Flame in the Mist Page 3

  And it was unwise for Mariko to provoke an unknown.

  So then, what should she say?

  If threats were not a weapon in her arsenal, then perhaps cunning would serve her instead. Mariko stayed silent. Though her free hand shook, the palm wrapped around the wakizashi remained steadfast.

  “You’re lost.” The man paced nearer. Near enough for Mariko to smell the scent of unwashed skin and sour rice wine. The copper of recently spilled blood. “How did you manage to get lost, lovely creature?”

  Her breath caught. The grip around the short sword tightened. “I imagine if one knew the answer to that question, one would no longer be considered lost,” she said in an even tone.

  The man chortled, suffusing the air with his acrid breath. “Smart girl. So very careful. But not careful enough. If you were truly careful, you wouldn’t be lost in the woods . . . all alone.” He rested his bō in the earth between them. Fresh blood stained one end of the wooden staff. “Are you sure you’re not part of the convoy less than a league from here? The one with all the dead bodies”—he leaned even closer, dropping his voice to a whisper—“and no money?”

  He’d tracked her. Even with the care Mariko had taken to cover her trail, this man had managed to find her. This shiftless crow who fed on the scraps of his betters. Again she chose to keep silent, secreting the wakizashi completely behind her.

  Words would not serve her well with a man such as this.

  “Because if you are lost,” he continued at his leisure, “I’d consider it quite a fortunate omen for you. The Black Clan doesn’t take prisoners. Nor does it leave survivors. It’s bad for business, you see. Both theirs and mine.”

  Understanding settled on Mariko, its grasp all too tight. As she’d suspected, he was not a member of the Black Clan. Even from the little she’d gathered earlier, the band of masked murderers was far more organized.

  Far more precise.

  This man—with his filthy feet and soiled garments—was anything but.

  When Mariko failed to reply yet again, he furrowed his brow, agitation beginning to take root.

  “What if I delivered you to them?” He sidled closer—an arm’s length away—dragging his bō haphazardly through the dark loam at his feet. It should have been threatening, but the man lacked the necessary focus. The necessary discipline of a true warrior. “I’m certain the Black Clan would appreciate me bringing you to them. I can’t imagine they would want word of this failure to reach their employers. Or their competitors.”

  As she watched him lose footing on a root, Mariko couldn’t suppress a soft gibe: “Well then, I’d be much obliged if you would lead me to them. It appears they’ve taken a few things of mine. And I would like them back.”

  He rasped another laugh, and—even with its lazy resonance—the sound chased down her spine. “You’d almost be amusing if you smiled more.” His lips curled upward. “In case your mother never told you, pretty girls like you should smile. Especially if you’re trying to get a man to do your bidding.”

  Mariko stiffened. She hated his words. Hated the suggestion she needed a man to do anything for her.

  Hated its truth.

  “Don’t worry.” The man swung his bō slowly, directing her to walk before him. “We’ll find the Black Clan. It might take some time. But I happen to know their favorite watering holes ring the western edge of the forest. They’re bound to turn up there sooner or later. And I’m a patient man.” With a sly grin, he removed the coil of fraying rope dangling from his waistband.

  Mariko prepared to fight, easing her feet apart. Bending slightly at the knees. Anchoring herself to the earth.

  “Besides—” His deepening smile caused her to shudder internally. “You look like excellent company.”

  As he uncoiled the rope, Mariko readied her blade. Kenshin had taught her where to strike. Soft places unhampered by bone, like the stomach and the throat. If she could slash above the inside of his knee, his blood would spill fast enough to kill him in mere moments.

  Mariko calculated. Considered.

  She was so busy in thought that she failed to anticipate his sudden movement.

  In an instant, the man had grabbed Mariko by the forearm, jerking her toward him.

  She shrieked, pushing back at him. The bō was knocked from his grasp, clattering against the base of a tree trunk. In the ensuing tumult, Mariko sought an angle to slash at his grip. She swung the wakizashi wide, not even caring to aim, hoping to strike anything at all.

