InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ A Purity Short: Cacophony ❯ Shadows ( Chapter 2 )

~~Chapter Two~~

~Shadows~

 

~o~

 

 

Stepping out of the hotel just off the strip, Cartham frowned at the glaring brightness of the neon lights that glowed in the distance.  Already, he could feel the tension that grew behind his eyes, resulting in a deep throbbing in his brain.  Big cities never were his thing, which tended to be a bit of a double-edged sword, given that, in his line of business, he tended to end up in areas that were either entirely overpopulated or crazily empty.

He sighed, affecting the normal trace-scowl that he tended to wear most often as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

Tracking Kelly here to Las Vegas was easy enough.  All he’d had to do was to go down to the local bus station in Bevelle.  It just so happened that the girl who had sold Kelly a ticket had known her from school.  She’d said that she wasn’t friends with Kelly, but of course, everyone knew who Kelly and Belle were, though, from what she’d said, no one had understood, just why Belle was friends with a troublemaker like Kelly Hendricks.  After making a little small talk that was really nothing more than the girl, chatting nonsensically while Cartham just nodded now and then, she’d mentioned that Kelly had hopped a bus to Sin City.  Cartham, whose tolerance for busses just wasn’t high, had opted instead to book a flight later that afternoon.  Ordinarily, he might well have chosen to ride his Harley cross-country instead, but, given the sense of urgency in Cain’s request, he figured it’d be best to fly.

At least he was staying in a decent hotel this time around.  Normally when out on a job, he opted to stay in seedier places that would keep him well under the radar.  Since there was no real reason for him to hide his presence here, though, he’d opted to stay somewhere a little better, even if he’d rather avoid the super fancy places.  Cain wouldn’t bat an eye if he had, but Cartham knew, too, that his presence tended to make the upper-crust folks that frequented such places more than a little uncomfortable since he looked more like a biker and less like a productive member of their society.

Besides, he was about as far from fussy as anyone could be, and, sure, maybe he could appreciate the finer things in life, but he couldn’t say he craved those things, either.  To him, the struggle to attain such things was tedious, at best, and outright pointless, at worst—probably why his home back in Maine, when he bothered to be there, that was, was a fairly modest affair.  In fact, the only thing he’d splurged on when he’d bought the old property years ago was the state-of-the-art security system that he’d commissioned a fellow hunter, Moe Jamison to install, but that was entirely for practical reasons.  At this point in his career, he’d gained an unwanted level of notoriety, and, with that, came a certain sense of lingering unease.  There were a number of youkai who might like to see a hunter of his caliber, brought low.

But his actual home on his thirty-eight acres of backhills Maine property was little more than a three-room log cabin.  The initial thought when he’d purchased the land was that he could one day build something nice, probably closer to the ocean on the other side of the property.  After living in the cabin for a few years, though, the thought of building something else faded from his mind.  He was comfortable there, and that was good enough, especially when he was rarely home for more than a few weeks at a time, if that . . .

Letting out a deep breath, Cartham brushed aside the thoughts that just didn’t matter.  The main problem he had now was that, after a week of scouring the streets so far, he honestly had no real idea, where to find her.  At least when he was out on a regular hunt, he had a rough idea, where to start, even if it was just the seedier side of town—dive bars or even drug dens.  This time, he was flying blind.  Sure, it made sense to start in the same types of areas, to a point, but there was no reason to believe that she had any kind of issues with illegal substances.  The thing was, he also knew that she hadn’t had much in the way of money when she’d taken off, so just where would she have found to stay?

The only thing that he could really consider was that maybe she was staying at a shelter or something.  He’d already been to all of them that were close to the bus station where she had arrived.  Unfortunately, in a city the size of Las Vegas, there were a lot of those shelters, and he’d really only scratched the surface, so to speak.  Even then, he had to wonder.  After all, they did keep records of the people who wandered through their doors, but that really didn’t mean much, especially if Kelly had opted to use an alias.  Too many faces to remember any one in particular, and, to be honest, her coloring wasn’t all that remarkable, either, given that light brown hair and deep, emerald eyes were not exactly an exotic combination.

Still . . .

Digging the slightly-dog-eared photo out of the inner pocket of the leather jacket, Cartham didn’t stop walking as he stared at the image.  It was taken after her final reconstructive surgery, after her bandages were removed, after the swelling had gone down—a stock photo for her hospital file.  He didn’t know how Cain had managed to get his hands on it, but Cartham was thankful that he had.  Though she still bore a striking similarity to the picture that Helen Hendricks had showed him, she did look remarkably different, and those differences didn’t have a lot to do with the scarring that he could make out easily in the picture.  One ran just under her nose, tucked away in the natural contours, but another ran pretty nearly the entire area around her face.  He could make it out well enough under the downy, light brown, nearly blonde, hair that had grown back, but then, he’d kind of looked for it.  If it weren’t for the rather strange way that the skin of her face seemed to be a little mottled, a little off from a face’s normal shades, he might not have found it to be odd at all.

