InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Luna Sangerie ❯ Chastised ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

It was a blood moon.

Staring out the window at the moon that loomed so low, seemed so close, almost close enough to touch, Jericho Cioban shivered in the murky darkness that blanketed everything in the room, the strange reddish pall that glowed and pulsed around her.  She could feel it, couldn’t she?  Only on nights like this one when the blood moon rose high . . . It was the only time she felt that thirst, and she swallowed hard, pulled the covers up a little tighter, a little higher . . . It was worse this time.  The moon was too big, too near, and the throbbing in her ears, so wickedly inviting . . .

Somewhere in the distance, the howl of a lone wolf echoed through the thick trees covering the valley between the three mountains.  It was a wild and lonely place, largely untouched by the world that surrounded it, with an isolated, one-lane road that led into the valley—a road that was constantly monitored, where her father’s guard deflected anyone who was not welcome—those outlanders who had the misfortune of venturing so deep.  The mountains, nestled in the midst of the Carpathians, were so remote, they had no names, though the locals in Treimunti—the quaint little village that lay just before of the smallest of the mountains—called the other two Tata and Mama—Father and Mother.  That smallest of the three mountains was her home.

The castle was built, deep into the mountain long, long ago, and her family had lived here forever, ruling over the quiet hamlet.  Very few outside of the family had ever been allowed entrance to the hallowed halls and rambling rooms, the meandering corridors with the thick and heavy doors—some of them forever locked, hiding secrets of their own . . . It was decorated in a false sense of splendor, an opulence that lay in waste, languishing for a day when she could share her beauty beyond the reaches of a select few beings—a day that would never, ever come.  Her ancestors were a secretive people, but, given their history, their distinct lineage, she supposed that wasn’t entirely surprising, either.  They’d retreated here, formed their own society, far away from the prying eyes and the snarling disdain of a world that didn’t understand them; the ones who had sought to destroy them.

She knew the tales.  She’d been told them all since she was too young to remember.  They served as warnings, as macabre promises meant to scare small children into compliance, maybe.  They’d come in the night—the snarling, the biting, the tearing of flesh—until the only one left was the Great Mama and her infant son—the one who would become the Great Tata . . . In exchange for her life, she’d promised—sworn—that she would never, ever become a drinker, but as the years passed into decades, and the decades became centuries, the Great Tata had disregarded the warnings, and, once he did, he’d come to understand that drinking was the root of their power.  The Great Tata had decided then that their people had not deserved what had happened, and he set out to rebuild the family—stronger than before.  He’d taken his own mother as a mate, forcing her to give birth to their four sons and one daughter.  From those people, the rest of the family had been forged, and everyone currently residing in the castle could trace their lineage back to those two: the Great Mama and the Great Tata . . .

Letting out a soft sigh, Jericho brushed aside the impromptu history lesson.  That was really not important, given that it changed nothing at all.  The Great Tata, however, had decided that they would make their home here, build a stronghold that not even those dogs could penetrate, and they’d built the castle, had welcomed the imposing protection of the mountains . . .

Still, how many times had she stared at those same mountains, wondered about the world that existed beyond all that she knew? There was more out there.  She knew that.  She’d been taught some geography by her procession of governesses, as well as reading, writing in both Romanian and in English, math and science . . . world history to some extent, though she suspected that it wasn’t all there was to it, either.  The scripts she studied never had pictures, and her lessons always seemed to end around a point in history that never extended past the 1800s.  Nearly three hundred years had passed since then, but she had no idea what had happened in the world during those missing years . . .

She sighed, rolling onto her side in the hammock-like bed, tucking her hands under her cheek as she continued to gaze at the foreboding full moon.  “Luna sangerie . . .” she murmured, platinum blond hair, spilling around her in a long and sleek sheet that cosseted her, that spilled over the side of the bed.  Normally, she braided it before retiring since she hated the tangles that always knotted her hair long before morning.  Tonight, however, her head hurt as much from the intricate coif that her maid had so meticulously arranged hours ago as it did from the formal announcement that had taken her by surprise . . .

The formal feast had felt so ominous.  All day long, she’d felt the strange sense that something was wrong, even if she had no real reason to think that at all, but as the hour had crept closer to supper, she’d come to realize that something was different this time.  Her father loved to throw lavish celebrations, even though those she called family weren’t huge in numbers—sixty, if one counted Jericho.  Even so, he did love to celebrate pretty much everything, and it didn’t really take much provocation for him, either.

