InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Secrets ( Chapter 38 )

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

Jessa awoke slowly, swimming up through layers of sleep as she slowly, groggily, opened her eyes, blinking a few times to clear her vision.  Pushing herself up on her elbow as she rubbed her face and tried to focus on the clock beside the bed, she realized with a low groan that it was almost nine, and she'd missed making Kells' breakfast yet again.

'Oh, he's going to be so mad at me . . . or worse, he's going to pout at me . . . bat those eyes of his, make me feel like the evil step-mother in the fairy tales . . .'

Flopping back onto her pillow, burying her face in the downy softness, she heaved a sigh.  The sound of it was lost, effectively ruining her melodramatics.  It was all Ashur's fault, anyway.  If he hadn't come, sneaking into her room at nearly midnight—if he hadn't kept her awake well into the night—she would have gotten up in time to make Kells' breakfast and would have gotten him ready for preschool . . .

She was almost asleep again when the warmth of Ashur's lips on the back of her neck woke her again, drew a soft sigh from her as he slid into the bed with her, pulling the duvet up over them both as he slipped his arms around her, pulled her back against his chest.  "Are you going to sleep?" she murmured, eyes still closed as she savored the warmth of his body, as he molded himself around her, his leg draping over hers, the other, knee bent, nestled snuggly into the bend behind hers.

"Mhmm," he intoned, burying his face in her hair with a soft sigh—more of a breath, an exhalation.  "I want to," he said, hands gently brushing over her belly, fluttering over her breasts. "God, you're so warm, so soft . . ."

"Don't you have meetings or something today?" she asked, unable to control the breathlessness in her husky tone.

"No, worse," he muttered with a heavy sigh.  "Ben called while I was taking Kells to preschool.  Apparently, they're on their way up for a prolonged visit . . ."

"How long will they be staying?" she asked.  There was something odd about the resigned tone of his voice . . .

"He said something about 'a few weeks or so', which could mean anything from a couple weeks to a month or more.  His perception of time is somewhat skewed . . ."

She frowned.  "But isn't it bad form to just show up at one's house on such short notice?  I mean, brother or not, that seems awfully presumptuous . . ."

Ashur leaned up on his elbow, took his time, twirling a long lock of her hair around his finger as she rolled over onto her back and stared up at him.  "It's for Kells' sake," he said.  "Ben just wants to be close to him, given that he didn't know about me, nor I about him, until I was . . . eighty or so, give or take a few years . . ."

The shock in her expression had to be obvious, and Ashur smiled a little sadly, but there was a trace of something else, too, something almost like . . . anger . . . "My parents were not the most forthcoming of people."

"But . . . to not tell you about your brother . . .?  For that long . . .?" she blurted.

He shrugged as though it were of little importance.  "Water under the bridge, Jessa.  Just let it flow."

She frowned at him, but he either missed it or simply decided that he didn't want to answer any more questions as he leaned down, nuzzled against her cheek.  The ticking of the clock resounded in her head like gunfire, and she sighed, giving up, at least for the moment, so that she could simply savor the closeness, the proximity of him.

"Damn, I'm going to miss this when Ben's here," he murmured, almost as an afterthought, almost more to himself than to her.

Those words, however, held absolute sway, shattering the fragile sense of serenity that she'd begun to savor over the past couple weeks.  Somehow, she couldn't seem to find her voice, couldn't meld together the words that she wanted . . . Couldn't bring herself to question, exactly what he meant . . .


Stepping into the lavish office, Carl Kingston inclined his head in deference to the European tai-youkai.

Ian MacDonnough gave a curt nod as he slowly turned to face the Englishman, taking his time, flicking a bit of lint from the otherwise immaculate sleeve of his impeccably tailored suit jacket.  "Have you located your son yet?" he asked, foregoing any pleasantries that should have been forthcoming.

"Not yet," Kingston admitted.  "He's not touched his accounts, has not left any kind of paper trail."

MacDonnough stared at him, his expression entirely inscrutable.  "Disgraceful," he concluded.  "As I thought."

"I will find him, my lord," he insisted, grinding his teeth together so hard that they groaned in his mouth.  "You have my word."

Ian slowly shook his head.  "My patience is wearing thin, Kingston," he warned.  "I went to a lot of trouble in securing this for you.  Keep me waiting for results much longer, and I may decide to endorse someone else's bid for your . . . prize . . ."

The less-than-subtle threat was not lost on him, and Kingston couldn't help the glower he shot the tai-youkai.  "My men are searching everywhere," he assured him.  "Might I remind you that acquiring her is of sovereign importance, not only to me, but the future benefits for you will be well worth your trouble."

