InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Preoccupation ( Chapter 55 )

"His name is Carl Kingston—the Duke of Portsmouth—if you want his formal title."

Ashur stared at Devlin, almost dumbfounded, for a moment.  "Your father . . . is Carl Kingston—the same Carl Kingston who is trying to make you marry Jessa . . .?"

It was Devlin's turn to stare, his snifter of cognac poised just below his lips.  He blinked once, twice, then suddenly, barked out a terse laugh.  "Sorry.  Could've sworn you just said that my father wants me to marry Irish . . ."

"I did say that," he stated.

Devlin shook his head.  "Yeah, that won't be happening.  Don't get me wrong, absolutely adore the gel, but . . . but she's like my younger sister, and . . . I mean, if I had younger a sister, then I imagine that it'd be the same feeling, and there's no way on earth I'd mate a girl like that . . . We'd end up, giggling nervously on our wedding night, afraid to look at each other's bits, so that's not good . . ."

Ashur failed to see the amusement that Devlin apparently did, given the situation.  "Somehow, I have the feeling that he doesn't actually give a great goddamn if you want to or not," he growled.

Devlin snorted.  "Be that as it may, he can't really force me to mate or marry anyone, even if he thinks he can.  At present, he's just trying to get me to come home by attempting to cut off my access to funds, which doesn't work a'tall, since I have the money my great aunt left me—the money he paid for Mum, actually—that has done nothing but gain interest and grow to outlandish proportions since my great aunt died a century ago."

"But you're not nearly that old."

He nodded.  "True, but she found out things about my father after he'd suckered her into allowing his marriage to Mum, and then, she set up her money in trust for Mum's light-born—me—before she died."  He turned a little thoughtful and gave a curt shrug.  "Mum always thought it was strange, the way my aunt died.  I don't know the particulars, but she doesn't like to talk about it—almost like she's afraid of something . . ."

Ashur digested that in silence, though he'd be lying if he tried to say that he cared, one way or the other, about Devlin's deceased aunt . . . "So, if your father's a duke, why in the hell does he want access to Jessa's estate?  Is he broke or something?"

"Good God, no!" Devlin exclaimed rather dryly as he tossed back the cognac and set the glass on the table.  "He's got more money than he knows what to do with—and he's constantly lording that over all of us, too.  He's doubtless informed his people to let him know the very second I try to access any of it, which is why I've gone and checked into a few places around the world—just enough to keep him looking where I'm not . . . But he knows nothing about my inheritance, so that money's safe from his all-knowing eyes."

Ashur shook his head, wondering if he really ought to say what was going through his head.  On the one hand, Devlin hadn't given them any reason not to trust him, but questioning the things that were forefront in Ashur's mind . . . Well, he wasn't entirely sure that he knew how the light-youkai would take it . . . "Dev . . . is your father capable of murder?"

He wasn't entirely sure, what kind of reaction he expected from Devlin.  He supposed, if he were to stop and consider it, he might have thought he'd react with a measure of disbelief, maybe even some level of hostility, for daring to imply such a thing.  As it was, however, Devlin sat back, shot Ashur what could only be described as a rueful kind of half-smile, half-wince, as he gave a curt shrug and sighed.  "Isn't anyone capable of murder, given the right impetus?" he countered quietly.  "As for . . . him . . .?" Slowly, deliberately, lifting his gaze, meeting Ashur's with an understated sense of sadness, of weariness, Devlin pressed his lips together for a moment.  "He killed my aunt, Ash.  I should think that speaks volumes."

"I thought you said—"

"I'm not stupid, you know?  I can fully interpret what my mother refused to say.  I don't know why or any of the actual details, but I know—I can tell—that Mum absolutely believes that my father had something to do with it, so . . . Do I think he's capable of murder?  I know he is.  Why do you ask?"

Rubbing his forehead, he scowled at the floor before bracing himself on his knees and pushing himself to his feet.  "The accident report on Jessa's mother's car . . . There's something weird about it all, and her father swore that it was no accident . . ." he ventured as he retrieved Devlin's glass and refilled the two snifters.

