Youko Kurama, King of the Bandits, was pissed.
Now, being pissed is actually a pretty common occurrence for kitsune, their emotions generally, as a rule, unpredictably volatile.
But not Youko Kurama. He was the epitome of control, the absolute master of his emotions.
And, right now, he was pissed.
He glared at the dog across the campfire. That…that…that mutt was the reason the miko- Kagome- was crying, and, therefore, the reason for Youko being rather pissy.
As much as he hated to admit it- and he hated to admit it- Youko was attracted to the miko. She was kind, selfless, brave, powerful, beautiful…a right little spit-fire, with that notorious temper of hers, but that only made him want her all the more.
And the mutt had made her cry.
Why couldn't he see that Kikyo was a dead corpse, moved by hate and a stolen soul, only going on to drag him to hell with her for all eternity? Over and over again, he chose his clay doll, over the living, breathing, flesh-and-blood girl, who loved him with all her heart.
Youko paused momentarily in his glaring, to glance down at said girl, currently having cried herself to sleep on his shoulder.
He watched the firelight flicker across her face, and allowed himself a small smirk, as a thought occurred to him.
Then again, maybe he should be thanking the mutt.
Because, thanks to him, Youko Kurama, the King of the Bandits, would be stealing something a bit more precious than gems.
He would be usurping the hanyou's place in the girl's heart.
After all, Youko was a big, grown-up youkai, and he was a little too old to be playing with dolls.
Especially dolls of the dead miko, clay-pot whore variety.