InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Oneshots ❯ Slow Burn ( One-Shot )

"Finally sleeping, huh?  You want me to take him?"

Glancing up from the dozing infant in her arms, Gin smiled at her mate in an exhausted but infinitely happy way.  "No, he's fine," she told him, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, her gaze falling onto the six-week-old baby she held against her shoulder, the tufts of silvery hair poking up over the edge of the fleece blanket in which she'd wrapped him.  "Where's Sebastian?"

Cain shrugged, pushing away from the banister and ambling toward the bed, hands dug deep into his pockets, shoulders slumped forward just a little as his low-hanging ponytail fell over his shoulder, his bronze bangs falling into his eyes.  "Where do you think?  He's down in the kitchen, eating us out of house and home."

Gin grimaced.  "He should have told me he was hungry.  I would have made something for him."

Chuckling softly, Cain shook his head.  "It's fine," he assured her.  "Bas is old enough to make a sandwich—or three . . ."

Gin didn't look entirely convinced.  Biting her lip, her smile faltered just a little, and she sighed.  "Do you . . .? Do you really think it's okay?"

Settling on the edge of the bed, reaching out to ruffle the infant's hair, Cain shot his mate a quick look and grimaced inwardly at the cute little silvery puppy ears, usually perked up and alert, that were currently flattened and sticking out on either side of her head.  "Sending him to Japan, you mean?  Sure, it's fine.  He's looking forward to it, actually . . ."

She didn't look comforted in the least.  If anything, she looked even more troubled by it, and that just figured.  "I know, but . . ."

"He's really not going to think that we're sending him away, Gin," Cain reminded her gently.  "Besides, you know he likes going.  He likes spending time with the other boys."

Biting her lip, pearly white teeth leeching the dusty rose color from it as she frowned thoughtfully, she nodded.  "I know, but it feels like we're just . . . just getting rid of him because of the new baby, and—"

"And we aren't.  Bas knows that, baby girl."

She still wasn't buying.

"I'll be right back," Cain said, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the stairs that led to the studio below.

'It isn't really surprising,' he thought as he strode out of the studio and down the long hallway, footsteps blunted by the heavy rug under his feet.   Gin's emotions had been a little off-kilter since Evan's birth six weeks ago.  It was normal, Cain figured.  After all, she'd done the same thing for awhile after Sebastian was born.  Besides, Gin tended to be an emotional creature, anyway, so it wasn't really surprising that she would just be a little more emotional now . . .

Still . . .

'We hate seeing her, so out of sorts.  Of course, we do,' his youkai-voice replied.  'Be strange if it didn't bother us, don't you think?'

'What am I supposed to do?  Keep Bas home, when he's been looking forward to this for months?'

His youkai only sighed, and so did Cain.

Stopping short in the doorway of Bas' room, Cain smiled to himself as the nearly-ten-year-old boy stuffed clothes into his suitcase with one hand, pausing long enough to bite into the very large sandwich he held in the other.  At his age, his remarkable height—he was almost as tall as his mother—and rather broad build made him look a good three or four years older than he was, which, in Cain's opinion, was both a blessing as well as a curse.  "You about ready?" he asked, nodding at the suitcase as Bas glanced up at him.

"Yeah," he said, concentrating on the sandwich, managing a huge bite.  "Just gotta pack a few more things . . . Do you think I'll need my swim trunks?"

"Doesn't hurt to take them along," Cain remarked.

"Is it about time to go?"

"Not quite yet," Cain said.  "How many sandwiches did you eat?"

Bas blinked, glancing at what was left of the sandwich in his hand as though he couldn’t remember.  Then he shrugged.  "Three."

Cain nodded.  That's what he figured . . . "Come here for a second, will you?"

Bas looked a little dubious, but he followed Cain out of the room.  "Am I in trouble?"

Cain chuckled and ruffled his hair affectionately.  "Nope.  Your mom just wonders if you feel like we're pushing you aside for your brother."

Bas' expression was confused, at best.  "Are you?"

Cain snorted.  "Of course not, but if you think we are, then you don't have to go."

Bas considered that as his father reached for the studio door.  "I like going to Japan," he finally said.  "It's fun."

"So, you want to go?"

Bas nodded.  "Yeah.  I mean, Gunnar said that he'll be staying over at jiijii's house most of the time, and Morio doesn't live that far away, so he'll be there all the time, and Mikio—he lives there, after all . . ." Trailing off, the youth sighed, scowling up at his father in such a way that Cain knew that he was considering something.  "Does Mom want me to stay home?"

"I don't think so," Cain allowed slowly.  "I think she's just concerned that you might think she's pushing you out the door . . ."

Bas considered that, but finally shook his head.  "Oh . . . No, I want to go."

Which was entirely what Cain had figured.  "Then you should go," he decided.  "Just do me a favor, and tell your mom that you want to.  She feels guilty."

"Is she going to cry again?" Bas asked dubiously.

Cain grimaced.  "She . . . might."

Bas rolled his eyes but darted under his father's arm and into the studio, grabbing the newel post to swing himself around and onto the stairs without a pause in his gait.

"Oh, Sebastian!  Is it time to go already?" Gin exclaimed, her voice sounding just a little tired despite her efforts to mask it.

