InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Altercation ( Chapter 32 )

Ashur yawned, leaning on his elbow, head propped on his fist, smiling slightly as he watched Jessa sleep.  Hair in a tangle, falling around her like a fiery cloud, skin glowing in the hazy and thin light of the burgeoning dawn that spilled through the window, she shivered just a little, and he pulled the blanket up over her shoulder as she huddled closer to him, burying her face against his chest.

Just what the hell was he doing?

Letting out a deep breath as his smile shifted into a thoughtful frown, he heard the voice in the back of his head: the one that told him he really needed to stop giving in, to stop taking advantage of what she readily offered.  It was dangerous territory he was treading, and he knew it.  The thing was, he simply couldn't stop himself, not when she was within kissing distance . . .

Still, he couldn’t quite shake the thought that plagued him when she wasn't right in front of him: the base knowledge that he really wasn't good for her, not in the way that she needed.  She was rare, special, beautiful, and he . . .

He had a terrible habit of ruining people, didn't he?

'If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Kyouhei: what happened with your parents . . . That was inevitable, you realize.  They were wrong—dead wrong—and what happened was a direct result of their choices, not yours.  You did what you felt was right, and you know that if you had to do it all over again, you wouldn't change any of that . . . And Hana?  How would you ever have thought that she'd do what she did?  None of that is on you.  Why do you insist upon keeping it?'

He grimaced.  He'd wondered that so many times, hadn't he?  Wondered . . . Had he not gone to Ben, had he kept what he knew to himself . . . But then, if he hadn't spoken up, if he hadn't stepped forward when he did, who knew what the ultimate cost would have been, and, in the end, he'd have been just as guilty as his parents, and he knew that, too.

It didn't really help him to sleep at night, though.

Staring at Jessa's face for another minute, he leaned down, kissed her temple, and slipped out of bed, careful not to let too much air under the blankets.  She stirred just a little, a tiny scowl surfacing at the loss of his warmth, he figured.  Still, he smiled—no more than a slight upturn to his lips—and headed into the bathroom for a shower.

'So, what do you think you're going to do?  It's a little too late to try to step away from her now, anyway, and if you tried, you know you'd hurt her.  Even if you tried to say that it was for her own good, she'd never understand that . . . Besides, you're missing the bigger picture here.'

Snorting indelicately as he stepped under the shower flow, Ashur shook his head as he closed his eyes to wet down his hair.  'What bigger picture?'

His youkai chuckled rather nastily.  'If you tried to back away from her now, do you honestly think you could stand to see someone else step in to take your place?'

'That won't happen.'

'The hell it wouldn't.  If you let go of her, you think that it wouldn't just be a matter of time before she found someone else?  Someone who'd be more than willing to do what you do for her?'

'That's ridiculous.'

'So you say.  Tell me why you're growling then.'

Ashur blinked as the growl that he didn't know he was making cut off abruptly, and he sighed as a pair of arms snaked around his waist, as a warm body pressed against his back.  "Did I wake you?"

Jessa shook her head as she let her arms drop away, then shrugged.  "No . . . Maybe . . . I guess so . . ."

He chuckled at her sleepy reply, stepping back to allow her to stand under the warmth of the flowing tap.  "This might be a bad idea . . . You're not going to drown, are you?"

She waved him off, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.  "I'm awake," she told him, sounding anything but.  Then she slipped her arms around his waist again, content to close her eyes as she snuggled against his chest.

"This is kind of awkward," he pointed out after kissing her forehead.

"Mm . . . Why are you up so early?" she asked, ignoring his hint.

"I couldn’t sleep," he said.

"Oh?  You could have woken me up, if you were still wanting to do that . . ."

He chuckled.  "I have trouble falling asleep when you're snoring," he told her.

Her arms dropped away almost instantly as she leaned back and shot him a quelling look.  "I don't snore!"

He nodded.  "You do.  Don't worry.  Most nights, it's just a low snore, but when you drink wine?  It's a lot louder."

She looked entirely chagrined.  "I don't snore!" she insisted again.

