YYH/The Crow fusion

DISCLAIMER:  All aspects of Yu Yu Hakusho belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi.  The Crow is a registered trademark of Pressman Films.  I used both without knowledge or permission.  Yea, verily.   No money was made in the process.  I'm just one more sick mind having fun.  Hey, at least it keeps me off the streets.

WARNINGS: Dark AU, angst, torture, all the good stuff.  Um…references to rape.  OOC Kurama, possibly others.  I think that covers it.  Oh, wait, I have also royally fucked up the YYH timeline. 

PAIRINGS: N/A (but with clear m/m overtones)

SUMMARY:  Vengeance doesn’t die.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the first time I’ve ever written a story based on a picture.  Um… I really don’t know what that has to do with anything.  Oh, also, I’ve only seen the movies (yes, all three).  So, hardcore Crow fans might want to skip this one.  I’m sure I mess up a bunch of cannon details. 

This one’s for Shey. ^_~

By: SnS

His heartbeat sounded like the ocean, like tides moving, waves crashing frantically against high cliffs.  All he could feel was disbelief.  Disbelief and a cold cold rage.

Don’t let it end like this.

He began struggling again, but they were coordinated, now, practiced at holding him down, and he couldn’t manage so much as a scratch on the nearest one.

How can it end like this?

Laughter.  His hearing was fading, outside noises muted by the roar of his own blood, and the labored, dry sound of his own breathing, but he could still hear them laughing. 

Out of the eye that could still see, he found himself focusing on strange details—a small silver loop earring, gold belt buckle, intricately inlaid Chinese dragon etched into the black enameled hilt of a dagger, beard burn sliding across his cheek as the one on top of him nuzzled him almost affectionately.

He closed his eyes and thought hateful things.

Just slip a little, bastards, and I’ll be the one to demand you beg for mercy.

His mind was surprisingly clear, if not entirely coherent, and beneath it all, in time with his heartbeat, was a single driving objective.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill them all.

He refused to let it go, though his body knew it was all bravado.  He could barely move, let alone fight.  He closed a tight fist on the handful of his mother’s hair they’d given him after they’d finished with her, and nearly choked on unexpected tears.

Don’t cry for them!

They hadn’t been able to force anything more than a few grunts out of him yet, and he wasn’t about to give them any more satisfaction now.

Hands closed on his throat.

Can’t breathe!

A mock-gentle voice spoke soothingly in his ear as his body bucked instinctively, still fighting in spite of the futility.

Can’t—

Then the dagger, silver fish diving down toward his eye.

Blinding me?

And for some reason, that terrified him all the more.  But, no, only hot slashes into his cold skin—surprisingly shallow—two below his eye and two above.

Can’t—  

Cuts repeated on the other side.  He saw only the silver earring as one of them leaned over and traced the lines with a burning tongue.

Can’t let it end like this!

But the swallowing darkness begged to differ.

Strange to wake up later, surrounded by people. 

They were some parts disgusted, some parts grieving, all parts professional.  He took in the busy swarm around his mangled body, and had the brief thought that death shouldn’t be like this.

He could see as dreamers saw, floating above it all, existing but unable to interact.  He was pulled through the room without consciously willing it, watching the world in shades of blue and gray, blurred around the edges.  There was the murmur of voices all around, but he could only understand the people closest to him.

He shivered as a man stepped into the same space he was occupying—and suddenly, he could hear the man’s thoughts and see through his eyes.

Jesus, not another one, the man was thinking as he made his careful way toward the body on the table.  He pulled the sheet away and winced.  Just a kid this time.  Christ, these people are monsters.

The dead kid on the table didn’t look half bad, considering they’d slashed his face up.  These cuts—the man knew—would be the only ones on the kid that weren’t random.  They would be shallow and precise, deliberately placed thin triangles just above and just below the eyes, two lines extending the breadth of lips at either corner of the generous mouth.

The man’s professional eye took over, noting details and filing them, unfaltering despite the sick feeling that had settled in his stomach.

Young.  The kid was painfully young—15 or 16 at most.  Bright red hair, strange for Tokyo, dark bruises stark against his pale throat.  He lifted the sheet a bit more, frown deepening.  More bruises, especially around the kid’s wrists, and lacerations—they’d really put the kid through the wringer.

Jesus, he thought finally, dropping the sheet back to cover the body, resisting the ridiculous urge to tuck it in around the kid’s shoulders like he did with his eight-year-old daughter when she got afraid of the dark.  This kid wouldn’t have to be afraid of anything anymore.  I need a drink.

His partner was a sudden presence at his elbow that he didn’t even need to turn to acknowledge.  She reached past him to lift the sheet and study the kid’s face.

“Another one,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed tiredly.

“Same marks on the face.  Still think it’s ritualistic?”

“Got any better ideas?”

Her silence was answer enough.  He patted through his pockets until his hand encountered the reassuring feel of a pack of cigarettes.  He knew better than to light up here, but as soon as he got outside…

“His name was Minamino Shuichi,” she said, and he could hear her flipping through paperwork.  “Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

“He’s a student at Meiou High School.”

“Yeah?”

“He had the some of the highest test scores in Japan.”

That gave him a pause.  He turned finally and looked at her, seeing what he’d known he’d see—Yamamoto Youko, looking sharp and filled to the brim with steal-edged energy, her short hair unruffled, her minimal make-up unsmeared.  He felt all the more exhausted just seeing her.

“Do you think that has anything to do with anything?” he asked incredulously.

She shrugged.  “It was just something…” she said, giving him a look that made him know she was apologizing, and closed the file she held in her hands.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I thought he looked familiar,” he told her, accepting her apology. “Does he have any relatives?”

Her eyes flicked to the other sheeted form on the floor of the living room. “None surviving.”

“Jesus.”

The man moved on, but the restless spirit stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the other form lying still beneath the white sheet.

Kasaan.

Anger rose again, choking, filling the room with leaping reds and oranges.  One of the police officers was reaching for her body and he lashed out, furious.

GET AWAY FROM HER!

Sudden wind slammed the front door shut, making the humans jump.  The colors tore the room apart like a tornado, and he stood at the center, smiling, gleeful that at least this was in his power.

GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!

Then Botan was there, floating on her oar, looking horrified, her incorporeal hair blowing wild in the non-physical wind.

Finally.

“Botan!” he called to her. Something had to be done.  This wasn’t right.  He’d have revenge, now or when those who had done this were dead.  He’d speak to Koenma.  There were terrible things a person could do to a soul if they had the knowledge and the power, and he had both.

But she didn’t seem to see him, or hear.  She swept through the room once, her course wobbling slightly as his frustration made the storm rage stronger.  As she passed near him he reached out to catch her, but his hand passed through her broom as if he were—

A ghost.

Which was ridiculous, because of course that’s what he was, and yet, it shouldn’t have mattered where Botan was concerned.

“Botan!” he cried, stretching out to her with more than fingertips.

Don't leave me alone here don't—

She stopped so suddenly that he caught his breath, hope a butterfly wing flutter in his chest.  She turned toward him and he nearly sang.

But her eyes were closed, her hands pressed together before her chest.  And her lips were moving silently.

An incantation?

Before he could become alarmed she opened her eyes, her right hand snapping down diagonally to point two fingers at the ground and he doubled over, dropping to his knees, fingers clawing desperately at the invisible hands that had closed over his throat.

No!

He flung all of his power outward, too desperate to be focused.

A great explosion of noise as every single thing glass in the house shattered all at once.

Humans running and screaming and Botan still hovering in the center of the room with a stern expression on her sweet features. 

Her hand came up and snapped down again.

It drove him further into the ground, and he screamed silently against the press of stoic will—pure divine power.  He knew what this was.

Exorcism.

She thought he was an evil spirit!

Well, aren't you?

No! he cried, struggling.

No no no!

He was being strangled again, returned to the earth, unable to fight back, unable to save—

Unable to avenge—

And then he could breathe again, felt cool fingers against the hot brands where a laughing man had left bruises in his skin—lashed out blindly, fear cutting off his air again.  When the strong, smooth hands caught his tightly he saw—

—Himself, laughing.  Himself, through someone else’s eyes.  Himself, all silver with moonlight and strong with the knowledge that death would have to wait yet another day, splayed against the dark leaves, yielding just a little into the soft earth that smelled of soft earth things, allowing dominance, grinning a sharp-toothed smile—

He gasped and jerked back, struggling in that awkward way of someone trying to escape without touching his captor.

“Shhhh, Kurama,” a deep voice soothed, underscored by the rustle of great wings.

Kurama opened his eyes.

Then he shut them, tightly, and vowed never to look at the world again.

“Kurama.” There was indulgent amusement in the voice, this time.

“No,” he said firmly.

“No?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what you’re refusing.”

A soft touch, balm to the raw skin it stroked, slid over his lips and cheeks, settling on his throat and staying there, even though he flinched, until the feeling of bruises was a soft-spoken memory.  He felt tears wet his lashes and swallowed hard.  He would not cry.

“Kurama,” breathed softly against his hair, arms circling him, wings folding in and he turned his head unconsciously to brush his face against soft feathers.   Yet, he still resisted being pulled into the embrace.  He didn’t want to admit any further weakness to this person who had once been his partner.