Cain had mentioned that the girl’s coloring should take on a more normal shade as time passed, as the skin merged with her own, as it slowly bonded to create a new layer of skin entirely.  He’d also said that the scars that were left behind due to the inability to actually stitch the skin together would eventually fade, too.  Despite that knowledge, Cartham had to wonder if, what he was seeing in that image, didn’t account for at least part of Kelly’s desire to escape, to start over . . .

She was a pretty girl—well, no, that wasn’t quite right.  She was beautiful, wasn’t she?  Even after the surgeries, she retained a certain refinement in her features that brought to mind her mother’s face.  As far as he could tell, the biggest difference between before and after was really her nose, which was a little narrower, a little more pixie-ish than it used to be.  Her eyes were slightly wider, sloping just a little more sharply at the edges, but what struck him the most was the blankness in her gaze, a hollowness that bespoke a marked lack of emotions, as though her feelings were somehow blunted.

It was an expression that he knew well enough.  He’d seen it in himself too many times to count.  Back in those days, he’d tried to find things that could fill that painful void, and he’d done so in the worst possible ways.  Did she still look like that, he wondered?  And if she did . . .

“Look, it’s not like I don’t care about her.  I do.  I’m her mother.  But she . . . Well, she takes after me, I guess.  Too stubborn, you know?  And then, she’s like her father, too—to unwilling to ask for help, and then, she gets ideas in her head, and she doesn’t let them go, even if they’re nothing but trouble.  She’s never wanted to listen to me when I’ve tried to tell her that she shouldn’t do certain things.  She’s always had to learn it all the hard way, and one day, it’s going to be her undoing . . . My husband . . . He said that he’s done with her, that if she wants to fail, that she might as well learn how to pick herself up again.  He . . . He loves her, too.  It’s just . . .”

They loved her, sure, but they didn’t understand her.  Or maybe it was the idea of the child they’d given life to that they loved because, after talking to Helen, he had to wonder if they honestly knew much of anything about Kelly now.  Maybe her unwillingness to bend to their perceptions of what their daughter ought to be had precluded their ability to see her as she was, and there was no one on earth who could ever live up to the perfection in their minds, which left Kelly with no chance in hell of ever living up to those expectations.

At least, that’s how it seemed to him.

‘It doesn’t matter, though, does it?  I’m just supposed to find her, to make sure that she’s all right.  It’s not my job to try to play counselor between the family.’

As if that were even possible, anyway.  Cartham was about as far from a peacemaker as he could possibly be.

Letting out a deep breath, he tucked the photo away again as his determination seemed to solidify in his mind.  He’d find her.  He just hoped it was sooner rather than later . . .


Kelly stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Hill Chapel Homeless Shelter, hitching her backpack over her shoulder, very aware that she carried more money than she had had in a long while.  Most of it was folded neatly, tucked under the insole of her left shoe, while she had seven dollars and eighty-five cents in her pocket.  She wanted to open a bank account, but that wasn’t possible.  Without a permanent address, no one would allow her to do so yet.

Three weeks’ worth of work so far, and, after another couple weeks, she might have enough to at least start looking for an apartment, if she could find something fairly cheap.  The real problem was that the shelter only allowed people to stay for four weeks, which meant that she was running out of time, and she’d either have to try to find lodging at another shelter or she’d have to figure something else out.

It never ceased to amaze her, though, just how inconspicuous even she was here.  She supposed that it must simply be the difference between a big city and a small town.  No one stopped, stared at her here because no one here cared about her story, and that was fine with her.  Even the four women she shared a room with at the shelter were still strangers.  She knew two of their names: Bethany and Tara, and only because they were friends and talked quite a bit.  Aside from the intake worker who had written down the information she’d given, she hadn’t actually talked to anyone else, either.

They left her alone, and she stayed to herself.  She had no long-term plan.  It was enough for her to be lost in the bustle of the city that never slept.

And maybe it was good for her, too.  Given that she wanted nothing more than to remain invisible, the absolute anonymity was nice, welcome.