He shrugged and shot her an apologetic kind of look as he reached for the shampoo and squeezed a glob into his hand.  "Okay," he said, in what could only be described as an entirely indulgent tone of voice, "you don't snore."

She snorted.

"You just breathe really loudly . . . through your nose."

Her adorable face wrinkled up into a very irritated scowl as she smacked him in the chest with a sopping wet washcloth.  He laughed.  She snorted again.

"It's only bad when you drink wine, I swear," he told her.

She started to step out of the shower.  He caught her with a soapy hand and tugged her back, taking his time as he lathered her hair.  She uttered a terse little, 'hrmph', but allowed him to continue.  He'd figured out in the last couple weeks that she really seemed to enjoy it when he did this for her, and, given that he had a weird fixation on her hair, he didn't mind it, either.

"Kells will be home in a couple days," she mused.

"He will," Ashur agreed.  Truth be told, he missed the child terribly.

"What . . . What will we do when he's back?"

He stopped for a second as he considered her question.  He hadn't actually thought about that.  "I could just . . . come visit you at night," he mused.  "I mean, Kells normally doesn't get into bed with me until nearly morning . . ."

He could tell by the way her back stiffened, by the way her youki suddenly pulled in tight around her that she hadn't liked his answer.  "Y . . .Yeah," she said.  "I guess . . . I mean, he's too young to . . . to understand . . ."

Taking his time as he rinsed her hair, he frowned, hating the idea that he'd upset her, even if she did understand the logic in it.  "Jessa, you know that I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't ask that of you if Kells—"

"I know," she interrupted.  "You're right . . . Kells is more important.  He's just a little boy . . ."

He grimaced inwardly at the smile she gave him.  It was bright enough to fool most people, maybe . . . But he was looking into her eyes, wasn't he?  And he didn't miss the flash of pain that she'd tried to hide.  Sure, she understood.  That didn't mean that it didn't sting . . .

He sighed.  He'd just have to find a way to make it up to her, he supposed—find a way to make her see just how special she was to him . . .

Bas Zelig stood in the beautiful but very cold foyer of the ancient castle, bracing himself for the altercation that he was positive would be anything but cordial.  After the phone call he'd gotten from his father just a few days ago to catch him up on the situation, he couldn't help but wonder just how well he was going to be received.  He was sure that it wasn't going to be pleasant, but the fact that Cain had sent him was telling.  It only meant that Cain was almost past his tolerance level—something that rarely happened, ever.

A very pronounced throat-clearing drew his attention, and Bas turned on his heel to face the old weasel-youkai butler.  "Lord MacDonnough will see you now," he said, managing to look entirely offended by Bas' very presence as he bowed in a mocking show of deference to the future North American tai-youkai.

Seeing no way around it, Bas followed the man down the long hallway.  As they passed a room with closed glass doors, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a young girl—no more than perhaps seventeen or eighteen—sitting at a piano, playing a rather haunting melody.  He didn't see her face, but he saw the long, chestnut brown hair, the girl's profile.  It was her—Meara's sister—had to be, but he didn't have time to think about it too much as the door almost directly across the hallway swung open, as the butler gestured for Bas to enter.

MacDonnough stepped out of the door on the far side of the opulent office, chestnut brown hair catching the miserly light that siphoned through the bank of windows off to the side.  Cold gray eyes rose to lock with his, an understated loathing—not surprising, considering how well-documented the idea was that the MacDonnough hated hanyou, humans, and Bas in particular, he figured . . . "What do you want, son of the Zelig?" MacDonnough demanded without preamble and without offering Bas even a semblance of pleasantries that should have been forthcoming.

Bas crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the heavy drag of Triumvirate on his hip.  "The North American tai-youkai sent me to retrieve the report that is missing from the accident file—and to secure the release of Jessamyn O'Shea's estate."

Ian's chuckle was downright nasty, fully of utter contempt, of barely contained loathing.  "I shall tell you what I told him: everything in that report is everything I was given.  As for the girl's estate?  She is one of my natives.  He has no right to demand a thing."