Cain stifled a sigh as he followed Bas up the steps.  Since Gin was breastfeeding, she was the one who had to get up whenever Evan woke, which was pretty often, considering.  The pup was a pig, probably following along in his older brother's footsteps—or maybe Evan was already trying to catch up with Bas.  Who knew?

"No," Bas said, sitting on the edge of the big bed.  "I want to go, though, Mom . . . Is that okay?"

Gin smiled, reaching over to finger a long lock of golden bronze hair that had fallen over his shoulder since he tended to wear his hair down most of the time except when he was training because it got in his face and was generally a pain to deal with during those sessions.  "Are you sure, sweetie?  I mean, with your brother, and—"

Bas shrugged.  He'd never been big on emotional displays.  They made him feel a little uncomfortable.  "I want to go," he said again.  "I mean, it's fun, and I'll be learning a lot . . ."

Gin didn't look entirely convinced, but in the end, she sighed.  "If . . . If you're sure, Sebastian . . . It's perfectly fine if you'd rather stay here this year—We could see if the boys would rather come here, and—"

Bas made a face.  "Mom, you're pretty tired," he said.  "You don't need all of us, running around.  I want to go.  It's okay."

And that was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and Cain grimaced.  "You're such a sweet boy, just like your father," she whimpered, leaning forward to draw her oldest son into a warm hug.  "I'm going to miss you so much . . ."

Bas sighed and hugged her back.  "I'll miss you, too, Mom," Bas muttered.

Cain scratched his chin.  "Why don't you stay here, get some rest?  I can drop him off at the airport."

"Oh, no!  I want to go," Gin insisted, pushing aside the blankets while balancing Evan in her arms.  "Just give me a few minutes . . ."

Seeing no way around it—Gin could be ridiculously stubborn when she wanted to be—Cain took the infant and said nothing, though he would rather that she stayed home and got some sleep.

"I'm going to go finish packing," Bas said, shuffling past his father and down the stairs.

"That's the cliff, and it overlooks the sea.  If you look out over the water, it seems like it goes on forever, but . . . but it doesn't.  Guess that's kind of a dumb thing for me to say, huh?  But it's really pretty . . . For now, though, you'll need to stay away from it for awhile," Cain remarked, pointing off to the right, turning his body so that the alert infant could look around with those deep sapphire eyes—the same color as Cain's.

As if he were trying to answer him, Evan cooed softly, and Cain chuckled.

"Think so?"  Cain's smile widened as he adjusted the baby in his arms, breathing in his sweet baby-scent as a certain contentment washed over him—the kind that only a smell like that could inspire.  "If you go down this path, you'll find the pond, which  is off limits to you until we teach you how to swim . . . And over there is the trail that leads down to the beach—your mama likes it down there.  She says it's peaceful, and she likes it even more when she talks me into building her a fire so she can make s'mores—Evan, you need to know now that your mother is a chocolate fiend, and whatever you do, don't ever—ever—mess with your mama's Reese's peanut butter cups . . ."

Evan cooed again.

"Over that way is your sister, Bellaniece's tree.  It's a white ash . . . She used to make us picnic lunches, and we sat under it and ate peanut butter sandwiches . . . That's your brother's tree.  We planted it the year he was born . . . Yours is over there . . . See it?"

It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and Cain smiled to himself.  Gin had spent the majority of the night, up and down almost every hour, on the hour, to feed Evan, whose appetite had only grown steadily over the last few weeks.  She wasn't quite ready to try giving him a little cereal, and she was borderline exhausted, so Cain, in a last ditch effort to get her to rest, had offered to take Evan out for a walk while she got a much-needed nap.

Evan fussed a little, and Cain straightened the little bonnet that Gin had insisted that he wear when he left the mansion.  Worried that he would get too much sun—was there such a thing?—she had done the same with Bas, who hated the pictures in his photo album of him, wrapped in frilly blue blankets with his bonnet-covered head peeking out from the copious folds of cloth, flyaway strands of golden bronze hair that was just a little longer than an infant boy's hair ought to have been.  Evan might hate them, too, one day.  Right now?  Cain chuckled. Okay, so he kind of thought it was cute, especially when people told them that they had a beautiful baby girl, and even more so when Gin would turn her golden eyes on him, looking entirely perplexed as she asked him why anyone would mistake her sons for daughters . . .

Evan heaved a sigh as his head settled against Cain's shoulder, and he smiled, craning his neck, leaning back just enough to peer down at his son.  The tufts of silver hair that peeped out from under the bonnet, lifted by the gentle fingers of the breeze coming in off the water, brushing against his pinked cheeks, the tiny bump of his nose . . . He was a little more tired today than usual, probably because he'd experienced a human night last night.  He wasn't happy, and he hadn't liked it, but he hadn't cried as much as Cain expected that he would—a lot better than Bas used to.  Even so, the theory was that Bas and Evan might actually stop having human nights eventually, probably closer to puberty since they would cease having as much of Gin's youki sustaining them at that point.  At least, that's what Dr. Crotch-Nozzle—Bellaniece's mate and Gin's older brother—said . . .