It wasn’t really shocking that he’d wanted to host yet another feast.  After all, they had a visitor—an outlander—that she’d heard whispers of.  He was invited, they’d said.  Grigore himself had extended the invitation.  She hadn’t actually met the interloper.  He’d been in meetings with her father all day.  That her maid had presented her with a new dress for the evening hadn’t alarmed her—a ridiculous confection of yards and yards of pristine white brushed cotton and underlayers of organza and tulle—nor had the painstaking preparations of her hair and even a touch of makeup that Jericho normally avoided.

It really wasn’t until she was seated at the stone table between her brother and the stranger: a swarthy-skinned youkai that she was told hailed from Somalia.  Black hair, black eyes—void-like black . . .

‘He’s a drinker . . .’ she thought, biting her lip as she kept her gaze trained on the table before her.  He didn’t look friendly, and his youki felt borderline hostile, but it was the way he’d looked her over that she had hated the most: the way he’d stared her, up and down, those touched black eyes that glowed almost unnaturally, narrowed, as though he were trying to see into her very soul—as though he were stripping her bare—and that feeling left her raw and unaccountably flustered, but not in a good or pleasant kind of way—in a way that felt as though she’d been completely violated and left to bleed on the floor.

And then, she’d felt her half-brother’s steely gaze upon her: that critical eye that lingered somewhere between judgmental and apathetic.  She sat up a little straighter—shoulders back, hands resting in her lap—and she struggled to keep the miserable blush off her face at having been dismissed as wanting yet again.  Only then did Stefan Cioban’s attention shift away, much to Jericho’s relief.

Grigore Cioban—her father—strode into the hall, smiling broadly as he raised his arms to greet his guests—his extended family—as a rousing cheer rose up amidst the clinks of crystal glasses, creaking chairs.  It was easy to see his good mood, but she knew well enough that the same near-happiness he exhibited was an emotion that tended to be quite fleeting with him.  All it took was a simple look, the sense that someone disagreed with one of his many edicts, to shatter it like glass on the cold obsidian floor.

“Friends!” he said, his booming voice, carrying to the farthest reaches of the hall, “We are here on this night to celebrate the long-awaited mating of Domnul Okeke and my daughter, Jericho!”

She froze.  Everything around her froze.  Time froze.

The blood in her body seemed to freeze, too.

He had to wait for the cheers, for the merriment and explosion of bawdy well-wishes to quiet before he could go on.  “They will mate on the night of my daughter’s twenty-first birthday!  Let us celebrate!”

The memory faded as Jericho shivered, snuggling down deeper into the relative safety of her blankets.  It really shouldn’t have been a shock to her.  She’d known that this was coming.  It was simply a matter of who her esteemed father would choose, but never in a million years had she thought that he would send her so far away, and, while that should have thrilled her—to get to see the world outside of the tiny hamlet that had been her home for so long . . .

It didn’t.

There was something cold about that man—her intended.  She’d sensed it from the beginning.  She’d wondered about it before, had even whispered about it with her dearest friend and cousin, Elena Donceanu.  Elena also happened to be Stefan’s half-sister, as well, but she did not hold that close of a bloodline to Jericho.  No, their bond was more of friends than relation, though they hadn’t had as much time to spend together since Elena had been mated to their third-cousin months ago.  It wasn’t a mating for love or even any trace hint of emotion.  It was a mating with one specific result in mind: the child she would birth.  Now, Elena was expecting her first child, and therefore, was constantly under scrutiny.  Jericho did not envy her that, though.  Women of the family who were impregnated tended to be treated as little more than living vessels, made to lay around, to rest and to nurture a child for the good of the family—for the strength of the family.  Gone were the days when Jericho and she would sneak out of the castle to wander the lands till the night had nearly fallen, only to run back home before that all-important dinner hour—the only time they’d truly be missed.

Men were the prize, the goal: men who could be trained, be indoctrinated into the family way . . . Women were necessary only to strengthen the bloodlines, and it had been so since the beginning.  Only after a woman bore a son would she be free to choose a real mate—if she weren’t the stapan’s ordained daughter.  Jericho, however, bore that dubious distinction.  That was why she was being bartered off.

She’d talked about it before with Elena in whispers and in secret—gathering flowers or herbs in the dense forest that surrounded Treimunti.  It seemed to her that people changed once they started drinking.  It wasn’t simply the physical changes, though those were the easiest to see: the absolute black hair and eyes, the pallor of the skin . . . It seemed to Jericho that the changes went deeper than that.  Somewhere in the depths of her memories, she vaguely recalled her mother, with her bright green eyes and her pale blonde hair—her happy and ready smile . . . After Grigore had convinced her to drink, something about her had changed.  She’d stopped seeking Jericho out to spend time with her, stopped caring about whether or not her daughter was truly happy.  She’d left her alone with her maids and governesses.

