InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Vault ( Chapter 76 )

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

"Your parents seemed to have liked having portraits done," Ashur remarked as he and Jessa wandered down one of the wide hallways on the lower level of the castle.  Very large paintings lined the walls at distinct intervals, all arranged in what seemed to be chronological order, starting with the portrait of Orlaith and Niall's wedding in a huge cathedral where they stood on the steps leading up to the raised dais with the train of her wedding gown, arranged around their feet, while her father wore very strict and rather uncomfortable-looking clothes that, Ashur supposed, were quite appropriate, given the era in which they married.

The other ones, for the most part, seemed to have been done, perhaps a century removed from the previous one, at least, until they reached Jessa's birth.  The first one of those wasn't much more than a vague infant, swaddled in an impossibly ornate blanket that looked like it might be lace, but she wore a frilly little bonnet that effectively covered any hair she might have had.

She made a face.  "Ma said that the man she commissioned to do that one refused to paint it unless my hair was covered," she admitted softly, reaching out to finger the dried canvas.  "It's why Da's hair is clubbed back, too . . ."

"Because you have your father's hair . . ."

She nodded slowly.  "He mostly wore it back, though, and who would dare say anything to the marquess, anyway . . .?"

"Oh, now, that one . . ." Ashur chuckled, stopping before the next portrait.  This one was of her parents, of course, standing stoically, stiffly, with a very tiny Jessa in her mother's arms, her hair in full-bounce, framing that tiny face.  She couldn't be more than a year old or so in the image, captured so meticulously by the deft artist's hand, right down to the sparkle in her eyes, the slight hint of rose in her cheeks, in her tiny little mouth . . . Dressed like a little, living doll, she was, all turned out in yards of lace and ivory satin, her sash hanging down over her mother's arm . . .

Jessa laughed softly.  "Ma said that I threw a fit that day.  One of the stable cats had babies, and I wanted to see them, not stand to pose for a painting . . ."

The paintings continued on, only taking about a year interval between until she entered her teenage years.  Ashur's smile faded, though, the farther he moved on down the hallway.  None of them were ever smiling, and he supposed that maybe it was done that way on purpose.  Even so, that darkness that he'd seen in Jessa's eyes at the very beginning . . . It wasn't just there because she'd lost her family, was it?  No, it was there, long before that, and that . . . He didn't like it at all . . .

Just how long had she carried that kind of feeling around?  He'd heard the stories from Nora, knew her history well enough, but seeing the proof of it for himself, spread over years—a lifetime—in paintings?  It was brutal, and yet, he knew well enough that she'd hate it if he were to feel sorry for her, too.  All he really could do was to vow to himself that she would never, ever have a reason to feel that way, ever again . . .

She said nothing else, though, as they kept wandering along the hallway, but then, she'd grown up, seeing these paintings, and maybe she'd managed to separate herself from them slightly, and that made the difference to her.  Then again, he supposed that the portraits themselves were more of the old kind of works—the ones where people rarely smiled.  Still . . .

"Da has picture albums in the study," she ventured as they drew closer to the door at the end of the long hallway.  "If you want to see them, that is . . ."

He managed a little smile, just for her, and she returned it without seeming to notice the irritation in his own expression that he was trying to hide.  "More baby pictures of you, I hope?"

She laughed.  "Too many, if you ask me."

"Is there such a thing?" he teased, only feeling about half of it.

Reaching for the door handles, she paused a moment.  Maybe she was remembering her father, maybe she was simply gathering her own thoughts.  He wasn't sure, but he could feel her reluctance, a hint of ambivalence, and he reached out to give her just a little squeeze, just a bit of encouragement, and she drew a deep breath and swung the doors open.

Ashur stepped over the threshold, instantly engulfed by the scent of rich hardwood, of a certain dustiness that accompanied old tomes, of dried fountain pen ink and that slightly muted scent of wax candles . . . An underlying spice—something warm and inviting . . .

