InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ The House of Mirth ❯ Hello Stranger ( Chapter 8 )

The House of Mirth

By: RedHerring

 

Chapter 8: Hello Stranger

 

It's busy, it's crowded, it's smelly, it's freezing, it's Boston.

 

Not three minutes after I woke up I heard the announcement, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We will be arriving in Boston in exactly one hour. Please prepare to disembark.”

 

The train grinds to a squealing halt that grates on my ears, and I step off with Dayu and the luggage balanced precariously in my arms. Dayu is still sleeping and I suppose he will be for another hour or so. Guilt gnaws at my stomach every time I think of what I did. It was such a stupid idea. How could I possibly think that something like that would help my situation?

 

What is my situation exactly? I'm in Boston with no home, very little food, very little money, and a four year old kit. When did I think this was smart?

 

I sit down on a sticky, discolored bench and let the noises wash over me. Inside this gigantic glass building there are literally thousands of people. They cover the floor like ants would cover a spill of honey, and their voices combine to create a cacophony of sound that defies any logic. Not one of them notices a hanyou sitting with a lost expression. They traipse by with some kind of tunnel vision, ignoring everyone around, above, and below them.

 

No one notices me. And oddly, I don't like it.

 

Because I was hurrying to pack Dayu's bag of toys again, I wasn't really able to get much food before the train unloaded. I have a corn muffin in my coat pocket for Dayu when he wakes up. He will be upset that I couldn't pack all of his toys. I was right in assuming that he used some of his kitsune magic, because only half of the pile fit back into his backpack. Either that or I just suck at space-saving. I was able to stuff some more of his toys into spaces in the suitcases, but there was still a third of the pile left. I just hope I didn't leave any of his favorites behind.

 

Dayu was restless for most of the night. When I woke up, he had tossed and turned until he was lying sideways across the mattress on his stomach. His legs were resting across my chest and one paw was smashed against my cheek. From the moment I opened my eyes I knew I was acting strange. I blame it on my stupidity. Never before would I have worried if Dayu would be upset for not having his toys. Before, I would have woken him up and gotten him to pack his toys himself. Walking out of the train, I had caught myself messing with his hair. It was confusing.

 

I have to find somewhere to live, and fast. Night is approaching faster, and even at three in the afternoon, there aren't many hours of daylight left. I do not want to have to spend money on a motel room for the night, so I had better start now.

 

With a set jaw and a determined demeanor, I gather Dayu in my left arm and the suitcases in my right, I stand - ready to walk out into Boston and find some place to live - and promptly fall back down again. Numbing, throbbing, aching, burning, piercing pain rips through my right thigh and arm.

 

Well fuck.

 

Rolling up my sleeve, gritting my teeth against the burning pain, I almost gag at the gruesome sight. Raw and torn skin is exposed to open air. The fabric of my sleeve is stuck to the gaping maw of the wound. Pus and congealing mottled fluids seep out and fill my nose with the putrid scent of infection. No doubt the wound on my leg is just as bad.

 

How could I have forgotten -?

 

“I'm sorry I had to damage you, precious,” she says, her hand finally reaching my groin, and caressing it lightly.

 

I guess there was a lot of shit happening that night.

 

The bitch circles me again and leans down to whisper in my abused and bleeding ear. “But if doggy is good, then doggy won't get punished,”

 

My throat constricts and burning bile rises in my throat.

 

I can still smell their disgusting scents, still hear their aroused pants, still feel her tongue slurping closer to my manhood. It's just so... filthy.

 

Why won't they stop?! Every new flashback feels more and more real! I can almost smell them again. I can feel the pain all over again, and it scares the shit out of me! It's over with; it happened days ago, and why can't I just forget it? My throat hurts from holding back the panic and frustrated tears.

 

Dayu stirs in my lap and starts gnawing on the hem of my shirt. I desperately latch onto the distraction - anything to get my mind off of what happened. Anything to make me forget; I don't want to remember. His reddish hair is damp and it sticks in clumps to his forehead. His mouth clamps tightly to my shirt and his fangs easily shred the cotton. His nose and limbs twitch in time to his dreams.

 

I gently pry my torn and soaked shirt from his mouth. His face crinkles in annoyance - I wonder what he's dreaming about? - and a strange yip sounds from his throat.

 

Hey... I know that noise. It means he wants attention. He... he only made that noise when Kyara was alive, and maybe for a few weeks after. It's the noise a kit uses to call for its parent. I used one similar on my mother, but... He wouldn't use that if a parent was not very close.

