InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ A Purity Short: Cacophony ❯ The Longest Night ( Chapter 18 )

Cartham awoke with a sharply indrawn breath, a hiss of absolute agony, as his senses seemed to return, all at once, all in a rush—an excruciating rush of sensation that he didn’t want.  Pain so intense that it blotted out anything else, so exacting, so unrelenting, that he seemed to have lost any control that he should have regained, and it only seemed to intensify, magnify as the threads of his sanity quickly unraveled.

“Sorry . . . I’ve almost got it.  Just . . . Just hold still . . .”

The words made no sense to him, and he started to open his eyes, but the sudden and razor-sharp stab of pain wrung a scream from him.  He tried to jerk away, but he couldn’t do more than squirm to the side, and that only served to bring on even more mind-numbing spasms as the fingers, probing the gunshot wound, dug a little deeper.  So intense that he could feel the edges of oblivion, beckoning him, and yet, they weren’t quite close enough to grab hold of him, either, he almost thought that he might well be dying, but honestly, would death be this painful?  Somehow, he didn’t really think so.  The heavy breaths, bordering on hyperventilation, the little half-groans that he just couldn’t control . . . It felt like an eternity of anguish on top of a debilitating ache that just wouldn’t stop . . .

“There . . . Sorry about that.”

Grinding his teeth together as the pain lessened to more of a dull throbbing ache, Cartham finally managed to open his eyes, blinking in a strange sort of disbelief when he finally focused on the concerned face of Cain Zelig, waving into and out of focus in time with the surges that still rattled through his body.  “Wh . . .? What are you . . . doing here?” he managed, but his voice sounded weak and rasping to his own ears.

Wiping his slightly shaking hands on a blood-stained towel, Cain sighed.  “What the hell do you mean, what am I doing here?  Christ, Deke . . .”

Cartham grimaced.  He couldn’t even move at the moment, and his wrists were giving his shoulder a run for the money in the pain department, too.  “I took care of Eires,” he muttered.  “Damn . . .”

Cain sighed again.  “I figured that much,” he growled, leaning forward to grab a bottle of saline to wash out the gunshot wound.  “What the hell happened?”

He didn’t answer, gritting his teeth as Cain slowly sprayed the liquid into the open hole in his shoulder.  It hurt, though not nearly as much as it had when Cain had dug the slug out.  “He pulled a gun on me,” he finally said when Cain set aside the bottle and reached for a few packets of gauze.  “It was in the middle of a bar, so I didn’t figure that fighting him there was a good idea.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cain countered.  “I want to know how he was able to get the jump on you.  You’re not that careless.”

Cartham grimaced, hating the fact that his arms felt entirely useless, as though they were cast of lead.  “Call it an off day,” he muttered, letting his eyes close, only to moan when Cain nudged a straw between his lips.

“Drink,” he commanded in a tone that left no room at all for argument.

“Fuck off, Zelig,” he grumbled, forcing the straw back of out his mouth with his tongue and turning his head away.

“Drink or you’re going to the hospital,” Cain growled.  “You lost way too much blood, and you should go to the hospital, anyway.”

“No hospital,” he rumbled.  Letting go a heavy sigh meant to let the tai-youkai know, just how sorely put upon he was feeling, Cartham turned his head back and let him shove the straw into his mouth once more.  But he did drink the orange juice.  It tasted terrible, one of those cheap juices that retained a bit of a bitter tang and the metallic under-taste of the can it had been packaged in—not sweet enough, and thinner than it ought to be.

“It’s all I could get at that little corner store,” Cain said, correctly guessing Cartham’s thoughts.  “Everything else was closed when I got you back here into town.”

Cartham grunted, but kept dutifully drinking.  He wasn't sure if it was simply the sugar in the drink or something else, but slowly, he could feel the dregs of himself, slowly feeling restored.  His shoulder still ached, and his arms still felt heavy.  The burns on his wrists and forearms were still tingeing, but the fog that engulfed his brain slowly was losing its grasp.

After the second can of the metallic-tasting juice, Cartham managed to shove Cain’s hand and the can away.  “Enough,” he muttered, pushing himself up on his left elbow, grinding his teeth together as his body protested the movement.  “I think I’ll live.”