Stopping suddenly, Cain whipped around, frown darkening as he sensed it: the brush of a very weak, almost thready, youki, weaving through the air, blown along by the summer breeze.  There was nothing at all threatening in it, no, but there was a subtle sense of urgency, of . . . 'Fear . . .?' he thought, scowl darkening as he hurried toward the mansion.

It didn't take him long to lope back to the house, up the steps that led to the stone patio, where he settled Evan into the outdoor playpen with a few toys and under a cloth canopy to protect him from the sun, and all the while, feeling the brush of the strange youki . . . There was something unfamiliar, yet entirely compelling about it, coming through despite the pervasive upset, and he strode back the way he'd come, veering off to the left: toward the outer reaches of the front of the estate that he called home.

He stepped into the dense trees that stood back from the long and winding driveway where grass didn't grow except in sparse and anemic blotches here and there, a sense of urgency seemed to reach out to him, wrapped around the thinning strands of youki, and he hastened his step, breaking into a slow jog as he crested a small rise and skidded to a stop.

There before him was a young woman: a ribbon-seal-youkai?  Huddled on the ground amidst the decaying leaves, the strong smell of earth, she keened softly, doubled over, as she struggled to push herself upright.  Turning her head, peering at him over her shoulder, her face ashen and drawn, a little too thin, a little too frail . . . Dark hair with an interesting stripe of white near the nape of the neck was stringy and dull . . . Deep, almost unfathomable eyes gazing at him with an almost blank kind of stare.  She seemed to be silently begging him, the vaguest hint of recognition awash in her eyes, and he stepped closer as she moaned quietly, as she collapsed onto her side, frail back straining, as though she trying to protect something—trying to hide something . . .

Eyes flaring wide, Cain stumbled forward, falling to his knees, reaching out to grasp her shoulder gently but firmly.  "You need a doctor," he blurted, unable to stave back the grimace that twisted his features at the unhidden bone under his fingertips—no fat, no muscle: nothing but skin on skeleton . . . "Here, let me—"

"No . . . time," she rasped out.  "You . . . You're the Zelig . . .?  Please . . ."

"Yes, I am, but—"

She sat up a little straighter as Cain winced, as understanding dawned on him, and he flinched.  The thin and reedy youki he felt . . . It wasn't the woman's, at all . . .

Hair so white it shone bluish, bright but pale blue eyes, wide, blinking as she stared up at him with a frank sense of curiosity . . . She couldn't be more than a day old, at best, and the woman who held her choked back a sob.  "Would you . . .?  Can you find her a good . . . home?"

Cain blinked, stared at her, unable to hide the horror in his expression.  The gaunt face, the dull eyes that were already fading—had already faded startlingly rapidly in the few minutes since he'd found her . . .

She held the infant close for another long moment, choking back a sob as she kissed her downy cheek, as she nuzzled her nose against her . . . "I love you," she murmured, closing her eyes for just a moment.  "I . . . I love you . . ."

"Wh-What's her name?" Cain asked gently, slowly reaching for the infant when the woman finally met his gaze.

She shook her head.  "I . . . I didn't think I should," she whispered, falling back on the ground when Cain took the baby.  "I thought . . ."

Cain nodded.  "Do you want to give her a name?  I'll . . . I'll make sure she keeps it . . ."

The woman smiled wanly, her gaze slowly fading, dulling, darkening.  "I . . . I wanted . . . to name her . . . Jillian . . ." she murmured.

Swallowing hard, Cain stared at the perfect baby girl—a water-youkai.  "Jillian, it is," he said, voice hollow, rasping, reaching.  "It's a beautiful name . . ."

"He . . ." Squeezing her eyes closed, two fat tears slipping from each one, she uttered a harsh whimper, like the air being forced out of a plastic bag.  "He . . . wanted . . ."

Wincing, satisfied only that she hadn't seen the expression, Cain nodded.  "Your . . . Your mate wanted to name her Jillian," he said.

She nodded, but the movement was stilted, jerking.  "Find her . . . love . . ."

Blinking fast, Cain glanced down at the infant—the perfect little, Cupid's bow of a mouth, the wide, crystalline eyes . . . Cheeks kissed with a hint of pink . . . Long fingers with perfectly shaped claws that wrapped around his finger . . . "I will," he promised her mother.  "Absolute . . . love . . ."

Mustering the last of her strength, she shifted her eyes to meet Cain's and smiled, a haunting sense of peace seeming to creep over her, slowly at first, as a melancholy sort of radiance added a momentary brilliance, a fleeting glimpse of the woman she used to be . . . An explosion of light, a sudden whip of the wind, and Cain hunkered forward, shielding the infant from the blast as her mother faded from this life and into the next.

The quiet fussing of a baby woke Gin from her nap, and without opening her eyes, she rolled to the side, pushing her robe open with one hand as she pulled Evan against her.  He latched on almost instantly, and she laughed softly, opening her eyes slowly as she gazed at her son, as she ran her fingertip over his tiny fist, his deep blue eyes, so very much like his father's, staring at her, blinking slowly as he settled in for his meal.  "Aww, my baby!  Did you have a nice walk with your daddy?"

He sighed slightly but didn't relinquish his hold on her, and she laughed gently.  "I'm so sorry . . . Mama was just so tired . . ."

