InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Luna Sangerie ❯ Enigma ( Chapter 2 )

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

The soft nicker of the white palfrey echoed in Jericho’s ears as she nudged the horse a little faster, as she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of the brisk morning air on her cheeks, in her hair, on her skin.  It was the first time since the announcement of her impending mating two months ago that she felt almost free, like she could breathe, even if it wasn’t going to last long—probably just long enough for Domnul Okeke to discover that she’d slipped out on her own . . .

Opening her eyes, casting a rather nervous glance over her shoulder, she carefully scanned the horizon for the one man she really didn’t want to see.  Sefu Okeke had made it clear early on that she was not permitted to do a thing without his permission and leaving the safety of Castle Cioban was not something that he would ever allow—which was why she hadn’t bothered to ask him.

It was preposterous, though, in her opinion.  She was perfectly safe here, on these lands—her family’s land.  There was no one here who would dare accost her.  The villagers knew better, and there were never any outlanders allowed into the valley other than Domnul Okeke, anyway.

She sighed, unconsciously adjusting the hidden dagger she wore under the colorful apron over her wide, white cotton skirt.  It was a gift from her mother.  She’d left it under Jericho’s pillow the morning after her mating was announced.  The obsidian stone blade was razor sharp, but only about six inches in blade length, affixed to a beautifully bejeweled hilt—most certainly a decoration piece, even if it was forged from the stone that was rumored to be one of the most formidable and feared weapons when it came to their kind.  She really wasn’t sure why her mother wanted her to have it.  If anyone found out that she’d given it to her, the repercussions would potentially be huge.  After all, there would be some very harsh reprisals if she did try to wield it against any of the men, even if it were forged from something more common, but obsidian . . .? Even so, Jericho had to admit that it did help to bolster her courage, especially at moments when she tried to face down her intended mate . . .

Every night, it was the same farce—the same scene that played out, over and over again.  Domnul Okeke knocked on her door to escort her down to supper, his arm around her waist in a wholly possessive kind of display.  He kept her there all evening, and even feigning fatigue didn’t seem to work.  It was annoying at worst, but it was easy enough to endure.

It wasn’t until he escorted her back to her chambers that the upbraiding always began.  Maybe she hadn’t eaten enough or she ate too much . . . Perhaps she’d looked preoccupied all evening or she hadn’t smiled quite enough.  She smiled too much, was encouraging attention from the other men—entirely ridiculous, given that she was related to every last one of them . . . Even so, it seemed that, no matter what she did or didn’t do, it was never right.  If she were lucky, he’d just slap her a few times.

But, more and more often of late, those altercations had come with a heady undertone—of frightening things that she really didn’t want to dwell upon.  The rough and brutal kisses as he grasped her breasts and squeeze hard enough to bring tears to her eyes that she stubbornly blinked back . . .

Last night, he’d grabbed her crotch, digging his claws in deep enough that they poked through the many layers of skirt and slips that she wore.  He’d stopped just before drawing blood, but that really hadn’t helped.  In the end, she’d managed to wait until he’d finally—blessedly—left her before breaking down in a sobbing heap, her face buried deep in her pillows to stifle the sounds . . .

He wasn’t going to stop, and she knew it.  As the painful realization that this was the rest of her life seemed to unfurl before her, she swallowed hard, flicked the reins to move the palfrey along, as though she thought that she could outrun it, escape it . . . Even as the thickening hand of fate slowly closed in on her . . .

It had occurred to her before that maybe she ought to try to escape, but as quickly as the idea had occurred to her, she’d let it go just as fast.  Even if she did know what to expect outside of the valley—and that idea was daunting enough—she’d never actually make it past the guards, either.  The only real way out of the valley was not via that road, and that would entail climbing those mountains—something she really couldn’t do . . .

She was trapped, and she knew it.  The only way that she’d ever survive was to go along with the mating that she simply didn’t want—that she feared.

It reminded her of the last time she’d spoken to Elena in private.  Days after her forced mating with their third-cousin, and the girls had managed to slip away from the ladies that were hovering close, determined to make sure that the newest offspring was well-cared-for from the onset . . . The girls had ducked into one of the storerooms just below the main level, sneaking out of the tiny hole that had been dug through the side of the mountain and was kept hidden behind a few old wooden crates that, as far as Jericho knew, had never been moved before.  It was an ancient passage that had been all but forgotten over the years.  She and Elena had discovered it one winter afternoon when they were told they had to stay within the castle during one of the regular storms that blew in so quickly, down off the mountains . . .