Can snorted and started to open his mouth, but the discreet tap on the door drew his attention.

Cartham frowned, but Cain didn’t seem at all alarmed as he got up and strode over to answer the knock.  “Took him long enough,” the tai-youkai grumbled.

The door opened, and Cartham blinked as Kichiro Izayoi slipped past Cain and into the room.  He carried with him a large black duffle bag, and he cast Cartham a cursory kind of glance as he dropped the bag onto a nearby table and pressed his thumb against the Identilock.  “I got the first flight I could, Zelig.  Give me a break, why don’t you?  Came here straight from the airport,” Kichiro said, yanking open the bag and digging in it to locate a stethoscope and some other things, along with a white plastic bag—sterile instruments, Cartham figured.  Only then, did his gaze return to Cartham when he turned on his heel to face him.  “Did you get the slug out?”

“Yeah, I did,” Cain replied.

Stepping over to the bed, Kichiro reached out to pull the gauze away from Cartham’s wounded shoulder, brows drawing together as he examined Cain’s handiwork.  “Looks like it’s already starting to heal, but it’ll probably take a day or two to close,” he concluded, patting the gauze back into place.  Then, he tore open a small, foil-wrapped roll of what almost seemed to be candies and shoved one of the tablets into Cartham’s mouth.  “Chew that slowly,” he commanded.  “May not taste the best, but they should be easier to take than drinking ten cans of juice.”

Rolling his eyes, but cooperating as he slowly chewed the chalky, sweet, strangely salty tablet, Cartham nodded.

Kichiro grimaced, lifting Cartham’s right arm to see the extent of the damage.  Cartham hadn’t bothered to look before, but he did now.  The flesh of his arm, from below his wrist to almost his elbow was a strange, sickly, greenish-purple kind of color, and all of the hair had been singed off.  An aching ring around his wrists were marked by blisters, and some had popped.

Kichiro sighed.  “Well, I’ve seen worse,” he said, sounding more than a little rueful.  Then, he shook his head almost incredulously.  “How you managed to fight with those handcuffs on . . . Damn . . .”

“I’m fine,” Cartham muttered but took the next tablet that Kichiro dropped in his hand.  He nearly dropped it, and he grimaced, frowning in concentration as he willed his fingers to open and close.

“Your hands all right?” Kichiro asked, casting a quick look at Cain.  He sounded nonchalant enough, but Cartham didn’t miss the glance exchanged between the two, either.

“Fine,” he repeated.  “Look, I’ll feel a lot better once I get home and get some rest,” he assured them, pulling away from Kichiro’s grasp as he forced himself to sit up, glaring at the two when they both moved to push him back down again.  “I’m all right.”

“You need to rest, at least a day or two,” Kichiro insisted, crossing his arms over his chest, hanyou ears atop his head, flicking in obvious irritation.

“Don’t you two have mates back home?  Go make their lives miserable, and leave me the hell alone,” Cartham grouched.  He was very aware of the looks that were still passing between them, but he didn’t care.  No, he couldn’t help it.  As though some invisible force were goading him on, he couldn’t help the overwhelming need to get out of there, to get back home.

Kichiro sighed.  “Hold on, will you?  Cain, would you mind, running out and getting him more juice?  I’ll clean up your wrists while he’s gone.  At least, give your body some time to replace the blood you’ve lost, all right?  A few hours.  Then, we’ll call it good as long as you’re not passed out, anyway.”

Cartham still wasn't happy with the compromise, but he figured it was probably the best he was going to get.  He relented with a curt nod and grudgingly settled back against the pillows once more.

The incessant ticking of the clock was driving her mad.

Lying in bed, eyes wide open, blinking into the stillness that she could actually feel, like a physical presence that was hanging over her, like an avalanche that she knew was coming, but it just refused to let go.

She’d felt it from the moment that Cartham had left her, and sure, he’d been on other jobs many times—some that she knew of; others that maybe she didn’t, and they were never a big deal.