Jessa stepped past him, holding up a hand to ignite the fire on the huge hearth, illuminating everything with a toasty light in the otherwise darkish chamber.  Grey stone walls, darkened wood trim, a rather worn but entirely exquisite Persian rug that covered most of the floor that was still entirely vibrant, likely because the light that did filter through the scant windows didn't venture far into the room.

A crisp knock on the heavy oak door echoed in the quiet.  Before Ashur could get turned around, though, the door opened, and Nora let herself in with a polished wood tray, complete with a delicate, bone china tea service, hand painted with tiny sprays of autumn leaves and flowers, and an array of scones, breads, and an assortment of jams and such.  The older woman smiled and inclined her head to the two of them, gliding over to slip the tea tray onto the coffee table and stepping back again.  "Shall I serve you both?" she asked pleasantly.

Jessa reached up, touched the heavy, gold gilt framed portrait hanging over the fireplace mantle—a great slab of solid oak, darkened with age and the proximity to the fire that danced below.  The painting was of people Ashur didn't recognize—maybe her grandparents?  He wasn't sure.  "The vault is behind here?" she asked, still running her fingertips over the frame.

Nora laughed.  "Nay, child!  That would be a bit too easy, don't you think?  After all, that would be the rather obvious place, wouldn’t it?  There's a safe there, of course, but the family vault isn't there . . ."

Jessa frowned as she turned to face Nora.  "Then where . . .?"

Nora nodded, stepping toward a bookshelf against the far wall, beckoning Jessa to follow her.  She stopped before the floor-to-ceiling shelf, and she pointed at an obsidian statue that looked like dancing flames.  "Touch that and infuse your youki into it.  That should release the lock."

She shot Nora a questioning glance, but did as she'd instructed.  With a loud groan, the angled wall beside the shelf slid back slowly, and Ashur nodded to himself as the small room behind was revealed.

That room looked like it meshed perfectly into this one, and with the sliding panel pocketed into the wall, it was hard to see where the stones separated at all.  Inside the tiny chamber was a small desk, a very tall and narrow bookshelf that also extended from floor to ceiling, and the bottom shelves were drawers, each with brass handles, but no locks.  Where a lock might have been at one time were more of those black stones . . .

"Now, I have no idea where your da would have stashed that will," Nora said.  "I just know it's here somewhere.  There are other things in here, too, though—some things that you may not be quite ready to see.  The history of your family lives in here—good and bad.  Lord Aumberlese was nobody's fool.  You know his seal.  Look for that."  That said, the housekeeper hurried back over to pour the tea.

"Thank you," Jessa replied, giving the room a slow once-over.

Ashur stepped over to get a closer look while Jessa heaved a quiet sigh.

"This may take longer than I thought," she ventured at length, pressing her fingertip against the top drawer.  It unlocked with a soft, 'click'.

He felt her trepidation, the sense of her as she struggled to keep her emotions in check, he pulled her against him for a moment, long enough to give her an encouraging little squeeze.  "We've got time," he assured her.

She peered up over her shoulder at him.  "We do," she agreed.  He started to let his arms drop away, but she held on, her eyes still searching his features quietly.  "Thank you, Ashur . . ."

He kissed her forehead.  "You don't ever have to thank me for something like this," he told her.

She bit her lip, blushed slightly.

And she smiled.


Carl Kingston paced the floor of the large and airy luxury suite at the top of the Royale Concierge Hotel in downtown Quebec City.  The room—one of the best he'd ever stayed in, anywhere in the world—was decorated to be lush, lavish, yet entirely understatedly elegant, from the muted ivories, the rich, deep shades of rust and forest greens . . . It was entirely lost on him, though.  He had far more pressing matters on his mind . . . Ignoring the picturesque views from the myriad of windows that made up the formal living room, he stalked across the floor and back, hating the feeling that he was somehow being made a fool of.

It had taken far too long to track that man down; that Ashur Philips.  The younger brother of that grandstanding Ben Philips, right hand to the North American tai-youkai . . .

More unsettling, too, was that his own inquiries had gained him nothing, and, in the end, he'd been forced to resort to employing the services of a local man, who had finally managed to locate the newest of the Zelig's lapdogs.  Something about the weasel-youkai was entirely shifty, but he didn't have to like him in order to make use of him, and the information he'd managed to garner was solid enough.