"Hey."

"Did you enjoy your Daddy-Evan time?" she asked without looking up when Cain shuffled into the room, her attention too intently focused on her son.

"It was cut a little short," Cain admitted.  "Uh, Gin . . ."

"He looks like he enjoyed his outing," she went on in a conversational tone.  "Did you show him the pond?"

"We, uh, didn't get that far," Cain said.  "Baby girl—"

Gin's ears quirked when the sound of another baby drew her attention, and she finally glanced up, only to do a double take when she saw the squirming bundle in Cain's arms.  Wrapped in one of Evan's blankets, the baby uttered a terse squall, and Cain winced, shooting Gin an almost panicked sort of look as he gently patted the infant's back.  The baby's youki seemed to be reaching out, seemed to be searching for something, and Gin frowned.  The pup was looking for his or her mother . . . And, though Cain was trying his best to comfort him or her, the infant was intuitive enough to know that Cain wasn't able to provide what was being sought out . . .  "She's . . . She's hungry, so I need to run to town and get her some formula . . ."

"Formula?" Gin echoed indignantly, cheeks blossoming in bright color, sitting up a little straighter, trying to see the what Cain was holding in his arms.  "That's not the best thing for her," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but—"

Sticking out a hand, rolling her wrist to hurry him along, Gin shook her head stubbornly.  "Give her," Gin demanded.

He stared at her for a long moment, but did as she instructed.  "Gin, I—"

"Oh, kami!" she breathed, eyes widening as she stared at the absolutely beautiful infant girl.  "Cain, could you . . .?"

He stepped over, tugged her robe open to expose her other breast, then helped her to adjust the baby who looked so much tinier than nearly-three-month-old Evan, grabbing a couple of pillows to prop under her arms on either side to help support the nursing babies . . . "I can't ask you to do this," he said, his tone almost and strangely apologetic.

"You're not," Gin said.  "She's beautiful . . ." Giggling quietly, she shifted her gaze from one baby to the other.  "They could be twins, Zelig-sensei."

She missed the troubled expression on her mate's face.  "They . . . They could," he slowly agreed.

"Where did she come from?" Gin asked quietly, staring in absolute awe at the infant girl, at her white hair, her sky blue eyes, the rounded cheeks, so rosy, the tiny, tiny hands . . . Her youki was thin, weak, not surprising, given that she didn't seem to be any older than a day or two, and Gin felt the edges of her own youki wrap around the child, lending her comfort as the child slowly, slowly relaxed against her.  For some reason, the feeling of her easy acquiescence was enough to bring tears to Gin's eyes, even though she managed to hold them back.  So tiny to have lost so much . . . And something about that stung Gin down deep, too . . .

Rubbing his eyes, Cain sighed.  "I don't know.  Her mother brought her here, and then she . . ." he grimaced.  "I found them in the woods. She . . . She was so weak, and then, she . . ."

Gin winced, ears flattening as she unconsciously held the babies just a little closer.  "So, she . . ."

He nodded slowly.  "I'll start looking into families who might be willing to adopt her," he said.  "I'll go get her some formula, too, if you're okay with them . . . Or I could take one of them with me . . ."

Biting her lip, Gin tried to understand, tried to rationalize just what Cain was saying, tried to ignore the sudden and almost violent surge of umbrage that shot through her.  On the one hand, she understood, of course.  They had an infant of their own.  Trying to care for two babies would be borderline insane.  It was one thing to have twins naturally.  It was something else entirely to choose that kind of chaos, wasn't it?  It was akin to madness . . . The only real option was to find a family who could take her in, who could devote all of their time and attention to the baby who had already lost entirely too much in the course of a couple days since her birth.  In that vein, she would have to be introduced to formula sooner or later, given that anyone who would adopt her wouldn't be able to feed her in this kind of way.  It made sense, of course.  That didn't mean that Gin liked it, though, and it did nothing at all to quell the misplaced anger, too . . . "Does she have a name?" she asked instead, deliberately trying to ignore the flash of guilt at the very idea of not nurturing this girl in the way she deserved to be.  It went against everything that Gin, as a mother, believed.

Cain sighed again.  "Jillian," he replied.  "Her mother . . . She wanted to name her Jillian."

Gin smiled a little sadly, cuddling both babies close as they ate.  "Jillian's too grown up," she decided, ducking her chin, blinking fast to hold back the tears that she hoped Cain couldn't smell.  Her voice, when she finally spoke again, was a lot steadier than she felt, and for that, she was grateful.  "We'll call her Jilli, for short."

Leaning against the base of a tree, Cain glanced up from the sketchpad, a small smile quirking his lips as he took in the sight of Gin, curled up on her side on a fuzzy fleece blanket in the shade of a stout ash tree with both of the infants, curled up beside her: Evan, huddled on his stomach, knees draw up with his butt in the air, and Jillian, laying flat on her back, cheeks rosy, baby-fine hair lifting on the slight breeze as the sunlight that filtered through the patchwork of leaves kissed her hair, her face, her tiny hands . . .

It was an image worth capturing, he'd decided, and a welcome distraction from his task of trying to find a family suitable to adopt Jillian.