He stiffened when he realized he was being pulled forward. “Don’t,” he gasped, his voice a harsh rasp that hurt.  His bare feet landed on the cold, smooth ground and his legs gave out, but he was caught and cradled until he forced himself to stand.

Guided, gently bullied, across the floor, his toes feeling grit, his ears hearing the soft hiss of leaves moving in the faint breeze he could feel against his skin.

“Don’t,” he protested, trying to pull away. “Don’t touch me, don’t make me, don’t—don’t—”

“Look.”

His wrists were captured lightly and pulled away from his chest as he tried to curl back into a defensive ball, compelled by a terror he didn’t really understand.  Only knowing that seeing would commit him to something too large to contemplate.

“Kurama, look.”

Abruptly, he decided that unreasoning fear was a foolish reason to hide.  He opened his eyes.

Himself, reflected in a mirror, shockingly pale—fragile.  He’d never seemed all that strong in his human form, but this…this was like transparency.  He reached out, and his fingertips met cool glass when they touched the pallid image’s cheek, then drifted across the cheekbone to rest on the triangle scar beneath wide, dark eyes.

Something burned like bile in his throat, and without thinking he smashed his fist into the ghostly image.

That’s when he realized, as he watched the blood well from his knuckles and felt the sting of wounds, that he was alive.

A shadow behind him moved.

He whirled, unsteady legs dropping him back against the mirror. “You—!”

A large hand that could have crushed his skull cupped his chin gently, stilling his anger and surprise by laying the soft pad of a thumb on his lips.  Kurama felt his expression mellow despite himself, and the thumb lifted, stroking across his lower lip, lingering on another scar—one that had widened his smile into a clown parody—before drifting down to the line of his jaw.

“You look…so strange like this,” the shadow said, deep voice a purr in the dark.

“You’re one to talk,” Kurama returned, tossing his head a little in a contemptuous gesture that had worked much better when he’d had long silver hair. “Kuronue.”

Toothy grin gleaming in the dark—most of Kurama’s memories of his former partner involved that cocky Cheshire cat smile.  He turned away before the past could overwhelm the present, placing his hand carefully over the broken edges of the mirror, watching the wounds on his hand close with preternatural speed.

“What is this?” he asked crossly. “Why are you here?  Where is Koenma?”

“This has nothing to do with the Heir to the Underworld.”

Kurama nearly turned at the formal tone, so contrary to everything he remembered of Kuronue.  Instead, he let his hand slip deliberately over the razor cracks in the glass, feeling the burn as they unseamed his skin, the wet of blood in his palm.

“What does this have to do with, then?”  The acrid taste in the back of his throat was not gone.  It lingered and urged him to violence, but he would not lash out at ghosts and shadows, so he contented the desire by cutting another line into his hand.

“Vengeance.”

Kurama closed his eyes and listened to the ripples the soft word made in the waiting silence.

“Your hate has weighted your soul,” Kuronue continued. “No ferrygirl will be able to carry you across to the next world until the burden is lifted.”

“That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,” Kurama said to the darkness behind his eyelids.  Lashes twitched against his cheeks as Kuronue’s hand passed softly over his face.

“I am your guide.”

Kurama opened his eyes and his painted reflection smiled back at him from the facets of broken mirror—clown white, broken by black that traced the scars, hid them.  His eyes were fierce, like green flame shining out from all that black.

And somehow, it felt right.

~*~

Kuwabara stared at the heap of paperwork in front of him, and then longingly at the empty coffee cup beside it.  Reaching out with his pen, he tapped it against the ceramic in an offbeat rhythm until Tekko stuck her head around the corner and said dryly, “You rang?”

He grinned his most disarming smile, and then tried to shift immediately into a kicked puppy look as he fixed his stare on the mug and sighed meaningfully.

Tekko tried to laugh and pull off an annoyed look at the same time, finally settling on just being amused. “Grown men,” she groused as she swooped past his desk and picked up the cup. “I can never quite tell the difference between you and my five-year-old.”

“Five-year-olds don’t like coffee,” Kuwabara said sagely.

Tekko returned and handed him the full coffee cup with a wry little twist of lips. “You don’t know my five-year-old.”

He took a sip and sighed blissfully, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, and leaned against his desk. “I know how you caffeine addicts can get if you don’t get your fix every two hours.”  She tilted her head at him and folded her arms. “Aren’t you here a little late?  I mean, even for you?”

“Yeah,” Kuwabara agreed, stretching, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just this case…”

She leaned over a bit to get a look at the files. “The Hazama case?  Jeez, that little girl… That’s tough.”

“Yeah.”  He stared at the documents until they began to blur, but they still refused to yield any answers.

“Hey,” Tekko piped into the pressing quiet. “I’m going out for a smoke.  Wanna join me?”

He gave her a curious look. “Why don’t you just smoke in here, like everyone else?”

“And make this place more stuffy than it already is?  Not if I can help it.”  She straightened and smirked lopsidedly. “Come on.  The fresh air will be good for you.”

“I think all the good of the air will be effectively countered by the poison I’ll be sucking into my lungs.”

“Hey.” She cuffed his shoulder. “Snob.”

“Tekko, in case you’ve missed it, it’s pouring outside!”

She turned and looked out the window, where the indoor light sent dazzling flashes off the rain pouring through a black sky, then turned back to him.

“Wimp,” she scoffed, grinning. “Are you made of sugar?  Will you melt?  Besides, there is an overhang.”

Despite his continuing protests, in a few minutes, he was standing outside, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold and clinging wind, listening to Tekko emote about her son and husband.  She didn’t offer him a cigarette and he didn’t ask for one.  He just watched his breath mist and let the stories of her family warm him until she dropped her cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with her toe.

The tingle of youki down his spine jerked him out of his slouch in surprise.

“Do you hear something?” she asked, tilting her head.

He didn’t answer, but stepped instinctively in front of her, straining his senses into the night.  The roar of a motorcycle put him off guard again.  What kind of demon rode a…

The figure tearing out of the dark was dressed all in black, face hidden behind a black helmet.  The bike was headed straight for them with no sign of stopping.  Kuwabara shoved Tekko back and clenched his hands into fists, ready to summon his reiken in an instant.

But at the last moment, the motorcycle swerved, spraying him with a jet of water, and by the time he had recovered, the rider had lifted his facemask and was grinning devilishly at him.

“Yo!  Kuwabara!” the rider greeted.

“You!” Tekko squawked, straightening.  She took two strides to the bike and smacked Yuusuke on the back of his helmet. “Idiot!”

“Hey!  Woman!” Yuusuke protested, while Kuwabara laughed his revenge. “Shut up!” he snapped in Kuwabara’s direction, trying to fend the off the female police officer. Kuwabara just laughed harder.

“Serves you right, asshole,” the orange-haired boy chortled when things had settled and Tekko had gone back inside, though not without delivering one last swift kick to Yuusuke’s bike. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Aww, I was just testing your reflexes,” Yuusuke said. “You’re getting on in years, after all—”

Before the smaller man could finish the sentence, Kuwabara had slapped his facemask closed, and tipped him back onto the rain-wet street, catching the bike before it could overbalance.

“My reflexes are just fine, thanks,” he said as Yuusuke spluttered.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the ground, his head ringing and the helmet coming to a rest beside his hip.

“Yeah,” de-helmetted Yuusuke smirked down at him, “I can see that.”

“That hurt, bastard!” he snapped, picking up the helmet and aiming to throw. 

Yuusuke laughed, putting his hands up defensively. “Hey hey!  It just hit your head—hardest part on ya!”

Kuwabara rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet.  “Why are you here?”

For a moment, Yuusuke’s expression clouded before he rallied another grin. “I told you real work would suck your brain out!”

“What?”

Yuusuke glared. “It’s tonight, stupid!”

Kuwabara blinked. “Yeah?”

“You know.  Tonight.  It’s Kur-Kurama’s night.”  Yuusuke’s voice quieted and broke off as his gaze dropped to the pavement.  Kuwabara felt as if he’d been kicked, probably would’ve done the kicking had he not been standing in a public place.

He rubbed a weary hand through his hair and gave Yuusuke a wane look. “Right, sorry.”

Yuusuke squinted at him. “That new case of yours must really be something.”

“It is,” Kuwabara answered seriously.

“I mean, it’s not like we haven’t been doing this for years.”

“Look, I said I was sorry!”

“Alright, alright,” Yuusuke acquiesced, producing another helmet from somewhere and strapping it on. “Come on, let’s get going.”

“On that thing?” Kuwabara eyed the bike dubiously.

“Ain’t scared, are ya?” Yuusuke asked slyly.

Kuwabara scowled. “No.”

“Well then?”

Kuwabara sighed and put his helmet on.

When they reached the shrine, Yukina was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. She looked as she had always looked—young and gentle, like a goodly creature straight from a picture book, dressed in a sky-blue kimono.  The rain caught in her pale green hair created a fairy-light halo around her head.  She smiled sweetly as Kuwabara stepped away from the bike to greet her, and he felt something warm turn over in his stomach as her eyes seemed to light up just for him.  He smiled back, daring to reach out and draw her into a hug, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Kazuma-san,” she murmured happily into his shoulder.

He broke the embrace so he could step back and look her in the eye. “Good evening, Yukina-san.  How have you been?  Should you be out here in all this rain?”