At first, she’d thought that maybe she was just thinking about it too much, dwelling upon it because it was the first real hunt that he’d been called out on since she’d moved in with him.  Maybe it was just because of the strain of the gala the night before he’d left, but . . .

But it felt off, and in those first few days, she’d managed to convince herself that she was just being silly, worrying when there was no need for it.  After all, he was good at his job, right?  He’d been doing it for years—decades—well over a century, maybe two or more . . .

He’d been gone for almost two weeks, and tomorrow . . .

Reaching up with a heavy sigh that trembled upon her lips, she rubbed her hot and grainy eyes, hating the evil silence.

She’d had work to keep her at least a little preoccupied, at least, until today.  Today, though, was Christmas Eve, and she had been off, and all day long, she’d thought about little else, dwelling upon the maddening emptiness that surrounded her so very tightly.

If she could just remember what it was that had woken her from the fitful sleep after she’d finally drifted off last night, sometime after midnight.  Startled out of her slumber, she’d sat up straight, drenched in a cold sweat, her heart, pounding a million miles an hour . . . Her first thought at that time was that maybe it was another of her nightmares, but for some reason, that didn’t seem quite right.  Whatever it was, she’d found that she couldn’t get back to sleep and had spent the rest of the night, tossing and turning until she’d finally given up, somewhere around five in the morning.  Then, she’d sat on a stool at the counter in the darkened kitchen, staring at the softly blinking light on the coffee machine as she drank four pots before noon.  Every second that ticked away still felt like an eternity, even when she’d deliberately tried to blank her mind, tried not to think, at all.

Every little noise made her jump, made her turn her head, to stare at the door, as though she were willing Cartham to walk through it.  The refrigerator broke into a low hum, and she sucked in a sharp breath, unable to control the lurch in her gut despite the familiarity of the sound.  When her phone rang around two—it was Lyza, wanting to wish her a happy Christmas—she’d very nearly screamed, only to have to force down the unaccountable rage that shot through her that anyone other than Cartham would have the nerve to disturb her.

Even after she’d finally turned on the television, just to keep herself from going completely insane, she sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the screen without really seeing a thing.  Every little sound that was out of the ordinary set her teeth to grinding, and if she’d reached for her tablet that was connected to the main security cameras in the warehouse once, she’d done so a thousand times, scrolling through each video feed, over and over again: wishing, hoping . . . praying . . .

But still, he wasn’t home.

Sometime this afternoon, the unwelcome thought had crept into her mind: what if Cartham had finished his job?  What if he’d decided to go back to Maine?  He hadn’t made any bones about the fact that he still owned property there.  What if the fiasco of a gala had made him realize, just how stupid, how ridiculously needy, Kelly really was?  She couldn’t think of a single reason, why he’d decide to stay here, especially after all of that, even though her rational thinking told her that he wouldn’t just do that on a whim, that he’d at least tell her.

Of course, he would.

But no, that wasn’t quite it, either, and she knew that, too.  Just how she knew it, she wasn’t sure, but as the hours dragged on, compounded by the days that had already passed, that sense of foreboding had grown larger, heavier, thicker, until all that was left was the unshakable feeling that something most definitely was wrong.

She’d even texted him before she’d climbed into bed.  It was dumb, and it was futile.  She’d seen his phone, laying on his dresser when he’d left.

Rolling onto her side, she sighed into the darkness, gritting her teeth, smashing her fist against her mouth as she tried to bite back the urge to scream.  She could hear herself blink, and the sound of her own breathing was rasping and uneven.  A strange pain erupted in her, not quite in her chest, but up and to the right—a pain that was a strange kind of throbbing that she’d felt, off and on, since she’d been startled awake last night . . .

Tossing the blankets back, she stumbled out of bed, rubbing her arms as though she were trying to comfort herself—maybe she was—as she shuffled over to the window.  There was nothing to see—nothing but a barren circle of old and tired pavement, illuminated by the raw glow of a street lamp over to the side, almost out of her line of vision.  The blackened alley was empty—desolate and barren—and she winced as she turned away from it, as her eyes swept over the unkind night inside the room once more.

‘You’re torturing yourself, Kelly . . . Surely, he’ll be home soon.’

