InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Adjustments ( Chapter 31 )

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

The soft clink of crystal echoed in the quiet living room.  Placing the stopper back into the brandy decanter, Ashur let out a deep breath, a heavy sigh, as his clothing, his hair—pretty much everything—dripped water all over the expensive Turkish rug.

He felt Jessa's aura as she slipped into the living room behind him.  He didn't turn to look at her as he casually sipped the drink.  Common sense told him that he needed to get out of his wet clothing, but he wasn't in a hurry, despite the rather unpleasant way it clung to him.

She said nothing as she slipped past him, pausing long enough to raise a fire on the hearth with little more than a wave of her hand.  The nonchalance with which she accomplished the task brought a vague smile to his lips as he drained the snifter and set it down while she shook out a towel and held it up to the flames, warming it, he supposed, as she slowly turned it from front to back a few times.

She'd changed into a thick, fluffy white robe that almost brushed the floor, her hair still damp, but a lot drier than it had been, and when she turned back to face him, he caught himself staring, watching intently as her knees broke through the long slit up the front, baring a demure show of her legs with every step she took.  The somewhat bulky top was crossed over, held closed by the belt at her waist, and even so, the neckline slipped to the side, giving him a very welcome glimpse of her smooth shoulder, of the delicately pronounced collar bones, of the swell of her breasts . . .

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that he was watching her with the same sort of youthful desperation that he'd thought he'd left behind a lifetime or longer ago, and yet, he couldn’t quite stop himself, either.  About the only saving grace of the entire situation was that Jessa herself didn't seem to notice.  So intent she was, as she shook out the towel again, too focused on her own intentions as she slipped behind him, as she tossed the towel over his head, as she grasped the length of his hair in her hands, using the towel to dry the water from it with her gentle ministrations.  She reached up under the towel, using her claw to cut through the band that held his hair in the low hanging ponytail that he usually wore.

She said nothing as she dried his hair, as she gently pulled back the collar of his sodden shirt to pat his neck with the now-dampened towel.  Then she stepped around him, paying him no real attention as she set to work, unbuttoning the shirt, her darkened gaze fixed upon her self-appointed task.  It was on the tip of his tongue, to tell her that he could manage, but the expression on her face stopped him, stilled him.  The vague little hint of a smile that touched the tenderness of her lips, the way her eyes took on a warmth that had very little to do with the dancing fire . . . It was as though some part of her was relishing the base task of seeing to his needs, and something about that warmed him, far more than the fire could . . .

'When's the last time that anyone has bothered . . .?' he wondered.  'How long has it been since someone's wanted to . . . to take care of . . . me . . .?'

She gently pushed his shirt off of his shoulders, stepping around to tug the clingy garment off of him.  Then she smiled just slightly as she hurried out of the room again, probably to discard his shirt in the laundry room.  She returned a few minutes later with his robe slung over her arm—he had forgotten that he had one since he never actually wore it—and a small tray with cheese and a crusty loaf of bread, neatly cut and arranged in a small basket.  She left the tray on the coffee table before shaking out his robe, repeating the process of warming it, front and back.

He let her help him put it on, simply stood still as she pulled it closed, tied the belt around him.  Then she frowned thoughtfully, as though she couldn't quite make up her mind.  Finally, though, she reached through the folds of the robe and unfastened his pants, her hands warm, almost comforting, highly enthralling, as she slipped them down over his hips, down his legs, managing only a slight flush as she waited for him to step out of them and for his soggy socks before hurrying out of the room with those, too.

He chuckled softly, watching her exit, wondering in a rather distracted kind of way if she was as naked under her robe as he was . . .

Heaving a sigh—this one, a lot more indulgent than the earlier one had been—he retrieved a bottle of wine from the cooler in the wetbar and uncorked it, letting it breathe for a minute as he grabbed a couple of wine goblets and headed over to the sofa.

