by Renee Ahdieh
Would he recognize Ōkami or Takeda Ranmaru?
Mariko kept to the edge of the roof, her pulse roaring in her ears.
She felt powerless. Helpless. Her blood surged on, ignited by fear.
Kenshin and his companions rounded the corner beneath where Mariko crouched. Soon they would see Ōkami. Be within striking distance. The Wolf did not look perturbed at this. Nor did he attempt to flee. He merely motioned for Yumi to leave. Then he vaulted the balustrade, trailing an arc of crystalline water behind him.
Her fingers shook. Mariko could not be certain what the Wolf intended to do. But it was obvious he meant to stand his ground, even against imperial guards. Even against the celebrated might of the finest member of the yabusame.
The Wolf’s eyes were locked on the advancing party.
Locked on the Dragon of Kai.
An icy chill brushed across Mariko’s skin.
Ōkami must recognize the Hattori crest on Kenshin’s garments.
Which meant he had to know the reasons Hattori Kenshin had trailed him here. Because the Black Clan was guilty of trying to murder his sister. Guilty of attacking her convoy.
Guilty of everything, as Mariko had always suspected.
And now Ōkami intended to face Hattori Kenshin. Intended to finish it, once and for all.
In that instant Mariko knew—beyond the shadow of a doubt—
No amount of information was worth her brother’s life.
She removed the throwing star from her sleeve. Positioned it between her fingers. Mariko would kill Ōkami if he so much as reached for a sword. If his hand so much as twitched in suggestion. As she raised the throwing star into the light, a blur of motion erupted from the patch of darkness at the end of the walkway. A shadow crossed the beams, its steps soundless, its features masked.
A silver blade sliced through the air.
And Mariko’s scream echoed through the night.
AN HONEST EXCHANGE
Everything happened all at once. Before Ōkami had a chance to attack, the moonlit blade arced from the shadows again. It barely missed Kenshin’s head as he dodged the blow with uncanny reflexes, whipping his katana from its scabbard in a sinuous motion.
Mariko stifled a gasp when the same figure darted into the light of a nearby lantern. Though it was only a moment—and though a black mask concealed the lower portion of his face—she recognized the warrior’s clothes.
Ranmaru.
The leader of the Black Clan avoided Kenshin’s parrying blow, then made to sidestep him entirely. As though he had no intention to engage her brother, but meant to disable him. With clear designs on the warrior at Kenshin’s back.
Minamoto Raiden. Mariko’s betrothed.
At that, Raiden unsheathed a gleaming katana, then shoved his younger brother back before barking for the four imperial guards already swarming in their direction.
Ōkami engaged Raiden the instant Mariko’s betrothed brandished his sword. A black mask now obscured the Wolf’s face as well, though his weapon was still nothing more than a copper lantern swinging from its slender chain.
The imperial guards raced down the walkway, and the hiss of swords being torn from their scabbards reverberated on all sides. Ranmaru attacked the first of the imperial guards. The two guards in the back had already taken hold of the crown prince, leading him away from the fray.
When a low hum began to collect in the air, Mariko’s eyes cut to Ōkami.
The lines of his body had begun to blur. To ripple into unchecked motion.
No.
Mariko flung the throwing star into the melee, watching it spin toward Ōkami’s back. It dug into one of his shoulder blades, and he yelled once—more from fury than from pain—as the tremors across his body only intensified. Ranmaru parried another blow from Kenshin, fighting to make his way to his injured friend’s side.
“Get out of here,” Ōkami said to Ranmaru as he ripped the throwing star from his back. “Now!”
Ranmaru hesitated.
“Now!” Ōkami repeated, his voice hoarse, his bloodied fingers grasping the long lantern chain, intent on using it as a weapon.
With an unmistakable expression of guilt, the leader of the Black Clan disappeared, melting into the darkness like smoke into the night sky.
Mariko saw the exact moment Kenshin realized an opportunity. With deadly resolve, her brother shoved aside one of the remaining imperial guards and charged Ōkami.
The low hum in the air spiked to a feverish pitch. And Ōkami became a blur of movement, striking out at anything he could see, his lantern swinging in perfect circles.
Without hesitation, Mariko launched herself from the edge of the rooftop, directly onto her brother. Trying to shield him. He fought her off, twisting in midair as they lost balance and toppled to the wooden walkway.
Kenshin’s head struck the edge of a pillar. His body slumped forward, motionless. Mariko’s icy, trembling fingers flew to his mouth, checking for breath. A sigh escaped her lips when she realized her brother had only been knocked unconscious.
Before Mariko could do anything else, she was grabbed by the waist and hurled into darkness, the night breeze whipping across her face as she flew away from the scene, borne on a wicked wind.
—
Mariko was flung against a plaster wall.
As soon as she caught a lungful of air, she realized they were behind the teahouse. Ōkami had grabbed her and run, faster than a shock of lightning. He must have taken a hidden exit to get them to the other side of the compound so quickly.
The Wolf shoved his forearm beneath Mariko’s throat, the sleeve of his elegant haori still damp from his recent swim.