That day, though, the two had crawled through that long and winding cave—it wasn’t nearly high enough to stand in—and outside into the brisk morning light.  They’d stolen away to the crystalline stream that flowed south of the castle . . . They’d reached the sanctuary of a thick briar patch and had crawled into it—a childhood hiding place where they couldn’t be seen as long as they remained back away from the stingy opening that faced the water’s edge . . .

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked when Elena grimaced slightly.  Her face was pale, drawn, her normally bright and shining hair, a little dull, a little stringy.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, managing a thin smile that Jericho figured was entirely for her benefit.  “Just a little queasy . . . Morning sickness, I guess . . .”

Jericho frowned.  “Is . . . Is it . . . bad . . .?”

“Oh, not so bad,” Elena replied.  “It normally goes away around noon . . .”

Shaking her head, Jericho leaned to the side, tucking her legs up beside her.  “No, I . . . I mean . . . you know.  Did the mating . . . hurt?”

A strange little flicker of something dark flitted over Elena’s pretty face before she managed to smile once more.  “It . . . It wasn’t so bad,” she said with a little shrug.  “They said it wouldn’t hurt too much as long as you relax . . .”

Jericho winced.  “Relax?  How are you supposed to do that when you’re made to breed right there in the middle of the hall?”

Elena’s strained smiled vanished, and she sighed, bunching up her shoulders under the pristine fabric of the white dress.  “Jericho . . . It . . . It hurt so bad,” she whispered, her gaze lingering on her hands, clasped in her lap, her fingers trembling like a new leaf in the bitter wind . . . “It . . . It felt like I was being ripped in half, but . . . But you can’t make a sound, you know?  Because if you make a sound, then maybe you’re not good enough—strong enough . . .”

Jericho reached over, hugged Elena tight.  It was all she could do as she grimaced, as she hated the pain that Elena didn’t try to hide from her.  “But you’re okay now, right?” she asked, trying to lift Elena’s spirits—trying to remind her that the worst of it was behind her . . . “That’s all over now, and—”

Elena uttered a sharp laugh—an almost hysterical kind of screech—as she pushed Jericho away almost roughly—as she lifted her tear-stained eyes with a glower full of disdain, full of anger . . . and hatred.  “You don’t know!  How could you?  You stupid, coddled bitch!  You have no idea what it’s like—what everything is like!  You . . . You know nothing!” she hissed, furiously shaking her head.  “He comes to me every night—every night—time and again, over and over . . . Forcing me . . . using me . . . Because he can, you see?  Because he’s already marked me as his own by forcing his baby into my body!  And I’ve thought about it, you know?  We’re all related, aren’t we?  To some extent or another, we’re related, and that . . . that breeds out in the bone, doesn’t it?  And just what, exactly, does it make us . . .?”

“Elena . . .” Jericho whispered, shaking her head, as though to refute her friend’s harsh words.  “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know . . .”

Face crumpling as she buried her face in her hands, as she gasped out a choked sob that she fought to control but ultimately could not, she broke down in tears as Jericho helplessly looked on.  She wasn’t entirely certain that Elena would welcome her attempts to comfort her, and, in the end, she bit her lip, blinked fast to stave back tears of her own . . .

Heaving a sigh as she blinked away the lingering remnants of that memory, as harsh and bitter now as it was months ago, Jericho nudged the palfrey a little faster as the wind smacked into her face, blew her hair back in a satin wave of platinum that shone in the late summer sunlight.  The billowing sleeves of her blouse snapped and whipped around her, her skirt, hiking up her thighs since she sat astride instead of the more appropriate side-saddle way that she’d been taught . . .

