“Forgive me, but I was not quicker than my attacker, my lord,” Kenshin replied curtly. “In battle, that is all that matters.”
Raiden studied him for a time, his expression perplexed. “The greater question is why did they attack you? I thought they were trying to assassinate my brother. But it was clear at least one of the masked men was aiming for you.” He brushed a hand across his jaw. “Or was the boy who jumped from the roof not wearing a mask? I could not be certain.”
“I . . . do not know, my lord.” Kenshin frowned as he recalled the flurry of movement above him. The crash of a body against his back. The wash of sudden darkness.
Compounded by another, far more pressing concern:
Why had his assailant not finished him off when given the chance? Especially when he’d been afforded the advantage of higher ground?
“These men were far too organized to have been mere drunkards,” Raiden continued. “It’s clear they were positioned at the teahouse intentionally. But to what end?”
The crown prince smiled as he took another sip of sake. “The true matter of import, brother, is that these masked men were present on the same night we were. They attacked us before we could even get inside the teahouse. Which means someone plotted to lie in wait for us and catch us unawares. I would like to know who it was.”
Kenshin said nothing as the attendant—a young girl wearing a kimono that briefly brought to mind the color of Amaya’s grey eyes—removed a curved bone needle and a spiral of thread. She began to stitch shut the wound on Kenshin’s forehead. Each time the needle passed through his skin, his thoughts wove through his mind.
Consumed with worry for his sister.
Why were these men waiting for them? Did they have anything to do with Mariko’s disappearance?
His sister’s face washed across his vision again.
But it was not possible. It could not be possible.
Was it possible?
A part of Kenshin wanted to ask Raiden and Roku if anyone in the city of Inako knew the identities of those in the Black Clan. If any member of the nobility relied on their services in any capacity. But if Kenshin did ask, then he would be divulging his true intentions in coming to Inako.
And he did not yet trust anyone enough to do that. Not yet. Much less any member of the Minamoto clan. Not when he was still so uncertain as to where their loyalties might lie.
Kenshin watched the steady hands of the servant girl as they moved to stitch the wound on his arm.
Mariko had always been a terrible seamstress.
—
That night—in his dreams—Kenshin saw a boy in black wearing the mask of his sister’s face.
Beneath a pair of saurian eyes.
THE HOT SPRINGS
Mariko had not thought this could be possible.
But she was being rewarded by the Black Clan. Despite the fact that she’d recently injured their champion at a teahouse in Hanami.
Twice over.
Ranmaru had thanked her personally for everything she’d done to warn them at the teahouse. About the imperial troops. About the arrival of the crown prince. All she’d done to save Ōkami.
And—though the lies blistered her ears—Mariko was not one to return a gift.
She settled into the steaming water, luxuriating in the feel of its silky warmth. It seemed to sap the very weariness from her bones. The sadness from her skin.
It had been so long since Mariko had had a proper bath.
As a reward for all her efforts, Ranmaru had given her leave to travel up the mountain path cut into the outcropping near Haruki’s tent. Toward a gathering of hot springs, positioned above the lake that served as another natural boundary of the Black Clan’s camp. Of course Ranmaru didn’t trust her fully yet—as he’d instructed Ren to remain at the base of the footpath, ready to catch her should she try to flee—but at least it was a beginning. A bare measure of trust.
Trust Mariko desperately needed in order to rise in their ranks.
As she settled against a smooth stone—pausing to let its surface knead the tension from between her shoulders—she stopped to think of all that had transpired last night.
In truth—despite the enormous peril to her brother—it had been a rather successful evening. Mariko had learned a great deal. Experienced things she’d never dreamed of experiencing. Taken part in an actual fight.
Soon Takeda Ranmaru may be asking me for advice. After that he might even be confiding in me. Telling me every secret I wish to know.
The possibilities warmed her spirits almost as much as the water warmed her bones.
A cloud of steam eased up her neck as Mariko lowered herself beneath the surface of the hot springs, until the water touched just beneath her chin. She sighed loudly. Such hot springs were a miracle. A miracle heated by the sharp, almost mint-like vapors emanating from the mountain, as well as the earth beneath it. The same combination of elements that produced the bright yellow rocks littering her surroundings. Mariko was familiar with these slightly noxious stones. There had been a time when the ancient mountain in the distance had erupted, spewing molten earth into the sky and acrid ash into the air.
