Yu Yu Hakusho 1. Default Chapter

Category: Anime, Rurouni Kenshin, Yu Yu Hakusho, AU, Yaoi  
Warnings: violence  
Pairings: will be SanosukexKenshin, KuramaxHiei  
Author: Arigatomina  
Email: arigatoumina  
Complete Archive: www.geocities.com/arigatomina  
  
Summoned  
  
Part 1  
  
He didn't believe in magic. Although Sanosuke considered himself superstitious, his worries concerned good and bad luck, rather than the occult. His last partner had complained that he lacked imagination, but he'd never had any reason to believe in things he couldn't see. For that reason, he was furious to think he'd die because some idiot believed in demons. And to make matters worse, he'd wasted the last month of his life pretending to be as psychotic as the rest of the cult members. If he managed to survive, he'd have to remember to work on his acting. He still didn't know what had given him away. A glinting blade invaded his vision, his eyes momentarily unfocused from the tall flames he'd been staring at. The weapon was unreal, two feet long if it were an inch, and barely wide enough for the crooked metal handle swirled around the end of it. No matter how much Masayuki had praised it, Sano had no appreciation for the design of the home-made weapon. He glared, his head tilting back against the beam they'd bound him to. The shorter man was barely a head taller now, even with him on his knees.  
  
The black-haired man didn't meet his eyes, and Sano's glare intensified, his teeth crushing the cloths they'd pressed into his mouth. Surely he wasn't going to die like this, bled to death by a blind man who was still chanting ridiculous monosyllable words. How was Masayuki even supposed to know where he was cutting him? Before he'd managed to infiltrate the cult, Sano had been a member of the homicide team at the cult's previous attempts. From the bodies they'd found, he knew there was a pattern to the torture. He'd even had it explained to him before he realized his cover was blown. But he hadn't expected to experience it firsthand. So much for preventing more of the ritualistic murders. Masayuki's hands touched his bare shoulders and Sano looked down to the one holding the blade. He couldn't stand it. The worst part wasn't even his eminent death. He just *knew* Saito would never let anyone forget his demise. The entire squad would be calling him a bloody baka before that jerk let it pass. And bloody was right, he thought with a wince, his eyes narrowing when that sharp blade pressed down on his shoulder, a thin line of dark red that thickened as blood welled to the surface and beaded before spilling over, rivulets trailing down his chest. If Masayuki did what he'd seen at the other crime scenes, this was going to be a slow death.  
  
The second cut mirrored the first, and Sanosuke was almost glad for the gag in his mouth that gave him something to clench in his teeth. He already knew what was next. The psychos had explained the entire ritual to him in detail. It made him wonder if they'd known he was a cop then, and if so, why they'd bothered to tell him at all. Then again, if they hadn't he might have suspected something was amiss. At least then he wouldn't be kneeling in a basin, the bottom of which was just starting to be coated with his blood. He'd seen the silver pan often enough in the last week to know much more blood would be needed before it would drain into the crystal bowl set beneath it. The blade was now curving down to make the first slash of the 'x' across his chest and he stifled a pained growl. If they'd used a physical blow, he'd have been grateful. He hadn't been cut once during his three years on the force, and he was amazed at how much those sliced lines hurt. These were a fraction deeper, though, and his head jerked back against the beam again as metal scraped its way along his ribs. His vision hazed at the instant pain of it, and he found himself staring into the leaping flames that suddenly seemed to fill the room, dark fiery red, the color of his blood.  
  
* * *  
  
Bloody flames burned his eyes, lapping hungrily as if he were suspended over them, and Kurama struggled to pull back from the intense heat. They were tasting him, sharp tongues lining his shoulders as the fire grew, darkening flickers that deepened seconds before his eyes snapped open. Dazed for a long moment, he didn't understand why the inferno he'd hovered over was suddenly yards away, a small blaze carefully contained in a manmade pit surrounded by stacked cinder blocks. A trickle of sweat trailed his cheek and he jerked back, emerald eyes widening when someone moved between him and that distant fire. Blue eyes sparkled at him from a shockingly normal face and an image leapt to his mind, even as he listened to the man's unintelligible mutterings. This man's eyes had watched him before, from a younger form, an infinitely familiar one that brought a name to his lips. But cloth muffled his word and he twisted his head to the side, too stunned to wonder why Yamatto's father was in front of him. He realized his bound state an instant before pain sliced a path down his chest, from his right shoulder down, arching painfully over his ribs and ending at his waistband. His mouth closed over the dry cloths filling it, and he no longer cared how he'd gone from standing outside his mother's house to being cut by his classmate's father. Fury at the inexplicable assault sparked his eyes, feeding his youki until the blue-eyed man reeled back with an audible gasp.  
  
The envisioned inferno roared behind his closed eyes, and Kurama clenched his teeth, nearly shredding the gag as heat lanced through his body, hissing crackles reaching his ears as the kekkai asserted its dominion. His anger entwined with the pain, and he shoved the youki down, bleary eyes dropping to actually look at the cool metal he felt through his white pants. He couldn't see the markings on the outside of the square basin, his human form didn't allow for such an ability, but he recognized it as the object of power that it was. And he recognized the stupidity of his actions. He knew better than to react without first understanding his situation. He hadn't lived one third of a youko's lifespan without learning that. But he'd never been attacked once in the seventeen years he'd spent in human form, either.  
  
The muttering had resumed after the crackling battle of youki and kekkai, and Kurama glared when the man carved a line down the left side of his body. It wasn't the kekkai that held him upright, but his hands were bound behind him somehow, and he didn't have the strength to move at all. Looking past the man, who looked so much like the last ningen he'd spoken to, he could see others beyond that small fire. They were hooded, anonymous forms with shadowed eyes. And there was something familiar about that, the way they circled the other side of the orange flames, their low echo of the man's words. They reminded him of movies he'd seen, older films, horror flicks so poorly made they'd never graduated from black and white into color. And it hit him like the punch line of some sick joke. He was the sacrifice, to a bunch of ningens who thought him nothing more than the perfect student he pretended to be. And somehow, they'd managed to find an object with such binding power that he might have stolen it in his wilder past. The question was whether they actually knew how to use it.  
  
Yamatto's father, for the man had to be that boy's kin, considering he'd obviously drugged him somehow, was watching him with bright eyes. Kurama could feel more sweat beading his brow, but his skin felt cold now, and he didn't have to look down to know he was losing blood, quickly. The man looked even more excited now than he had before, and some part of him wanted to smack the idiot before killing him. Kurama was absolutely certain the fool had seen the kekkai's reaction as a good sign. As far as he knew, the ningen was wrong. Humans didn't have any spells that would work on him, surely they didn't. All the man could do was bleed him to death, and only the power of the basin he kneeled in kept him bound to suffer through that death. The pain he'd done his best to ignore was slipping away, replaced by creeping numbness, and Kurama wanted to sigh at the irony of it. Now he wouldn't have to worry about how he would cross back into the Makai after he tired of his ningen form. He was about to die without ever having the chance.  
  
A frown passed over the chanting man's face and Kurama realized, with dull humor, that he *had* sighed. Giving a tired glare, he stiffened his weakening muscles and raised his head, barely feeling the hard surface his hair pressed against as he lifted his gaze to the small fire. It was so insignificantly weak and human. To think he would die so easily, by ningen hands. It was hard to believe, but that pale, bloody sun of a fire proved it. Makai flame was much more vivid, realer, darker with a heat that far surpassed anything these humans would ever know. His breathing weakened slowly, as he fought to center his blurring vision. He could almost imagine those dull flames were creeping higher, an ebony vein bleeding from the center to flicker up, consuming the red, darkening the room.  
  
