InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ The Coward's Way ( Chapter 55 )

~~Chapter 55~~

~The Coward's Way~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Kurt rubbed his forehead with a tired hand as he refreshed his grip on the steering wheel. The road was starting to blur—a direct result of his fatigue, he supposed, but he had to get out of Chicago before he could afford to rest—and to think.

 

Two weeks.

 

He'd kept those damned bastards in cages for the last two weeks, giving them back just a taste of the treatment that they'd subjected her to . . . and even now, it wasn't nearly enough. The problem was, all he'd really wanted to do was to kill them all, and that emotion was frightening. As though all the anger and hatred he'd stored up over the years had somehow managed to shift to those pathetic bastards, with every day that had passed, the desire to ensure that they never got out of that basement grew larger and larger . . .

 

In the end, he'd decided that they could damn well stay right where they were, at least until someone found them. Kurt didn't figure it'd take too long. The security guards should have been back to work today, and Kurt had made sure that there were cameras on the three of them. In fact, those three cameras and one central monitor he'd directly connected inline were about the only functioning things in that building . . .

 

“Now, if you're smart, Harlan, and I know that's assuming a helluva lot, but if you are, then I'll advise you not to say even one word of this to anyone: no police, no authorities—no one. I put a tracking device in the three of you, and with the exception of Peterson, there, I don't feel inclined to tell either of you two where those devices might be. You'll never find them, but that hardly matters. I've got you both keyed into my monitor, so don't think that I won't come back and finish you off if I have to. If you breathe a word to anyone—if you call and notify any of the other research facilities—I swear on all that's holy, I'll come back and make the last two weeks seem like a vacation. Do we understand each other?”

 

Harlan had nodded, his already pasty face paling just a little more. No, he seriously doubted he'd ever have any more trouble out of good ol' Dr. Harlan or the rest of his cronies, and to be honest, he didn't so much mind letting him and Warren live. The one he'd wanted to kill was Peterson, but in the end . . .

 

“Wh-what are you going to do with that?” Peterson asked, sweat beading his brow despite the lowered temperature of the building on a whole.

 

Kurt didn't respond as he dragged the tip of the scalpel up Peterson's body, over his face, along his forehead, down his body once more.

 

“Doc . . .?” he whined. When Kurt still didn't answer, Peterson panicked, rearing up as far as he could. “Answer me, damn you!” he bellowed.

 

Kurt raised an eyebrow and turned to face him. “Scream at me all you want, Peterson. That really doesn't change a thing, does it? I'm still the one calling the shots . . . and you're still my bitch, aren't you?”

 

Peterson's dark eyes widened just a little as his lower lip trembled precariously. “Why?” he whispered without taking his eyes off the blade that Kurt held before him. “Why are you doing this to m-me?”

 

“Where should I cut you?” Kurt asked instead. Stepping closer, he dragged the tip of the blade along the man's inner arm from the wrist to the bend at the elbow. “Here? Will you beg me not to? Will you plead with me like she did? And do you think that I'll listen to you any more than you listened to her?” Peterson swallowed hard as Kurt glared at him and moved the scalpel lower, scraping the tip of the blade over Peterson's scrotum. “How about here? How about we cut you here and see whether or not you actually have . . . boy parts . . .?”

 

“Oh, God,” Peterson whimpered, eyes brightening though no tears came.

 

Grabbing a pair of teal rubber gloves, Kurt yanked them on then reached for the scalpel once more, jabbing the tip of it into the slight vale between Peterson's testicles. He screeched when the first trickle of blood appeared. Kurt stopped. “Did she cry when you cut her?” he demanded quietly. “Answer me or I'll rip you to shreds.”

 

Peterson swallowed hard and shook his head. “N-no,” he whispered.

 

Kurt chuckled suddenly. “So you're telling me she has bigger balls than you do.”

 

Peterson blubbered something that was completely incoherent as Kurt pushed down on the scalpel just a little more. The man keened softly, and Kurt jerked the knife loose with a loud snort of complete disgust, only to jam it into the table between Peterson's legs, close enough that the cold stainless steel brushed against Peterson's scrotum. “You make me sick, and you know, I'm going to let you live. I'm going to let you go because I want you to remember this moment for the rest of your life, and I want you to remember that the only reason that you're alive is because killing you would upset her, miserable bastard that you are.”

 

Blinking and heaving a sigh as the last of that memory faded, Kurt rubbed a tired hand over his face and tried to focus on the stretch of road ahead.

