InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Horrified ( Chapter 45 )

~~Chapter 45~~

~Horrified~

 

-=0=-

 

 

“Afternoon, Doc . . . you're early tonight . . .”

 

Kurt spared Mazer a quick glance as he adjusted the knapsack over his shoulder.

 

“Hey, Doc! Come say hi, why don't you? This, here, is Crowley . . . I'm training him. Crowley, this is Doc. He takes care of security in the basement.”

 

Crowley looked like a serious sort, and he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose as he slowly looked Kurt up and down then nodded. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

 

“Yeah, Dunkirk's around here somewhere with the other trainee,” Mazer went on, rubbing his buzzed, salt-and-pepper hair as he leaned back in his chair like he was trying to be some kind of big shot.

 

Kurt nodded without a word and headed for the basement.

 

`Five more days . . .'

 

Letting out a deep breath as the elevator door closed, he punched the `B' button that would take him down to the basement. Five more days before he set his plan into motion. Five more days with her . . .

 

After careful thought and a lot of planning, he figured that it would be best to try to break her out on a Friday night. The confusion in the city would help him a lot, allowing him to blend in a little easier into the weekend crowd as he got her away from the facility. The plan was to walk her right out of the building in the middle of the night since he knew damn well that the guards upstairs tended to sleep on the job more often than not. It wouldn't be a problem at all; not really. Setting the fifteen cameras between Holding Area One and the service doors to run on a loop for roughly forty-five minutes would allow him the window of opportunity that he'd need. By the time they realized that she was gone, he'd have easily gotten her as far as South Bend, Indiana, where he'd send her on her way in a rented car so that they'd never be able to find her . . . and then he'd return . . . to tie up loose ends, as it were.

 

In fact, the idea of getting her out of the facility was far less daunting to him than the more difficult orchestration of the rest of the plan, itself. He couldn't afford running into one of her people. They'd kill him on the spot—he didn't try to delude himself into thinking otherwise—and while he could appreciate and understand the why of it—hell, he even believed that it was no more than he'd deserve—he couldn't allow that to happen; not yet. There were too many other things that he had to get done before then—things he owed her, at the very least, even if she never really knew about them . . .

 

Five more days . . .

 

He'd thought about it all day, hadn't he? After he'd broken down and told her everything about his family the night before, he'd realized one thing: sometime during the next five days, he had to show her that he was sorry.

 

`As if showing her . . . will ever be enough . . .'

 

All was silent as the doors slid open, and he stepped out of the elevator. His footsteps echoed around him in the otherwise empty hallway as he strode down the corridor toward the holding area. Maybe they had her up on one of the other floors—they did that from time to time. They'd bring her down shortly, he supposed, as he turned to walk through the doorway.

 

He stopped short, his eyes narrowing when he spotted her, lying in the cage. She looked like she was sleeping, and he figured that was all right, too.

 

Setting the knapsack down, he dug out the new toy he'd bought earlier today from a guy named Shakes who lived on the east side of the city and tended to come up with some of the best gear available, even if it was damn expensive. It was in one's best interests not to ask too many questions as to where the items had come from, and as long as Shakes trusted you not to squeal if you got squeezed, he was more than happy to part with his goods—for a price, of course.

 

This particular thing, though, was necessary, as far as Kurt was concerned: a scanner created to trace energy feeds. He didn't think that Harlan would be dumb enough to try to tap the room again, but . . . well, Harlan hadn't actually ever come across as any too bright, either. Shakes had told him that regular electrical lines would show up on the scan as blue lines, and batteries would show as green. Solar generated cells would show as red `hot spots', and unidentifiable energy fields—fields that generated enough of a current on their own—would show as yellow. Hard wired cameras would be blue, then, and battery operated ones would be green blips. As long as Kurt was reasonably certain where lines ran and where they led, he'd be able to find if something else had been added to the grid of an area.

 

It didn't take him long to scan the room. Either Harlan had actually listened to his threat or he was busy trying to come up with some other bit of nastiness. Kurt didn't care, as long as the bastard wasn't bothering the little demon . . . Satisfied that they weren't being watched, he opened her cage but let her sleep. All curled up in her blanket, wasn't she? Kurt frowned and made a face as he strode over to turn up the thermostat. It was a little colder in there than normal, wasn't it? It bothered him to see her sleeping in that damned cage, but he figured that he'd leave her alone if she were comfortable enough where she was.