"So you've said," MacDonnough replied dryly.  "I've had enough of your innuendo and your cleverly boorish little attempts at intrigue.  I expect results from a man of your station.  Your asinine family drama has dragged on long enough.  The next time I summon you, you will have answers—or I will withdraw my support in this entire venture."

Kingston managed a tight smile, a curt nod, as he backed toward the door, recognizing that MacDonnough had well and truly dismissed him.  It was far more difficult to hide his impatience as the old butler escorted him to the doors of the great castle.

No, it was simply unacceptable, the lack of headway that his agents were making.  None of them had reported as much as a potential sighting of the boy, and that rankled more than anything.

Slipping into his car, he tapped the window to alert the driver as he settled back in the luxurious vehicle.  It wasn't until the vehicle started to move that he reached over, hit the button on the console.  "Call Weaver," he said.

"Calling Weaver," the mechanical female voice replied, the beeps of the number being dialed crackling to life over the speakers.

"Hello?"

"This is Duke Portsmouth," he barked, slapping his gloves against his thigh.  "Have you found my son?"

Verne Weaver hesitated before answering—enough of a response, as far as he was concerned.  "Entirely incompetent," he growled.  "How bloody hard is it to locate a thirty-five-year-old wastrel?"

"With all due respect, Your Grace, I daresay the world is a very large area to be searching, and, without knowing what name he might be using, without knowing how he's managing to get by without the use of his accounts . . . But we're searching, I promise you!"

"I don't want to hear your excuses; I want you to find my son!" he bellowed.  Hitting the button to end the call, Kingston heaved a heavy sigh.  Curse Ian MacDonnough and his arrogance.  It would serve him right if he managed to locate that ungrateful brat—and the girl, too.

She was the key to it all, wasn't she?  The ultimate prize that he sought: the only thing that his fool of a son could possibly do right—if he could be found, that was . . .

But it was all so close, so very, very close, to bearing fruit . . . All the years of systematically locating any traces of the lore that existed, of systematically destroying it, all in the hopes that the old legends were left as nothing more than whispers in the dark, half-forgotten by time and by generations who had lost sight of the true purpose, innumerable children who had grown up believing that blending into the shadows was the way, that cowering in the dark and hiding their natures was the only way to survive . . . The moment was nearly at hand—all he had to do was to bring the pieces together, and the result . . . The ancient prophecies . . .

'And she shall rise from fire, fall to ash, and rise in flame; the burning of the sacred feather will smite the earth and rend the heavens . . .'

As the words rang in his head, he smiled just a little, but the sentiment did not touch his eyes . . .


Ben relaxed on the sofa, idly swirling the contents of the brandy snifter in his hand as Kells and Emmeline drowsed, half on his lap, half on the middle seat cushion, side by side in the first real moment of quiet that they'd enjoyed since Kells got home from preschool.  Nadia was already out like a light, cuddled in the crook of Ashur's arm.

"So, there's been no suspicious activity to speak of around here?" Ben asked, emerald green eyes flicking up to meet Ashur's.

Ashur shook his head, looking back at the report in his free hand.  "Nope, not a thing.  Then again, I'm a general.  Would I really hear much about it if there were . . .?"

Ben nodded, long fingers tracing a ring around the rim of the glass in an idle sort of way as he considered what Ashur had said.  "Well, you know what they say: no news is good news . . . Maybe . . ."

Scowling as he let the report fall from his fingers onto his lap, Ashur shifted Nadia as he adjusted himself in the overstuffed easy chair.  "I don't know, Ben.  It's just . . . It feels too quiet," he said, flicking a finger at the situation report that Ben had brought along with him.  "Nothing at all is moving over there?  Not a thing?  After everything that's happened . . . I don't know."

Ben sipped the cognac, stroked Kells' hair idly, broke into a wan smile as he stared at the boy.  "I think the report might well be vastly different if we were able to gather anything from the European jurisdiction."

Ashur snorted, leveling a dark look at his brother.  "That goes without saying," he muttered.  "Speaking of . . . Have you heard anything else on the whereabouts of the missing lord?"

"Nope," Ben said.  "Bas said he came up, filled you in on everything he found out?"

"Wasn't much," Ashur replied.  "At least, he was able to get Jessa's documentation released, so that's something."

Ben nodded, setting the snifter on the table beside the sofa.  "Considering it's MacDonnough we're talking about?  More of a minor miracle, if you ask me."