“What are you doing, Sanada Takeo?” he demanded, his chest heaving. Anger flooded his voice. Corded the muscles in his neck. “Are you trying to kill me?” She could feel him shaking even now.
Her pulse jumped to a martial beat. Mariko thought quickly. “No! I was trying to save you, and I misjudged—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His fingers curled into the collar of her kosode, yanking her close, the hum still rolling off his skin. “No more lies, Sanada Takeo.” Above his mask, his eyes flashed like obsidian. Two stones of fathomless black, cut from molten fire.
“I’m not lying,” she whispered around the knot in her throat.
“This night only, speak the truth.” A light spring rain began to mist around them. His hands moved to either side of her head, caging her between his arms, the veins there tensing in silent threat.
“Only if”—she swallowed—“only if you agree to do the same. The price of my truth is your own.”
Ōkami’s tone descended into lethal quiet. “You’re still trying to negotiate.”
Her heart flew into her throat, its beat crashing through her ears. “I have the answers you seek.” Mariko steeled herself, the rain turning into a steady trickle. “Take off your mask, and I’ll take off mine.”
His lips twitched. Then—without warning—he gripped her throat once more, the pressure light, but unyielding. “That’s the problem with wearing a mask.” He flexed his fingers, pressing her into the plaster wall. “It can be torn off at any time.”
Mariko wanted to fight back, but she kept her body still. Her hands clamped around his wrist. If the Wolf wished to see her struggle—as predators so often did—she refused to give him the satisfaction. When she looked into his hooded, starless gaze, she failed to see a trace of the sleepy-eyed degenerate she’d first met that night beside the watering hole.
Instead she found something infinitely more. Of everything.
Yet she no longer felt any fear. In its place she felt nothing but strength.
“I’m not afraid of you.” Mariko removed her fingers from around his wrist.
And tore the black mask from his face.
“Good,” he said softly
. He began to smile, leveling a cool look at her. “An honest exchange.”
Mariko blinked. “What?” Confusion stole the breath from her body.
He whispered through the driving rain. “I still owe you an injury, Sanada Takeo.”
With that, Ōkami released her.
Only when her feet fell flush with the worn cobbles of the empty alleyway did she realize Ōkami had suspended her in midair. Mariko knew she should have felt afraid when faced with such ruthlessness. Such control. Yet strangely she still did not feel fearful.
She felt powerful.
Powerful to have met his black gaze with one of her own.
“Stay close. If you try to run, I will wring your scrawny neck,” Ōkami warned as he whirled into the darkness. Mariko followed him as he crossed another winding alleyway. Then another. Two more before they emerged onto the main thoroughfare of Hanami. Then Ōkami whipped off his blue kimono jacket, turning it inside out to reveal a haori of rich brown silk. A color to mask the blood of the wound on his back, at least from a distance. He removed the black cord from around his waist and handed it to Mariko.
In the same stilted silence, she reversed her jacket and altered her own appearance.
For a time, they proceeded through the rain-slicked streets, pausing only to steal new pairs of sandals. Then they made their way toward a dilapidated bridge. Toward a section of town where the scents were raw, the people distinctly more ragged. A section starkly different from Hanami. Many of the windows were littered with holes. The stench of fetid water and flowing sewage twisted through the night air. It seeped down the open conduits before carving through the center of the streets.
Though Mariko desperately wanted to ask Ōkami where they were now going—where Ranmaru had gone—she knew better than to press him. He did not often show anger or emotion of any kind. And he was not prone to fits of rage. In the past she’d always found him to be uninterested in almost everything.
But it was clear he’d been furious with her beside the teahouse, if only for a moment. Furious enough to let his guard down. To show her he did care about something beyond himself.
He’d warned her not to run away.
That statement had surprised her the most.
If Mariko was such a nuisance to him—a source of so many injuries—why would Ōkami not want to be rid of her? Why had he not left Mariko behind to fend for herself?
After all, she had swung a lantern at him. And struck his back with a throwing star. Another man might have killed Sanada Takeo for less. At the very least struck him in return.
She glanced at the tall, capable figure striding before her. An odd feeling of warmth settled over her chest. Almost akin to trust.
In the same instant, Mariko banished the traitorous thought, letting horror slide into its place. Ōkami had nearly attacked her brother, intent on inflicting untold damage. He’d nearly killed Kenshin. After nearly killing Mariko and decimating her convoy.
He deserves everything I do to him. And more.
She glared at his back, seeing the capable figure in a different light. One tinged in sinister tones. The reds of violence, the blacks of death, the greens of vengeance. Blurring lights and slashing weapons. Trailing bands of smoke.
“How are you able to move as you do?” Mariko blurted.
Ōkami did not answer.
“Were you born with this ability?” she continued.
His reply was curt. Not once did he look her way. “No.”
Which meant it was the sort of magic gifted to him.
Though Mariko knew it was foolish to press him further, she ached with the need to know who—or what—had gifted such power to Ōkami. Ached with the desire to know what this power was. But she also knew better than to ask at this moment.
Soon they paused before a gate surrounded by broken latticework. The timbers used to construct it were greyed, their edges warping. Mariko was certain a solid kick would render the lock at its front useless.