* * *  
TBC 


	2. Part 2

Category: Anime, Rurouni Kenshin, Yu Yu Hakusho, AU, Yaoi  
Warnings: violence  
Pairings: will be SanosukexKenshin, KuramaxHiei  
Author: Arigatomina  
Email: arigatoumina@hotmail.com  
Complete Archive: www.geocities.com/arigatomina  
  
Summoned  
  
Part 2  
  
The flames leapt at him, striving to consume him as if starved for blood. Always fire, heat of blazing battle, destruction, murder and near mindless blood lust, they tasted kindred in his shape and craved to devour that strength. But it was in vain. The bloody flames never touched a strand of his same-colored hair, he wouldn't allow it. Glints of amber sparked at the heat, striking a simultaneous blow as his sword arched before him, one circle of speed that scattered the flames into nonexistence. His glaring gaze fell on a speck of ember that fell beyond the enclosing blocks, and he stared at it, immobile till the last spark of life burned itself out. Only then did he turn his gaze to the one who'd summoned him, the fool who'd carelessly summoned his own death. He didn't turn along with his eyes, staring to the side and through strands of blood-colored hair as he pinned the kneeling man. Sightless eyes were aimed on him, a wide smile greeting his presence with evil intentions oozing from it. And he greeted yet another who misunderstood, greeting the old man by slicing his black-haired head off so it rolled among the thrown bits of ash.  
  
The screams were slow in coming, but he waited for them, not lifting his hot amber gaze until the first robed man gave a horrified cry. He answered it with a darting flick of his sword, leaving the deadened fire to dispatch his would-be masters. So much time had passed that he felt a drift of casual surprise at how easy it was. The sheep of his previous summonings had flown much quicker. But this herd had less unity. The figures ran, not as a group of comrades, but as individuals desperate only to save their own lives. The sight almost made him enjoy killing them.   
  
The last man fell in a shower of blood that added to his damp clothing, joining the darker stains that had long since turned the faded magenta a lovely rose madder shade. His gaze dropped for a moment as he found himself standing over the headless man. He'd moved, yet he was again near to where he'd started. And it had lasted seconds. But he'd purposely allowed them seconds, time enough for a gasp of regret, a terrified scream, and a blazing painful death. All deserved. The dampness on his chest proved that, blood of the victim joining stains from the others. There had been many others since the days when men understood his purpose. So many innocents had died, and all because men like the one at his feet misunderstood. Lifting his left hand for the first time, he touched the blood on his chest, swiping the smooth skin beneath his open robe. And yet another victim added to the count. There was no point looking to the other side of the blackened fire.  
  
A flashing swipe cleared the flecks of blood from his blade, and he stepped back into the circled pile of ash. Without the necessity of speed, he slowly sheathed his sword, fingers relaxing on the detailed hilt. And he heard a breath, soft, faint, but it split the silence of the darkened chamber, joined by a second, then a third. Had he not been deadened by the years, he might have allowed his disbelief. He'd never failed to kill in one blow, yet that whispered breathing continued until his eyes snapped open in slits of amber. Had he missed one? Had the years somehow tainted his skills? There would be no forgiveness if such were true, the faded stains of innocent victims wouldn't allow it. His gaze searched the shadows, multiple places of darkness seeming to have crept into existence along with that impossible breathing. The robed bodies were still, pooling as they drained, but still nonetheless. It was as he stared at the red creeping into the cracks of the wooden floor that he caught movement on his own form. The fresh blood on his chest was blooming, not the last bits leaving a corpse, but the slow drain of a dying man. And he turned, eyes flickering between amber and violet as he finally looked to the victim. It *was* a man, but a man large enough that hope tried to join his awakening disbelief. Such a man could very well have enough blood to summon him without immediate death. And the victim was the source of that breathing, the sound of which slowed even as he took the first step toward the sacrifice.  
  
Thick brown hair covered the man's bowed head, a scarlet ribbon knotted in the back, held by the cloth gag so the tails fell down the middle of broad shoulders. The cuts tracing those shoulders seemed to gape despite the vague thickening of the blood, and his hands hovered over them. It was true, then, no matter the mistake. After dozens of innocent deaths, he'd been truly summoned once again. His eyes flickered once more before settling into cool violet as his fingers brushed a bit of mahogany hair, palms pushing the man's head back. Youth whispered at the edges of the man's pale face, displaced by the imminent death that was soon to be averted. The man was young, but not so young as the last who'd honestly called him, the girl-child who'd set him on a rampage for revenge, summoning him with the death of her most beloved kin. And this one had done the same, but without sacrifice. It was unheard of, but he couldn't deny the lack of evil in the man. If it had been there, he wouldn't have been summoned. Only pure blood could summon him, and this man had done so with his own. What would the man ask of him? Clearly he hadn't willingly summoned him, the bindings proved that.  
  
His face eased slowly, eyes calming from their narrow glare as he pressed his right palm against the man's cool forehead. And his wonderings were replaced with dull throbbing pain as the wounds transferred to him. Pain was alien to him, but he recognized it as his legs tried to falter suddenly, the man seeming to shift in front of him. It was his own vision that wavered and he stiffened his knees, eyes narrowing in concentration as he felt himself growing weak. Could he die if he lost as much blood as this man had? Surely not. He existed to deliver evil to death, surely he couldn't join them. But his heart pounded in his ears, dampness spreading and trailing down until he could feel it seeping into his pants. Gasping, he fought to maintain his balance, nearly reeling back so he gripped the fingers of his right hand in that thick brown hair to keep his palm in contact with the man's forehead. Was death meant for him, after all? There was movement beneath his hand, and his wide eyes met dazed brown ones before he lost the battle. He hit his knees, vaguely aware of a muffled sound above him before he pitched backwards, eager blackness oozing into his mind and consuming all thought.  
  
* * *  
  
Wisps curled around him, lapping his crouching form, warming his face as the black flame swallowed all hints of red in that previously cool fire. He might have bathed in the heat had the breath of cooler blaze not reached him, out of place. His lips curved into a slight frown and he opened his eyes, staring at the last hints of orange as they were swallowed by his burgeoning youki. What sort of fire was that? Sounds assaulted his ears, not the expected sound of flight, desperate cries as he was recognized. There was no fright in the quick voice he heard, and his red eyes widened as he felt the air, so stale around him, as if he were enclosed somehow. That voice grew louder and his teeth clenched in anger, eyes snapping to the side to glare at the excited male. The language was wrong, but it was the laugh that hit him, fury rising in a blaze of ebony fire. Had this one summoned him? This fool who dared to laugh and gabber in that foreign tongue? The male didn't even have a youki he could detect. Insult at the man's excitement was overcome by sudden disgust, and he rose slowly, a twitch pulling his left eyebrow down. He'd been called to kill someone *this* weak? If that were the case, there was no need for power, his youki easing until it cooled, his long black cloak settling over him. His eyes flicked down to the last bit of that wrong-colored flame, and he felt a prickle along his neck, the displacement finally making itself known. This was wrong. He had no need to look; this was no battlefield he'd arrived on, and the welcoming scent of blood permeating the room came mostly from him.  
  
He'd spent so long in stasis that he barely understood how difficult it was to lift his hand, and his arm shook when he felt dampness covering the front of his cloak, winter rose seeping into the bandages on his right hand. Why? It was unthinkable that he might have sustained injury enough to explain the blood, and his eyes narrowed suddenly, finally placing the catch in his breathing. Fear was an old acquaintance of his, but he rejected it in an instant, a spark of green throwing his hair back as his namesake opened. And with that third view overlaying his sight, he saw what he'd missed before. No youki had summoned him to this stale enclosure, and how the spell of his calling had managed to fall into ningen hands was not nearly so important as repaying them for their folly. That he'd somehow been drawn into the wrong world didn't matter either. Few humans had slipped into the Makai during his distant youth, but he'd seen their form before, enough that he should have known immediately. Though, these men, hooded shapes that had moved closer to the excited man, were much weaker than the ones he'd seen. To kill them would be equal to slaughtering children. For the first time since his liberating imprisonment, he didn't know what was expected of him. Then that loud man stepped into his circle with such careless impudence that his eyes flashed and he held his sword without thought.  
  