"What?"

Ashur handed Devlin back his glass before settling into his chair once more.  "There's reason to believe that the gas lines were tampered with.  The annual inspection report is missing, but Bas found out that the guy who had done the inspection to start with, indicated that there wasn't a thing wrong with the lines when he'd checked the car mere days before the accident occurred.  Her parents knew of the offer for her hand, but they'd refused on her behalf, and then her mother started trying to find her a mate . . . It's like they knew something was going on, and they were doing their best to stop it before anything happened . . ."

"And . . . And you think my father had something to do with this," Devlin concluded quietly, then he grimaced.  "Of course, you do . . . Damn . . ."

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Dev.  I thought you ought to know.  I mean, you . . . you care about Jessa, too, and . . ."

Shooting to his feet, he paced the length of the living room and back a few times before he finally stopped, before he finally pivoted on his heel to face Ashur once more.  "I'm going home," he stated flatly.

"Okay, um . . . Can we talk in a day or two?"  He sighed.  "I wasn't trying to dump all of this on you.  I just thought—"

"No, I mean, back to England," he said.  "I'm going to find out from him—Everything."

Shooting to his feet, he strode after Devlin as he stomped toward the doorway, grabbing his shoulder to stop him.  "Wait . . . I appreciate that you want answers.  We all do, but if you go walking in there, asking questions . . . He could turn on you, too, just as easily, couldn't he?"

Devlin snorted.  "I'm not afraid of that sad old bastard," he insisted.

Ashur shook his head.  "Yeah, well, can you even fight?  Not that I'm trying to insult you, but . . . can you?"

Devlin opened his mouth to reply, but snapped it closed as a rather telling flush surfaced in his cheeks.  "Not for lack of trying," he grumbled.  "My father wouldn't kill me," he maintained stubbornly.  "I'm too valuable."

Ashur crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly and shook his head again.  "I'd rather not find out for sure, Dev."

Devlin looked entirely put upon for a moment, then shook his head and sighed.  "You know, you almost sounded like you like me there . . ."

"Jessa likes you, therefore, I tolerate you."

Devlin rubbed his forehead, but he did stride around Ashur, only to flop onto the sofa once more.  "Irish . . ." he mused.  "You're going after her, aren't you?"

Ashur grunted as he stalked back over and took up the empty snifters once more.  "She's fine, I'm sure."

"You're . . . sure . . .?  You mean, she hasn't called you."

Frowning at Devlin's statement—it wasn't a question—he turned on his heel to face the light-youkai.  "How do you know?"

Devlin stood up, came around to take his snifter from Ashur's slack hand.  He seemed to be considering something, and then, he sighed.  "She's not coming back, you know."

Ashur narrowed his gaze.  "She's . . . She's on vacation; that's all."

Devlin drained his snifter, set it on the wetbar.  "Actually, she's not," he admitted.  "Can't you feel it?  It's your house, and even I can feel it—the emptiness.  If you don't believe me, check her room."  Patting Ashur on the shoulder, he turned to leave again.  "Give me a call if you have any more questions," he called back as he opened the door and stepped outside.

Ashur scowled at the closed door, draining his drink before slamming the glass onto the counter, before striding through the living room and up the stairs.  No, he hadn't gone into her room, not since she'd left, and why?  Afraid that the feel of her things, the smell of her that lived in that room . . . Maybe he should have checked days ago . . .

Stopping at the closed door, he slowly reached out, but jerked his hand back.  Something about it felt just a little too foreboding, didn't it?  A little . . .

Drawing a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever truths he might find if he opened that door, he slowly reached out and grasped the handle . . .

