InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Miles Away ( Chapter 56 )

~~Chapter 56~~

~Miles Away~

 

-=0=-

 

 

“Kurt! Come on!”

 

Turning slowly, he frowned at the little girl. Bouncing on the balls of her feet with her hands clasped behind her back, she was waiting for him, wasn't she? “It's . . . It's you,” he mumbled.

 

She giggled softly. “Don't you want to come with me?”

 

He frowned, staring at the small hand she reached out to him. “Where?”

 

Twisting a lock of hair around her finger, she blinked. “You know where!” she laughed. “Come on, Kurt! Come on!”

 

But he didn't move as she tapped her feet and danced in little circles. “Don't you miss her? Don't you?”

 

He wanted to frown at her, but he smiled, instead. Of course he wanted to see her . . . but . . .

 

But . . .

 

With a happy little squeal, she grabbed his hand and tugged. “You want to see her; you want to see her; you want to see her; you want to see her, too!”

 

“W-wait . . . Carrie . . .”

 

She didn't listen. Dragging him out of the empty chamber and into a dark, dank corridor . . . The familiar reek rose around him like a fog, like a mist, like a veil, as he stumbled over the hem of his clothes.

 

“Wh-what . . .?”

 

Letting go of his hand, she skipped on ahead, humming a little song that seemed wholly out of place in the darkness. “`Ring around the rosy; a pocket full of posies . . .'”

 

`N-no,' he thought suddenly as he stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't, did he? He didn't want to see . . . her . . .

 

“You don't want to see me, Kurt?”

 

Flinching away from the encompassing sound of the voice that was both familiar and frightening, he sank to his knees. “M-Mom,” he whispered.

 

“How could you not want to see me—your own mother?”

 

“I . . . I didn't . . . That's not . . .”

 

He was standing again, though he didn't remember having done it, either. His feet seemed to move of their own accord, down the passage that he'd walked a thousand times in the depths of his nightmares. He slipped and slid, hitting his knees on the squelching ground . . . The chamber after the fall . . .

 

But the overwhelming sense of fear didn't assail him this time. No, just the sickened sense of resignation . . .

 

“Where have you been, Kurt?” his father whispered somewhere out of the range of his vision.

 

“Why have you tried to avoid us, sport?”

 

“I . . . I'm sorry . . .” he murmured, wishing that he could see their faces, yet on some level, thankful that he could not . . .

 

“`Ashes—ashes—we all fall down!'”

 

Gripping his forehead in both of his hands, he shook his head. “I'm sorry . . . I . . .”

 

“You were punishing humans for researching demons,” his aunt's voice hissed. “But why? Why? Did you forget?”

 

He hadn't forgotten; of course he hadn't, but . . .

 

“She . . . she's not a demon,” he muttered. “She's not a demon . . .”

 

“Because she calls herself youkai? And you think that it matters?”

 

“It does matter!” he bellowed, his anger snapping though he wasn't sure why. “It does!”

 

He heard the whispers but couldn't discern them. They were vindictive, hateful—accusing.

 

“It matters,” he repeated again, albeit in a gentler tone. “It matters . . . to me . . .”

 

“You can't, Kurt . . . You can't . . . If you say you can see them . . .” his father said in a broken whisper—a monotone. “They'll find you, and they'll kill you . . .”

 

Pushing himself to his feet once more, he slowly shook his head. “If you knew her—”

 

“She's a demon, Kurt—a demon.”

 

He blinked quickly when a spark of light that he knew grew brighter. “Don't you miss us, Kurt? Don't you love us?”

 

Forcing his eyes away from the gaping hole in his mother's chest, he scowled at nothing in general and everything in particular. “That's not . . .”

 

“Not what, Kurt? Fair? It's not fair . . .?” A harsh laugh escaped her—a high-pitched shriek of laughter that was completely devoid of humor. “And is it fair that you lived—only you? Your sister was just a baby, and you father and I . . . your aunt and your uncle . . . we all had dreams, too, didn't we? We had dreams and hopes and wishes, and you . . . you lived. Only you.”