She padded back into the living room, slipping around the sofa to finish toweling his hair dry, her fingers massaging his scalp in an entirely welcome sort of way.  She took her time, obviously enjoying the idea that her care was something he allowed, even savored . . .

As her song ended, Ashur turned, caught her hand as he pulled away the towel and dropped it on the floor.  "You sing to me?" he said quietly, tugging her into his lap, tucking her against his shoulder, stroking her hair with a gentle hand.

She didn't laugh, but the sound that she uttered was close.  "My da used to sing that to me every night before bed," she told him, her voice soft, a little sad, mostly amused.  "Didn't your ma and da sing to you?"

"N . . . No," he said, watching her hand as she reached up, as she twirled a strand of his hair around her finger.  "They didn't . . ." He shrugged, as though it were of no real consequence.  "My parents . . . were nothing like yours," he admitted.

She digested that for a minute, her brow furrowed as she contemplated what he'd said.  In a way, he regretted saying as much as he had, and yet, somehow, it felt right that he would tell her that much.  "You don't talk about them," she ventured, inflicting just enough nonchalance that he knew that she was trying to not dig too deeply, and, while he appreciated it, he also had to wonder if he didn't owe her some small explanation.  "Is that why you adopted Kells?"

Gritting his teeth as the inevitable tableaux played through his head at warp speed, he reminded himself that it was Jessa, that she really didn't know, that maybe . . . Even so, he had to clear his throat, had to literally tamp down the surge of irrational anger, and he sighed.  "Otou-san died before Kells was born.  Okaa-san died just . . . just after . . ."

She frowned at the terms she didn't understand.  "Otou-san?  Okaa-san?"

"Uh, Father," he said.  "He died first.  Okaa-san—Mother—she died after Kells was born."

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, snuggling closer to him, as though she were trying to comfort him, which was entirely laughable, if he stopped to think about it.  Comfort him . . .?  When he'd played at least a part in the whole thing?  Maybe he wasn't directly responsible, but the truth was that he certainly shared in the guilt when there was more than enough blame to spread around . . .

And maybe it was that lingering guilt that prompted him to sigh, to slowly shake his head.  "They . . . They weren't nice people, Jessa," he told her quietly, the unmistakable hostility in his tone tempered by an underlying regret—regret that things had ultimately ended up the way they had—regret that he hadn't been able to do a thing, but watch the debacle as it had unfolded . . . "They're . . . They're dead because of . . . of me," he went on.

She leaned away, frowned up at him, shaking her head as she searched his face for some hint of what he was trying to say.  "Is that what you think?" she asked, the incredulity in her tone, unmistakable.

He shook his head, his gaze falling away as he gently, firmly pulled her hands down, as he set her aside and stood up.  "It's the truth," he said, turning away, unable to look her in the eye, to see her expression turn to one of abject disgust—or worse: one of blind faith, even compassion—as though he really merited her compassion.  He didn't want it.  He didn't deserve it, and Jessa . . .

"I haven't known you very long," she said.  From the sound of her voice, he could tell that she was still on the sofa, and that was fine.  "But I've known you long enough to understand that you're a good man—a decent man, Ashur Philips . . . and whatever it was that happened . . . Are you sure that it really belongs to you?"

He sighed.  "Can we . . .?  Can we drop it?" he asked.  He didn't want to hear her assessment, didn't want her to praise him when all he could see in the scope of his head was the blood, the hateful, horrifying blood, and all he could hear was the echo of a crying infant . . .

"All right," she allowed with a soft sigh of her own.  When he finally glanced over his shoulder at her, it was to see her, sitting with her knees drawn up, poking out of the confines of her robe as she stared absently at the floor, as she twisted her hair, over and over again.

Closing his eyes, he made himself draw a few deep breaths, willing away the dark emotions that always surfaced when he delved too deeply into that particular part of his life.  She was curious, and he could understand that, he supposed, even if he wished that she'd just leave that alone.  After taking a few minutes to compose himself a little more, he wandered back over, took his time, pouring wine into the glasses before handing one to her and cutting off a small slice of cheese to offer her.