 

That done, Kurt wandered over and sat down with the newspaper. The Sunday paper always seemed like such a waste, and he used to skip buying it since it only seemed to be a fiesta for those who religiously clipped coupons, but the little demon liked the comics, and since there was a huge section of them, and in color, he figured that she'd get a kick out of them, anyway.

 

He'd brought her really gnarly looking bunch of steamed crab legs for dinner. She'd mentioned them shortly after her adventure with the lobster. In his days of following her family, he'd overheard a few things here and there, and he'd heard one of them—the black haired one with ears like hers. He'd said something about `the office in Maine', and while he wasn't completely positive, he figured that was where she was from, though not originally. She was very articulated when she spoke, and he was sure that she'd worked hard to rid herself of her accent, but sometimes, he could hear it though he still couldn't quite place it.

 

Kurt stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes as a wave of drowsiness washed over him. Shaking his head, he heaved a sigh and blinked a few times to shake off the lethargy that lingered around the edges. He supposed he had been working a little harder than normal, trying to go over every last detail of his plan—at least the ones that he had control over. It was as close to perfect as he could possibly hope for, and that was all that mattered.

 

Catching himself staring at her, he frowned. He'd been trying not to think about exactly how much he'd miss her once she was safely on her way back to her home, her family. She'd be able to see the sun she missed, to play in the snow and to run through the forest . . . all those things that she'd said that she longed to see and do again . . .

 

And he . . .

 

He'd take care of the things that he needed to do; the things that he'd promised himself that he'd do . . . things for her . . . things for his family . . . and then . . .

 

And then . . . what? Would anything be left for him in the end, anyway? A divine sense of justice . . . or a lifetime of regrets . . .?

 

Would he wake up in the morning and still see those dark blue eyes long after the memory of her had diminished and faded with the passage of years? Would he be walking down the street, only to hear a young woman's laughter and remember another time, another place . . . and a beauty that was never meant for a man like him to touch?

 

She was . . . she was . . .

 

She was his best friend, wasn't she? The only friend he'd had in the span of time since he'd lost his family . . . Did she have any idea? Did she know at all . . .?

 

“Every day . . . every single day, I lay there, and I stare at the clock, and I think, `Only nine more hours till he comes' . . . `Only three more hours till he comes' . . . `Only fifteen more minutes till he comes' . . . and that's how I get through every single day . . . And what'll become of me if I don't have that? Will I . . . will I just waste away . . .? Or will I become so angry, so bitter, that I lash out against everyone and everything, including myself? So they get to have the satisfaction of putting a bullet through my head or my heart? So I . . . I'll become the demon you always thought that I was . . .?”

 

Closing his eyes for a moment, he sighed. Ironic, wasn't it? Ironic that he'd understand her so completely—understand her because he felt that way, too . . . Staring at the clock and thinking, `Just a little longer; a little longer . . .' Wondering what she'd like for dinner . . . Standing in the middle of the aisle in the store as he sniffed his way through body washes and shampoos, trying to decide if she'd like this scent or that one . . . buying fabric softener to make the clothes he brought her just a little softer . . . for her . . .

 

And he would do what he had to do because if he didn't, it would kill her. He'd taken enough from her already . . . but if he could give it back . . .

 

If he could give it back—give back her life, her family, those whom she loved . . .

 

That would be enough, wouldn't it? And maybe, in that . . .

 

Maybe it could set him free, too . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

“You know, I think you're the only one still up.”

 

Kichiro didn't even glance up from the papers he was looking over; contracts and things pertaining to the clinic that he'd been neglecting for the last three months. If he could just get through them and maybe do a little pre-ordering, he'd have that under control . . .

 

“Why don't you come to bed for a little while?”

 

“Not now, Belle-chan,” he muttered as he flipped to the next page of the document he was scanning over.

 

She let out a deep breath and nodded. Rubbing her arms as she crossed the floor to the glass doors that led to the balcony, she tried not to think about the strange sense of melancholy that just wouldn't let go of her. If anything, it was growing stronger, wasn't it? The unsettling sense that everything was coming to a head; that they'd either find a way to keep it together or they'd fall apart completely, and she wondered if he could feel it, too . . .

 

“Sierra says that Toga's been getting messages . . . that the youkai back home are starting to sense that something isn't right . . .”

 

“I couldn't give two shits less about the youkai back home,” he growled without looking up from the small desk where she used to do her homework years ago. “Let them beat each other down for all the good it does, and if they all kill themselves, then who gives a rat's ass?”

