Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ To Sleep With Demons ❯ Sleep with Demons - Itachi fic for Naturo ( Chapter 1 )

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Title: To Sleep With Demons
Summary: Itachi and Kisame make a stop at an out-of-the-way town with some unexpected consequences. Kisame makes a bet. Itachi plays a game. At least one of them wins. In-series, adult situations, het, violence, murder.
Naruto Characters: Itachi, Kisame, OC (original character)
Genre: General, Drama, Adult Het.
Who should read this fic?:

People who want to feed a Naruto obsession!

People who want to feed an Itachi obsession.

People who like violence.

People who like Kisame (in a minor role).

People who like heterosexually themed adult stories.

People who like canon characterization (or so I try).

People who like stories set within the original universe where transpiring events are at least possible.

Who will like this story?: I honestly have no idea. I wrote it because it was driving me nuts. Give it a try and let me know.

Why an OC? Aren't there enough characters already? Seriously… I recognize the disdain that follows the idea of an OC. The idea was so compelling, though; I just had to write it. I developed this OC way beyond what is shown in this story. It is one of those rare characters that leapt to life fully developed. This story isn't about the OC, though. It's clearly a story about Itachi from beginning to end.

 

 

To Sleep with Demons

 

Complete Story

 

By Zapenstap

 

 

“Itachi. Let's stop here.”

 

Kisame spoke politely, but the slight growl in his voice indicated impatience.

 

Itachi glanced sideways at his companion, noting the bright gleam in his eyes. They had been paired together in part because it was hoped that Itachi's conservatism would balance Kisame's lack of constraint. Sometimes it worked, but not always.

 

Kisame waited expectantly for direction, but Itachi said nothing. It was best to remain silent. Silence gave one time to think, to choose carefully, and make the best decision. Silence also made other people nervous, and when people were nervous they revealed things they might otherwise keep hidden. Furthermore, people read into silence what they expected, which made it easier to behave accordingly. What Kisame expected was for Itachi to chastise him, and because he expected it, he saved Itachi the trouble by chastising himself.

 

“I'm sorry,” the larger man complained, though there was little real contrition in his tone, “but I don't want to spend another night under a bush.”

 

They stood together on a hilltop, looking down at the outskirts of a town. It was a ragged little district, likely filled with petty thieves, disreputable moneylenders, gamblers, prostitutes, and other unpleasant company. Still, there would be warm food, and beds, and it was the kind of place where people did not ask too many questions or hassle strangers. They had business to conduct here or they wouldn't need to enter the town at all. Since they had to enter, there was prudence in taking advantage of what was freely available.

 

Itachi closed his eyes slowly. “Perhaps one night,” he agreed.

 

Kisame grinned, much like a puppy that had been rewarded, but a dangerous puppy with a vicious bite. Itachi respected Kisame's innate sense of his own power, and it was always best to remember that he would use it without hesitation. Still grinning, the other man swung his great sword over his shoulder, carrying it like a cudgel. Together they descended the hill and made their way into the town.

 

At this hour, the streets were mostly deserted. The outskirts of the town invited riff raff, so there were a few beggars, drunks, and perhaps worse tucked into the dark corners and narrow alleyways of the winding streets. Those that lingered in the open did so in pairs or small groups. They didn't see any ninja, nor expected to, which was partly why a hole such as this had been chosen.

 

A chill had set in by the time they arrived at a wayhouse, the only establishment in this part of town from which the sounds of ruckus laughter and the clink of glass drifted from the open doorway. Light spilled out on the street, and they were able to glance inside as they passed. It was a large room with a bar on one end, a small, empty stage on the other, and a staircase leading to an upper floor. Men gathered around several tables in the floor's open space, drinking, dealing cards, and betting on the roll of dice. The dice indicated the quality of the gambling, and Itachi assessed the card games at play with a quick glance. No significantly high betters by the look of it, but money and sake enough to keep men playing long into the night.

 

“I hope this is the place,” Kisame said, eyeing a particular card game in the middle of the room with hungry eyes. There was a rather large pile in the pot, enough to entice someone like Kisame who tended to play for high stakes against those who usually didn't. “There's good liquor here, and I think there's even an inn on the second floor. Do you see our man anywhere?”

 

Itachi had seen him when they first entered the room, and purposely ignored him. The fellow in question sat slumped at the bar with a drink at his elbow.

 

“I will speak to him,” Itachi told his partner. He glanced around the room without moving his head. “We've already been noticed, so amuse yourself as you like.”

 

Kisame grinned in acquiescence. They had attracted attention enough as strangers, but if they had been merely noted before, Kisame's presence dominated the room now. His large physique and bluish skin drew eyes even in the most surreptitious of occasions, and in a place like this, he was something of a spectacle. He swung his great sword off his shoulder, lowering the wrapped blade until the tip hovered just above the wooden floors. All eyes turned to follow him. Men who might have considered themselves strong sized up both the man and the great sword with skepticism and nervousness. A man behind Itachi muttered “ninja?” in a hushed, questioning voice. No one answered him.

 

Itachi stood perfectly still, blending in with the rest of the patrons as Kisame hefted his sword in one giant palm, wielding it as if it weighed only half of what it actually did. He swaggered to where the six men—the largest group with the biggest pile—sat playing cards in the center of the room. To their credit, none of the men with a hand in the game reacted to Kisame's toothy grin beyond a weighted glance. Once he had their attention, Kisame set the sword carefully on the ground and withdrew a change purse from under his cloak. The men remained expressionless, but as soon as he displayed money, a place was made for him. Kisame wedged his great figure between two older men half his size, grinning with anticipation. He was dealt into the next hand without introduction or comment.

