Flame in the Mist

by Renee Ahdieh

  But perhaps it was time for them to overcome the mistakes of their pasts. The mistakes of those in their pasts. Ranmaru’s anger had long since passed. But Ōkami’s?

  It was difficult to move past an emotion so long denied.

  “Nevertheless . . .” Ranmaru stepped closer. Close enough to make any other man uncomfortable. It was a tactic Ranmaru had learned from Ōkami when they were younger. Stand in another man’s space and watch him squirm. Ranmaru watched now as the tactic nearly worked on his friend. The Wolf almost stepped back in response. Then Ōkami cut his gaze. And stood firm.

  “Nevertheless,” Ranmaru said again, “starting today, you will spend two afternoons this week teaching Sanada Takeo how to fight with a sword. It doesn’t matter which sword. A katana, a wakizashi, a tantō . . .” He moved his hand in a circle meant to encourage. “All that matters is whether or not the boy can hold his own in a basic fight. If Takeo is to be our newest recruit, he must at least know how to wield a blade.”

  Ōkami opened his mouth, a slow, cutting retort building, ready to barrel forth.

  Ranmaru braced for it. Welcomed it.

  There were times when even a howling wolf needed to be silenced.

  Then Ōkami closed his mouth without uttering a single word. He inhaled slowly through his nose. “Fine.” His shoulders relaxed. “It won’t make any difference anyway. When the boy dies during his first fight, don’t blame me.”

  “At that point, it wouldn’t make a difference if I did.”

  Ōkami snorted. Once more glib and unaffected. “It makes no difference to me anyway.” With that, he shouldered past Ranmaru, back into the morning sun.

  Ranmaru shook his head.

  One day, these lies were going to catch up with his friend.

  On that day, Ranmaru hoped he was there to bear witness.

  —

  Mariko thought he was joking with her.

  Or just wanting to watch her fidget, in that way Ōkami liked to watch anyone fidget when faced with his mocking stare.

  “Well,” he demanded, “why are you just standing there?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do,” she shot back. “How you want me—to stand.” Her voice trailed off.

  Mariko swore she saw the muscles in his jaw leap at that. Then Ōkami cleared his throat. He strode closer, using the tips of two wooden practice swords to tap her legs until she shifted her feet into the right position for sparring. If Mariko hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought Ōkami was trying not to touch her. As though she’d been marked by a demon. Or kissed by a plague.

  If he is avoiding me, then perhaps I can use it to my advantage.

  Ōkami is not the only one who likes to make people uncomfortable.

  When the Wolf had glided toward her that morning and ordered her to follow him, Mariko had hated the way her heart had responded, jumping from her chest as though it wished to meet him halfway.

  Her stupid heart. It was time she taught it a lesson. Taught it to stay at heel. Here was a chance to get her own back somehow.

  If Ōkami was mad at her, then she was mad at him, too.

  The next time he thwacked the back of her knee and told her to root herself better, Mariko intentionally crumpled into him. Ōkami jumped back, as though a tendril of fire had leapt his way. She straightened, then smirked at him. He blinked. For an instant, Mariko thought he might smile.

  “Do that again,” he said in a dangerous whisper. “See what happens.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  That time, he did smile. But just barely. Then Ōkami stepped an arm’s length away. Without warning, he tossed the wooden sword in her direction. Mariko caught it. But just barely.

  The practice sword was heavy, its blade fashioned of solid wood. Made to model the weight of an actual katana. Its surface was smooth, meant to take on the full blow of an opponent’s strike.

  Mariko brandished the weapon, hoping she didn’t look quite as green as she felt. “Should I not be practicing with a real blade instead of one intended for a child?”

  “This is the type of sword we all use when we are not in battle. It is not just for a child.”

  She held the blade in the air with one hand as her eyes ran the length of him. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “A master of the obvious.” He snorted. “Truly I’d rather chew sand.” Ōkami walked to her side, his practice sword dangling from his fingertips. “Use both hands. Who do you think you are? Musashi?”