'Except that you don't want to do it, and you know you don't.'

Cain grunted, but didn't bother to deny it, either, the scratch of the pencil on the paper echoing in his ears.

Three weeks.

Three weeks, to the day, it had been since he'd encountered her mother in the woods, since he'd first laid eyes on Jillian.

'And you know damn well that, with every day that passes, you fall just a little more in love with that little girl—just as much as you love Bellaniece or Bas or Evan . . . As for Gin . . .'

Scowling at the paper as he sketched lines, as he deliberately tried not to think too much about everything, Cain sighed.  'I can't ask that of her,' he thought.  'One pup is enough work, and . . . and she gets so exhausted.  Getting up all night with Evan?  And now, with Jillian . . . It's too much, no matter how much I try to help her, there are certain things that I can't do.'

'But maybe there's a way.'

He shook his head, trying not to think about how much he enjoyed, holding the girl on his chest, over his heart, as she drifted off to sleep at night, how often she made him smile when he picked her up in the morning, as her eyes lit up, as she tried so hard to talk to him . . . 'There . . . There isn't.  I can't ask Gin to do that.  I . . . I can't.  It wouldn't be fair . . .'

His youkai-voice grunted.  'Then tell me, what was wrong with the Arunbachs?'

'They just became mates a few months ago.  Definitely not ready for an infant.'

'And the Bauers?'

'Their house is too small.'

'The Franklins?'

'He's a fisherman.  He's gone way too much.'

'The Adams?'

''They're creepy, and they're kooky . . . Mysterious and spooky . . .They're all together ooky . . . The Addams Family' . . .'

'. . . Did you really, really just say that . . .?'

Cain grunted, but didn't reply.

'You realize that you're going to have to pick someone if you're not willing to ask Gin to keep her.  It's really not fair for you to be dragging your feet on this, and by the way, you realize, don't you?  Gin's bonding with Jillian, as much as you are.  Don't you think it's going to be terrible to try to separate them now?'

Heaving a sigh, Cain let the sketchbook fall to the ground with the pencil bouncing off of it a few times before rolling off into the sparse grass.  Yes, he knew that well enough.  Of course, he did.  The thing was, it didn't really help when there was something, even something small, that just didn't sit right when he read through the potential parents' files . . .

Gin sat up with a sigh, smiling dreamily as she touched both sleeping infants.  He could hear the gentle laugh, could sense the absolute peace in her aura, and he smiled, too.  As though she could sense his perusal, she lifted her gaze, her smile widening as her eyes locked with his, as she lifted a finger to hush him, even though he had yet to say a word.

After assuring herself that the babies were sleeping soundly, she pushed herself to her feet, ambling over to him, sinking down beside him with the soft jingle of the buckles of her cute little pink overalls.  "They're so sweet," she said, nodding her head at the babies.

He nodded.  "They are."

She sighed happily and leaned in to inspect his sketch.  "That's really good," she commented, poking a finger at the sketchbook on the ground.

"Think so?"

She nodded.  "You could do this for a living," she teased.

He chuckled.  "Is that right?"

"Hmm," she intoned, leaning against his arm for a moment.  Breathing in deep, Cain savored the scent of her, his mate, allowed her very proximity to offer him a sense of calm, despite the turmoil that wasn't too far away.  "Cain?"

Slipping his arms around her, pulling her a little closer, Cain sighed.  "Yeah?"

She shot him a quick glance, a wan sort of smile gracing her lips as she turned her head to stare at the sleeping babies once more.  "They look like little angels, don't they?"

Cain smiled.  "They do," he agreed.

She stared at them for another long moment, eyes bright, clear.  "You know what?" she finally said, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen.

Reaching for the tablet and pencil, Cain frowned at the sketch.  "Hmm?"

"I think you deserve a slice of cake," she decided.

"I think I do, too," he allowed.

She giggled as she stood up once more, brushing off her shorts before turning to head back toward the mansion.  Pausing long enough to check on the babies, she made a face before carefully scooping Jillian up.  "She needs changed," she said.  "We'll be right back."

Cain nodded and smiled, relaxing against the tree long enough to watch his mate's retreat.  Evan, little miscreant, hadn't even budged, and Cain had to wonder if he was saving it all up for later on tonight.  The boy seemed to revel in keeping his mother awake, after all: a true night owl if there ever was one.

The buzz of his cell phone drew his attention, and Cain frowned as he dug it out of his pocket and read the caller ID.  "Zelig," he said, pushing himself to his feet and wandering a little farther away, lest he should wake up the pup.

"Ah, yes, just the guy I wanted to talk to.  Have you found a family for the baby?  Jillian?"

"Not yet," Cain replied, glancing back at the house to make sure Gin wasn't within earshot.  "Why?"

Ben Philips, the youkai general, chuckled.  "Well, I was contacted earlier by a couple looking for a child.  They've had some difficulty in carrying a child to term, and her doctor advised her that maybe adoption would be better."

"How's that?" Cain asked, referring to the idea that she would not be able to carry a child.

Ben sighed.  "She's human," he replied.  "She had some issues before she found her mate, and it's not something that youkai marking can fix—apparently.  They seem like decent people.  I talked to both on the phone—didn't mention Jillian.  I just asked some general questions.  Should I fax over their file?"

