InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Chiding ( Chapter 45 )

Jessa stomped into the living room, arms crossed stubbornly over the first aid kit he kept in the linen closet in the hallway upstairs, as though she were prepared for a full-out assault as she rounded the sofa to plant herself in front of Ashur, who said nothing as he set the papers aside on the table next to him and waited for the shoe to drop.

"You're going to tell me what happened," she stated in a curiously flat tone as she sat down and leaned in to carefully tug the tape that held the gauze pad in place.

He sighed.  "I ran in to someone who . . . who was familiar with my parents," he admitted, his tone a little harsher than he meant for it to be, mostly because he really didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to worry when there was really nothing to worry about anymore—he hoped.

"About the youkai uprising?" she asked evenly, almost distractedly, as she gently peeled the pad away from his chest.  "Dear God . . ."

"It's better than it was," he told her.  "It'll be fine."

"It doesn't look fine," she shot back, sparing a moment to glower at him.

He sighed again.  "Who . . . Who told you about that?"

She blinked a few times, as though she were trying to figure out, just what he was talking about.  "The uprising?  Charity did."

He nodded.  "Yeah, that . . . Anyway, if she told you that . . ."

She pulled some sterile cotton pads out of the kit and doused them generously with disinfectant wash.  "She told me about Ben's fight with your father . . . She said that you chose to spy for the Inu no Taisho."

He grimaced.  "Sounds like she was trying to paint me as a hero—or a martyr . . ." he grumbled.

"And you're not?"

He snorted.  "Hardly.  I'm neither."

"So, this youkai you ran into?" she asked, choosing to ignore his harsh statement for the moment, but he wasn't stupid enough to think that she'd let it drop entirely.  "He did this?"

"Yes," he said, biting down on his cheek when she gently pressed the cotton pads against the open wound.  It stung, but he'd be damned if he let her know that.  Given that she was being as careful as she possibly could, he figured that was good enough . . .

"And where is he now?"

He blinked and frowned as he stared at her, her expression completely blank, her tone as casual as if they were talking about the weather.  It was a little too calm, wasn't it?  "Why?"

She shrugged.  "Because I'm goin' ta hunt him daun, and I'm goin' ta set him on ten kinds o' fire—and when he's done burnin' to a crisp oon the ootside, then I'm goin' ta toast him oon the inside, hot enough ta boil his blood in his veins, ta cook the meat on his bones till he'll be fall-apart-tender."

He cleared his throat, unsure if he was more surprised at her dire threats or the fact that her absolutely adorable Irish brogue had just gone from, 'cute' to 'hot as hellfire' in about two seconds . . . "You . . . want to charbroil him . . . for these . . .?" he asked, jerking his head at his chest to let her know just what he was talking about.

Her eyes glowed like hot coals, searing him where he sat.  "Aye," she stated flatly.

He started to chuckle, but stopped just as quickly as another thought occurred to him, and he slowly narrowed his gaze.  "You're assuming that I lost, aren't you?"

"Dinna ye?"

He snorted indelicately.  "No, I didn't."

Nudging her aside, firmly but gently, he hauled himself off of the sofa and strode stiffly out of the room.  He briefly considered, closing himself up in his office, but knowing her, she'd just follow him, so he headed for the stairs, instead.  At the moment, he'd rather sit in his room, alone, than to be subjected to any more of her 'concern' . . .

'Wa-a-a-ait . . . She thinks we lost?'

'Yes, brainiac, she thinks we lost.'

'Well . . .?'

'Well, what?'

'Well, go tell her we fucking won!'

He snorted and flopped onto his bed, which only drew a deep grimace when the leg she hadn't discovered the injury on bumped against the mattress, and he sighed.  'Oh?  And tell her, what?  That I buried him ten feet down and slammed the earth closed on him?'

'Better than letting her think that we lost,' his youkai-voice fumed.

He heard the soft knock on his door, but opted to ignore it, closing his eyes and willing himself to fall asleep as fast as he possibly could.

It didn't work.

He didn't figure that it would.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly as she opened the door and let herself in.  "Now, let me clean you up proper . . ."

