InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Headway ( Chapter 54 )

Frowning thoughtfully as he clicked to send the email, Ashur rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the list of unopened emails that he had yet to look through.  Somehow, he had absolutely zero motivation to open even one of them, knowing damn well that they were just more of the same: more welcoming of the new general, blah blah blah . . .

In fact, the only email he had opened was the one he'd just replied to: a horse breeder near Galway, Ireland, whose specialty was the gypsy cob.  Looking to buy a couple from them, maybe get recommendations for others who bred them, too . . . For some reason, he had a feeling that Jessa would really enjoy breeding the animals she loved so much, so he figured he'd see about surprising her with a few to start with as breeding stock.

He sighed, flopping back in the chair as he scowled at nothing in particular and everything in general. In the just over two days since she'd so unceremoniously left, Ashur was relatively sure that things couldn't be any worse. As if the emptiness in the very air of the mansion weren't bad enough, Kells had barely said more than a handful of words to him since, and the child flat-out refused to let Ashur into his room to tuck him into bed or to read him a book.  He'd barely mumbled 'goodbye' when Ashur had dropped him off at preschool an hour ago, for that matter . . . As though the boy seemed to believe that Jessa's disappearance was Ashur's fault, he stomped around the house when he was home, and last night, he'd put himself to bed around six o'clock, and he never tried to climb into bed with Ashur this morning.  Then he'd proceeded to insist that he wanted to take his shower alone.  Ashur had compromised by sitting on the sink counter to make sure Kells didn't drown or anything . . .

Then, too, it hadn't actually helped matters any when he'd caught Kells, trying his hardest to climb the dresser to get to the drawer where Ashur had stashed the pendant Jessa gave him.  Considering Kells' apparent one-track mind, Ashur wasn't about to hand it back to the child when he knew damn well that he'd only break it in an effort to bring Jessa home sooner, not that Ashur truly could fault him for that.  He missed her pretty fiercely himself . . .

So, he'd moved the pendant into the safe hidden behind one of the panels here in his study.  He had every intention of giving it back, of course, but at the rate things were going, it wouldn't be until well after Jessa came home . . .

If the next week and a half was going to be anything like this?

Ashur sighed.

And just why hadn't she called?

Uttering a terse snort, Ashur grabbed his phone and checked to see if he'd missed any texts or calls—highly unlikely, given that he'd had the device sitting right beside him the entire time.  Nothing, of course, and he rubbed his face in an exasperated kind of way.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the phone rang in his hands, and he very nearly dropped it as he stared at it in dumbfounded surprise.  Heart slamming hard against his ribcage—just why it would do that when it was nothing more than a phone call—he swallowed hard as he blinked at the caller ID.

Then he sighed.  "Manami," he greeted, unable to summon even the vaguest hint of pleasure at the woman's horrific timing.

"Morning, Ashur.  I got your message.  Tell me what I can do for you . . ."

Shoving back the irritation that it was Manami calling and not Jessa, he sighed, rubbing his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb.  "Yeah, I was wondering if you were planning on going to the benefit gala?  I would have asked Ben, but he's in Japan with Charity right now—her cousin died, so Sierra's having a pretty rough time . . ."

"Charity's cousin?  Human, no?"

"Yeah.  I mean, I don't know that Sierra actually met him since it'd be a little hard to explain, why she looks the way she does, but she kept tabs on them all, I guess . . . Anyway, Ben said that she's understandably upset by it all, and Charity wanted to go home to spend some time with her . . ."

"I see," she said.  "That's too bad about the cousin . . . Even if they didn't really know them, it would still be a difficult loss . . . As for the gala, I was invited, but if you need me, I think I'd much rather drive up and maybe spend a bit of time with Kells, instead.  I take it you're going to bring Jessa along for the festivities . . ."

Ashur grunted.  "Actually, she's already there.  Myrna invited her to stay with her for a couple weeks—a vacation."

"Oh, that sounds like fun!  I'm sure she's having the time of her life!  Myrna does love to play—understandable when she works so hard most of the time . . . They're probably having a ball, clubbing and shopping and all of that fun stuff . . ."

Scowling at Manami's choice of phrases, Ashur grunted.  "It's just for a couple weeks," he muttered, unsure if he was trying to reassure Manami or himself . . .

She laughed.  "I'm sure she misses you terribly," Manami stated.  "You know, if you have anything else you need to take care of, I'd be more than happy to come up sooner and spend time with my darling little Kells!"

"I was just going to bring him down with me.  I really don't want to inconvenience you.  I'd skip the dinner and gala if I thought I could, but since Gin's hosting the dinner in my honor, as it were . . .