But her mother had chosen to slip back into the blur of the castle, more of an object or artifact than a real, living being.  She rarely spoke, just stared at those around her with a disturbingly knowing kind of look . . . Something about the changes had made Jericho reluctant to approach her.  It was almost as if, in her childish mind, her mother had simply ceased to exist, even though she still lived—was still living—within the confines of Castle Cioban . . .

Elena had agreed with her, though, in her case, she’d never actually had much if any interaction with her own mother.  She was a drinker long before Elena was born, and, once she’d learned that she’d given birth to another daughter, she had discarded Elena in much the same way that Jericho’s mother had after she’d changed.  Both girls had vowed never to do it: never to drink so that they wouldn’t change, too—a vow that was easy enough to keep.

Except for nights of the blood moon—nights like tonight . . .

That was ten years ago, though . . .

Pulling her hand out of the confines of her blankets, she slowly raised it, extended it toward the window, her skin glowing an eerie kind of crimson in the light of the blood moon.  As unsettling as it was to her, it comforted her, too.  Staring at her fingers, the harsh silhouette against the backdrop of the night, she sighed softly, trying to ignore the foreboding that had settled in the pit of her stomach like a stone.  Maybe things would look different to her in the morning.  Maybe . . .

‘Six months . . .’ she thought as she closed her eyes, as she drew her hand back under the blankets.  ‘Six . . . months . . .’


Sitting on the low stool, wrapped in the thin white cotton nightgown—the billowing sleeves, the lace cuffs and edges, almost Victorian in design—Jericho closed her eyes as the maid dragged the silver handled brush through her long locks.  The soothing action settled her, helped her to relax after a day spent, trying to come to grips with the changes that were coming at her so quickly.

She’d been congratulated so many times today that it was almost laughable—almost.  Too bad it made her want to cry.

She didn’t even know her intended’s first name.

All the women were already hard at work, planning and deliberating over Jericho’s mating gown.  It was a sacred tradition; one that she dreaded.  Seven days before the mating, the ritual bed would be placed in the midst of the great hall between the trestle tables.  It would be on display for thorough inspection, for the family members all to pray over and offer blessings for the male child they wished for.  The night of the mating, however . . .

She shivered, and the maid clucked her tongue before hurrying over to pull the window closed.  “You’ll catch a chill, domnita . . .” she scolded, carefully draping a long shawl over her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she said, pasting on a smile that she was far from feeling.  “You can go.”

The maid scurried around, turning down the oil lamps, shaking out Jericho’s sheets and blankets, putting away the dress she’d removed to change into her nightgown.  Having accomplished all of that, she bowed low and slipped out of the bright and polished room, finally, blessedly, leaving Jericho alone.

She sighed, standing up slowly, wandering over to the window as she let the shawl drop to a heap on the white marble floor.

Pushing the window open, closing her eyes as the brisk night breeze pushed her hair back off of her face, she let out a deep breath.  So unpredictable, so wanton, allowed to go wherever it wished . . . That kind of freedom was something that Jericho had often wondered about, thought about what she’d do if she were granted the same kind of fluidity in her life.

But no, she’d known for so very long that her life really was secondary.  The well-being of the family—of the men—was the most important thing.  Men were stronger, less likely to yield to momentary whims—steadfast, they were.  The first line of defense, she’d been told.  They were bigger, faster, stronger . . . The men took care of the women, and the women should be grateful, satisfied to be taken care of in such a way that they need never want for a thing as long as they obeyed men’s orders.

And her father, of course, was the man amongst men: the top and the pinnacle.  Many a time had she been told that he had descended from the very first—the Great Tata . . . the Great Mama—that his blood had never been tainted with that of another youkai that wasn’t one of them, or by that of the humans they governed.  Her father believed that their kind should never suffer to blend their pure blood with any other tainted creature.  It was why, he said, the first ones had failed, why they adhered to the ancient traditions now, the old ways, keeping to themselves, rejecting any attempts to try to blend in.

The mating, for example, was one of their old traditions, and one that Jericho had always dreaded.  Being forced to couple, there, in the midst of the merriment as others looked on, as they offered their bawdy advice, as they came in close to watch, to observe—to touch—believing that laying their hands on the mating couple would provide them fertility and balance in their own lives . . .

And there she’d be, dressed in lace and bows with tiny flowers in her hair, forced to lay on that bed as everyone came around, as they all inspected her, and if, for some reason, she was deemed lacking?  Then her mate could reject her, and if that happened . . .