 

Puzzled, I keep a close eye and ear on Dayu as I pull out the first aid kit in my backpack. I take off my jacket, wincing as the material brushes against the wound, and make a small nest out of it. I move Dayu to rest on my jacket instead of the sticky, filthy bench. My chest twinges when his little hands cling to my fingers. What is this feeling?

 

I am barely even paying attention to cleaning the wound. It is a good thing too; I would probably start freaking out again. Dayu is still and his breathing is even. My ears focus on the slight rattle in his lungs and I frown. I need to get him help. Shouldn't the shot have worked by now, or at least started to work? I need to find a clinic and get Dayu and myself treated.

 

There he goes again! Making one of those noises and I know what they mean! How can I know this stuff? I'm not his father; I'm not his parent! I never understood his little combinations of yips and growls when he was born, so how do I know them now?

 

My eyes widen with realization. The mark. That's it; it is that mark that is doing this. It was only supposed to make him smell like a relative, but somehow it actually made him my son. Just as effectively as if I were his real father.

 

Oh my God... I have a son. He - he's not just my little brother anymore. He's my son. My fucking son!

 

My son.

 

I stare at... my son... with amazement and no little trepidation. He looks so tiny, curled up in my jacket, still sleeping through all the noise and chaos of the subway. And it's weird, because he looks the same as he did before, but now he looks different. He yips again, a little more urgently this time. He is still calling for attention, and is growing frightened because he has not received comfort. Excruciatingly slowly, I lift him to rest against my chest, hooking my left arm under his bottom. I woof a comforting noise back at him and the tension leaves his body. He snuggles into my shoulder and a goofy smile struggles to spread across my face. Stupid emotions - making me look... stupid.

 

Something crashes and voices shout angrily. The noise jerks me out of the little world I have slipped into. I tighten my grip on Dayu and take stock of my surroundings. Someone has crashed a dolly full of luggage and is yelling at a haggard looking man in uniform. People still pass by in a rush, but there are significantly less people around than before. Everyone is watching the spectacle caused by the richly dressed woman.

 

My throat catches. Onigumo's whore! Is it her? Same black hair, same height and build, same fucking face! My heart feels like it is going to rocket out of my chest, and I can barely breathe. I have to get away.

 

Ignoring the excruciating pain in my thigh and arm, I grab the luggage and Dayu and scamper out of there. There is really nothing else to call the way I am running from the woman. I am scampering. I am running like a fucking coward and if I had a tail, it would be between my legs. I don't even know if it was her, or someone that looked like the sex bitch, but I can not stop the panic and fear. It's consuming, debilitating, and I just have to get away!

 

The suitcases quickly grow too heavy to bear, and I sag under their weight and the pain from my injuries. I need to put these down somewhere. I need to rest.

 

There - a bathroom. I rush in and collapse at the far end of the room. It's fairly large, and empty. Three high, polished wooden stalls fill part of the left wall of the room, and urinals fill the rest. Everything has a brown, gold, and jade theme to it. The entire room looks very antique and the floor pattern is of pale greens, golds, and deep reds. It's a welcome and interesting contrast to the rest of the station.

 

The handles of the suitcases slip out of my hand, and there is a dull thump as they topple over. My forlorn glance at the suitcases does not last long. I am reluctant to just leave a bunch of stuff here, but I simply cannot carry it all. Not with my injuries. Plus, I have to be careful with Dayu. I can't swing him around like luggage.

 

I set Dayu in the far corner of the bathroom on a nest of my jacket. He snuffles the coarse fabric and scrunches into a tighter ball. What is this I am feeling, again? Setting down the suitcases beside him, I open them and examine their contents.

 

It is mostly cloths that fill them. There is an expensive lamp that used to be my mother's; I had planned to pawn that. There is an alarm clock, but that would only get a few dollars. Those both go in the large suitcase. To start with, Dayu and I only need two - at the most three - sets of clothes: two pairs of long pants for the both of us, two tee shirts, two long-sleeved shirts, and two sweatshirts. A pair of sweat pants for each as well. It got really, really cold in winter back home, and I don't want to risk Dayu getting sick again when it gets freezing during winter. Four pairs of socks for each: two normal, two extra thick. All of that goes in the small suitcase.

