InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Solitude ( Chapter 16 )

Setting aside the cup of coffee that he'd brought into the office, Ashur sat down in the leather chair and tapped the desk panel to turn on the computer.  Deleting the emails that weren't important, he heaved a sigh.  An email from one of the men—a doctor—he'd met few months ago, wanting donations from the newest general of the region for a new hospital wing addition . . . One from Zelig, asking if things were going all right . . . The invoice for Kells' tuition—that one, he took the time to pay . . . One from Cain's hunter, Larry Rowland, letting him know that he would be in the area on a hunt . . .

His cell phone beeped, and Ashur grabbed it.  "Hello?"

"Hey, Ash.  Got a minute?"

"It depends on why you're calling."

Ben chuckled.  "I've got information for you.  I was going to just email it, but I didn't know how secure your network is at the moment.  That reminds me, Moe said he'd be up that way in a few weeks—some sort of electronics expo, I think.  He said to let you know he'd stop by and get you added to the secured network we use to transfer files to each other."

"So, you've finally managed to find out something about the damned duke?" Ashur demanded, ignoring everything else that Ben had said.  "Tell me."

Letting out a deep breath, Ben clucked his tongue.  "What happened to your legendary patience?" he asked.

"Not today, Ben," he countered.  "Just tell me what you know."

"All right, all right," Ben conceded.  "Carl Kingston, fourth Duke of Portsmouth—ring-tailed coati-youkai . . . owner of Kingston Pharmaceuticals.  He has a few lesser titles, but duke is the main one.  From what I can tell, he's a supporter of Ian MacDonnough but not really that active in the anti-Sesshoumaru faction, either, which means nothing over there.  They don't really go out and broadcast that kind of information.  Anyway, he originally approached the O'Sheas, regarding an arranged marriage between their son and Jessa, which her father immediately declined.  Then he approached MacDonnough, ostensibly to see if the tai-youkai could force the issue—I assume that this is where Nami was asked to . . . arrange things . . ."

"Okay, and the son?"

Ben sighed.  "Hughbert Kingston, seventh Viscount of Knightsboro . . . Not much is known of the young man—he's only about thirty-five . . .  but as far as we could tell, we couldn't come up with even one picture of him.  It's assumed that he's also a ring-tailed coati-youkai, like his father, and we weren't able to find much information about his mother, either, other than someone saying at one point that he had pale hair and lighter colored eyes . . . From what they say, he doesn't attend social functions, tends to shy away from the public eye—kind of a feat, considering his father is a prominent member of the peerage . . . "

"So, basically, you're saying we don't have a thing to go on; not really," Ashur said, gritting his teeth as frustration kicked in.

"Not a lot," Ben concluded.  "My gut impression is, however, that the son didn't have much at all to do or say about the whole thing.  Seems like his father does most of the talking . . . Sounds a little familiar, if you ask me."

He made a face at the not-so-subtle allusion to their late father and his controlling ways.  Ben didn't talk about either of their parents often.  It was rather surprising that he was doing so now.  "Does this guy's father know the lengths that the MacDonnough would go to just to see that Jessa's fortune falls into their hands?" Ashur asked, entirely ignoring Ben's cryptic remarks.

"I really don't know.  I mean, there's a huge difference between asking MacDonnough to put in a good word and asking MacDonnough to have her parents killed to clear the way.  Even so, it's best to keep an eye on her, just in case . . . If MacDonnough is devious enough to have her mother killed, then he's devious enough to try to force the issue in other ways," Ben replied.  He was silent for a moment, almost thoughtful.  "Ashur . . ."

"What?" he asked curtly, somehow feeling as though he didn't want to know what his brother was considering.

"Jessa . . . She's . . . Well, she's a beautiful young woman."

"And?"

"Surely, you've noticed."

Ashur grunted, grimacing at the deadly accuracy of Ben's too-casual statement, he could only be thankful that he hadn't transferred the call to a video feed because that particular youkai was arguably one of the most observant beings on the face of the planet.  "I'd have to be dead not to have noticed that Jessa's quite beautiful," Ashur allowed dryly.

Ben chuckled.

"What's so funny?" he asked stiffly.

Ben's chuckling escalated slightly.  "Just making sure . . . I figured that, if you had opted to claim that you hadn't noticed, then you'd be trying to cover up something.  Glad to see you've got a clear conscience."

"Go to hell, Ben," Ashur grumbled.

"Oh!  Yeah, how did the meeting with the preschool go?"

"Kells starts there on July sixth," he replied, happy enough to let the current line of questioning go.

"Good, good . . . Charity wondered if you'd mind if we came and got him for a couple weeks.  The girls saw a commercial for Funtown, and she told them to ask Daddy—and you know how that goes . . ."

"It usually ends with you giving in because you're a sucker," Ashur said.

"Yes, that," Ben agreed readily enough. "Then she started in on me, saying that we might as well go for a vacation, of sorts—stop at all the local amusement parks, water parks, state reserves, points of interest, et cetera, et cetera all over New England.  Somehow, she managed to talk Sydnie and Bas into it, too, then Cain and Gin thought it'd be fun, and they told Evan and Valerie as well as Kurt and Sami about it, so-o-o-o . . ."