She laughed merrily. “A little rain never hurt an ice demoness, Kazuma-san.  It’s more something my brother might protest.”

“Right,” he said ruefully.

“Where is your brother?” Yuusuke asked, as they followed her up the steps. “I sent a message to the Second Kingdom and never got an answer…not that I ever do.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here,” Yukina answered with confidence.  “He loved Kurama-san as much as anyone.”

Maybe more than anyone, Kuwabara thought, buttoning up his trench coat against the rain.

A touch of dark-fire ki and a flash of silver were his only warnings before Hiei was standing in front of him with a sword to his throat.  Kuwabara startled and nearly tipped over backwards with a cry of surprise.

“What was that, human?” the little dark fire demon demanded.

“I didn’t say anything!” Kuwabara protested, catching himself on the next step.

“Hiei-san!” Yukina admonished.

“Knock it off, Hiei,” Yuusuke said, continuing past them. “Just let it rest for a night, okay?  You can go back to being your big bad self tomorrow.”

“Big.  Heh,” Kuwabara snickered.

Hiei rolled his eyes and sheathed his weapon.  “Idiot.  I’ll meet you in the temple.”  Then he blurred out.

Kuwabara thought of muttering obscenities and insults after him, but looked at Yukina and kept silent instead, trailing after her up the steep and multitudinous steps. 

At the top of the hill, they walked across a clearing with wet gravel sliding under their feet and entered the shrine where a fire burned high in the center of the room.  Long shadows flickered like wild creatures dancing on the white-pine walls, lined in red and orange.  Genkai glanced up at them as they came in.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice like the gravel, rough and grinding.

Both men ducked their heads in repentance, hovering in the doorway as if they needed permission to enter.  Yukina moved past them with a forgiving smile and knelt on the floor next to the old priestess.  Genkai turned her head as Hiei blurred into existence beside her, letting Yuusuke and Kuwabara breathe.

Yuusuke looked as if he might say something cocky to break the tension holding the room on puppet strings, but Kuwabara gave him the evil eye and nudged him toward his place around the fire.  As they settled and joined hands, Genkai closed her eyes.

“Let’s begin,” she said.

~*~

Kurama jerked and stumbled into a wall.  Tipping toward the floor, he clutched his forehead as friends flame calling flashed like red lightning in his mind.  It was gone just as quickly and Kurama straightened, looking questions at Kuronue, who stood beside him, concerned.

“That was—”

“You must try to ignore it, Kurama.”

“Ignore it?” he echoed incredulously, eyes closing, trying to recapture the image.  It was like remembering laughter and he smiled for the first time in years.

“It has nothing to do with your mission.”

“Kuronue,” Kurama said in a tone of one who knew the winged demon had never cared anything for rules or regulations.

Kuronue gave him a wane smile and rolled his eyes a bit. “I know, I know,” he sighed. “Look, I know you want to go to them, but you really can’t.  They have nothing to do with what you are now.  It kinda…screws up the power, you know?”

Kurama searched for conformation and felt a shiver up his spine that felt like feathers brushing along his skin and tilted his head back, fingers stretching as if to touch the borders of his soul.  All around him, the air hummed with desire want hate and he could feel the crimp this vision had left in the aura.

Kurama gasped as the call hit him again. “What are they doing?”

“Looking for you.  They know your soul hasn’t reported to the Underworld.” Kuronue tilted his head, which made the shadow of the wide brim of his hat cover most of his face. “They’ve been performing this little ritual for six years, now.”

“Six years?”

“Yes.” Kuronue slanted him a look. “Botan exorcised you, you know.  We had to uproot your spirit before we could exhume your body.  It took time.”

Kurama shook his head, to clear it or to disbelieve, he wasn’t sure which, and then it was—

Kurama where are you?

Grief, as raw as his own, wrapped up in more memories than he could carry alone.  He was halfway down the dark, cold hallway before Kuronue jerked him up short.

“Kurama…” Soft warning.

Kurama turned his head, saw pale worry in the pinched lips and narrowed eyes.  He looked away, eyes forward, and set his focus on the double set of automatic doors at the end of the hall.  They gleamed silver, letting fluorescent streetlamp light cut across the floor like a pathway.  For the first time, he wondered where he was—how someplace this big could be abandoned as if it didn’t matter.  His nostrils flared and he caught the scent of sterility, making him think of hospitals.

Kuronue’s hand tightened, pinching nerves.

“Please,” Kurama said quietly.

Kuronue let him go.

He was shoeless, dressed in a black satin outfit that was vaguely oriental, flying across the land as if broken beer bottles and rocks meant nothing to his feet.  The world was a blur.  Sometimes the blur held faces, or objects, but none interceded him as he passed them like a taste of wind.  He wondered fleetingly if this was how Hiei saw things.  Wondered if he could jump high enough to soar.

Don’t try it yet.  The power comes differently for everyone.  You might just land on your face.

The voice of reason in a winged companion, travel-sized in the form of a black bird.  Something old in Kurama’s soul longed for the days when they had run side-by-side as equals.

The landscape came to a rest as he stopped at the base of a shrine and let fingertips trace the edges of a motorcycle propped at the bottom of the steps, smiling to himself as Yuusuke embraced his senses until he lifted his hand away.  The crow landed on the seat and blinked at him.  He let his smile fade, startled when cold hate filled so easily the space left behind.

What was he doing here?  He had no business amongst the living, lest it was to show them the quick way to death.  He turned away—

And stopped in the sights of two large, brown eyes.

“Kur-Kurama?” Keiko’s voice quivered like a dry leaf, and she suddenly looked just about as fragile.

Kurama felt words freeze with breath in his throat and he took a step back, panicked.

Run.

The bird flapped large wings once, noise like shattering air in the stark moment, and took off.  Kurama fled with it, Keiko’s cry chasing his heels.

~*~

Keiko felt coherence return seconds too late to do anything but stare into the night with the futile hope of seeing a hint of what could only have been a ghost.

Except that she had seen his breath cloud the air in front of his painted lips.

Her next coherent thought sent her up the shrine steps at a frantic run.

“Yuusuke!” she cried, throwing the sliding doors open.  Her husband looked up, leather jacket in hand.  The fire had burned low and the five people in the room all looked tired and somber as they gathered their personals, the ceremony breaking up.  Yuusuke dropped the jacket and opened his arms as she ran toward him.

“Keiko?” he questioned.  As he folded her into his hug, his body remained tense.  She knew he was watching over her shoulder for trouble.

She put her cheek to his collarbone and said, “It’s Kurama.”

He took her by the arms and pushed her back a step. “What?”

“Kurama,” she said clearly, holding his gaze. “I thought I saw him—”

“Where?”  This from Kuwabara and echoed by Botan.

“Outside…he was standing by Yuusuke’s motorcycle.”

Hiei flickered like a dark flame and was gone.

“Are you certain?” Genkai asked in her low, serious voice.

“I—” Was she?  Keiko was a logical person at heart.  But for the fact that her husband was part demon and her best friend a ferrygirl for the Underworld, she would not have believed in the supernatural.  She preferred solid reality to spirits and magic.  “I…think so.  He was…strange.”

Genkai’s eyes were the youngest, sharpest part of her as they stared at Keiko from a withered woman’s face. “Strange?”

Hiei was back. “I don’t see him anywhere.  I don’t sense him anywhere.  I don’t smell him anywhere,” he reported, and glared at Keiko like she had insulted his mother.  She might have gotten defensive if she hadn’t known that’s how Hiei always looked.

“Nothing?” Yuusuke asked, fading hope bright and brittle in his voice and eyes.

Hiei paused, lips parting uncertainly, and suddenly all eyes were focused on him.  “There might have been…something.”

Focus shifted to Genkai, who always had the answers when things got mysterious.

“How was he strange, Keiko?” the old priestess asked.

“He…his face was painted.  White.  With black around his eyes and mouth.  Sort of like a clown.  A morbid clown.” And she almost giggled when she said it, though there was nothing funny about it at all.

“What does it mean?” Yukina questioned in the quiet.

“It means,” Genkai said, “that Kurama is back.”

~*~

Kurama let the world shift around him as he ran, the only thing in focus the black bird whose wings reflected the night.  In his head, Kuronue’s voice rang.

This business, this vengeance-beyond-the-grave business, comes with a lot of perks, but it also has a lot of loopholes.  Big, fucking loopholes that you could fall right into and never come out again.  You have to stick to the rules—there are no second chances.  So listen up, Rambo, ’cause here they are:

He landed on a fire escape and crouched on the railing, just to prove to himself that he could balance there without wavering. 

Kill only those people on your list.  There are names engraved in your heart, etched in your soul.  Kill no one but those you have returned to kill.

Below him, a discrete but steady line of patrons were being admitted into a nondescript warehouse through a solid steel door where a single but impressively sized bouncer stood guard.  The city liked to believe that places like this didn’t exist, but they were easy enough to find for people who knew their way in the dark.

Burning in his mind were the names of the dead, and the power pulled him toward the building with all the subtlety of iron to a magnet.

You are not Superman.  You do not get to be a flashy superhero with spectacular entrances and fancy tights.  You are a ghost with borrowed breath and limited time.  Go in, do the job, get out again.  Be quick, be neat, and keep a low profile.  You aren’t an avenging angel bringing rains of fire and brimstone.  You are an assassin with an edge.