 

He missed her; missed her so desperately that he ached somewhere deep down—somewhere around where his heart should have been. He'd realized it a few nights ago, hadn't he? As he'd sat in the security office, watching his captives, missing her . . . She . . .

 

Digging the cell phone out of his coat pocket, he turned it on and scowled. He'd been hoping that she had called, but there was nothing.

 

`Stupid,' he thought as a bitter anger tinged with a hint of regret assailed him. Even if he'd asked her to let him know that she'd gotten home safely, why the hell would she? There really was no reason for her to do that, and every reason for her not to. After all, he was the one who had brought her here; the reason she was made to suffer. Still, he had hoped, even if it were nothing more than a fool's wish . . .

 

Rubbing his gritty, burning eyes, he sighed. He'd hoped that she'd at least let him know that she'd made it home to those who loved and cherished her . . . the kind of place that a girl like her ought to be . . .

 

With the vaguest hint of a smile, he picked up the postcard he'd removed from the cage when he was making alterations to it. The postcard that had meant so much to her . . . The smile faded as a dampness that he couldn't quite credit blurred his vision.

 

Maybe it was simply because he was so damn tired. Maybe it was because, somewhere in the back of his head, he could still hear her laughter. Maybe it was simply because she'd made him remember things—feelings, emotions—that he'd forgotten so very long ago . . .

 

But the God-awful emptiness that she'd left behind was so painful—too painful. He . . . he . . .

 

The first sob that escaped him was such an ugly sound, born of an ache so deep, so intense, that he just couldn't deal with it anymore. As though every single thing about her was just too hurtful to dwell on, and yet he couldn't stop, either; could just as soon stop breathing . . . The last thing that he could stand to lose . . . the little demon with the beautiful smile . . .

 

And all the regret, all the recrimination could not save a man who had condemned himself so very long ago, could it? How many times could he say that he was sorry before it stopped meaning a damn thing . . .?

 

He'd given up his chances for salvation years ago, hadn't he? He'd given it up when he'd bought into the lies and the hate and the pain . . .

 

`Taijya . . .'

 

Jerking upright, he gasped and blinked. That voice—her voice . . . he'd heard it in his head as clearly as he would have if she were standing there beside him. Sniffling, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he almost smiled . . . almost . . .

 

That hollow feeling deep within him . . .

 

He'd given her his heart when he'd said goodbye to her, hadn't he . . .?

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Samantha gasped and sat up straight, unable to think, unable to breathe. Covering her face with her hands, she choked back a sob and struggled to breathe.

 

Something about the dream she'd had . . . something about the taijya—Kurt . . .

 

He was hurting, wasn't he? She couldn't remember a thing about the dream, but she could remember the pain—the awful pain—a pain so deep, so encompassing—that it frightened her. But . . . why . . .?

 

“Sami? Baby?”

 

Choking back her tears, Samantha hurriedly wiped her face on the sleeve of the soft cotton nightgown, praying that her mother wouldn't see the upset on her face. Wishful thinking, she supposed. Still . . .

 

“What's the matter?” Bellaniece asked quietly as Kichiro reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed.

 

“N-nothing,” she said, perversely proud of the steadiness in her voice at the blatant lie. “It's okay . . .”

 

“You . . . you want to talk about it?” Kichiro asked slowly as he rubbed her back.

 

She shook her head, forced a small laugh that sounded so hollow that she grimaced inwardly. “I'm fine,” she lied again. “I . . . I think I'm going to go get some water.”

 

“You want me to get it for you, sweetie?” Bellaniece asked.

 

Samantha quickly shook her head as she scooted off the end of the bed. “No, Mama. You two just go back to sleep.”

 

For a moment, she thought that they were going to follow her as she hurried out of the bedroom. They didn't, though she had a feeling that Bellaniece had tried. She'd have to thank her father for that later, she supposed. Right now . . .

 

Collapsing against the cool wall just outside her parents' bedroom, Samantha heaved a sigh, letting her head fall back as she closed her eyes just for a moment. “Taijya,” she whispered into the darkness.

 

For a moment—a curious moment—she felt a strange sense of warmth, as though he were right there with her, and she smiled. It wasn't enough to brush aside the sense of worry that gnawed at her, but it was something, and at this point, she'd take whatever she could get.