Blue eyes danced over him, and his hand tightened on the hilt of his katana as he stared with growing disbelief. The ningen thought he was his to command? The words uncurled in his mind, meaning swimming forth to widen his eyes. Magic, a sacrifice, and he their God, their demon to control and send out into the world. Youkai he was, but subject to no ningen. No one so weak could have called him forth, yet he could see the shadow surrounding the man, breath of evil, death, blood of future victims staining the ningen's aura. Whatever power the male had, he recognized the evil. And that was enough cause, even if he hadn't felt the need to repay his continued sense of displacement. A flick of his wrist and those blue eyes seeped, wetting the sharp edge of his blade. And a scream sounded in the enclosed area, his eyes snapping to one of the hooded forms. Father. The world curdled in his mind, but he gave no hesitation, flashing to halt the taller male, dispassionate stare taking in the tears as the boy's face was visible. This, then, was the Ningenkai, humans who put their offspring in such danger. It was enough like his own world that he smirked before hitting the child, a choking gasp the sound of fading consciousness as the figure crumpled.  
  
There was confusion, panic and terror, but the fleeing shapes lacked the aura he'd seen on the blue-eyed man. They held hopes of greatness, but no thought of the bloodshed necessary for that greatness. Did they forget their participation so quickly? A second passed as he looked to the other side of the dark circle. Their sacrifice had not fallen, held to dead wood by cords, pale skin marred by a fall of red hair a shade lighter than the lines of blood. The rest of that blood covered him. His red-flecked bandaged hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he moved, ending the killers' flight. There would be no second attempt. Even the child would die if need be. The wounds showered the dusty floor, missing him as he flitted back, watching them fall. He'd never killed humans before, but they died the same as any of his previous targets had, a shower of blood and lifeless fall. Only the sacrifice and the child remained. And he knew without looking that both lived.  
  
Hints of white shown through blood-soaked pants, but his eyes were on the basin, the markings carved into the metal that was not silver. He dared not touch it. Shallow breathing grated in his mind, and he glared at the object that kept him back. A kekkai formed by ningen hands? But the man had thought the sacrifice dead, had exclaimed with pride over the murder. Why bind the body so he couldn't touch it if they'd thought it dead? And the answers didn't matter. The sacrifice was dying, the damp blood deepening until he could feel it against his skin. The pale ningen was held to a pillar of sorts, wooden and straight along that curved back. With one move, he sliced the dead wood beneath the bindings, sheathing his sword even as the kneeling figure fell forward and out of the raised basin. A sidestep allowed him to catch the form, and he bent to lower it to the floor. He couldn't break contact with the clammy skin pressing his bare left hand.  
  
His legs gave as abrupt pain split along his shoulders and he stared in shock, thick red hair nearly touching his chin. Youki flickered around him, not his, but it *was* youki, growing steadier as his pain increased. And there was movement, a hand closing over his shoulder, making him wince as he fell back on his right arm, his left palm as if sealed to skin that warmed as cold swamped over him. And his youki was dropping. How could a ningen take his youki? Silk brushed his chin as that head lifted and he stared into glaring green eyes seconds before the forced contact was broken. His elbow shook as weakness flooded him and he gnashed his teeth, striving to match the glare so close to him. He'd sensed no evil from this one, but he'd obviously been tricked somehow. His eyes blurred, jagan closing as the third sight ended, and he barely saw those glaring green orbs widen, didn't acknowledge the brace that caught his back as he lost his strength. He wasn't aware of catching a hand in thick red hair as all awareness ended.  
  
* * *  
TBC  
--notes--  
The parts will get longer, guaranteed, and *much* more dialogue included. 


	3. Part 3

Category: Anime, Rurouni Kenshin/Yu Yu Hakusho crossover, AU, Yaoi  
Warnings: not much  
Pairings: will be SanosukexKenshin, KuramaxHiei  
Author: Arigatomina  
Email: arigatoumina@hotmail.com  
Complete Archive: www.geocities.com/arigatomina  
  
Summoned  
  
Part 3  
  
Copper mixed with faint acrid smoke, and Sanosuke's eyes dampened, his vision fogging as he stared down at the figure. The guy had pulled his hair. The thought was so unexpected it consumed him for a moment and he didn't immediately take note of his surroundings. No one had pulled his hair since he was a kid, wrestling on a playground as screaming youths cheered him on. The memory faded as quickly as it had come, and he blinked, eyes snapping up as he remembered. The fire was gone, bits of stirred ash still settling in the air. The remaining scent of extinguished flame proved the fire hadn't been out long, but he was beyond thinking of that, his vision crowded by bodies. They lay in haphazard positions, two sprawled near the far door of the barn, dark robes ajar to show brown dress shoes on one, a pair of sneakers on the other. They lay half in the shadows, but he recognized the absolute stillness of those visible legs. The copper scent made itself known again and his eyes widened as he looked at a familiar shock of black hair peeking around the edge of the circled cinder blocks. Masayuki's black-robed body lay more than four feet away, and Sano flinched at the red gaping wound visible in the opening of the man's robes. Only then did he return his gaze to the figure at his feet.  
  
Dark red hair framed a pale face, and Sano stared at the faded scar on the man's left cheek before looking over the slender form, his gaze stopping on the dark sheath slid into the man's white cloth belt. A sword. An image of Masayuki's hair thrust itself in front of him, a macabre vision of the smooth, wet wound, and he couldn't deny it. A sword would certainly make an appropriate weapon, but the man looked small. It was as he leaned forward that Sano remembered his bound state, tightly cinched ropes making themselves known as they threatened to cut into his wrists and arms. And the momentary discomfort reminded him of the blood still covering his chest. How could he have forgotten? He wasn't *that* absentminded. Bt he felt no pain from the cuts. Arching his neck, he stared at his right shoulder, and his heart skipped a beat when he realized there was no line beneath the blood. The flow remained, slicked trails that had fallen to mix with the ones on his chest, but the skin beneath that dark red was smooth, impossibly smooth. That wasn't right. He didn't hallucinate any more than he believed in black magic. Something shifted near him, a whisper of cloth over wood, and he snapped out of his daze, his mind seeming to clear abruptly.  
  
As far as he knew, the men in the room were all dead, the culprit lying at his feet, murder weapon strapped to his hip. Now wasn't the time to be staring dumbly at his own unwounded body. He hadn't had much time to test his bonds earlier, too aware of Masayuki's ceremonial knife, but he did so now, twisting his wrists and arms. They were cords, he realized, feeling the smoothness against his skin, and they were wrapped around each arm before they bound his wrists to the post. If they'd gone to that much trouble, they must have realized his strength. None of the other victims had been bound by more than simple rope. But then, none of the other victims had been over five feet. If his guess was right, he'd have more luck breaking through the wooden beam at his back, than he would tearing those cords.  
  
The red-haired man shifted again, pale fingers twitching a bit against the floor, and Sano stilled. The man's clothing was odd, old fashioned, but clearly coated in the blood of the men he'd recently slain. While he didn't' know if he were next on the guy's list, Sano wasn't about to wake him. He was thinking this when he saw the man's slender eyebrows lower, that pale face turning a bit so the bloodstained robe shifted over his chest. Sano's eyes widened, and he leaned forward again, forgetting that he hadn't wanted to wake the man. Cuts were visible on the unconscious man's chest, the pattern unmistakable, and he could see that most of the blood had probably come from them. Confusion roared in his mind, and he struggled to push it aside. It didn't matter that *he* was the one who'd been cut. For whatever reason, he was uninjured, and the man in front of him was obviously bleeding to death.  
  
Turning his eyes upward, Sanosuke gave the beam a critical look. If the roof depended on its support, he could cause a cave in. He'd never had the opportunity to explore the barn, the place where the cult had held its meetings during the past week, but the outside hadn't looked *too* dilapidated. Time seemed to be pressing down on him, the copper scent in the air stifling. There was suddenly no doubt in his mind that he had to move, now, or the man would die. And he was convinced that help was not even on its way. He hadn't had any suspicion of a ceremony so soon, so there was no way he could expect squad coming to the rescue. His fingers curled, and he pulled his wrists forward until the cords were taught. They *had* to be bound to the post. His wrists were held near each other, but not pressing. With an image of the roof caving in on him, he tensed his muscles, closing his eyes as he lunged forward. The basin he knelt in gave a scrape against the wood as his feet pressed the edge, and he clenched his teeth when it felt as if his arms had wrenched from their sockets. But the splintering crack came not from breaking bones, bits of wood stabbing his arms as his eyes snapped open suddenly and he found himself without the least bit of resistance. He nearly fell onto the unconscious man, barely managing to twist onto his side as he tumbled out of the basin.  
  