Frowning at the over-flounced, over-ruffled, over-princess-ed dress Myrna had immediately pulled off the rack when they'd entered the ridiculously over-priced shop that seemed to cater to girls and women who suffered from princess complexes and sugar plum fairy dreams, Jessa slowly but curtly shook her head.  The one that Myrna was currently trying to get her to try on looked like an upside-down flower in very pale shades of pink and reminded Jessa of the kind of dresses that her mother had always tried to force upon her . . .

"Myrna, would you wear that?" Jessa asked, knowing the answer before she even uttered the question.

Myrna raised an eyebrow.  "I'm a little too old for something like this," she mused.

Jessa sighed.  "I'd rather look for something a little less . . ."  She trailed off, unable to think of a good way to put it.  "Anyway, you said it was a dinner party, didn't you?  So, isn't that a little impractical for something like that?"

"But you'd look so sweet in it!" Myrna insisted.

Jessa shook her head.  "I'll try it on if you do, too."

Myrna opened her mouth to argue with her, then snapped it shut and sighed.  "All right, you win," she muttered, jamming the dress back onto the rack where she'd found it, much to Jessa's relief.

"Why are we going to this thing, anyway?" she asked as she moved off to look at a different rack of less ridiculous evening gowns.

Myrna sighed as she looked through a rack next to Jessa.  "Because Gin Zelig asked me, and you cannot say no to that particular woman."

"Because she's the tai-youkai's wife?"

Myrna snorted.  "Nope, because she's ridiculously cute, almost disgustingly sweet—so sweet that if you say no to her, you can't help but feel like an ass—not just part of the ass, either—the whole damn enchilada.  I think it's her super power . . ."

Jessa almost smiled.  "That bad?"

"You've met her, haven't you?   She's hanyou, you know?  So, she has these cute little puppy ears, and if you say no, she flattens them—like, straight out to the sides—both sides.  It's horrible!  I tell you, that woman is far more formidable than her mate and her son, combined . . . If you even think about declining her personal invitation, you feel like this fifty-foot ogre, stomping on her dreams—or clipping her fairy wings, whichever . . ."

Jessa's lips twitched.  "And that's why you agreed to go?  But why do I have to?  I mean, it sounds rather boring, if you ask me . . . A bunch of stuffy people, hobnobbing with a bunch of other stuffier people in a gorgeous, I'm sure, but very stuffy formal ballroom or something . . ."

Myrna sighed.  "Because I mentioned that you were staying with me for a little while, figuring I could use you as an excuse, right?  Wrong, and you know why?  Because she wants to spend more time with a real lady!'"  She narrowed her gaze on Jessa for added emphasis.  "You cannot destroy her dreams, Lady O'Shea . . ."

Jessa gasped.  "Oh, you didn't . . ."

She nodded slowly.  "Totally did."

Jessa sighed, too.

Staring around Jessa's empty bedroom with a scowl on his face, his arms crossed over his chest, Ashur hesitated before stepping into the room, sensing yet again, that almost cloying emptiness that lived in the rest of the house, too, only here, in this place where she'd spent far more time, that same sense was . . .

'It's . . . overwhelming, isn't it . . .?'

Everything was in order, everything was neat, tidy, almost eerily so.  The dresser with the shining mirror . . . The curtains over the French doors that she'd so carefully drawn back, caught up in the fabric ties . . . The bed that looked like she'd never touched it, never laid in it . . . A surge of memory, of the first time they'd made love, flashed through his head, but it was tinged with a sadness, a sense of finality that wasn't there at the time . . .

It took a minute for him to understand, just what it was he felt, and when he did, he winced, biting his cheek hard as he slumped against the door frame.  It was the sense that it was . . . was over, wasn't it . . .?  That Jessa . . .

Dragging his gaze off the bed, he started to glance over the nightstand, only to stop, to shift his eyes back.  Pushing away from the frame, he strode forward, picked up her phone.  She'd left it behind on purpose, and all the calls, all the texts he'd sent her . . .

She hadn't gotten a damn one of them, and he groaned, lifting the phone, letting it rest against his forehead.

Just what the hell was going on?