‘Just a little longer,’ she thought as she crossed the street, heading for the nearby news stand—one of the few in the area that actually sold real publications.  Once a week, she splurged and bought the weekend edition, both for the more extensive classified ads as she familiarized herself with the average costs of dwellings in the area as well as for the coupons in the many fliers.  She’d never messed with such things before, but every little bit counted, as far as she was concerned, so if she could get a tube of toothpaste for half of what she might normally have to pay for that or for any other basic toiletries, then messing with those bits of paper were definitely worth it to her.

Besides, she only allowed herself to spend less than twenty bucks a week.  The shelter provided breakfast and dinner, and, while they weren’t necessarily the tastiest meals, they were free, and that was good enough, and she never ate much.  More often than not, she ended up, giving one of the children in the shelter the rest of her meals—a few extra packets of saltines or an extra hard-boiled egg when she was given two of them.  Those youngsters needed the energy from the food far more than she did, and she’d already adjusted to eating very little when she had no money at all back in Maine, so it wasn’t a big deal, anyway.

Biting her lip as she stepped away from the news stand with her paper under her arm, she bought a small can of apple juice from a nearby vending machine—her one and only splurge every week—and set off for the park as she tucked both things into the garish orange backpack she’d bought out of her first paycheck from the second-hand store near the shelter.  It was only three dollars, and all of her things fit in it, including her single change of clothing—also purchased at the second-hand store—and really, that was all she cared about.

It was a six-block walk to the nearest park—well, kind of a park.  She supposed that it was more of a public square than an actual park.  There wasn’t any play equipment for children, just one large fountain in the middle, with a number of wooden and wrought iron benches, scattered around, some shaded by trees, others, basking in the sunshine . . . All in all, it was a nice place to spend her one day off a week, reading the newspaper and generally just doing nothing.

It was a nice feeling, blending into the moving crowd, feeling completely unremarkable, even as she frowned at the ugly scar that ran up the side of her hand, up along her wrist, only to disappear under the oversized light jacket she never really took off.  She’d learned fast that Las Vegas was too warm for the hoodie she’d worn on the bus that fateful day, but she just couldn’t bring herself to let her body show, couldn’t stand to see those ugly scars every time she looked in the mirror.

“Mostly second and third degree burns over roughly sixty-five, maybe seventy percent of her body . . . At this point, it’s really touch and go . . . If she weren’t what she is . . . Well, we’ll just have to wait and see . . .”

“I . . . I see . . . Can I see her?”

“We’re keeping her sedated right now, and, with the compromises to her skin, any kind of exposure to germs could be fatal.  Given the extent of her injuries, though, I can let you see her for a few minutes, but you’ll have to wear sterile gear.”

“O . . .Okay . . .”

Brushing aside the lingering memory that was hazy enough in her mind that she often wondered if it was, in fact, a real memory or not, Kelly kept moving.  She didn’t remember any visit at that time, anyway, though that could have been because she’d fallen asleep again.  Either way, her first doctor—Dr. Gentry—was luckily a youkai, and he’d realized right away that Kelly was, too.  He was a kind man—she’d seen it in his eyes—even if he hadn’t really given her much information about her condition, about the severity of her burns.  She was seventeen then, so his important discussions had always been directed at her parents—the parents she only saw once that she remembered—her mother, anyway—even if that vague memory had included her mother’s voice.

Just the thought of those parents was enough to quell the semi-decent mood that she’d carried since she woke up this morning.  Knowing them, they were probably happy that she was gone, relieved that they had no idea, where she was.  The constant trouble that they viewed her existence as being was removed, and wasn’t that better for everyone?

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little bit harsh?’

Snorting indelicately at her youkai-voice’s unwelcome question, Kelly stopped at a crosswalk, waiting with a handful of strangers for the light to change.  ‘I don’t think so, no.  I never fit into their perfect little world, anyway.’

Her youkai sighed, but didn’t argue with her.

A strange trill ran up her spine, the sudden sense of another youkai nearby.  She wasn’t sure why it unsettled her so much, given that she’d encountered a number of her kind since she’d arrived in Las Vegas.  Something about the foreign youki seemed almost probing, searching . . . and underneath that was a definite air of something unsettling, like a warning or an alarm.  She didn’t know why, but she did increase her gait as she crossed the street, pulling in her own youki, trying to blend into the moving throng a little more, even as she slipped her hand into one of the deep pockets of her jacket, wrapping her fingers around the cool metal of the closed butterfly knife she carried everywhere . . .


He spotted her through the crowd, frowning as he watched her duck into a small newsstand.  After being told that he’d just missed her at the Hill Chapel Homeless Shelter, it was pure, dumb luck that he’d found her, but even if he hadn’t, at least he’d found out where she was.