 

Business resumed. The occupants in the room returned to their individual affairs. Itachi assessed the mood absently. After Kisame's semi-threatening display resulted only in a buy-in, the crowd concluded that whatever interest a pair of strange ninja had in their village, it was not going to interrupt their night.

 

Compared to his companion, Itachi attracted significantly less attention, which was not to say that his presence went unnoticed entirely. It was not lost on the patrons that he and Kisame had come in together, or that they were dressed similarly. They were clearly both independent mercenaries, and because red clouds on black cloaks was starting to gain recognition, it was possible that someone in the room even recognized them as Akatsuki.

 

Of course, that wasn't all. Two women in the room—the only women Itachi could see anywhere in the place—glanced in his direction with a different sort of evaluation. One was a waitress, plain, but pleasant, dressed cleanly with a low cut shirt and displaying a tight-set expression as she wove among the crowd. The other, though less attractive in the face, was attached to a gentleman at a card table and dressed finely in expensive clothes and jewelry that no doubt were purchased for her by the man with an arm around her waist.

 

Both women shot him smiles. The waitress looked harassed, her smile strained, perhaps hopeful. The other woman's smile was decidedly meant to entice. Neither impressed him. When he met their eyes directly, both women glanced away uncertainly. It was unlikely they knew what eyes like his meant, but they sensed the danger, though they could not possibly guess how much.

 

Ignoring them, Itachi made his way to the bar. He ordered tea, much to the surprise of the bartender, but his request was not questioned. He sat beside the man with the ring on his finger, and waited. The bartender brought him a steaming cup. Itachi took a sip, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of heated water, strong but not bitter, as he swallowed. He was dedicated foremost to his ambitions; the enjoyment of simple pleasures was all he expected of happiness beyond the fulfillment of his goals.

 

“You're Akatsuki?” the man beside him asked quietly. “I was told to deliver this to two men in black cloaks with red clouds. Men who called themselves Akatsuki.”

 

The delivery in question was a small scroll, sealed to prevent anyone from looking at its contents in case it fell into the wrong hands. The man slid it along the counter toward Itachi. He was not a ninja and seemed relieved to be rid of the thing. With a swift exhibition of slight of hand, Itachi took possession of the scroll from underneath the man's nose without seeming to move at all. As he slipped the scroll into a pocket under his cloak, his informant blinked, his eyes focused on the place where the scroll had been. He seemed to believe that it had vanished. He looked at Itachi full in the face for the first time. Itachi returned his stare. The man froze, mesmerized, by the Sharingan.

 

“Is there a message?” Itachi asked.

 

“Just that everything is going according to plan,” the fellow stammered, licking his lips nervously. He clearly understood nothing. “You and your companion are bidden to meet at the same spot at the same time as previously arranged.”

 

Itachi closed his eyes. Another sealing. Things were indeed moving more quickly now.

 

Even with his eyes closed, he felt a change in the atmosphere. He opened them again, slowly because he sensed no threat, and looked up, glancing beyond the informant's head toward the staircase in the back corner of the room. A new woman stood on the third step, pausing in the act of descending the stairs. She was dressed in a fashion seemingly influenced by the wide obi and long sleeves of a furisode kimono, though it was more of a dress from the waist to the hem. The garment of silver-gray silk was not the attire of a woman who belonged in a town with dirt streets and dark alleys, especially with a face like hers. With his Sharingan, even at a distance he could make out the details of her features: a pair of large, luminous eyes feathered with thick black lashes and dark eyebrows over a small, auspicious nose, pink lips, and dark hair that curled around her shoulders and clung to her cheeks.

 

He was partial to women with dark hair. It was familiar. A beautiful, well-spoken woman who carried herself with grace was always pleasure to watch, even if watching was all he had time for. There wasn't much time to waste on women, and his interest was usually passing. From the stairs, the new arrival caught sight of him, perhaps having unconsciously sensed his consideration. She turned her head in his direction, picking him out from the crowd with a searching eye. He was used to it, but eventually she noticed the Sharingan. He watched her brow furrow, and after a moment she turned away as the others had, descending the stairs in slow steps to the welcoming looks of many other men in the room.

 

“Is that all?” Itachi asked his informant. The man seemed to have forgotten Itachi in the moment that the woman entered the room, and when he realized where she had been looking, his face turned a jealous shade of green. He nodded jerkily, looking a little peevish, and shot Itachi a withering glance. Itachi found him unpleasant. “You will be paid as agreed. I suggest you go.”

 

The informant finished his drink in a single gulp and paid for his sake as well as Itachi's tea. He left without looking back, exiting the building alone and disappearing into the night.

 

Itachi turned his attention to the rest of the room. Kisame had won his first hand at the table and seemed to be in good spirits. A good number of coins had changed hands and Kisame did not attempt to hide his pleasure at his good fortune. Meanwhile, the bartender returned to collect the fare for the departed man's drink. He noted that Itachi's tea had been paid for and brought him a second steaming cup without asking. He also brought sake. Itachi took that to mean that the bar was open to him.

 

Given the bartender's generosity, Itachi was somewhat surprised when the man did not leave immediately. Instead he leaned forward, glancing up to catch Itachi's attention, and whispered to him in a muted voice while pouring the sake.

 

“I have been asked to share some information.”

 

Itachi waited without saying anything. The barman did not look up.

 

“The man with whom you were just meeting will betray you.”

 

Itachi took another sip of hot tea and observed the silence. He did not feel threatened, but if such a statement were true it would cause delays, and inconvenience him more than he would wish. Yet it could not be ignored. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he searched the bartender's face. He detected honesty and a willingness to be helpful. A genjutsu would not be necessary.

 

“What else can you tell me?” Itachi asked.