Biting his lip, Cain sighed.  "Y-Yeah . . ."

Ben was silent for a long moment.  "Unless . . . you and Gin were going to keep her . . .?"

Letting out a deep breath, Cain grimaced.  The old panther-youkai was entirely too perceptive, wasn't he?  "I can't ask her to do that," he muttered.  "It . . . It really wouldn't be fair.  I mean, she's got Evan needing constant attention, and, unless I can figure out how to nurse a baby, I really can't help much."

Ben grunted.  "If you master that, don't tell me about it, okay?"

"Shut up, Ben," Cain grumbled.

Ben chuckled.  "You know, if we only did what was convenient, we'd get nothing at all accomplished."

"If she wanted to do it, she'd say so," Cain maintained.  "I . . . I can't ask her.  I can't put that kind of pressure on her.  She's a good woman.  She'd say yes, even if she didn't think she could handle it."

"I don't know.  Maybe you're underestimating her."

Cain didn't reply to that.

"Well, just think about it because it'd be worse if you got someone's hopes up, only to dash them if you change your mind about keeping her."

"You're suddenly a baby expert?"

Ben chuckled.  "Nope.  I'm an expert in the field of common sense, though."

"Ri-i-i-i-ight," Cain drawled.

Amusement dying away, Ben let out a deep breath.  "All right, then.  I'll fax over their file, but listen.  It'd really be no worse than having twins.  I daresay you'd be keeping them both if you and Gin had given birth to more than one baby."

"Don't be dumb, Ben," Cain grumbled.  "That's a stupid thing to ask."

"It's not stupid," Ben countered mildly.  "It's truth.  Just think about it."

"The file?" Cain reminded him.

Ben sighed.  "I'm on it."

"Thanks," Cain replied.

The connection ended, and Cain dropped his phone into his pocket.  Of course, Ben had a point, even if he had made it in an entirely outlandish sort of way.   But it wasn't about Cain, not really. It was about Gin, and it was about Jillian, and he really had no right to ask something of that magnitude of her . . . Some things were just not meant to be, as hard as that was to accept, and Jillian . . .

Brushing those thoughts aside, he pivoted on his heel.

And stopped short.

Eyes flaring slightly as the surge of a strange youki hit him full-on, he muttered a curse under his breath.  'How the hell did he get that close?' Cain fumed, temper spiking when he caught sight of the weasel-youkai who stood next to the blanket—with Evan, dangling from his arms.

"Who the hell are you?" Cain growled, reining in the desire to dash over, to try to retrieve Evan before the stranger could hurt him.

"I'm nobody important," he scoffed, enjoying the game of cat and mouse just a little too much.

"How did you get this close to us?"

The weasel chuckled, tossing a small stone into the air, catching it on the way down a few times.  "Fuyoheki," he said in answer to Cain's unvoiced question.  "Amazing what these little things can do . . ."

"A Fuyoheki?  Where the hell did someone like you get your hands on something like that?"  Cain demanded, balling his hands into tight fists as he glowered at the weasel.  "Who are you?"

The youkai's smirk turned a little nastier.  "I told you, who I am isn't really important . . . As for the stone?  Wouldn’t you like to know?" he goaded before holding up Evan like he were little more than a rag doll.  "White haired baby with blue eyes . . . I've gotten what I came for, Zelig.  Thanks."

"Give me my son," Cain growled from between clenched teeth.  He started to move forward, only to stop when the weasel shifted Evan, cracked the claws of his free hand.  Evan whimpered as Cain ground his teeth together harder.  As long as the youkai had Evan in his clutches, there was nothing—literally nothing—that Cain could or would do, and the feeling of helplessness was absolutely debilitating . . . A white haired baby with blue eyes . . .? Just what the hell did the bastard think he was doing?

A sudden crack, high overhead, accompanied by an ominous rumble echoed around them as the first, fat droplets of rain started to fall.  Evan's upset escalated quickly, and Gin must have sensed it because the French doors slammed open as she darted outside, only to gasp, to skid to a halt when she, too, spotted the weasel holding her baby.

Cain didn't dare take his eyes off the weasel, not even to glance at Gin.  He could feel the rising panic in her youki, and it was almost enough to choke him as he forced himself to stand his ground.

The weasel chuckled nastily.  "Ah, don't worry.  You can always whelp another one, can't you?  Now, if you'll excuse us . . ."

He started to back up a few steps.  Cain couldn't contain the warning growl as Evan's whimpers shifted into full-out crying—panicked screeching that tore at him, as Gin's youki surged and stretched, her own terror, thick and cloying as it hung in the air.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it . . ."

Without thinking, without bothering to consider the ramifications of his actions, Cain leveled his weight against the ground, ready to spring, to leap.  If he could grab Evan at the same time that he cut through the weasel—

'Zelig, stop . . . Think!  You're better than that, aren't you?  Don't lose yourself to your emotions . . .'

'Damn it, he—'

'No!  If you give in, if you let your heart override your mind, your pup will die! No amount of recrimination will bring back a soul that's already been lost.  But then, you already know that, don't you?'