Ashur snorted.  "Good God, that sounds horrifying," he blurted.

"Kind of," Ben allowed.  "Anyway, we thought Kells might enjoy it, too.  After all, the more, the merrier."

Shaking his head since Ben sounded anything but excited about this little venture, Ashur almost smiled.  "If you want to take him along, I'm sure he'd love to go.  Just do me a favor, and don't let him sucker you into letting him have all kinds of sugar.  I'd rather not have to detox him when he gets home again, if you'd be so kind."

"Okay, fine," Ben agreed.  "So, was there anything else you needed?  Charity's ready to go.  We're going to a cookout tonight at Bas' . . . You know, I'm starting to hate this version of, 'family togetherness' . . ."

"Move up this way," Ashur suggested.  "We can avoid each other, and it'll be just fine."

Ben chuckled again.  "I'll have Charity call you with the details: when we'll pick up Kells and all of that.  Call if you need anything."

"Will do," he replied and hit the button to end the call with a heavy sigh.

It was a fairly common occurrence for Ben and Charity to take Kells at different times during the year, but most often during the summer for extended visits.  Ashur hadn't wanted to do anything that would interfere with Ben's ability to spend time with Kells, even if it wasn't as brothers.  That he was volunteering to do it for a couple of weeks, however, was a new and interesting development since usually, it was a couple days, maybe a week, but, given that he had a number of meetings set up in the next few weeks—meetings that would keep him pretty busy as he was introduced to some of the more important youkai in his region—he couldn't rightfully say that having Kells go off with Ben was a bad idea.  Besides, that little authoritarian would enjoy it, he was certain, and he'd probably end up, bringing home a bunch of crap that he didn't really need but desperately wanted to keep . . .

Jessa sat on the cream colored, overstuffed sofa with her knees drawn up against her chest, her hands locked around her ankles, staring rather pensively at the fire she'd started on the hearth of the huge stone fireplace.   She didn't know what time it was, but the night had settled over the land a while ago.  Ashur had taken Kells upstairs to put to bed.  She'd heard him come back downstairs and had heard the soft click of his office door closing, too.

A quiet supper of lamb stew and new potatoes, they'd had, and it had been a quiet affair since the only one really doing any talking at all was Kells, and he didn't seem to notice the surreptitious glances that Jessa had shot Ashur, only to find him, staring at Kells or off to the side—anywhere but at her.

In fact, the only thing Ashur had said the entire time was that Ben and Charity were going to be arriving on the weekend to pick up Kells since they were going on a family vacation for a couple weeks.  Kells had spent the rest of the meal, babbling on about the places that he wanted to see, most of which were nowhere near their destinations.  That's what Ashur had said, anyway.

She sighed.  She'd thought briefly about calling Carol, until she realized that Carol was probably at work.  She was trying not to think about the two weeks while Kells would be gone.  As it was, he kept her pretty entertained during the day, and she knew that she'd miss him terribly.

And then, the consulate did call her back earlier, only to tell her that they had absolutely nothing new to divulge.  All that Mr. Halsbeck had said was that they were waiting for the MacDonnough to issue the death certificates, and that they were still in process of trying to find the wills.

Oh, and that they'd sold her horse—all the horses.  They thought it better to sell the livestock instead of keeping on a master of the stables to care for them.

She winced.

They'd sold Derry . . .

Making a face as she uncurled her legs, as she stood up and shuffled across the floor, feeling restless, feeling anxious, feeling lost . . . Trying not to dwell upon the idea that her beloved Derry was gone forever, she angrily brushed aside a single tear that had escaped despite her stubborn resolve not to allow any such thing.

It was official, wasn't it?  Every last thing—person or animal—that she loved was gone, and the void she felt, deep down inside her chest, was a horrible thing—a frightening feeling . . .

Striding across the length of the floor and back, she felt strangely trapped by the walls of the house, by the stifling silence.  It didn't really matter if there were others in the place, not when they'd so effectively closed themselves off from her.  Hating the dreadful darkness outside the windows, hating the claustrophobic stillness . . . Hating everything—everything—and hating herself the most . . .

Without really thinking about it, she yanked open the majestic wood liquor cabinet that was built into the wall near the fireplace.  She grabbed the first bottle she touched, sloshing a good amount into an empty glass.  She didn't know what it was as she slugged back the first glass.  She didn't care.  As though driven by the need just to try to drown everything away, she dumped more into the glass and slammed it back, too.

She was pouring the third one when the soft voice sounded behind her.  She hadn't heard him come out of his office, and he sounded mildly amused when he spoke.  "Well, if you're pouring drinks, Jessa, make mine a double."

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to hell. She poured him a drink instead and whipped around to give it to him.

"Sake?" he said, arching an eyebrow as he gazed at her, his eyes so much darker in the light of the dancing fire.  "You're not messing around, are you?"

She wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but she shrugged as she drained the third glass in short order.  When she started to turn to refill it, though, she swayed a little.  He caught her arm, steadied her, reaching for her glass and easily plucking it out of her fingers.  "How much have you already had?" he asked.