When Ōkami paused to knock softly at the entrance, Mariko permitted herself to glance at his face.
In its depths she could discern nothing.
Unsurprising, as always.
The gate unlatched with a rusty whine. A small lamp dangled from the overworked hand of a woman around the same age as Mariko’s grandmother. Her face was kind, but fatigued.
“Tsuneoki-sama!” she said, briefly peering over Ōkami’s shoulder at Mariko. “My lord Ranmaru is not with you?”
The use of Ōkami’s given name startled Mariko.
Tsuneoki. If he is the son of Asano Naganori—as Ranmaru revealed that night beside the jubokko—then Ōkami’s real name is Asano Tsuneoki.
“We were separated in a skirmish.” Though Ōkami kept his voice level, Mariko could hear the undercurrent of irritation in his words.
One side of the woman’s mouth dipped lower as she peered closely at the dark stain on his haori. Close enough to notice the telltale signs of blood.
“I see.”
Ōkami ignored her frown of concern. “I wanted to apologize in person, Korin-san.” He reached into the folds of his white kosode and drew out a drawstring pouch. With both hands, Ōkami passed it to the woman. “This is all I can give you now, as a result of this evening’s . . . events. The rest of the funds have been waylaid for now.”
The lines on her already weathered brow deepened. “What happened? Have we been . . . betrayed?” Her voice nearly broke on the last word.
Which answered the first of Mariko’s many unuttered questions. This woman was not affiliated with the teahouse. Ōkami had not brought her money as restitution for tonight’s damages.
“No.” The smallest of sighs passed Ōkami’s lips. “It’s only that we’ve been faced with a few complications.”
“By members of the nobility? Or by imperial soldiers?”
He almost smiled. “Both, actually. It appears we’re in high demand this evening.”
The elderly woman leaned against the door frame, steadying her weary body. “You did not have to come tonight, Tsuneoki-sama.” Korin’s voice was gentle. Kind. “If you were involved in any sort of skirmish, it was a risk for you to remain in the city. Your enemies are always searching for you.”
Ōkami shook his head. “You were expecting us, Korin-san. And I would not have those in your care wanting for anything.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “The gold you provided last week will buy the children enough clothing and food for the rest of the month. If we are frugal, there may be some left over for next month as well. Do not trouble yourself, Tsuneoki-sama. The Black Clan does so much for us. You protect us. Watch over us as no one else does. Many here in the Iwakura ward owe you debts of thanks for all you do. None among us would ever question your actions. Or your intentions.”
The Black Clan protects her? Helps to supply the people in this ward?
Mariko could not prevent a flicker of confusion from passing across her face. Ōkami’s body tensed. As he fought to relax, his gaze slid to her, his features remaining tight.
He’s irritated that I’ve been privy to all this information.
“Very well.” Ōkami nodded. “I shall return next week with the rest of the funds.”
When Korin reached to take his hands in her own, Mariko was gripped by a strange sensation. An odd kind of envy. The wish to be cherished with the same kind of open affection. One without agenda. “May the old gods keep you safe.” Korin turned to Mariko. The way the elderly woman studied her made Mariko shrink back into the shadows.
Finally Korin offered her a smile. “And may the new gods keep your young friend safe.”
“He is not my friend.” Though Ōkami’s pronouncement was true for them both, his words still stung.
Mariko thought to say something. To respond to either Korin or Ōkami with something equally blithe. Equally bitin
g.
Blessedly the night watchman strolled by at that exact moment, ringing his bell to signify the hour.
“He . . . is what?” Korin blinked, clearly confused, the bell behind them tolling into a purpled sky.
He.
The blood drained from Mariko’s face.
Korin-san knows I am not a boy. How could she possibly know that?
As the elderly woman’s attention shifted from Ōkami to Mariko, her features softened. Her gaze settled on Mariko again. This time with a deeper meaning. “Of—of course he isn’t your friend.” Korin recovered with a smile. “My apologies.” She bowed to Mariko, though her eyes were filled with a knowing light.
Does she think Ōkami and I are—
Mariko almost spluttered aloud.
Before she could react—before she could even think beyond such ridiculousness—her thoughts were swallowed by Okami and Korin-san’s continued conversation. A hushed conversation she was no longer meant to partake in. Bracing his arm against the battered gate, Ōkami positioned his back between Mariko and the elderly woman, eliminating the unwanted presence from the rest of his discussion.
Mariko was left to ruminate on all that had occurred.
All she had learned.
The only conclusion she was left to consider was this:
There was far more to the Black Clan than she’d first thought.
—
Kenshin sat in a corner of the teahouse, wearing a murderous expression. The young servant girl tending to the wounds on his head and hands was careful. Meticulous.
Her efforts were futile.
At the moment, nothing would settle well on his skin.
“You’re quite lucky you were not injured further,” Minamoto Roku commented as he took a neat swallow of sake from a glazed porcelain cup.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Raiden interjected. “Kenshin-sama was quick to react.” He nodded in approval. “In battle, that is among the most important of things.”