DISCLAIMER: All aspects of Yu Yu Hakusho belong to Yoshihiro Togashi. The Crow is a registered trademark of Pressman Films. I used both without knowledge or permission. Yea, verily.

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

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 Ryo. ^_~

-Chapter 1-

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 a 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 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 again, 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 being moved 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 his memories of his former partner involved that cocky Cheshire 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 hurting himself.

"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 the broken mirror—clown white, interrupted 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 be annoyed at the same time, but finally settling amusement. "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 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 man 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 his 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 at the sight 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 his 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. 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.

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.

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.