Strange how the same thing that could destroy so many lives could also create such healing waters.
The steam rose before her face, clouding her vision. Mariko untied her hair from its topknot and leaned back, soaking her filthy scalp.
Just as she’d settled into a place of serene calm, the branches nearby rustled. Mariko’s head snapped up. She almost yelped at the sight before her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded of her intruder. Hating that her voice trembled at the last.
Ōkami stood along the edge of the hot springs, studying her coolly. “You’re not the only one to have sustained injuries last night.”
Mariko leveled him with an equally dispassionate stare. “Wait your turn, Asano Tsuneoki.”
“Keep speaking to me in such a manner, Sanada Takeo. See if I don’t toss you from the water, ass over feet.” Ōkami began untying his kosode.
Alarm flashed through her, from her nape toward her toes. Briefly Mariko offered thanks to the heat of the water. At least it should mask the rush of color rising in her face.
Her reaction was not because she was about to see Ōkami naked. Mariko had seen naked men before. Nudity did not bother her. But if Ōkami came close to her. If he saw what the water and steam might fail to conceal . . .
All would be undone.
She backed away, then caught herself. Far too hasty. If she fled, Mariko would only draw further attention to herself. Not that she could in fact flee.
As she, too, was naked.
Also there was the matter of Ren, undoubtedly waiting for her to even attempt running, so that he could threaten to cut her into pieces or feed her to Ranmaru’s horse or afflict whatever ghastly torment he’d dreamed up for the day.
Mariko kept her eyes steady, all while allowing her sight to blur. Even if she’d seen naked men before, she did not wish to add the image of Ōkami to her memory. Something about it felt . . . unseemly. Untoward.
When a brief image of tawny, lithe muscle cut across her vision as Ōkami entered the hot springs, Mariko swallowed.
“Could you not at the very least grant me this moment of peace?” she grumbled while glancing away. “I did in fact save you.”
Ōkami snorted. “Yet another lie. As far as I’m concerned, you nearly killed me. Twice.”
“The wound on your back is only a flesh wound.” Mariko crossed her arms beneath the water. “And the wound on your head is barely a scratch.” A groove formed between her brows. “But I suppose it is possible these tiny injuries could be causing you a great deal of pain. If you’d like, I suppose—”
“What?” Ōkami stood suddenly, and Mariko ignored the way the hot water rolled down the sinew
of his arms. The way the steam unfurled above his skin in thick coils. “Tiny injuries? Do you have any idea what it feels like to be stabbed in the back by a spinning six-bladed dagger?”
Mariko canted her head. “I’m sure Yoshi has a tea that can help ease your pain.” She cut her eyes. “And perhaps Yumi can offer her assistance the next time you’re in Hanami.”
“Tea?” Ōkami pointed at the purple bruise on the side of his jaw. “You honestly think tea will repair the damage of a metal lantern being swung at my face?”
“I swung that lantern to save you!” Mariko insisted. “What happened after could not be helped.”
“Said the scorpion.”
Mariko’s mother had once said the very same thing to her. It rankled her to hear the words fall from Ōkami’s scarred lips. Her hands balled into fists beneath the water. “I am not the scorpion.”
“Of course you are. You’re absolutely willing to kill something in order to save it.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’ve always hated that story.”
A half smile curled up one side of Ōkami’s face as he scrubbed the dripping water from his jaw. Massaged the shoulder closest to his wound. Mariko refused to notice the way the water welled in the hollows of his muscles. The way it beaded across his sun-bronzed skin.
No. That was the way of treachery.
Mariko circled her arms through the water. As though she were warding the demons away.
“You take to water well,” Ōkami commented. “It appears Akira-san was right.”
It never ceased to needle Mariko immeasurably. How this boy was able to frustrate her with so little effort. “For the last time, I am not water.”
“My god, you are stubborn.”
“Another reason I cannot possibly be water.” Though there was heat to her words, she kept her voice even. “Water is temperamental. It doesn’t assume any shape on its own. It takes the shape of whatever is around it. And I have never wished to be controlled by my surroundings.”
“And yet you are, all the same.”
She splashed water at him.