It was so simple he had to remind himself to rush. He simply couldn't seem to think properly. His feet had caught on the edge of the silver platter he'd knelt on, and he lifted them, using his elbow to push himself up. Although his wrists were not bound tightly, he found he could only separate them a few inches. Crawling closer to the red-haired man, he thought that would be enough, his eyes on the black hilt of that sword. Using his legs more than anything, he turned so his back nearly touched the man's side, watching over his shoulder as he reached for the sword. He could practically hear the recriminations he'd get when the captain learned that he'd touched the murder weapon, but he was fairly certain a live witness would be much more valuable. He reached for the hilt without glancing up, and he gave a muffled cry of surprise when something cool circled his wrist in a startlingly strong grip. Dark lashes shifted to reveal sparking eyes, and he froze instinctively. Those eyes widened until he could make out a sharp violet gaze that held him for a moment before turning to his bound hands. It wasn't until the man gave a tiny smile that he was able to let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.  
  
Staring into the sacrifice's wide brown eyes, the Battousai sighed and sank deeper, his hand tightening on the man's wrist. His thoughts were adrift, but he knew he could *not* allow those hands to touch his sword. He should have unbound him first. It was true that he'd lacked the strength to hold onto consciousness before, but he had an idea his seemingly imminent death had been an illusion. Death wasn't for him, not when he had a task to perform. The man's eyes narrowed and he moved his right arm, glaring at the limb when it gave a tremble before stilling. Without lifting his head, he gripped the hilt of his sword, pulling inches of the bright blade free. The man's free hand twitched and he lifted his gaze to those brown eyes. "Don't touch the blade," he whispered, the danger riding his tone despite the faint sound.  
  
Sanosuke stared for a second before nodding sharply. After a long minute, those bright eyes flicked away from him, the iron grip relaxing slowly before leaving him. He was still turned with his back to the man, but he could see that pale hand lower to join the first one, two holds, one on the edge of the black sheath, the other on that hilt. And he looked at the blade in confusion. The metal was unblemished, not a hint of blood to mar the sheen on its sharp blade. Despite his surprise at having the man regain consciousness, he knew better than to waste time, and he pressed the cord separating his hands to that glinting edge. The rope split like a hair, and had it not been for the wire he could see within the outer plastic, he might have doubted his own eyes. Another whisper-soft sigh reached him and he jerked the gag out of his mouth, tearing the cloth that had been tied about his head. He didn't bother to unwrap the loose cord from his lower arms, turning to crouch over the bleeding man. He'd sheathed his sword again, those violet eyes closed.  
  
Questions collided in his mind, awakened by his freedom, but Sano didn't ask. The man would be questioned soon enough, provided he lived. With this in mind, he pushed back the wet edges of the dark purplish robe, his eyes narrowing at the deep and *very* familiar cuts. Hadn't *he* been the sacrifice? Shoving the thought aside, Sano moved, being careful not to look at the bodies littering the floor as he retrieved his jacket. He'd taken it off himself earlier, thinking they wanted him to don one of the hooded cloaks. It only took a moment to retrieve, and he crouched again, eyes flying over the man's face. He looked paler. "I have to move you," he warned quickly, not expecting a response. And he got none, not so much as a flicker as he lifted the man's back so he could wrap the jacket lengthwise around the man's torso. There wasn't time to worry about hurting the slender man, and he pulled the cloth tight, tying the sleeves so it formed a strange but functioning bandage. It wasn't until he lifted the man that he met with opposition, and he nearly dropped him, only frozen by the fact that a sharp blade was a breath away from his neck. For a second he could swear the glare sent to him was an amber fire, but the man blinked and Sano sighed when violet eyes widened. The sword disappeared back into its sheath, the speed leaving him as stunned as the threatening gesture had.  
  
"Gomen!" The dark-haired man seemed dazed, but he was far too horrified to care. It had been instinctive, and he'd nearly killed the innocent himself. The man had warned him that he had to be moved, but he hadn't expected to be picked up. Brown eyes glinted at him suddenly, and he stared at the man's smile, not sure what to make of it.  
  
"If you kill me, you'll end up bleeding to death," Sano commented, a shaky laugh the only evidence of his former fear. "Just be still and I'll get you to a hospital, okay?" Those violet eyes widened a bit more before closing sharply. The man was light to begin with, but he seemed to grow lighter when he relaxed suddenly, and Sano shook his head at his thoughts. If he'd doubted he had an imagination before, this night was definitely proving him wrong. What happened? What was he supposed to tell his superiors? Had he just imagined the pain? The blood on his chest was now mixed with the dampness of the injured man's clothing, but it had been very real. It was real, as real as the person in his arms. Time stretched until he could have sworn it took an hour to get to the van he'd arrived in, and he had a moment of disgusted panic when he realized he didn't have the key. But his faith in luck was proven. The key was in the ignition. The only question was whether the man would live long enough for him to get to a hospital. The nearest one was nearly two hours away, and he knew no ambulance would be able to decrease that time. Settling the man on the floor behind the seats, he paused for a second, thinking furiously. He'd had a bit of training in first aid, but nothing came to mind. With a disgusted breath, he placed one of the robes over the man and left him there. He was in the driver's seat a moment later, and he ignored the nagging voice that told him he was going to be in trouble when he finally called in, a lot of trouble. For the time being, he couldn't have cared less.  
  
* * *  
  
Pain entered his mind long before rational thought, and Kurama remembered his earlier anger. Youki seemed to blaze around him, feeding his anger at the enforced helplessness, and he became aware of his position with sharp clarity. The ability to move came much slower, and he pushed against the person holding him, shifting weakly as his body tried to flinch away from the brand burning his chest. He drew from the youki filling him, a hand closing over damp cloth as he finally managed to lift his head. Seventeen years had passed since he'd felt such anger, but it consumed him a mindless, almost desperate craze, his glare stabbing into wide red eyes, pinning the source of that blazing pain. And he ended the burn, jerking his shoulders back as he leaned away from the damp figure. His chest throbbed, but he didn't glance down, clarity rising to his mind when he felt a sudden change. That surge of youki was cut off, the hateful fury along with it, and he blinked, a chill shooting through him. His eyes had locked onto a dark, glaring blue eye set into the black-haired male's forehead, and it wasn't until that bright orb closed that he realized what it was. A slender shoulder shook beneath his clenched hand, red eyes narrowing to glare at him, and Kurama loosened his hold, his gaze dropping to the red seeping from that black cloth to coat his fingers. Another tremble passed beneath his hand, and he caught the Jaganshi without thinking, staring at those closed eyes in simple shock.  
  
What was a Jaganshi doing in the Ningenkai? A hand had caught in his hair, and he leaned back on his heels, catching the youkai's bandaged right wrist and puling the entangled fingers free. The movement shifted his shoulders, and he winced, dropping his gaze to the source of the pain. The cuts were gone. In their place were smears of blood, and a burn pressed high on his chest, near his right shoulder. A handprint had lightened the blood, but the pale burn was clearly visible. It was, he realized suddenly, his only wound. The thought came at the same time as he noticed the sliced ropes hanging from his wrist. And the gag was still in his mouth. Jerking that free, Kurama turned his eyes to look around, passing over bloody corpses with lessening surprise. It was too simple for him to be confused. The humans had used a kekkai, and they'd obviously been performing some sort of ritual. The question, was whether it had been interrupted by the youkai, or if he was the point of the ceremony. Somehow, Kurama doubted they'd planned on their deaths. But he'd never heard of humans having the ability to summon a youkai.  
  
