InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Luna Sangerie ❯ Intrigue ( Chapter 4 )

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

“Y ou must excuse her.  She’d been out of sorts lately.  Her mating is due to be celebrated in two days’ time, and, like all young women, she . . . She’s excited.”

Taine Izanagi didn’t move his narrow-eyed frown off of the stairs where the girl had retreated only moments before, but he nodded once, simply to indicate that he’d heard him.  “She didn’t seem . . . excited . . . to me,” he said.  “She seemed scared.”

Grigore Cioban uttered a very amused belly laugh as he clapped him on the shoulder and steered him through the archway and into the great hall.  Dinner was already laid out, and he allowed the stapan to direct him onto the dais, into the chair beside his—one that probably should have been reserved for the man’s mate . . . maybe.  “Ah, well, the other women were probably scaring her with their silly stories—telling her exaggerated tales about the mating, no doubt!  It happens, does it not?  Silly creatures, womenfolk . . . It is . . . How do you say it?  Ah, custom!”

The look he shot the older man bespoke his doubt on that front, but he didn’t actually call the man out on the lie, either.  “In any case, I thank you for your hospitality during my stay.  Once I’ve checked out the village and made sure that everything is how it should be, I’ll be on my way.”

“As you can see, there is nothing amiss here.  We have nothing at all to hide, you understand?  The Demyanov is concerned over nothing—nothing at all!”

Dark brown eyes, flicking over the residents of the castle, Taine slowly shook his head.  Though there were a number of youkai who possessed what should be considered natural coloring—mostly women and small children—the vast majority of the grown men and a good number of women were marked by the beyond-black hair and eyes—the hallmark of their kind after they’d given in to the urge to drink . . . “Except it seems that a good many of you have been feeding, and that goes against the terms of the treaty.”

Grigore chuckled, draining the beer before him and letting the heavy mug thud onto the table before answering.  “Ah ah,” he disagreed.  “The terms clearly state that we many not kill humans.  It says nothing at all about drinking.  We never drink to kill, anyway.  We find it much more . . . productive to borrow only what we need, and the villagers . . . They are compensated for it, of course.  It’s only natural, after all, eh?”

“Is that what you call it?” he countered mildly.  Something about Grigore’s cavalier demeanor rankled him, even if he didn’t outwardly show it.

To be honest, he was surprised that he had been admitted to the valley without incident.  Valea Mor?ii—Death Valley—as the locals who lived near enough to know the lore, to fear the place as they did.  Before he’d left Castle Demyanov in eastern Russia, he’d been warned not to expect an easy time of it . . .

The fire burned low on the hearth in the comfortably appointed office of the Asian tai-youkai.  It was late—well after midnight—but for Taine, it was business as usual since he had a discernable habit of answering Demyanov’s summons in the late hours of the night—or the wee hours of the morning, however one wanted to look at it . . . Sitting behind the broad and thick desk, Faine Demyanov—Fai, for short—rested his elbows on the thick arms of his chair, steepling his fingers before himself as he stared at Taine for a long, long moment.  “You summoned me, Your Grace?” Taine asked, breaking the rather heavy silence that had fallen since he’d been showed into the office by the tai-youkai’s butler, an older mink-youkai named Vasili.

Fai sighed.  It wasn’t an entirely familiar sound from the otherwise somewhat stoic dog.  “I got a letter, asking me to check into the happenings at Castle Cioban in Romania.  There’s . . . a question regarding the adherence to the treaty . . .”

“Treaty?” Taine echoed, frowning as he took the letter that Fai held out to him.  He scanned it quickly, his brows drawing together.  According to the missive, there was reason to believe that the treaty wasn’t being properly adhered to, and, though the letter wasn’t signed, there was detail enough—names even—that there was a definite air of credibility to be found.  “These are . . .”

Fai nodded slowly.  “The blood-youkai,” he said.  “They used to be more of a problem back in my great-grandfather’s day,” he admitted, standing up, venturing over to fill a couple glasses with Demyanov label vodka—some of the best vodka in the world.  “After one of them apparently went mad, killing off thirty or so of the villagers in Treimunti, he had no choice but to go in and stop them.  From what I understand, he meant to kill them all off, thus ridding the area of the lurking menace.  In the end, though, there was one woman and her infant son that begged for their lives, and my great-grandfather . . . Well, he wasn’t without compassion.  He said that she had not fed off of the humans—still retained her natural coloring, and the infant was much too small for that to be an issue . . . He allowed her to live, but the condition was that she was to never, ever kill a human or he’d come back, and he’d finish what he chose not to do at that time.”