 

Everything else - the lamp, the alarm clock, the rest of the clothes, Dayu's toys, and various other items that were to be sold - go in the big suitcase. It pains me to put my books in there. Textbooks are expensive. I could get a couple hundred dollars for all of them, selling them to a used bookstore, besides that they would help me study. I need to be able to get a good job. But the food has to go in my backpack, and the documents are already taking up room. Maybe I should keep one book? My History and Geography book, I want to keep that one. Everything else in school was easy, but history was always hard, even though it's my favorite subject. I can study the history book and probably do well enough to pass an exam and get a G.E.D.

 

So now I have the small suitcase and two backpacks. Next stop: a clinic, Dayu has to get looked at again. It also might be a good idea to find out why these wounds aren't healing

 

I look around anxiously, scratching an ear nervously. I feel like I'm missing something. Is it - damn - I forgot the first aid kit on that filthy bench. Oh, fuck it. I can just put together another one when Dayu and I get settled. I am not going back to retrieve it.

 

I stand, leaning heavily against the wall and panting with exertion, trying to keep the whimpers from stealing out of my throat. I pick up Dayu, using only my left leg to bear my weight. I put on my jacket, ignoring the pain it brings my arm, and hoist the backpacks onto my shoulders. The small suitcase is held in my right hand, and Dayu rests on my left forearm, positioned to avoid any contact with my wrist.

 

It is much easier to walk after getting rid of that load. Those books were heavy, and the rest of it was no light weight either. Normally, I would not have a problem carrying five times the weight, but recent... events... have depleted my strength.

 

I am able to carry Dayu out of the train station and down a long flight of stained, concrete stairs without any trouble. I get a few odd looks - maybe because of my hair or because of my ears - but am left alone. A grime-caked cobblestone courtyard greets me, and vendors are staked out on several corners. The area is constant motion but I don't stop and watch. I don't want to draw attention to myself. Tall buildings block out the sun and a harsh fall wind howls through alleys; flipping banners, tilting umbrellas, and flapping anything not nailed down. Dayu shivers and I glance down, my eyebrows knitting together in worry.

 

Without knowing what else to do, I start walking. It's an absolutely huge city, and within minutes I am so turned around I probably couldn't find my way to a toilet. Eventually, I pass by a drug store. I can at least get us out of the cold, so I walk in, jingling the little bell above the door.

 

Argh! I'm wasting time! I have to get Dayu to a clinic now! I've been in such a stupor that I've just been walking around, getting myself lost, and Dayu is freezing. This is not the time for fucking around!

 

Pissed at myself, I approach the counter. “Do you have a phone book?” I ask. The only woman who seems to be working doesn't raise her flaming red head from her magazine as she pulls out a large yellow book from under the counter. It hits the yellowing surface between us with a thud and the cashier flips a page of her magazine.

 

It doesn't take very long to find a clinic - not a hospital, I can't afford a hospital - and jot down the address with a pen and a scrap piece of paper I find in one of my pockets. I push the phone book back at the unnaturally redheaded woman and she slips it back under the counter, her eyes still glued to her magazine. Her bubblegum pops and she scrapes it off her lips. I search for a map, peevishly blowing my bangs out of my eyes, and pluck a folded map of Boston out of a plastic display.

 

“Hey, woman. I have something to buy,” I say, intruding on the silence that had blanketed the empty store. She glances at the map in my hand and holds a hand out.

 

Leaving the store - map clutched in my temporarily paralyzed hand with a squiggly, confusing route from the drug store to the clinic etched out in pink highlighter - I stride down the sidewalks. I avoid alleyways and darkened streets, detouring off of the pink directions to bypass some more dubious areas. The city is bigger than I imagined. I used to read books all the time; of hick farm boys and farm girls making their way in the `big city.' Okay, well not those kinds of books all the time. But I did read one once. Okay, half of one, and the city was New York, but it's close enough. Oddly, I find myself sympathizing with their confusion. I'm thinking the same things, like, `What do I do? How do I find an apartment? How do I do any of the things that need to be done?'

 

I almost pass by the clinic. It is a nondescript, grey stone building, and the sky has darkened to a blanket of black. It isn't even the small building that made me stop to notice my surroundings. A flyer on one of the bright, yet flickering, streetlamps catches my attention and causes me to glance around.

 

Moderately sized, shabby letters announce what the building is and I glance down at my map in surprise. There is Shirley Street, and the intersection of Heaton and Water. Yep. This is the place.