Her scent wasn’t that far off of that of her mother’s—an entirely sweet smell, like the air just after a good, solid rain.  In nature, that scent would fade within minutes, usually didn’t linger longer than maybe half an hour, but there was an underlying hint that reminded him of freshly cut hay that was left to dry in the afternoon sunshine.  He wasn’t exactly great with words, but if he had to try to describe it, he would have said it was a golden-brown smell, akin to the aroma of freshly milled wheat.

Scowling at the almost fanciful lilt of his own thoughts, he followed along behind her, but he didn’t try to catch up with her, either.  Something about the efficacy in her steps intrigued him, damned if it didn’t, and for reasons he didn’t really quite grasp, he was interested in seeing, just where she was going, instead.

The shelter manager who had told him that he’d just missed her had mentioned that she had gotten a job at a nearby hotel, cleaning rooms between guests, but she hadn’t known whether or not Kelly was supposed to work today.

The buzz of his cell phone drew his attention, and he pulled it out of his pocket, answering it without bothering to look at the caller ID.  It was one of the many prepaid ones that Cain kept around and issued to his hunters whenever he sent them out on a job, and that meant that it had to be the tai-youkai since he was the only person with this particular number.

“Yeah.”

“Cartham . . . How’s it going?”

Slowing his gait but keeping an eye ahead on the very short ermine-youkai, he frowned thoughtfully.  “Found her,” he said.  “I haven’t approached her yet, though.  She looks pretty good, but she’s living at a homeless shelter.  Got a job at a hotel, cleaning rooms.”

Cain let out a deep breath.  “A shelter?” he repeated.  “Unacceptable.  Take her and find her a decent place to live.  I’ll put more money on your card, enough to cover her deposit and a few months’ rent, up front.”

Cartham uttered a terse grunt.  He’d figured Cain would do something like that.  “You think she wants your help?”

This time, Cain grunted, and Cartham heard the distinct snick-snick of his lighter.  “Non-negotiable,” he replied stubbornly.  “If she wants to live there, that’s fine, but she’s going to be safe.  That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, all right,” Cartham allowed.  “It’s your money.”

Cain sighed.  “So . . . How does she look?”

Cartham considered what kind of answer Cain was after.  Hanging back when she stopped at a cross walk, he regarded her with a critical eye before giving a mental shrug.  “Aight, I guess,” he said.  “A little on the skinny side, but she doesn’t look bad.”

“Good,” Cain muttered, letting out a deep breath.  “Give me a call later, after you’ve talked to her.”

“Aiyuh,” he breathed, frowning as she suddenly drew her youki in, as she hurried her step into the street with the rest of the crowd that had been waiting for the light to change.  He dropped the phone into his pocket, quickening his gait, just enough to keep from losing her in the commotion.

She must have sensed him, but she seemed almost panicked.  She suddenly ducked into an alley between a large and almost ramshackle four-story building with a bookstore on the ground level and a twenty-four-hour fast cash.

He followed her, slowing his stride in an effort to calm her down, purposefully taking on a more casual gait, allowing his youki to ebb and flow in a natural and more relaxed way than he typically permitted himself.  It didn’t seem to do a thing to reassure her.  In the confines of the dirty alley, he could feel even more of her anxiety, though he had a feeling that she was trying to mask it.

Letting a loud gasp slip from her, she suddenly whipped around, the flash of light, blinking at him just as the soft clink and snap of metal registered in his ears.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” she demanded, eyes taking on an independent kind of glow as she brandished the six-inch butterfly blade before herself.  To her credit, her voice gave away nothing of the trepidation that he could still feel, radiating from her in jagged waves.

Eyes narrowing as he strode toward her, giving up the pretense of trying not to alarm her, he snorted.  The sound echoed off the walls.  “Put that up before you hurt yourself,” he told her in a roughened growl.

Her grip on the knife tightened, attesting to the idea that she really had no idea at all, just what she was doing with that weapon.  She was too stiff, too unnerved, even if she wanted, she’d never actually be able to fend off anyone, much less him.  “What do you want?” she repeated, trying her damndest to sound at least slightly intimidating.

“Relax,” he told her, stopping just a couple feet away from her as he crossed his arms over his chest and peered down at her.  He’d realized when he’d seen her that she was just a tiny thing.  Standing so close to her, however, she seemed even smaller somehow . . . “The Zelig sent me to find you.”

It was apparent to him that she hadn’t expected that at all, and she blinked and shook her head, but she didn’t relax her stance.  “Belle’s dad . . .?  Why?”