Bas nodded slowly, refusing to stoop to the level of showing the man his own derision for what he was, for what he stood for.  "I'm sure that you were made aware that she is being granted amnesty—and I'm sure you're well aware that, as a condition of that, you are required by our laws to relinquish your hold on her estate.  Since the Zelig assumes responsibility for her from here on out, all things that are currently in dispute fall to him to make any ultimate judgment calls at her behest."  Letting his arms drop, he cocked his head to the side, leveled a no-nonsense look at the European tai-youkai.  "The game's up, MacDonnough.  I'll take all records of her holdings, all statements as to her accounts being held in escrow . . ."

MacDonnough looked angry enough to lash out, but he managed to keep his temper in check.  "She is betrothed to one of my men," he bit out.  "It's a contract almost as binding as blood already.  The actual mating is a mere formality, and since the girl's father left no will, no directives, then her estate is not hers any longer—it belongs to her future husband and mate.  The Zelig cannot touch it, and I suggest that you tell me where you're hiding her."

"The only betrothal that she was offered, her father declined on her behalf," Bas reminded Ian in a calm, even tone of voice.

"Incidentals—not that it's any of your concern.  The girl will marry Duke Portsmouth's son, and that's that."  He shot Bas a very nasty, very insincere grin.  "In this region, my people do not ignore my edicts.  It's the right of the tai-youkai."

"You can shove your, ‘rights’, right up your ass, MacDonnough.  Should your man set foot in North America—should he come anywhere near Jessamyn O'Shea?  Then he'd be taking his life into his own hands.  We will not force a girl into a mating she doesn't want—not for you, not for your office, and not in our jurisdiction."

"You have no right to stop it," he growled.

Bas snorted indelicately.  "I'll say it once more, you old bastard.  Your stance doesn't hold water, and should you think to send your man over, to have him find her and force the issue?  Rape is not something that we will tolerate.  You understand, don't you . . .?  After all, we live in the twenty-first century over there . . ."

Ian snorted, stalking past Bas, and over to the wetbar where he sloshed a good amount of gin and tonic water into a glass, entirely ignoring Bas as he slugged it down and slammed the glass onto the counter once more.  "No, you are the one who doesn't understand.  This is my jurisdiction!  In this place, my word is the beginning and the end.  Your threats don't concern me.  Now, get out of here before I am forced to make an example of you."

"I'd like to see you try," Bas scoffed, his voice dropping in volume as he gritted his teeth together and glowered at the youkai.  "I'm not leaving your jurisdiction until I get what I came for."

"Then might I suggest that you make yourself right at home?  Because I will not turn over her holdings—not to your father nor to anyone else—except her future mate."

"Do you think that's wise?  Would you really make this big of a fuss over a girl's inheritance?  What's in it for you?"

"There is nothing in it for me," MacDonnough scoffed.

"Is that right?  So, you're not just trying to strengthen your position in any way you see fit, even if it goes against everything that youkai are taught—everything that we believe?"

"You are no youkai!  You’re an aberration!  An unnatural deviation!" MacDonnough spit out, narrowing his cold gaze on Bas, making no bones about his absolute loathing of everything that Bas was—and everything he was not.  "You dare to try to lecture me?"

"No, I don't," Bas replied in kind.  "And you're right: I'm nothing at all like you.  I wouldn't ever presume to try to dictate people's lives for my own gain.  That's something only someone like you would try to do."

"You know nothing," Ian growled.  "Now, be gone from here.  We have nothing further to discuss."

"Then we're at an impasse . . ." Bas nodded slowly.  "All right . . ." He headed for the door, stopped with his hand, resting on the handle.  "You have my cell number.  You'll be all right with me, conducting my own inquest into Orlaith O'Shea's death.  Oh, and I believe that the girl in question told the Zelig the exact name of the auto mechanic who signed off on the vehicle safety report—the one that isn't in the accident file.  I'm going to start my inquiry there."

He slipped out of the office and didn't bother waiting for the butler to show him out.

