Flame in the Mist Page 7

  Despite their assurances otherwise, Kenshin knew none of his men rested well in Jukai’s shade. Three of their horses had already bolted. Only his own sorrel steed, Kane, remained unshaken. The whispers of the yōkai ever chased at their heels. Kenshin himself had yet to see a single demon of the forest, but—as such things often did—one man’s story had mushroomed into many. A single tale of a headless deer clomping at their flank. A single sighting of a silver snake with the head of a woman.

  One story was all it took. Superstitions were quick to become truths in a night of ghostly sighs and shifting shadows.

  Kenshin knew he could order his men to follow him. To obey his every command. But it was far easier for him to march on alone. Much like his father, he did not care to hold council with anyone, no matter how much respect the man might be due. Nor did he care to address anyone’s fears. Kenshin knew better than to even try.

  Curbing his distaste for such absurdity, the Dragon of Kai squinted at the body lying supine on the forest floor. The man’s skin was stretched. Bloated from the first flush of decay. Maggots wriggled through a slit across his throat, their tiny bodies the color of rice paste. One of the man’s eyes had been punctured by a small weapon. Some sort of needled blade.

  No.

  Kenshin leaned closer.

  Not a weapon.

  He reached to take hold of the slivers of jade dangling from its end.

  A tortoiseshell hairpin. One he quickly recognized.

  For the second time that night—two occasions too many—Kenshin felt a wave of distress unfurl beneath his skin.

  If this man had been pierced through the eye by this particular hairpin, there could be no doubt as to who had placed it there. Which meant his sister had been pushed beyond the realm of reason. Kenshin did not know Mariko to lose her temper on a whim. Nor did he know her to be inclined to violence. His sister had always been a scholar of reason, devoid of emotion.

  If Mariko had murdered this man, he had undoubtedly deserved it. What he had done to deserve it Kenshin could only begin to guess.

  Could only begin to imagine.

  The wave of distress crested into full-blown rage.

  Such a clean death. Such an unmerited blessing.

  Had Kenshin been present, this man would have suffered far worse.

  His chest pressed against his breastplate as he took in a calming breath. The time for anger had long passed. Far more urgent now was the need for action. Kenshin sank lower in his crouch, resuming his search through the underbrush. As his palm grazed across the thicket—brushing the edges of a swallow’s nest—his fingers caught on what at first glance appeared to be a tangle of fine, dark thread.

  When Kenshin lifted his hand into the moonlight, he found strands of black hair twisted around his knuckles.

  His sister’s hair had been scattered across the underbrush. It was clear someone had tried to conceal it beneath the brambles, but the attempt had not escaped the clutches of the forest’s most resourceful creatures.

  He stood without a sound. The strands of hair drifted from his fingertips, fading into the darkness. Puzzlement flared through him.

  Then his gaze fell again on the body at his feet.

  The body of a dead, unclothed man.

  Kenshin’s head lifted. His eyes softened. It took him no more than an instant. No more than a moment of understanding. He reached down and yanked the tortoiseshell hairpin from the man’s rotting eye.

  Then he spun back toward his horse.

  Back on the trail.

  Of a girl dressed as a boy.

  —

  He did not notice the pair of yellow eyes trailing behind him.

  THE CHOICE

  Mariko’s brows gathered in confusion.

  That lazy boy cannot possibly be the Black Clan’s best fighter.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, the lazy boy in question inhaled with exaggerated slowness. As though he were beyond annoyed. As though the mere action of taking in air involved too much effort. He knocked away the hood covering his face, then unfolded to his feet in a languorous stretch, much like that of a jungle cat.

  With a swipe of his left hand, he pushed back the long strands of hair from his brow. Then he cleared his throat.

  His sight now unencumbered, the boy turned toward his quarry. Turned into Mariko’s vantage point. Her confusion deepened as she took in his features.

  The boy was tall and lean. A body of angles and sinew. A diagonal scar cut through the center of his lips. He blinked sluggishly, as though he’d been startled from a stupor, his hooded, heavy-lidded eyes lifting open then shut. Open then shut. In such a charged moment as this—when his very life could be at stake—Mariko could not fathom his expression, for it was as lax as his demeanor. One that did not match a face of hard edges and graceful slopes.

  A face of contradiction.

  After another stretch in the opposite direction, the boy’s gaze drifted toward the assemblage of men and weapons to his right. Then he began a measured stalk toward the giant.

  His steps were instinctual—the gait of a young man with a natural awareness of his surroundings. If a gale were to suddenly descend upon them—or a tree branch to fall from the sky—it would be unlikely this boy would be caught off guard.

  The way he moved reminded Mariko very much of Kenshin. Which meant that—despite this boy’s lazy comportment—he could well prove to be a formidable opponent. Mariko’s brother had been a student of battle for much of his life. She knew such innate prowess was not gifted at random.

  Yes. It was possible this boy could best the giant. That is, if he could be bothered to procure a weapon. He still did not appear to have a single blade on his person.