Manami giggled and clucked her tongue.  "One must never decline the invitation of the tai-youkai's wife, and honestly, I love spending time with Kells."

Heaving a sigh, he reached for the long, gorgeous length of Jessa's hair that she'd cut off and left for him.  Letting it fall through his fingers, as he frowned at it, he smoothed it, over and over again, drawing in a deep breath as the scent of her infiltrated his nostrils.  "Thanks . . ."

"I tell you what: I have a few things that I need to see to, so I can't leave now, but I'll drive up tomorrow."

"If you're sure you don't mind . . . I mean, it wouldn't be an issue to bring him along."

"Don't be silly!  Besides, you would have to take him out of school for a time, and that's no good.  I'm coming up there.  That's final."

"Okay, you win."

She laughed.  "Of course, I do.  Now I need to get things done, then pack, so, I'll see you tomorrow, Ashur."

He smiled just a little as the line went dead, and he heaved a sigh.  He didn't actually have anything else going on in the city, though he had called his tailor just after he'd talked to Cain to order a new tux, but he'd indicated that he'd really rather that Ashur come in to be re-measured since it'd been over a year since the last time.

The chime of the doorbell interrupted his musings, though, and Ashur slowly stood up.  He knew who it was.  What he didn't know was exactly what kind of answers he was about to get . . .

Jessa stared out the window at the falling rain.  It was rather ironic and fit her mood quite nicely, and she sighed, drawing up her knees as she leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass.  It did nothing for the burgeoning headache that she'd been harboring all day, but she stared outside, eyes reflecting the droplets of water, dripping down the glass.  There was something entirely symbiotic about it: the rain, the damp, the chill . . .

Two days.

Two days since she'd boarded the plane and flew away from Ashur, away from Kells.  Two days that felt like a lifetime . . . like she couldn't really breathe . . .

Waking up in the morning was all right, at least, until she remembered.  Then the ache would return with a vengeance, so thick, so heavy that it left her reeling, bereft, and even just a little annoyed that no one understood, that no one could see it in her face, and maybe she was decent at covering it up, but somehow, she just didn't think that was the case . . .

And yet, she didn't want anyone to look at her, to know just what she was thinking, what she was feeling.  Having perfect strangers, or worse, Myrna, looking at her?  Feeling sorry for her?  No, she really didn't want that, at all.

Even so, a part of her had to wonder whether or not anything really mattered, at all . . .

Last night, Myrna had talked her into going out with her and a friend on a blind date with another of her friends, and Jessa had hated every minute of it.  Dinner at a very nice restaurant and a quaint little jazz club in SoHo with a man who was very kind, very nice, very eager—and entirely boring . . . Entirely . . . 'Not . . . Ashur . . .'

The worst part of it all was the vast emptiness that she couldn’t shake.  Walking down the street with Myrna yesterday as the two had gone out to do some shopping, more than once, she'd spotted someone—tall, perhaps, with the flash of golden-brown hair—and when she'd looked again, the bitter disappointment was almost more than she could bear.

'You ken, it's not too late to go back,' her youkai-voice that had been strangely quiet the last couple days, said.  'If you told Myrna you'd rather go back, it's not like she'd say, 'no' . . .'

Just those words were enough to send her hopes soaring, despite her own resolve not to do any such thing.  It was impossibly cruel, wasn't it?  To be the one to have to tell herself that, no, she really, really couldn't.  As difficult as it was right now, wouldn't it be far worse if she went back?  If she stayed with him because it was where she wanted to be, even if he . . .

Even if he didn't really care . . .

'Maybe . . . Maybe that's why they call it a crush . . .'

Somewhere in the distance, the phone rang, and Jessa sighed, letting her chin fall onto her raised knees.

The awful truth of it was that Ashur hadn't ever really given her anything to hold onto, not really.  He'd given her jewels and money and . . . and things, but . . . but those things didn't mean anything, not when he'd only given them to her to pay for services rendered . . .

'Is that what you really believe, lass?  Don't you think you might well be selling him a little bit short?'

She grimaced.  'No, I . . . I don't think so . . .'

A curt knock on her door made her jump, and she turned her face just as Myrna peeked into the bedroom with a strange look on her face.  "It's for you," she said, holding out the phone, covering the microphone with her hand.  "It's Ian MacDonnough."

Jessa frowned, but untangled her legs as she got to her feet.  She crossed the floor and started to reach out, but Myrna pulled the receiver back.  "If you don't want to talk to him, I'll be more than happy to tell him so," she said.

Jessa smiled wanly, but took the phone anyway, waiting until Myrna wrinkled her nose as she stepped out of the room once more before she lifted it to her ear.  "Hello?"