Ashur sat back in his chair in the opulent restaurant.  He hadn't chosen it, had left it up to Jessa, and she'd decided that she wanted to try out this place.  Understated yet elegant, not quite as stuffy as most French restaurants tended to be, it combined a lot of Quebec's quaint air with the more refined feel of some of the European places that Ashur had visited before, too.

At least this one, Le Petit Québec, had a more relaxed atmosphere, which was why they hadn't had to get dressed to the nines—and might have been why he hadn't had to call to secure a reservation, either.  The food, however, was absolutely excellent, even though Jessa had spent the majority of the time, simply picking at her food and not actually eating very much . . .

But she'd been rather quiet all day, ever since their shower this morning.  He had no idea, just what was on her mind, either, and when he asked, she smiled, told him that everything was, 'fine, just fine' . . .

Hair swept up at the sides into a cascade of rioting fiery curls that tumbled down her back, softened by the tendrils that she'd left hanging to frame her alabaster skin, she still looked dead damn gorgeous in the simple crimson dress that fell from her shoulders in a whisper of gossamer layers, drifting around her body in a wholly sinful kind of way . . . The simple sheathe dress with spaghetti straps underneath was a lustrous burgundy, with the overlay of yards of flowing sheer fabric, of billowing sleeves that brushed her upper arms just above her elbows, almost like an old-fashioned dressing gown, but far, far more provocative . . .

Or maybe it was simply Jessa herself that added that to the overall feel . . . He'd realized it before—would have had to be daft not to—just how sensuous everything about her tended to be.  Whether she intended to give that impression or not, there it was . . .

He cleared his throat, drew her attention as she gave up the pretext of eating and set her silverware aside.  "Did I buy you that dress?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as a hint of a smile quirked his lips.

She glanced down and shrugged.  "No . . . I bought it when I was out with Carol in the city . . ."

"New York?"

"Yes . . . why?"

He nodded slowly.  "Money well spent.  Feel free to buy as many as you want.  Have them bill me."

She rolled her eyes, but smiled.  "You're a strange man, Ashur Philips . . ."

Shaking his head, he shrugged offhandedly.  "I just appreciate a beautiful woman," he told her, hiding his amusement at the instant and vivid blush that rose to stain her cheeks at his compliment.  “That reminds me . . .”

She shot him a questioning glance, and he retrieved the small, flat box from the inner breast pocket of his dinner jacket before handing it over.  She stared at him for several seconds as she turned the box over in her hands before finally letting her gaze drop as she fiddled with the delicate white bow.  “What’s this?”

He chuckled.  “Open it.”

She bit her lip and slowly did as he had instructed, blinking as her mouth rounded in a little, ‘o’, as she stared at the delicate diamond tennis bracelet.  Giving her head a small, almost confused shake, she turned those eyes back on him again.  “It’s lovely, but why—?”

He stood, rounding the table to carefully pull the bracelet free of the backer, then he fastened it around her left wrist.  “I saw it, and I thought—hoped—you’d like it,” he explained simply, fingertips brushing over her skin as he adjusted it before letting go and returning to his seat once more.  “Do you?”

She still looked confused, but she smiled at him. “I do,” she told him.  “Thank you.”

Satisfied that he’d pleased her, he reached for his glass of wine.  "So, what would you like to do next?"

She frowned at his question, as though she wasn't entirely certain of what he meant.

He sighed.  "I told you, didn't I?  We'd do whatever you wanted tonight," he told her.  "We could walk around, see the sights . . . I've been told that Old Quebec is most definitely worth seeing . . . Laith mentioned that there are a number of clubs down in this area—a few cabaret clubs like in the old days, even a dance hall or two dedicated to the more formal dances that you're quite familiar with, aren't you?"

A strange sort of air filtered over her face, settled into a darkness in her gaze, one that he couldn't rightfully interpret, and though she smiled at him, it was almost as though that guarded expression—the one he hadn't seen in her gaze in months—was back, and with a vengeance.  "W-Whatever you'd like to do is fine," she said, her tone taking on a far more prim, far more proper tone than he could credit.

