so their baby will be the baby, right?”

 

He grunted, unable to do much more than that. `She . . . she has a family . . .' he kept thinking over and over again. `A family . . . that misses her . . .'

 

“What about you?” she asked, the directness in her gaze startling. “Do you have family?”

 

A flash of the old defensiveness, the anger shot through him. “No,” he stated a little loudly. Drawing a deep breath when she winced, he shook his head, ground his teeth together. “No,” he repeated a bit softer. “They, uh . . . they're all . . . dead.”

 

She seemed to consider that for a moment. Kurt closed his eyes, turned his head. The very memory of his little sister was enough to draw fresh blood, wasn't it? And she—the little demon . . .

 

She gasped softly, her hands fluttering at her lips as her eyes widened, as her face paled, as her eyes filled with tears again. “Oh . . . that's why . . .” she whispered.

 

He blinked and shook his head, unable to grasp exactly what she was implying. His mind was reeling, his emotions in overload, unable to discern what he thought, what he believed, and what he knew . . .

 

“That's why . . . you hate youkai,” she murmured, her hands shaking, her nostrils trebling precariously. “Youkai . . . because you . . . because you saw them . . .”

 

He opened his mouth to lash out at her; to tell her to mind her own business—to tell her to leave him alone. The words died on his tongue, though, and he stared in mute wonder, in silent horror, as a single tear slipped down her cheek. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry . . .”

 

And he couldn't stand to look at her, couldn't take seeing the pain in her eyes, couldn't tolerate the innate knowledge that her upset was genuine, that somehow, in the midst of her own private hell, that she was able to be sorry for something that she hadn't done . . . Turning around, he collapsed against the bars of the cage, his head falling back, his gaze searching the rafters so high above as he struggled, as he fought, as he tried to comprehend . . .

 

He had to clear his throat before he trusted himself to speak, his throat rough, raw, aching. “Why?” he countered softly. “Why . . . would you apologize?”

 

He felt her shift in the cage, felt the warmth of her back against his through the bars. “The youkai I was hunting,” she began quietly, as though she were afraid that her voice could break her resolve—or his. “He killed fifteen children in Paris . . . Fifteen families, destroyed, and all because he didn't like humans, and I thought he . . . he deserved to die . . . I thought that I was helping, but . . .” she trailed off with a sigh, pausing for a long moment before she went on. “There are youkai who despise humans—youkai who blame humans because we have to hide, but we're not all like that . . . I know you don't believe me, and . . . and I can't blame you for that. If anyone hurt my family, I think . . . I think I'd hate them, too.”

 

A strange sense of numbness settled over him, a hollowness that he hadn't felt in years. He understood—he recognized it: his brain couldn't deal with it all, could it? He couldn't make sense of it . . . to believe what she'd said . . . to believe her . . .

 

A thousand moments of his life, the nights he'd spent in the dusty back rooms of the library . . . the time he'd hunted down those beasts, and . . . and the feeling that he was doing the right thing—believing wholeheartedly that he was somehow saving another family from the fate that his had suffered . . . But not once had he ever thought—never once believed or considered—that they'd have families of their own: families that weren't necessarily as different as he wanted to think they were . . .

 

Everything he thought he knew; everything he'd told himself . . .

 

The laughing eyes of his baby sister . . . the silvery hair of a strange little demon . . . What was right? What was wrong? And what the hell was simple perception?

 

The silence in the room was deafening. The coldness that settled in his very bones had little to do with the temperature of the holding area and everything to do with the numbness.

 

He didn't know how long he sat there thinking of nothing and everything, remembering moments that came in no viable order; a chain of memories that had little to do with rhyme or reason . . .

 

A slight pressure against his shoulder made him blink, and when he glanced down, he couldn't help but stare. He hadn't even noticed when the little demon had crawled out of the cage. How long she'd sat beside him, he didn't know, but somewhere during those moments, she'd fallen asleep, her cheek resting on his shoulder as though she just needed to know that she wasn't alone . . .

 

The oddest feeling crept over Kurt, gentle and soft and whispering. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt it, but it was familiar enough that he knew he had at some point in his lifetime . . . a gradual warmth, a foreign sense of comfort . . . It wasn't unwelcome, but it was unsettling.

 

That feeling was nudged aside, though, as another darker thought intruded. If what she'd said was true—if what she claimed was right . . .

 

`What the hell . . . does it . . . mean . . .?'

 

There was no answer; just the steady tick of the clock.

 

 

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

A/N:

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Reviewers

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MMorg

FriskyPixie ------ Firedemon86 ------ malitiadixie ------ psycho_chick32 ------ darkangel05 ------ iloveanimecartoons ------ asgard ------ Sovereignty ------Kristen2 ------ MouF

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Forum

FriskyPixie ------ cutechick18

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Final Thought from Kurt:

She's … the baby …?

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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~