“And she never did?”

Fai shrugged.  “Not that we ever heard of.  Up until I got that—” he said, handing Taine a glass as he jerked his head toward the letter in Taine’s hand, “—I thought that they were content to be allowed to exist.”  Striding back to his desk, he flopped down and casually lifted the glass to his lips, hazel eyes shining in a rather predatory way in the half-light.  “Apparently, I was wrong . . .”

Taine considered that, then slowly nodded.  “And you want me to go in and find out if they’re breaking the treaty?”

Fai nodded.  “Something like that.”

Striding over to drop the letter on Fai’s desk once more, Taine nodded, too.  “And if they are?”

Letting out a deep breath, Fai rubbed his temple in a rather weary kind of way.  His answer, however, was long in coming, and when it did, it was delivered with a hint of resignation that Taine could completely understand.  “If they are, then you . . . you know what to do, hunter.”

Blinking away the lingering memory, Taine slowly shifted his gaze over the assembly of blood-youkai.  Grigore’s son, who had been introduced earlier as the stapan’s heir-apparent, Stefan, sat on his father’s other side, leaned forward to eye Taine.  “If you remain here too long, you’ll be trapped by snow,” he predicted.  “Given that the Demyanov sent you, it would be unwise to linger here . . . We would hate, after all, for him not to receive your report in a timely manner, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about me,” Taine remarked.  “But tell me . . . Why is that bed in the midst of the great hall?”

Grigore chuckled again.  “That?  That is for my daughter’s mating!  It’s our custom to bear witness so that we can all share in her joy!”

“Share in her joy?  She’s expected to mate with him right there in the middle of everyone?” Taine demanded, unable to repress the hint of disgust evident in his tone and expression.

Grigore apparently didn’t see anything wrong with the situation.  “Yes, of course!  Then we know that she is happy, and he is well-pleased . . . It is the most beneficial for all parties.  You!  You are welcome to celebrate this happiest of occasions with us!  Report back to the Demyanov that all is well; that we are pleased!”

Taine wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with the man’s logic, but he let it drop, despite his own misgivings.

“This!”  Grigore went on, leaning over his son, gesturing at the man on Stefan’s other side, “Domnul Izanagi  . . . may I present to you my daughter’s mate, Sefu Okeke from Somalia . . . Domnul Okeke, this is Taine Izanagi—one of the Demyanov’s men . . . Here conducting a checkup for our most-esteemed tai-youkai . . .”

Taine didn’t miss the underlying sense of hostility that Grigore tried to hide in his tone.  He didn’t remark upon it, though.  The reality of it was that, once Taine had handed over the official missive that Fai had given him, there wasn’t really anything they could do, given that they were wise enough to realize that their options were to cooperate or to face the wrath of the tai-youkai.

“You are welcome to stay, to enjoy my hospitality, to watch the joining of my daughter and her mate,” Grigore continued.  “We feast and celebrate such a joyful occasion!”

Taine didn’t respond to that offer, either, given that he was still rather disgusted with the whole idea of being put on display during something like that for any reason at all, even if it was seen as some kind of local custom.  He’d heard of such insane things in history long past, but those had invariably fallen out of fashion centuries ago.  That they were participating in it now in this place?  He snorted inwardly, recalling the absolute fear in the girl’s aura when she’d accidentally barreled into him—and it was fear; he knew it was.  She . . . She really didn’t want this mating, did she?  Or was she simply afraid of the public display of it all . . .?

‘Who cares?  She’s none of our business.  We’re here just to make sure they’re not killing humans, right?  Best just make sure they’re not so we can move on.’

Considering the wise counsel of his youkai-voice, he gave one curt nod, scowling at the food that the servants had heaped onto the empty plate before him.  It looked fine, but he’d also made it a habit, not to ever eat anything that he didn’t see prepared when he was out on a job.

As for the girl?

That platinum blonde hair, caught up out of her face in a very intricate arrangement of braids and curls, those pale lilac eyes, ringed in a darker violet hue that seemed all the starker against the snowy white dress she wore . . . Tall enough that she stood even with his shoulder—maybe a couple inches shorter since she was wearing heels, she possessed such a frail air, a daintiness that somehow made him want to shield her . . . Such delicate features, a grace that lay, just below the surface . . . She was gorgeous, surely—and she was also entirely afraid of . . . something . . . too . . . She was running away from something when she fled the hall, wasn’t she?  And if she were, then it wasn’t hard to figure out what that, ‘something’ might be . . .