 

He shook his head, trying in vain to refute her words, her anger, her hostility. Something felt strange, didn't it? Something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . . yet there it was; this ugliness . . .

 

“No,” he whispered, getting to his feet, backing away from her—from them. “No . . .”

 

They started to reach for them, all of them illuminating in a flash of light. Kurt kept trying to back away; trying to keep his distance. If they touched him . . .

 

“Don't forget your promise, Kurt!” Carrie half-sang suddenly. “'Rain, rain, go away . . . come again another day . . .!'”

 

With a sharp gasp, Kurt's eyes flashed open. His heart was beating fast in an erratic rhythm that was almost painful, but he couldn't say that he was as unnerved as usual after one of those dreams, either . . .

 

Sitting up, he sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. Everything was so warped, so twisted in his dreams, weren't they? “Mom . . .” he murmured with a sad little shake of his head. “Why . . .?”

 

Why was she always so angry, so hateful, in his dreams? The woman that he remembered used to kiss his knee when he scraped it while he was learning how to ride a bike . . . the woman who did the Power Puppy Polka whenever he watched the cartoon, just because it made him laugh . . .

 

`Pull yourself together, Kurt. Dreams are just that. You know, right? That's not really any of them . . . It . . . it can't be . . .'

 

Heaving a sigh, he nodded to himself. He knew that, didn't he? It was simply a little easier to forget that, especially when he was asleep.

 

Rubbing his right eye with the back of his left hand, he stood up, wandered across the nondescript hotel room floor to stare out the window at the early morning sky. Irritated, certainly. He hadn't meant to sleep so late. He should have been on the road a long time ago.

 

The blue sky—impossibly blue . . . Despite his troubled thoughts, he smiled wanly. `Samantha . . . can you see it, too . . .? Wherever you are . . .'

 

“Sam . . .! M-my name . . . My name is Samantha . . .”

 

“Samantha . . .”

 

Pushing himself away from the window, he slowly shook his head. The truth of it was that the not knowing was driving him crazy inside. Just to know that she'd made it home—that was all he wanted, right? As long as he knew that she was safe . . .

 

Striding over to the coffee maker, he slapped a paper filter into the machine and dumped a packet of complimentary grounds in. He dumped in a pitcher of water and turned it on then shuffled over to the small table to check on the white-coats.

 

Breaking into a humorless smile, he wasn't at all surprised to find that not one of them were at the facility. `Of course not,' he supposed. They were all probably at home, calling around to order more illusory security—or on the phone with realtors . . .

 

They could try to run away; he didn't care. Too bad it wouldn't get them far. No, he'd made damn sure that not one of them would ever, ever sleep peacefully again, hadn't he?

 

Shoving the computer back on the table, he dug into the small case where he'd stashed all the files with information on the other facilities. There were five that he knew of—he'd sold demons to all of them at one time or another. He'd checked Harlan's files pretty thoroughly, too, and he'd grilled the old bastard well enough that he'd have squealed if he had known anything. Hell, the miserable jackass would have sold his own mother for spare parts if Kurt had demanded it . . .

 

`Claxton in Houston, Texas . . .' That was the one he was heading toward now. Whether he tortured them or not depended upon their willingness to listen to reason. Four white-coats there, and Kurt had trackers for all of them . . . “As long as they stop . . .”

 

Standing abruptly, he strode over and grabbed a plain white cup from the small arrangement of cups beside the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He slugged down the entire pot before he headed off to take a shower.

 

If he could close all those places down; if he had the information on all the so-called researchers . . . If he had all that on hand, should the demons—her family—come after him, maybe he could buy enough time—time to keep that one promise he'd made so long ago . . .

 

If he could just do that, then he didn't care what they chose to do to him. Maybe it was entirely selfish of him to want that, but . . .

 

But his family deserved that much, didn't they? For the hopes and dreams and innocence that had died with them that day . . .

 

Because he understood now, didn't he? He knew the answer to the question that used to elude him; the answer that used to keep him awake all night for hours at a time and for days on end. His purpose for living, surviving . . . He was only alive in order to exact vengeance . . . He was a destroyer. It was all he'd ever known how to do, wasn't it?

