by Renee Ahdieh
“That … sounds like something Yoshi would say,” Mariko said as she wiped the tears from her chin.
Ōkami laughed. “It’s very irritating, isn’t it? He was always so irritating.”
The sound of his amusement lessened the grip around her heart. “Irritating in that perfectly Yoshi way.” She chewed at her cheek. “Did he suffer?”
“A little. But I stayed with him until it was over.”
“That must have been difficult to watch. It was kind of you to do that.”
He laughed again, the sound strained. “Uncharacteristically unselfish, no?”
Mariko frowned. “You are many things, some of them quite troubling. But I think you pretend to be selfish and unkind so no one expects better of you. In truth, I think you are extraordinarily kind at heart. And loyal to a fault.”
At her words, a shadow fell across his features. “Then we really do need to get to know each other better,” Ōkami said. “On that score, I feel congratulations are in order.” Something glinted in his gaze, like the edge of a blade being sharpened on a whetstone. “It appears your betrothed is well on his way to falling hopelessly in love with you. Well done on that account.”
It took Mariko a breath to see the truth beneath his words. “Are you jealous?”
A pause. “Only a fool would not be.”
“That’s ridiculous. Jealousy is for boorish people. Are you a boor?”
“Of course I am. And of course I would be jealous. That steaming heap of refuse doesn’t have to sleep in a barred cell. He can gaze at the moonlight whenever he wishes,” he muttered.
“It’s a shame the moon has eyes for another.” With a secretive smile, Mariko used the chopstick to pry away a final piece of hardened wax. She lifted the makeshift key into the light to check it a final time before placing it into the lock. As it engaged the tumblers, she turned it gently. Something began to shift inside, the metal components creaking, giving way.
It’s going to work.
The next instant, bits of wax fell apart around her hands as the metal from the tortoiseshell pin twisted free. Mariko sat there, allowing herself to go numb, the last traces of joy fading from her chest like a flame sputtering in the darkness. Her shoulders sagged forward, the despair gripping her stomach from the inside.
“It was a good idea,” Ōkami said gently. “For a useless girl.”
With a muffled shout, Mariko grabbed the broken pieces of wax and threw them past the bars, toward his head. She sat back on her heels, her body wilting from defeat. They both waited until her frustration began to fade. Then Ōkami’s features turned serious. He shifted forward, his chains scraping along the stone. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For defying all the odds to try to rescue a selfish thief who lied to you at every turn. You are the least useless warrior I’ve ever met, Lady Manko. Never forget that.”
The hairs on her neck stood on end.
He’s trying to say good-bye.
Mariko refused to allow it. “This is far from over, Lord Ranmaru.” Her eyes darted around, as though she could find an answer in the chilly darkness. “What is stopping you from turning into smoke and disappearing? Is it me? Are you so worried about my safety that you would continue subjecting yourself to this barbarism?”
Ōkami frowned. “No. The light of the moon needs to touch my skin in order for the magic to work.” He inhaled, as though he wished to steel himself for the next admission. “The demon I serve is cleaved from darkness. In order to wield its power, I had to swear several oaths, the first being that I cannot call upon it if I am beyond the light of the moon. If I even attempt it, I might lose control entirely.”
“What?” Fear caused Mariko’s voice to splinter. “What other oaths did you swear to a demon of darkness? Why would you do such a thing?”
“I was a boy of ten when it happened.” Ōkami’s expression turned somber. “And you’ve known what I am since the night we first met—self-serving at every turn. The sort of boy who risks his well-being in order to wield dark power. Who permits his best friend to assume his identity and all the perils that come with it.” He shuttered his gaze. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with me anymore, Mariko. It’s a mistake.”
Anger ignited in her chest. “If you didn’t want me concerning myself with you, perhaps you should have considered that before—”
“I did not mean you made a mistake in caring about me. I meant that you have far more pressing concerns.” Ōkami took in another deep breath. “Today the emperor informed me that your marriage to his clod of a brother will take place in the coming days.” His words became clipped as he spoke, as though he were trying to marshal his fury. And failing miserably.