A sudden thought occurred to him, and before he could question it, he strode over, threw open her closet door, blinked at the clothes—even her riding clothes—all hung so neatly inside, with a small gap, a sad-looking mass of empty hangers.  Every bit of the clothing inside, he'd bought for her—the dress he'd bought for the dinner cruise, the one she'd worn to the theatre, the one she'd worn out to dinner with him . . .

Slamming the door shut, he stomped to the dresser, yanked open the drawers.  It was the same—everything he'd ever given her: she'd left it all behind, including the earrings, the other jewelry . . .

But . . . But why . . .?

"She thinks she's . . . convenient, Ash."

Turning at the sound of that voice, Ashur narrowed his eyes on Devlin where he stood in the open doorway, an inscrutable look in his eyes.

He shrugged.  "I forgot my phone," he explained, digging it out of his pocket and shaking it for added emphasis.

"What do you know?" Ashur asked quietly.

Devlin sighed.  "She . . . She didn't want me to tell you.  She didn't want me to tell you a damn thing, so . . ." Cocking his head to the side, shaking his long bangs out of his face, he seemed to be considering his options, and, in the end, he sighed.  "I'll tell you what I know if you'll answer one question—just one."

Jaw ticking as he struggled to keep a lid on his rapidly spiraling irritation, Ashur nodded once.  "Okay."

Stepping past him and into the bright bedroom, Devlin wandered over, touched the lace doily where the music box used to sit.  "How do you feel about her?  About Irish?"

Erupting in a low growl, Ashur gritted his teeth.  "Isn't it obvious?" he countered.

"Would I be asking if it were?  Humor me, will you?"

Tamping down the desire to light into Devlin on sheer principle, Ashur had to count to twenty-five before answering.  "I . . . I care about her—a lot," he muttered, refusing to acknowledge anything more—not to anyone other than Jessa.

"Surely you can do better than that, Ashur," Devlin goaded.

"That's all you need to know," he growled.

Devlin nodded.  "Then I will assume that your true feelings run a bit deeper than what you just told me."

Ashur didn't agree or deny the assertion, and Devlin nodded again.

"Didn't take anything with her that you gave her, did she?"

'Twenty-six . . . twenty-seven . . . twenty-eight . . .' Ashur cleared his throat.  "No, she . . . She didn't . . ."

Devlin shrugged—an offhanded kind of bob of his shoulders.  "Did you notice?  That music box is gone.  You gave her that, right?  For her birthday, she said . . ."

Frown deepening as he realized that Devlin was right, he shook his head, unable to make sense of that.  Why?  Why would she take that, but leave everything else . . .?

"She told me . . ." Devlin went on, his ambivalence coming through in his tone, and he sighed.  "She said you gave her things after you . . . after you were intimate, like . . . payment—her words, not mine.  All those things felt dirty to her, and after the things she heard you say, she—"

"Things?  What things?" Ashur growled, tamping down the urge to light into Devlin.

"The day you left," he replied.  If he noticed the hostility, fairly radiating off of Ashur, he gave no indication.  "She overheard you on the phone.  You said some . . . things that weren't very complimentary."

He grunted, temper spiraling fast out of his control.  "Of course, I did!  It was that bastard, Mormount!  Was I supposed to tell him something different?  Give him the impetus to come after her?  Damn it, why didn't she tell me?"

"Oh, come now, Ashur!  Surely you don't have to ask that, given what I've told you!  Do you forget?  She's eighteen years old—just a child—one who has spent her life, being scorned and ridiculed by her peers—one who lost the only family she had—one who never, ever realized just who she was or what value she has as a woman because she's never been a woman before—not in a way that would reinforce her own confidence . . ." Turning on his heel, he leveled a baleful glower at Ashur, light green eyes flashing, almost glowing, in the light filtering through the French doors.  "She came to you, a child.  You turned her into a woman for yourself, but you never, ever taught her how to be one outside of the bedroom . . . Now, my question for you, Ashur, is, what the hell are you going to do about it?"