  Callous laughter rolled from his lips as the man grappled for the wakizashi. His elbow caught the side of her face, bringing Mariko to the ground with no more effort than it took to subdue a mewling calf.

  One of her wrists in his filthy grip, the man attempted to bind her hands together.

  There was no time for fear or fury or emotion of any kind to steal upon her. Mariko screamed loudly, kicking at him and wrestling for control of the blade. Its tip sliced into her upper sleeve, cutting the fabric away from her body. Revealing more skin.

  The man shoved Mariko’s cheek into the dirt.

  “It will do you no good to fight, girl,” he said. “There is no reason for you to make this unpleasant for both of us.”

  “I am not a girl.” The rage collected in her chest. “I am Hattori Mariko. And you will die for this. By my hand.”

  I swear it.

  He chuffed in amusement, his lower lip jutting smugly, saliva pooling in its center. “The one marked for death is you. If the Black Clan wants you dead, you’ll never make it through this forest alive.” Wiping his mouth on a shoulder, he paused as if in deliberation. “But I might be willing to consider other options.” His eyes stopped on the swath of naked skin above her elbow.

  The look she found on his face made Mariko want to tear out his throat with nothing but her teeth. “I do not make deals with thieves.”

  “We’re all thieves, girl. Your kind most of all.” He placed the blade of the wakizashi beneath her chin. “Make your decision. Barter with me, and I’ll return you to your family in one piece. For the right price, of course.” His foul stench washed over her. “Or wait to barter with the Black Clan. But if I had a preference, I would choose me. I’m much nicer. And I won’t hurt you.”

  In the lie she heard the truth. Saw it, buried deep in his gaze.

  I will not be bandied about by men any longer. I am not a prize to be bought or sold.

  Mariko let the desire to fight ease out of her, as though she was contemplating. Capitulating. The wakizashi dropped from beneath her chin just as her palms fell to her sides. Without a second thought, she threw a handful of dirt in the man’s eyes. He flailed, his fingers swiping at clumps of earth, his soft underbelly exposed. Mariko promptly punched him at the base of his throat, then rolled away as he coughed and gagged, struggling to catch breath. Mariko tried to stand—tried to run—but her thin white robe was tangled around his legs. She fell atop him, and he made a blind grab for her.

  Without thought, Mariko snatched the tortoiseshell bar from her hair—

  And stabbed it through his left eye.

  The ornament pierced through its center, a needle through a grape.

  His scream was slow. Tortured.

  With its sound came a sudden rush of clarity. It blossomed in Mariko’s chest, spreading like a swallow of perfectly brewed tea.

  Simple. Instinctual.

  She took hold of the wakizashi and slashed the man’s throat from ear to ear.

  His scream was swallowed by gurgles. Crimson bubbles sloshed past his lips as he tried to form his final words. After a few moments, he fell silent. Motionless, save for the blood dripping from his eye and throat.

  Mariko crawled away, heaving the contents of her stomach into the underbrush.

  —

  Hattori Mariko crouched against the rough trunk of an ancient pine tr
ee. Her body rocked slowly in place. She watched her white tabi socks dampen in the misted moss. The brambles around her had become a refuge, the lichen at her sides a cloak. Soughing pines swayed above her head. Their echoing moans brought to mind the disquiet of lost souls. The many lost souls that had met their doom in the shadow of Jukai forest.

  Less than a stone’s throw from her lay one of these lost souls.

  Thank the stars I am not among them.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Mariko wrapped her arms about her legs. As though she could hold herself together.

  The forest may not yet have claimed her for its own, but it was clear she was horribly lost. Beyond all comprehension. In a wooden maze filled with creatures—both human and inhuman—that could kill her with only the wish to do so. The darkness that had recently become her refuge would also likely bring about her ruin. Its pressing menace reminded her of the time ten years past when Kenshin had challenged her to dive with him beneath the surface of the lake at the edge of their family’s land. It had been the afternoon following a summer storm. The water was a muddy color, the silt at its floor a constant swirl.