  As the boy came to a halt near the gathering, Mariko realized something else of import. Though this boy’s movements were similar to those of Kenshin, there was also a distinct difference. One that made Mariko amend her earlier comparison. Her brother moved precisely, each foot placed with deliberate intent. This boy did not take steps.

  He glided like a shark through the water.

  And like the sea, the members of the Black Clan parted around him as the boy took position before the giant.

  The charge that had begun to collect earlier rose again in earnest.

  Even though the giant appeared perplexed at this turn of events, he swung his kanabō from side to side. Attempting to frighten his new opponent with another show of bravado.

  When the boy did not react—did not even attempt to dodge—the giant scowled.

  “Don’t you need a weapon?” he grunted.

  The boy shook his head. Yawned once more. “No.” He rolled his shoulders. Cricked his neck.

  A chuff passed the giant’s lips. “Arrogant fool.”

  “Not arrogant.” The boy scratched along his jaw nonchalantly. “Just accurate.”

  The giant laughed again, goading his men to join in his amusement. A smattering of uneasy laughter spread through their ranks. It did little to leaven the mood. If anything, it only darkened it.

  Mariko’s pulse quickened. Should this fight develop into something more than a mere exchange of posturing, it was possible she would never obtain her answers. Never spare her family undue embarrassment. Or prove her worth beyond the marriage market.

  It was also possible she might die.

  Yes. That, too, was a fact of which she was keenly aware.

  Her knowledge of how to win a fight was purely theoretical. The scuffle with the drunken fool in the forest had confirmed one thing: Mariko’s best asset in any altercation was her mind. And even with that advantage, she’d barely managed to best a man heavily encumbered by spirits. She had a strong suspicion of how she would fare against a seasoned warrior in an actual fight. And with men of any sort, Mariko had always found brute strength to be given the greatest weight.

&nb
sp; But in a battle of wits?

  It could be any man’s—or woman’s—game.

  Mariko weighed her options. Whether she should run or stand her ground.

  I should simply take shelter and watch these fools kill each other.

  There could be a certain satisfaction in that.

  But if that were to happen, she would never know who had plotted her death.

  And why.

  The sharp whistle of the kanabō being swung through the air tore her from her thoughts. She blinked toward the fight—

  Just in time to see the lazy warrior dodge the giant’s first swing. With not a moment to spare. The breeze from the blow tossed the boy’s hair back into his face.

  The giant laughed. “Too slow.”

  An easy smile touched the boy’s scarred lips. As though he possibly shared the giant’s amusement. Shared his unfavorable opinion. Just as Mariko began to consider this possibility, she noticed a change in the boy’s body.

  It had begun to tremble.

  Is he . . . afraid?

  Anticipation curled through her center. She fought to tamp down the rising curiosity. The rising interest. No. Mariko could not be the least bit entertained by any of this. Being entertained meant she could be easily distracted. And she refused to die in a watering hole this night.

  Careful to remain beyond anyone’s notice, Mariko rose to her feet, still clenching her small cup of sake tight. Being certain not to make any sudden movements that might draw attention her way.

  The giant swung his kanabō in a vicious backhand. As it rose, its tip grazed the boy’s shoulder. Mariko winced reflexively when the boy barely managed to escape the full impact of the blow. He rolled through the dirt—away from the giant—then spun to standing. Once he righted himself, he noticed a tear in the arm of his black kosode. He proceeded to launch into a series of curses Mariko had only heard the lowliest of stable hands utter in moments of great vexation. Vile, vulgar sorts of words that would have made her mother gasp into her palms and her father nod in warning to his subordinates.

  The boy gripped his bare shoulder tight, wincing through the pain as blood began to well onto his fingers. As his shaking grew worse.

  This was the best the Black Clan had to offer?

  How had this lazy fool ever managed to best Nobutada?

  It was as though everything Mariko had experienced in the last week had been in jest.

  Her lips pulled into a frown.

  If this battle wasn’t in jest, Takeda Ranmaru was going to lose his wager.

  And Mariko was not ready or willing to see him lose to anyone but her.

  She waited for a member of the Black Clan to come to the boy’s aid or put an end to this farce of a fight. It took her only a single glance to realize that none of their ranks appeared to be the least bit alarmed by the sight of their comrade on the verge of risking their leader’s life.

  The men in black continued standing to either side of the fight. Unworried. Ranmaru reached for his drink. Almost as though he was disinterested. The one-legged cook leaned on his bō, studying its polished wood surface as though he were seeking something with which to occupy himself.

  As though there could be something more pressing for him to consider.

  A blaze of triumph flashed across the giant’s face. Raising his kanabō once more, he clomped toward the injured boy, set on proclaiming his victory.

  Mariko edged away from her table, sidestepping in surreptitious fashion. Certain this fight was at an all-too-swift end.

  The boy did not prepare himself to strike back. Did not so much as flinch from the coming blow. Instead he remained in one place. His hand dropped from his wounded shoulder.

  His head fell forward, his dark hair veiling his features.

  The trembling took hold of his body. Quickened into a blur. The air around him began to hum. Distort. Like the space surrounding a lantern flame.

  Just as the giant unleashed his killing strike, the one-legged cook launched his bō in a graceful pitch toward the boy. He caught it in one hand without even turning to see it.