 

“My sister told me once that he had lived with hate and regret for so long that it had become a sort of prison without bars but there, and every day he woke up, he hated himself for being the one to survive, and I . . . I don't want you to be trapped anymore . . . trapped like Griffin.”

 

A hardened expression surfaced on his features as her words echoed in his mind; as he slowly shook his head.

 

“I'm sorry, little—Samantha . . . There never . . . never was any hope of saving someone like me . . .”

 

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Gin yawned and snuggled closer against Cain's chest, happy enough despite the acute sense of guilt that she'd inadvertently dragged him away from something important. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, knowing that she ought to tell him that she'd be okay if he wanted to go back downstairs, but wishing that he'd stay in bed with her for just a little while longer.

 

“What for?” he asked, tightening his arms around her, savoring the smell of their entwined bodies, of the closeness of her heartbeat.

 

She sighed and buried her face against his chest. “You've been spending a lot of time in your office,” she pointed out. “It has something to do with those data cards that Bellaniece mentioned, doesn't it?”

 

Cain shifted slightly, as though he were uncomfortable with the current topic. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, lifting a handful of her hair and letting it fall through his fingers.

 

“Bellaniece says that Kichiro doesn't want her to see what's on them,” she said. “Is that true?”

 

“She doesn't need to see them, no,” he replied quietly.

 

“But she has a right to. I know that I'd be upset if you refused to let me see something that might involve one of our children,” she chided.

 

Letting out a deep breath, Cain shrugged. “Gin . . . It's . . . it's not pretty.”

 

Gin frowned and shook her head. “But doesn't she have the right to know?”

 

“It's not about rights,” he countered stiffly.

 

Gin snorted, a belligerence entering her stare. “Why? Because she's a woman, and women are delicate and breakable and should be sheltered from ugliness?”

 

Untangling himself, Cain tossed the coverlet back and got up, stalking over to the window without bothering to reach for the clothes he'd left, strewn on the floor. His youki churned with his agitation, abrasive, rough. “That's stupid,” he growled, stabbing her with an intense glower. “I never said that, did I?”

 

“Then why?” Gin demanded, sitting up, her own irritation rising fast. “If it were Sebastian or Evan or Jillian—”

 

“Then I sure as hell would never let you see them, goddamnit!” Cain bellowed. Gin gasped softly, unused to hearing him yell at her. Cain let out a deep breath and shook his head, struggling to get a grip on his temper, or so it seemed. “Look . . . it's not about rights,” he gritted out then suddenly pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumping. “She was kept at a research facility, and they . . .” Trailing off with a long, drawn out sigh, he rubbed his face, his eyes troubled, tortured when he slowly turned to face her again. “The things they did to her . . . No parent should ever have to see their child like that; not ever . . .”

 

She bit her lip, her ears flattening as she contemplated what he'd said. No, she supposed, no parent should . . . Was it so terrible—so horrible . . . so unspeakable . . .? Glancing at Cain, she winced inwardly. The pain in his expression was almost too much for her to bear. “And that's what's on those data cards . . .”

 

“Y-yeah . . .”

 

She didn't know why tears suddenly filled her eyes. She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt such an overwhelming sadness. Cain had tried so hard to fix things, hadn't he? Tried so hard to please everybody while shouldering so much without a word, and she'd made it worse, hadn't she? So many months of trying to be strong while everyone else fell apart . . . so many nights when he was still wide awake when she finally succumbed to sleep . . . and her task was to make his life easier, wasn't it? But she hadn't. Questioning his reasons, second guessing him without knowing everything . . .

 

And the solitary memory of a beautiful little girl, running through the doorway with an armload of half-crushed flowers that she'd picked from Gin's garden . . . That memory was full of such beguiling innocence, such untainted joy, and while Gin knew well enough that Samantha was somewhere in the mansion, that memory . . . “Why?” she whispered as a hot tear spilled over, ran down her cheek. “Why would anyone do such a thing to her?”

 

“Baby girl . . .” Cain breathed, striding across the floor again, sinking down on the bed beside her, only to pull her into his lap.