  Though she typically eschewed such mindless challenges, Mariko had always been an excellent swimmer. And Kenshin had been particularly self-important that day. Had been especially in need of a lesson. So she’d dived for the bottom, her hands spreading through the murky water with assertive strokes. As she’d clawed toward her goal, a branch of twisted leaves had brushed her cheek, disorienting her. In that instant, she’d lost her bearings. Mariko could no longer tell which way to swim. Could no longer make out a path in either direction. She’d taken in mouthful after mouthful of water as the terror had frayed away her confidence. Had rubbed its edges raw until it all but fell apart.

  Were it not for the pull of Kenshin’s steady hands, Mariko could have perished that day.

  It felt like that here. In this darkness thick with threat. In this forest, harboring in its folds the nightmares of millennia.

  A hooting owl broke through the quiet as it swooped lower. As it prowled for its evening meal. Glancing to her left, Mariko caught sight of a spiderweb in a bend of branches nearby. Dewdrops clung to its silken strands. She focused on the way they welled. Collected. Slid down and across the twinkling silk to pool at its center.

  Before she could blink an eye, the water splashed from the web in a cascade of diamonds. Its maker had returned, eight long legs stretching across its surface.

  Lying in wait for its prey.

  Mariko wanted to run from her skin. Be anything, be anywhere but where she was.

  A brush of wind raked through the thorny brambles around her. Its breeze coiled beneath her hair, lifting the unbound strands. They caught in the stickiness on her cheeks. The salty wetness left there by trails of tears.

  She needed to find her way home. Back to her family. Back to where she supposedly belonged.

  But Mariko could not silence the thrum of her thoughts.

  Could not squelch her curiosity.

  She wanted—no, needed—to find out why the Black Clan had been sent to kill her.

  Who wished her dead? And why?

  She inhaled carefully. Gripping her knees as they pressed into her chest, Mariko forced herself to stop swaying.

  And start thinking.

  What would Kenshin do?

  The answer to that was simple. Her older brother would stop at nothing to learn who had tried to kill him. Who had robbed his family and nearly brought an end to his life. Kenshin wouldn’t rest until he brought the heads of his enemies home in sacks stained red with their blood.

  But her brother was allowed such discretion. Such freedom to choose. After all, he had not earned the name the Dragon of Kai by remaining safe within the walls of their family’s home.

  He’d earned it on the field of battle. With every swing of his sword.

  If Mariko returned home, her family would promptly dry her tears and send her back on her way. Back down this same path. Any word of the events that had transpired in Jukai forest would be guarded to the death. If the emperor or the prince or any member of the nobility learned that Mariko had been attacked on her journey to Inako, the royal family might cancel their marriage arrangement. Might claim this misfortune was a bad omen. One that could not be risked on royal blood.

  Never mind the cold question that would undoubtedly follow. The whispers that would trail at her back.

  The question of Mariko’s virtue. Lost in the forest, alone with murderers and thieves. A question that would linger, despite her family’s heartfelt protests.

  Mariko pressed her lips to one side.

  The same question she’d already answered in revenge. In an afternoon of calculated fury. But if . . .

  If.

  If she learned the truth—if she learned who was responsible for sending the Black Clan to murder her—Mariko might be able to spare her parents the embarrassment of having their daughter turned away. Might spare them the risk of having their family name soiled under a cloud of suspicion.

  Her thoughts began to wind through her mind with the slow squeeze of a snake.

  What if someone in Inako had sent the Black Clan? What if a rival family in the nobility had arranged her death to ruin the Hattori family’s rising fortune?

  If such a feat could occur, then anyone in the imperial city could be called to question.

  If Mariko learned the truth behind tonight’s events, then perhaps she could bring to light her family’s detractors, proving herself useful to the Hattori name, beyond securing an advantageous marriage. Moreover, she would have a few days—perhaps even weeks—to spend roaming at her leisure.