Not just any youkai, he thought, his eyes growing unfocused for a second before dropping to the closed jagan. He'd never seen one, not a single one in all of his years in the Makai, but there was no doubting that third eye he'd seen. There *were* youkai with multiple eyes, but the color of that orb proved it was separate. The youkai had red eyes, not blue. No, he was sure of it. Somehow the men had summoned a demon, and somewhere in their ceremony they must have messed up. But he'd never have thought the youkai would be so small. According to legend, he took the form of a black dragon. Kurama had never heard reference to a humanoid demon, and he'd heard plenty of stories. To think, *the* Jaganshi was nothing more than a small, fragile looking youkai. The robed men must have been reassured by that, Kurama smirked, glancing around the room. They couldn't have heard the legend, wouldn't have known that a single youkai had once destroyed numerous armies in the midst of the last Makai war. He'd heard, but he'd never thought much about it. No one had ever known how the demon was called, or which side he'd fought on since he was reported to have killed everyone on the battlefield, no survivors. And since there weren't supposed to have been any survivors, Kurama had passed the story off as a lie. After all, if no one survived, then no one *knew* what had happened. But looking at the room, he thought there must have been some truth to that legend. And the demon was completely vulnerable, shoulders braced by his arm.   
  
Kurama shifted the demon, looking over his features with interest. He hadn't paid much attention before, but he remembered the youkai's glare. It hadn't seemed very intimidating, too forced. But it had definitely radiated anger. The burn on his chest made him think it was an attack, but he doubted any of the ningens had released him. Had the youkai cut him loose with the intention of killing him as well? No, that made no sense. His wounds had been healed, there would be no point doing that if he were going to be killed afterward. The Jaganshi had to have healed him. Had he recognized his youkai spirit? That was a distinct possibility, and Kurama focused that spirit, reading as much as he could from the youkai. He hadn't done anything with his youki since adopting his human form, but he manipulated it with growing ease. A moment passed before he touched a flicker of power, and his eyes widened. The demon's youki was so small. Someone with an inherent power so low could never have healed him. Maybe the blood wasn't that of the slain humans.  
  
The male's back was dry, and he lowered him, green eyes looking over the demon's black clothing. The cloak covered him completely, reaching down to the edges of the youkai's hands, only a hint of pants visible below. Touching the cloth proved it to be saturated with blood, but Kurama couldn't find any tears, no signs of wounds. And who in the room could have injured him? There was no way the ningens could have done it, and he'd barely regained consciousness before the demon passed out. Deep breathing nearly convinced him there was no injury at all, and he didn't know if the male was always so pale, or not. But there was far too much blood to take chances. White cloth was wrapped around the demon's neck, he gave it a light tug, not sure if it were a part of the cloak or not. It gave easily, and he paused to stare at the bits of red lining the edge of the scarf. That had to have come from the demon. Parting the cloak, he lost his slow motions, shoving the black cloth aside as he caught sight of the cuts. The demon hadn't healed him of the wounds, he'd taken them. "How?"  
  
Slender black eyebrows jerked at his surprised word, and Kurama waited a moment, watching that closed jagan. The demon didn't move, but pale lips had curved down in a slight frown. It made him look as if he were concentrating on something. He could probably heal himself. Kurama's fingers brushed over the downward slash lining the middle of the demon's chest, and he gasped, frozen. A groan reached him through a sudden rush of youki and he ripped his hand away, fingers numb. A pale mark had appeared on the right side of the demon's bloody chest and Kurama leaned farther away, his hand brushing the spot on his own chest. He didn't have to look to know the burn was gone. And red eyes had opened to slits, glaring up at him from a pale face.  
  
"Kisama..." Pain blurred his eyes, but he could see the red-haired male above him and his fingers curled. He'd never felt so weak, as if every bit of his youki had been stolen away. And it nearly had. He could tell without opening the jagan; the ningen was killing him as surely as he'd killed those humans. The only difference was that he'd done it much more quickly. But how could a ningen steal his youki? The question repeated in his mind as his eyes tried to close on him again, his fingers curling tighter as he drew on what little energy he had left. A ningen *couldn't* steal his youki. A ningen couldn't summon him. His youki hadn't just been taken, he could sense it now, changed, mixed, but too similar to his own for him to have any doubt. No matter what he appeared to be, the red-haired male was a youkai. Pale, vague shapes neared his unfocused vision and he clenched his teeth, forcing his right arm to lift, barring those hands. "Don't *touch* me."  
  
"I..." For a second, Kurama stared, awash with guilt at his mistake, but it didn't last. Frowning suddenly, he leaned close to the demon's raised arm, not quite touching it, but close enough that those red eyes focused on him. "I don't think you're in any condition to make orders," he said sharply, not bothered when the demon's glare intensified. "How do you do that? Do you always do that when someone touches you?" The youkai blinked at him, his expression blank for a second before settling back into a pained scowl.  
  
It took most of his concentration to just keep his arm up, but talking took little at all. If he hadn't been very aware that the redhead was right about his condition, he would have given in to his urge to express his anger. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said tightly, clamping down on a scurry of panicked anger at having the male so close when he couldn't move, "but if you touch me again I'll kill you." Bright green eyes blinked at him and he flinched when the male smirked suddenly.  
  
"You want me to leave you here, then?" Kurama asked, his tone light. He had no intention of doing that, but he was curious despite the severity of the youkai's wounds. If the demon was confident enough to threaten him, then he probably wasn't in too much danger. With deliberate slowness, he dropped a hand to that raised arm, fingers curling over the faded gray bandages. Muscles clenched beneath his light grip and he blinked in surprise, looking from his own hand to those wide red eyes. The demon was staring at his fingers as if he expected them to tear right through his arm. Any thought he'd had of taunting the youkai was tossed aside and his expression grew serious. "What did you expect?" he asked quietly, not blinking when the demon's glare returned at a fraction of its previous intensity.  
  
For some reason, that quiet tone bothered him even more than the mocking one had, but he didn't have the energy to put much anger into his glare. He felt as if he'd just hovered over a deep drop and been jerked back, his heart pounding far too fast, but not bringing nearly enough oxygen in. He'd been convinced that all the red-haired male had to do to take his youki was touch him, but maybe he was wrong. Or was it just the bandage that separated them? His arm shook suddenly and he gave up on it, barely wincing when it landed heavily on the cuts. His question was answered the moment the male's thumb touched his skin and he closed his eyes as another fraction of youki left him. The transfer lasted mere seconds before it stopped, the fingers still brushing his skin. "So you *do* have a limit," he growled scathingly, forcing his eyes open so he could look at the male. That last bit wasn't enough to kill him, and he turned his head, staring at the cut lining his left shoulder. He wouldn't die from the lack of youki. No, he was going to bleed to death. "Ch'."  
  
Kurama didn't have to ask what the youkai was talking about. His nerves were alight, as if he'd had far too much caffeine, and he was suddenly aware that his youki was higher than he'd even thought possible, at least for his human form. But the demon was so weak. Blinking as he strove to throw off the heady rush, he frowned at the pale male, moving his hand away from that cool skin. "Why are you giving me your youki?" Wide red eyes snapped to him.  
  
"Giving?" He had to close his eyes in order to calm his rush of disbelief, but the emotion left him feeling dead already. The redhead still looked confused when he glared up at him a moment later. "You think I would kill *myself*?"  
  
"But..." Red eyes held him for a second and Kurama jerked suddenly, shaking his head. "I didn't do it. I would never stoop to stealing youki from someone who healed me." The demon didn't blink, though his eyes did narrow, and Kurama's frown deepened. "You don't have enough left to heal yourself," he said softly, eyes dropping to those red cuts, "do you." They weren't bleeding any more, he'd noticed that right away, but that didn't necessarily mean anything good. "I didn't think the Jaganshi *could* die." That got a reaction, but not the one he'd expected. The demon smirked at him before closing his eyes.  
  
"It *was* you, then." A youkai smart enough to have tricked him, one with the power to injure him so badly, the ability to lie so well without showing it; the red haired male wasn't weak after all. He'd been summoned by worse. He still didn't know *how* the youkai had managed to summon him, considering the male had appeared completely innocent, but he obviously had. And he was beyond caring.  
  
