InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ A Purity Short: Cacophony ❯ Unsettled ( Chapter 17 )

Scowling as he double checked his gear, then stuffed it into his bag, Cartham didn’t even glance up when the soft but sharp throat-clearing sounded behind him.

“I just wanted to ask if you had and preferences about dinner?”

“I won’t be here for it,” he announced curtly and without even glancing in Kelly’s direction.

She was silent for a long moment, just watching as he shoved the last of his gear into the bag and yanked the zipper closed.  “You’re leaving.”

“Zelig called,” he explained, reaching for the slim-file and the nondescript cell phone.  “Don’t know how long it’ll take.”

She sighed softly.  “I see . . .”

Grimacing as he turned his head to the side, Cartham frowned at her.  “Listen, I don’t have much time, but . . . about last night.  I—”

“Do you really have time to waste, talking about that?” she challenged, but something about her voice—the slight quiver that was barely discernable, the fleeting quivering of her nostrils . . .

Unfortunately, she was right, and he knew it.  “We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

She didn’t respond to that, but she did push herself away from the door frame and stepped back into the hall.

He hitched the bag over his shoulder, careful to avoid the gun, strapped to his side.  Pausing before pushing past her, he scanned her face, searching for any real insight into her thoughts, but she kept them all carefully hidden from him—just as she had ever since that fiasco of a gala just the night before.  “Keep the doors locked while I’m gone,” he warned.  “I can’t call or text you from this phone, either, so, uh, don’t worry about me.”

Shaking off the memory as he sat in the dark and dingy half-light in the back of the desolate hole of a bar in the backwater town of Haskill, Arizona, Cartham sipped the flat and tepid beer that he’d been nursing for the better part of two hours as he’d sat and waited, hoping against hope that tonight was the night that the bastard of a newt-youkai would finally show his face.

Over a week since he’d left on this particular hunt, and he was growing impatient, almost antsy, but the information he’d been given said that Chad Eires, the newt, frequented this particular bar regularly, that it would be the best place to locate the deviant and to track him from there.  Wanted for a number carjackings near Chicago a few years ago where he’d left all of his targets dead, including a family of three—a mother and her two young children—he was only identified when a youkai who had nearly fallen prey to the bastard had come forward, saying that Eires got nervous when he realized that his would-be victim was also youkai.  There were other rumors swirling around Eires, but none of them had been substantiated.  However, the harm he’d caused to the carjacking victims was more than enough for the hunt to be issued.

‘Damn it.’

His youkai-voice grunted.  ‘Admit it.  You’re really just mad because Kelly’s been acting so weird, and you can’t figure out why.’

Cartham downed a bigger swig of the stale beer.  Yeah, he had to admit, there was that, too.

It made no sense, did it?  She’d been acting so distant, ever since the gala, and damned if he had any idea, why that was.  Kelly, for her part, refused to talk about it, refused to even acknowledge that something had changed.  She was careful.  She was polite.

And she was so very far away that he just couldn’t stand it.

‘Yeah, well, stop dwelling on that and pay attention to why you’re here, will you?’ his youkai-voice grouched.  ‘You know better than to let yourself be distracted by anything when you’re out here like this.’

‘You’re the one who brought her up,’ he growled, unconsciously narrowing his gaze as he slowly glanced around.

‘Don’t be dumb.  You were already thinking about her.  That’s all you do lately: think about Kelly—wonder what she’s doing, what she’s thinking—wondering what you could possibly do to make her think more about you . . .’

Running a hand through his hair, noting absently that it could do with a good washing, Cartham smothered the urge to sigh.  True to form, he tended to not bother with simple things like showering or messing with his hair before he finished a job, mostly because his scent was slightly different if he didn’t—and he didn’t much care, given that time was money.  That this hunt was taking longer than most?  Well, he was all right with that, for now, anyway . . .

More than once, he’d almost given into the urge to call her, just to make sure she was all right, but he simply couldn’t, given that he was using a prepaid phone, and, if he lost it, if the wrong person found it, the last thing he wanted was for anyone else to get their hands on Kelly’s number . . .