 

Pushing herself away from the wall, she padded down the darkened hallway full of familiar auras as she headed for the stairs. `Strange, really,' she thought as she moved through the mansion. There were different kinds of darkness, weren't there? The semi-darkness of the facility had been so cold, so frightening, and though the mansion was even darker still, there was a subtle warmth that never really went away, and it had nothing to do with the gorgeous decorations that her grandmother had so painstakingly selected over the years; nothing to do with the furnishings or rugs or colors. It was the family, itself, wasn't it . . .?

 

The vague and hazy memory of the taijya's bleak and somber apartment flashed through her mind, and she bit her lip. Where was he now? Sitting in that impersonal room that bore little resemblance to a real home . . .? Did he miss her at all; even just a little . . .?

 

“A-are you all right . . .?”

 

Samantha started and turned in time to see Mikio sitting at the breakfast nook, quietly sipping a cup of tea. He intercepted her glance and smiled, left ear twitching madly as he reached up and rubbed it. “I didn't see you there,” she admitted.

 

Mikio nodded toward the stove. “I heated water for tea if you want some,” he offered.

 

She said nothing as she measured leaves into a cup and poured some hot water over them. “Why are you still up?” she asked as she slipped into the nook across from him.

 

Mikio grimaced and shrugged. “Oh, uh . . . I'm leaving in the morning . . .” He shook his head. “Planes . . .”

 

She understood that well enough. Mikio was always a little anxious before flying; always had been, and she really couldn't fault him for that. She wasn't entirely fond of the process, herself . . . “I'm sorry I put you to so much trouble,” she murmured.

 

Mikio frowned. “No . . . not at all . . . I'm just . . . relieved . . .” Twiddling his ear, he stared out the window for several minutes. It was nice, really, the silence. It seemed like everyone had done nothing but talk to her since she'd gotten home, and while she understood and appreciated it, there were moments when she just wanted to sit and think . . . and maybe Mikio understood that better than anyone.

 

Clouds moved across the sky, blotting out the moon one moment only to reveal it again. A few stars twinkled overhead, but they seemed so very far away, and it struck Samantha as a sad, sad thing . . . “Mikio?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Do you ever wish that you could touch the stars?”

 

Her question seemed to catch him off guard, but he smiled shyly and shrugged. “Sure. I suppose everyone does.”

 

She shook her head slowly. “I don't think so. I think there might be people who have forgotten what stars look like . . . or maybe they never knew, to begin with . . .”

 

“That's . . . entirely depressing,” Mikio commented as he got up to refill his cup. “Are you talking about anyone in particular?”

 

She didn't answer until he had returned to the table and sat back down again. “He's lonely,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the night. “I thought I could help him, but . . . but he's the one who helped me, instead . . .”

 

“Your . . . mate?” Mikio asked in a completely neutral tone.

 

Her smile was sad as she nodded. “He promised that he'll come for me,” she said, “and when he does, I'll show him . . .”

 

“The stars?” Mikio mused.

 

She shrugged, her smile widening just a touch as she turned her head to meet her uncle's gaze. “Everything.”

 

Mikio digested that for a moment then cleared his throat, as though he wanted to ask something but wasn't entirely sure how she'd take it. “He's, uh, human, isn't he?”

 

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's funny, you know?”

 

“Funny?” he echoed with a quirked eyebrow.

 

She nodded again. “Mhmm . . . I can feel him, even though he isn't here . . . like if I think about him hard enough . . .”

 

“That's not it,” Mikio countered with a shake of his head.

 

“No?”

 

He smiled. “No . . . I think . . . I think when you feel him like that? It means that he's thinking about you.”

 

She laughed softly and reached across the table to squeeze his hand in hers. “I love you, you know,” she told him, “and I'm really glad you came.”

 

“I love you, too,” he replied, and even in the dim light, she could tell that he was blushing. “You'd better get back to bed before your mama and papa come looking for you.”

 

“Okay,” she said as she got up and leaned over to kiss his cheek before grabbing her cup and heading over to rinse it out. “Have a safe flight.”

 

He made a face at the blatant reminder and muttered something that she was probably better off not hearing. She laughed as she rinsed the cup and set it, upside down, on the clean towel that Gin had left on the counter beside the sink. Heading for the doorway, she stopped long enough to look over her shoulder at him once more. He was staring out the window again, lost in his thoughts, and she smiled as she turned to leave him alone.

 

“I think when you feel him like that? It means that he's thinking about you.”