The words were kind, but the tone was not.  She didn’t miss the hint of uncertainty that belied it.

‘If . . . If he comes back, I’ll . . . I’ll tell him,’ she thought, realizing in a vague way that she sounded as though she were bartering.  ‘I’ll tell him how . . . how I feel . . .even if . . .’

And yet, the moment she thought it, she winced.  It was so easy to make promises in the dark, wasn’t it?  Easier to make them when the sense of desperation, the very idea of seeing him, walk through the doors, somehow felt so far away . . .

The sudden thud of the warehouse’s heating system kicked on, and Kelly couldn’t help the sharp gasp that felt more like a scream as she smashed her hands over her ears, fighting against the hurtful rise of hysteria that licked at her heels.  A sudden flash, burned in front of her eyes: a vision or a warning, maybe just the manifestation of every fear that had been preying upon her: Cartham, slumped to the side in a strange chair, hands bound, jacket falling open, his white tee-shirt that was a paler shade of gray in the vague and strange light—and a huge, blackened splotch.

“No!” she gasped, whipping around, grasping her phone, her hands shaking so badly that she nearly dropped it.  It took four tries to punch in Cain’s number, and she couldn’t help the half-whimper, half-outraged scream that slipped out of her when the call went straight to voicemail.  Out of sheer frustration, she tossed the device on the floor.  It hit the area rug beside her bed and bounced, sliding across the wooden planks and skittering off, somewhere under the bed as she stumbled toward the door.

She wanted—no, needed—to get out of there, had to find a way to settle her own emotions before she lost her mind.  In a distant kind of way, she could hear her youkai-voice, trying to reassure her that she was freaking out over nothing, but this time—this time—it didn’t work.

Out into the hallway, down the short corridor, she reached for the metal railing, only to stop short, veering to the side, hand outstretched, and she pushed Cartham’s door open.

And, as quickly as that, she felt a sudden sense of calm, of familiarity, and she choked out a sob, stumbling into the room, toward his bed.  Everything about the room, screamed of Cartham, as though his very youki had permeated everything within.  The sense of his presence was so strong, almost as though he were still somewhere close by, and it was that feeling that drew her forward, that moved her feet without her really thinking about it.  Yanking back the covers, she climbed onto it, pulled those same blankets up, even as the tears slipped down her face.  Everything about it smelled like him, and with that came the fragile sense of everything being all right, even if she wasn't sure she really believed that.

Maybe she was simply too tired, too exhausted, to fight it; she really didn’t know.

And she didn’t feel it as her eyes closed, and she didn’t realize it when she finally, blessedly, slipped off into a sleep that was less fitful—and was blessedly devoid of dreams.

Cartham heaved a sigh, let his eyes drift closed for a long moment as he sat, slouching slightly, on the
‘62 Harley Sportster.  The sigh echoed off the walls in the cavernous warehouse, and he had to force himself to get off of the bike, to head for the stairs, despite every cell in his body, just wanting to shut down.

He had never, ever felt so exhausted in all of his life.

He’d managed to put on a good show, though, he figured—good enough to convince Cain and Kichiro that they could head back to Maine without having to worry that he was about to drop dead, anyway.  He’d negotiated with them, humoring them while he drank the juice they forced upon him while Kichiro had drained the remaining blisters on his wrists and had treated them with a thick and pungent salve before wrapping both in gauze and changing the dressing on his shoulder.  Then he’d forced Cartham to take the rest of the salve with him.

“I’ll call you in a couple days, but if you need anything before that, feel free to get a hold of me,” Kichiro said, leveling a no-nonsense look at Cartham.  “I’ll also talk to a friend of mine, see if he can’t get you in to make sure there’s no permanent nerve damage going on.”

“Nerve damage?  I’m fine,” Cartham scoffed, but he had to grimace when he again tried to flex his fingers.  He could do it, but he couldn’t quite make as tight of a fist as he ought to.  “I’ll be fine, anyway . . .”

“Yeah, well, until you’re tested and fully recovered, consider yourself on paid leave,” Cain said in his most authoritative tai-youkai voice.  “Take a vacation or something.  God knows you haven’t had one in . . .  ever, I don’t think . . .”