 

But the flow of tears couldn't be stopped; the tears she'd so carefully kept at bay the entire time that Samantha had been missing . . . As though the emotional release was something that couldn't be avoided, one tear led to two, and two led to a million. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that Cain was holding her; that he was trying to comfort her despite the knowledge that he, once more, was forced to be the strong one, and that just served to make her cry harder still.

 

“It's okay,” he told her. “She's home now, right? And she's safe . . . It'll be fine . . .”

 

Gin nodded though the tears didn't abate, and in the end, all Cain could do was hold her and kiss her forehead . . . and sigh . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Bas looked up as Gunnar stomped into his office with his cell phone in one hand and a marked scowl on his face. “Something wrong?”

 

Gunnar shook his head and pocketed the device. “Not really. Maybe . . .”

 

Tossing the ink pen he'd been using down on the desk with a marked arching of one eyebrow, Bas sat back and shook his head. “What the hell kind of answer is that?” Bas demanded.

 

Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were busy, driving Sydnie crazy,” he countered without bothering to answer Bas' question.

 

“Yeah . . . she wanted me to come in and grab a couple files for her.”

 

Pondering this for a moment, Gunnar slowly shook his head. “And you think it's okay for her to be worrying about this stuff while she's pregnant?”

 

Bas shook his head, too, since he`d already said pretty much the same thing to her before he'd left the house. “She insisted.”

 

Cocking an eyebrow, Gunnar didn't seem impressed, his expression stating rather flatly that he thought Bas was being weak. Bas ignored it. After all, Gunnar's idea of a relationship and his . . . well, as far as Bas was concerned, Gunnar was just plain warped, anyway. “And those data cards?” Gunnar asked.

 

Bas blinked since he'd managed to do a complete change of topic in the space of a single breath. Gunnar, though, had only watched one of those data cards thus far since they'd gotten a tip about a case that had been untouched for the last twenty-five years. Bas, on the other hand . . . well, he'd seen more than enough. What those bastards had done to Samantha was entirely unforgivable . . .

 

Heaving a sigh, he sat up a little more and scowled at Gunnar. Gunnar intercepted the expression and slowly shook his head. “All right. What's that look for?”

 

Blanking his features, Bas shrugged offhandedly. “What do you mean?”

 

“You know damn well, what I mean,” Gunnar countered mildly. “So whose imminent demise are you plotting?”

 

Bas grimaced and slouched to the right, popping his elbow on the arm of the chair and resting his cheek on his fist. “Dunno what you're talking about,” he lied.

 

Gunnar shook his head. “Yeah, I'm not completely stupid,” he countered.

 

Bas shook his head, but got to his feet when Connie tapped on the door with her elbow then strode into the office with two steaming mugs of coffee. She handed one to each of the men then left the room as quietly as she'd come. “The stupid thing is entirely debatable,” Bas remarked as he lifted the coffee to his lips and carefully took a sip.

 

“Cute, Bas-tard,” Gunnar shot back.

 

Bas bobbed his broad shoulders and set the cup aside, reaching for the files that he'd been looking over to shove into the leather attaché case.

 

“Oi, baka . . . and bigger baka,” Morio Izayoi commented as he breezed into the room. “It's a convention of baka-ness . . .”

 

“Hmm, and now that you're here, I suppose the party's complete,” Gunnar commented.

 

Morio grinned. “Now, that was cold. So cold,” he pouted.

 

Gunnar stared at him for a moment then slowly shook his head. “What's that phrase I want, Bas?”

 

Bas shifted his gaze to the side and raised his eyebrows. “Get over it?” he supplied.

 

“Yes, that's the one.”

 

Morio's grin widened. “Aww, you know you guys missed me.”

 

“What are you doing here?” Bas asked, cutting in before Gunnar could respond to that comment in kind.

 

Morio shrugged and held up a flower. “What do you think? Eh? Pretty nifty, right?”

 

Gunnar didn't comment as Bas rolled his eyes. “It's great. She'll love it. You'll be her hero forever,” he rattled off in a monotone.

 

“You think so? Good enough to get me some `luvvins'?”

 

“Kami, I hope not,” Gunnar muttered under his breath as he headed for the door. “And if it is, I don't want to hear about it, all right?”