  Then the boy leapt into the air, far out of the giant’s reach. He hovered—suspended on a spume of sound—before he came crashing back to earth, the soil at his feet exploding in concentric circles.

  Mariko halted in her tracks. Anchored to one spot.

  She had never before seen anyone move as he did.

  Almost like that creature in the forest. The one that had tried to warn her.

  Like a dark ghost. Or a demon of the night.

  Disoriented by the sight, the giant stumbled, nearly collapsing to the dirt. The boy rippled through the air once more, far out of his reach, the hum around him growing in fever and pitch. Only a breath passed before he spun in place, crossing his arms above his head. The bō whirled, collecting momentum, cracking through the air like reverberating thunder. It arced toward the giant’s wrist in a punishing downward blow. Bones crunched as the giant dropped his studded club to the ground. He yowled so loudly the trees around them shook their limbs in disapproval.

  Or amusement. Mariko could not be certain which.

  To her dismay, she was uncertain as to her own reaction.

  This was not entertaining. It was not entertaining to witness a man of greater brawn fall to a smaller, cleverer foe. Especially one clever enough to conceal his advantage so adeptly.

  Mariko was not entertained by this sight. Not at all. Despite what the race of her pulse had to say otherwise.

  The dark ghost of a boy blurred to a halt. The vibrations around his body lessened to a slow tremor. His chest rose and fell as he took in great drafts of air. As though he had been submerged in water for longer than any human could possibly bear.

  He stood rooted to the ground, seeking a center.

  Ignoring the giant still howling on the ground.

  A sudden hush descended on the clearing. And Mariko could once again feel the threat of a storm on the air. About to ignite, like the strike of flint against stone.

  She shifted into the shadows along the periphery, her fingers still wrapped around her earthenware cup. Her last resort of a weapon. Something with which to defend herself. Mariko knew if she even attempted to remove the wakizashi at her side—if anyone saw her moving through the darkness with a blade poised at the ready—it might further provoke the bloodlust around her.

  As she continued folding into the fringe of branches along the forest’s edge, Mariko’s eyes stayed trained on the circle of men poised around the wailing giant and the dark ghost. The champion of the Black Clan continued to shudder in place. Continued to heave great breaths. His comrades appeared grim. Contrary to what she thought would happen, they did not cheer at this victory.

  For it was clear the victory had come at a cost.

  The giant’s men took hesitant steps toward him, as though converging on a wounded bear—one just as likely to bite off a helping hand as it would be to lick it.

  Mariko moved with great care, scuttling away from the watering hole like a crab into its shell. Her gaze stayed locked on the men across the way. Continued scanning for any notice of her retreat. Or her position.

  Then she saw. Saw what no one else sought. What no one else thought to see, preoccupied as they were.

  The hissing vulture. The one who had helped the giant provoke the fight.

  He stood in a pool of torchlight a body’s length to her left. She watched him slowly ease his hand behind his back. When he shouldered past the brute of a man at his side, Mariko caught a flash of metal.

  The vulture’s gaze was fixed on Takeda Ranmaru.

  The fear that had been pressing Mariko to flee blossomed into outrage.

  He’s cheating.

  If they could not win by the rules they themselves had created, they did not deserve to win at all! And Mariko would never
allow herself to lose her prey to such inept, unworthy imbeciles.

  Without pausing to think, Mariko tossed back her earthenware cup and took in a mouthful of lukewarm sake.

  Then she sputtered it in the direction of the torch.

  A burst of flame jetted in the hissing vulture’s direction, startling all the men around him. Catching on the sleeve of one nearby.

  Cries of outrage emanated from their ranks.

  The jet of fire had heightened their awareness. Had forced them from their trances.

  All eyes searched for the source of the outburst.

  That was . . . an unwise decision, Hattori Mariko.

  Either make good on these actions, or flee from this place. Immediately.

  Something in the back of her mind told her she would not get far.

  The blood draining from her face, Mariko pitched the empty, earthenware cup toward the hissing vulture. It smashed against the back of his skull, knocking him beyond the safety of the shadows. Into the fray.

  “He has a dagger,” she accused in a coarse voice. “He’s trying to cheat!”

  It took all the work of a moment for the men in the Black Clan to process her words. The hissing vulture lifted his dagger into the light, intent on finishing his task, whatever the cost. Hands and elbows shoved at his back. At his chest. His weapon was ripped from his grasp. None of the men in his company fought to save him. Nor did they attempt to raise their weapons in revolt.

  As soon as Mariko glanced toward Ranmaru, she understood why.

  While the chaos had unraveled around them, the dark ghost of a boy had taken position before his leader. Though blood still dripped from the wound in his right shoulder, he managed to aim a cutting smile their way. One tinged by cruelty. His bō spun through the air.

  Daring anyone to challenge him.

  There is no such thing as honor amongst thieves.

  “You cheating bastards.” The one-legged cook spat in the dirt. “Leave. Now. Unless you’d care for a real fight.” He unhooked two of the small daggers along his waist, twirling them between his fingertips with all the grace of a master.