The trouble was, he'd also returned with the news that Philips had left with the heiress, and if anyone knew where they had gone, not a single person was talking . . . It almost seemed like an unnatural kind of silence, and the only other thing he knew was that the older Philips was staying at the estate with the man's young child, indicating that he would be away for at least a little while.

Curse his rotten luck . . . His plan was sound enough.  She'd already given her word to the MacDonnough, hadn't she?  It was all but a done deal at this point.  So, he was merely going to . . . insist . . . that she return to Europe with him.  Then he'd find that miserable son of his, by God, and beat some sense into him if he had to . . .

'It's a simple setback, that's all . . . Patience . . . What's a week or two when our goal is so close we can taste it . . .?'

Drawing a deep breath meant to settle his sense of urgency, Carl nodded slowly.  He'd been patient enough, hadn't he?  He'd bided his time, he'd watched for the signs . . . It really was the perfect plan, after all.  If the legends proved accurate, then he would have the child he desired, and any other offspring from that union would just be the proverbial icing on the cake, and when the plan came to ultimate fruition, no one would have ever seen it coming—not that damned MacDonnough, not any of the other tai-youkai, and most certainly not that condescending bastard of an Inu no Taisho, either.  They and their ilk would be wiped off the face of creation in one mighty stroke, and then, he would be the ultimate power, and he could rebuild it all in the way that it should be—with him as the maestro, conducting the orchestra—the puppet-master—a god . . .

All he needed was that girl and his son . . .

'And Evalysse . . .?'

He snorted at the whispered and caustic words of his youkai-voice.  'What of her?'

'You know that she could easily—easily—foil your plans.  All she would have to say is the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person . . .'

Stopping, drumming his razor-sharp claws on the table, he scowled at nothing in particular and everything in general.  'She is expendable,' he growled.

His youkai-voice chuckled . . .


"And you're behaving for your uncle?"

"Yeah!" Kells exclaimed happily.  "I wanna bring Puff-Puff to school for show-n-tell, but Uncle Ben said no . . . but if you said I can, Mommy, then I could!"

Ashur chuckled at the very hopeful look on his young son's face, and, while he was tempted to back up Ben without hesitation, he waited to see just how Jessa would deal with this one, given that she hadn't really ever had to tell the child, 'no' before . . .

She shot him a raised-eyebrow-ed look, and he shrugged to indicate that he was going to defer to her judgment, which earned him a very narrow gaze, and he chuckled, turning his face away so that Kells didn't see his reaction over the video feed.

"Oh, Kells . . . I don't think it's a very good idea to take Puff-Puff to school . . . It might . . . might scare him, don't you think?  All of those children, and they'll all want to pick him up or play with him . . . Don't you think that might be a bit too much for him?"

Kells scrunched up his face as he considered what Jessa had suggested.  It was apparent that he hadn't thought about that.  "An' he wouldn't wike it?"

Jessa sighed, but smiled at the boy.  "Probably not . . ."

Kells heaved a sigh.  "O-O-Oka-a-a-ay . . ."  Suddenly, he brightened up, scooting forward where he was seated atop Ashur's desk.  "Mommy!  I miss you!" he exclaimed.  "Are you comin' home soon?"

"I hope so," she told him.  "I miss you so much, too."

"What about me?" Ashur asked.

"Oh, I miss you, too, Daddy," Kells said in a fast monotone.  "I miss my bedtime stories, Mommy . . ."

Ashur sighed and slowly shook his head.  "Great . . ."

Jessa giggled, adding insult to injury, as far as Ashur was concerned.  "Doesn't your aunt or uncle read to you?"

Kells let out a deep breath that made his lips rattle.  "Yeah, but you read the stories better," he ventured.

Jessa tilted her head to the side in the classic women's show of 'aww'.  "It won't be too long, Kells, I promise."

"Oh!  Can I take Humpty Dumpty for show-n-tell?"

Jessa laughed.  "Hmm, what do you think, Ashur?"