 

Dayu stirs in my arm and raises his head to blink blearily. He's slept for more than fifteen hours, and it was starting to worry me. Well, I did do more than I intended to do. I messed up again, and Dayu has had to suffer for it.

 

“Uhhh...” he rasps. “Where...?”

 

“Hey, crazy. You slept for a long time. How are you feeling?” I ask as I push open the door of the clinic with my back. He glances around confusedly and blinks slowly.

 

“How...?”

 

“We got off of the train hours ago. I didn't wake you up because you needed rest,” I explain. He nods and contentedly rests his head against my shoulder. “How are you feeling?” I ask again.

 

Dayu is silent, but then lifts his head in epiphany, “I feel great!”

 

Surprise is surely visible on my face, and I quickly close my jaw. “You feel fine?” I ask suspiciously. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

 

He complies, and not even a shudder passes through his body. I hitch him higher and grin, he grins back. “Well, that's great, Dayu.” I weave through patients of all ages and conditions. How long have some been here? How long has that little blond girl sat there with her arm in a makeshift sling? How long has that harried-looking woman sat there with that yellow-tinted baby?

.o.

.o.

.o.

It takes three hours before we can see an over-stressed doctor. Dayu ate his corn muffin while I had to fill out four forms in triplicate, and when the harried man in a white coat and sweat streaming down his face finally appeared, a sharp, thin woman stepped in front of me, claiming that she had been there first (I won the argument because I was first. That whiny woman can go and kiss a cactus for all I care).

 

I follow him through a narrow corridor and into a long room lined with beds. Most of the standard issue beds are surrounded by white curtains, but the few open ones reveal patients in varying degrees of injury or sickness.

 

I am led to a small, narrow bed which would probably only be comfortable for Dayu, it's so damn small. He compliantly sits and continues to read one of his picture books while I speak with Dr.… Sao.

 

“So you have wounds that won't heal, do you?” he asks. He is a human with bright blue eyes and short, dirty blond hair that is spiked on top - not with gel - I can smell his exhausted scent strongly... it's sweet.

 

“Yeah. I was attacked by a dark miko, day before yesterday, around ten. The wounds look like they should have healed by now, but if anything they look worse.” The doctor is frowning and `hmmm's while tapping the small cleft in his chin.

 

“Well, let's have a look-see,” he says and his hands assist me with removing my jacket and shirt. The wound is revealed and the faint scent of infection is released in full force. The smell makes me dizzy and my stomach churns. Dayu smells the stench and abandons his Clifford book in concern.

 

“In - Nuya! That looks really bad! Who did that to you?” he asks, his bottom lip trembling.

 

“Just that friend of Onigumo's,” I tell him, making sure I am calm, so he won't become more concerned. “I'll be fine as soon as I'm patched up. Don't worry.” He still looks doubtful, but sits back down and turns his attention to Dr. Sao, who regards the four-year-old seriously.

 

“You'll fix him up good, right? He fixes up really good, usually. One time he told me he got hit by a truck, and he was only in bed for two days!” Dayu nods as if this is known to be a universal truth. Dr. Sao smiles reassuringly at Dayu, making sure to keep his teeth covered by his lips. Wow. Most humans don't know that even to a canine youkai, showing teeth is taken as a threat by our instincts. We train ourselves out of reacting to it, or even taking offense to it, but consider it common courtesy to not show teeth, or at the very least fangs.

 

“Nuya will be just fine, don't worry,” he says, and Dayu relaxes and returns to his book. Dr. Sao turns back to me and pulls a tray on a stand with wheels from the foot of the bed closer to him. He sits on a rolling stool, high enough for him to reach my shoulder comfortably, and takes some cotton balls and disinfectant and begins to clean the wound.

 

“So what are you doing in Boston, Mr. Mitsishi?” he asks, dabbing at the wound, and getting a new piece of cotton fluff every five dabs or so.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Your accent sounds western, nothing at all Bostonian. Are you visiting, or have you just moved?” he glances at my placid face every now and then, occasionally shifting the stool closer, only to have it roll back when he relaxes again.

 

“Dayu and I just moved here from Washington,” I reply, looking around the room to distract myself from the sting of alcohol.

 

“D'you have family out here? You look a bit young to be setting out on your own,” he observes. Nosey, isn't he?

 

“Yeah,” I answer carefully, trying to stay friendly. “Dayu's mother has a flat in Chelsea.” I pick a name I remember seeing title a section of Boston.

 

“Oh, really? I've got a cousin in Chelsea. Where about are you staying?”