She heard the approach of hooves mere moments before she gasped, as she was yanked off her horse by a steely strong pair of arms that locked around her waist so tightly that it forced the breath out of her.  She felt the flustered sensation of falling—of toppling—of being shoved down.  Landing hard with a gasp that cut off as the unyielding body landed on her almost instantly, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t comprehend a thing.  Body kicking into survival mode, she shoved at the man who had unseated her, only to squeak out the most pitiful half-shriek when the solid hand struck her cheek, snapped her face to the side.  The pain that exploded was unlike anything she’d ever felt before—harder than any other time she’d been hit.  Blood pooled instantly in her mouth, choking her as she lay there, stunned.  Before she could even begin to process what was happening, a merciless hand gripped her face, squeezed her cheeks hard, forced tears out of the corners of her eyes as he yanked her head, as he forced her to look at him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Domnul Okeke demanded, growling between his clenched teeth.  Emphasizing his question with a series of rough shakes, he let go of her long enough to slam his fist into the side of her head when she didn’t answer him right away.  “Haven’t I told you that you’re only allowed where I say you can go?”

Too dazed to cry, too dazed to think—too dazed to do a thing but to lie there, under him, as he beat on her with his fists—fists to her face, to her arms and her chest, her stomach . . . Berating her the entire time about the errors of her ways—everything . . . everything . . .

But suddenly, Domnul Okeke stopped, and a moment later, his weight left her.  Jericho couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe as pain in her ribs very nearly made her pass out.  She heard male voices, but they didn’t make sense to her.  She was trapped in a dazed kind of stupor that did its best to cosset her, and she welcomed the falling darkness.

“What did she do that you think warranted this kind of a beating?” Stefan Cioban asked, his voice, oddly devoid of actual emotion as he hunkered down beside Jericho and turned her face from side to side.  Eyes both blackened and swollen, nose bleeding and bruised—likely broken—lips, fattened and split as blood dripped down her reddened jaw . . . the damage he could see, anyway . . .

Okeke grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand since Stefan had dealt him a hard left hook when he’d hauled him off of Jericho.  “Isn’t it obvious?  She’s out here, unescorted—a foolish thing for her to do.  Do you and your father allow her such freedoms?”

“I wouldn’t know.  I’m not her keeper,” Stefan replied evenly, turning his head, his eyes narrowing—the only show of emotion on his otherwise stoic face.  “Is it your intention to ruin your investment before you even mate her?”

Okeke looked distinctly uncomfortable for a moment before he managed to gather his remaining bravado once more.  “You know as well as I do that the mating is as good as done.  I already paid your father the ridiculous bride-price he demanded.”

Stefan considered that as he pushed himself to his feet, as he drew himself up to his full height in order to peer down at Okeke.  “Abuse her again, and you’ll find out just how fast your contract can be destroyed, Domnul Okeke.  If I see any more proof of your excessive . . . discipline . . . on her, you’ll be returning to your people without a mate and without the money you’ve already paid.”

Satisfied that he’d made his point, he turned around once more, carefully lifted Jericho’s unconscious body, and headed back in the direction of Castle Cioban.


Sitting on the low bench as the maid carefully brushed her hair, Jericho tried to avoid her reflection in the mirror hanging over the small dressing table.  She’d very nearly cried yesterday when she’d gotten a good look at herself after nearly a week, confined to her bed.  Eyes still smudged with purplish shadows at the inner corners that faded out into a mottled shade of yellow, nose still slightly swollen and bruised, her jaw still bearing the trace mottling of discoloration, she looked . . . Well, terrible, really . . .

Which wasn’t nearly as bad as the rest of her body felt, either.  It was a slight miracle that her ribs weren’t broken—just severely bruised, the physician had said.  Her whole body from the waist up was nothing but a network of bruising . . .

At least, she could move around today, though, with minimal discomfort.  Twinges and aches, she could live with.  She wanted to get out of her room.  Time moved so horribly slow when there was nothing to do but sleep.

She tried not to think about the last week—most especially, the altercation with Domnul Okeke.  Maybe she was wrong for sneaking out of the castle, but his reaction . . . Was that really something that could be considered normal?  And if it was, then just what kind of existence was she really going to have?  As the days ticked away, bringing the fateful and loathsome day of her mating closer, just what did she really have to look forward to?

That question was enough to send a very distinct shiver up her spine.

She sat still as the maid braided her hair, twisted it up in an intricate knot and secured it in place.  Then she managed to stand without flinching, turning away to hide the grimace on her face as she reached behind herself to tie the dark blue apron around her waist.