“He’s worried about you,” Cartham pointed out in a tone that implied that she really should have known that already.

She started to open her mouth, but her eyes suddenly widened in alarm, and she uttered a terse little growl that was just not even remotely threatening, not to him.  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?  I don’t know you, and you haven’t even told me who you are.  For all I know, you’re just some random skunk, out to try to rob me or something.  Go away.  I’m not afraid of you.”

Rolling his eyes, he reached out to yank the knife out of her hands.  She yelped, recoiling slightly as she squeezed her eyes closed and swung the blade, and despite his reflexes, she caught the back of his hand.  He gritted his teeth, rolling his fingers to latch onto the weapon and jerking it out of her grip with ridiculous ease.  “I’m not a skunk,” he growled, ignoring the slight sting from the shallow cut.

“H-Hey!  Give that back!” she demanded, ignoring his counter, reaching for the knife, only to growl in irritated frustration when he lazily gave it a little flip to close it, then lifted it, holding it up in the air over his head and effectively out of her reach.  For a moment, he thought she just might start jumping to try to reach it, but she glared daggers at him instead, planting her hands on her hips as she tried her best to smite him on the spot.

“I’ll give it back if you’re done threatening me with it,” he told her in a clipped and even tone.

“You’re getting your blood all over it,” she complained haughtily despite the trace flush that blossomed under her skin.

“Yeah, you’re going to have to try harder than that to hurt me, brat,” he growled.  “Now, stop it and calm down.  The name’s Cartham.  I’m one of Zelig’s hunters.”

She snorted indelicately, straightening her back, crossing her arms over her chest.  “Not a good one, then.  I sensed you back there—and why would he send you after me if you’re one of his hunters?  Are you here to kill me or something?”

He sighed, rapidly nearing the very end of his patience.  “Hardly.  I already told you, I’m just here to check on you, to make sure you’re all right.”

She made a face.  “Well, as you can see, I’m just fine, so you can go away now—after you give me back my knife.”

Cartham grunted as he dropped said-knife into his pocket and gave his hand a shake, sending a slight spray of blood, flying through the air.  “Yeah, not happening until you learn how to use it,” he growled.

“I—”

“You don’t,” he informed her as he reached out and grabbed her arm with his good hand.  “Now, come on.”

“Where do you think you’re taking me?  I’ll . . . I’ll scream.”

“Do it, and I swear to God, I’ll toss you over my shoulder—just try me.”

She snapped her mouth closed on her rebuttal, and she did move of her own accord.  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded once more, careful to keep her voice lowered as he escorted her back out of the alley once more.

He snorted.  “Where else?  To get you something to eat.  You look like you could use a few . . . hundred . . . good meals.”

To his surprise and relief, she didn’t respond to that, but when he glanced down at her, he stifled a sigh as she stared at the ground, as she seemed to retreat into herself.

“Look, I’m not the enemy,” he told her.  “Let’s get you a decent meal, and we’ll talk.”

She didn’t seem to want to go along with him.  If anything, she retreated into herself just a little more, but she did move, which, he supposed, was concession enough.

He stifled a sigh, figured he might as well try to do something to try to put her at ease, even if he didn’t really think that it was actually possible.  “Like I said, the name’s Cartham.  I’ve worked for Zelig for a long, long time, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Cartham?” she echoed, her tone, giving away her still-simmering irritation.  “Cartham, what?”

“What do you mean, Cartham, what?  Just Cartham.”

She snorted indelicately.  “Yeah, okay, Just-Cartham.  What’s your last name—and what kind of first name is that, anyway?”

He grunted.  “It is my last name,” he told her.  “It’s what I go by.”

She blinked, and, to his surprise, she turned and stared at him, but she did keep walking.  “Oh, so, what you’re saying is that your parents nailed you in the name department,” she concluded with a very curt nod.  “What’d they do?  Name you something goofy like Gary?”

“No.”

“Terry?”

He grunted again.  “No.”

“Jerry?”

“No—not even close.”

“Stan?”

“Can we just—?”

“Is it girly?  Like Carey?”

He growled.  “No.”

“Patty?”

“No.”

“Jesse? ”

“No, now, drop it,” he rumbled.

She made a face, but she did let it go, which, in Cartham’s estimation, was good enough—until she spoke again, that was.  “You know, I don’t think I can trust that you really are who you say you are or that you work for who you say you do if you refuse to even answer a basic question,” she pointed out.

He rolled his eyes.  “Nice try, missy. Now pick a restaurant or I will.”

Her only answer was that stony silence, and Cartham smothered a sigh.  He had a feeling that it was going to be a long, long day . . .