She never had come back to the table that night at the gala.  After waiting for a decent amount of time, he’d gone looking for her, only to finally find her, sitting in a quiet corner of the casino, wasting all the credits he’d bought for her on a slot machine, but the look on her face . . . The glow of the spinning reels cast an eerie kind of light, flashes of colors that scrolled much too fast for any one to really settle, but the sadness in her eyes was something that had completely disarmed him, nudging aside the acute irritation that she hadn’t bothered to return, in the first place.

Still, when he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d refused to say.  In the end, she’d stood up, had brushed past him.  He’d chased after her, only to be caught by some random woman, hell-bent on making small talk, and by the time he’d shaken her off, Kelly was gone.

He couldn’t have gotten home too much after she had—she’d caught a cab, the doorman had told him—but she’d locked herself in her room for the rest of the night, and in the morning, she’d seemed fine: aloof and even a little stand-offish, but fine . . .

Or . . .

“I hear you’re looking for me.”

Blinking as he jerked himself out of his thoughts, Cartham scowled up at the man he hadn’t even sensed approaching.  Youkai, most definitely—newt-youkai—strange orange eyes, seeming to glow in the darkness, nearly obscured by a length of unkempt, shaggy black hair.

“Chad Eires, I take it?” Cartham asked rather dryly, giving no indication outwardly of his own chagrin at having been caught off-guard.

“Chad would be my brother,” the newt replied coolly.  “Chris Eires—that’d be me.”

Before Cartham could respond to that, though, the slight glint of something caught his eye, little more than a flicker in the dusty light, but the unmistakable sound of the gun, being cocked . . . He certainly did not miss that.

“Why don’t you come with me where we can talk this over . . . hunter?” the newt-youkai muttered, just barely audible above the overall din of the bar.  “Besides, I’m sure Chad would love to meet you.”

Cartham stared at him for a long moment, but he slowly stood and straightened his back, walking past the youkai who held the gun, barely hidden under the open edge of his jacket.

Slapping her hand against the round green button, Kelly watched without really seeing as the slot machine spun the reels on the monitor.  As far as she could tell, she’d already lost a good fifty bucks since she’d come out here after hiding in the bathroom for twenty minutes, give or take.  A part of her had half-expected Cartham to follow her.  He didn’t, of course, which was probably for the best, but when she’d gone back to the dining hall, she’d spotted him, still sitting at their table—and with a very busty blonde in her vacated chair, leaning in, listening intently to whatever he was saying.

That was when Kelly had backed out of the room and had fled to the slot machine, farthest away in the darkest corner of the casino.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, pushing back the memory and flopping over onto her side as the quiet of the night seemed to press in on her.  Stubbornly closing her eyes, she tried to will herself to sleep while knowing in the back of her mind that it really wouldn’t be happening.

She hadn’t been able to sleep, not since the day he’d left on his latest job, anyway, and even before that, the sleep she was able to get since the gala was fitful, at best, and the question lingered in the back of her mind—the one that she was loathe to answer.

Just what did she think she was doing?

How easy was it, allowing herself to think, even for a moment, that maybe she belonged with him?  Even if he only offered her his friendship, and she’d thought that it was enough, but . . . But it wasn’t, was it?  It couldn’t be because somewhere in the back of her mind . . .

Was she doing herself more harm than good, staying here with him?

She realized that she wanted something more, something he didn’t want, and that knowledge was painful.  That longing, those sharp, bitter edges of a wish that was never voiced . . . It didn’t make it any less real, and it didn’t make it any less hurtful—the ache of knowing that it really wasn’t more than a feeling that would never be returned to her . . .

And, thinking back over the years of her life, how often had she known the same feeling, even if it was far more focused, far more poignant now than it ever had been before?  A lifetime of girlish and childish crushes, and not one of them had ever amounted to anything.  Back then, she remembered, wondering why it was that she was always the one who was found to be lacking?  Back then, she’d thought that her heartbreak was real, and she’d felt it so acutely, that nothing could ever be worse than what she’d felt.  But now, in this . . .?

And she knew, too, that being here was the worst thing in the world for her, but the idea of being alone again?  Why did that feel so much more frightening?

For a fleeting moment, she’d nearly forgotten, had almost thought, hadn’t she?  Seeing the surprise on his features, the way those violet eyes had suddenly darkened, deepened, glowed in honest appreciation, as he’d stared at her when she’d stepped into the living room, and for that crazy, wild second, she’d almost dared to believe . . .

