A/N: I do not own Inuyasha or Goblin the Lonely and Great God
Chapter Nine
Seething in his seat, Sesshomaru's fingers rapped against the armrest on the sofa in his living room. Irritation caused his brow to dip and furrow. The tips of his fingers drummed faster as his foot began to twitch slightly. It positively ate at him the way the miko had blamed him the other day. She could not possibly know the betrayal that Inuyasha had shown him—albeit the hanyou had been controlled by the other lords and had not been his normal self. The goblin closed his eyes and sighed, trying to ignore the memories of the crazed youkai eyes and heavy, white fangs grazing against parted lips. It had been such a strange look, something that he hadn't seen since the fight against Naraku.
Standing up, he figured it best to distract himself from such dark thoughts. He could not change the past, so there was no point dwelling on what happened. Whisking past the doorway, he disappeared, sending himself to one place he could call a haven. The library.
One such as he had seen all the wonders the world had to offer, in the five hundred years of his continued youthful existence. From the Ezo period with the fall of sengoku japan, all the way to the fall of the Holy Roman empire in Germany, to the newest elections in the Americas. Of course he viewed all these things with a grain of salt, merely spectating them for his own amusement. Yet still the way authors took the tales into their own hands and spun them either perfectly or recklessly, it granted him some small piece of relief. Even through time he had stories to accompany his agelessness.
Walking past the security measures at the front of the library, Sesshomaru greeted the librarian with a neat, curt inclination of his chin before he headed off down the isles. He already knew which book he would entertain himself with. Visiting the young woman Kagome had given him much to think about and the first thing that had come to mind was that story. His fingers scanned the shelves of older and even older still fiction, looking for the correct fantasy. It amused him when he brushed against Shelley's Frankenstein. That story he saved only for special occasions when he felt like reminding himself about the stupidity and the disgusting nature of the humans. Time may have made him more patient with them but he still disliked them to a fault. He merely had more finesse in his art of showing his distaste toward them. Still he moved on, past endless pines and kanji (even some English and other languages too) until he came across the story he had been looking for. He tilted the book back before pulling it from its slot, a deep guttural hum reverberating from his chest. Taking the red covered book in his hands he traveled to the far side of the library and sat in a soft, pleather-worn chair, bathed in light from tall windows behind him. The sunlight lent him good reading light as he set the book on his lap and ran his hand over the hardback front. The Picture of Dorian Gray. It had been quite some time since he had read the book and even more time since he had considered a story of its genre. Still here he sat, ready to interpret the words on the story's first page. His rounded fingers flipped past the first credit pages, the thick parchment crinkling with each turn. In his sight came the words "chapter one". He began:
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
It did not take long for the Goblin to lose himself in the midst of classic language and gentle description. Of tales of London and the origins of the mysterious man who would soon be cursed. He rested his chin on the palm of his hand, blinking lethargically as he came to the end of the first chapter.
Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he said. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.
"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house.
Just as he began to begin the second chapter, a sensation of alarm sounded in his mind. Two pairs of youki, one familiar and the other not, entered the presence of his mind. Someone, plural, intruded on his property back home. With a exhale of breath and an agitated shut of the book, Sesshomaru took the item back up to the counter where the librarian sat. She looked up at him, surprised at his sudden appearance since she had gained no warning from his silent gait.
"Would you like me to hold this to you?" She asked pleasantly.
"Hn, this one is in a rush," he responded brusquely, turning away from her and walking to the double doors. "And do not have time to reshelve it."
Before she could protest to his rudeness, he pushed passed the front doors, forcing himself back home in the tendrils of his powers. He reappeared in his home, startled by the sound of a certain kitsune's voice at the front door. Sitting down on the single recliner in the common area, he waited for the two youkai to enter. When they did however, what he saw startled him.
Shippou, a quite mature kitsune by now, strode into the house with his five tails wavering eagerly. He took off his shoes, excused himself and entered. Gesturing grandly at all the furnishing in the opposite direction of the Goblin, he smiled.
"And over here we have an open kitchen, perfect for fresh air and all the really great sorts of views for the weather!"
As he turned to opposite side, his green eyes widened and the landed on the white haired being. He stuttered. "A...ah, Sesshomaru!"
Cocking his brow in disdain, the once was daiyoukai decided not to answer.
Before he could protest otherwise, Shippou's guest joined them, stepping in with a deep voiced, "Keh, this place is all fancy and shit. It's everything I was hoping for so far."
The tone caused Sesshomaru to pause, double take to make sure his hearing was accurate. However the youkai that followed the kitsune stung his vision. He wore average human clothes: jeans, a red leather jacket, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap shoved in the pocket of his jacket. But the youkai was Inu, without a doubt—the trade mark silver-white hair told him that the male was also from the house of Taisho. However it was the gold eyes and the strong brows that told him who this person really was. Or at least who he should have been.
"What're you staring at bastard, and what're you doing in this house anyways?" The rude, white-haired male asked, staring him up and down with growing discontent.
"Inuyasha?" Sesshomaru tilted his head to the side before smirking devilishly. "No, not the stupid hanyou. But rather, a Shinigami?"
Snarling, the Shinigami crossed his arms. "You're the second idiot this month to have mistaken me for this Inuyasha asshole. Listen, I don't know who that guy is but it ain't me. Got it?"
Sesshomaru crossed his arms over his chest, his stoic expression immediately falling back into its rightful place. "Hn."
"Keh!" spat the Shinigami.
A devious glint in his eyes, the five-tailed kitsune clapped his hands together. "Now we are all acquainted! How marvelous!"
a/n: so one of the major edits I made is the fact that the boy Kagome mistook for Inuyasha is this guy. And what I did is that I made edits for when he has the baseball cap on, his hair is black. But when it's off, he has all of his Inu traits except for his ears. Yeah.
Also I don't own the Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
The plot thickens!
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