 

She turned and stared at him, her eyes darkening as a worried frown surfaced on her features. “Kichiro . . .”

 

“Look, could you just be quiet? I need to get this bullshit done and out of the way so I can go back out there and look for my daughter.”

 

“Your daughter,” she repeated with a wince.

 

Kichiro snorted, and Bellaniece had to wonder if he even realized that he was speaking out loud. “Yes, mine . . . Mine! I don't see anyone here doing a damn thing to find her! Your damn fucking father doesn't do a fucking thing but sit behind his kami-forsaken desk and—”

 

Striding across the room, her eyes igniting in indignant fire, she uttered a low growl and slammed her hand down on the paperwork Kichiro was reading over. “How dare you!” she gritted out, her own anger rising to match his, to surpass his. “You have no idea what Daddy does or doesn't do! How could you? You're too busy running around Chicago like a chicken with your head cut off!”

 

Shoving the chair back, he shot to his feet and brushed past Bellaniece. The spike in his youki bespoke his own anger, his own frustration. “You have no idea what I've been doing out there!” he bellowed, his eyes glowing as he pinned her with a bitter cold glower. “You haven't got a damn clue! You haven't been out there, have you? You haven't looked out over that damn city and felt the hopelessness—thought that there was no way in hell that you'd ever be able to find her! You told me that she'd be fine, damn it! You told me that she was strong! She said she wanted to be a hunter, and you said—”

 

“I know what I said!” she snarled. “You want me to go out there? I will! I'd be happy to! Maybe I can find her since all you damn men can do is whine and bark and scratch your asses!”

 

He caught her arm when she swung around to grab her suitcase. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled, giving her a good shake. “Have you lost your damn mind, Belle?”

 

Her anger gave way to tears of frustration, and more anger that she couldn't staunch the tears, at all. “Maybe I have!” she screeched. “You didn't carry her for nine months! You didn't love her and nurture her and talk to her! I did! I did it! I did it, and someone took her, and I'm going to get her back!”

 

He drew back at that, as though her words had dug deeper than any physical wound. But she didn't back down; couldn't back down. Rage and the overwhelming sense of helplessness . . . and a sorrow so great, so deep, so wide . . . “Belle . . .”

 

“I hate you,” she whimpered, covering her face with her hands. “I . . . I hate you, and I . . . and I love you . . . and I . . .” Drawing a ragged breath, she lifted her head, pinned him with a fierce glower, a quiet pleading, a vastness of complete uncertainty that was hateful and bitter and thick. “Where is she?” she whispered brokenly. “Where is my little girl . . .?”

 

“I know,” Kichiro said, his voice cracking, shattering as he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “I hate me, too . . .”

 

She hung onto him, clutching handfuls of his shirt, gripped them tightly, afraid to let go. “I'm sorry,” she sobbed one time, ten times—a hundred times, as her tears became his, as her heartache merged with his. She'd wanted to be so very, very strong, and she'd failed . . . God, she'd failed. All she wanted—the only thing she wanted—was to wrap her arms around those she loved, to hold them tightly so that they knew . . . Her baby girl, so very much like her father . . .

 

And it was because of that, she knew . . . because she saw Kichiro every time she looked at Samantha . . . That was the real reason why . . . because Kichiro was strong, wasn't he? He was strong, and so was she . . . The same strength in her eyes . . . the same . . .

 

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes closed tightly, wishing she could take back those hurtful things she'd said, hating herself for lashing out at the one person who knew exactly what she felt. “I didn't mean it—any of it . . .”

 

He forced a little smile, paper-thin and full of sadness, of pain. “I know,” he replied. “I'm sorry, too.”

 

“What's happening to us?” she asked as he rubbed her back, as she heaved a weary sigh.

 

“We'll be fine . . . and so will Samantha,” Kichiro assured her.

 

Bellaniece leaned back, stared at him, searching his face for whatever he could give her. In the end, all he could do was smile half-heartedly, his eyes darkened with emotion—with doubts—that he simply couldn't hide, not from her.

 

Still, she nodded, forcing a smile of her own, understanding intuitively that it was something that he so desperately needed to see from her . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Kurt awoke with a start, blinking as he sat up with a grimace in the half-light. He didn't remember falling asleep, and when he glanced at his watch, he made a face. `Nearly eleven . . .?'

 

Stifling a yawn, he frowned. Why didn't the little demon wake him up already?