He set his glass aside and opened his mouth to ask her, just what was bothering her, but the sudden intrusion of an entirely too-familiar youki drew him up straight, snapped up his chin as he scanned the restaurant, as his gaze lit on her—as his brain slowed to a crawl.  'N . . . No . . .'

"Ashur?"

He heard Jessa's voice, but it seemed so far away, and in that moment, he couldn't quite drag his gaze off the one person—the one woman—he'd never wanted to see again.

As though she sensed his proximity—she probably did—she slowly looked up, those dark eyes of hers, seeking his out as the color drained from her face, as her eyes flared wide in silent recognition.  Sitting across the restaurant with some man that he didn't recognize, he saw her—as his entire world erupted in a haze of red—of blood and rage and hateful sorrow . . .

He wanted to get up, to walk out of the restaurant—needed to put more space between himself and her—but his body wouldn't move, rooted to the spot, unable to do a thing as he watched her stand up, slipping between the tables, the expression on her face one of carefully composed nothingness, and only her eyes bespoke the anxiety that he could feel in her youki.  The one woman he'd never wanted to see again . . .

"H . . . Hana . . ." he murmured as she stopped beside him.

"Kyouhei-sama . . ." she greeted, bowing slightly at the waist, her tone, well-polished, just a hint of her emotion punctuating her words.  "How . . . How have you been?" she asked in her native Japanese.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice clipped, obdurately quiet.

She flinched just slightly, but managed to cover it up, just as quickly.  "I'm here with a . . . a friend," she said.  "He's here on business . . . I didn't know . . ."

"I was clear, wasn't I?" he gritted out.  "Do you think I was joking about not wanting to see you?"

She cleared her throat, took an involuntary step back.  "You . . . You look well," she said, flicking a hand as though she were ready to make her excuses to leave.  "How . . . How's the . . . the baby?  Your brother . . .?"  She tried to smile.  “Um, K-Kells, you said . . .?”

"You have no right to ask that," he told her.  "Walk away, Hana, and never, ever say his name, ever again.  Do it now."

She somehow managed a wry little smile, offered a hasty bow to him, then to Jessa, who was staring at them both in very real confusion, probably because she didn't understand a word of the exchange that had passed between them.  Hana still tried to smile at Ashur, who made no move to even attempt any kind of pleasantry.  Before he could think twice about it, though, he stood up, dropped a handful of money on the table as he turned on his heel to leave.  The only thing that registered in his head was that he had to get out of there, had to distance himself from her—from Hana—had to escape the unspent emotion that thundered in his head—in his brain . . .

The harsh streetlights against the mild summer evening disoriented him as he stepped outside the restaurant, as he struggled for a semblance of calm that he simply didn't have.  A gentle hand touched his elbow, and he whipped around, raising a hand, ready to strike down whoever it was that dared to touch him in that moment, only to stop, to blink, when he met Jessa's concerned gaze.  She gasped softly, stepped back away from him, eyes wide, almost frightened . . .

Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to look at her, allowed the sight of her to calm the frayed edges of his nerves, and before he could stop to think about it, he dragged her into his arms, held her tight, willing her to soothe him.  It occurred to him that, on some level, he was being entirely selfish, and yet, the balm of her aura was enough, gradually pulling him back into himself.  She didn't know, didn't understand, and, at least, at the moment, it was entirely beyond him to offer her any kind of explanation—not when the emotions were still too high, too sharp, too prevalent . . .

But she wrapped her arms around him, asked him nothing as he held onto her.  His ragged breathing slowly returned to normal as he ignored the curious glances of the people that passed by them.

It felt like forever before he trusted himself to loosen his grip on her, but he leaned back, gently smoothed the hair out of her face, managed a very thin smile as she gazed up at him through a veil of concern.  "Sorry," he said, leaning down, kissing her forehead.  "I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .” he grimaced, sighed, gave up the mumbled explanation with a shake of his head.  “Do you . . .?  Do you want to go for a walk?"

She stared at him for another long moment, the questions awash in her eyes, but she said nothing and nodded instead, letting him take her hand, letting him lead her away from the restaurant.