"I'll pass," he grumbled, scooting toward the other side of the bed when she approached.

She sighed and sat down.  "It'll get infected if you're not careful," she pointed out reasonably.

"I'm a loser," he growled.  "I'd deserve to get infected."

"It looks really bad," she replied.

"For the record, Jessa, no, I didn't lose.  I won.  You know, just for the record . . ."

She nodded slowly.  Whether or not she believed him, he didn't know, but she scooted over and set out the first aid kit once more.

It was true that the abrasion on his chest wasn't nearly as bad as it was, to start with.  Even so, that one, he'd realized in the shower, had actually gone clear down to his ribs but had luckily missed anything too serious, so it didn't surprise him that it wasn't fully healed yet.  To be honest, it likely wouldn't be for a couple of days, at least.  The one on his arm wasn't quite as severe, but the one on his calf was also fairly deep.

She worked in silence for a few minutes, gingerly spraying the antiseptic wash into and around the chest wound, a scowl on her face, her gaze trained on the injury, as she chewed on the side of her bottom lip.  "You . . . You should see a doctor," she finally said, her voice soft, almost scared.  "This is . . . deep . . ."

"It'll be fine," he told her.  "I've had worse."

Her hands stilled for a moment before she resumed her task.  "From your . . . your father . . .?"

He shifted his gaze up to the ceiling, glaring at nothing—or maybe everything . . . "Charity told you about that, too?"

She nodded, jerking her head once in response.  "She said . . . She said you were beaten . . ."

He sighed.  "When otou-san found out that I . . . that I released Manami, that I was feeding information to Sesshoumaru . . . He flogged me—with one of okaa-san's whips that she'd soaked in poison.  Stripped nearly all of the flesh off my back, or so I was told.  I mean, I couldn't rightfully see it."

"But . . . he was your father . . ."

"He never made any bones about the fact that he thought I was a failure from the start.  It . . . It doesn't matter now."

"But—"

"It really doesn't matter now."

Blinking suddenly, he shifted his eyes to the side, just in time to see her dash the back of her hand over her eyes.  "Can I clean your arm?"

He sighed as his irritation melted away in the face of her tears—tears that she was struggling to hide from him—tears that she shed on his behalf, just for him—and he stuck out his arm for her to attend to . . .

Carl Kingston strode through the sumptuous great room of the immense ducal estate known as Portsmouth.  Decorated in the finest fabrics, the most lavish appointments that money could buy, it was an impressive room—one that pleased him greatly.  The entire estate, every last room, had been painstakingly refurbished over the years, and sometimes, he'd commissioned new pieces to be built, expressly for Portsmouth in an effort to ensure that the castle was on par with some of the more renowned estates in the world, and, he'd been assured, that it even outshone Windsor Palace in opulence . . .

Stepping into the office that was situated just off the great room, Kingston hit the button on the panel next to the door to retrieve his voicemail message.  There was only one.

"Afternoon, Your Grace . . . Just letting you know that we've found evidence that Viscount Knightsboro was recently spotted in Berlin at the Laumerschwann Grande Hotel. According to the concierge, he's going by Reginald Kingston, but he's using one of Hugh's credit cards—the one he acquired without your knowledge.  I'm working on getting visual confirmation, but they checked out of the hotel two days ago.  He mentioned to the bellhop who helped them with their luggage that they were heading toward Spain next . . ."

Breaking into a rare smile, Carl chuckled.  It was a rather nasty sound, full of arrogance.  "Using your middle name . . . As if that's enough to hide from me . . ."

Sparing a moment to pick up an ornately framed photograph from the stand nearby, Carl narrowed his gaze on it: one of the few pictures that existed of his son . . . Taken just after Hugh had graduated from college, the boy looked so much like his mother that it was almost insulting to a man like Carl—a man who wanted to control everything, wanted his mark on everything he touched, including his family.  In the picture, Hughbert stood beside him, slightly behind him, white-blonde hair falling over his pale green eyes—eyes the color of the palest sage, ringed with an emerald hue around the edges.  He supposed it couldn't be helped, given what he was.  Even so, it was at Carl's insistence that there were no other images of Hughbert, no images of his mother, either.