 

Her smile widened as a stuttering warmth spread through her. If that really were the case, then she'd have to make sure that she thought about Kurt often, wouldn't she? That way he'd hopefully feel it, too . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Letting out a deep breath, Kurt locked the hotel room door and strode over to set up the slimline computer he'd brought along to check up on the three bastards he'd left back in Chicago. It only took a minute to get the system up and running, and five minutes later, he was pacified to find that all three were in their respective homes, and that was just fine with him. Obviously, the security guards had found them, then—not at all surprising, though Kurt would be lying if he didn't admit that seeing their faces when they walked into the holding areas might have been well worth the potential trouble . . .

 

He'd reached the Missouri-Oklahoma border when he'd finally decided he'd do well to stop for the night. Too exhausted to go any farther, he figured that he might as well try to get some sleep. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure that sleep was even possible. Still, he had to try . . . He'd run himself ragged over the last two weeks, and while he was used to operating on minimal sleep, he wasn't so used to going completely without, but the couple of times he had managed to doze off, he'd been assailed by dreams that were more memories than actual sleep—memories of a beautiful girl with eyes that were too blue to be real, with silver hair and a dimple in her cheek . . . and those little dog ears of hers . . . Those dreams had hurt, hadn't they? Hurt far more than he could credit, reminding him of exactly how much he missed her—everything about her . . . and of what he would be willing to give in order to see her just one more time . . .

 

Rubbing his face, he grimaced. Sleep aside, he desperately needed a shower, a shave, and something to eat—and likely a haircut, too, since he hadn't had one of those since before he'd captured the little demon. As it was, his hair hung just past his collar, and considering he'd always kept his hair fairly short, it was a bit of a nuisance; enough so that he'd recently taken to clubbing it back in a low little ponytail at the base of his neck. Too bad none of that seemed possible, given that he couldn't seem to summon the strength to even sit up . . .

 

He left the computer on—it would beep if any of those bastards entered any address that he'd already programmed in—addresses like any authorities in the greater Chicago area, as well as a hundred mile radius around the city, among other things.

 

Turning his head toward the low bureau where a television and an empty coffee maker stood, he frowned. The knapsack . . . He'd brought it in from the car. He was planning on sticking the data cards into a safety deposit box to keep as leverage in case he needed it, and while he had considered doing that in Chicago, he'd figured that it'd be smarter to put them somewhere else; somewhere only he knew of.

 

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to retrieve the bag, scowling at the familiarity it provided . . . He'd used it so often, it seemed . . . used it when he was with her . . . A bitter pang shot through him that he tried to ignore.

 

Plopping down on the edge of the bed again, he reached for the bag and yanked it open.

 

“What the . . .?”

 

Kurt's scowl shifted into an expression of utter shock. “Shit . . .” he breathed with a grimace. He had the bag with the little demon's things . . .? “Then that means . . .”

 

A low grown escaped him as the ramifications of the blunder sank in. Kurt dropped the bag and heaved a sigh, leaning forward and raking his hands through his hair in a completely defeated sort of way.

 

If she had the data cards, then that meant that her family likely had them, too, and if that were the case, then it also meant that they'd probably watched them, too—at least, what they could tolerate of them, anyway . . . and that, in turn, meant . . .

 

“I'm a dead man . . . Damn it . . .!” he hissed, dropping back on the bed with a wince. He wasn't on many of the cards, but he was there enough, wasn't he? He was on the first card—they'd see that he was the one who had brought her in, and it wasn't that he was trying to hide that fact, but he figured there was a good chance that he'd just made their task of finding him that much simpler. That was . . . that was all right, wasn't it? As long as he got the things done that he needed to do, then that was fine . . .

 

And if they caught him and killed him for what he'd done to her?

 

A wry smile surfaced on his features, and he sighed, idly toying with the two golden hoops in his earlobe. `Yeah,' he supposed. `That . . . that's okay, too . . .'

 

 

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

A/N:

Special chapter posted today for BobbyJustGotSheared. Happy Birthday!

== == == == == == == == == ==

Reviewers

==========

MMorg

malitiadixie ------ oblivion-bringr ------ AtamaHitoride ------ Rawben ------ iloveanimecartoons ------ Pinkit ------ Starr Stealer ------ monkeyseemonkeynodo ------ darkangel05 ------ PikaMoon ------ Jester08 ------ FireDemon86 ------ Sovereignty

==========

Forum

malitiadixie ------ cutechick18 ------ sueroxmysox ------ PikaMoon ------ BobbyJustGotSheared

==========

Final Thought from Kurt:

…Shit …

==========

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~