He didn't know what the demon meant by that comment, but Kurama was distracted from asking. It sounded far from them, but he recognized a familiar sound, the whirling wail of a siren. The humans must not have died very quietly. And the Jaganshi wasn't going to die quietly, either. "All right. We're leaving now." Black eyebrows twitched, but the demon didn't move as he pulled the black cloak closed, shifting to pick him up. He didn't know where his shirt was, he was covered in blood, and the black-haired demon was going to look odd in his arms once he got outside, but Kurama wasn't too worried about it. His eyes flew around the wide space, spotting a door. If luck was on his side, this was a warehouse with a back exit. If not, then he'd just have to hope no one recognized him before he had a chance to duck into an alley somewhere. The male in his arms was completely limp, and he shifted him higher as he stepped over the bodies blocking his way. He never saw one of the robed corpses twitch as he passed, the door opening to a dark alley.  
  
* * *  
TBC  
--notes--  
Though I'm not *positive*, you can probably expect another decrease in description and increase in dialogue for the next part. And as far as I can tell, the parts get longer each time (that's a *good* thing). 


	4. Part 4

Category: Anime Crossover, Rurouni Kenshin, Yu Yu Hakusho, Yaoi, AU  
Warnings: shonen ai  
Pairings: Saitoh+Sanosuke, Kurama+Hiei, will be SanosukexKenshin, KuramaxHiei  
Author: Arigatomina  
Email: arigatomina@hotmail.com  
Website/Complete Archive:   
  
Summoned  
  
Part 4  
  
No matter how long Sanosuke worked as a cop, he never quite lost his amazement over the way squad cars inevitably showed up the moment a crisis was over. He'd carried the oddly dressed redhead into the hospital and immediately been bombarded by people in white uniforms. It gave him a good reason not to get injured in the future. Those women were half his height, but their voices held a note of iron that nearly had him cringing. Luckily for him, an older man had come to supervise the chaos, and Sano had placed the potential suspect and victim on a low, wheeled stretcher. And as the short hyper driven women separated him from his previous burden, Sanosuke made his latest mistake. The lifesavers rushed off down the hall so quickly he forgot to take the man's sword. He realized that a few seconds after the swinging doors clipped shut, the original calm easing back in the air of the hospital lobby. And then, as he was about to go after that piece of evidence, the brief respite was broken, the silence scurrying away in the wake of loud sirens. The crisis was over, and the troops had arrived.  
  
Ambulances and police cars had specifically different sounds, when it came to wailing sirens, so Sanosuke wasn't surprised when a cruiser pulled right to the front of the hospital. He'd asked the receptionist to make the call while he was dealing with the over-exuberant medical staff, so Sano was expecting the chief to be behind the wheel. That man had a uncanny ability to show up every time he made a mistake, and an infuriating habit of telling the entire force about every mistake within twenty-four hours. Sano sighed in relief when he saw who the young driver was. Large dark eyes caught his as the oddest officer on the force waved him over.  
  
As far as looks were concerned, Sano had spent weeks before anyone could convince him Soujiro wasn't sixteen at the oldest. The dark-haired officer was so small, with a somehow childish face, and tendency to smile pleasantly at even the most gruesome of crime scenes. The seeming youth had one of those smiles on now, and Sano leaned over the car. "You got my call," he started, "The suspect-"  
  
"There is a situation at a warehouse one point eight miles from here," Soujiro interrupted, smiling when the younger, if much taller, man blinked in surprise. "We've sent men to the location you gave, but we have reports of screams from this warehouse, the last one having sounded not too long ago. The officer on the scene requested backup, and Hajime-san told me to pick you up. It must be your cult."  
  
Of course Saitoh had something to do with it. Sano might have expected as much. But it couldn't have been his cult, no one in that barn had survived except him, and the sword-bearing stranger. Remembering that weapon, Sano frowned back at the hospital. "I have a situation here," he muttered. "As far as I can tell the entire cult was wiped out, and the only suspect is in there."  
  
"If he's injured, then he can stay there," Soujiro said, his expression only lightly amused. "Hajime-san is waiting at the warehouse. You know how impatient he gets."  
  
Sanosuke knew exactly what he was talking about, and there was no point arguing about it. Soujiro squealed tires the moment he shut the passenger door behind him, making the taller man stare in surprise. "A little impatient aren't you?" Sano murmured, looking over the young man's glinting eyes. "Did they send you straight from the station to get me?"  
  
"Yes," Soujiro nodded, not looking away from the road. "The officer who requested backup called for a medical unit as well. It could be a witness, or a survivor." Sano was shaking his head beside him, and Soujiro raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think your cult had any enemies."  
  
"Neither did I," Sano muttered, "and they're not *my* cult. I still don't see why I got assigned to infiltrate them."  
  
"Because you're expendable." Wide dark brown eyes flew to him, and Soujiro's lips twitched at Sanosuke's look of outrage. "I'm too good an officer to risk sending into a group of fanatical killers. And we all know Hajime-san doesn't like you." The young man gnashed his teeth, and Soujiro smiled when Sano turned to glare out the window. It wasn't that simple. Almost all of the older members of the force were aware of Saitoh's unusual reaction toward the tall officer. Their chief had never seemed to enjoy tormenting anyone so much as he did Sanosuke, and there were a number of bets running as to whether Saitoh would end up killing or merely attacking the outspoken youth. The man's order to pick Sano up, along with the absolute coldness in the man's tone, made Soujiro lean toward the 'attack' side, with less possibility of outright murder. It was a quick drive to where red and blue lights had created a beacon on the crowded street, so Soujiro pushed his curiosity aside. He wanted to know more about Sanosuke's claim that 'his' cult had been wiped out, but the yellow tape holding back curious onlookers took precedence. Besides that, a tall dark-clothed shape had separated itself from the crowd of officers just outside the door to the warehouse.  
  
Sanosuke's back tensed the moment those dark eyes hit him, and he was suddenly reminded that he was *not* dressed for duty and looked liked he'd stumbled out of a splatter movie set. How could he have forgotten? Of course, Soujiro hadn't looked at him funny, but then, he could have been wearing clown make-up and the other officer would merely give him that small, careless smile. Saitoh came to a halt in front of him, and Sano bristled, folding his arms over his chest. He hadn't exactly had time to wash the dried blood off. "It's not mine."  
  
"Obviously," Saitoh snorted, his sharp dark eyes snapping past the tall youth to the crowd of onlookers. The blood-smeared officer was certainly attracting attention. If it weren't bad enough that Sanosuke was nearly naked, the top half of the man's white pants were positively soaked in red, as was his torso and arms. But he was standing steadily enough, and there didn't seem to be any pain hidden in Sano's scowling expression. With a slow smirk, Saitoh stepped to the side and waved a hand toward the open doorway. "You can make your official report after you survey the scene."  
  
The captain's mocking tone made Sano's eyebrow twitch, but he managed not to glare at the man. He ignored the quite murmurs as the crowd's attention shifted to him, and he was almost glad to be inside and out of their sight. At least, he was relieved for a few seconds. It didn't take any longer than that to realize it was better outside.  
  
The bodies, the positions, and the blood combined to hit him in one instantaneous mental blow that nearly left him reeling in the doorway. It was too similar, it was almost frightening. A single empty cloak lay not far from the door, and Sanosuke's eyes dropped to it as he tried to collect himself. He could feel Saitoh's eyes on him, and he straightened resolutely. There was no way he'd give that man reason to look down on him. Forcing his expression into a decisive one, he looked around the room.   
  
The fire was nearly identical to the one at the barn, and he said as much, the chief following silently behind him. From his own experience, he was able to recreate the scene, and he had an inappropriate but strong surge of satisfaction when he saw Soujiro taking notes.  
  
Referring to the fire, he explained the importance of the diameter. It only took one look to know the extinguished fire was the same size as the one he'd seen, built with the same cinder blocks the cult was partial to. The bodies wouldn't be touched until he surveyed the scene, so Sano stepped around them, keeping his report to other aspects for the moment.   
  
The sacrificial basin he recognized immediately. Almost identical to the other, this one hadn't been 'perfect' enough for use. That confirmed his initial thought that the cult would not have attempted two ceremonies at the same time. He remarked on the visible slice that had severed the large support beam, his memory bringing him back to the sword he'd failed to get earlier. But he brushed the nagging thought aside as he finally moved to the bodies. It was there that he stopped, his eyes widening as he stared into the familiar, if bloodstained, face of the man closest to the basin.  
  