Evalysse . . .

She was just a girl when he'd first seen her—when he knew that he had to have her.  Fourteen years old, barely off the boat from the New World, with eyes so serious, so sad, that he'd almost felt sorry for her.  Luckily for him, the girl's guardian—an aunt who was nothing but a common stoat-youkai—had been desperate enough for money that he was willing to accept the price that he offered in exchange for taking the girl to be his mate.  She was the lone survivor of her kind, of her kin, she'd said quietly on the night that he'd first taken her home.  They were all killed in the course of the Salem Witch Trials.  Evalysse was secreted away by her aunt, raised deep in the hills of Virginia—a wild child, barefoot and beautiful . . .

Setting the picture down again, he stepped around the wide and expansive desk, pressing his fingertips against the identilock that secured the bottom drawer.  Precious few things were kept in the drawer, and he lifted the ancient book carefully, as though he were afraid that it might well crumble to dust if he were too rough with it.

It was the only copy that existed.  Written so long ago that the origins could not be traced, it told of secrets, of legends, of prophecies, some of which were yet to come, some of which had already come to pass.

This was his Bible, his book of power.  As far as he knew, no one alive, save for himself and, to an extent, Hugh, knew of the things this book contained.  Written by the first monks somewhere between the fifth and fourth centuries, B.C., it was copied and transcribed some time later—centuries later—and, while the text was old, outdated, Kingston had made it his life's mission to learn it, to know it, all so that he could read it—this book that had been passed down through his family for ages . . .

He'd come close once before.  He'd almost managed to locate one of the creatures mentioned in the book—the sachi-earth blend youkai—or, at least, the ignorant youkai who were rumored to be capable of producing the tainted offspring.  He almost had them in his grasp, but the couple didn't know the deeper signs, the ones to ensure that they would have the live birth they both wanted and dreaded by turns.  Amaya was well-pregnant at that time, round with child and ripe for the rites that would have ensured the infant's live birth.  Carl had tried to lure them in, tried to make them understand that he could help them, and, all the while, help himself, too . . . But Satoshi, that wretched earth-youkai, he was too afraid, too suspicious, and the resulting earthquake had been enough of a distraction that they had been able to get away . . .

But it was another prophecy culled from the whisper-thin pages of the book that held him enthralled—something as magnificent as it was depraved, as breathtaking as it was insidious . . .

'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 . . .'

He chuckled, settling back in his chair, his fingers steepled together before him, reading those words, over and over again.  'To smite the earth and rend the heavens . . . and rebuild it in the form that it should have been, all along, and I . . . I shall reign as sovereign . . .'

"We found Kyouhei in the basement, tied up, beaten . . . It was . . . It was horrible . . ."

"He flogged me—with one of okaa-san's whips that she'd soaked in poison.  Stripped nearly all of the flesh off my back, or so I was told.  I mean, I couldn't rightfully see it."

Jessa threw away the used cotton, washed her hands with warm water and soap as she pondered what she knew.  It was . . . It was horrible, wasn't it?  No matter how she looked at it, the end result was always the same: just how in the world had he ever survived in a place like that: with people like that . . .?

'It's not that hard to understand, Jessa.  People learn what they live, and if they live in such a way, they learn to adapt, too.'

'But . . . But he never deserved anything like that.  Those people—his parents . . . They should have loved him—cherished him . . .'

'But you know, there's really nothing you can do about it.  Even so, Ashur's who he is because of everything he's had to deal with, just like you are who you are because of your own life experiences.  You realize that, don't you?'

'Why isn't he broken?  If I were him . . . If I were him, I would be . . .'

'You think he isn't?  Do you, really?  Do you honestly believe that some part of him is just as broken as you'd think he should be, given the circumstances?'

She grimaced.  Somehow, the idea of him, of his past . . . Just the thought of it all . . . Why did it hurt her, too . . .?