Blinking at the strange voice that echoed in his head, the deadly accuracy of the words, Cain scowled.  'Wha . . .?'

'See it, Zelig, in your mind.  That surge of your youki—Use it!'

Unsure of exactly what the voice wanted him to do, Cain raised his hand, willed away the rage, the sheer dread, and he stared through the rain while the weasel still slowly backed away, and he grinned at Cain, as though he realized that the tai-youkai wasn't entirely certain—as though he believed that he held the upper hand, and maybe he did . . . But . . .

'Engulf him.  Burn him.  Will him to feel the wrath of the tai-youkai for daring to touch one of yours.'

'But Evan—'

'It's a warm rain, Zelig.  You know this rain, just as you know me . . .'

Eyes flashing wide, Cain understood.  Somewhere in his brain, he did know it, even if he couldn't place it.  The warmth, the familiarity . . . If he could stop, if he could think, he might be able to understand it.  As it was, however, he didn't dare take that time . . .

He felt the surge in his youki as it flowed around the weasel, as it held him to the spot, stilling his body, his arms, his legs.  The weasel fought against it, grunting, straining, his grip tightening even more around Evan, who started to squall in earnest.  He calmed instantly, though, when Gin's youki flowed into Cain's, and whether it was their combined auras that calmed Evan, Cain didn't know, though he suspected it had more to do with his mother's touch than it had to do with Cain himself . . .

The spark that shot out of his fingertips landed in a flash at the weasel's feet, and as the immediate flare dimmed and sputtered out, Cain saw the smoke, slowly at first, issuing from the weasel in tendrils, in spurts, escalating rapidly, like the smoke escaping from an opened grill.

He tried to scream.  The sound wouldn't come.  Eyes rolling back into his sockets, face contorted in a frozen grimace, a macabre visage, he didn't move as his skin peeled off in ashy strips, only to be driven into the earth by the soothing rain . . .

With a hoarse cry, Gin flew past Cain, grabbing her son out of the weasel's grip, moments before his body exploded in a gust of wind and dust, leaving nothing behind but a smoldering pile of ash that quickly dissolved and faded away . . .

And as quickly as it had come, the rain sputtered and ended.  A sudden gust of warm, warm air brushed against his cheek, a strange but familiar sense of comfort flooding through him as the rain vanished, as the sun reappeared . . . Only then, did Cain let his arm drop as late relief made his knees feel weak . . .

"Who was that?" Gin asked, her voice shaking as she hurried to him with Evan in her arms.

He wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes as he held them close.  "I . . . I don't know," Cain said.  "He was after Evan . . ."

"Why?"

Cain shook his head.  "I don't know . . ." he replied again.

Gin sniffled—he hadn't realized that she was crying—and snuggled Evan close, calming the child with her very proximity . . .

"Where's Jillian?" Cain asked, taking Evan from Gin.  He just needed to hold him, to reassure himself that Evan was all right . . .

"Oh!" she exclaimed, eyes flaring wide, hands flying up to cover her lips.  "I forgot!  I left her in the living room!"

She took off to get Jillian, and Cain heaved a sigh, gaze raking over the boy who burrowed his face against Cain's shoulder.

Cain swallowed hard, blinking fast as late tears washed into his eyes.  The echo of the voice in his mind . . .

'It sounded . . . familiar . . .' he thought, dashing a hand over his eyes as he kissed Evan's forehead, savored the feel of the baby in his arms.

His youkai-voice sighed.  'That's because it was familiar . . . You really don't remember your father's voice?'

"F . . . Father . . ." he murmured.

'And your mother's rain . . .'

"Mother . . ." Squeezing his eyes closed as late confusion warred with a sense of disbelief, Cain shook his head.  'That's not . . . They're . . . They can't . . . They're dead . . .'

'It's possible, you know.  Your father . . . Incinerating someone from the inside out?  That was his ability, and maybe you've had the innate skill all along, but you needed it now, didn't you?  So, maybe he was able to speak to you, to guide you . . .'

Considering that, Cain sighed.  Did he believe it?  Could he believe it?  Peering down at Evan, safe in his arms, he winced.  Whether it was possible or not . . . What did it matter when Evan . . . Because of that voice, Evan was safe . . .

Gin leaned in the archway of the living room, a small smile quirking her lips as she stared at the children—Sebastian with Evan curled up beside him on the oversized chaise lounge chair—and Jillian, curled up on Sebastian's chest.  They were all sleeping—no small wonder, that.  Sebastian was still exhausted from traveling more than halfway around the world.  They'd just gotten home from the airport a few hours ago.

Her smile widened as the beauty of the moment touched her.  Something about seeing the three of them together just seemed so . . . right . . . Evan and Sebastian and Jillian . . .

'Because you want to keep her, doll,' her youkai-voice remarked.

Gin sighed.  'I . . . Oh, I do . . .'

'So, why don't you tell Cain?  Do you think he'd mind?  Really?'

She bit her lip.  That was the proverbial million-dollar-question, wasn't it?  'But . . . if he wanted to keep her, wouldn't he have said so . . .?'

'Do you honestly think you can give her up?  This child you've accepted as your own, that you've nursed and loved and protected?  Can you do that, Gin?  And don't you owe it to her to at least ask him how he feels?  Doesn't Jillian deserve that?  She's already lost one mother . . . If you don't . . .'