"All right, it's well past bed time," Charity said as she and Jessa hurried into the room.  She paused long enough to snap a picture before carefully taking Nadia from Ashur while Jessa scooped up Kells.  Luckily for him, it was Friday night, so he didn't have school in the morning.  She stopped beside Ashur, let him kiss the sleeping boy's cheek, before she headed out of the room once more.   "I'll be back to get her in a minute," Charity said, nodding at Emmeline.

Ben watched his wife go, a little smile quirking his lips.  Ashur slowly shook his head.  "Not that I mind that you're visiting," he began, hauling himself out of his chair and grabbing Ben's snifter to refill it, "but you actually brought Eddie along?"

Ben shrugged.  "She's got some family up here, so yeah.  Besides, she misses Kells, too."

He could believe that.  The housekeeper always had possessed a bit of a soft spot for the children, and when he and Kells had stayed with Charity and Ben while he looked for a place in New York City, she was constantly caught, carrying the boy around . . . "Well, make sure she knows that I don't expect her to work while she's here," he said.

Ben chuckled.  "As if you could stop her . . . She complains a lot, but she's not happy unless she's taking care of someone . . ."

"Which is why you should absolutely give her another raise," Charity remarked, hurrying back in to retrieve Emmeline.  "The woman's a saint to put up with you, Ben, the way you harass her sometimes."

"Me?" he grumbled incredulously.  "Have you heard the way she talks to me, Cherry?"

Charity rolled her eyes, cradling Emmeline in her arms.  "And you always deserve it, you know."

He snorted in rebuttal and slowly shook his head.  "I am so misunderstood . . ."

"Like hell," Ashur retorted, handing Ben his refilled snifter.


The soft knock on the doorframe drew Jessa's attention as she stood at the French doors, staring out into the night.  She turned, only to find Charity, standing there with a friendly smile on her pretty face.  "May I come in?" she asked, gesturing at the room.

Jessa nodded, smiled a little shyly.  "I was just looking at the moon," she said, pulling open the doors and shuffling out onto the stone balcony.  Charity followed her, perching herself on the thick stone railing.  "You're looking well," she commented, golden eyes glowing in the wan light filtering out of the bedroom.  "I've been meaning to talk to you, ask you how you're doing . . ." She shrugged.  "I know we've texted some, but it's just not really the same, is it?"

"I-I don't mind," Jessa replied.

"Ashur seems like he's a little more relaxed, too.  I'm glad.  I mean, he's been through a lot, you know?"  Charity sighed, gave a little shrug.  "I mean, I guess we all did, but he . . . Sometimes I think it was hardest on him.  Between his parents and Hana, and . . ." She trailed off, shaking her head, and Jessa wondered if Charity thought that she might know more than she actually did.

Jessa bit her lip, rubbed her arms though she wasn't cold.  "He doesn't talk about . . . about any of that," she admitted.  "All he's ever really said was just that his parents weren't like mine . . . that Hana was a lifelong friend . . . until she wasn't . . ."

Charity frowned, seeming almost uncomfortable.  "He . . . He hasn't told you . . . any of it . . .?"

She shook her head, feeling just a little smaller, a little more pathetic.  "We saw her," she admitted, unsure exactly why she was saying it at all.  "Hana . . . at a restaurant . . ."

"You did?  Ashur told her . . ." Waving a hand, she quickly shook her head.  "It doesn't matter, not really.  It's just . . ." Rubbing her forehead, she sighed.  "It's really not my story to tell," Charity finally said, and the look she gave Jessa was apologetic.  "I was there for parts of it, but . . . but the actual story really belongs to Ashur . . . and to Ben . . ."

Jessa pulled her hair over her shoulder, idly twisted it around and around and around . . . "He said that his parents didn't tell him about Ben until he was nearly eighty," she ventured.  "That seems so . . ."

Charity nodded.  "I know.  It was hard for me to grasp, too, when Ben told me about it.  He found out from ojii-san—my grandfather . . . Their parents . . . They disowned Ben when he left home, when he came here with Sebastian—the first North American tai-youkai.  They had Ashur after that . . ."

"Why would they do that?  Why would they disown Ben?"

There was a certain sadness in Charity's gaze.  It added a brighter gold, a darker amber, to her eyes.  "Because they couldn't control him—because he didn't want to live the life they'd chosen for him, and instead of learning their lesson then, they did much the same thing to Ashur, too, only with him, they did it longer, maybe worse than they ever treated Ben.  At least, Ben was raised in apathy, more or less, but Ashur . . . Some of the things that they did to him were downright cruel . . ."  Shaking her head sadly, she turned, stared up at the somber moon. "I only know the things that Ashur himself has told me, and he hasn't ever really said much . . . Just enough to know that his childhood was . . . was sad and lonely . . . and the people who should have loved and cherished him . . . They didn't . . ."