 

The bartender slowly refilled his tea. “That man frequents this place often. He's an opportunist to be sure, and the type to turn on a deal as quickly as he accepts one. I know nothing of his plans or who his contacts may be. I was bidden to pass this information to you by another.”

 

Prudence overshadowed Itachi's curiosity. “Who is the source of this information?” he asked.

 

The bartender's eyes drifted to the left. “The lady.”

 

Moving nothing but his eyes, Itachi followed the man's gaze toward an alcove in the corner where the woman he had seen descending the stairs now sat quite alone. She did not look in his direction. She seemed to be intent on her sake.

 

“Who is she?” he asked.

 

The bartender smiled. “She arrived a few days ago, passing through on her way to the Land of Fire, she said, but not too hurried about it. I can't tell you much more. Since her arrival she has conducted no business, nor taken up with anyone as far as I know. There has been some talk that she's a witch, but more than a few men are apt to speak ill of women who tantalize and turn them away.”

 

“Which men?”

 

“Only the most distinguished. She has been offered some pricey gifts, and for gifts fine enough, she invites a man to drink, but nothing more. She has angered some of my more influential customers, but they don't stay angry for long. That's where the rumor of witchcraft comes in. Some of the men say she enchanted them. Women like her often do.”

 

Itachi wondered about that. Perhaps she was merely a scavenger after whatever she could coax out of men hungry for something beautiful to look at. A woman who knew how to use her charms could be a formidable force. Even great ninja could be tricked, manipulated or mislead by their primal natures. But he wasn't so sure that was her intent.

 

“Why would she betray this man to me?”

 

The bartender shook his head. “You will have to ask her yourself.”

 

Itachi had no further questions to ask. Sensing his dismissal, the bartender left the flask of sake on the counter and left Itachi alone.

 

He sat quietly with his tea for several minutes. At length, he stepped off the barstool and crossed the room to the alcove where the woman waited. He carried the flask of sake with him. At the card table, Kisame was losing his current hand and grimaced as he was dealt his next card. Most of the room was at least half-watching the game, perhaps trying to guess what he would do on the next round of bets, and what would happen if he lost.

 

The woman was not watching. She faced the card table, but her face was half buried in her small cup of sake, and there was a smile on her face of the secretive sort, directed inward at some hidden thought. She did not look at Itachi as he approached, but he sensed she knew he was there.

 

He sat in the chair opposite her line of vision. She set her cup on the table and looked up. He refilled it with the flask. Reaching across the table, she poured a second cup for him. They both drank in silence. For several moments, neither spoke.

 

“I was told you had some information for me,” he said. Instead of asking what, he posed the more pressing question. “Why?”

 

She smiled at him, her face a picture of softness, femininity, and sincerity. Her eyes sparkled with invitation, yet there was something decidedly calculated about it. He detected from her an abundance of amusement, and couldn't quite grasp what precisely she found so interesting.

 

“I didn't think you would be interested in recreation,” she replied in a cool, collected tone of voice, “and I wanted to meet you.” Her voice was as soft as her face, smooth and certain, with just a hint of honey in her tone.

 

He smiled, though he was not amused. “Recreation?” A forward woman then, if he took her meaning, more so than she appeared, and perhaps accomplished at using it to her advantage.

 

She smiled back. “Hmm. I thought I had better make it business.”

 

“And is your `recreation' also business?”

 

She lowered her eyelashes. “No.”

 

He took a sip of sake and studied her. She sat straight-backed at the edge of her chair, hands folded demurely in her lap. It was a ruse, he was sure, and yet there was an essence of sincerity about it. A very attractive woman. He suspected she was very used to having her way.

 

“Why me?”

 

Her dark eyes glittered when she lifted her lashes. They were luminescent. She looked into his Sharingan and did not blink. “You have pretty eyes.”

 

Did she know what she was looking at? Or was the comment merely a flirtatious sentiment? He was used to attention, and practiced at deflecting it, but her approach was unusual. He studied her again, tracing the curves of her body from her neck to her shoulders to her breasts. Her figure was nothing to scoff at, everything in equitable proportion and more than enough of it to tantalize a curious mind. He had to assume she was also used to attention. Had she been sent by someone? Was she acting independently? Or was this merely a game between strangers?

 

He decided to see what she knew. If he wanted to, it would be easy to trap her in a genjutsu. She could be influenced to talk that way, influenced to do many things in fact, but he wasn't interested at the moment. He wasn't sure it would even be necessary.

 

“Have you seen eyes like these before?” he asked.

 

“No,” she said, “but I wasn't referring to the color, or the shape. Red, with an iris like a wheel? It is unusual. You must be a ninja.”

 

An obvious assumption.

 

“And your partner?” she continued. “He is unusual too. Like a shark from the sea, with that skin and that face. He does not seem reputable.” She smiled at him, coyly this time, almost mocking. “They say you can judge a man by the company he keeps.”

 

“You invited me here, and have betrayed my informant. What do you hope to gain?”

 

“I am looking for a superior man.” She sipped her sake and spoke plainly. “Someone who can satisfy my needs.”

 

A strange statement, but he didn't want to bait her just yet. He took an arrogant approach to answering her question. “And the other one?”

 

She smirked. “A blind man could tell you are superior to him, and not just because you could defeat him in a fight. I do not see many ninja in my travels and none yet in this district. The man you met with will know even less of your kind and what they are reputed to be able to do. He will betray you because of it.”

 

Itachi raised his eyebrows questioningly.

 

“I know because he told me.” She smiled with amusement. “He wanted to impress me.”

 

“And what do you know of ninja?” he asked her. Ninja secrets were well kept, in all the villages, and especially by rogue ninja. That being the case, even the most basic genin level skills were received with admiration by the ignorant, but it was possible she knew more than most, and perhaps even more than she should.

