Chapter one finally up! I've had so much trouble editing the uploading program deletes my carriage returns, tabs and close-parentheses! AARGH!

I'd like to thank Kat Morning for the setting of my story, which is based on the alternate universe of her inu fanfic "Blood Ties."

Disclaimer: I do not own Miroku, Sesshomeru, or any other Inuyasha characters. They are owned by their author/creator, Rumiko Takahashi.

Calm Before the Storm

Kura, wake up. We've reached your apartment. Kura woke up with a start. The coworker who had driven her home was looking at her with concern. You look like you haven't slept for days. Are you OK?

Yeah, Aiko, I'm fine. Just didn't get much sleep last night. That was certainly true–– she'd pulled a double shift hunting last night, then gone to her day job for eight hours. Thank God it's Friday, right? Aiko laughed. Thanks for the ride.

Leaning against her apartment door while fumbling for her keys, she fell forward when the door opened unexpectedly. She fell right into Miroku's arms. Hunh? Miroku what are you doing here . . . She broke off when she smelled the food. She walked towards the Chinese take-out boxes as if in a trance.

No you don't, Kura. You sit down on the couch, I'll bring the grub. She kicked off the high heels, stripped the nylons off and released her hair from the pins and hair bands. Fifteen minutes later, Kura had polished off two spring rolls, half a box of noodles, and one box each of General Gao's shrimp, sweet and sour chicken, and white rice. Satisfied, she leaned back against Miroku's chest and let out an enormous belch. Surveying the damage, Miroku couldn't suppress a whistle of amazement.

Miroku, you're my guardian angel, Kura mumbled into the crook of his neck.

Miroku asked with a devilish grin, Would an angel do this? He pinched her butt. In an instant Kura's hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, grabbed his ponytail and yanked him down onto the couch, pinning him with her weight. Their faces were six inches apart when, with a lazy grin, she began to nibble on his lower lip. She pressed his lips apart with her own in a slow kiss and ran her tongue under his. He could smell the General Gao's and the spicy smell of her sweat.

I wanted to thank you . . . for everything, she murmured in his ear. It had been two years since they met. Kura had been Miroku's main partner throughout his yearlong training; when Miroku was allowed to patrol without a partner, their relationship had changed from that of teacher and student to that of coworkers and good friends. Kura hadn't allowed the relationship to become romantic until two months ago. A hundred nights of takeout food and cartoons succeeded in lowering her barriers where a hundred nights of fighting together had failed. Kura yawned. I'm so tired . . . could we just cuddle? With a smile, Miroku nestled her next to him so that her head rested on his chest.

When Kura awoke in the morning, she fumbled for her watch. 10 AM. What? 10 AM? I'm late! She leapt off of the couch, nearly pushing off Miroku, and ran to her room, emerging 47 seconds later pulling a sweater over her head. Where are my high heels?

What the hell? Miroku groaned. Kura, what's the matter?

I was supposed to be at work an hour ago! My boss is gonna kill me.

Kura, look at me. Stop! Look at me. She stared at him. It's Saturday.

A blush crept up her cheeks.

After a leisurely breakfast of Lucky Charms and Ramen Noodles, Miroku insisted on taking Kura grocery shopping. Man can not live on cardboard and Styrofoam alone, he reprimanded her.

Wanna bet? Kura was scanning the obits while they were standing in the produce section. She had already marked 12, and she was only halfway through. There were too many, far too many suspicious deaths. Within the past month, five rookies had disappeared and one Senior was killed trying to rescue his younger partner. All the Seniors were on double-shifts, and there weren't enough demon hunters to provide adequate backup.

Miroku's cell started ringing. Muttering something about the Council never leaving its members alone, he answered.

Yeah, this is Miroku. Someone need backup? . . .What do you mean, it's too late for that? Miroku tossed a bag of tomatoes into the cart with more force than was necessary--the deaths and extra hours were taking a toll on even his easy-going personality.

Keiko said. You're a senior now.

A senior? But I've only been working for the council for two years, it's too soon . . . He saw Kura's shoulders become rigid; her dark eyes were wide with anxiety. Miroku asked, What happened?

Yumi's missing. Presumed dead.

Yumi's dead? Miroku repeated. Kura's fingers punctured the skin of the orange in her hand. Miroku wanted to comfort her, but knew Kura wanted to be left alone. Instead he snapped at Keiko, That's impossible. She's one of the best fighters we have. She's cautious, she'd never get herself killed.