  Then she would return and be the dutiful daughter evermore.

  Mariko swallowed. She could almost taste the air of freedom. Its sweet promise, tantalizing the tip of her tongue.

  Again a cool breeze cut through the air, twisting her hair in another frenzy. The light scent of camellia oil filled her nostrils. The oil used to tame her thick strands. To coil them into obedience.

  Reminding her.

  Hattori Mariko could not roam the Empire of Wa at her leisure.

  A girl from a noble family could never attempt such a thing. Not to mention the fact that Hattori Kenshin was among the best trackers in the empire. As soon as her brother discovered Mariko had gone missing, he would begin his search, without question. That was how it had always been. Though Kenshin was only a few moments older than Mariko, he had cared for her—watched out for her—since they were children.

  Her brother would find her. Of that there was no question.

  Exasperated, she swiped a white sleeve across her forehead. A streak of black powder rubbed onto the silk. The burned paulownia wood that had been used to enhance her eyebrows. Mariko scrubbed at the stained sleeve, then gave up with a silent oath, her moment of happiness swallowed by the inevitable crush of truth.

  Her eyes fell on the bloodied wakizashi lying nearby. No longer caring about the loss of her fine underrobe, she wiped the blood on its hem. Smeared it further. Blood and blackened paulownia.

  It was true Hattori Mariko could not roam the empire at her leisure. But if . . .

  If.

  Mariko removed the jade bar from the last ring of hair at her crown. The black tangles tumbled around her shoulders, unfurling to her waist in a fall of scented ebony. She gathered her hair in one hand, near the nape of her neck.

  Later she would marvel at how she did not hesitate. Not even for an instant.

  Mariko sliced through the gathered strands in one blow.

  Then she stood. With only a passing glance of remorse, Mariko scattered her hair across the thorny brambles, careful to conceal the strands deep in the shadows.

  She felt lighter; her shoulders eased back.

  Mariko glanced around with a new sight, as though her
eyes could penetrate the heavy darkness. See through the thick veil of night. Her gaze locked on the motionless figure to her left—the twisted scavenger she had recently killed.

  Strange how she did not feel any pity. Did not feel even a shred of remorse.

  Kenshin would have been proud.

  She’d fought off her assailant. And in doing so, she’d displayed one of the seven virtues of bushidō:

  Courage.

  The way of the warrior.

  Mariko knelt beside the pool of congealed blood. As with everything else, the man’s garments were filthy. The collar of his hemp kosode was stained with rice wine and dried millet, and the linen of his trousers was threadbare.

  But they would serve one last purpose.

  Her thoughts unnervingly clear, Mariko untied the sash of her underrobe. Let it drop from her shoulders to the ground. Then she reached to untie the knot of his kosode.

  Hattori Mariko was not just any girl.

  She was more.

  THE DRAGON OF KAI

  The massive warhorse stalked through the predawn mist. A curtain of vines parted in its wake. Mounted samurai moved from the darkness, resuming their formation at the beast’s flank. Its heavily armored rider led them inexorably forward. The horse huffed through its nostrils, its eyes wild as its breath mingled with the mist—two steady streams of barely checked rage.

  The samurai atop the sorrel horse was a stark contrast to his mount. He appeared calm. Collected. His helmet sported twisted horns. A gaping dragon’s maw adorned the front, fashioned of bloodred lacquer and polished steel. The breastplate of his dō was molded from rectangular plates of hardened leather and iron. It bore a hexagonal crest, with two arrow feathers affixed like dashes in its center. Opposite each other. Ever watching the other’s back. Ever promising a balance between light and dark.

  Silently the men and their beasts crept through the rapidly fading darkness. An early-morning fog encircled the horses’ hooves, unraveling with each step as they cut through Jukai forest. Ever forward. Ever onward.

  The samurai leading the contingent rode through the ghostly wood, his eyes scrutinizing the ground before him.