Sano felt a strange sensation creep over his neck, his gaze tracing the wound emblazoned between the man's eyes. A moment later, he turned to look at Saitoh. The man was watching him, his usually infuriating smirk not affecting him this time. "He wasn't a full member," Sano said, his eyes dark. "It's the same cult, but he didn't have the training to take part in an actual ceremony." Saitoh raised an eyebrow at him, and Sanosuke frowned, now recognizing some of the others. "They couldn't keep the patterns straight," he recalled slowly, "so they weren't even allowed to witness the other attempts."  
  
Soujiro stood back, noting how calm Sanosuke's voice was. This was one of the man's skills, his ability to notice and recall details. Although it wasn't often that he got to see the usually short-tempered officer in his element, he gave the man credit for being as good as he was. If he hadn't been, he wouldn't have made it onto Saitoh's squad. Sanosuke didn't seem to know the names of the victims, so Soujiro moved away when another officer waved to him from the doorway. The message was quick and bad  
  
With repressed haste, Soujiro moved between the two men, catching Saitoh's gaze, before looking at Sanosuke. "The squad called from your barn," he said quickly, "no survivors. But another call came in as well, from the hospital. Your suspect's gone."  
  
* * *  
  
It wasn't always easy being perfect, but Kurama excelled at it. After so many years of practice, he'd formed a flawless excuse to give his mother by the time he reached his home. The warehouse had been in a cheap district, the dark alleys making it easy to hold to the shadows. Actually approaching the house he shared with his ningen mother was more difficult, but it helped that he'd spent half a lifetime playing the unseen thief in his own world. The Jaganshi slept through the entire trip, and Kurama knew by the low youki he kept tabs on that the demon didn't move while he rambled off his story. Ever the understanding and unsuspecting woman, his mother never doubted that he'd rushed off so suddenly because a fellow classmate was in dire need of help for a test Monday morning. She was so happy to hear of his good deed that she didn't complain when he chose to eat in his room. A few moments of soft spoken apology and he was clear.  
  
Dedicating his time to studies and pleasing his mother, Kurama had made quite a stable routine for himself. The moment he tossed open the window of his bedroom, he felt a wave of excitement to have broken free of that boredom. Yes, he was angry that the ningens had managed to humiliate and nearly kill him, but it was almost worth it. He didn't just have himself an unconscious youkai, he had a true legend, and a mystery as well. His eyes glittered merrily when he hopped from the window to the tree outside his room. The dark-haired demon was just where he'd left him, half hidden behind the flowering bushes close to the house. He allowed a minute or two of hesitation, crouching over the shadowy Jaganshi as he enjoyed the rush in his blood. Just being near another demon made his dormant half twitch for freedom. He could almost feel the wisps of silky hair slashing along the back of his knees. But this wasn't really the place to attempt a transformation. He had a demon to take care of.  
  
The Jaganshi was limp when he picked him up, holding the slight demon in one arm so he could balance himself after a quick leap onto the tree. He'd been surprised when he first made his exit from the scene of the massacre, surprised that the demon hadn't moved a single muscle. But the breathing was steady enough. His only complaint was the sticky damp cloak that did its best to stain his clean clothing. He'd done well to sneak inside and change before his mother realized he was home. He didn't like to think of explaining how the white outfit had gotten blotched with dull maroon smears all along his chest and side. That made two sets of clothing ruined in one day. It was a record for the perfect student and son. Kurama smiled at the thought. He hadn't realized he was so bored with his life until this evening. Being a human was nothing if not dull.  
  
Clothes aside, Kurama knew better than to risk dirtying his bed sheets, so he carried the demon with him as he crossed to his bedroom door. His mother had always respected his privacy, rarely venturing into his room, but he wasn't going to take any chances. Pulling a seed from his thick red hair, he conned the tiny vines into a tight shield. Anyone coming near that door would register a silent but blatant alarm, giving him more than enough time to hide his guest in case of an unexpected interruption. With a little thought, he added a silencing benefit to the shield, forming a sort of kekkai not unlike the one he'd found himself in earlier. It didn't take long to finish the work, but Kurama found himself shifting with impatience by the time he was done. He had to slow himself to keep from bounding into the bathroom with his prize. If he hadn't known better, he'd think his mind had regressed to childhood. He felt just like an adolescent youko who'd just made his first successful infiltration and theft from a dangerous fortress.  
  
His bathroom was done in a pale blue and white mix, and Kurama kicked the soft rug into the corner. He'd always been a naturally neat youkai, but he did his best to be an immaculate human. The Jaganshi was still a dead weight when he lowered him onto the floor, and Kurama sighed, crouching near that dark head. When was he going to wake up? He could always strip the demon and tend his wounds without waiting. The idea did have Kurama's lips twitching with a sly smile, but that was no way to thank the demon for having saved his life. As odd as their conversation had been, Kurama knew he had the youkai to thank. He sighed again, scowling for a few moments with his green eyes on the ceiling. His heightened state was definitely due to that rush of youki he'd gained from the demon. He knew that, but it didn't help him deal with the excess energy any. Impatience got the best of him quicker than he'd expected. Leaning over the demon, he tugged open that sticky black cloak and blinked at the cuts. They looked a little better, clotted a bit. But they still needed washed.   
  
Kurama's fingers tapped the floor for a second before brushing over the demon's chest, his eyes darting to those closed eyes. As with the last bit of contact, there was a tiny rush of youki transfer and then nothing. But the Jaganshi's skin was rather cool, almost clammy. He pursed his lips, green eyes flicking from thick black hair and dark lashes, over to the nearby tub. A few more impatient seconds passed before he sighed yet again. "Okay, either you're in a coma, or you're one of the best actors I've ever seen. And I have watched enough movies for a hundred ningen teenagers." Silence answered his soft words, and Kurama frowned, folding his arms over his chest. His fingers tapped on his arm for a second before he leaned over the demon. "If you can hear me, you might want to wake up. I have been known to take advantage of vulnerable youkai in my wilder days." Red eyes snapped open to glare at him, and Kurama jerked back in shock, nearly hitting his head on the wall. He hadn't really expected the youkai to wake up, certainly not with such a lucid and heated scowl.  
  
The black-haired demon didn't move, only those slitted red eyes focused to the side. Kurama stared for a second before regaining his composure. "I was teasing," he said, smiling a bit when one slender eyebrow rose. "Really, I didn't think you would hear that. But I am glad you are awake. Do you have a name besides Jaganshi? I went by Kurama, not too long ago." That gaze continued to stare at him, and Kurama's eyebrows twitched at the prolonged silence. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just thought it might be better if we were on a first name basis before I got you naked."  
  
Hiei's fingers jerked, breaking his focused paralysis, and he sneered at the strange redhead. Any movement on his part detracted from his limited healing, but anger tended to distract him. "What *are* you?"  
  
"Ah, so you are still capable of speech." Kurama smiled when the demon's lips twitched to show one small pointed fang. "I'm a spirit fox in human form. I was a youko before being reborn to this body. I suppose you could say I'm a ningen youko."  
  
A wave of irritated anger accompanied a bout of bitter pain as Hiei closed his eyes. As if this strange summoning wasn't bad enough, he was at the mercy of a youko. His muscles whimpered when he forced them into motion, tight skin pulling at the barely sealed wounds. He ignored all of it until he had pushed himself into a sitting position, red eyes snapping open to glare at the smiling demon. "You'll be a dead youko before long," he growled, his low voice echoing in the enclosed room. That caught his attention, and he tensed, shoulders hunching reflexively. He absolutely hated enclosures.  
  
"Why do you say that?" Kurama blinked, tilting his head to the side. "And what's your name? I really would like to have something to call you."  
  
"I don't care what you would like," Hiei sniffed, his eyes shifting to the closed door across from him. If he could get his body working, he'd be out of this trap in seconds. A tentative flex of his legs told him it was a very big and unlikely if. He'd been wounded, nearly bled to death, and drained of almost all of his youki. He was doing well not to have fallen onto his back yet. Green eyes framed by dark lashes entered his vision, and Hiei flinched back. The redhead was leaning far too close him.  
  