 

“A little,” she said. “I have never seen one of your hidden villages, but I have encountered ninja now and again in my travels, and I have witnessed some of what they can do. You must forgive my ignorance of the particulars, but from what I have seen I can imagine a great deal more. Limitless potential, I should think, and the ability to do what some can only dream. ”

 

“And what is the purpose of your curiosity?”

 

She smiled at him, a genuine smile this time, he thought, judging by the sparkle in her eyes and the curve of her lips. She had a lovely mouth. “I know I can never become a ninja. I do not wish to. It would not be a life that suited me, and I suspect that such a world of power is too closely guarded in any case. What I seek is to secure the next best thing, to align myself with the powerful, and through that, fulfill my purpose. It is the natural order of the world, and I believe strongly in natural forces. I'm sure you understand. I want only the best.”

 

He wasn't sure he understood her goal, but her philosophy made sense to him. In the natural order of the world, a man controlled others or was controlled by them. It was survival of the fittest, and dominance of the few. In nature, the strong competed for survival and the defective were destroyed for the betterment of the whole. He had seen crows behave that way, ripping apart any of their own that might draw unwanted attention from predators. All societies were like, even human societies. It was the only worthwhile way to live. Sometimes humans were more forgiving of their own, sometimes more vicious, but that was the consequence of freedom and the natural result of power. In some societies, a person was merely not useful could be destroyed.

 

Itachi had no doubt that this woman could be useful in any society, and prized in many, but the kind of use to which she would be put in the circles she seemed to favor was a strange liaison to actively seek. Her goal was a mystery to him. He did not see how it would ultimately benefit her, what control she could hope to have, or what `purpose' worth mentioning could be fulfilled. It didn't even seem to match with what he could deduce of her personality. It was an ignorant methodology, one reserved for the innocent. He didn't think she was innocent, and he could tell she wasn't stupid. Of course, it was true that a woman who managed to secure a man's affections—and sometimes merely his bed—could control him in ways that were surprising, but if this woman favored the powerful, she would not find such men so impressionable.

 

It was time to cut to business. “If your friend has betrayed us, I will kill him.”

 

“I suspect you will have to.” She did not seem perturbed. “He is not my friend.”

 

Ah. Perhaps she was not looking for a powerful man's affections after all, but merely one who would do her a favor in exchange for a favor. If she wanted this man dead, and if he was actually guilty of betrayal, she might think it easy to procure someone like himself to perform the service, while at the same time incurring his gratitude. She would be right, though it begged the question why. The other question was whether or not this man was actually guilty or if she was lying to make him think so.

 

He smiled at her in an altogether different way. He knew he must look menacing. “Are you trying to use me?”

 

Her eyes glinted with light. “Are you a man who allows himself to be used?” She regarded him with a bemused expression and then leaned her elbows delicately on the table, resting her chin against the back of her fingers. “So far you have asked many questions and answered very few. I'll tell you what you want to know. There are some men in town who will offer a substantial reward for anyone with information on rogue ninja who bear slashes through their headbands.” She glanced meaningfully up at his forehead. “They will pay double for any mention of persons in black cloaks with red clouds. I do not know who they represent, but I can tell you that they are holed up in bunker by the bridge this side of the river. Does that suffice?”

 

Rather than answer, he moved to refill her sake. There was a bit of pink in her cheeks, and as he leaned toward her, he felt her body heat. Her hair smelled of lavender, not heavy like perfume, but the clean scent of herbal soap and incense. She shifted slightly in her chair as he poured her sake from the flask. He was close enough to touch her without reaching.

 

“I am not one to be used against my will,” he whispered in her ear.

 

When he pulled back he caught her eye. The tomoes of the Sharingan turned. The genjutsu was so subtle she merely stiffened, eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to fight the compulsion. Interesting. He felt the tug against his will, but before the Sharingan had turned a full revolution, the illusion seized her completely and she slumped forward. She nodded her head drowsily over her sake, her hands limp around the cup, eyes dull. It was a gentle hypnotism, just strong enough to deaden her senses and confuse her thoughts. She would believe they were still talking, as if in a dream, and then wake suddenly to find she was alone.

 

Rising from his seat, Itachi left the sake on the table and moved swiftly through the room to the darkness of the doorway. A few people looked at him as he passed, but a glance into their eyes sent them back to their drinks, dazed and none too sure what they had seen.

 

Night swallowed him as he exited the building. It was cold, but he barely felt the air. A starless sky blanketed the streets in darkness and an overcast of clouds moved swiftly above his head, propelled by high rising winds. The air smelled like rain.

 

He followed the road to the river. The town was deserted, everyone having moved to the safety of light and sound indoors after dark. He heard the river before he saw it, the current rapid as it drifted south. The bridge arched gracefully across the bank, and beside it, just off from the main road, a small bunker built of wood hunkered in the mud.

 

He approached the wall and stood beside a covered window. He could hear voices through the glass. At first it was a murmur, but as he relaxed, his hearing sharpened, filtering the sounds through the wall. As he listened to the conversation, a light rain began to fall, tiny drops of water darkening the dirt beneath his feet.

 

“You're sure?” a man's voice whispered. “We can't afford mistakes. These guys are difficult enough to track down as it is. If they learn we're looking for them, we won't stand a chance.”

 

“Quite certain.” It was Itachi's informant who responded. He sounded confident, almost contemptuous, arrogance coating his tongue as he praised himself. “I've been running a little side business in intelligence, so I can tell you with absolute confidence that these guys are part of the outfit you're looking for. They are Akatsuki, no question. One of them even carries a great wrapped sword, just like in the descriptions.”

 

“When did you last have dealings with them?” a third man's voice asked. He sounded more cautious, older perhaps.