  Mariko ignored the jibe about the famed swordsman. “Why are you doing this if you don’t want to?”

  “Because if I don’t, Ranmaru will wonder why. And I don’t think it serves you well if his curiosity spurs him to take action,” Ōkami finished, his voice low and harsh.

  When he leaned forward to adjust the grip of her left hand, his hair fell into his eyes, brushing her brow. A part of her wanted to hold her breath.

  Mariko revolted by inhaling deep.

  Stupid. So stupid. Wolves were not supposed to smell like Ōkami did. Like warm stone and wood smoke.

  “What are you doing?” he asked cuttingly, though his hands wavered above hers. “Stop being so strange.”

  Mariko settled into her stance. “I am strange.” She brandished her practice sword. “And you had better learn to appreciate it.”

  —

  Ōkami was in hell.

  The first chance he had, he was going to attack his best friend and leave him for dead. It was only fair after all. Ōkami would rot in hell before he admitted to anyone that he’d been rendered a fool.

  Each time Ōkami was forced to touch her, he tallied another way he would make the leader of the Black Clan pay.

  “Stop!” he barked. Truly this girl brought out the worst in him. Made him lose the control he prided himself in having at all times. “You’re still not holding the blade correctly. Each time you swing it, your hands group closer together. Keep an invisible palm between them, or you’ll lose control of the blade entirely.”

  Fitting that Ōkami was lecturing her on losing control.

  She gritted her teeth, her deep brown eyes flashing at him like unfaceted jewels. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the handle. She raised the blade above her head once more.

  “Strike,” he ordered.

  She brought it down, and Ōkami knocked it from her grasp with punishing precision.

  “Pick it up,” he said, swinging his own blade in a lazy arc.

  Her pursed lips reminded him of rosebuds. Not red. Nothing loud and obvious. But blushing pink. Subtle and warm. Just like the way she smelled. As if the color of gold had a scent.

  Anger rippled down his throat. If he wasn’t more mindful of his thoughts, this girl would inevitably bring about the death of Takeda Ranmaru.

  Ōkami inhaled. Exhaled. Tried to speak gently. “Again. This time, keep the blade steady. Move slower. More deliberately.” He demonstrated, the wooden sword cutting through the air in a rush of sound. The movement felt good. Though Ōkami hated using a katana—as it brought to mind memories he’d sooner forget—he had to admit he’d missed the feel of the weapon in his hands.

  After she repeated the motion ten more times, she eyed him sidelong.

  “How many times should I do this?” she asked.

  “Until I think you’ve done it right.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Am I not going to learn how to fight?”

  “First learn how to hold a sword. If a katana is an extension of your arms, your arms are currently broken. Would you encourage a man to fight with broken arms?”

  Her eyes shot heavenward. “Why do you not carry any blades?”

  “Because I prefer not to carry any.”

  “You’re quite rigid, you know.”

  Ōkami almost laughed. “And you are
not?”

  “Have you forgotten already, honored sensei? My arms are broken.”

  That time, he did laugh.

  She wavered for a moment, clearly deliberating her next question. “I’ve been told a samurai’s sword is his soul.” Her blade moved into position above her head, ready to practice once more.

  A sneer curled the corners of Ōkami’s lips. “Only if you are fool enough to follow the way of the warrior would you ever say something so ridiculous.”

  “Bushidō is about experiencing life in every breath. Seeing life in the simplest of things. There is beauty and honor in that. You yourself said as much.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t put too much stock in what I say.” Ōkami struck her sword again. This time she managed to keep it in her grasp. “When I fight, I wear a mask. There is no honor in that. And I’m glad of it.”

  “I think you’re lying,” she muttered. “And—despite what you may think—I do put stock in what you say. One day I hope to say something that stays with you.” She angled her chin.