Mariko blinked, her mouth hanging ajar. “So soon.” She shook off the sense of foreboding that began sinking its claws into her. “I don’t think Raiden is of the same mind.” Her voice turned resolute. “He barely spent a moment in my company on the journey here, and it’s clear he only tolerates my presence as a courtesy.”
“It doesn’t matter. Pushing your marriage forward is a way to test your loyalty and drive me to ruin, all at once.” Ōkami kept still. “Though I believe Roku remains uncertain of our connection, I fear he will soon realize the truth.” His laughter was cold, its echo hollow. “Our deepest truths are usually the hardest to conceal.”
Though it was inopportune and inappropriate, that same mixture of pleasure and pain gripped Mariko again, as though a balm had been applied to a wound. It burned and soothed all at once. She leaned her forehead against the cold iron bars without thinking. Simply wishing she could be closer to him.
Perhaps this was what it meant to feel love. To be together and apart in the same instant.
Be water.
Mariko nodded as though a spirit had whispered to her through the seeping stone walls. “You once told me I was water,” she said to Ōkami. “It is something I think about a great deal when I’m left alone with my thoughts. Water shifts and flows with its surroundings, but I’ve realized something else. Still waters turn foul over time. Even if I am uncertain of the destination, I must keep moving. You must keep moving, before you rot from the inside out. Do not give up.”
Ōkami did not respond immediately. “If you are water, I am fire. Fire destroys all that it touches. I will not destroy the people I love. Not anymore.”
“That’s the excuse of a weak man. You owe those who love you a great deal more than that. I’m not leaving here until you tell me what we should do—until we come up with a plan, together.” Mariko filled her words with all the conviction she could muster. “Though you’ve never wished to be a leader, it’s time for you to be more. To be better and stronger and wiser than this.”
Ōkami kept silent as he studied her through the iron bars of his cell. “I would never presume to tell you what to do, Mariko. I can only tell you what I want.”
“What do you want, then?”
He crossed his arms, then wiped his chin, the wound from his head oozing a fresh trail of blood down his face. Despite his injuries, his battered features managed to look circumspect. “I want you to get as far away from the city as possible, perhaps meet a nice young man—whom I would find deeply flawed—and build a life apart from this world and its poison.” Though Ōkami spoke in an almost teasing fashion, Mariko recognized the truth hidden beneath the sarcasm.
“That’s unfortunate,” she replied in an equally sarcastic tone. “Since it’s clear I don’t like nice young men, I’m afraid I can’t help you with any of that. What else do you want?”
Ōkami pressed his hands to the earth and pushed himself to standing, each of his motions a struggle, every movement marred by pain. Mariko took to her feet with him, as though she were offering him a shoulder to lean on. A hand to hold. The support she had not been able to give him earlier today.
They stood across from each other—bars of iron and blood and darkness separating them—yet Mariko felt his presence as though he stoo
d beside her, his fingers curled around hers, a cloak falling across her shoulders.
“I want to tell you I love you, without chains around my feet,” Ōkami said. “Without reservations.”
Mariko nodded, unable to speak.
He continued. “I want to hold you as I say it. Beneath an open sky.”
She inhaled carefully, her heart thrumming in her chest. “Why?”
“You look like you need to be held.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
“No.” He smiled as he struggled to keep his body straight, every motion visibly taxing. “Sometimes we just need to be held.” It sounded soft, each word like a caress.
She swallowed, the ache in her chest spreading to her fingertips. “Unfortunately for us both, I can’t help you with that. Anything else?” Mariko reached for one of the bars to steady herself.
“I want to touch you,” Ōkami said softly. Shockingly. The moonlight slipped behind a fleece of clouds, the darkness deepening around them.