‘I’m so stupid . . . Why would a man like Cartham even think about a silly little girl like me?  Sure, I can try to hide it all under all the layers of clothing I can, but what good does that do, anyway?  None, really . . . and I see in the mirror, every time I dare to look?  I look like a living patchwork quilt, and there is no beauty in it . . . There’s no nobility, no honor . . . It’s not like I was burned, trying to do something good or right.  Oh, no . . . Just my own idiotic choices, and . . .’

‘And maybe Cartham can see through all that . . . Maybe he sees beyond what might be on a superficial level.  Have you thought about that?  Or will you keep selling him short because it’s easier, isn’t it?  Easier to tell yourself all these ugly things than it is to dare to hope that maybe—’

‘Maybe he won’t be like that?  That he won’t see me, that he won’t be completely horrified by the skin bag that isn’t even mine?  I’m not stupid—well, not anymore.  I know what’s there, and I know how it looks, and a man like Cartham—’

‘If that’s really what you think, Kelly, then maybe you should.  Pack it all up, take off now, while he’s not here to try to stop you. Disappear again—Europe or Africa . . . even Australia.  Run as far as you possibly can and keep running, every day for the rest of your life because you have to understand that this time—this time—you’re not running away from the claustrophobia of a life that you found to be too conspicuous. This time, you’ll be running away from yourself, and when he finds you because you know he will, then run again and again and again and again.’

Squeezing her eyes closed against the raw truth in her youkai-voice’s prophetic words, she smashed her face, deeper into her pillow and uttered the tiniest growl—a pitiful sound that was caught somewhere between lament and anger, but held not enough of either emotion for it to ring true.  He’d find her.  Of course, he would—and maybe a part of her was relying upon that—but still . . . Because Cain would send him again, wouldn’t he?  Cain would feel that familiar sense of responsibility that had very little to do with love or caring and everything to do with the need to pacify his own daughter’s anxiety . . .

But even as that thought sparked to life, the instant wash of shame that crashed over her, wrung a groan from her, from somewhere deep down, because she knew, didn’t she?  She knew damn well that Cain Zelig, for whatever reason, really did love her—or at least, he loved the little girl he’d watched grow up with his daughter, and that ought to be enough.  Even then, it hurt, didn’t it?  She had no idea, why, but it did.

Letting out a deep breath, Kelly suddenly sat up, scowled at the clock on the nightstand.  Almost two in the morning, and yet, sleep was so far away.  It was too silent, too still, and far too lonely.  Drawing up her knees, wrapping her arms around them, she buried her face against them and sighed because the deeper the chasm in her heart opened up, the harder it was for the tears to fall.

‘Well, you’ve certainly done it this time, haven’t you?  Hope you have some idea, how to get out of this because I don’t have even one.  Wake up, will you?  Wake up!’

Stifling the instant urge to groan as white-hot pain overrode the blackened void where he’d escaped not long after being forced into the building, Cartham forced his eyes open, tried to ignore the god-awful ache, radiating from the gunshot wound in his right shoulder.  Blinking in an effort to shake off the haze that still threatened to engulf his mind, it took him a few precious moments to remember, just what had happened.

Escorted out of the bar and forced into an old, rumbling gray truck that might have once been black, he’d had no choice, given the situation, than to cooperate as he drove out of the town and into the night with a gun trained on him the whole time, directed by the newt-youkai, to an old white and rusty pole barn.  Once inside, the bastard had pulled the trigger, but Cartham had managed to react in time to keep from taking the shot dead-center in his chest.  It was the excruciating pain, however, that had made him black out . . . He really had no idea, just how long he’d been unconscious, but he could tell, given the fuzziness that he couldn’t shake off, the weakness of his body that seemed to intensify with every passing moment, that the loss of blood thus far had to be fairly significant . . .

Unable to stifle a sharp groan when he tried to move his arms, only to be rewarded by a flash of pain around both wrists that ricocheted up his arms and straight to his brain, he gave his head a quick shake, reminding himself to breathe deep before the overwhelming urge to pass out again gained a more solid hold.  Shackled to the arms of a very thick metal chair with his own anti-youkai handcuffs?  He squeezed his eyes closed and then forced them open wide.  Yep, both of his pairs of handcuffs.  That just figured . . .