He dropped down onto the wet pavement, bare toes sliding slightly on a patch of oil.  The rain had finally stopped, but it was still cold, and he was thoroughly soaked.  He tucked his hands into his armpits and made his way toward the door.

The bouncer looked him over and then grunted. “No shoes, no ID, no entry.”

Kurama opened his mouth but another voice overrode his, cultured, speaking in English. “It’s alright, Antonio.  He’s with me.”

Kurama turned his head.

Behind him stood a well-groomed man in green silk and black leather, looking expensive and tasteful and backed by an equally well-dressed entourage of lovely but tough-looking men and women, five in all.  The man’s hair was slicked back, and when he smiled, one of his teeth gleamed gold.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hartfield,” the bouncer was saying, sounding truly apologetic, “but I can’t let him in without shoes.”

Without taking his eyes off Kurama, Hartfield tilted his chin back toward one of his posse and said, “Hawk, give him your shoes.”

An indignant young man with a mohawk choked on his disbelief. “What?  But-but what the fuck am I supposed to wear?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“But—”

“Hawk!” This time, Hartfield did look at him, and it quelled the other man quickly.

Grumbling sullenly under his breath, Hawk unlaced his black boots and threw them at Kurama’s feet.  When Kurama bent down to put them on, he felt a hand settle on the small of his back, and when he straightened, it slid down further.  Kurama reached back and caught the wandering fingers.

—smell of sweat and fear, little whimpering body curled up on the bed—

Kurama tried to jerk away from the image, from the hot feel of lust uncurling like smoke under the man’s slick exterior, but his hand was captured and he was pulled forward.  Lips touched his ear.

—good boy good boy, he panted, stroking the young body.  He’d paid good money for the little bastard—

“Fiery,” Hartfield was saying. “I like that.”  Kurama felt pain distantly as his arm was twisted up against his back. “Do you speak English, pretty thing?”

Kurama didn’t answer.  He was searching his soul for the man’s name.  There was nothing, though.  Hartfield was just commonplace child-raping scum, rot of the earth.  Kurama let his eyes fall half-closed and felt regret.  Hartfield laughed, turned him and shoved him toward the door.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Kurama entered the club with Hartfield’s hand between his shoulder blades, and was pushed through the wilderness of bodies under the hot, stark colors of strobe lighting.  He made it to the bar unscathed, except for the flickers of Hartfield’s memories like razorblade slashes in his mind.  The man pressed himself into Kurama’s back and signaled the bartender.  The bartender glanced at Hartfield, then set two drinks in front of Kurama without asking what he wanted.

“Drink up,” Hartfield purred in his ear, reaching around to grab one of the cocktails.

Kurama blinked at a double image.  For a moment, he saw the street, the door, the bouncer as if he were hovering above them.  A man in black leather and spikes threw off Hawk’s pawing and entered the club. 

Kurama turned his head toward the door as he reached out and touched his glass.  Hartfield’s hands were wandering again, his lips and tongue leaving hot brands of thought on Kurama’s skin.  The Crow narrowed his eyes and willed his vision to appear, until it did.  The man from outside broke through a crowd of dancers and made a line toward them.

“Man,” he complained as he slumped against the bar next to them, “what the hell did you do to Hawk, man?  Jesus, he’s pissed off.” He signaled the bartender.

Kurama curled his fingers around his drink to keep himself from reaching out and breaking the man’s neck.

“Shark,” Hartfield said with clear distaste.  “Don’t you have someplace you need to be?”

Kurama’s eyes settled on the other end of the bar where small, bright pills on a tinfoil sheet and a wad of money exchanged hands.  Shark focused on him.  He had a rat-like face and two days’ growth of beard.

“Fuck!  Who’s this pretty bitch?”

Grubby fingers grabbed his chin.  Kurama looked at him.

—A pretty woman struggled under him.  She kept shaking her head, though her voice had given out long ago.  Her soft hair had come loose from her neat bun, her soft skin streaked with tears—

Kurama recognized his mother and nearly screamed out loud.

“Hey,” Shark’s eyes narrowed. “I think I know you.”

Kurama slapped his hand away, barely able to keep from breaking fingers.

“Fuck!” Shark snarled, rounding on him.  Hartfield grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward with enough violence to suck away all of Shark’s anger.  Kurama, trapped between the two of them, considered Shark’s throat until he found the jugular.

“Do not make a scene, little lackey,” Hartfield hissed and released the other man with a shove. “Now find yourself a corner until you cool off.”

“What about our meeting?”

“When I’m finished.”

Muttering and eyeing Kurama murderously, the man downed his drink and moved off.  Kurama felt the pull of his presence and took a step after him without realizing it.  Hartfield pulled him up short.

“Come, lovely, let’s not let him distract us.”

Kurama considered brushing him off, then decided there were quicker and cleaner ways of getting rid of him. 

Clean up your messes, Kuronue’s voice recited.   The point of this deal is to tie up loose ends, not to make more of them.

As he allowed himself to be led away from the bar, his fingers brushed the jacket of the man on the end.  He walked away with a tinfoil line of pills in his hand and the knowledge that mixing the red with the green ones was a formula for a very bad night.

Mr. Hartfield had a private room through a doorway hung with strands of beads.  Kurama stopped just inside the room and looked around, taking stock of the low couch on one side, the nest of pillows on the other.  TV screens set in the wall. 

Hartfield walked to the other end and pushed a code into a keypad, opening the wall, which turned out to be stocked with every liquor in every color known to man.  Hartfield poured himself something teal.  Kurama put two pills in his mouth.

Hartfield turned. “Do you want anything?”

Kurama kept silent, feeling the burn of drugs melting on his tongue and forcing himself not to swallow, though he didn’t actually believe they would do him any harm.  Hartfield’s gaze grew hungry.  He took four strides across the room and grabbed Kurama roughly, bringing their bodies together.

“Poor little lost boy,” the man said, rubbing against Kurama. “Daddy’ll take care of you.”

Kurama kissed him, deep and hard, dropping the pills into the back of his throat where he swallowed them convulsively.

“Shit!” he snarled, shoving Kurama away. “What the fuck—”

The redhead kicked him in the solar plexus, knocking him back into the couch, and before he could move, Kurama had straddled him, holding him down with bare efforts as he started to convulse. 

Placing his lips next to the man’s ear, he spoke in English. “Someday you will die,” he promised. “And when that day comes, I hope it is slow and painful.”  He stood and stepped back, watching Hartfield’s eyes roll back as he straightened his clothes.  When a trickle of drool ran down his chin, Kurama left the room and went hunting.

Shark had to piss.  He’d had to piss for the last ten minutes, but hadn’t been able to find the bathroom.  He was jostled across the dance floor, bumping into grinding bodies and cursing.  Whatever the hell Chloe had given him made him feel like he was in slow motion while the world sped up.  It made him giggle until he hit a wall and the flashing lights cut through him like long knives in rainbow hues.

“Fuck,” he said to no one in particular, just enjoying the anger in the word. And he was angry, he realized. “Fuck!” he said a little louder, and slammed a fist into the wall behind him.  “Fuck Chloe, stupid bitch.  Fuck Hawk, stupid bitch.” He laughed at his own cleverness. “Fuck Hartfield, and his fucking little boys…” Red-haired clown-faced pretty thing he could swear he remembered from somewhere…  Shark wasn’t good with faces—or names for that matter, so why did that face, dead white face with bright green eyes that even the lighting couldn’t dim, why did it stick with him?

“Fuck the cocksucker,” he decided and pushed off the wall, groping for the door he knew was around here someplace.  He’d pee in the alley like a fucking man.  Antonio would let him back in. 

He wrenched the door open and stumbled onto the street where a slant of orange light from the front of the alley turned everything a uniform gray color.  He took a deep breath of air so cold it cut his lungs and decided he was fucking brilliant, sometimes.

It was difficult to navigate a straight line to the dumpster, but once he was there he braced himself in the corner between it and the wall, unzipped his pants and got down to business.

“Shark.”

He yelped and jerked around, piss jumping back up his dick and staying there as muscles clenched. 

There was the pretty painted boy, leaning against the wall casually with arms folded, watching him with eyes as green as summer grass Shark barely remembered.  Shark knew, somewhere inside, that the drugs had seriously fucked with his head.  But he also knew with a kind of obscure certainty that the boy hadn’t been anywhere in the alley moments before. 

His face was still familiar, and growing sharper with each moment.

“Fuck, man!” Shark snapped, suddenly nervous. “You a pervert or something?  Jesus.  I’m busy here.”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

Shark opened his mouth to retort, but found he had nothing to say that was more important than emptying his bladder, so he turned around and went back to doing just that.

That’s when he had his legs cut out from under him.  Literally.

Shark hit the ground screaming, brain suddenly so full of pain that all he could really feel was the wet of his own blood soaking into his pants.  The kid grabbed his hair, wrenched him around like he weighed nothing and put his face right into Shark’s until he drowned in green eyes.

“Do you know me, Shark?” the kid asked quietly.  Something gleamed in his right hand like a slice of night, but Shark didn’t get a good look at it before it was tucked under his chin.  It felt like a knife colder than the air, sharper than a razor.