“Ōkami, I—”
“I want to run my hands across your skin and listen to you sigh.”
Though she could no longer see past the bars, a fire burst to life in her core. This was not appropriate. Now was not the time for him to say such things, let alone for her to listen. “Stop it.” Mariko gripped the iron tightly. “I can’t think of a worse time and place for you to say something like that to me.”
“We do what we must.” He repeated his earlier words.
The clouds passed, and the white light of the moon streamed through the window once more, as though it had always been watching over them. Merely turned an eye for an instant.
Flustered by the flurry of emotions warring within her, Mariko began gathering her things. “I’ll work tonight to devise a different plan for helping you escape.” She stopped, her mind moving faster than her lips. “How cold does it get down here?”
“Cold enough.”
“Have you ever seen any signs of ice?”
Ōkami shook his head. “You don’t need to—”
“Stop talking unless you have something worthwhile to say.”
He laughed under his breath.
Mariko smiled to herself, then tightened the cord around her waist before collecting her things to leave.
“Mariko.”
Again the way Ōkami said her name rippled down her body—the hot chased by the cold—from the nape of her neck toward her toes. She both hated and loved it all at once, this blending of extremes. “What now?”
“I want one more thing.”
She turned his way. Waited.
The chains behind Ōkami clanged together as he took a single step forward, grimacing the entire time. “Come here.”
Under normal circumstances, Mariko would have rebuffed such orders, especially coming from him. But it did not sound like a directive now. It sounded like a plea. As Mariko drew closer, he took another step toward her, his chains losing the last of their slack. Ōkami moved as far as his bindings would allow, until his hands were balled into raised fists.
The closer he came toward that single stripe of moonlight, Mariko could see more evidence of all they had done to him. Every cut. Every bruise. Every burn.
The ink seared into his skin.
Loyalty.
Her heart pounded at the way Ōkami looked at her, the way he studied her …
As though he might forget the lines of her face.
Mariko took hold of the bars in both hands, gripping them forcefully, her fingers turning bloodless. “What do you want, Ōkami?”
His lips curled upward. “That metal pin.”
Ever the Hero, Ever the Villain
His father used to say that a man could be a leader or a follower.
But never both.
In moments like these, Kenshin understood the comfort of taking orders, rather than of being the one to give them. Leaders needed to know what lay around the next bend, even when moving through uncharted territory. A follower need only concern himself with each of his steps. Each of his breaths. He could move forward, oblivious to the path ahead. Trusting in those left to make the decisions.
If Kenshin was only a follower for the rest of his life, then perhaps he could remain as he was now. Comfortable. Adrift in the waters of a summer sea.
Drunk.
Hattori Kenshin had lost track of time. The feeling was a supremely blissful one. He assumed several hours had passed since the elegant jinrikisha had delivered him to the front of the finest teahouse in Hanami. Several hours since the silk screens had slid closed and his first drink had been poured. Now Kenshin found himself lounging on a lustrous cushion, listening to the distant chiming of music, the occasional splashing of a drink. The titters of feminine laughter.
He let his head fall back and his eyes drift closed for an instant. When he opened them again, his vision swam in a slow circle before it focused, seeking something on which to ground itself. Kenshin gazed about. At his feet were fresh tatami mats, bordered in deep purple brocade. Above him swung lanterns carved with creatures from a mystical sea. Their shadows danced along the walls suggestively, the blue flames within glowing bright. When he took in a deep breath, the sweet scents of jasmine and white musk rose into his head, wiping his thoughts clean with their fresh, heady perfume.
Making him forget.
Everything about this place was designed to make a man forget. To let him believe—even for just an evening—that he was all he’d ever hoped he could be. Everything his father had dreamed. That his life was one of possibility, instead of disappointment.
Slurring through a spate of laughter, Kenshin took hold of a small porcelain cup. A delicate hand to his right poured another measure of warm sake. Without even a glance in the beautiful geiko’s direction, Kenshin knocked back the drink, its warmth blossoming through his chest, lulling him into a stupor.