It was on the tip of his tongue to argue with Cain, simply on principle, but in the end, he sighed.  “Yeah, okay.”

Before they’d allowed him to leave, though, Kichiro had given him the rest of the roll of tablets and packed four bottles of juice into his bag, as well, instructing him to finish the tablets and to stop every half hour or so to drink the juice, too, but then, he’d warned him to take it easy on his stomach for a day or two, just to make sure that everything was all right.

And then, they’d finally, blessedly, let him leave on the just over three-hour ride back to Las Vegas.

To be completely honest, it was pure strength of will that had gotten Cartham through that last hour, and, he was finding that the last part—getting up the staircase to the apartment—was fast sapping every last bit of strength that he possessed.

Finally, though, he hit the landing and slapped his hand on the panel to lock down the warehouse before letting himself into the apartment as quietly as he could.  He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up with only minimal irritation as he glanced over.  The clock over the television said it was almost three a.m.—at least, that’s what he thought it said.  His vision was slightly blurred.  All the same, he leaned heavily on the wall and kicked off his boots.  Because of his injuries, he hadn’t bothered, re-arming himself.  His weapons, including his gun, were still in the saddlebag, attached to the bike, and he figured they were all safe enough, given that the whole place was secured.

He pushed himself away from the wall and drew a deep breath—or at least, as deeply as he could, grimacing when he realized that all he could smell was the salve that Kichiro had slathered all over him—and his own blood that had still seeped out of the gunshot wound.  It felt a lot better, but he could tell it hadn’t closed completely, and no manner of arguing had convinced him not to take a shower at the hotel.  They’d worried that it could potentially cause his wound to open up again and to cause more heavy bleeding, but he’d insisted.  He hadn’t, however, bothered with another shirt, mostly because all he’d brought were tee-shirts, and pulling anything over his head was just not even something he wanted to try.

Trudging through the apartment and up the steps, he was more than ready to crash in bed, but first, he moved down the hall to check on Kelly.

She wasn’t there.

Frowning, blinking, trying to make sure that he wasn’t simply being delusional, he finally flipped on the bedroom light as he scowled at the mussed and rumpled blankets—and no Kelly.  Her bathroom door was open, so she wasn't in there, and with a mumbled curse, he slapped the wall panel to shut off the lights, striding toward the stairs as the weariness that had plagued him, faded fast.

‘Cartham, wait,’ his youkai-blood interrupted before he could reach the stairs.  ‘She’s here . . .’

Stopping abruptly, Cartham frowned, turning his head, scanning the apartment.  ‘But . . .’

‘She’s . . . in your room . . .’

He slowly, cautiously, stepped forward, and even though he couldn’t smell her, he could feel her: the richness of her youki.

Stumbling forward, he stared down at her, eyes widening, then narrowing, as though he thought maybe she was some kind of illusion.  But no, curled up on her side, looking so very small under the blankets, in his huge bed, she slept soundly, so soundly, and even as he watched her, she seemed to relax.

“Kelly,” he breathed in a whisper, a strange kind of prickling, suddenly erupting behind his eyelids.  She didn’t wake up, but she did sigh, and, for the first time in the last couple weeks, Cartham smiled.  ‘Why . . .?’

His youkai chuckled.  ‘Don’t be dumb, Cartham.  She has the power to make you feel better, just because she exists.  Your mate’s supposed to do that, don’t you think?’

‘My . . .?  K . . . Kelly . . .’

It should have been more shocking, shouldn’t it?  A realization like that should have been accompanied by some sort of fanfare, right?  But it wasn’t.  No, what he felt was more of a sense of understanding, of it being entirely natural, as though he’d known it on some level, all along . . .

Cartham didn’t even question it, and maybe he was too exhausted to really give it much thought.  Slipping into the bed beside her, he didn’t have to do anything as she rolled toward him, her body, molding against him in a completely easy kind of way, as though she’d been waiting for him to get home, just as much as he’d wanted to get back to her, too.

And he’d barely gotten his arm wrapped around her waist before he, too, fell fast asleep . . .