Stepping out of the small shop with the watch and the pearl earrings that she’d bought—thank you gifts for both her father and mother—customary presents that she was expected to give before leaving home—Jericho let out a deep breath, sparing a moment to flip open the little black velvet box, frowning as she gazed upon the beautiful earrings.

She sighed.  She had no idea, really, whether or not her mother would actually like them.  To be fair, she couldn’t rightfully remember if her mother actually had pierced ears or not.  Something about that realization bothered her, even as she tried to brush it aside.  After all, it really wouldn’t make a difference.  Snapping it closed, she carefully tucked it into her pocket, along with the case that held the watch.

A few young boys dashed past on the street, yelling to one another, laughing, playing, and she broke into a wan smile.  Those boys were probably around eight or nine years old, and they were still so carefree . . . As she watched them, she wondered if she had ever been like that, and the answer made her smile falter.  No, she really couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever felt that free . . .

Letting out a deep breath, she gave herself a mental shake and made herself move, careful to avoid some shop owners who were busy, hanging Christmas décor outside of their perspective stores.  She had permission to come into the village today, certainly, but she knew better than to tempt fate by lingering too long.  Oh, she had little doubt that her father would really care if she dallied along the way, but Domnul Okete?

She shivered, pulling her thick fur cloak a little closer at her throat, tugging on the attached hood that covered her head . . . No, as much as she might like to indulge the desire to take one last, long look around the village she knew so well, she wasn’t entirely sure that her future mate would be tolerant enough to allow it . . .

To her surprise—and relief—he hadn’t come to her chambers to chastise her last night.  She didn’t know what she’d done to earn the slight reprieve, but she didn’t think to question it, either.  It was enough . . . Except that, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her entire body, so tight, so rigid, as she’d listened for any sign that he was coming to punish her, she’d dreaded it—and anticipated it with a grim sense of the inevitable, all at the same time . . .

And yet, even as she’d waited, her thoughts had kept returning to the outlander—the dog-youkai with the crazy red hair and the burning brown eyes . . . Somehow, the coloring didn’t seem quite right, even though she had no idea why she thought as much.

He was tall—taller than her father or brother—taller than Domnul Okeke, too.  He wasn’t huge, by any means, though.  Rather lanky was a good way to describe his physical build, maybe.  Even so, there was a strange sense about him, about his aura—a commanding type of presence that felt as though he was used to getting his way without much thought, and yet, it wasn’t exactly an overbearing sense that she had gotten from him, either.  No, it was simply the kind of presence that certain men possessed, maybe . . .

But a dog . . .?

Pressing her lips together in a thin line, she shook her head at her own thoughts.  Dogs were her kind’s enemy, weren’t they?  The ones who had come, had almost destroyed her ancestors . . . She didn’t know if her distrust of him was instinctual or simply a byproduct of the things she’d been taught over the years, and really, it didn’t matter.  She had a strange kind of feeling—like something about him really could destroy her entire existence . . .

And that was almost as terrifying as the idea of spending the rest of her life with someone like Domnul Okeke . . .

“Domnita!  Domnita Jericho!”

She stopped, turned, a hand grasping the side of her hood, blinking in surprise as one of the local children—a little girl, skipped toward her on the old cobblestone street.  She held a slightly crushed winter lily in her hand, and, as she closed in on her, she held it up, her smile bright and brilliant, her blue eyes shining, sparkling, shimmering in the early afternoon sunshine.  “Hello,” she said, hunkering down so that she was on the child’s level.

The little girl giggled as her mother hurried to catch up with her overzealous child.  “Mama says you’re getting married,” the child exclaimed.  “This is for you!”

Taking the flower, Jericho made a show of admiring it, not bothering to try to explain to the child that she wasn’t actually marrying since, in reality, it didn’t matter because an official mating was far more binding than any bit of paper that the church might hand out.  “It’s beautiful,” she insisted, reaching out, gently pushing the girl’s hair out of her face.  “Thank you!”

The little girl beamed at her.

“Domnita!  I’m so sorry!  I hope she isn’t bothering you!  Ana!  You know better than to run away from me!”

Jericho stood quickly, gently touching the harried woman’s arm.  “Oh, please don’t scold her!” she blurted, cheeks pinking as she sought to stave back any forthcoming punishment on the poor girl.  “She wasn’t a bother at all!  I promise!”