It was late.

He didn't know how late; he hadn't looked at the clock in awhile.  He just knew that it was one of those nights when he couldn't sleep.  There was no real reason for it, no real meaning behind it.  It just happened every once in awhile, that he would lie there in bed, listening to her sleep, watching her with a vague smile on his face as the silent house seemed to exist in perfect harmony with her, and it was in those moments that he realized, as he had so many times, and would again, he was sure, just what a lucky bastard he truly was—something he'd known for years—something he never wanted to forget.

Even so, as the minutes dragged into hours, as the house around him settled into the same welcome cadence that he loved, he'd decided to get up, to retire to his office because if he stayed with her in bed, he'd end up waking her, which would be entirely selfish, given that the triplets had been up way too late the night before, and he knew damn well that she was exhausted . . .

Letting out a deep breath as he read through a hunt recommendation, Cain rubbed his temple, hesitating, just like always, before reaching for his stamp—his official seal—that would formally approve the request.

The sudden and shattering sound of the telephone startled Cain, and he jumped as he grabbed the handset before it could ring a second time.  This particular line wouldn't ring anywhere else in the house, but the overly harsh sound of it in the quiet was enough to make him grit his teeth as he lifted the receiver to his ear.  "Zelig," he said, his tone a bit harsher than usual.

"I'm returning your call."

It took a moment for Cain to place the voice, but the very thick Scottish brogue helped.  "MacDonnough, good of you to call me back, given that I called you . . . over a week ago?"

"I'm a busy man, Zelig.  Unlike some tai-youkai, I do not rely upon others to take care of my jurisdiction . . . What do you want?"

Cain grunted, ignoring the intentional slight.  "It was brought to my attention that the accident report regarding Orlaith Daugherty-O'Shea is incomplete, so I thought I'd ask you about it."

"O'Shea," MacDonnough repeated.  "She's no concern of yours."

"She is when her daughter is in my jurisdiction.  She is when I'm approving her request for amnesty."

"Her daughter has petitioned you for amnesty?"

"No, she hasn't.  Her cousin did, though, and her cousin has the right, given that she arrived before her eighteenth birthday—and given that you've dragged your feet in releasing her estate from escrow.  Since both her parents died, the entirety of the estate should have been released to her weeks ago.  Tell me what the holdup is."

He could tell from the pregnant silence that MacDonnough was very likely close to snapping.  Cain didn't really care.  "Her father left no will," MacDonnough replied in a very clipped done of voice.  "Her estate will remain in escrow until such time that she marries, and then the entirety of it will be released to her husband."

"But I hear that there is a will," Cain replied just as smoothly, "and I hear that you have it."

"You heard wrong."

"Did I?"

"What could I possibly have to gain by lying about it?" MacDonnough scoffed.

Cain chuckled rather nastily.  "What, indeed, Ian?  Unless you wanted to hand her over like a sacrificial lamb to one of your men?  Maybe someone you think is loyal to you and you alone?  Sound about right?"

Ian chuckled just as nastily in rebuttal.  "Delusional, as always, Zelig," he replied dryly.  "Do not presume to tell me how to do things in my jurisdiction.  In fact, why don't you have the girl give my office a call so we can discuss the matter directly?"

"I don't think so," Cain replied.  "She's given me permission to speak to you on her behalf.  There's reason to believe that you're a little too interested in where, exactly, she is.  In any case, why don't you tell me where the results of the vehicle safety check are since Orlaith O'Shea had that done less than a week before her . . . accident . . .?"

"I have no control over what is or isn't in the report, Zelig.  Surely you know this."

"Actually, the only thing I know is that those safety reports must be filed every twelve months—once a year—and failure to file one results in suspension of the car's registration, and since there was no registration violation on file with the authorities, it means that the report was filed.  I also know it's standard practice to include a copy of that report in any accident report, too, which means that this one is missing.  I want to know where it is, and I want to see it as soon as possible."