The sound of women’s laughter drifted out of the great hall before she stepped off the staircase, and Jericho bit her lip.  It was comforting, wasn’t it?  A sound that she’d grown up hearing . . . As a child, she’d sat on the floor, playing with her dolls, maybe learning how to sew a dress for her or knitting a tiny blanket for her from the handmade wool yarn that she’d helped wash and card and spin.  The constant through all of that was the blended sound of the women’s laughter, of their gentle chatter as they sewed or crocheted or tatted.  A couple of them would sit at the huge loom near the back corner of the room, weaving cloth for their common dresses—always white, either cotton or wool or even linen . . . Back then, Elena and she would play for hours, giggling over silly things, watching as the men ventured into and out of the great hall, though none of them ever stayed for long.

They all had their tasks.  The men usually went hunting for smallish game or fish from the stream near the thicket.  The young boys were usually sent out to tend the herd of sheep and other grazing animals that they raised.  In the afternoons, they switched with the young girls so that they could have their school lessons.  Jericho was the only one of the females who had been educated.  The rest of them weren’t since their lives were all devoted to the birthing and raising of the young.  She was special as the stapan’s ordained daughter, but even so, she’d passed along her lessons to Elena, as well . . . And, looking back, maybe that had been a colossal mistake, too.  Maybe if she hadn’t gone out of her way to share the things that she was taught, maybe it would have been easier for Elena in the long run.  Maybe, had she been left to the simple belief that there wasn’t really anything else out there, maybe it wouldn’t have raised the questions that plagued Elena’s heart . . .

But they said that hindsight was always twenty-twenty.  If only . . .

Stepping into the great hall, though, Jericho stopped short, her eyes flaring wide, shaking her head slowly as she struggled to make sense of who she saw—of what she saw . . .

It took a moment for Jericho to process exactly what she was seeing.  It felt as though her brain had very deliberately slowed to a crawl . . . Elena sat amongst the women, her belly now horribly distended.  That wasn’t what confused and discomfited her.  Gone were Elena’s golden hair, her light blue eyes, replaced by hair and eyes that were darker than black—the color of void—and that repulsive sense of emptiness in her very gaze and expressionless, pale face . . .

She stuck out like a ghastly beacon in the midst of the women who had opted never to drink.  Most of the women who did refused to join in with the merriment that normally encompassed the great hall.

To her surprise, though, Elena slowly stood, her usual gait altered by the additional weight she was carrying.  The other women called out to her, asking her if she needed help, if she was all right.  Elena ignored them, her expression still as empty as it was before as she slowly made her way over to Jericho.

“I thought you should know,” she said without preamble—without a change in tone or inflection.  “You should drink, Jericho.  It makes the whole rutting thing far more bearable.”

Jericho frowned, slowly shaking her head, as Elena neatly stepped around her, sweeping over to the staircase.  Standing there, watching as her childhood friend slipped away, Jericho couldn’t help the bitter pang that shot through her, the unbidden and unwelcome sense that she’d just lost something irreplaceable—a friend that she’d never get back again . . .

“It makes the whole rutting thing far more bearable . . .”

She grimaced.  That was why . . .


Jericho set the book on the nightstand and leaned over to turn the lamp down before blowing down the glass chimney to extinguish the flame.

It had been a long day—a trying day.

She hadn’t seen Elena again after she’d returned to her chambers above.  It hadn’t done a thing to quell the questions that kept churning around in her head, though.  Was it all truly so bad that a lifetime of forced apathy was preferable?  Elena seemed to believe that it was—Elena, who had made that vow with her so long ago, that neither of them would ever succumb to the lure of the drink . . .

“It makes the whole rutting thing far more bearable . . .”

Just the memory of those cold words cut right through her, not unlike the feel of a physical slap, of a punch to the gut.  Or maybe . . .

Maybe that would have been preferable.  After all, the pain of those sorts of things faded, given time.  They healed, and they disappeared, didn’t they?  But Elena . . . There was no going back, not ever . . .

She’d excused herself shortly after supper was over during that time when the tankards of ale were brought out.  The men would sit up much later, talking and laughing and discussing things that were relegated to the realm of men’s business.  The women were not offered the beer, but sometimes, they’d drink wine as they resumed their sewing or knitting or other things over in the corner of the great hall.