The woman looked hesitant, a little uncertain.  Jericho offered her a little smile, hoping that it would convince her.  “If . . . If you’re sure, domnita . . .”

“I am,” Jericho insisted.  “Thank you so much, Ana,” she said, reaching out to ruffle the girl’s hair.  “I shall put this in a vase in my room.”

The little girl threw her arms around Jericho’s waist and hugged her tight.  Jericho blinked in surprise but rubbed her back through the serviceable wool cape.  All too soon, the mother pulled Ana away before bobbing in a quick curtsey and a very happy smile.

Jericho sighed as she watched the two go.  Something about the sight of them, walking along, hand in hand as Ana’s childish giggles drifted back to her made her feel just a little sadder, a little more isolated, a little more alone . . .

“Domnita Jericho, isn’t it?”

She gasped and turned, eyes flaring wide as she came face-to-face with the outlander she’d run into last night on her way out of the hall: the dog-youkai.  Taking a step back in unconscious retreat, she couldn’t help the smothered kind of squeak that slipped out of her.  He seemed to be a little surprised at her attempt to put some space between them but made no move to stop her.

He frowned.  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, stuffing his hands, deep into the pockets of his strange blue slacks—she hadn’t seen material quite like it before.  He wore no jacket—just a faded-looking sweater, fashioned out of thicker material with a large pouch-like pocket on the front and a hood attached to the neckline.  It had no collar, but it did have a pull string that hung on either side of the hood’s opening.

She narrowed her eyes, her nostrils flaring slightly as she wondered vaguely if she could outrun him, realizing that there was no way she could . . . “You’re a dog,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He seemed vaguely surprised by her statement—not that he didn’t realize what he was, of course—but that she would mention it like it was something out of the ordinary, maybe . . .

“You don’t like dogs, I take it?” he asked rather dryly, quirking a dark eyebrow to emphasize his question.

She shook her head, quickly looking around, fervently searching the street, wishing in vain that there was someone—anyone—she recognized.  All too aware of the sense of overwhelming power that he wore so nonchalantly in his aura, Jericho wanted—needed—to get away from him.  She didn’t know him, couldn’t trust him . . . and . . .

He sensed her discomfort, even if he didn’t rightfully understand it.  “I hear that congratulations are in order,” he went on, deliberately keeping his tone light, casual—almost friendly.

“Congratulations?” she echoed, shaking her head, frowning at the abrupt change in topics.

He nodded.  “Your mating . . .?  That’s tomorrow night, isn’t it?”

The reminder was brutal, almost debilitating, sending what was left of her composure, scattering like the powdery snow that was settling on the street as it fell so harmlessly from the skies.  “Thank you,” she heard herself saying, even as she felt her gaze slip to the side.

“Unless you’re . . . not happy about it . . .?” he countered.

Her frown deepened.  Why was it that he actually did sound rather concerned?  She shook her head, positive that she was reading more into it than what was really there.  He had no reason to feign such an emotion.  She didn’t know him from Adam, now did she?  He was nothing more than a perfect stranger—an outlander—which meant that he had no idea, just what her mating would mean or entail . . .

“I’m happy,” she lied, blurted, her cheeks reddening under the strain of her lie.  “Shouldn’t I be?”

“You should be,” he agreed easily enough.  “I’m happy for you, then.”

He sounded sincere enough.  For some reason, an irrational surge of anger shot through her, and, though she wasn’t entirely sure why, she had a feeling that it was simply the idea that he accepted her words at face value.  Maybe he was lying, too, or, more likely, he simply didn’t care enough to discern her own untruths . . . Even so, she still forced herself to mumble, “Thank you.”

He cleared his throat.  “Okay, so . . . Tell me why you seem . . . worried by the idea that I’m a dog?”

Wincing inwardly at the unnecessary reminder, Jericho cautiously stepped out onto the street, wondering if he would get the idea, if he would let her go.  He didn’t.  Falling into step beside her, he seemed content enough to let her dictate the direction in which they were walking.  “Dogs are our mortal enemies,” she replied, careful to keep her tone low—careful to keep her eyes trained on the road under her feet.

“Are we?” he countered.  He seemed surprised—almost amused.  “I didn’t know that.”

She bristled, feeling her hackles rising fast.  Common sense told her that she really ought to keep a tight rein over her burgeoning irritation.  She couldn’t quite do it, though, and she scoffed.  “Your kind murdered nearly all of my people,” she pointed out frostily, narrowing her gaze in a cold glower.