Jessa sighed, mind rolling back, back to the earliest memories she had—the ones that were insular moments in time: static like pictures and not the full moving reel.  Those first memories . . . a smiling Ma, a doting Da . . . the echo of laughter, of hugs and kisses, songs and dancing . . . Over time, as she'd aged, those still images progressed, like the earliest version of film: choppy, grainy, carrying with them a dated sort of feel that she'd learned to appreciate as she'd grown older, even if they'd seemed so juvenile, so easy to be abandoned at the time, only to be dragged back up at a later moment, only to be seen for the cherished images that they were . . .

And always, in the cinema of her head, her parents were the constants: the love, the support, the security that they so selflessly gave to her.  It was true, she didn't always have the best relationship with her mother, but maybe that was normal, too.  After all, despite whatever disagreements they might have had, she knew deep down that her mother loved her, that she only ever wanted what was best for her, even if some of the things she'd said were a little harsh, even a little cold . . . But Ashur . . . He didn't have that, did he?  Didn't possess those base memories: the ones that would lay the foundation for everything he'd live, everything he'd love, everything he'd ever dream . . .

Charity suddenly laughed: a soft laugh, a gentle balm.  "He's relaxed more," she murmured, still gazing up at the moon, her hands wrapped around the legs she'd drawn up when she'd turned on the wide railing, sitting as quietly as the creeping dark.  "I see traces of the man I'd first met, you know?  That's something you've given back to him, Jessa, whether you know it or not . . . I wanted to thank you for that, because Ben and I . . ." she sighed, flinched slightly, but her smile did not fade.  "Ben and I couldn't do that—couldn't give that back to him.  We tried, you know?  But . . . But there was only so much we could do . . ."

Jessa's gaze skittered away—away to the tree line, denoted only by the deepening shadows, the gasping and almost imperceptible lightening that she had to look for in order to see.  She didn't deserve Charity's quiet thanks, did she?  Because the truth of it was, she couldn't change Ashur, didn't have the ability, the capacity, to reach him, even though she wanted to—desperately wanted to.  No, the only person who could do that was Ashur himself, and Ashur . . .

He clung to those things, didn't he?  Those dark things, those vile memories . . . He held to them with a fierceness, as though he were afraid that if he let them go, he would have nothing at all left inside, and it didn't matter if it were a conscious choice or not, did it?  Because Ashur . . .

She slowly shook her head.

Because Ashur . . . He didn't want her help, and he never really had . . .


He trudged up the stairs, letting the air whoosh out of his lungs as he rubbed the back of his neck with a weary hand.  It was late—early—whatever, and he was exhausted, and yet, he wasn't.  Restless, he figured, was a good word for it; for the unrest, the unsettled part of him that he knew would keep him awake until dawn.  If it weren't for Ben and Charity's presences in his home, he knew damn well where he'd have ended up.  Curse his luck for bringing that particular being into this close of a proximity, because if there was one thing he understood more than anything else, it was that hiding things from Ben was damn near impossible . . .

Hell if he didn't need her, though.  The unwelcome understanding that she was entirely too close was tantamount to physical torture.  Pausing outside her door, his hand resting against the thick, unyielding surface, he stifled a sigh, closed his eyes, willed away the need, just to touch her, to hold her, to take the comfort she would so readily give him . . .

He stepped away from her room, grinding his teeth together as he forced himself to continue down the hallway.  True enough, Ben and Charity were carefully shut away in one of the guest rooms on the third floor.  It didn't really matter, though, not with Ben.  No, about the second that Ben caught any kind of hint that there was anything at all going on between Jessa and him, he'd pounce on it, either teasing Ashur forever or worse: deciding it was time to turn all big-brother on him, lecturing him on just what he thought he was doing with a girl so young, warning him that he was ultimately playing with fire, quite literally . . .

And the crux of it was that Ashur already knew all of those things.  He was well aware of the precarious and volatile relationship between himself and Jessa.  Knew it, and he couldn't stop it.  To be brutally honest, he didn't rightfully know if he even wanted to, which was scary as hell, if he really stopped to think about it.  Even so, it was a little daunting, maybe even a little frightening, wasn't it?  That initial fascination he'd felt, that instant and maybe even inevitable pull, hadn't dissipated, despite how many times they'd ended up in bed together.  No, if anything, it had grown, blossomed, somehow transmuted into a necessity, like water, like air . . . like fire . . .