 

Shaking his head, he rubbed his face as though to wake himself up more. He might as well take a look at the day's tapes to see why she was so tired . . .

 

Letting out a long, drawn out breath that lifted the bangs off his forehead, Kurt considered getting a cup of coffee while he waited then decided he was too lazy to do it.

 

The bulk of the tape seemed to be the same standard, stupid stuff . . . He fast-forwarded through what seemed to be a few hours of the little demon, strapped to the table, naked of course, but left completely alone, at least. The timestamp on the video read sixteen-forty-seven when they all filed back into the room. Kurt slowed the playback speed to normal.

 

He couldn't tell what they were doing, but he did hear the rattle of something. The little demon still didn't move. A quick flash of light caught his eye, but it was too blurry to make out. Kurt backed the tape up a few times, altering the speed of playback, to no avail. Snorting indelicately since he highly doubted that she'd tell him what that was, even if he asked her, he gave up for the moment and let the playback resume.

 

He couldn't make out what they were saying. They seemed to be discussing something in rather hushed tones. The little demon's ears twitched almost nervously, and he frowned when she suddenly seemed to tense up, fighting against her restraints.

 

“Hold her still,” Harlan grunted.

 

“I'm trying . . .!” Peterson insisted.

 

Kurt erupted in a low growl at the very sound of that bastard's voice . . .

 

“N-no . . . Please, no . . .”

 

The blood in his veins seemed to freeze upon hearing the sound of that quiet plea. The little demon . . .? Begging . . .?

 

Hitting the keyboard to send the file to manual dump, he shook his head. She was begging in earnest now on that tape . . . “What the fuck did they do?” he hissed under his breath. Glancing at her cage, Kurt's gaze narrowed. She hadn't moved, had she? At least, she didn't look like she had . . . Stranger still was the marked lack of her aura. He'd never actually noticed that before . . . What did it mean?

 

“Damn it,” he muttered as he got to his feet and strode over to the cage. She was breathing—he could see the faint rise and fall of her shoulder. Curled on her side, she had the blanket tugged up over her head. In fact, all of her was wrapped in the blanket, wasn't she? Was she really that cold . . .?

 

But no, there really was something strange going on. The closer he got to her, the more he noticed the thinness of the aura that normally surrounded her. `What the hell . . .?'

 

“Little demon?” She didn't respond as he hunkered down beside the cage. She was turned away; he couldn't even see the shadows of her face, and he reached inside to touch her leg. “Little demon?”

 

Still no reply, and when he shook her just a little, she lilted back and forth as though there were no life left inside her at all.

 

“Hey,” he said, crawling halfway into the cage. He slipped a hand under her shoulder to pull her upright a little and gasped when one of her arms fell out of the blanket, grimacing at the hot sliminess that coated his hand as he lifted her. “What the . . .?” he muttered, moving her gently, bringing his hand up in front of his face. Staring blankly for a moment, unable to reconcile himself to the sight of the blood that covered his hand—covered her . . . His hand shook slightly as his gaze fell to her arm that had slipped out of the blanket, blinking as his brain slowed to a crawl; as the heart in his chest froze for a painful moment. The angry gash that ran the length of her forearm from her elbow to her wrist dripped blood. “Oh, God . . . God!” he growled as he pulled her out of the cage. Scooting back just enough to pull her into his lap, he blinked for a moment, unable to comprehend what he saw.

 

It wasn't her . . . it wasn't her . . . The blanket had fallen away from her face when he dragged her out, exposing her in the harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs high overhead, but it wasn't her face that he saw, was it? Sooty black hair that hung in stringy locks over her face, and the little white ears that he couldn't resist were gone . . . ashen cheeks so pale—deathly pale . . . lips tinged with the morbid shade of grayish-blue . . .

 

Shaking his head as he grasped her arm, pulled it up to elevate it, he stared at her fingers in complete disbelief. `No . . . no claws . . .?'

 

It wasn't her, was it? It couldn't be her . . . Maybe her face was shaped the same, and maybe the eyelashes, but . . . The girl in his arms looked completely . . .

 

“Hanyou . . . It means that I'm only half-youkai.”

 

She . . . she was . . .

 

 

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

A/N:

 

I'm giving you Friday's chapter a little early, and I apologize, but I'm going to be out of town for a few days, so you may have to wait for the next update until late Tuesday or Wednesday morning. My husband's mother is very, very ill, and we are going to go see her, so we'll be out of town until then.

 

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Final Thought fromKurt:

…What did they do to her…?

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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~