 

The informant replied, his voice aloof with scarcely concealed smugness. “I can tell you where they are right now. Just show me the reward money, and we'll talk the details.”

 

Itachi had heard enough. His hands moved. Ram. Serpent. Tiger. A shadow close emerged and passed between his original self and the window, circling around the wall and approaching the building through the front door. He was the same as the clone. He saw with the clone's Sharingan eyes.

 

He didn't bother to knock. The hinges squeaked as he pushed against the wood, but the door swung open without resistance. Three men looked up from a rickety wooden table as he entered. They barely had time to register the red clouds on black, the high collar covering all of his face except for the strangeness of his eyes, before two of the men collapsed unconscious to the ground.

 

The informant alone remained to face him. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for the knife in his belt, which he clenched in his fist, fingers trembling. The knife was a wicked blade, the steal molded into a sinuous curve and serrated on both edges. A blade like that would rip out a person's insides if it managed to pierce the body, but it was clumsy and poorly balanced. An inelegant weapon such as that could not be used effectively in combat. It was a torturer's instrument, and less sophisticated than a true practitioner would ever use. Itachi felt his contempt increase. The man was even holding it wrong. An academy child would have been able to take it from him.

 

“You…!”

 

Before the other man could move, Itachi crossed the space between them and seized him by the throat. The man's knife fell to the ground, clattering on its side. Itachi kicked it aside. At the same time, a kunai came smoothly into his other hand. He shoved the gasping traitor against the far wall, the tip of the blade thrusting against the underside of his ribs so that every time the man drew breath he felt the prick of hard steal.

 

“Please,” the man shrieked, his eyes wild with shock and fear.

 

Itachi was calm. “Why did you betray us? We paid you well.”

 

“I…” He paused in what might have been the preparation for a lie. Itachi didn't move. The man stared into his crimson orbs and must have thought better of deceit. “It was stupid. Forgive me. You can have it all back, everything I own!”

 

Adequate funds were always in short supply, but he was not interested in money. “Who else have you told?”

 

“No one else,” the man whispered. “Please. I swear it. No one.”

 

Itachi pressed the blade harder against the man's ribcage. With a twist of his wrist, he cut through the thread holding one of the man's buttons to his shirt. The kunai slipped between the gap in his clothes, jabbing up under his ribs until cold steel connected with bare skin. “You're lying,” Itachi said. His fingers dug into the man's throat, holding him steadily against the wall. The man struggled, gasping for air. Itachi didn't relish a conversation.

 

The kunai cut through flesh as easily as thread. It drew blood, piercing the surface layer of nerves and tissue, not enough to kill, but more than enough to cause pain. The man's gasp turned to a whimper-like scream, his eyes rolling up in agony. Itachi grip on his windpipe tightened, crushing out his air and preventing his ability to scream. The man kicked his feet, wheezing and jerking away from the kunai, but was held firm. Eventually he stopped struggling, swallowing painfully. Itachi eased his grip.

 

“Please stop!” the man breathed. His voice sounded strained, crippled by Itachi's crushing grip on his throat. “I…I told a woman. That woman from the bar. You saw her. She was strange, but beautiful. We had a few drinks. She asked me about my business. I didn't give her any details.”

 

“You don't know any details,” Itachi said dismissively. “Fortunately for you. What other dealings have you had with this woman?”

 

“None. We only talked.”

 

He smirked. “Then why did she tell me where I could find you?”

 

“That's….” the man licked his lips, suddenly uncertain, his eyes darting up as if searching for some answer that would satisfy. “I don't know how she found out about this place, but…I may have mentioned to some people that she was a witch. There was something strange about her. Why does it matter? It had nothing to do with you.”

 

Itachi's eyes narrowed. “It matters.” In truth, he wasn't sure, but if his suspicion proved correct, it might matter, and that was enough.

 

The man swallowed. “I thought that a woman like her, traveling alone, unescorted, would… Well, she refused, and she asked such strange questions, about charka and jutsu and ninja. I didn't know much, but I told her about my meeting with you, and that… well she seemed interested at first, but then she dismissed me. I told some others what I thought of her. She was just a woman. She doesn't know anything.”

 

Ignorant fool. “And you told no one else?” He pressed the blade against the soft flesh beneath the man's ribs, cutting him again, deeper this time.

 

A strangled yelp bubbled up from the man's throat. “No one! I swear it. Please. Have mercy!”

 

Itachi didn't know anything of mercy. He had never experienced it. He withdrew the blade from the man's chest and released his throat. The man sucked in air painfully, half sinking to the ground while drawing in short, wheezing breaths. By the time he looked up, it was too late. Itachi slashed him across the throat, severing the already-damaged windpipe in one swift motion. He was careful to avoid the blood spill from staining his cloak. The man toppled forward, unable to breathe, blood flowing from the wound until a river of it darkened his neck and chest. He was silent as death took him. Itachi returned the blood-soaked kunai to its holster.

 

He turned toward the two men he had sent to sleep. The genjutsu had been heavy, a mallet blow compared to what he had used on the woman. They would sleep until morning and remember less of the evening than if they had drunk themselves into a stupor. He considered killing them and tossing all three bodies into the river, but decided against it. There was no reason to kill these men. They would be useless dead, but if they lived and remembered enough to piece together what had happened, the name Akatuski would spread in a rumor of fear and uncertainty. Ultimately, it would be less bother to leave them alive.

 

Itachi lifted the traitor by the belt and hauled his corpse outside to the edge of the river. Rain fell heavier now, pelting the surface of the river with a sheet of needles that rebounded upwards, creating a mist-like shower over the water. He tossed the body into the swiftest part of the current and watched it sink like a stone beneath the splash. By morning it would be carried some distance by the rapids. He stood still for a moment, listening to the rain fall, making sure there was no one around who had seen what he had done. His sandals sank into soil that was quickly becoming black mud, and it wasn't long before he started to feel the cold. Water plastered his hair to his head and dripped down his face and neck in streams of thick drops.