Since Domnul Okeke’s arrival, she normally had to endure, remaining in her seat until he allowed her to leave it, only to have him escort her to her chambers for his corrections on her behavior and then, after he’d finished verbally tearing her to shreds, he’d force his kisses upon her—those horrible and brutal things . . .

Tonight, however, her entire body was aching, reminding her that maybe she’d overstepped her own limitations for one day.  Domnul Okeke had actually been a little less critical of her, or maybe he’d simply realized that she wasn’t feeling up to it, and he’d excused her.

She supposed that she ought to thank him.  Somehow, she simply couldn’t quite muster the strength to do so, but she had managed to bob in a slight curtsy before finally, blessedly, slipping out of the great hall and up the stairs.

Letting out a deep breath as she let her eyes drift closed, as she snuggled down a little deeper in her blankets, she slowly relaxed, slipping her hand up under her pillow, idly fingering the hilt of the beautiful obsidian dagger.  Somehow, it lent her a small sense of security, even if that sense was an illusory feeling, at best.

She was almost asleep when the door opened.  Her eyes flashed open immediately, even though she didn’t move in inch.  Domnul Okeke’s perfidious youki filled her room like a choking cloud of blackness, and even without moving, she could smell the reek of him—that awful yet heady stench that she both loathed—and somehow, craved.  It was him, no—it was the perfume of the drink that clung to him, that called to her . . .

The sound of the door closing echoed like a death knell, and she gasped a moment later when he grasped her shoulder, shoved her onto her back, dropped onto her, his weight, forcing the wind out of her.

Her brain told her not to fight him.  He’d get whatever it was out of his system faster if she just didn’t fight.  He kissed her hard, deep, forcing his tongue into her mouth, between her lips and teeth as she whimpered and pushed against his shoulders.

The taste of it was almost too much for her to bear as a moment later, the horrible gush, the thick and cloying inundation filled her mouth.  He was trying to force her to drink, wasn’t he?  Her body reacted violently, her stomach lurching in an insidious kind of way, and she barely managed to turn her head away seconds before she vomited.

“You stupid bitch!” Domnul Okeke growled, his blackened eyes, little more than voided hollows where his soul should have been.  He started to raise his hand, meant to slap her across the face, but something stopped him, and, with a loud snarl, he grasped the front of her nightgown—and yanked hard.

The sound of the fabric, giving way to his claws set off a trembling panic that surged through her with a force, the likes of which she had never felt before.

“Lay still!” he snarled, digging his claws, deep into the sensitive tissue of her breast.  She yelped in pain as the smell of her own blood hit her hard, and she went still.  Satisfied that he’d made his point, he rolled to the side, far enough to work the fastenings of his pants.  She felt the hotness of his penis against the bared flesh of her thighs as he reached down, yanked her legs apart.

And the hurtful press of that hard thing against the tender skin between her legs was enough to unleash the visceral need to protect himself.  Wrapping her hand around the hilt of the dagger hidden under her pillow, she unleashed an angry and frightened scream, bringing the weapon up and around, burying it in to the hilt, deep into his shoulder.

The gush of his blood, dripping down on her shocked her, even as he leaned back, as his eyes widened, then narrowed, as he turned his head almost comically slowly, staring at the dagger that stuck out of his shoulder as her hand fell back against the pillow once more.

His irate growl started low in his throat with the brandishing of fangs, flashing in the morbid moonlight that spilled through the window in such an innocuous kind of way.  He stumbled to his feet, his growl growing louder, longer, fiercer, and she lay, frozen to the spot, even as her brain screeched at her, ‘What have you done?  Jericho, what the hell have you done?’

He moved in a blur that she barely saw, his foot kicking up and out at her hammock pad.  The thickness of his boot struck her in the small of the back, sending her flying up into the air, only to fall in a heap on the hard marble floor.  The boot struck her in the ribs, in the hip, in her arm when she tried pathetically to block him.  Over and over again as she tried to cry out but couldn’t draw breath . . .

The last thing she remembered before the world went dark was the maniacal grin on his face—and the pink-tinged line of spittle that slowly dripped from his lips . . .