“No!  Fuck no, man!  What did you do to me?  Fuck!”  he managed, terror and pain fighting for dominance in his head.

“I hamstringed you,” the kid said calmly, and the knife flickered before Shark’s eyes.  It was hard to see against the backdrop because it looked like black crystal bleeding into diamond around the edges, and it blended with the darkness almost seamlessly but for the toothy gleaming. “Do you know me?”

“No!”

Calmly, the kid used the knife to draw a bloody line down one of Shark’s cheeks.  “Do you know me?”

“Fuck you!”

Another slash.  “Do you know me?”

“Jesus Mary Joseph Peter…”

Another.  “Do you know me?”

Drug low or blood loss, Shark didn’t know, but suddenly there wasn’t any defiance left, wasn’t anything but gibbering terror and a little boy crying in the dark.  He was sobbing and shaking his head slowly back and forth and he knew there would be no mercy from those remorseless eyes.

“Is this about Hartfield?  What?  Is that what this is about?” he asked, hating the whine in his voice. “I’m sorry, okay?  I’m sorry I left you with him.  I would’ve helped, you know, but I-I’m no one, nobody, please…” He flinched as the knife flashed again. “He does it to everybody!” he screamed. “He did it to me, he does it to everybody!”

Something changed in the air.  Shark could feel it, and when he dared an open eye to look, he could see it.  Something in the kid had gentled.  Shark felt the buddings of hope.  The kid’s fingers were soft as they traced his eyebrow and slid back into his hair.  Shark smiled.  Hey, the kid was pretty hot.  He wouldn’t mind…wouldn’t mind…Everything would be alright now.

The kid leaned in, close enough to kiss.  Shark focused on the black-painted lips. “It wasn’t Hartfield who raped me,” the lips said.

Shark began to shake, because, suddenly, the kid’s face slammed hard into a memory, a deep memory, and submerged.  “No.  No no no no no…” He heard someone whimpering, only vaguely aware that it was his own voice.

Then the kid did kiss him, soft lips on his forehead like a benediction.  Over the kid’s shoulder, blacker against the black alleyway, Shark saw a great bird flying toward them on silent air.

~*~

Kuwabara stepped onto the crime scene wishing for stronger coffee.  He tossed the motor oil the local coffee shop was passing off for coffee into the drain, chucked the cup into the nearest trash bin and then ducked under the yellow tape. With a quick look around to get his bearings as he walked down the alley, he stepped up to a lieutenant who was snapping pictures of a body.  It had been a man a young-ish man, dressed in clubbing clothes—lots of black leather and metal studs.

“Who am I looking at?” he asked.

“Uh…” the lieutenant checked his memory. “Rutsuko 'The Shark' Asaki.”

Kuwabara studied the corpse, which was leaning up against a green metal trash bin like a cast-aside puppet with cut strings: legs spread, arms hanging, chin propped on chest. 

“Gang connections?”

“Some.  Mostly with the mob, though.”

His eyes landed on a marked article beside the body and he frowned.

“What’s this?”

“Well, we think it’s the murder weapon, sir.”

“I hope you can shed some light on this one for me, Kuwabara-san,” Tekko said as she stepped up behind him.  Kuwabara straightened and looked at her, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t see how, Tekko-san,” he said, honestly confused. “I mean, besides my natural brilliance,” he grinned and she grinned back, “I don’t really see why you called me in to look at this.”  He tilted his head. “Unless I’m missing something…?”

Tekko gave a sharp “look at this” nod and crouched down beside the body.  With a latex-gloved hand, she lifted the victim’s chin until his face was visible.  Kuwabara gave a grunt of surprise.

With thin, expert cuts, someone had carved a rather detailed picture of a bird on Shark’s face, its head resting between his eyebrows, its wings spread along his cheeks.

“Ritualistic cutting,” he concluded. “Yeah, I can see where you might want my help.  But…the pattern is not the same.”

“No,” Tekko agreed, standing and snapping her gloves off. “And there are no obvious signs of rape or torture.” She sighed. “Of course, we won’t be certain about that until we get the autopsy results.”

“Then why—”

“Your current case isn’t why I brought you here,” she said, and gave him a look that set off his alarm bells.  It was a cross between determination and apology. “It’s…because of your history.”

“My history?”

“The victim was strangled to death.”

Kuwabara felt cold knot in his chest.

“And he was one of the prime suspects in a double homicide six years ago.”

“Shit,” Kuwabara snarled, clenching his teeth and turning away from the body. “I thought his name sounded familiar.”  He glared at the labeled “murder weapon,” three pieces of what looked to be obsidian which, if put together, might have formed some sort of blade.

Tekko took a step toward him. “Kuwabara-san, I’m sorry.  But…I thought you’d like to know before you heard the rumors on the grape vine.  And besides, this is the reason you became a police officer…” she let the sentence trail off into a question.

“There were other reasons,” he muttered. “What’s this, then?” He pointed to the shards on the ground.

“Murder weapon?  Judging from the proximity to the crime scene and the blood…”

“Yeah,” Kuwabara agreed and crouched to spread his hand over it, palm down, trying to measure its breadth. “But don’t you think it’s a little odd—” Hot flash of youki hit his palm and spread through his system.  He cursed and clenched his hand, standing up hastily.

“Kuwabara-san?” Tekko’s light touch on his elbow steadied him.

He pressed his fingers to his eyes and shook the aftershocks away. “Nothing.  It’s nothing.” He began moving because he had to, walking away from the body quickly, back toward his car. “Listen, I’ll talk to you later,” he spoke over his shoulder to Tekko’s bewildered and slightly worried expression.  “Bring me all the information you’ve got on this.  I’ll help.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her relieved smile. “Thanks, Kuwabara-san.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, still feeling the burn of demon presence in his arm. “Don’t mention it.”

Kuwabara sat on his couch and did what he always did when he needed to find Botan quickly. 

He thought loudly and in great detail about seeing her naked.

“KUWABARA YOU PERVERT!” she shrieked as she popped into existence.  She hopped off her hovering oar to greet him with her customary sharp blow to the head.

He rubbed the sore spot and gave her a rueful grin. “Hey, ferrygirl.”

“Hmph,” she said, though her violet eyes twinkled.

“I need to get to the Makai,” he said.

“Sure, Kuwa-chan!” she chirped, all flowers and dimples and blue bobbing ponytail. “I can take a break from my extremely important and busy work to be your personal taxi!”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s important,” he said seriously.

“Okay,” she said.  She was still flowers and dimples, but she seemed to accept the gravity Kuwabara was trying to convey.  “Anywhere in particular?”

“The Second Kingdom.”

She blinked at him. “I thought you said you were being serious!”

“I am!”

“It must be really serious,” she said quietly, eyes wide.

“It is.”

She gave him a worried look.

“I think.”

The look turned slightly skeptical.

“Listen, it’s serious.  Just take me there, please?”  And he gave her his best kicked puppy look.

She sighed.  “Alright.  But I don’t have time to wait around for a hasty escape.  What happens if you need to get out quick?”

“I call Yuusuke?”

“Let’s get Yuusuke,” she said decisively. “So he’ll already be there as backup.”  That said, she hopped onto her oar and held out a hand to help him on.

“I can handle Hiei, you know,” he grumbled as he clamored up.

“I know,” she said in a tone of voice that meant she knew he was lying, but didn’t think any less of him because of it. “But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

~*~

The day, Kurama found, was meant for rest.  He’d half-expected to be burned into ash when the sun touched his face, but instead he’d almost fallen over when the draw of his quest dropped its towlines and left him staring up at the pale sky, making pictures out of clouds.

Nighttime is the time of the murderer, the thief, the criminal, and the Crow, said Kuronue’s voice, still reciting rules. We do not disturb the day.

He heard the beating of wings. “That one looks like a kitsune who’s chasing his tail.”

Kuronue’s lanky form dropped down next to him.

“Kitsune don’t chase their tails,” Kurama said, smiling slightly.

“They have so many,” Kuronue said, laughing. “They’d likely get lost.”

Kurama closed his eyes and turned his face into the light. “Kitsune don’t get lost.”

“No?”

Kurama looked at his companion, and Kuronue looked back, one eye hidden in the shadow of his cocked hat.  Kurama broke eye contact first.  Looking down, he studied the toes of his new boots, and then the city below him.  There was little to see, though.  He was on the edge, where trees still grew of their own inclination and it was quiet here.

“What is wrong with me?” he asked.

“Wrong with you?”

Kurama looked at his own hands and thought about last night, when he’d summoned the powers he’d always used so easily and had been answered by something completely different.

“You are not the same person you were in life, Kurama,” Kuronue said.

“Obviously,” Kurama snapped, and pushed off the building.

The long leather coat, slipped from Shark’s shoulders as the sun turned the sky, spread out from Kurama’s body as he fell, seven stories down, and hit feet first.  When broken bones had mended, he stood up.

He ran.

Later he would claim he hadn’t planned where he was going, but, as he stood in front of his house in the weak December light, he knew he’d come home.

The house was classic Tokyo suburban: well-kept and well-loved, like a book with edges worn by a tender hand.  Kurama felt he could spend all day watching breezes move through the neatly tended flowerbeds.