 

“Don't really know yet. She was supposed to pick us up at the train station tomorrow, but we caught an earlier departure. We'll probably stay at a motel tonight and find her when our other train is supposed to come in.” He dabs the deepest part of the wound, and I wince sharply, sucking in the air through my teeth. “Watch it!”

 

“Sorry, sorry.” He sounds genuinely repentant. He studies the wound a bit more, picking up a metal pointy thing, and prodding the torn flesh around the edges. The pucker between his eyebrows deepens, and he straightens. “Got any more of these?” he asks.

 

“Uh, yeah.” I can feel myself flush in embarrassment. “On my thigh, same side.” He nods.

 

“Okay then. Drop your trousers and we'll have a look,” he says, smiling sans-teeth, his eyes squinting. I fake cough and bring up a hand to hide my red face. I have never liked being so exposed to anyone, and something about Dr. Sao just makes me uncomfortable.

 

I don't lower my pants any further than I have to, which is right around my knees, but they slip down further anyway. I sit down on the tiny bed again and ride up the leg of my boxers to reveal another wound, but fractionally smaller. The newly exposed wound is slightly healed over, and clotting in odd lines up and down it's length. Dr. Sao leans in closer to examine the odd patterns of the wound and rests his hand on my thigh to use his thumb to pull the skin taught. His fingers dip and brush the back of my knee, and his warm palm keeps pulling my attention toward it.

 

“Who did you get angry?” he asks in amazement, removing his hand and reaching for more cotton. I laugh feebly and act as if it were a rhetorical question.

 

He finishes cleaning the wound in silence and throws the last bit of used cotton in a disposal bag hanging from the side of the tray. “Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

 

“Good.”

 

“The good news is, the redness and swelling was only caused by a surface infection, and will probably clear up in a day or two if you keep it clean and bandaged. I'll give you a prescription for ointment to make sure it heals with minimal scarring, and kill any returning bacteria,” he says, smiling and running his hands through his hair, slicking it back, and brushing it forward several times.

 

“And the bad news?” If that was the good news, the bad news must be killer. How can I afford the medicine?

 

“The bad news is you'll have to get it blessed by a legitimate monk or priestess. You have dark residue that is keeping your wound from healing, and if you don't get holy power infused in the cream the scar tissue will always cause problems. Your metabolism might slow down, you'll get sick more often, and you might even loose the use of your arm and leg.” Wow, talk about a sucker punch. “And -”

 

“There's more bad news?” I ask incredulously.

 

“Yeah. There isn't a licensed priestess or monk for fifty miles. I can get you a freelance monk that will do it, for a price, and I can guarantee that he'll do his job well, but you'll have to sign a waiver that will not hold the clinic responsible for any problems you encounter using an independent source.” He looks serious, and smells like he's telling the truth.

 

“How much will the medicine cost?” I ask, worry obviously creeping into my face and voice, even through my efforts to keep it hidden. He gets up from his little stool and sits in the space between where I am and foot of the bed. He pats my uninjured leg squeezes my knee `comfortingly.'

 

“We're a free clinic, and if the medicine is within our funds, then our patients are able to receive it through the government's expense. I think we have one or two tubs of the burn cream you need. I'll be right back with the cream to wrap up your wounds, so keep them in the open for now.” He pats my knee again and stands, heading off in the direction we came from. When he disappears behind a corner I let out a deep breath I had been holding and my shoulders slump.

 

I glance back to Dayu, noticing that he has been unusually quiet the entire time Dr. Sao was here. He has changed his Clifford book for a coloring book and purple crayon. When he notices my gaze, he pauses in his scribbling to smile, but returns his attention to his coloring.

 

“Awwww, cutie!” a perky voice like coffee quips from the next bed over, drawing my attention, but not Dayu's. The curtain had been closed earlier, but is now open to reveal a dark haired youth wearing a long sleeved purple button-up shirt. He has violet eyes, and a round face with a pointed chin. A gold earring dangles from his left ear. He looks to be around fourteen.

 

“S'cuse me?”

 

“The little kid you got there,” he clarifies. Obviously a human.

 

“I ain't a kid, asshole,” Dayu mutters, shaking his head.

 

“Oh, yeah. He's adorable,” I mumble wryly. “Watch your mouth, Squirt,” I warn him. I am not up for much conversation with another person. Dr. Sao really weirded me out, and the lingering feeling on my knees keeps distracting me. I rub the knee of my injured leg absently.