His gun was removed, as were the daggers he kept in his boots.  All of his weapons were gone—all but one of them, he thought with a grim and unamused smile that was little more than a curling of the lips.  Even so . . .

Gritting his teeth since he knew that another jolt was about to hit him hard, he mustered his strength and jerked his body from side to side.  The chair didn’t budge, and he couldn’t help the low moan that slipped out of him as he slumped back and tried to fight off the effects of the restraints once more.  Somewhere, as though at a distance, he could faintly hear the words of his youkai-voice, but it was dulled and dim, lacking the actual intonation of words, but the pain was a curious thing.  It didn’t start on the outside of his skin and work its way in; it rattled through the very core of him—a shocking, violent sensation that shot forth in such a way that it could not be described as true pain as much as it felt like a complete and utter violation of the very fabric of his being, and the actual pain was somehow secondary, radiating out from that indefinable center of him, rifling straight through him, only to rebound, over and over and over in the space of an instant, of a breath, of a whisper of air.  “Bolted to the floor,” he muttered, his speech, slurred as he once again willed away the throbbing pain in his shoulder, the intense ache of his youki.

‘We’ve got to get out of here, Cartham,’ his youkai-voice insisted, the tone, the timbre, taking on an unmistakably anxious lilt, sounding incredibly weak, even in the confines of his own head, but it seemed determined to ignore the partial purification, which was somehow admirable—and entirely foolish, too.  ‘The slug’s still in your shoulder.  That’s why . . .’

He grunted.  That’s why it still hurt so damn bad, he figured.  That’s why he could still feel blood, soaking into his shirt, could smell it, so thick and heavy around himself that it blocked out almost everything else . . .

He was in a small room.  Maybe it had been some kind of store room at some point.  There were a few strange bits and pieces over in one of the corners—the broken-off handle of something—a broom or some kind of gardening instrument, maybe—and it was dark—a murky kind of dullness that made it impossible to tell, just what time of day it might be.  He had no way of knowing if he’d been unconscious for a few minutes or a few hours—or longer.

He was in trouble, and he knew it—more trouble than he’d ever been before in his life.  If he stopped to think about it, he’d have to admit that he really had no idea, just how to get himself out of it, either, given that he was secured well enough.  With every moment that ticked away, he could feel himself, growing weaker, and the only thing that he wanted to do was to close his eyes, to will away everything, to allow himself to fall back into that welcoming darkness that beckoned him like a lover.

‘Cartham . . .’

The voice came out of nowhere.  It wasn’t the one that belonged to his youkai.  Softer, gentler, and so very familiar, and, through the haze that engulfed his mind, he realized that he knew that voice, that softest timbre, and it alone was enough—enough to drive back the threatening oblivion.

It was enough.

Suddenly, though, the door opened with a screech so shrill, so angry, that it made him grit his teeth once more.  A second later, however, he blinked, turned his head to the side when that newt-youkai—Chris, he had said his name was—stuck a kerosene lantern within inches of his face.

The chuckle that rumbled out of him was both arrogant and menacing, but Cartham reacted to neither and instead, slowly turned his head back, willing his eyes to focus on the bastard’s face.  Orange eyes, glowing in an entirely preternatural kind of way, pupils narrowed to mere slits, despite the darkness of the room, there was a slightly Asian kind of slant to those eyes, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he were seeing things or not when the flick of grotesquely long tongue shot out and disappeared almost faster than Cartham could process it.

He had a strange sort of roundness to his face, almost as though his features seemed to flow into each other, but as he stood back, reached over his head to hang the lantern from a suspended hook on a long chain, he chuckled, draping his now-free hand on his hip as he balanced a grimy-looking Mason jar against his upper thigh.

“Have a good nap, hunter?  Thought you were a goner, for sure, given that you’ve been unconscious for almost a full day,” he taunted, his words, echoing off the tin walls of the room in an unsettling kind of way, given that he’d barely raised his voice above a whisper.  “I’m guessing you’re here to hunt down that idiot of a brother of mine, and, considering he’s the one you were asking for, I’m pretty sure I’m right, hmm?”