He nodded slowly as comprehension seemed to dawn upon him.  “And your kind murdered a lot of humans before that,” he reminded her in a hushed whisper that carried no farther than her ears.

She gasped at his claim, stopping abruptly in the middle of the street as she pivoted to stare at him.  An oncoming horse cart had to swerve to avoid her, and the beast uttered a high-pitched squeal as the driver jerked him to the right.  “They didn’t!” she bit out, her cheeks blossoming in indignant color.  “They wouldn’t have!  They only drink enough to slake the thirst!  They—”

“Maybe these days,” he interrupted.  “Back then, they weren’t nearly so benevolent.”  Then, he sighed, shrugged, stared at her for a long moment before slipping his hand under her elbow and moving her along the street once more, back in the direction of the main thoroughfare that led out of the village and toward the castle.  He let go when he was satisfied that she’d keep walking.  “I don’t know what you’ve been told.  It’s really not my concern, anyway, but I assure you, the tai-youkai have always been far too busy with things that require their immediate attention that if your people were, as you say, murdered, then there was a reason for it.  Or do you really think that they singled out your people just because of some kind of misplaced prejudice?”

She glowered at him and tugged on her arm, to no avail.  He wasn’t being cruel, exactly, but his grip was much too strong for her to simply shake off.  “Of course, you defend them!  You’re one of them!”

“I’m not defending anyone,” he told her.  “I’m simply telling you what I know.”

“What you know?  And you’re not sorry for it in the least?” she challenged.

He shrugged.  “I wasn’t even alive back then, so no . . . Do you go around, apologizing for things that you didn’t do?”

She opened her mouth to counter him, but snapped it closed when she realized that he had a very valid point—even if she really didn’t feel like admitting as much out loud.  Instead, she settled on a less volatile topic—she hoped, anyway.  “Why are you here, then, if not to kill off my kin?”

For some reason, he seemed amused by her question if the heightened brightness in his deep brown eyes meant anything at all.  Lifting a hand, dragging it through the crazy, unruly red locks that looked ridiculously soft, he let out a deep breath.  “The tai-youkai sent me,” he admitted.  “He heard some rumors that your clan was feeding.  I just need to make sure that humans aren’t dropping like flies.”

“And?” she pressed, unable to keep the hint of prim irritation out of her tone.

He shrugged his shoulders offhandedly.  “And . . . there hasn’t been any suspicious deaths—at least, according to the records . . . Tell me, though.  Why do the villagers seem to act like your family are somehow akin to gods?”

She deliberately slowed her gait as they neared the edge of the village.  The path that led to the castle was a short one, and suddenly, she didn’t feel as anxious to hurry back to the confines of the cold prison she called home . . . “I wouldn’t know,” she admitted quietly.  “I don’t go into the village that often.”

He nodded slowly.  “Have you ever been out of this valley?”

Why did that simple question have the ability to make her feel so incredibly small?  “No,” she admitted.

He led her through the high archways that led to the steps up to the looming front doors . . . “Well, if you’re going to spend most of your life in one place, at least this one is beautiful,” he told her.

For some reason, his statement made her feel a little bit better, even if she wasn’t sure, why that was.  Stopping before they could reach the steps, she turned instead, staring out over the landscape, the picturesque little village that they’d just left.  As though she were trying to commit the view to memory, she bit her lip, let out a soft sigh.

“You know . . . You really don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he remarked quietly—a statement meant for only her to hear.

“That’s . . . That’s not really true,” she murmured without shifting her gaze away from Treimunti.

He let out a deep breath that clouded the moment it slipped past his lips.  “It’s as true as you want it to be,” he replied.

She didn’t trust herself to respond to that.  As much as he might well believe what he was saying, she knew better, didn’t she?  Knew it because . . . because there really was no way that she could possibly get out of a damn thing, and, in a way, she couldn’t help but to feel resentful that he believed what he claimed.

Turning around, she strode toward the imposing stairs, the castle beyond, and she didn’t bother to look to see if the outlander was following.  She could feel him, close behind her, anyway . . . Two of the men who were on duty yanked the doors open for them to pass through.  Once inside, he turned toward her, inclined his head in a polite pseudo-bow.

She nodded back, lowering her hood as the warmth of the castle surrounded her.  He narrowed his eyes just a little, reaching out slowly, carefully brushing some unmelted snow out of her bangs.  Then he smiled at her before turning on his heel and walking away as she stared after him, biting her lip as she tried to make sense of the strange sensation he’d inspired with his simple gesture . . .