“Hello?”

He turned and found himself looking at a little old woman, round face creased into a smile, bespectacled eyes twinkling.  He bowed hastily, realizing what he must look like, painted face, wearing black and leather that smelled faintly of smoke and alcohol.

“Good morning, grandmother,” he greeted, giving her the title respectfully, hoping his politeness would make up for his appearance.

“Good morning young man.  Can I help you?”

“Ah, no.”  He glanced toward the house. “Just…looking.”

“I see.”  She shifted a basket of fruit to her other hand and considered him shrewdly. “Why?”

The question took him by surprise.  “Oh, well…I used to live here.”

“Ah.”  She beamed. “I see.  Why don’t you come in, then?”

He gave her a startled look, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that someone else lived in his house.  “Oh…no.  I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed, shuffling forward, up the path toward the door.  “I am old and my time is my own.”

He trailed after her as if pulled by a leash, until she reached the door and he took the basket from her so she could open it.  Then he stepped inside and looked around as she bustled forward.  A strange ache like a newly agitated bruise awoke inside him as he stared at all the familiar spaces of his home that had become so different. 

In the foyer and saw—

—His mother, dressed in a formal kimono for the New Year.  She was beautiful, her hair piled neatly on her head, wisps curling around her soft cheeks, framing her smiling eyes as she turned toward him and laughed—

He blinked and forced himself to look away.

The kitchen still smelled like green tea.

He set the basket on the table and let his fingers trail over the shiny red skin of an apple as the fruit blurred a vague blob.

“I bought this house about a year ago,” the woman said, standing on a stool to reach her cupboard. “People tried to talk me out of it.  Said it was haunted.  Well,” she continued, setting two cups on the counter. “I don’t know about that.  Sometimes, I think I see shadows in the tree outside.”  She turned to him.  “But nothing has hurt me, so I let it be.  Did you ever have a problem with ghosts?”

A hot tear turned cold as soon as it hit his hand.  Hastily, he wiped his eyes, embarrassed, but when he looked up to see the old woman looking at him with a gentle expression, all he could feel was grief.

“I have to—” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

He left the kitchen and headed upstairs, hoping she trusted him enough to let him wander out of her sight. 

In the bathroom, he studied himself in the butter-yellow light, startled to see his own face, unadorned, paint burned away in the sunrise.  He decided that without it, he looked truly pathetic: lost, painfully young.  He tried to glare, to see if that improved anything, but stopped as soon as he realized it made him look like a petulant child.  Well, he decided, at least it got him instant sympathy from mothering types.

He splashed water on his face and stepped away from his reflection.

Something caught his eye as he walked past a bedroom and he turned to see a maple tree outside of a large window—his bedroom, his tree.  It made him stop, frozen.

The tree was a skeleton.  He took a step forward and balanced on his toes on the threshold, head tilted slightly, listening.  But the only sounds in the house were the click and clink of the old woman making tea downstairs.

No ghosts, he thought.

Then a demon moved like dark fire through sleeping branches.

Kurama sprang for the window, had flung it open, and shouted, “Hiei!” before even considering the consequences.

Hiei paused on the edge of a branch that should not have been enough to hold his weight, and turned slowly until their eyes met.  Kurama felt the world go still and shrink until it only existed in the places where they stood and in the distance between them.

Hiei spoke first. {I thought I might find you here.}  He reached up and touched a branch above his head.  Kurama let the words sink into his mind like drowning candles. {Even though I’ve already looked for you here.  Even when I knew I’d never see you here again, but I kept waiting for you to come and open the window and welcome me in.  Even though I know you’re nothing but a memory.}

“I’m here,” Kurama said softly, his voice was too heavy for the breeze to carry, but Hiei heard him anyway.

{Maybe,} the fire demon conceded, looking to the right, searching the horizon. {But you’re not staying.}

Kurama wanted to close his eyes against the truth, but wouldn’t look away, wishing Hiei were close enough to touch.

{Sometimes, when I ran out of places I thought you might be, I looked for you in shadows, though I knew you hated the dark.} Red eyes like jewels with black-fire depths searched Kurama’s soul. {I think I might have loved you once, but I’ll never know for certain, now.}

Then he took to the wind like a broken leaf and vanished in a blur.  Kurama pressed his forehead into the window frame and kept watching the empty space he’d left behind.  Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked the passing seconds hollowly.

“Young man?” the old woman called up the stairs. “Tea’s ready!”

Kurama considered his transparent reflection in the windowpane and decided that if anyone saw his eyes, if anyone bothered to look, they’d see nothing of the child his face conveyed. 

Feeling tired, he went to have tea and speak to an old woman of ghosts.

~*~

Kuwabara paced the waiting hall of the Second Kingdom’s stronghold uneasily.  He’d contemplated sitting only as long as it took him to see that half the provided furniture looked like it might shatter should dust touch its surface and the other half like it was just waiting to ensnare some unsuspecting victim.  The wall looked more vicious than a lot of the things he’d seen slinking through the dark corridors, so nonchalant leaning was out, too.

Yuusuke was studying a painting that took up half the high wall, seeming oddly at ease in the strange surroundings.  Kuwabara blamed demon heritage and prolonged exposure to the Makai.

He spun as the tall, dark red doors at the end of the hall opened, relieved the wait was finally over.  He and Yuusuke were waiting side-by-side when Mukuro stepped into the hallway and jerked her chin back toward the room beyond, giving them permission to go inside.

“Be quick,” she said as they stepped past her, and closed the doors behind them.

Kuwabara and Yuusuke peered into the dim interior.  Kuwabara felt unease return, jumpy at the darkness when the room felt large enough to hold just about any sort of monster.

“Hiei?” Yuusuke called, his voice echoing faintly.  He took a step forward.  A blur collided with him before he could go any further.

“Shit!” Kuwabara snarled, reiken flickering to life. 

But there was little he could do.  Yuusuke and his attacker were moving too fast for him to pick out any discernable body parts until the last flash of a sword halted a breath away from Yuusuke’s throat, caught firmly between forefinger and thumb. 

“Shit!” Kuwabara said again, this time in exasperation, letting the glowing sword die out.

“Heh,” Yuusuke gloated, pushing the blade further from his neck with a smirk.

Hiei grinned back before flicking his sword away and sheathing it. “Good reflexes.”

“Fuck,” Kuwabara said in disgust. “You two are such morons.  Do you have to do that every time you see each other?”

Hiei gave him a cool nod. “I see The Idiot is still flapping his mouth as much as usual.”

Kuwabara gritted his teeth. “Nice to see you, too, Shrimp.”

Turning away, Hiei disappeared into the darkness.  They heard the click and hiss of someone unfastening a bolt and then the room was bathed in the gray light of a cloudy sky as Hiei unshuttered a window almost as tall as the doors. 

“Well,” Yuusuke enthused, still grinning, “now that we’ve all said hello, we won’t waste your time.”

“Good,” Hiei said, looking bored already.  He pressed his hand to the window with his back to them and said, “So get to the point.”

“Listen, you asshole,” Kuwabara growled, taking a step forward to push Hiei’s personal space a bit. “It’s about Kurama.”

Kuwabara blinked as the glass under Hiei’s fingertips cracked.

“What about him?” Hiei asked, tone neutral.

“Well…we’re not sure yet,” Kuwabara admitted. “But one of his—one of the murderers—the suspects got himself killed sometime late last night.  Not that I’m complaining, but what they’ve got pinned as the murder weapon was shooting off so much ki I nearly burned myself.  Someone’s playing vigilante and doing a sloppy job of it.  I don’t know whether to try and stop the guy or help him along.”

“So what do I have to do with it?” Hiei asked.

“I thought it might have been you, at first, but then I realized it wasn’t your style.”

Hiei turned slightly, presenting his profile. “Not my style?”

“Yeah, the guy wasn’t, like, in twenty-four pieces strewn across the ground.”

Hiei turned to face them then, and grinned a bit before he caught himself. “So I ask again, what do I have to do with this?”

“We figured,” Yuusuke took over the conversation, “that if anyone knew who it was, or could at least point us in the right direction, it would be you.”

Hiei remained silent, but in a way that said he was considering his response and not just about to blow them off. “All right,” he said finally. “Because we have been allies—”

“And friends,” Yuusuke interjected.

Hiei rolled his eyes. “And friends, I will be honest with you now.” He slanted them a look. “It was Kurama.”

There was silence.

“What?” Kuwabara choked out, finally.  “As in…Kurama?  As in…Kurama.”

“As in back-from-the-dead kind of Kurama?” Yuusuke clarified.

Hiei frowned. “I don’t see how you can be so surprised.  Did you listen to nothing Genkai said?”

“Said?” Yuusuke retorted. “She didn’t say anything.  She just spouted that mystic shit—‘You can’t understand me, I’m ancient and wise and speak only in cryptic riddles, blah blah blah…’”

“She said Kurama was back,” Kuwabara remembered.

“And you believe her?” Yuusuke asked Hiei incredulously.

“I believe most things Genkai says,” Hiei replied evenly. “You’ve been her student.  Has she ever lied to you?”

“No,” Yuusuke agreed. “But sometimes she doesn’t speak straight.  For all I know the ‘Kurama is back’ line could’ve been some wizened mentor code for ‘the end is near’ or ‘pea green will be the new spring color’ or ‘does this robe make me look fat?’”