Women who were deemed imperfect were relegated to serve the family.  Their blood bonds were severed, never to be mentioned again, their names, scrubbed from the great book where Grigore kept the dates of every child’s birth, the twisting and convoluted ties of the family.  One of the maids, she’d seen years ago, had been rejected for bearing a mole on her shoulder.

She was now Jericho’s maid—a maid who owned no name.  She’d been forced to relinquish that luxury when she was found lacking . . .

The door opened.  She felt it more than heard it.  She sensed it more than saw it.  It didn’t surprise her.  In a way, she’d expected that she’d be interrupted before she ever made it to bed, but she’d expected to have drawn her father’s irritation, perhaps even her brother’s.  The youki that brushed against hers, though, drew her up straight, pulled her around to face the intruder, as she hoped that she looked calmer than she felt on the inside . . .

“You did not ask me if it was all right for you to skip the evening meal.”

Biting her lip, she grabbed at her waning bravado, ignored the urge to retrieve the shawl off the floor.  “My apologies, Domnul Okeke . . . I . . . I felt a little faint . . .”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes so dark that they were little more than pinpoints of light.  Slowly, deliberately, he shuffled toward her, his hands, dug deep into the pockets of the black pants he wore—pants that were shades lighter than his hair, his eyes.

She gasped, head snapping to the side when he backhanded her across the face, as she crumpled to the floor, catching herself on her hands, her wrists exploding in a violent wash of pain at the sheer force of his strike.  Yanking her by the upper arm to her feet, he grabbed her other one and shook her hard.  “You will not seek to humiliate me before your family,” he said, his tone low, almost a caress, that turned her stomach as she stubbornly willed herself not to cry.

Slowly shifting her gaze to the side, to meet his without turning her head, she swallowed a mouthful of blood—her own blood.  “And will you dictate what I wear every day?  Will you tell me what I am allowed to think?  What I am allowed to say?”

His hands dug into her arms as he dealt her another hard shake.  “Do I need to, Jericho?” he countered.

It didn’t go unnoticed that he hadn’t even afforded her the dignity of the proper form of address, but she ignored that.  “I’m sorry I missed supper,” she forced herself to say.  “It wasn’t my intent to dishonor you.”

Somehow, those words seemed to do the trick as his anger seemed to dissolve in an instant, in a flash, in a blink of an eye. Letting go of her arms, he suddenly dragged her against his chest, holding her in such a stifling way.  She didn’t fight him.  Too frightened of his volatile nature, she stood, stiff, still . . . “You should try to get to know me, you know,” he admonished.  “I’m a fair man—a decent man.  I’ll treat you as well as you treat me.”

For some reason, his words sounded like more of a threat than a promise in her ears.  Cupping her face in his hand, he tilted her head, forced her to look at him.  Then he chuckled.  “Your father tells me that you refuse to drink.  Is that so, Jericho?”

Ignoring the painful throbbing in her cheek, she shook her head.  “I don’t need to,” she told him, quietly, secretly pleased that her voice didn’t tremble.  “I won’t.”

His strong features shifted, contorted in a show of mock surprise.  Thick black eyebrows drawing together over those dull black eyes—eyes that looked more like holes in his face than they did, actual eyes . . . broad nose, nostrils flaring slightly, thick lips—the lower one a little pinker, a touch lighter than the top one . . . He scowled at her for a long moment.  “And if I say you’ll do it?” he challenged.

“I don’t need to,” she replied quietly.  “I’m just a woman.  Men are the ones who need it—the strength to protect us . . .”

“You want my protection, don’t you?” he growled, ducking in low, his lips lingering just above hers.  She could smell the bitter and metallic kind of stench—that mineral stink . . . He’d just drank, hadn’t he?  She flinched inwardly as her stomach flopped over, as bile rose, thick and harsh, in her throat.  “I think . . . I think I’ll like possessing you,” he went on, lips brushing against hers with every word he spoke.  “You’ll learn . . . It’s easy, you realize.  You please me, and I’ll please you.  It’s as simple—and as complex—as you want to make it . . . But don’t test me.  I’m not nearly tolerant enough for that.”

She swallowed hard, pushed against him as much as she dared.  His arms tightened in response, and she flinched.  “You’re hurting me,” she told him, which was really only half a lie.  His youki chafed against her, leaving her skin feeling raw and abused.

“Don’t lie.  I know damn well I’m not.  I could, but I’m not,” he warned her sharply, the caress of his hand against her cheek, a subtle warning.  “Why don’t you be a good girl and drink?  I have no use for you if you’re weak.”

She shook her head.  “I . . . I won’t,” she insisted.

Suddenly, he chuckled.  The sound of it sent a shiver up her spine, a cold chill, straight to her heart.  “You’ll drink, Jericho,” he said.  “You will.”