It was late.  She knew that without having to look at the clock, judging from the elongated shadows that made up the night that filtered through the French doors, the windows that lined the wall.  The layers of darkness combined, casting an insular pall over the familiarity of Ashur's bedroom as she lay perfectly still, afraid to allow the comfort of being so near to him permeate the thoughts that swirled around in her head—fearing the isolation that never felt very far away . . . feeling as though she were existing on someone else's time and knowing that this feeling was entirely too fleeting, too precarious, and not really meant to be hers . . .

Stupid, wasn't it?  Allowing herself to be taken like this, letting herself give in so many times, and yet knowing in the back of her mind that Ashur . . .

But that woman in the restaurant . . . Just who was she?  Gorgeous, she was, in such an exotic way—her hair so black that it shone blue in the ambient light of the electric candles, of the crystal chandeliers, her eyes so dark, so mysterious—and so full of pain that even Jessa could feel it.  In those moments, she'd ceased to exist as the obvious connection between the two of them precluded Jessa and everything else around them, and she really hadn't had to understand their conversation to know that somehow . . . Somehow, that woman . . . She'd hurt him badly . . .

So, why was it that Jessa simply hadn't been able to ask him, didn't have it in her to question him when she knew deep down that it would cause him more anguish?  As they'd wandered around Old Quebec, as he'd tried to act like he was fine . . .

And they'd barely made it through the front door of the house when he'd grabbed her, kissed her, unleashed all his pent-up emotion in a physical act that had left her breathless and clinging—and she . . . She winced in the darkness.  Foolish, stupid girl that she was, she had reveled in it . . .

As some small part of her had felt as though she were dying, just a little . . .

And she hated that, didn't she?  Hated the unwelcome thought that she was little more than an object to him: something he could use to exorcise the demons that haunted his mind because . . . because that wasn't who he was, and if she thought that way, if she really believed that . . .

Blinking fast, willing away the unbidden tears that stung her eyelids, she swallowed hard, struggled to keep her breathing even, unwilling to disturb his sleep . . . Unwilling to allow him to see the pain that she was fighting to keep at bay . . .

Something about his very proximity, something about how close she was to him . . . It comforted her as it dug at her, too, tore at her in places that she didn't know existed deep down, even if she wasn't sure why, and yet . . .

It was too much, wasn't it?  Too much, too close, too . . .

Before she could think about it, before she could discern too much, she slipped out of his arms, off of the bed, not really thinking as she pulled the sheet from the bed and padded over to the balcony doors.

The night was still, that unearthly silence that only came, just before the first rays of dawn.  Wrapping the sheet around herself, sinking down on the cold stone railing, she lifted her gaze, stared at the moon—the sad, sad moon . . .

What was it about that altercation?  What was it about the two of them . . .?

'You know what it is,' her youkai said gently, sadly, almost apologetically.  'You know because you understand it . . . That someone cannot hurt you unless . . .'

Jessa blinked slowly as the outline of the moon grew a little fuzzy, as it wavered slightly before her eyes.  "Someone cannot hurt you unless . . ." she murmured, her voice little more than a whisper in the deep.  "They . . . can't hurt you . . . unless . . . unless you . . . love them . . ."

And all at once, it made sense, didn't it?  The ugly, harsh truth of it, and . . . and her own truth . . .

That profound agony on Ashur's face as he'd looked upon that woman . . . He . . . He loved her, didn't he . . .?  No matter what might have happened, no matter what he’d perceived that she’d done so wrong . . . And . . .

And the reason that Jessa . . . that she hurt so badly, so desperately . . . why she couldn't seem to say no, to turn away from him, even when she knew that she ought to . . .?  Knowing that giving herself to him was somehow slowly destroying her, just a little bit at a time, and still unable to stop herself . . . And she hated it, didn't she?  That feeling that she was all right, in accepting the scraps of whatever it was that he had within him to give her, of letting it all be okay because a little bit of beautiful was better than a lifetime of nothing . . .

It was the same, wasn't it?  The reason why the very thought of him, of her, of them . . . The hopeless ache, the desolate confusion . . . It was because she . . .

'I . . . love him . . .?'