Hiei didn’t smile. “She was being literal.”

“Whoa,” Yuusuke said after he’d let the thought sink in. “No shit?”

Hiei showed fang in a little grin. “No shit.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Kuwabara demanded happily. “Let’s go find him!”

He hadn’t taken two steps toward the door when Hiei said, “It isn’t that easy.”

Kuwabara deflated. “Of course it isn’t,” he muttered.

“Why isn’t it that easy?” Yuusuke asked.

Hiei scowled. “Because it just isn’t.”

Somewhere, a gong sounded, deep enough to make the floor vibrate and the windows rattle.

“Your time is up,” the fire demon declared briskly.  “I have things to do.” 

Kuwabara blinked as Hiei vanished from the window, and then spun around as he spoke from the doorway where he had paused, red eyes strangely sad.

“Just…leave Kurama alone,” he said. “He isn’t one of us anymore.” Then he was gone.

“Fuck,” Yuusuke said, the room echoing his frustration back.

Kuwabara rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. “Now what?”

Yuusuke seemed to think about it for a minute, hands on hips, gaze searching the bleak landscape outside the window.  Finally, he turned back to Kuwabara, eyes narrowed with determination. “Let’s go talk to Genkai.”

~*~

Kurama walked down darkening streets, letting the shadows lengthen on his body.  Humanity bustled around him and through him—the murmur of outsider thoughts as he brushed an arm, flash of emotion as he bumped against a chest.

Passing a bar, a girl who didn’t look old enough to be as drunk as she was, reached up and kissed him, thinking—

—looks like someone famous, I wonder—

He grinned a bit, like a movie star, and she blushed and giggled as her friends swept her away, apologizing.  He watched them until his smile faded. 

Above his head, decorative ferns hung in clay pots.  Reaching up, he touched a pale green leaf, delicate as glass, and called it to grow.  Instead of flourishing under his touch, black climbed up the leaf like hungry frost, glittering, and when Kurama jerked his hand away, the affected piece broke off and hit the ground with the sound of crystal.

He stared at it until the sound of wings brought his head up.  Over the city flew a crow, bringing in the night.  Kurama followed it.

The bird brought him to a hotel that looked fancy in a distinctly Western way—all gold gilded and red-carpeted, everything shining like money.  Kurama considered the building indifferently, leaning against the bars of the gated entrance, wondering how long it would take before the guard shooed him away for loitering.  Wondered how he was supposed to keep a low profile this time.

“Hey, kid.”

Kurama froze.  The guard.  That hadn’t taken long at all.  He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look unobtrusive as he edged away from the gate.

“You know the routine.  Clientele through the side door.”

Well, that was different.  Kurama looked at the indicated building, a small structure that might have been a security point or even another guardhouse, except that it had no windows.  Trying not to let his confusion show, Kurama walked to it and opened the door, revealing a flight of steps down into the ground, lit by electric torches.

“Thanks,” he said, suppressing a grin, and started down.

The stairs ended in a narrow passageway, cement walls pinning him in on either side.  He avoided touching them, for when his finger had brushed the railing in the stairwell acrid—

—fear desperation pain—

—had scorched his mind.  He continued cautiously, wondered what he was getting himself into.

Totemo Satoru scowled as a large black bird landed on the hood of his car.  He opened the door, stepped out into the street and waved his arm to shoo it.

“Oi, bird!  Get away from there!”

The creature turned its small head and regarded him coolly with oil-drop eyes.  Then, with a cackle that sounded surprisingly like a real laughter, it lifted its wings and took off.  Totemo ran his hand over the paint to check for scratches, scowling, then tossed his keys to the valet who jogged up.

The interior of the hotel was pleasantly warm, and he peeled off his gloves as he went.  The concierge stepped out from behind the front desk to bow and silently hand him a keycard, which he accepted with a little grin and tucked into his coat pocket.

In the elevator ride up to the twenty-second floor, he listened to some Christmas classic gutted and reduced to muzak and checked out the porter’s ass.  Whistling Jingle Bells, he stepped out of the elevator and walked down a hallway that was wallpapered with some striped tan and green design he’d always hated, his expensive shoes making little noise on the brown carpet.  When he reached room 435, he slipped the cardkey into the allotted slot and pushed the door open when the light turned green.

The lights were already on when he entered.  The walls were beige, the carpet some strange mauve-like color.  Most of the room was dominated by a king sized bed that had a dark mahogany headboard, silver and blue quilted cover, and a huddled naked form curled up near the pillows.

Totemo surveyed the boy, or what he could see of him, as he took off his coat and tossed it on a chair.  The boy flinched away from the sudden movement, and Totemo cursed under his breath, rooting through his suit jacket for his pack of cigarettes.  He really hated it when they gave him these cowering weaklings who did nothing but mewl pitifully all night.

“Stand up,” he snarled as he pulled out his pack and tapped out a cigarette.  The boy shivered but didn’t move.  He put the cigarette in his mouth and slapped the pack down on the table impatiently.  “I said stand up, you little whore.  I want to see you.”

His search for a lighter came up empty.  Frustrated, he took a step for the bed and reached out—

Only to be jerked up short and spun around, lighter flame touching the end of his cigarette and his gasp of surprise filling his mouth with smoke and he coughed.  The cigarette hit the floor and smoldered.

“You could start a fire that way,” the new kid said mildly, letting the lighter in his hand flicker and die out.

“Yeah,” he muttered.  Then lashed out and slapped the kid across the face, hard enough to whip his head around. “Don’t you fucking do that ever again, you understand me?” he snarled, and pulled a gun.  “Where the fuck did you come from?”

The kid only straightened and considered him silently, green eyes burning out from the black makeup marking his painted white face.  Something flickered in the back of Totemo’s mind, a brief memory at the lines the black traced on the kid’s face.

“Who sent you?” he questioned, stepping closer and menacing with the weapon, feeling danger prickle against his skin like electricity.

“No one,” was the calm reply.

“Fuck that.”  Out of the corner of his eye, something silver gleamed—

And he saw it in slow motion flashback, the kid lighting his cigarette.  The silver Zippo lighter with the initials S.H. scrolled on the side, the initials of the original owner, some poor shmuck Shark had—

Shark.

Shark, who was dead at the hands of some psycho.

He screamed and pulled the trigger.

Only, suddenly, he was neither screaming nor shooting, the gun somewhere under the bed, unfired, and him up against a wall with the kid’s hands, fucking strong hands, around his throat, and green eyes, cool like a doctor’s—clinically detached—studying him from an inch away.

His gun was gone but his hands were free and he went for the eyes.

But instead he hit another wall, hard, and landed on the hotel-provided desk, bruising his ribs on complimentary pens.

“Shit,” he said because, really, that’s what this whole situation had become, and scrambled to regain his feet.

The kid grabbed his shirt and hauled him up until he stood on his tiptoes.  He was really a lot taller than he first seemed, slender body lost in the swirls of black leather trench coat.  Red hair catching highlights.  Green eyes…

“You,” Totemo whispered, disbelieving.  “You can’t be here.”

“Why?”  The kid put a hand to Totemo’s ear and yanked.  He screamed as the small loop earring ripped through his skin and dropped into the kid’s palm. “Because the dead cannot walk?”

“No,” he said shakily, clutching his head, feeling blood seep between his fingers. “No, because it took too long.  You died so long ago.  They said we were safe.  They said we were safe!”

The kid tossed him again.  He hit the bed, slid right over the edge and ended up awkwardly upside down on the other side, neck bent at a painful angle.

“They lied,” he heard the kid say.

He scrambled, then.  Crawled when nothing seemed coordinated enough to get him moving.  Whimpering in the back of his throat because he knew.  He knew there was no stopping that thing in a boy’s body.  The painted devil.  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone and his thumb hit speed dial.

“He’s here!” Totemo screamed.  That was all he managed to say.

Kurama plucked a rose out of the complimentary vase of flowers and let his power flow, listened to the flower die as it crystallized in his hand, then set it down carefully next to the body, beside the lily leaf he’d used as a knife.  These black, dead creations his youki formed now seemed to grow brittle as soon as they were out of his hands.  The leaf had shattered when it had hit the ground.  He carefully didn’t touch it.  Was afraid to touch anything.

He didn’t jump when the cell phone began to chirp hollowly, but it was a near thing.  He glanced at the number and then ignored it.

“It might be for you,” said a voice behind him.

Kurama turned and stared at the naked, collared boy on the bed.  He had spiky near-white hair that was darker at the roots, and brown eyes that twinkled as he grinned suddenly and slid off the bed.

“I did that cowering-in-fear thing pretty well, huh?” he asked cheerfully, stretching like a cat and completely comfortable without clothing.

Kurama felt bemusement turn his lips slightly as the kid walked forward and stepped carefully around the puddle of blood to observe the body.

“Hum.  Aren’t Crow deaths supposed to be messy and dramatic or something?”

Kurama blinked. “The arterial spray wasn’t dramatic enough for you?”

“Well,” the kid grinned in his direction. “That was pretty cool.  But I think the whole dying thing is supposed to last longer.

“I don’t work that way.”