He paused outside Kells' room, quietly opening the door, staring at the tiny form, lost in the folds of the brightly colored Power Puppies comforter.  A vague smile flickered to life on his face.  The child that had saved him so long ago . . . He had no idea—none at all—and, God willing, he never would.  It was Kells who had pieced Ashur together back then, Kells who had given Ashur the focus that he so desperately had needed.  Kells, who had taught Ashur that it was okay to go on, that it was okay to want something different than the life he'd led up until that moment . . .

And yet, that same understanding . . .

Pushing away from the door frame, silently closing it behind him, he let out another long, deep breath, shuffling down the rest of the corridor, stepping into his room.

He sensed her presence as he closed the door, as she stepped up behind him, her arms slipped around his waist, the warmth of her body pressed against his back.

He turned, held her just for a moment before giving her a little squeeze and taking a step back.  "What are you doing in here?" he asked, not unkindly, his gaze meeting hers as he reached up to work the buttons of his shirt.

She shrugged, pushing his hands away, nimble fingers taking over his task as he reminded himself that he dared not allow her much more.  "I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice just a little husky as she kept her eyes trained on her mission.

He sighed, stepping away from her, turning his back on her, shoving his hands into his pockets as he wandered over to open his balcony doors, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment as the breeze of the summer night—balmy, sultry, punctuated by the smell of earth and trees and darker things—came to him.  "Jessa, you need to go to your own room," he said, mind rebelling against those words, even as they issued from his lips.

She ignored him for the moment, stepping around him, leaning against the frame of the opened doorway.  Pulling her hair over her shoulder, twisting it around and around in her hands, she frowned thoughtfully, eyes downcast.  "Charity said . . . Said that your parents . . . Well, she implied that they weren't . . . good . . . people . . ." she said, carefully choosing her words, carefully keeping her tone light, conversational.

"They, uh . . . They weren't," he admitted.  "I don't think they knew how to be parents.  I don't think they understood, and maybe it wasn't entirely their faults.  They were raised in another time and place, and . . . and maybe that's how it was for them, too . . ."

"You're making excuses for them?  When they treated you badly?" she challenged quietly, her eyes raising to lock with his, the flicker of fire in her gaze, completely at odds with the gentleness in her tone.  "What . . . What did they do to you, Ashur?"

He wasn't sure why he was so taken aback by her question.  It was a logical one, given what she'd apparently been told.  Even so, that didn't make it an easy one to answer, either . . . "It was a long time ago, Jessa," he told her.  "Can we leave it at that?"

"Are you afraid of telling me, that I'll think badly of you if you answer me? Because that would be stupid . . . Or are you scared of the answers yourself . . .?"

He sighed, wondering absently, just how she’d managed such deadly accuracy with her conclusions.  "Most of the time, it was just . . . nothing," he said, unsure just why he was even bothering to try to explain it—to explain something that he didn't understand himself.  "No reason, no guidance, no subtle maneuvering to teach me anything . . . Otou-san only deigned to notice when I stepped out of bounds, when I erred in my judgment, and he wasn't above using brute force to guide me back to his way of thinking . . ."

"He . . . He beat you?" she asked, the crimson in her eyes igniting.  "That's barbaric!"

He shook his head.  "It wasn't that," he clarified.  "I mean, he was never out of control.  Just . . ." He grimaced.  "It wasn't, not really."

"Would you ever do that to Kells?" she challenged.

"Of course not," he growled.  Then he sighed.  "No," he said, squelching the bitterness that still lived somewhere deep inside him.  "No, but I swore that Kells would have a different kind of childhood," he admitted.  "A better one than I had . . ."

The outrage in her gaze slowly shifted as she pushed herself away from the doorframe, when she slipped her hand up to his cheek, her fingers infinitely gentle was she tenderly ran the pad of her thumb over his cheekbone.  "They broke you, didn't they?  Broke your spirit . . ."

She watched as a thousand emotions flickered to life on the canvas that was his face, but they were fleeting, barely formed—a lifetime of memories that were best left, forgotten . . . And all that was left was the same sense of shame, of hopelessness, that he knew a little too well . . .

He grasped her wrist in her hand, but didn't have the strength to push her away, could only stare deep into her eyes as he slowly shook his head.  To his horror, he could only watch, his voice stilled as though by a power stronger than his own, as a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Heaving a sigh, he forced his gaze away from hers, breaking the hold with which she held him.  Turning away from her, he moved away, struggled to lock the door in his head that she'd inadvertently thrown wide open.  "It was a long time ago, Jessa," he heard himself saying.  "Just . . . Just go on back to your room.  I . . . I want . . . No, I . . . I think I need to be alone . . ."