 

 

He let the shadow clone vanish and opened his eyes where his original body waited well away from the scene of the crime. Leaving the riverbank completely, he headed back for the inn as stealthily as he left it. His business was concluded. His mood was changing. He wanted warmth, dry heat, a soft bed, and perhaps something more.

 

No one saw him enter the inn. At the entrance, his fingers flickered, completing a hand sign before he finished crossing the doorway. A lulling affect spread throughout the room. Even Kisame nodded over his cards, staring over his newly dealt hand with beady eyes. Genjutsu was never his strong point, but his cash pile was growing again. He was doing well. All the better. There would be no trouble, and no reason to have to supervise.

 

Crossing the room, Itachi made his way to the stairs, leaving a dazed crowd in his wake. Momentarily, they would come to, shake off what felt like a common sort of late night haze, and continue with their activities. He was on the second floor before the first one stirred.

 

The hallway at the top of the stairs was cloaked in darkness. Perhaps the wayhouse could not afford proper lighting, or maybe the customers preferred it this way. Wooden planks creaked as he moved through the shadows, passing doors on either side, not knowing for certain if his guess was correct. A mistake would not deter him, but he did not think he was mistaken.

 

A door at the end of the hall opened before he reached it. The woman's face appeared in the frame, lit by a tallow candle she held aloft, its flame cutting only marginally into the darkness. Itachi approached without speaking, eyeing her as he neared. A dark silk robe swathed her from shoulders to toes, tied loosely with a belt around her waist. When she raised her arm to hold the candle higher, the material slid down passed the elbow, showing him a shadowed glimpse of the under side of her upper arm.

 

“I wasn't sure,” she said cryptically. “But that card game may drag on until dawn. Your friend will not leave the table while there is still money to bet. Besides, you have been in the rain. You are soaked through. And I know you have questions. Come in.”

 

She disappeared behind the doorframe, retreating the way she had come, but leaving the door ajar to allow him admittance. He followed, unsnapping the collar of his cloak as he walked. Water dripped onto his hand. He could not touch his clothes without feeling the chill.

 

He stepped into her room, shutting the door behind him. It was a small room, merely a bed and a chair, the best an establishment like this could provide, no doubt.

She didn't move far from the entrance as he entered.

 

“What is your name?” he asked. He had no need to know, but at that moment it suddenly seemed like he ought to. He felt disinclined to play games. “Why did you want me to kill that man?”

 

“Did you kill him?” she asked. She sucked air in through her teeth as she said it, not with fear, but with the interest of one who was personally invested. “He was an animal. Someone would have eventually.”

 

“What did he do to you?” Itachi pressed.

 

He removed his cloak, tossing it over the back of a chair sitting empty beside the bed. The clothes beneath his robe were damp in patches, but ridding himself of the sodden cloak was a relief.

 

She stood completely still in front of him, her bare feet flat on the ground. Her eyes scanned his body. When her gaze met his there was an expression on her face he couldn't quite qualify, part challenge and part submission. “He asked too many questions,” she murmured. “Are you going to use those?” She pointed at the belt around his waist, at the kunai balanced in the holsters, including the one he had used to kill their mutual acquaintance.

 

He unhooked the belt and disarmed himself by dropping the holster that held his kunai and shuriken to the floor. She didn't look at the weapons; her eyes focused on his Sharingan as he closed the gap between them in a few unhurried steps.

 

She didn't move as he reached out to grasp her chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. Calmly, he stared into her eyes. They were brown, and dark, like pools of molasses, but what struck him was the way they reflected the light. They seemed to flash in the candlelight, not with anger or defiance, but a calm, subtle cunning. This time, when the Sharingan turned, her gaze hardened. He attempted to seize control of her charka, to penetrate the connection between her spirit and her mind, to direct the flow to his own will and lay siege to her senses.

 

Something stopped him. It was like a wall. One moment it did not exist, but all at once he could sense it, like a pane of slick glass. Stretching between his mind and hers, it seemed to have no edge. He could sense her charka behind it, but it was as if the network that carried her spirit to her mind and body had been sheathed in steal, like a sword in a scabbard. It was not the ninja technique normally used to dispel genjutsu, but it was as effective as any he had ever seen.

 

“Where did you learn that?” he asked quietly.

 

He realized she was trembling under his fingers. It took him a moment to understand why. Although she had blocked him from seizing control of her chakra, physically she was in his power. Her eyes were wide, staring at his face with an expression that mixed fear, surprise, challenge, excitement, triumph and relief all together. She dug her nails into his forearm, tugging ineffectually in an attempt to break his hold.

 

He didn't need genjutsu to control her. His grip on her was sufficient. He bent over her, squeezing her jaw and pulling her wrist away from his arm, forcing her to cease her attempt to escape him. A gasp escaped her lips and her body wilted like a reed on the bank of a river. He held her fast.

 

“Answer me,” he demanded. “Where did you learn to block genjutsu? Who trained you?”

 

“No one,” she whispered. “Where I come from, these techniques are not known, or at least not as people here know it. But surely anyone with a body and a spirit can learn it? It can be stumbled upon, as ninja must have once long ago? Unless they were all taught by another. I don't know the secrets of your people. I only know that I am able to do things that others cannot. I came here seeking answers. Where I come from, they called me a demon.”

 

A demon. Not what he would classify as a demon certainly, but he thought he knew what she meant. He could see in her eyes the thirst. It was a desire that overwhelmed her fear. It was self-assurance almost tangible to the eye. He released his hold on her. There were red marks on either side of her mouth, but she didn't retreat from him. She straightened, posture perfect, gathering dignity about her like a shawl. Her eyes met his, her expression flat.