Kurama looked out the window and saw a sheen of wings as the crow flew past.  In his head, he could hear triumphant laughter.  It made him restless.

“Oh come on!” the kid scoffed.  “At least shoot him a couple times or something.”

“You want to shoot him,” Kurama said, retrieving the gun and holding it out, “be my guest.”

“Gah!” The kid batted at it like an angry kitten. “No way, don’t give that thing to me!  I’ve got fingerprints they could trace all the way to America.  Bet that’s not a problem for you, huh?  Or is it?  Do dead guys have fingerprints?”

Kurama shrugged and dropped the gun again, then stopped and turned to pin the boy with a look.  The boy was searching for something below the bed, and didn’t notice.  “How do you…?”

“Know about Crows?” the kid finished, pulling back from under the bed with a handful of clothing.  “In my line of work, it’s bound to happen at least once.  I was just there at the right time.” He tugged on a pair of low-riding jeans. “Seki was dead, and then he wasn’t, and then he was again.”  He pulled his shirt over his head. “And a lot of nasty people died while he wasn’t.  Can you help me find my other shoe?  It looks like this.” He held up a black sneaker.

Kurama let his eyes wander the room.  “Over there.”  He nodded to the dark space under the desk.

“How the hell?  Oh well.”  The kid crawled under desk and retrieved it.

This was not a conversation Kurama had ever imagined having, and he was not quite sure how to get out of it gracefully. “Do you have someplace to…go?”

“Nah.  But I’ll find something.” The kid finished tying his shoes and stood up. “Oh, hey.  Rudeness on my part.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Jiro.”

Kurama looked at the outstretched fingers and the warm smile and thought of the heart-stopping jolt whenever he touched anyone, like getting hit by lightning with memories attached.  He reached out and bypassed the hand, clasping the boy’s clothed elbow briefly.

“Kurama.”

Strange, so strange to see past the smiling exterior, to see the tear-streaked child underneath like a double exposed picture.  Though there was still something hopeful, bright like a star and warm like candlelight, lighting both faces. 

He blinked and it was gone.

“Eh.  I forgot about that,” Jiro said apologetically as he pulled away. “The No Touching rule.  It must get lonely, though.”

“I’m never alone.”

“If you say so.”  The boy’s eyes drifted back down to the body. “Ick.  We’d better get going.  The blood is starting to congeal.”

“I’ll get you out.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll do it anyway.”

“And who am I to argue with that sort of determination?” Jiro quirked a grin at him. “Lead on, vigilante.”

Kurama moved, leading the way out of the room, his senses stretching outward.  And that was strange—his focus felt scattered, like broken ice floating on a current.  He’d become so used to his purpose driving him that this felt like…drifting.

Or searching.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway.

—And saw himself, in his old school uniform—that hideous fuchsia color Yuusuke had teased him mercilessly about—smiling politely, curiosity tilting his head.

Feeling warm and sudden shyness, dropping his gaze to his shoes—the good ones—he knew because they pinched his feet—

Wondering idly if it had really just been instantaneous hero worship like he’d thought back then, or his first crush—

“Hey.”

Kurama jerked in surprise when Jiro’s hand settled on his shoulder, falling back to reality enough to realize that he wasn’t seeing his own memories.  But who in this building would know him well enough to picture him as clear as a movie moment on a continuous loop?

“You planning on getting a room, or something?” the boy questioned, nervousness in his voice pulling Kurama away from his speculations.

He came out of the memory and found himself staring raptly at door 421 like he was waiting for it to open up and reveal its secrets to him.

Then it was opening, because he was pushing it, the lock giving away with the loud crunch of expensive wood, and he tried not to look too closely at the two bodies twined on the bed, one large and aggressive one smaller and passive, sweat and hard breathing and a short, startled yelp as Kurama grabbed the hair of the bigger one and yanked.

He stared into dazed, almond-shaped eyes as his fingers struggled to hold the short strands, nails scooping sweat and suddenly, it was all—

—rage—

—for this dirty, piggish excuse for a human who thought power was enough reason to justify his actions and money a great enough shield to save him.

—rage—

That he might he right.  He just might be right.  So then it was—

—joy—

As he smashed that sallow-skinned forehead into the headboard.

—joy—

When he tossed the lumpy body across the room, pulling out a handful of hair simultaneously.  The man shrieked—a razor on glass—until he hit the wall with the same sound the door made, but wetter.

Then he breathed.  Kurama breathed and tried to remember why he couldn’t kill the whimpering creature where he lay.

The touch on his hand was painfully euphoric, like slitting his wrists, dancing on coals, twining lightning in his fingers, turning him around inevitably, pulling him down toward features sharp, handsome and hollow—a face he remembered from other days when it had been younger, sweeter, and he’d been alive.

A cool hand cupped his cheek and felt like fever.

Lips moved almost against his own in words that he heard mostly in his head.

“I dreamed of you coming.”

Then he was released and Kurama jumped off the bed, landing on the balls of his feet, tension wiring him.  The sound of flesh and flesh meeting violently turned him around to see Jiro poised over the sallow man, clasped fists brandished high to strike again.  He looked over as if he felt Kurama’s gaze and offered a rueful smile, hard at the edges.

“Sorry.  He was getting uppity, but I think he knows better, now.” He dropped his hands and approached carefully. “Are you planning on saving everybody?”

“No,” Kurama said, watching as Jiro reached out and brushed the brownish-red hair off the unconscious boy’s forehead.

“Drugged,” Jiro reported.

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah.  Shuichi.  Stubborn.  Hates it here...but nice.  Sad.”

Kurama felt something hot close his throat.  “I know him, too.”

Jiro looked at him, surprised. “How?”

“He’s my brother.”

Shizuru felt the ghost’s presence like a winter wind—chilling but familiar—and decided that despite her brother’s adamant “no smoking” rule she really needed a cigarette.  So she lit one as she went looking for him, and was exhaling her first mouthful of smoke when she found him.  It hadn’t been like he’d been trying to hide.

The dead man was standing in her brother’s living room, black leather and gothic face paint, and an almost lost expression that kicked forward her latent mothering instinct she harbored for all of Kazuma’s strange but well-meaning friends.

“Kurama,” she said gently, and he turned to her with wide, questioning eyes.  “He isn’t here,” she answered what she thought the most prominent question and got a blank look in response.  “Kazuma,” she clarified. “You know, my stupid brother.  With the loud mouth.  And the bad hair.”  Still nothing.  “Kurama?”

She took a step toward him and stopped, unsure.  Fuck, it was too early in the morning to be dealing with this crap.  The sun wasn’t even up and the morning scum hadn’t had the chance to settle on her teeth.  What was the proper etiquette for dealing with someone who’d, last she’d checked, been six feet under making nice and food-like with the local worm population?

“You want some coffee or something?” she offered finally. “He’ll be home soon.”  Without waiting for a response, she moved to the kitchen and stubbed out her cigarette in the sink.

His footsteps were slipper-shod quiet despite the heavy boots he wore. “Where is he?”

She felt something twist inside at the almost-forgotten sound of his voice, something so fierce, it surprised her. “Work,” she answered steadily, blaming her shaking hand on early-morning caffeine deficiency. “Got called in.”

“When will he be back?”

“Damned if I know.  I don’t keep tabs.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Get in line,” she said and concentrated on measuring water. “He’ll be back eventually.  Relax ’til then.  Have some coffee.  You can still drink coffee, can’t you?”  She finally looked back at him, and found him with his face upturned to the window and the rising sun, paint fading away by increments, as if the light unmade it. 

He was smiling, small, content upturn of lips, and she felt like smiling back, even though he wasn’t looking at her.

Then she saw the twined forms ensconced on her brother’s couch. “Uh…Kurama?”

Kurama turned at her question and followed her line of sight. “Why I need to talk to Kuwabara,” he answered.

She gave him a narrow look at the casual tone.  At the very least, she thought he should sound apologetic, but his expression was neutral.  She raised an eyebrow.  He cracked a smile and ducked his head a bit sheepishly.

“All right, then,” she said forgivingly. “I’ll bet they’ll be hungry when they wake up.”

He tilted his head and looked up at her through his lashes.  She rolled her eyes. “Save that look for someone you haven’t already wrapped around your little finger, twit.”  She swatted at him. “Go start the rice.  I’ll get the eggs.”

~*~

Kuwabara drank his coffee with tired determination and decided a little professional whining was what this situation called for.

“I fucking hate early morning calls,” he grumbled as he ducked under the yellow tape.

“Have you even been home, yet?” Tekko asked as she followed him through.

“For about an hour.”

She patted his shoulder consolingly, and then moved past him to survey the site.  Kuwabara looked around casually, feeling the detached disinterest of exhaustion setting in.  His eyes wandered over the scattered pens on the desk, the skewed sheets on the bed, the spray of blood across the carpet.

Kuwabara stopped and stared a little harder at the blood.  He took a sip of his coffee.  He tilted his head and squinted a bit.

“Tekko-san,” he called.

She looked up from where she’d been inspecting the black rose on the ground next to the body, then straightened so she could see the floor from his angle.

“Oh my…” she began.

Kuwabara took a sip of coffee, still staring at the pattern in the spread of blood that arced out across the carpet from the victim’s slit throat.  “Does that look like…wings to you?”

Part 2

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