When Cartham didn’t answer, the newt pulled an exaggerated frown.  “And here I thought you’d be at least a little grateful that I chose to spare your life, after all.  I mean, it would have been entirely too easy to just shoot you, dead, after you passed out, you know?  In fact, I admit, that was the original idea.  That would have been the easiest thing, sure, but . . . but then, it occurred to me, right?  If I let you live, then you’d owe me, wouldn’t you?  After all, it’d be rude as hell for you to hurt me after I spared your life, wouldn’t it?  Anyway, I thought that it’d be much better this way.  So, you’re still alive!  Which kind of makes me God, don’t you think?”

“Your brother did a lot of shit,” Cartham said, trying desperately, not to slur his words.  Given the fog that he just couldn’t shake, the odds that he was talking without sounding like he was drunk were probably not that great.  “You’re really going this far to protect him?”

Chris barked out an incredulous laugh, emphasizing his amusement by taking a step back in a show of mock surprise.  “Protect him?  Is that what you think I’m doing?  Protect Chad because he’s family, because he’s flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone . . . which would be a really romantic way to view it, wouldn’t it?  Except I’m not nearly as interested in waxing poetic, you see?”  Slowly, his chuckling subsided, and he pulled Cartham’s prepaid cell out of his pocket, tapped it idly against his thigh.  “It’s interesting, don’t you think?  I know that it’s rude, but I took the liberty of going through your contacts while you were . . . resting.  I thought maybe I should call someone—let them know that you’re running a little late . . . But here’s the odd thing.  Only one number on this.  So, I’m guessing that it belongs to someone . . . very important, right?  Someone you may need to check in with while you’re out here on a hunt, and, given that someone of your repute couldn’t possibly be dumb enough for this one number to belong to someone like, say, a mate, then I’m guessing it belongs to someone even more important than that.  Am I right?”  Tapping the device against his chin, he seemed to be thinking things over, and, in the end, that smug grin returned.  “I know!  Why don’t we call it and see?”

Cartham didn’t reply.  He was already over the newt’s little games, and frankly, he didn’t much care if the bastard dialed that number or not.  Well, he did care, given that he was likely going to get an earful about the entire situation later—if he made it out of there, but . . .

Dialing the number, he messed with the buttons for a second as the phone rang.  Zelig answered on the second ring.  “Hey, I—”

“Is this Cain Zelig?  The Cain Zelig?  Oh, my God!  Is that who this is?”

“. . . Who are you?”

Chris chuckled again, and the sound of it held a sharp edge and very little actual amusement as he held up the phone before his face, eyes staring at the screen that glowed in the filmy darkness just outside the ring of light nearest the hanging lantern.  “I suppose we haven’t been formally introduced, have we?  So sorry—Should I call you Lord Zelig?  That sounds a little strange, doesn’t it?  O benevolent master, maybe?”

“Again, who are you?” Cain repeated.  “And how did you get that phone?”

“Chris Eires, at your service,” he replied in a mocking sneer.  “As for the phone—I guess you’d like to say hello to your hunter, now, wouldn’t you?  Hold on . . .”

He fiddled with a button, enabling the video feed, and then, he turned the device, but Cartham couldn’t quite make out the screen.  Too small and too far away, and his vision was still wavering precariously.  He wasn't sure how bad he looked, but he did hear the sharp hiss of breath coming from the phone.  “What do you want, Eires?”

“Well, I’d like a reward,” he said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

“For what?”

He chuckled.  “Oh, come on.  You sent this hunter out here to kill my brother, now, didn’t you?  And, since he’s so incredibly inept, I took care of it for him.”

Cartham narrowed his eyes when Eires held up the Mason jar in front of the phone.  In the wavering light, he could see the dull shadow that fell across the glass, and he shook his head slowly as realization dawned upon him.  “You killed your own brother?” he growled before he could stop himself.

Eires didn’t even blink.  “Here’s most of him,” he said, giving the jar a little shake.  “I gathered up what was left—though there’s probably some dirt in there, too . . .”

“You . . . killed your own brother . . .?” Cain growled.

Eires rolled his eyes, tossed his head in an entirely dismissive kind of way.  “Incidentals, Zelig.  You sent him here to do the same, didn’t you?  Now, while I have your attention, let’s talk numbers, shall we?  How much were you going to pay your lousy hunter to kill Chad?”

“You—”

“Since I did his job for him, you can just send me his payment instead, right?  And then, there’s the matter of the hunter himself, isn’t there?  Just how much is he worth to you?  Of course, I’ll be reasonable and knock off a bit since I did shoot him.  It should be enough to pay for his ruined shirt.  Sound fair?”