 

“Jeez, nasty scrape you got there. I suppose you're here for that. I'm just here for my usual checkup. In my line of work, you can't be too careful with your health,” he says knowingly, leaning back on his bed and crossing his right leg to rest on his bent knee.

 

“Really,” I intone disinterestedly, but it only seems to encourage him and he nods emphatically.

 

“Oh yeah, I'm around all sorts of people all day, and you never know which one might carry that bug that will strike you down faster than you can sneeze.”

 

“You don't say?”

 

“I do say.” I don't respond to that and continue to watch Dayu color. He doesn't say anything more for a while, but apparently has found a source of mild occupation in our one-sided conversation. “So which doctor are you waiting for? I know about every nurse, orderly, and doctor that comes in and out of this place.”

 

“Dr. Sao,” is my short reply. Where is he anyway?

 

“Hey, Mike! I haven't seen him in months, d'you mind if I wait here until he comes back?” he asks. Well, if I answer `no,' it's obviously not going to stop him.

 

“Whatever,” I answer, and Dr. Sao pops through two retreating nurses. I hadn't been looking for him, but it's surprising all the same that I didn't notice his approach.

 

“Hey, Michael!” The dark-haired boy jumps off the bed and quickly takes the few steps to embrace Dr. Sao in a tight hug. They obviously know each other well from the way the older man smiles and heartily pounds the youth's back.

 

“Miroku! What a coincidence, I was just calling Ryan at work to see if he could tell you to drop by.” Dr. Sao pulls back from the embrace, a smile still lighting his face. He doesn't bother to hide his teeth when smiling at Miroku.

 

“Why didn't you try my cell?”

 

“You know, I forgot you had it. I think I lost the number, too.”

 

“'S'alright, buddy. You'll get it again. What did you need me for?” Miroku asks, retuning to sit on his bed. He lifts up his feet and tucks them under him, resting his arms on his folded legs.

 

“Oddly enough, this guy here needs some medicine blessed,” he responds, waving the tub of healing cream. Miroku straightens and his face looses some of its mirth.

 

“Who attacked you?” he asks me.

 

“A dark miko,” I answer. I am only slightly more inclined to be friendly to the person who could likely save my limbs. He frowns but holds out his hands for the ointment. Dr. Sao hands it over without hesitation.

 

The young boy holds it for a moment, contemplating the wide cap and twisting it back and forth. “This is going to tire me out, and there are at least four more hours that I can be working,” he says, passing the tub from one hand to the next.

 

“So crash at my place,” Sao says easily and shrugs. “You can even raid the refrigerator if you want to.” Miroku is silent for a while, and then looks at me.

 

“And how do you plan on paying for my blessing?” he asks me, all traces of a smile have vanished from his face, although the good humor is still present.

 

“Well, I don't have much money,” I begin. Miroku glances at Dr. Sao quickly and then returns his violet eyes to me. “But, you know, there's not a lot I'm not willing to do, if it means keeping my limbs.” He takes a minute to think, chewing on the inside of his mouth while tossing the container of cream from hand to hand.

 

The silence stretches and a doubtful look crosses Miroku's face. Would he really refuse? This could mean my survival! I could try to get to the other monk, but by the time I get there either my wounds would be worse, or I wouldn't be able to pay for the blessing. On the other hand, do I really want to pay the price a fourteen-year-old mind dreams up?

 

Again, Sao must have read my mind because his voice interjects the silence with an alternative. “I've got an idea. Why not ask for Nuya's help to my apartment? You can raid the fridge and stay the night. Plus, I'll make up for your lost night,” he says. “And Nuya can stay as well,” he adds, turning to me. “It'll save you from having to pay for a motel room.”

 

It seems plausible, and Miroku certainly looks happy about the arrangement. So why is something wrong? Why is he helping me so much? We just met, how can he trust me enough to let me just walk into his house? How does he know I won't steal anything?

 

“Fine with me,” Miroku answers and holds the tub between his palms, closing his eyes. I can see his deep blue aura flare and gently, if unstably, surround the jar of cream.

 

What have I gotten myself into now?

 

 

AN: Well, there you have it: another chapter done. I would apologize for the wait, but in all honesty I'm not sorry..., maybe a little regretful that it's taking me so long to want to finish the story. I want to thank Sari, the beta for this chapter. Thanks a lot for taking time out of your busy schedule to edit my work. :)

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha or any related characters.