 

Morio chuckled as Gunnar strode out of the office. “He seriously needs to get laid,” he remarked as he sniffed the pale peach blossom.

 

“Another something I'd rather not think about,” Bas commented as he stuffed the files into the case and zipped it closed. “You heading back to the mansion?”

 

Morio's grin widened. “Well, funny thing, that . . .”

 

Pausing as he started to lift the case off the desk, Bas shot his cousin a look. “What about it?”

 

“See . . . It was pretty nice when I got up this morning . . . all brisk and, you know, wintery . . .”

 

“Wintery.”

 

Morio nodded emphatically. “So I decided I'd run into town . . . literally.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Bas broke into a little grin as he strode toward the door. “And you want a ride back?”

 

“Something like that. So how `bout it, Bas?”

 

Bas thought it over and shook his head but smiled just a little. “All right, but I swear to God, if you start singing, I'll dump you out in the tallest snow bank I can find.”

 

Morio thought that over then nodded. “Okay,” he agreed easily enough. “'Sides, I forgot my ukulele back in Japan . . .”

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Samantha sighed as she sat in the window seat and stared out over the broad expanse of forest situated behind the Zelig mansion. The sun was peeking out—a welcome change since it seemed as though the last couple weeks since the taijya had set her free that the skies had been nothing but overcast, gloomy. Or maybe it was just that her mood had been so precarious . . . who knew? Those first few days after she'd gotten home had been frightening—terrifying . . . and she'd felt more lost than she ever had before . . .

 

Her family was trying so hard to make her comfortable that it was having the opposite effect, wasn't it? So busy hovering and fretting and fawning over her that she could scarcely get a moment alone to breathe or to think, and while she understood their worries, she knew deep down that it was just too much. The problem was that she just couldn't bring herself to do it; couldn't hurt them, even if they did seem bent on driving her nuts . . .

 

It was bad enough last night, wasn't it? When she told her parents that she wanted to sleep in her own room: the room she always stayed in whenever they'd come to visit her grandparents, her mother had looked completely panicked for a moment before she managed to hide her distress behind an overly-bright laugh. Her father had smiled gently and reminded her that she should keep in mind that their door was always open to her.

 

She shook her head and sighed. They'd escorted her to her room, and while Bellaniece fussed over arranging Samantha's blankets, her father had checked and double checked all the windows and the balcony doors, admonishing her not to open them for any reason, whatsoever . . .

 

She'd begun to think that they were never, ever going to let her alone when they'd kissed her forehead and reminded her once more that they weren't far away if she should need them, and then finally—blessedly—left her in peace.

 

And she'd almost been asleep when her sisters had slipped into the room, only to crawl into bed with her: Isabelle on the left, Alexandra on the right. They'd slept there all night, too, and Samantha had to wonder when she woke up this morning, pinned down by her sisters' arms and legs, if she'd ever be left alone again.

 

It really wasn't so much that she was upset with any of them, no, and she loved that they all so obviously cared, but . . .

 

But . . .

 

“I put my number into your cell phone, okay? The cell is in your bag. As soon as the bus leaves, I want you to call your papa . . . and as soon as you get home, and you're safe . . . let me know.”

 

With a quiet gasp, Samantha stumbled to her feet. She'd . . . she'd forgotten that, hadn't she? She'd forgotten that he'd asked her to call him . . . The idea of hearing his voice again was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she uttered a little cry as she ran over to her mother. She'd been sitting with Nezumi and Sierra and Gin, talking in hushed voices. Samantha's distress was a palpable thing, and she couldn't help the tears that streaked down her cheeks. How could she have forgotten something so important, so very important? He was her mate, and she'd forgotten . . . “Mama!”

 

Instant alarm washed into Bellaniece's features as she shot to her feet and grasped Samantha's arms. “Sami, baby! What's the matter?”

 

“Where's my bag?” Samantha demanded, shaking her head adamantly. She didn't have time to explain right now, did she? She had to call him—Kurt . . .

 

“Bag?” Bellaniece repeated with a confused shake of her head. “What bag . . .?”