"Lady O'Shea.  This is Ian MacDonnough.  You're a very difficult young woman to get a hold of . . ."

"My apologies, Lord MacDonnough . . . Is there something I can do for you?"

He chuckled.  For some reason, it almost sounded menacing.  "On the contrary.  It's something I can do for you."

Shaking her head, she frowned.  "I . . . I don't understand . . ."

He sighed, quite possibly for dramatic effect.  "I've been looking over your documentation, and I think I've found a way to end the difficulties I've had in signing over your estate.  As you know, your father failed to file a will before his untimely passing, which, according to the laws of the peerage, means that you should inherit everything.  However, according to our laws, the majority of his estate, since he didn't specify in a will that you should inherit that, must sit in escrow until such time that you marry.  As a favor to you, I've found a suitable mate for you: Hughbert Kingston, Viscount of Knightsboro—the son and heir of Duke Portsmouth.  If you agree to the marriage, then everything will be handled forthwith."

She frowned.  "But everything will be turned over to . . . to him," she said.  "I wouldn't have access to my own estate . . ."

"Well, that is incidental, really.  I would imagine that as long as you please your mate, that he would be more than happy to allow you some access.  Besides, do you really want to be encumbered by the running of your estates?  Tedious work, really . . ."

"But . . . I should have a say in it," she reiterated.  "I'm sorry, Lord MacDonnough.  I'm not interested in marrying someone I've never even met before."

Ian chuckled politely, but there was no amusement in the sound.  "As it stands, I feel that it's prudent to warn you that your mating—your marriage—must be approved by me because of your extraordinary circumstances.  When you change your mind, Lady O'Shea, do give me a call back."

The line went dead, and Jessa bit her lip, shuffling out of her room and down the hallway.

"So, what did he want?" Myrna asked, the scowl on her face speaking volumes about her feelings on Ian MacDonnough.

"To sell me," she muttered, dropping the receiver back into the base.  "The nerve . . ."

"Sell you?"

Jessa snorted, glowering at the phone as though it had offended her.  "Told me that he'd release my estate to—my husband—if I agreed to marry the man he chose, and then he went on to say that he has final approval over my mating—my mating—because Da didn't leave a will . . ."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Myrna growled, rising to her feet, reaching for the phone.  "Oh, I'm going to call that ball-less bastard back and let him know exactly what he can do with his threats—"

Jessa reached out to stop her with a heavy sigh.  "No, Myrna, it's fine.  I'll not agree to marry someone just to get the estate released.  It wouldn't matter, anyway, since I'd have no say over it, regardless—my husband would."

Myrna snorted.  "Yeah, well, we'll see about that.  I'm calling Cain.  There's no way he'll stand for this . . ."

Jessa sighed and shook her head as she started back down the hallway toward her room again.  She just wanted to be alone—to be alone, and to stop thinking, stop worrying, stop pining . . . The headache she was nursing had suddenly blossomed into a full-out symphony of pain . . .

Ashur took his time, pouring two snifters of cognac, before handing one to Devlin and sitting on the chair diagonally from the sofa.  He'd called him earlier to ask him to come by.  There were just too many questions, and, if Ashur had his way, Devlin was going to answer them.  The only problem he could see was that, whatever Devlin's true story was, he was very good at hiding it, and if he'd gone that far to cover up things, then just how willing would he be to admit to anything . . .?

Narrowing his gaze as he stared at the Brit, jaw shifting to the side as he sucked in a cheek, he frowned.

Devlin sighed, dragging a hand rather lazily through his hair.  "You want to know what I am," he said, as though it was a foregone conclusion.  He didn't seem surprised.  If anything, he seemed like he believed that the question was inevitable.

"Okay, then what are you?  I mean, I take it that you saved Kells and me, and yet, it wasn't some kind of anti-venom or antidote.  If it was, it would have been much rougher.  Am I right?"

The look Devlin gave him was little more than a lifting of his eyes without moving his head as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands dangling limply between after he drained his drink and set the glass heavily on the coffee table.  The grey tee-shirt and rather worn jeans that made up his attire seemed completely at odds with the strange sort of glint in Devlin's gaze, as though he were trying to make up his mind about . . . something . . . "Can I trust you, Ashur?" he finally asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the man that he never made promises that he wasn't sure he could keep, but he knew, didn't he, that if he didn't give his word to keep whatever Devlin was going to say a secret that he wouldn't say anything at all.  "You can," he agreed.

Devlin sat back, or rather, flopped back, letting out a deep breath as he hit the back of the sofa.  "We've hidden it . . . my whole life," he explained in an almost apologetic sort of tone.  "My mother's family, you see . . . They were all killed when she was an infant—burned alive, the lot of them, along with a couple hundred others, most of whom were targeted out of vendetta or for happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  They called it the Salem Witch Trials."