Kurama blinked at the Jaganshi, taking in the wide red eyes that slowly narrowed back into a glare. He felt a hint of disappointment at not having gained a name yet, but it was joined by sparked interest. "You know, I think I'm going to like you. If you were at full power, what would you do?"  
  
"Kill you and finish my task," Hiei said succinctly, not giving an inch from those sparkling green eyes that made his skin prickle with nervousness.  
  
A quick smile flashed over Kurama's face, and he nodded. "That's what I thought. All I ever heard about you was that you showed up during the war and wiped out entire battlefields--both sides. The Jaganshi kills everything in his path. When I saw you earlier I wondered about the legend, but you do sound rather evil. Tell me, if you want to kill me, why didn't you do it before?"  
  
Hiei scowled, leaning back a breath so his shoulder pressed the edge of the tub. How could he admit that he'd thought the demon an innocent human? Even after hearing that the red-haired male was a youko, he sensed no evil from him. As many youkai as he'd killed, he'd never taken the life of an innocent. He held his stubborn silence until the redhead smiled at him, his eye twitching in response. "How do you do that?" he muttered, glaring quickly.  
  
"Do what?" Kurama blinked, easing back a bit.  
  
"Seem as innocent as that child," Hiei spat. Honest confusion passed over the youko's face, and Hiei noted with irritation that the expression made him look even more innocent, almost lovely. "How do you mask it?"  
  
"Mask..." Red eyes followed him as he leaned back further, and Kurama felt a niggle of humor pull his lips. "You find me innocent?" he smiled, his eyes sparkling merrily. "Is that why you didn't kill me with the others?" The demon's eyes narrowed angrily, making his smile turn sly. Lifting a hand, Kurama trailed his fingers through the silky red hair that fell over his shoulder. "I'm not masking anything, Ja-chan. I suppose you find me innocent because in this body I am. I'm only a seventeen year old ningen, after all."  
  
The name tore Hiei's eyes away from that red hair, his expression twisting in outrage. "What did you call me?"  
  
"Ja-chan," Kurama smiled, his eyes glittering. "Jaganshi-chan. You don't want to tell me your real name, so I picked one for you. I take it you don't approve?" One black eyebrow seemed to have developed a rapid twitch, and Kurama nearly laughed at the sight.  
  
"Hiei." The youko blinked, but he didn't care. Every bit of him bristled at the insult, and if he'd had the strength, he'd have cut the fool's tongue out.  
  
"Mm," Kurama nodded, smiling at the demon, "Hiei is much nicer." He tilted his head, tugging a bit on his long forelock and noting how Hiei's eyes flicked down to the movement. "Did you know that's the name of a ningen mountain? Kurama is as well. So ironic...maybe it's fate."  
  
That soft tenor was like a screech to Hiei's limited patience, and he longed to disappear. He wanted nothing more than to lay immobile until he'd healed enough to kill the idiot so he could go back to stasis. The fact that the youko was still alive had to be the thing tying him to the human world. In the past he'd been called, killed every evil being in sight, and immediately been taken back to his dark den of flames. There was nothing so wonderful as that deep sleep. He'd willingly given up his miserable demon life for that gift of imprisonment. The last thing he wanted was to be bound to a youko because he'd failed to kill the demon when he had the chance. His eyes had fogged with his thoughts, and Hiei nearly fell over when fingers brushed his stomach. "Kisama!"  
  
"Not so loud," Kurama hushed quickly, blinking at Hiei's blazing eyes. "And be careful or you'll hit your head on the tub."  
  
The redhead was undoing the white belts that circled his waist, and Hiei grabbed the youko's hands, baring his teeth. "What do you think you're doing?!"  
  
"Oh," Kurama smiled, "I'm undressing you. Remember? I said I wanted to wait until we were on first name basis, and we are. You are far too dirty for me to let you in my bed. Besides, those cuts could do with a nice warm wash. As low as your youki is, they could get infected."  
  
Bed? Wash? Hiei's eyes widened until they nearly filled his face, and he threw the youko's hands away from him, shoving his protesting limbs into motion until he'd scooted a foot away. "Stay away from me! You'll die painfully enough-don't make me draw it out."  
  
Kurama raised an eyebrow, giving the short demon a doubtful look. "You're still threatening me?" He reached a hand toward that dark head but paused when Hiei snapped at him, flashing white teeth clicking together audibly. "Calm down. There's no need to be so defensive. If you were strong enough to bathe yourself, I wouldn't intrude. But you aren't. I'm just going to wash you up, put some herbs on your cuts, and let you sleep." The jaganshi's expression didn't change one bit. Kurama smiled. "And when you're all healed, you can try to kill me. How's that for a deal?"  
  
The Jaganshi had didn't make deals. Hiei's eyes narrowed, his left hand curling into claws and tearing at the bandages over his right arm. The youko jerked back, startled by the sudden movement, but he didn't pay him any attention. All he had to do was kill this one. Stasis would heal him as well as anything.  
  
Blood dripped spotted the floor, dripping from the long rips, and the faded gray bandages fell in torn ribbons. All playfulness left Kurama's face as he crouched near the small demon, watching the bright blue jagan that snapped open to glare at him. That previously small level of youki burgeoned, sharp black wisps of flame swirling Hiei's right arm and heating the small room. Kurama's eyes narrowed, his gaze falling to the dark tattoo that swirled around that tense wrist, curving up nearly to the demon's shoulder. "The dragon? Are you really so determined to kill me?" The jaganshi must have gained from that rise in energy. Kurama remained low on the floor when Hiei stood suddenly, drawing a slender blade from low on his back. "You really are evil, aren't you. But don't think killing me will be easy, Jaganshi, Hiei."  
  
The increased youki made Hiei heady, his vision blurred just enough for him to waver on his feet. But it was his reserve, and it would serve its purpose. All he needed was one hit and the youko would be dead. His right hand curled about the hilt of his sword, blood from his clawed arm warming in his palm. Narrow green eyes were watching him, and he scowled at them, baring his small fangs. Even now he sensed no evil from the male, not a single drop. But this time that would make no difference. Dark youki focused on steadying his stance. For a moment he was motionless, then he darted forward. His vision seemed locked on those green eyes, and he choked when his leap was frozen halfway to his target. His muscles locked, the jagan closed, and the strange green swirling sword that had appeared to block his weapon was completely unnecessary. Hiei stared at the odd vine sword originating from Kurama's wrist. His grip loosened against his will, and his eyes snapped down when the blade clinked against the white floor. He couldn't attack him.  
  
The jaganshi's speed should have gotten him despite his quickly-grown plants, but Kurama never got a chance to block that blurred sword. The black-haired demon halted as if he'd struck an impenetrable barrier. Wide red eyes met his gaze, screaming the disbelief and painful confusion. He barely managed to catch Hiei when the slight demon pitched forward, losing consciousness as abruptly as he'd gained it. That hidden store of youki disappeared just as quickly. Kurama stared at the bowed head, his plants swirling back into a tiny vine that disappeared in his sleeve. "Why did you stop?" he whispered, lifting Hiei so he could see the demon's closed eyes. "What is this task you want to finish? And how am I going to get answers from you when you knock yourself out by using energy needed for healing? Jaganshi Hiei..."   
  
The demon really was small, he barely reached Kurama's shoulders no matter how dangerously he glared. Looking from the tub to Hiei's pale face, Kurama sighed. "All that fuss just to avoid a bath." He turned on the water, wetting a dark rag and laying the demon on the floor again. With a small smile, he picked at Hiei's thick hair. "I'd never have thought the Jaganshi would be so modest."  
  
* * *  
TBC  
--notes--  
Just for clarification, the world they're in is something like present day New York. They're in Japan, but it's a twisted version of Japan - resembling America more but with rules and customs that aren't founding either country. Just take the setting to be different from both, but at least as modern as today. It's a complete alternate universe, de gozaru. Also, the Saitoh/Sano side-plot will play more into this fic after a while, building onto the eventual SanoxKenshin pairing. You can expect more characters from the RK anime than the YYH one. 


End file.