And then, his lips fell on hers with a barely contained brutality . . . No love, no consideration, only a will to dominate, to suppress her own . . . Those lips, crushing hers, smashing hers—devouring hers . . .


Stumbling down the steps of the grand staircase that extended up the center of the great annex, Jericho had wanted to stay in her room, especially after seeing the huge bruise that covered nearly half of her face.

She’d no sooner stepped off of the bottom step than she’d felt the hand on her upper arm, stopping her.  Stefan reached out, grasped her chin, turned her face up to inspect her, his fathomless black eyes narrowing thoughtfully, his brows slanting together.  Devastatingly handsome, she supposed, but in a cold and haunting kind of way—pale skin, hair beyond ebony—the same fine bone structure that gave way to the leanness of face that bordered upon gaunt . . . Tragically patrician, she supposed . . . She remembered a painting she’d seen.  It was hanging in their father’s chambers, a place she’d only been one time.  Back then, she’d been told that that the painting was of Stefan, painted days before he’d drank for the first time . . . That same brother had the same blue eyes that Elena possessed—eyes as blue as the endless summer sky . . . Cinnamon hair, the color of the tree and the precious, precious bark . . . All of that was gone now, though from time to time, Jericho couldn’t help but wonder just what Stefan had been like before the change . . .

“You should know better than to provoke your intended,” he told her, letting his hands drop away from her, his tone full of a bland kind of arrogance, as though he really did think she should have realized it long ago.  “If you don’t want to be disciplined, don’t cause trouble.”

She said nothing as he left her there, heading up the stairs to the first landing and the great doors of their father’s office.  The heavy thud of the doors closing behind him echoed through the open air, and she sighed.

Stepping into the great hall, she stopped short, blinking when she saw the gathering of women near the small window.  Piles of bolts of fabrics were laid out—precious things that were brought up from the stores underground—the most rare and beautiful ones, all brought out to be used in the design of Jericho’s mating outfit as well as the special dresses that she’d wear as she traveled to her new home afterward . . .

Those fabrics in particular were only ever used for the stapan’s daughter from an ordained union.  He had other children, yes, but none of them were considered to be in the same line as Jericho was—not even Stefan, who was her father’s recognized heir.  But his mother was one of the family, and that made him a lesser line, despite the fact that Grigore had named Stefan his heir long ago.  Jericho’s mother was her father’s recognized and ordained mate, and she was the only child to come from that union . . .

It made her a prime bargaining chip, likely used in the trade game to bring in an ordained mate for Stefan . . .

“Oh, Jericho!  Come!” Cosmina, Stefan and Elena’s mother, called.  Her smile was bright, welcoming, and, despite her own misgivings, Jericho smothered a sigh and headed toward the women.  One by one, their chattering ceased as they all got a good look at Jericho’s face.  Most of them dropped their gazes to the sketches and patterns they were planning.  Cosmina, however, stood up quickly, rounding the trestle table to hurry over to her side.  “So, he has a temper, does he?” she murmured, gently turning Jericho’s face from side to side.  “I’ll fetch a poultice for you.  Sit!  Sit!”  She whirled away, clapping her hands as a maid stepped forward.  “Tea for domnita,” she commanded before slipping out of the room and toward the staircase.

She smiled wanly, nodded at some of the sketches that the women shoved at her, hoping that she was showing a proper amount of enthusiasm when she really didn’t care at all.

A strange sense crept over her, as though she were being watched.  Shifting her gaze around as cautiously as she could, she frowned when she spotted her mother, sitting over in a corner, her head lowered, staring at her . . .

Without thinking about it, she rose, smoothing the skirt of the white cotton dress as she headed toward the woman.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her.  She never attended the feasts that her father was so fond of.  Usually, she kept to her own quarters; rarely did she answer the door.  The cold beauty of the woman was both remarkable and frightening, and she didn’t look away as Jericho knelt before her.  “Doamna Mama . . .?”

For a long moment, she said nothing.  Hair pulled up and back in a careful chignon, she lifted a frail-looking hand to brush back an errant lock that had escaped her careful coif.  That hand paused in mid-air, slowly reached out, cradling Jericho’s bruised cheek.  “He’s a monster—a devil,” she murmured, leaning in so that only Jericho could hear her words.  “He’ll destroy you if you let him.”

Slipping her hand behind Jericho’s head to draw her closer, as though she meant to embrace her, she whispered in her daughter’s ear.  “Look under your pillow, Jericho.  Keep it with you.”

Letting go of her, she sat back for a moment, her gaze shifting to the side.  Then she stood up, crossed the floor and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Jericho alone to figure out, just what she meant . . .