  Ōkami swallowed. This girl unnerved him in a way he could not begin to fathom. He needed to end this exchange. Immediately. “Words are foolish. Promises are useless. Anyone can say anything to get what it is they desire. Believe in actions and actions alone.”

  “You’ve said this to me before,” she replied softly. “And I still don’t believe you are right.”

  He whipped his practice sword toward her. On instinct, she parried the blow. Ōkami could not hide his surprise at how quickly she learned. Most men he knew did not understand the push and pull of swordplay so readily.

  He nodded in approval. “Well done. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

  She smiled. “My father taught me the touch of true strength is as light as a feather.” With a slight swagger, she brandished her sword, eyeing him with noticeable circumspection. “He also said the deeper you dig, the higher the walls around you become.”

  “Your father read too many books.”

  She laughed, and the sound warmed through him. Just like a sunrise.

  Without thought, Ōkami moved closer, reaching for her elbows, intent on drawing them toward her center. Giving her better control of the blade. His right foot slid in the space between her feet, his knee grazing her inner thigh.

  The instant it happened, Ōkami knew it was a mistake. The sharp intake of her breath. The darting eyes.

  His thundering heart.

  “You haven’t told me not to do this,” she said softly, a becoming flush rising in her cheeks. “Nor have you asked me why I’m here.”

  Against his better judgment, Ōkami replied, “Why would I?”

  “Because I’m a girl,” she whispered.

  Irritation took root in his chest. Not irritation with her words. But irritation with her need to say them and what it meant. Ōkami steadied his gaze on hers. “You are first and foremost a person. A reckless, foolish person, but a person nonetheless. If I ever say you are not permitted to do something, rest assured that the last reason I would ever say so would be because you are a girl.”

  When her eyes softened, Ōkami knew he’d made another mistake.

  But he didn’t want to take back his words.

  She was without a doubt strange. Maddening. A force to reckon and be reckoned with. And—as she’d demanded of him earlier—he appreciated it.

  In that moment, Ōkami knew he was in a great deal of trouble.

  All because of a wonderfully strange girl.

  A FOREST OF BLOOD AND FIRE

  Kenshin gasped awake. His chest heaved as he struggled to draw in breath. The ground beneath him was wet, the grass by his fingertips charred. Copper and ash coated his tongue.

  He sat up and gripped his throbbing head. When he gazed down at his fingers, he saw they were covered in dried blood. Fear coiled up his spine.

  He looked around.

  The blood was not his.

  No. This was not possible. This could not have happened. He could not have—would never have—done such a thing.

  Kenshin tried to conjure an image of the last thing he could recall.

  Shouts. An angry exchange of words. A refusal to cooperate. Threats blasted both ways. Flashes of blood and smoke and fire, their sources hazy and unclear.

  Anger. An uncontrollable rage erupting from his chest, spilling from his lips, whipping into the air around him.

  His chest heaved again. Kenshin staggered to his feet, dragging his blade through the charred remains of what was once tall grass along the forest’s edge. The kind of tall slender grass that had bent and swayed in the wind. Kane waited in the same place Kenshin had last left him, the warhorse still tethered to a tree trunk at the outskirts of the clearing. Without even bothering to wipe the crimson stains from his katana, Kenshin sheathed his sword and heaved himself into the saddle.

  His head felt as though it had been split in two and sewn back together. Again Kenshin lifted his hands before his face.

  Not his blood. But still his pain.

  He did not understand what had happened. Could not understand what might have caused anyone to commit such atrocities. The echo of a scream filled his ears, silencing all else. Except the promise of future torment.

  Kenshin squeezed his eyes shut.

  It was not him. He had not done that.

  He would never do that.

  —

  In the shadow of a thorny underbrush nearby, a ghostly grey fox watched Hattori Kenshin reel to his horse. Watched him stare in horror at his bloodied hands.

  The fox smiled like a rogue, its eyes warming to yellow, then fading to black. It waited until the Dragon of Kai rode from the clearing.