 

“The one I brought home with me!” she bellowed in frustration, yanking against her mother's firm grip. She could vaguely feel her aunts' hands on her back, rubbing her back as though they were trying to soothe a crying infant. “Mama!”

 

“Calm down, sweetie!” Bellaniece commanded, lowering her head to look into Samantha's eyes. There was something else there, too; something that Samantha didn't dwell on in her haste to get to that bag. “What do you need out of that?”

 

“My cell phone!” she blurted. “Kurt wanted me to call, and—”

 

“Sweetie, there was no cell phone,” Bellaniece said quietly, calmly. “The bag was, um . . . e-empty.”

 

“It wasn't empty,” she countered. “He put my cell phone in there! I have to call him; I promised!”

 

Bellaniece frowned thoughtfully, considering Samantha's words. “There was no phone, Sami,” she said slowly.

 

“You're lying,” Samantha stated flatly, eyes flaring wide as a warped sense of realization dawned on her. “You're lying!”

 

“No, baby, I'm not,” Bellaniece replied, reaching out to smooth the hair back off Samantha's face.

 

“No,” she said, shaking her head, her upset spiking painfully as she knocked her mother's hand away. “Why are you trying to keep me away from him? Why?”

 

“I'm not,” Bellaniece assured her. “Sami . . .”

 

“It's not his fault!” Samantha blurted. “He didn't know!”

 

“Know what?” Bellaniece asked, her gaze registering her confusion.

 

Samantha shook her head violently, stubbornly. They were trying to get her to condemn him, weren't they? That's what this was all about . . . “He didn't do anything wrong!” she yelled. “Where is my phone? Where?”

 

“I'll get Kich,” Nezumi murmured.

 

Bellaniece nodded. “There was no phone, Samantha,” she said in a slightly firmer tone of voice. “Do you hear me? No phone.”

 

Samantha tried to pull away again. “No, no, no, no, no!” she screamed, arms flailing as she tried to fight off Bellaniece's hold on her. “No!”

 

She gasped when her balled-up fist connected with Bellaniece's jaw. Her mother's head snapped to the side, and Samantha tried to jerk away.

 

“Samantha, sweetie!” Bellaniece said, her voice rising as her panic spiked.

 

“No! You're trying to keep me away from him, but it won't work! It—it won't! He's my—my mate! My mate!”

 

“No one is trying to do anything of the sort, baby! We aren't—”

 

“I hate you!” she screeched, shoving against her mother, hard enough to send Bellaniece careening back. Sierra caught her before she hit the floor, and Samantha blinked at her sudden freedom. All the anger and desperation seemed to drain out of her all at once, and with a lone, choked out sob, she crumpled to the floor, smashing her hands over her face as hot, hateful tears were wrung from the very depths of her soul. “I'm sorry,” she muttered, her hands muffling her voice. “I'm sorry, Mama . . .”

 

“It's okay,” Bellaniece assured her, her arms wrapping around her as she pulled her daughter into her lap. “It's okay . . .”

 

“What's going on?” Kichiro demanded as he hurried over to the two of them.

 

“It's my fault,” Bellaniece said, her own voice choked with emotion, with tears. “She got upset, and—”

 

“I'm sorry; I'm sorry,” Samantha sobbed. “I'm sorry . . .”

 

“Sam wanted that bag,” Sierra explained quietly. “There was supposed to be a cell phone in it, but . . . Sami accidentally hit Belle . . .”

 

Kichiro sighed, pulling both women into his lap as he sat on the floor. “There was no cell phone, Sami,” he said, unable to summon the will to be angry with Samantha for striking her mother, whether by accident or design, not when Bellaniece turned her pleading gaze on him and shook her head. “Don't cry, okay?”

 

His understanding only made her feel that much worse. What kind of monster was she, really? What kind of creature would raise a hand against her own mother, no matter the reason? And Kurt . . .

 

In that moment, she missed him more than she'd ever missed anyone or anything before, and in that moment, she truly understood . . . the pain, the sadness, the melancholy of missing him . . .

 

That was the same pain he'd lived with every day of his life, wasn't it . . .?

 

 

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

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Final Thought from Samantha:

My phone …

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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~