Ian grunted.  "You're overstepping yourself, Zelig.  Best you back off."

"Release her estate, and I will," Cain replied just as easily.

He was backed into a corner, and he knew it.  Unfortunately, Ian MacDonnough never was one for stepping away from a blatant challenge.  "I owe you nothing in the way of explanation," he growled.  "And if that's all you wanted, then you've wasted your time."

He hung up, and Cain sighed as he dropped the receiver into the cradle and sat back.

"Okay," he muttered, reaching for the phone again.  Knowing that ass, he thought that he'd had the last word, but Cain would be damned if he was ready to let it go, all things considered.  A young woman's life was quite literally on the line, and there was no way he was going to let her down . . . "Time to call your bluff . . ."


"They're . . . They're dead because of . . . of me . . ."

Jessa frowned, staring at the same page of the book she'd been looking at for the last hour while Ashur went over some paperwork that he said couldn't wait.  Leaning against the arm of the sofa with her feet up, she peered over the top of the book without lifting her head, trying to make sense of what he'd said.

It didn't make any sense.  Ashur . . . He was a lot of things, and she was slowly coming to understand some of the aspects of his nature that she hadn't really been able to before, but it seemed like she had a thousand more questions for every one answer she received . . .

Yet she knew, didn't she?  No matter what he thought, she did know.  He was decent, and he was kind.  He certainly wasn't the type of person who could have or would have done anything to hurt his family, at least, not intentionally . . .

'You don't really know that, do you?  I mean, there are so many things that could have happened—things you know nothing about, Jessa.  There could be something to what he's saying.  He believes it, and that's the most important thing.'

'No, he wouldn't . . . Ashur wouldn't . . .'

Her youkai chuckled.  'An awful lot of faith you have in him, don't you?  Not that that's a bad thing.  It isn't.  The question is . . . what are you going to do for him now?'

'Do for him . . . now . . .?'

'You saw for yourself, just how much your questions bothered him.  He answered them, for the most part, but you don't honestly think that he's okay now, do you?'

Scowling as he read through some sort of report, Ashur leaned forward, grabbed his wine goblet without looking up, but he didn't lift it to his lips right away, and Jessa sat up, let the book drop to the floor as she scooted over to him, took the glass from his hand.

He turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow as he watched her lift the glass to her lips, as she took a deep drink and set the glass on the table before reaching out, taking his paperwork, letting it fall on the floor, too.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding a little more indulgent than irritated, turning slightly when she crawled onto his lap.  

She smiled just a little as she pulled him down for a kiss, as she rose up on her knees, grasping his face in her hands.  He opened his lips under hers, and she sighed, letting the wine in her mouth, flow into his.  He groaned softly.  She could feel him swallow just before the crush of his kiss deepened, as his tongue flicked against her lips . . .

He tugged at the belt of her robe, and it fell open.  He pushed it off her shoulders, down her arms, baring her skin for his touch: the drag of his fingers on her shoulders, on her back, the gentle scrape of his claws over the rises and hollows of her flesh.  She leaned against him, whimpering softly at way his robe chafed against her overly sensitive nipples.  Her flesh felt as though it were on fire—or that he was the fire, and she was just a little too close, and yet, not nearly close enough . . . He slipped his hands under her bottom, pulling her flush against him, lifting her slightly as her head fell back, as his mouth pressed against her throat, savoring the taste of her: suckling, nuzzling, breathing her in deep . . .

Squeezing her ass, he took his time, massaging her flesh in slow circles as she slipped her hands beneath his robe, as she held onto his shoulders, as though she'd disintegrate if she let go.  Every nerve in her body centered on him, on his touch, on the things that he made her feel, and if she could just get closer—just a little closer . . .