The sounds of laughter and merriment faded to a dull roar as Kenshin continued to drink. He sank into the roll of cushioned silk to his right, leaning his weight upon it and closing his eyes once more. He enjoyed the sensation of depriving himself of sight. All his other senses became brighter in response. He let the sounds around him grow until they filled his ears with their cacophony, the scents hanging in the night air bringing to mind carefree days in his past. Enticing him to forget.
A cold hand clawed into his chest, wrapping his heart in a vise, ceasing its soothing beat for an instant.
Kenshin could never forget.
Amaya was gone.
The only young woman he’d ever loved—ever shared anything of meaning with—had perished in a blaze before his eyes, while he’d stood by and watched, unscathed.
Ever the hero. Ever the villain.
Hattori Kenshin—the Dragon of Kai—had failed Muramasa Amaya in every imaginable way. When he’d been given the chance to stand tall, he denied his feelings for her. Then he indulged them in secret to their mutual detriment, when he’d known their dreams for a shared life could amount to nothing. They’d been caught together on an early spring morning. Even now, he remembered it so clearly. Kenshin thought to bring Amaya the first signs of life he found just beyond his family’s land—a handful of tiny white blossoms. In return, she cooked fukinoto for him—the first plant to push through the frost and reach for the sun.
Even apart, they’d shared the same thought. The same wish for each other.
He still remembered how the strange little vegetable tasted on his tongue. Bitter, yet full of life and promise.
After discovering them together, Kenshin’s mother had quietly demanded that her son stop seeing Amaya. Though the girl was the daughter of a famed artisan, she did not possess the dowry or status the Hattori clan required to wed their only son and advance their position. At least his mother had shown some regret for her son’s resulting pain, though she was quick to silence any desire to coddle it. His father had been … even less kind about the matter, though he didn’t order his son to stop seeing the daughter of his
renowned sword maker, Muramasa Sengo.
Interestingly, it was his father’s attitude that finally drove Kenshin to put an end to his relationship with Amaya. Even now—while he lounged in the most expensive teahouse in Inako, filled to the brink with its finest sake—Kenshin felt his father’s words sear through his mind with the freshness of dried kindling.
Dally with her, if you wish. But promise her nothing. There are ways to get what you want from young women, without being burdened by the weight of expectation. If you do this well, you may even be allowed to continue seeing her once we secure an advantageous union for you. I have done much for Muramasa Sengo and his daughter. We’ve given them a home here, a place for him to further hone his craft in comfort. Sengo-sama will turn a blind eye if we wish him to do so. Of that I have no doubt.
The horror Kenshin had felt at his father’s callous disregard for Amaya’s future was all the motivation he’d needed to cease things with her. He cared for Amaya too much to allow any man—even his own father—to look upon her with such disdain. And Kenshin loved her too much to even hint at the idea that she could be his mistress.
Amaya was worth so much more than that.
Kenshin put out his hand for another measure of sake. The warm liquid no longer burned his throat. His limbs were heavy, though he felt more unburdened with every sip he took. As though nothing of import remained. As though he owed no one allegiance or expectation. The idea itself was so freeing. Even if it was only for this night, he needed a drop of hope amid a sea of joylessness.
He tried to paste a smile to his face. Thought to see if it was possible at all. The expression felt foreign to him in a way he’d never known. After all, such a gesture was meant to be offered without consideration. But pain gave the simplest actions meaning. What had been effortless was now more difficult than it had ever been before. This morning, it had taken far more strength than was permissible for Kenshin to rouse himself from his sleeping pallet. In a fit of rage, he’d smashed an oil lantern against the silk screens of the sliding doors near his chamber. The oil had dripped down the silk, forming an eerily beautiful pattern on the wall, like the branches of broken tree, trying to take root.