Ashur blinked, unable to keep the hint of derision out of his voice.  "Your mother's people . . . were . . . witches?"

"Bloody hell," Devlin grouched.  "Ain't no such thing as witches, Ash.  You know that well enough, don't you?  My mother's family were the last of them—some, anyway.  Not everyone was, but they were guilty by association, too.  Mum was saved by her aunt, who ran away with her before she could be captured, too.  She promised my grandmother."  He shrugged.  "My aunt is different, though.  She was a stoat-youkai, just like my grandmother was.  Mum took after her father's side, and I . . . I did, too . . ."

"Stoat-youkai are fairly common," Ashur remarked, standing to retrieve Devlin's glass since he looked like he could use another drink.

"They are," Devlin agreed.  "My father knew what Mum was the moment he saw her, so he arranged to have her as his mate—paid my aunt a fair bit of gold . . ."

"So . . . the white hair?  The green eyes?  That's what you really look like, isn't it?" Ashur asked as he handed the refilled drink over and sat back down.

Devlin stared at him for a long moment, draining the glass for the second time and setting it aside, as though he were trying to make up his mind.  In the end, he gave a succinct nod and removed his concealment.  "I'm a light-youkai," he said.

Ashur blinked, stared, shook his head as though to refute Devlin's outrageous claim.  "No . . . I mean, that's not possible.  The light-youkai . . . They're extinct."

"As far as I know, Mum and I . . . We're the last of them, yes."

Ashur scowled, trying to make sense of what Devlin had said.  Anything he'd ever heard about light-youkai was vague, most of it little more than legend and myth.  He thought he remembered, reading before that the light-youkai had been driven to extinction by hunting.  Some had heard that they could harness the powers of the light-youkai by eating their hearts, still warm from their bodies, and they were pursued relentlessly by both humans and youkai, alike.  Add to that, the fact that they were said to have been a recessive form, born only one time to a pair of mates—unless both mates were either recessive or both the same, and it wasn't entirely surprising that they had been lost to the annals of history and lore—except, apparently, for two of them . . .

"A light-youkai . . ." he mused.  "You really did heal us, then . . ."

Devlin slowly nodded.  "I . . ." He grimaced.  "It was Kells, and when Irish called, she was . . . It was a blood-viper-youkai.  There's no antidote on earth that can effectively counter their venom," he went on.  "I could tell from the bite wound.  The fangs are farther apart than any of the other vipers.  I saw it once on a falcon that I found on my father's estate back home . . ."  He let out a deep breath, grimaced again.  "It was Kells," he reiterated.  "Irish loves that boy more than . . . more than just about anything . . . and then, it was you, too . . ."

Ashur grunted. "Thanks for that," he replied, draining his snifter.  "But . . . if it's so dangerous for others to find out about you—about what you are—why are you here?  I mean, why not stay in England where you're relatively safe?  I take it that, if your father knows what your mother is, then isn't he trying to protect the both of you?"

Devlin chuckled, but the sound didn't actually seem amused in the least.  Standing abruptly, he held his hand out for Ashur's empty glass before ambling over to refill them again.  "Oh, he . . . he does," he muttered, his tone drier than usual.  "I . . . I chose to leave, and I didn't tell him that I was, either.  Mum caught me and begged me to bring her with me, and what could I really say to that?  She is my mum, after all . . ."

"Chose to leave?" Ashur echoed, accepting the refilled snifter.  "Why?"

This time, Devlin sighed as he plopped back down on the sofa and downed the contents of the glass for the third time.  "He was trying to arrange my marriage," he admitted.  "I told him that I wouldn't marry her, regardless of who she was, and he said that I would or that he'd make me, which is . . . ludicrous, actually . . ."

"Arranged . . . marriage . . ." Ashur repeated, the wheels in his head slowing to a snail's pace as he slowly, slowly shook his head.  "To who?"

Devlin shrugged.  "I don't know.  I didn't stick around to find out, if you want the truth."

Ashur grunted.  "Who . . . Who's your father?"  Devlin shot him a chagrined sort of look, and Ashur shook his head.  "I'm not going to tell him.  I just . . . I need to know."

Devlin seemed to think about that for a few seconds, claws clinking idly against the crystal snifter in his hands.  Ashur supposed that he could understand Devlin's reticence, especially since he'd gone to such lengths to get away from his father, in the first place.  Even so . . .  "I trust you," he finally said, leveling another serious look at Ashur.  "His name is Carl Kingston—the Duke of Portsmouth—if you want his formal title."