Ashur snorted at her sneaky attempt to pass the buck.  "Kells, we don't have a vehicle big enough to transport Humpty Dumpty to the school, so you can't for now."

Kells sighed.  "But what can I take for show-n-tell?"

"Why don't you take your necklace your mommy made for you?" Ashur suggested.

Kells perked up at that.  "Oh, yeah!  'Cause it's from my mommy!"

Ashur chuckled, dropping into the chair at the small desk in the vault room.  "That's right," he agreed.  His smile dimmed, however, when he caught sight of the thick manila, document-sized envelope that was half-hidden underneath the dark crimson ink blotter.  Pulling it loose, he read Jessa's name, scrawled on the front in bold, black ink.  He wasn't sure what was in the packet, but . . .

"Hey, Ash, Jessa . . . It's bedtime for a certain little boy, so say goodnight, Kells," Ben said as he strode into the frame.

Kells started to protest, but the wide yawn that interrupted him decided the battle.  "Okay," he agreed reluctantly.  "Night, Mommy."

The connection ended, and Jessa sighed, but whether it was because she missed Kells or because she'd have to resume her search, Ashur didn't know.  He figured it was probably a little from Column A, a little from Column B . . . "Jessa . . ."

"Hmm?"

"I think this could be it," he said, holding out the manila envelope out to her.

She turned and blinked at the mailer in his hand.  "Where did you find that?"

"It was half-hidden under the blotter," he told her.  "Is that your father's writing?"

She nodded slowly, hesitating as she reached out to take it.  The flap was sealed with a hunk of red wax, and when she tried to break it, a bright red haze shot to life around it.  "I . . . I think I need Da's ring to break it."

"Do you have it?"

Glancing at him, she seemed a little frightened, and he pulled her into his lap.  "It . . . It should be in their room," she said.  "I haven't been in there since . . ."

"Do you want to go get it?  Or I could . . . Nora would know it, wouldn’t she?"

She shook her head and leaned against him for a moment, staring at the envelope thoughtfully.  "I should," she finally said.  "Would you . . .?  Would you come with me?"

He smiled and pulled her closer, kissing her temple before she stood up again and took his hand.

She waited until he'd stepped out of the vault before pressing the button to close it back up once more.  "I didn't know anything about that room," she told him, peering up at him as he took her hand to lead her out of the study.

In the hallway, she didn't turn to head back along the corridor.  Instead, she veered off down a shorter one that he hadn't noticed, as absorbed as he was in the portraits that lined the walls on the way to the study.  There was a smaller, circular staircase there, though, and she shot him a quick glance before she started climbing.  "This goes straight to the master chamber," she told him.

There was a short landing at the top of the stairs, but the door here slipped aside easily, into a pocket in the wall.  They stepped inside, and she closed the door.  It didn't make a sound other than the soft click as it latched closed.  The master chamber was much brighter, much more airy than the study, adorned with very obvious feminine touches—antique lace draped over thick tables, fresh floral arrangements in oranges and deep reds to celebrate the season . . . a plush ivory rug that took up most of the floor, softening the dark woods . . . Off-white, antique Irish lace draped over the bed, over the deep green blanket underneath, hanging from the canopy, fluttering down the thick and ornately carved bedposts, six throw pillows, pillowcases decorated with the same Irish lace . . . Cream colored, heavy damask curtains, drawn back and held open with gold cords . . . The huge stone fireplace was stacked with wood, but not lit.  Jessa held out her hand, set that blaze going as Ashur sat on the very old but pristine sofa nearby.  It was a very formal kind of room, and, in many ways, it reminded Ashur of his parents' home back in Japan.  There was an overwhelming sense of space and placement that overrode the comfort that such a space should have offered.

Jessa wandered over to a pair of floor-to-ceiling wardrobes and pulled one of them open, her soft gasp audible in the quiet as she frowned at the contents—or lack thereof.  It was empty, and Ashur could only guess that the items contained within had already been packed up by someone—strange, actually, given that Jessa's things were as she had left them, she'd said . . .