She thought about that for a moment.  "Three . . . I think . . ."

He nodded slowly as he set the glass on the bar and reached around her to put the bottle away.  Considering how full his glass was?  Three was more than enough—probably too much—of that particular sake, actually . . . "Care to tell me what you're trying to forget?" he asked, taking her hand and leading her away from the wet bar, lest she should decide that another round of drinks was in order as he mentally told himself to call someone in the morning to put a lock on that cabinet.

She stumbled just a little, and she dropped onto the sofa with a whoosh of breath, half-sitting, half-lying, with her legs stretched out before her and a very petulant look on her pretty face.  "Who says I'm trying to forget anything?" she challenged.

"The way you were belting the drinks back, it's a reasonable assumption."

"Go to hell, Ashur," she slurred.

He chuckled.  There was just something ridiculously cute about the pout on her face, about the way her reddened bottom lip jutted out, the way she peered up at him through her thick fringe of eyelashes . . . "You realize that there's a good chance that you're going to feel like hell warmed over in the morning," he told her.

She snorted.  "Who cares?  You don't . . ." She narrowed her eyes on him as he sat down beside her, set his glass on the table.  "You probably think it's funny, don't you?  You probably told them to go ahead and do it!"

"Told who, what?"

She snorted again, rolling her eyes to the other side, stubbornly refusing to look at him any longer.  "Told those bastards to sell my horse," she growled.

She didn't see the frown that surfaced on his features.  "Did they?"

She nodded, a hurt expression nudging aside the pout in a mercurial shift of mood.  "Mr. Halsbeck said that the attorney—monster that he is—thought it would be easier to sell the horses than it would be to just keep paying the man who's taken care of them for years . . ."

"I’m . . . really sorry . . ."

"Except you're no’," she said, pushing herself up, nabbing his glass, and downing the rest of his sake before he could stop her.  Then she thumped the glass onto the table and flopped back once more.  "Ye doan care, Ashur.  Ye doan give a bloody damn about me."

"Of course, I do," he replied.

"Ye would have sold him, tuh," she accused, her voice cracking, breaking, slurring.

"No, I wouldn’t have," he told her.  "I know how much he meant to you."

She whimpered.  "I'll ne’er see him again," she squeaked out. "Just like Ma and Da . . ."

He grimaced and sighed, reaching out to pull her against his shoulder.  She pushed him back, scuttled away from him.  "Jessa . . ."

"Doan touch me because it's all a lie," she railed, angrily swatting the tears off her cheeks.  "Ye said I'd ne’er be alone again . . . but ye lied . . ."

"Come here," he said, catching her wrist, drawing her firmly but gently over against him, locking his arms around her waist, hating the idea that her Irish brogue had surfaced, this time, because of her very obvious upset, which seemed to be the norm with her.  "You just don't realize what a girl like you can do to a man, do you?"

She pushed against him, but he held on.  "Let go, you bloody oaf!"

"Listen—"

"I doan want to listen!" she insisted, struggling against him a little more.  "I don't want anything from ye!"

He sighed.  "I wasn't ignoring you," he told her.  "I just . . . I—"

"Ye doan want to be my lifetime regret," she said, using his words against him.  "Then let go of me!"

"Do you really want me to?" he asked quietly.

She glared at him, but the glare slowly melted away, and what was left behind was utterly devastating—a pain so raw, so unhidden, that it tore at him, dug at him, unleashing an ache somewhere deep down in a place that he'd thought had died . . . She looked as lost, as confused, as he felt, and this time, she let him pull her against his side, let him tuck her head under his chin, against his heart.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel alone," he told her quietly.  "I was trying to give you space . . . I was trying . . ." Heaving a sigh as he trailed off, he couldn't help the sense of frustration that assailed him.  He felt as though it was the wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything, and yet, if that were truly the case, why in the world did she feel so right in his arms . . .?

"Ashur?"

"Hmm?"

She sniffled, but huddled a little closer.  "Why are ye so sad?"

He blinked, frowned.  "I'm . . . I'm not . . ."

"You're lying," she said, but her accusation held very little in the way of reproach.  "I see it . . . In your eyes . . ."

Letting out a deep breath as he pressed his lips against her forehead, he frowned over her head and at nothing in particular.  "Maybe I am," he mused.  "Maybe that's what happens when your whole life turns out to be someone else's sick idea of a joke."

She digested that in silence for a moment.  Then she sighed.  "It sounds like . . . like someone broke your heart."

"Yeah," he said slowly, thoughtfully.  "Yeah, I guess . . ."

She leaned back to stare at him, her eyes clear, burning with a slow glow like the embers on the hearth, maybe a little dazed from the drink, as she reached up, brushed his bangs out of his face.  Cheeks flushed from the booze, lips, cherry-red.  "You don't want to tell me about it, do you?"

He didn't respond, but he did have the grace to look away, though not before he saw it there, written in the depths of her gaze.  She wanted him to tell her, didn't she?  She wanted to know . . . and one day, he might—just not tonight . . .