 

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” he said. It wasn't sentimental, merely a statement of fact.

 

She touched her face. “You didn't. If anything, I feel…” She regarded him askance. “Although sometimes I can't tell the difference between pleasure and pain. Two sides of the same thing. Even hate and love are like that. When I think of what I've left behind…” She shook her head. “The only thing that matters is the choices I make, and my will. Everything else reminds me only of that.”

 

He agreed, but he did not answer.

 

“Do you ever feel lonely?” she asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Neither do I.”

 

She approached him without saying anything more, standing close enough to touch, eyes searching him as if looking for something. There was a kind of haziness in her gaze, and it made him swallow, though not with nervousness. She blinked, almost lazily, her lashes dropping halfway down her eyes. Her breasts heaved as she breathed, just inches from his arm. Her lips parted. The redness on either side of her mouth was fading, emphasizing their color.

 

He leaned in to kiss her. It seemed the only sensible thing to do. He found her lips warm and soft and inviting, yielding as he applied pressure, and pushing back when he released. His hands found her shoulders, smoothing the material of her silk robe. When she didn't resist, he ran his hands down her arms and slipped them about the waist, jerking her body close. She came forward, leaning against him as his hands explored her back and searched her feminine curves. He found the knots that held her robe together. Instinctually, he loosened them. The silky material shrouding her body slipped off as one piece, revealing bare skin from shoulders to toes.

 

Her hands settled against his stomach as he enveloped her form, his arms draping over and around her body. Soft, creamy skin yielded to his fingertips. There was nothing about her that was tough, no scars, no calluses, no rough marks, bruises, bumps or other evidence of ever having suffered injury beyond a stubbed toe. She was nothing like a ninja. This woman was all softness and silk, her body lithe and supple in response.

 

His lips found her skin.

 

She was not shy in her nakedness, but she shivered when he touched her and he kissed her mouth again to distract her from the cold. The heat blazing from his body would have warmed her even if she had been frozen through. She seemed to feel it and began to work at removing his clothes, searching for the heated skin beneath the layers. The thought of her naked body against his was enough to stop touching her long enough to walk her to the bed and help her undress him.

 

The candle she had set on the nightstand before he entered her room flickered as their bodies settled on the mattress. Her head fell back, nestling into the pillow, the contrast of her dark hair against the bedding drawing his attention also to her skin. He must have been staring too long, because she sat up again, gently grasping his arm just above the elbow.

 

He caught her with an arm around her back before she could direct him, and paused long enough to look into her face. Her eyes smoldered, her pupils dark and dilated with lust, feathery eyelashes framing lids that languished with the weight of passion. There was fire in their depths, a burning flame that ignited in him a fever. His heart pounded. He swallowed, suddenly short of breath, muscles tense and body humming with directionless charge. It was exquisite suffering. His fingers dug instinctually into her hair, tangled in her dark tresses, pulling her head to his. She stared into his eyes, panting a little now, head constricted by his grip on her hair. He saw fear in her eyes, and exhilaration. She smiled, and he let the Sharingan fade away.

 

“Oh,” she whispered. “Your eyes are even lovelier now.”

 

He kissed her neck, and then her mouth, supporting her weight with his arm as he lowered her to the mattress. He didn't think. He didn't say anything. He just wanted to ravish this woman.

 

*****

 

When Itachi opened his eyes, he guessed it to be midmorning. Sunlight glimmered through a few cracks in the walls, scattering dapples of gold across the floorboards. Other than that, the room was dark and quiet and warm. He lifted his head from the pillow, pushing the sheets off his chest as he sat up.

 

The woman—he realized with a bemused thought that she had never given him her name—slept soundly on her stomach, her head turned to the side, mussed hair fanning across her shoulders. The sheet had fallen below her waist, leaving the length of her naked back exposed to the air.

 

He was about to touch her when he heard heavy footfalls in the hallway. He reactivated the Sharingan just before the door burst open.

 

He wondered if Kisame had barged into every room looking for him.

 

“There you are. It's late, Itachi.”

 

Kisame was fully dressed, the great sword strapped to his back and his pouches bulging with his winnings from the night before. His beady black eyes darted to the woman in the bed. His lips curved into something resembling a grin, only toothier and full of viciousness.

 

“You could have said something. I wouldn't have worried.”

 

“Never mind,” Itachi replied. “I'll meet you out front.”

 

Kisame shut the door and the sound of his footsteps gradually faded away. Itachi rose from the bed and dressed silently. His robe had dried considerably. Sunlight would do the rest. Still, it was at times like this when he found a life on the road distasteful.

 

As he finished dressing, the woman opened her eyes and sat up. She pulled the sheets over her chest and watched him organize his shuriken and kunai. Judging by the alertness in her eyes, she had probably been awake when Kisame entered. He didn't know how anyone could have slept through that racket.

 

She didn't say anything as he gathered his things and left her behind, but she smiled at him when he turned for the door. He was tired, and he suspected it would take some effort to forget about the reason for that in the days ahead. She probably knew that. It must amuse her.

 

He met Kisame in the road just outside the building and informed him of the situation with their informant. Kisame didn't say anything about the woman, but when Itachi bought a skewer of dango at their next stop, he badgered Itachi about his love for “sweet things” in a manner that Itachi took to be a mocking jest, however exaggerated. He took steps to assure that the harassment ceased shortly thereafter. They had more important things to focus on.

 

It wasn't until the next night that a thought struck him. He had been thinking about something else entirely—the thoughts that were more usually on his mind—when it occurred to him what she might have been after. The revelation blindsided him like lightning.