Pulling open a thin wood drawer, she stared inside for a long moment before slowly, carefully lifting out what looked to be a gold signet ring.  Then she closed the drawer and the wardrobe and ventured back to the sofa to sit next to Ashur.  "Nora . . . She must have put away Ma and Da's things . . . She wanted to do that after Ma died, but Da forbade it . . . but she left the signet ring . . ."

"And it bothers you," he said.  It wasn't a question.

She shook her head, then she nodded.  "Yes . . . No . . . I understand why.  It's just . . . It . . ." She winced.  "It feels so . . . so final . . ." Leaning against him, she looked around slowly.  Ma decorated this chamber in Da's and her colors: dark blue and pink . . . Nora redid it . . . for . . ." she bit her lip.  "For me . . ."

"Your color . . .?"

Her gaze shifted back to him once more, staring at him for a long moment before she released her concealment, and she held up her hand to reveal a few small marks, almost like flames, on the back of her right hand and just a shade or two lighter than her actual skin tone: ivory flames . . .

He sighed, leaning back to pull her closer to his side as he took her right hand, kissed the back of it exactly where the flames appeared.  "If you're not ready to open that, then it can wait," he told her.

She shot him a grateful little smile—almost a grimace, really.  "It's not going to feel any better if I wait," she said.  "It won't bring them back or . . . Or change anything.  Da always said that if there was something I dreaded to do, that I should just do it because the dread only grows, the longer I put it off."

"But they were your parents," he told her gently.  "That's a little different."

She nodded, drawing a deep breath as she sat up straight, staring at the signet ring before deftly slipping it onto the middle finger of her right hand.  It seemed to fit her perfectly, and she half-winced.  "It . . . It knows that Da's passed it on to me," she said quietly, unhappily.  "It was much bigger when he wore it . . ."

The deep red stone—garnet, maybe?—seemed to take on a certain glow, and she bit her lip as she turned her hand, as she pressed it against the wax seal.  It erupted into an insular flame for several seconds before dying out completely.  There were no scorch marks on the envelope, and the flap popped open easily enough as she sighed.

She started to reach into the envelope, started to pull the contents free.  Suddenly, though, she handed it to Ashur, burying her face against his chest.

He didn't know if she was worried that it wasn't a copy of the will or if she was afraid that it was.  Given that she was struggling with her feelings, it wasn't surprising . . . It had to be crazy-overwhelming for her, and he hated the idea that there really wasn't a whole lot he could do for her . . .

Drawing a deep breath, he pulled the contents from the envelope.  There was a note on top from Niall . . .

.

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< br> "The will," she breathed, blinking back tears that caught in Ashur's nose, that made him grimace inwardly.  He sighed and let the note and the will drop to his lap, frowning instead at the two envelopes and a thinner stack of papers.  The papers seemed to be written on very old and very ancient parchment—some kind of royal decree?   One of the thick paper envelopes was addressed in a feminine hand to Jessa.  The other?  In her father's writing, addressed to . . . 'Our Jessa's Future Mate' . . .

"Da wrote you a letter?" she asked, reaching out to touch the corner of the envelope, ignoring the one with her name on it.

"It would seem that way," he allowed.  "Any idea why?"

She shook her head.  "Are you going to read it?"

He shrugged.  "Do you want me to?"

She sighed.  "Maybe later," she said.  "Right now, I'd rather just make sure that the will is real . . . It's enough, isn't it?"

"It is," he said.  "Well, as long as it's official, as he said it was."

"Then . . . Then we can take it to Lord MacDonnough and be shut of it?"

Ashur frowned.  "Is that what you want to do?  I could go alone—I'd rather go alone."

"I . . . I don't want to do any of this," she admitted ruefully.  "But it might be better if I came, too . . ."

He didn't like the idea; didn't like it at all.  Given what he knew about the European tai-youkai, given that they now knew for real that the man had lied through his teeth about Jessa's father's will . . .

Well, that would end, wouldn’t it?  One way or another, Ian MacDonnough was going to have to stand down because, as far as Ashur could tell, the man had just run out of viable options for whatever he was trying to accomplish . . .