A Fork in the Road by Stella Mira

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don’t own InuYasha. All credit belongs to Takahashi Rumiko.

A/N: I know I should be working on other stories…but I’m just up to here with drama and needed to write something light and humorous. So...this happened. Horrible crack, horribly written. Enjoy, and maybe drop me a review. XD

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She was…lost. There were no ifs or buts or maybes. Kagome couldn’t decide where to put the blame for her predicament—on Inuyasha’s piss-poor directions or her overconfidence in her inner compass. What the fuck did he even mean when he said she was supposed to come to a fork in the road? There was no road. Only dirt and walking and the sun scorching the skin off her bones.

Kagome was exhausted, and probably dehydrated. Only the thought of roasting Inuyasha on a pit when she finally made it back kept her going. She cackled manically, dragging her feet, losing a little piece of her sanity with every agonizing step. Inuyasha would pay for all her sufferings.

The dirt-path seemed to narrow the farther she went, but it was a good three hours before she reached what appeared to be a…crossroad. Four splits, four directions. Kagome was left with three choices, discounting the one she came from. This was most definitely not a fork. It was…Russian roulette—and she always had the worst of luck. She was going to butcher Inuyasha. Gritting her teeth, Kagome breathed out hotness and frustration—and turned right. Something was pulling at her senses, drawing her closer. Burning sensation, maddening. She was so immersed in her personal hell that she failed to recognize the feel of yōki until it was too late.

The sight that met her half-lidded glare was…bizarre. Kagome blinked once, and again, then shook herself out of her hanyō-murdering stupor—because murder was real and unfolding in gruesome detail right before her eyes.

Sesshōmaru was battling a female yōkai, or perhaps battling wasn’t the right word. He was cool as a fucking cucumber, not one wrinkle on his face and clothes. Unlike his opponent…if she could even be called that. She had fire in her eyes, fangs bared, claws lashing—and blood splattered all over her. So much blood. It was a wonder she was still alive, much less still fighting.

Kagome didn’t much care for the unknown yōkai, though she found herself oddly relating to her. The woman was batshit crazy and had a death wish if she provoked Sesshōmaru. Kagome needed some goddamn directions, even if she had to interrupt Sesshōmaru’s whatever-this-bloody-was to get them. Yes, Kagome could see the similarities. Thus, with no little trepidation, and more belligerence than was prudent, she cleared her throat. Loudly.

Silence. For one long, stagnant moment. Silence and black-slit gold piercing her half-maimed soul. Kagome hoped the part of her soul in Kikyō experienced this chilling dread. A smile split her cracked lips, and she bowed, her waist bent lower than her pride. Because manners. Yes, it was manners, not soul-ripping fear. Kagome would not bet her soul on this, but again, she hoped Kikyō did.       

“Sesshōmaru-sama.” Polite, respectful. She could do this.

Sesshōmaru didn’t even bat a lash. “Miko.”

Emboldened by his non-reaction, soul-fears infinitesimally allayed, Kagome plowed through with such familiarity and naturalness that she scared herself.

“I don’t mean to disturb you from your recreational activities, but if you could point me to the direction of my village, I’d be most grateful.”

“Hn.”

Nothing but that oh-so-eloquent grunt. Kagome might not be a sound connoisseur, but after her sporadic acquaintance with the daiyōkai, even she had learned the sixty-nine different meanings in that hn. On this occasion, she interpreted it as: “I’m listening, bitch. You may grovel at my feet as you plead your case.” And she would have, pride be thrice damned and burned in the fiery pits of hell with Kikyō, because she wanted to. Fucking. Go. Home. Yes, Kagome would have begged, if not for the high-pitched snarl of the snubbed, blood-drenched yōkai Sesshōmaru was—entertaining, mocking, torturing?—battling against.

“You’d dare interfere, human bitch?”

Did she just—? Something ugly and scornful inside her snapped. Kagome wasn’t above humbling herself for survival’s sake. Sesshōmaru could turn her into a gory splotch on the ground with his pinky claw—but this…this bloody excuse of a bimbo was fair game.

“Now that’s just racist. The ‘human’ part was quite unnecessary.” Nose upturned, Kagome sniffed imperiously. “And I do believe my interference is the only thing that saved your demon ass, but it’s not like you owe me a life debt or anything.”

Of course, her words fell on deaf ears, along with the veiled warning in between, and so the foul-mouthed bimbo soon found herself paying Kagome a death debt. A pile of iridescent ashes scattered in the four winds while Kagome watched with ill-concealed glee. Ah, murder. It shouldn’t feel half as good as it did. Maybe she had suffered a heatstroke to take such unholy joy out of this. Sesshōmaru seemed to agree with her musings if his arched brow was any indication. It spoke volumes of his perturbation, bemusement, and on a lesser part…mirth. Not at her swift extermination of the female yōkai, if she had to guess, but the glint of satisfaction in the bright-blue of her eyes. Still, he said nothing, merely turned his back and began walking away. It was a given that he expected to be followed. Kagome was no Jaken or Rin but follow she did…with a deranged smile etched on her lips. He was leading her home—she just knew it! And all she had to do was kill an uppity bitch. What a trivial price, willingly paid.