Glancing in the mirror above the sink, she did a double-take at her own wild eyes, her flushed skin.  Some of it was because of the extent of his injuries—injuries that he swore weren't a big deal, yet she wasn't as convinced.  But he said he'd won the fight, and still, something about that just didn't ring true to her own ears, did it . . .?

'You know why, Jessa.  It's because he's entirely too calm right now, entirely too relaxed, and the only reason he'd be relaxed is if . . .'

Slipping out of the bathroom, she crossed the room, pulling her hair over her shoulder, twisting it around her hands.

Ashur was propped up on the bed, watching television and sipping the glass of water she'd given him, along with a couple Tylenol for pain.  "I don't suppose you'd let me read through those reports I left in the living room?" he asked, scowling slightly at the news headlines for the day.

"They'll be there when you're recovered," she told him.  "It won't hurt you to relax a little, will it?"

He snorted.  "I like having my mind occupied," he grumbled.

"Because that's how you learned to cope . . ."

"What's that?"

She shook her head, managed a small smile.  "Nothing important," she murmured.  "I could . . . I mean, if you wanted me to, I could . . . Could rub your back . . .?"

That got his attention, and he slowly turned to look at her.  "You'd do that?"

She nodded, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear.  "Can you scoot forward?"

He did, managing to move without any sign of discomfort, and she slipped behind him while he leaned forward, bracing himself with his fists against the mattress.  "You're not uncomfortable, are you?"

"No, I'm fine . . .Thanks."

Rubbing his shoulders, she grimaced at the tightness that she hadn't noticed before.  So much stress, so much pressure built up in him . . . She bit her lip when he groaned softly, head pitching forward as she slowed her hands, as she pressed her fingertips into the stiff muscles at the base of his neck.

"This is . . . nice," he murmured, his voice a little foggy, a little far away.

She sighed.  "Ashur?"

"Hmm?"

"You . . . You killed him, didn't you?  The one who came after you . . .?"

"I had to," he admitted quietly.  "He's been here, taken pictures . . . I couldn't let him near Kells or . . . or you. Not ever."

Leaning forward, she kissed his back, laid her cheek against him as she spread her hands out, kneading the muscles of his shoulders, his upper arms.  "You were protecting us . . ."

He nodded.  "I told you I would."

"You did . . ."

"I didn't tell you about it because I didn't want you to worry."

"I know," she replied softly.  "Just one more thing to add to the weight of everything else you carry around . . ."

He turned his head, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder at her.  "Don't worry, Jessa.  I've got strong shoulders."

She couldn't quite summon the smile that she knew he wanted to see as she sat up so that she could reach the muscles in the center of his back.  "You know, when I was in school, I had no friends—nobody.  Most of the girls . . ." She sighed.  "Most of them just ignored me.  Some of them made fun of my accent or my skin or . . . but others were just . . . mean . . . They tried to bully me, but I ignored them.  Never wanted to let anyone see when they managed to get to me.  It was always my hair," she admitted, almost smiling, mostly because she knew that Ashur liked it well enough.  "Annie, they called me, or ginger or Raggedy Ann . . . Bozo, Merida . . . Most of the names didn't bother me—I mean, how is being called a Disney princess a bad thing?  But sometimes . . . Sometimes I thought, if I had blonde hair or black hair or brown, then they couldn't say such things—except they would have anyway.  If they want to make fun of someone, it doesn't just stop if you change something.  And I tried to keep all of that inside.  Ma . . . She said it was because I never tried to keep my hair neat, but . . . But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I can't help but to see what they saw, and I wonder . . . If I had tried harder to tell Ma or Da, would I see things differently now . . .?"

He considered that for a moment, then he chuckled softly, quietly—a sound so very different from any of the other versions she'd heard before.   "And you think that if I . . . told you everything, that I'd see things differently?"

She shrugged.  "Maybe."

He sighed.  "Well, I can tell you one thing that I see differently."

"What's that?"

"You," he replied quietly, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Me?"

He nodded.  "You're none of those things, you know.  You're . . . You're beautiful.  I've told you that.  You really ought to believe it."

She sighed.  "It's much easier to believe the bad things."

He didn't reply, but the look on his face . . .

He understood, and he agreed with her . . .