He shifted slightly, wrapped his arms around her, lowered her down onto the sofa, kissing her collarbones, her throat, the rise of her breasts, moving his body against hers, creating a friction, a heat that shot through her, straight to the part of her that ached for him, for the sense of utter completion that she knew he'd give her.  Lavishing kisses on her breasts, sucking her nipples in deep as his tongue smoothed over her, teasing her body as she arched her back, as she struggled to breathe.  He slipped a finger, deep into quivering body, chuckling against her as she gasped, as she writhed, as she opened herself completely to him . . .

He arched up away from her, long enough to untie his robe, to shrug it off.  It fell onto the floor, held on by only the one arm, but he pulled his finger out of her, eliciting a whine of protest from her, shaking off the robe before turning his attention back to her again.  "Did you bring down a condom?" he asked her.

She blinked a few times, struggling to clear her head despite the lust that ran rampant through her body.  As though in a daze, she nodded.  "In my robe . . ." she replied breathlessly.

He reached over to snag her robe, fumbling around until he located the condoms she'd slipped into the pocket.  Dropping them on the table, he let his gaze rake over her.  Her skin flushed under his very blatant perusal, and she brought her knees together in an almost embarrassed sort of way.

He chuckled again as he slipped his hands under her knees and gently tugged them apart, and she couldn't help the way her breath hitched as he stared at her in utter fascination.  "Damn," he breathed, his voice as unsteady as she felt inside.  He reached out slowly, dragged one finger up through the pulsing divide, set off an explosion inside her as she reared up, as she uttered a guttural moan, as she shivered and shook . . .

The spasms of pleasure that rocked through her lengthened, intensified.  Something warm, something wet, plunged into her, lapped at her, shoved her over that precarious precipice once more as she half-cried, half moaned again and again.  So concentrated, so close to pleasure that it bordered on pain as she opened her eyes long enough to understand that he was kneeling there, between her legs, tasting her in long, deep strokes of his tongue.  The intensity wrung his name from her lips as she tossed and writhed, unsure if she was trying to move closer or if she were trying to get away, and he was relentless, unfazed by her sweet torment, as she begged him over and over again . . .

Closing his lips over the part of her that triggered her passion, he kissed her deeply, flicking his tongue, faster and faster as she screamed, as she jerked, as the world exploded around her one more time, just once more . . .

And she was still reeling from the intensity of her release, heard the crinkle of the condom packet in a dazed and distant sort of way, dizzy from the waves of pleasure that still coursed through her when he plunged into her, when he slammed himself in so deep, so hard, that she screamed again as the pleasure overcame her once more.  He slipped his arms under her, lifted her up as he fell back, leaving her straddling him as she furiously ground her body against his, time and again, as that heat, as that friction built once more.  He groaned under her, he moaned harshly between his own stunted breaths, his hands closing on her hips, driving her down hard, over and over again.  She fell back, caught herself on her hands, braced on his thighs, rising and falling as he lifted his hips, meeting her thrusts with his body.  Yanking her down hard, time after time, she could feel the pressure building, could feel the thickening of his cock, so deep inside her, and with one last thrust, one last crack of her body meeting his, he lifted his hips once more, jerked her down against him, calling out her name as he twitched and pulsed in her, as she careened over the edge into the vale of bliss, convulsing around him, with him, for him . . .

She fell forward against his chest, and he caught her, wrapping her tightly in his arms.  The wild and unsteady beats of their hearts in perfect symmetry with each other.  He kissed her forehead, groaning softly, as they both slowly drifted back down to earth . . .

"Ashur?" she whispered, eyes closed as she reveled in the feeling of being so very near him, listening to the sound of his heart beat.

"Hmm?"

She sighed, snuggling against him, wishing in vain that it could would stay like this forever.  "Don't . . . Don't let me go . . ."

He sighed softly, gently, stirring her bangs as he tightened his hold on her.  "I won't," he said, his voice thick, sleepy.  "I . . . I won't . . ."

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A/N:
Down by the Salley Gardens: Originally a poem by William Butler Yeats, that became an Irish folk song.
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Final Thought from Ashur:
Nice …
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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Metempsychosis):  I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga.  Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al.  I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

~Sue~