'But . . . But I'm not . . . not her mother . . .'

'If not you, then who?  You've held her, nursed her, kissed her fingers and toes, coddled and protected her . . . And maybe she wasn't born of your body, but that doesn't mean a thing, not really, not when you love her . . .'

Gin grimaced.  'But . . .'

'You can't give her up, doll.  You can't—and neither can I.'

"Baby girl . . ."

Turning at the sound of Cain's voice as he strode into the living room, he stopped and smiled at the children before turning a more serious gaze upon her, and he sighed.  "I've, uh . . . I've found a potential family for Jillian," he said.  "He's youkai, and she's human.  They can't have children, and they're looking for one.  I . . . I can't find a single reason not to try.  They sound . . . perfect on paper . . ."

A violent surge of panic shot through her, not unlike the same emotion she'd felt when she'd spotted the strange youkai holding Evan . . ."B-B-But . . . But what if they're not the right ones?" she blurted, her tone rising as her panic grew despite her desire to tamp it down.

"They seem nice enough."

"You . . . You talked to them?  I mean, you didn't even tell me about these people before, and you've already talked to them?"

He frowned at her, slowly shaking his head.  "Well, I . . . I can go get the file if you'd like to look it over . . ."

She scowled up at him.  "This is a big deal, Cain!  You should have at least let me read through it before you called them, don't you think?  We're not talking about some random baby—we're talking about Jilli—our Jilli!"

"I know that," he snapped.  "You think I don't?"

Narrowing her eyes on him, she crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly.  "I don't know, Zelig-sensei.  Do you?"

"Gin, she's not ours—you know that, don't you?"

"She is right now," Gin shot back, her anger spiraling higher and higher, faster and faster.  "You don't know these people at all—haven't even met them—haven't bothered to tell me about them until right now, and  you want to hand my baby over to them?  No!  I won't have it, Cain Zelig!  I won't!"

For a moment, he looked like he just might snap back at her.  Then he sighed.  Rubbing the back of his neck, Cain grimaced.  "What do you want me to do, Gin?" he asked quietly.

Something about the tone of his voice calmed her, and she grimaced, ducking her chin before he could see the tears that were gathering in her eyes.  Just what kind of mate was she, anyway?  Cain was doing the best he could, and she knew that, and yet, she snapped at him?  Just who did that kind of thing?  Before she could answer, however, Sebastian sat up, looking entirely groggy—and rather irritated, too.  With a grunt, he scooped Evan up—he was already holding Jillian—and stomped past his parents, heading for the stairs.

"Sebastian?  Where are you going?" Gin called after him.

"We're going to bed," Sebastian grumbled.  "You two can fight if you want, but we're tired."

Gin blinked, staring after them as Sebastian toted the children up the stairs.

Cain sighed.  "If you . . . If you pumped your breasts, I could help feed them," he ventured quietly.

Gin's brain felt as though it suddenly slowed to a crawl.  "C . . . Cain?"

Cain grimaced.  "I know it's probably a bad idea.  I know it's a lot of work, and . . . and if you don't want to, I understand, but I . . ."

"I want to keep her," Gin blurted.  "She's a Zelig, as much as Sebastian and Evan and Bellaniece . . ."

Cain slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes lit with an inner fire as he stared at her.  "I . . . I want to keep her, too," he said.  "Jillian Zelig . . ."

Gin broke into a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob as she launched herself into Cain's arms.  "You mean it?  We can keep her?"

He chuckled and held her tight.  "Yeah," he said.  "Only if that's what you want."

Gin grasped his face, tugged him down to kiss him.  "You're so wonderful, Cain," she murmured between kisses.  "I . . . I was afraid you'd think it was too much . . ."

He grinned, giving her a tight squeeze.  "I thought you'd be overwhelmed . . ."

"And you're sure?  It's not going to be a problem?"

Cain laughed.  "A problem for who?  I'm tai-youkai.  No one is going to argue with me."

"Oh, no, not ever!" Gin laughed through the tears still standing in her eyes.

"We'll figure it out.  I'll help you as much as I can."

"I love  you, Zelig-sensei."

He sighed, but it sounded content and not at all exasperated.  "I love you, too, baby girl."

She sniffled, but her smile was brilliant.  "Cain?"

"Yeah?"

She giggled, cheeks pinking as she slipped an arm around him and squeezed one of his butt cheeks.  "One."

Cain's eyebrows lifted as he stared at her with an amused lilt in his gaze.  "Oh, is that so?"

She bit her lip.  "Two."

Leaning back just far enough to cross his arms over his chest, he waited.

"Three—Aren't you going to run?"

"Thinking about it."

She giggled again.  "Four."

"Gin?"

"Hmm?"

His grin widened.  "Five."

"Cain!" she squeaked as he grabbed her, as he kissed her in a slow, soft, steady way that made her toes curl.  "I . . . was going to . . . punish . . . you," she said.

"So, do it, baby girl—fast before Evan wakes up because he's always hungry."

She laughed at the reminder of her son's insane appetite—laughed and tugged at the hem of Cain's shirt . . .