  Then it vanished in a twist of smoke.

  In its wake, a black flower blossomed to life, its center pulsing with the beat of a heart.

  Drumming out a warning.

  Or perhaps a message.

  A MURDEROUS RAMPAGE

  It turned out that Ren—her first and finest tormentor—was also perhaps one of the finest singers Mariko had ever encountered in her life.

  She’d only discovered this truth in the last few moments. And it had shocked her. Forced her to appreciate the many quiddities of life. While riding with the Black Clan toward the watering hole in which Mariko had first encountered them, Haruki the metalsmith had begun to sing. In vain she’d wished to join in—especially since this was the first time in the three weeks she’d been in their camp that they’d brought her with them to the watering hole. On several occasions many of them had left together at night, returning ribald and robust with drink.

  Reminding Mariko of her place, which was always removed.

  Until today.

  Haruki’s song was a sweet song, with the easy kind of verses that encouraged improvisation. As several of the other members began joining in, the tune became bawdier. Their voices became rowdier.

  When Yoshi began to sing of ample bosoms, Mariko quickly urged her steed forward—beyond their earshot—lest the next verse fall to her. She may be pretending to be a young man, but she wasn’t quite certain what a young man would most like to sing about when it came to the fairer sex.

  Naked women? Certainly.

  But what exactly was it about female nakedness that would be attractive? It was just a body. A form. A vessel. Truly it was a puzzle. Breasts were just breasts, were they not? The most fascinating thing about any woman should be her mind, should it not?

  Of course not.

  Mariko almost groaned when she heard the unmistakable click of Ōkami’s tongue at her side. He slowed his warhorse to match the pace of hers. And leaned close.

  “Are you not interested in the song, Takeo?” he teased. The Wolf looked to be in a fine mood on this late afternoon. Briefly Mariko wondered what his angle might be. What this ploy might cost her.

>   Then decided it didn’t matter.

  “I should think you would be far more interested in this sort of song than I, Tsuneoki.” She grinned.

  From the corner of her eye, Mariko caught the curve of his lip. A sly, scarred smile.

  “Is that meant to be a testament to my prowess?” Ōkami spoke in low tones, his eyes gleaming. The suggestiveness in his words caused the blood to rise in her neck. Behind them, the sun was starting its slow descent, the darkness reaching for it from beyond the horizon. And Mariko was suddenly reminded. How a night sky darkened words as well. Imbued them with shadowed meaning.

  What once was innocent became illicit with nothing but a glance.

  The searing warmth of Ōkami’s touch that night beside the hot springs. The fire that had burned through her veins.

  Mariko shook her head quickly. “It’s rather a testament to your ridiculousness.”

  “Such cruelty.” He tsked. “When all I strive for each day is to convince my shadow I’m someone worth following.”

  She glanced down at the long, thin silhouette trailing at his back. It looked jagged and uncertain. Appropriate. “Perhaps you should try harder.”

  “Would it be so hard to say something nice? Just once.”

  “I shall,” she said simply. “After you show me how.”

  He laughed.

  They were far in front of the other men now. Riding side by side.

  The rōnin and the warrior girl in disguise.

  Mariko wanted to hate Ōkami. But the memory of his hands sifting through her hair. Of the way his eyes turned up when he smiled. The way his entire demeanor softened when he meant it. When he was true.

  Ōkami was such an enigma. A boy without honor, who nevertheless did honorable things. Like save Mariko when he could have left her to fend for herself. Or stop to leave money for an elderly woman when he should have been fleeing the imperial city. Like when he kept her secret. Despite the fact that his loyalties remained elsewhere.

  Mariko glanced at him furtively. Saw the way his strong fingers lightly grasped the crimson fabric of his reins. Remembered the way his lips shaped his words. Ōkami did everything with the natural grace of a boy absent care. He was not calculating. He was instinctual.