Blinking rapidly to clear his wavering vision, Cartham grunted and tried to fight against the desire to black out again.  He wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost already, but he knew well enough that it was a lot.  He could feel the weakening in his bones, a weariness in his soul.  He was in a lot of trouble physically, and he knew that, too.

Suddenly, though, the flash of green eyes, the sound of gentle laughter, echoed in his head, and he gritted his teeth as a surge of adrenaline blotted out the need to sleep again.  ‘K . . . Kelly . . .’

‘Come on, Cartham.  You’re stronger than this,’ she said in his mind.

“Hang up, Zelig,” he said, raising his voice so that Cain would hear him.  “You don’t need to bother with the likes of this bastard.”

“Cartham—”

“Cartham, Cartham,” Eires repeated, his face, shifting into a look of exaggerated concentration.  “Oh, Cartham!” he exclaimed, eyes widening as he broke into a really nasty grin.  “Is that right?  You’re the Cartham?  Why, you’re famous amongst our kind, aren’t you?  The toughest of the Zelig’s hunters?”  He chuckled, setting the Mason jar aside on a rickety old stand before striding over to stand before him.  Grabbing a handful of Cartham’s hair, he yanked his head back, lips curling back in more of a snarl than a smile as his orange eyes took on an even brighter glow.  “You don’t look so tough right now, do you?”

“You shot me,” Cartham replied, mustering all of his bravado to steady his gaze.  “That’s hardly grounds to gloat.”

“Let him go,” Cain demanded.  Cartham could hear the no-nonsense tone of voice, and he had very little doubt that Zelig was dangerously close to losing his own temper.  “Your problem is me with, not him.”

“Yeah, but he’s here, and you’re not,” Eires shot back.   “I’ll tell you what.  I’ll give you a couple hours to think it over.  Of course, if it takes you too long, Cartham, here, is probably going to die, given that the slug is still embedded in his shoulder, and you, Great Leader, should know that that means his wound isn’t even beginning to heal.”  To emphasize his point, he yanked the edge of Cartham’s jacket back and pointed the phone at him, and even in the filmy darkness, the blood that soaked the white tee-shirt was impossible to miss.  “I’ll call you back in a couple hours,” Eires said, letting go of Cartham’s jacket and turning his back on him since he was confident that Cartham was secured, good and proper.

Cain started to speak again, but Eires disconnected the call before dropping the cell phone beside the jar of Chad’s ashes.

‘It’s now or never, Cartham.  Quickly, while he thinks he has the upper hand.’

Gritting his teeth, Cartham gathered all of his strength, every last bit of his will, knowing that what he was about to do was reckless, maybe even stupid, could be lethal, if he wasn’t careful, but seeing no other option.  With one mighty discharge of his youki, the chains on his jacket shot out, locked around Eires’ body before the newt could even turn around.  Grunting as he forced out more of his youki and trying his damndest to ignore the shattering burn that invaded every last cell of his body, as the chains lifted Eires off the ground and tightened around him, around his throat, Cartham tried to block out the excruciating pain—the rampant burn as his youki activated the ofuda in the handcuffs, as the sensation that he was burning, from the inside, out, ensnared him.

It wasn’t quite enough.  The rapid degeneration of his youki hurt in a way that Cartham just couldn’t fight against.  So insanely close to losing consciousness, he couldn’t help the moan, the harsh groan, that slipped from him as the chains slackened, dangerously close to falling away entirely.  It registered in his overtaxed brain that he was purifying himself, and somehow, there was a certain sense of poetic justice in that, too . . .

‘Focus, Cartham!  Fight!  You can do it!  You have to.  You have to come home to me.  You have to . . .’

The sound of that voice, the echo of those words . . . It was enough to steel Cartham’s resolve, and, gathering the very last vestiges of his strength, bolstered by just the simple thought of Kelly, waiting at home for him, he forced out all of the youki he summoned together, grunting as Eires struggled against the chains, even as they tightened around him, but Cartham held on, and finally, with a harsh clank, the chains snapped Eires’ neck, and the youkai exploded in a wash of dust and light.

Cartham slumped to the side in the chair.  He was unconscious before the dust of Eires’ body settled.