She was also responsible. She'd wouldn't fail to report unless she was dead. We haven't heard from her in 36 hours; there's no one matching her description in any local hospital. I wish she was invincible, but she was only human. I guess she finally met her match; one day, you will too. Congratulations, Senior Miroku. There was a click and then a dial tone.

Kura had turned away from him the moment Yumi's name was mentioned. Her shoulders didn't shake from crying, but she dug her fingers into the peel of the orange she was holding--the flesh of the fruit and the juice ran down her forearm and dripped onto the linoleum. She let the pulpy mess fall to the ground and ground it under her heel before walking stiffly to the store's entrance.

Miss, what are you doing? You have to pay for that orange . . . She brushed past the stammering attendant and out the door. You can't leave . . . The middle aged woman shook her head at Kura's rudeness and went to clean up the mess. Miroku pressed some money into her hand.

Will that pay for the orange?

Yes, but why . . .

She just found out a friend died.

Whatever you say. The attendant smiled conspiratorially at the handsome young man. Next time you dump a girl, try to be more gentle, hm?

When Miroku got to her apartment with the bags of groceries, he found it empty and her double-bladed staff missing. Her cell was sitting on the counter. Curious, he checked the messages. Four were from council, asking her to take on extra shifts now that Yumi was gone. A fifth warned of shortages in miko blood–– of the four regular donors the Council used, three had been killed and the fourth was missing, presumed dead. Miroku knew that Kura would be upset–– first losing her mentor and weapons master, then losing one her most powerful tools for avenging Yumi's death. None of the messages were from her family–– did she even have one? Or, for that matter, friends apart from other members of Council? Miroku realized that, in the years he had known her, she never even mentioned her family or where she came from.

Kura returned about 4 PM with her staff bloodstained and carrying a six-pack of beer and three king-sized chocolate bars. Her eyes were dull but not red from crying. She moved as if gravity would pull her down at any minute. She barely noticed Miroku, not even giving him a nod of acknowledgment, picked up her ringing cell phone from the counter and stuffed it in between two couch cushions. She wandered over to stare at the map of Tokyo, covered with pins to mark the location of each demonic or vampiric murder. She jabbed in seven black pins at locations all over the district to mark the vampires she'd killed; she'd covered quite a bit of distance today. Then she picked up a white pin. Her voice was flat and emotionless. Where was Yumi when they killed her?

In sector L, they think. She jammed in the white pin.

I'll go there tonight.

Kura, I know you're upset, but if Yumi was killed by this vampire or demon . . . Wait for backup. There's no use in getting yourself killed.

Our job is to get ourselves killed. Remember? Our deaths don't matter, as long as we take out enough vampires or demons.

Kura, don't say that! Besides, the Council doesn't have any more miko blood; all the donors were killed.

I can fight without it.

You'll die without a fast-acting poison on your blade. The bleeding vampires will rip you apart with any limbs you haven't already cut off.

Her dark eyes met his suddenly, and he was unprepared for what he saw within them. Miroku, isn't your younger sister––

Leave her out of this!

Damn it, Miroku, you said it yourself. I need miko blood if I'm going to survive this fight.

I won't let you.

A quarter cup would be enough––

Miroku was surprised by his own vehemence.

Fine. Who knows how many lives you've doomed by that decision, but that doesn't matter to you, does it? If everyone else on Council dies, you've still got your family to run back to. You're still living at home with your mommy, right? Miroku flushed and took a step towards her. Get out, Miroku. Go home to the family you love so much, you won't even let them know that demons exist, much less that you're a Senior demon hunter. A muscle on Miroku's jaw twitched; he pivoted and jammed on his sneakers.

And I bet you'd bleed your sister to death just to kill more vampires. Miroku had his back to her, so he didn't see the anguished look on her face when his careless parting shot struck her very close to the heart. Goodbye, Kura. Since you're planning on getting yourself killed, I guess I won't see you again. There was the sound of the door slamming, his feet pounding on the stairs, and finally the engine on his motorcycle revving and rumbling into silence.

Goodbye, Miroku. Tears began to stream down her face, dripping off the chin and the nose. All of the pains became jumbled together: she was crying because she had scared off Miroku, she was crying for her mentor Yumi, she was crying because she was afraid of dying, she was crying because she was even more afraid of dying alone and having no one know she was gone, she was crying for her older sister and the day that had destroyed both of their lives, she was crying for all the corpses of the homeless and the poor whose deaths would never be reported in the obituaries. Sleep, comforting and dreamless, finally stopped the tears.