 

Had it been planned? Did she know of Uchiha Itachi before he arrived? Had she been waiting in that ugly inn for him? Was it the Sharingan that drove her to him, or was it some other quality that she sought? Was it specifically him or would any ninja have done? Was she even looking for a ninja? She had said he was clearly superior to that fool who betrayed him, but that wasn't much of a measuring stick. He began to suspect she had initiated the conversation with that man, that she had lured him to drink and given him veiled promises of rewards she never meant to deliver. And then she had arranged for someone else to kill him.

 

She had told him that where she came from people called her a demon. It occurred to him that no half-formed charka abilities would earn her that title. What had she done?

 

And if he was right in his other guess, what was her motivation? Was it really so simple as the natural impetus she claimed it to be?

 

There was no way to know. She had seen to that. She had given him nothing—not a name, not a destination, not a family, not a hometown; she had even made it seem like she was doing him a favor by keeping it all so impersonal. He didn't know anything about her. All he had was a description, and that was easily changed. There was nothing with which to track her.

 

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that she had known exactly who he was, that she was acquainted with his history, that she had taken considerable steps to privatize her own, and that she had been waiting for him in that town. It could be that he was wrong, of course, and even if he wasn't, there was considerable probability that her efforts had failed. If so, would she try again?

 

He supposed that it didn't matter. His agenda was set, his plans too far along to bother with a woman whose path he would likely never cross again. His association with her was a moment frozen in time. It began and ended in that wayhouse. The memories were pleasant ones, and he had few enough of those. The past was the past and the present was the present. Only the future mattered now.

 

And his days were numbered. Time was flowing faster, even when it seemed to stand still. Perhaps she knew that too. The next generation, even the next Uchiha generation, was not for him to worry about.

 

 

*****

 

 

The moon hung overhead like a white sphere, casting a silver glow across the beaten path as Lucia van Alstyne walked the empty road. The highway stretched from darkness to darkness, illuminated only by the light of the night sky and sheltered in shadow by the boughs of trees.

 

The sounds of night creatures blended with the rush of the river and the cool breeze that ruffled the leaves and blew her hair away from her face. It was a pleasant night, the sounds of nature broken only by her quiet footfalls. An eerie night, if one was afraid of the darkness and shy of the moon.

 

Lucia van Alstyne was neither afraid nor shy. But she was surprised. She clutched her cloak to her chest and walked at a measured pace.

 

She was no stranger to men. In her premature youth she had learned what it meant to perform under attention, and cultivated in herself a predilection to grace in all situations. Her mannerisms were cloaked to convey favoritism, but she knew the difference between desire and connection. She had experienced both, but never both so strongly at once.

 

He had been the kind of man she would kiss as soon as look at, just to feel the electricity.

 

She could still recall the details with vivid accuracy, a sure sign of satisfaction when all she had sought was a modest degree of compatibility. It had been a night to burn her tallow candle to the stub; the wax had melted on the cheap wood of the table, as she discovered in the morning.

 

It had been a night of heat and sweat and tangled limbs, heavy breathing, and fervent whispers in the dark. It was like some delirious dream, all the discomfort of fever with none of the sickness. It was pain, pleasure, energy and exhaustion. It could have gone on all night. It could have gone on forever. She had never felt anything like it.

 

She had spent what remained of the night asleep beside a very dangerous man who was practically a stranger, sated and dead to the world with her hair tangled on the pillow, and never once awoke with any sort of alarm. She hadn't awoken at all until morning. Unheard of. Yet it had been worth the time it took to vanquish all evidence of their having been in the room and leave it all as she had found it.

 

Even now, she felt no sense of loss. She didn't need anything, didn't desire anything. It was an unfamiliar feeling for one who had spent most her life wanting—always wanting more. She had always required her privileges and never gave up her comforts. But this… She was glad he had no continuing use for her. If there had been even the slightest chance, she would have been in his power as much as he might have been in hers, and that would have been so intolerable, so unacceptable.

 

As it was, she got what she wanted, and given no more than she meant to. When she had determined to enter the world of the ninja, she had researched long and hard for that which would meet her criteria. As to the man himself, her requirements were not stringent, but that did not mean that just any man would do. Although she needed only compatibility and a general attraction to make it work, assets were another manner entirely. Everything from appearance to skill to character traits were a consideration, and she would not settle for mediocre in any category. Feeling did not come into it. Morality did not come into it. As to the rest, only the top tier alone would satisfy.

 

She had not expected to find Itachi Uchiha. She had learned of the Uchiha birthright in her research, but had little hope of encountering an Uchiha impressive enough to suit her needs following the massacre. In Itachi, fate had dealt her even more of a wild card than she could have imagined. When she had elected this course, she had not sought satisfaction, much less happiness. It had been such a surprise to find something that had turned out to be so pleasant and so memorable.

 

The timing was particularly fortunate in the likelihood that he would not live long. It was not her business, and she would not interfere, but it was a pity all the same. It was rare that she felt inclined to sacrifice any of her time to another, but in this case, she had not been in any hurry at all to call it to an end. She had never meant to stay the night, nor linger the following day, and though it was foolish to wonder if another encounter might be profitable enough to be worth seeking, she still wondered. If so, there was not much time to arrange it. Death would separate them soon. A man like that who chose to live gloriously also risked the likelihood of a swift and brutal death. It could not be helped.

 

She touched her abdomen questioningly. She was not in a hurry, but the timing was good, and the signs so far were positive. If it had eyes like his, she would be pleased, and not just for their shape and color, or even for the Sharingan, but also something of the temperance behind them. From there it was a matter of cultivation, instilling of values, and proper balance of freedom and responsibility. And if not, well… those were risks worth taking in the pursuit of excellence. That which was worthwhile could be achieved in no other way.