But it was not meant to be. Two hours later, they were attacked by another female yōkai, and one hour later by another, and half an hour later by another—all following the same pattern. The frenzied women would throw themselves at Sesshōmaru like some kind of suicidal zealots. Sesshōmaru would give her that soul-flaying look, and Kagome would play judge, jury, and executioner on his behalf. It wasn’t until one of the yōkai came with an entourage of male siblings at her back that things started making sense. Apparently, these psychos were glorified nymphos that had made it their life’s purpose to win Sesshōmaru’s hand through combat or die trying…by Kagome’s hand. And the only reason Kagome made this profound discovery was because one of the male dunderheads sought her hand via the same method. She disposed of him with nary a second thought but sustained a vicious migraine in the process.

Kagome’s conviction of ever reaching home was slowly deteriorating, and by nightfall, it had disintegrated into dream-dust. It was the Shikon no Tama wish all over again. Damned if she do, damned if she don’t.

They made camp once two blissful hours without an ambush had gone by. Kagome steeled herself to address the purple elephant in the forest. It was now or never. Who knew when they would have a moment of peace and quiet again during this mating cycle of insanity and cavorting in the wild? Kagome needed to know when it would end—if it would end. Dear gods above and beyond…please make it end. I wanna go home!

“Sesshōmaru-sama.” Still polite, still respectful. Manners were a necessary evil—and survival rule number one when dealing with a deadly daiyōkai and his claws of poisonous doom.

Sesshōmaru spared her a teensy-weensy glance, cool as you fucking please. “Miko.”

His nonchalance burned hotter than the goddamned sun on her irritated skin. Biting her tongue, Kagome swallowed back the more vivid of her curses, and tried the diplomatic approach—the coward’s guide to interspecies communication.

“It has come to my attention that these attacks are not exactly…random. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Hn.”

Ah, yes. Grunt thirty-seven, otherwise translated into: “You think I’m a fucking imbecile? Of course, I know. I just can’t be bothered to tell you. Figure it out on your own, bitch.”

Before Kagome could formulate a response—harmless enough not to guarantee a case of acute dismemberment—their ambush-free nirvana came to an abrupt and most irksome end. One of the surviving brothers of Kagome’s last self-made victim leapt out of a thorn-bush like a possessed hedgehog with a war cry.

“Die, wench!”

Something that greatly resembled hope died inside her.

“Attacking a fragile woman in the middle of the night…” Shaking her head, Kagome heaved a weary sigh, and got back to work. “I guess chivalry is dead.”

It was over in less than two minutes, more tragicomic scuffle than mortal combat. Kagome dusted her clothes, sat down by the crackling fire, and picked up right where she left off.

“Sesshōmaru-sama.” Achingly polite, grudgingly respectful. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take before she broke.

Sesshōmaru dipped his chin, cool, calm, and fucking collected. “Miko.”

“I’m not knowledgeable in yōkai customs, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say these females seek your favor, and consequently, their relatives seek revenge for your disfavor of them.” Each word was punctuated and dripped with acid.  Kagome smiled at him, a baneful quirk of lips. “You have no intention of granting such favors, do you?”

“Hn.”

And there it was—the king of grunts, the first of its kind, the diamond of speechcraft. Mm, yes. Fed to her raw like tender veal meat—the verbal manifestation of sarcasm. It was the sole sound in his repertoire that held no words within.  

Something that might have been the last thread of her patience broke inside her. Kagome sealed her vocal cords lest she unleash the wrath of thirteen dead nymphos and one scorned miko. She had survived thus far. She was going home, dammit. It didn’t matter if she would always be just a little less sane. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small price to pay, and sanity was overrated anyway.

Morning dawned full of sunshine, and brought back all the things she lost in the madness. Luck. Conviction. Hope. Kagome spotted her village after two hours of arduous trek in nothing but stifling silence. It was breathtaking, littered with huts, bustling with life, teeming with humans, everything she remembered and more. Home—sweet—merciful—home. She damn near wept.

Kagome took one step on its hallowed grounds, and another more reverent, then something stopped her dead in her tracks. Fuck—gods—what now?

“Miko.”

There was an inflection in his voice, unfamiliar, rough-edged and sinful to her ears. Oooh. Kagome closed her eyes, devoured its decadence, that delicious rasp in it. But it lasted no longer than a breath’s span. Her priorities were painfully clear in the forefront of her mind, and no mind-fucking voice would derail her. She just wanted to go home and be done with this shit and slaughter Inuyasha—and so she did.

“Sesshōmaru-sama.” Polite, respectful. She had done this.

It didn’t even occur to her to delve deeper into the mysteries of that unfathomable inflection. Kagome walked away, and kept walking until she entered Kaede’s hut. A maniacal grin spread across her lips when the fire-red of Inuyasha’s kimono seared her retinas.

“I’m…back.”

Inuyasha’s patent scowl was a thing of beauty.

“What took you—” What began with the makings of their usual spat was cut short after one prolonged whiff at her skin. “Kagome… You got some ‘splaining to do.”

“I got lost.” Eyes narrowed into thin slits, voice clipped and deadpan, she set loose the Furies upon him. “Now…die.”

It was several days later that Inuyasha’s jaw healed enough to construct articulate sentences. The first thing he demanded to know was why she came back bearing his half-brother’s mating mark. Stunned, Kagome gaped like a fish, then carefully inspected every inch of skin on her body for the incriminating mark. She found none, and Inuyasha, in all his doggedness, refused to elaborate. Kagome was once again almost driven to madness. There was no way she was taking part in that mating lunacy, nope. No way in the seven hells. But—that—he—mnn…

Oh, fuck me. Curse that voice of his.