His smile was thoughtful. “Water is not beholden to anything. It can cut through rock. It can vanish into thin air. With time, it can even destroy iron. You should not see it as a weakness.”
“If I am water, then what are you?”
“My father always said I was fire.”
This observation surprised her. Ōkami had always struck her as unnervingly cool-tempered. Save for the incident outside the teahouse, Mariko had found him to be almost mild-mannered. At times even cold. Then she remembered Ranmaru’s tale by the jubokko. Ōkami had burned the tent of his father’s accuser.
Mariko found she wished to know more. “You say you are fire as though you don’t believe it to be true.”
“I believe we are all things, depending on the situation. Given the right time and the right circumstance, any man or woman can be water or fire or earth or wind.”
“You deny the truth of our inclinations.”
“No. I deny being a slave to any one thing. In any situation we can choose who we are and choose who we want to be.”
“That’s . . . true,” Mariko admitted.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not an absolute fool.”
“I never thought you were a fool. I’ve thought you were lazy. Perhaps even ridiculous at times. But never a fool.”
“A lie. You never truly thought I was ridiculous. That’s why it bothered you so.”
Briefly Mariko recalled the night they’d first met. “No. I actually did think you were ridiculous once. That’s what bothered me so.”
“More honesty. I like you much more when you’re honest, Sanada Takeo.”
“But you don’t mind me when I lie?”
Ōkami leaned back against a stone, his smile perfectly indolent. “Perhaps. As long as you’re not lying to me.”
Mariko wanted to splash him again. Wanted to best him in all ways. Wanted to kiss him silent.
The last thought startled her.
Where had it come from? It was so utterly illogical. So fiercely wrong. She’d never wished to kiss anyone before. Never wished to worry any boy’s lower lip between her teeth before.
To worry it until his words melted on her tongue.
Ōkami studied her, as though he could sense the tumult of her thoughts. And wished to take advantage of it. “Did you truly know who those men were when they first arrived?”
The question caught her off guard. “Of course I did.”
“Liar. You climbed onto the rooftop before they arrived at the teahouse. Why?”
Mariko had suspected he’d known she was there all along. “I thought I saw imperial soldiers when I left to relieve myself. So I climbed onto the rooftop to confirm who they were.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you were spying on me. And I want to know why.”
A wave of shock descended on her. Mariko had not expected him to ask that question quite so bluntly. “If I were spying on you, why would I reveal myself in an effort to spare you?” She pressed her back into the smooth rock along the edge of the hot spring as she considered how best to redirect the tenor of this conversation in her favor. “Did you know who all the men were as soon as you saw them?” Mariko filled her voice with accusation. “I didn’t recognize one of them.”
“I recognized Minamoto Raiden. It took only a moment’s work to realize the scrawny little brat at his back was the crown prince. The remaining boy in their company took me a bit more time.” He shot her a bladed smile. “Your attempt to redirect this conversation was rather clever, by the way.”
Never mind that. Here was a chance for Mariko to learn something of value. Something about her family. “Who was the last boy?”
The angles in Ōkami’s face hollowed into slashes. “The Dragon of Kai. Strange how he did not seem nearly as fearsome in person.”
“Who?” Mariko was proud that she did not stammer. Nor did she even blink.
“Another lie. Why are you lying about what you already know?”
“I truly don’t know who the Dragon of Kai is.”
Ōkami paused. “He’s the son of a power-hungry idiot.”
Mariko stiffened. “In that sense, you could be speaking about anyone.”
“No. Hattori Kano would sell his own soul if it meant currying favor. And he breeds the same kind of idiocy in those around him. Though I will say his son can wield a sword with a passable amount of skill.”
Mariko could no longer listen to him speak ill of her family. So she borrowed his own tactic. “What did you say to Yumi that made her cry?”
Two could play at this game of drawing out a reaction.
It frustrated her that Ōkami only narrowed his dark eyes once more.
“I knew you were there. Watching us,” he said softly.
“You disappeared. Like you’ve been disappearing this entire week. When I climbed onto the rooftop to watch the imperial troops, I saw you with her.” Mariko chewed on her inner cheek. “And you’re a fool to pursue the same girl that Ranmaru loves, too.”
A sneer pulled at a corner of Ōkami’s mouth. “Too?”
“It’s clear you love her.”
He paused again. In obvious deliberation. “Of course I love her.” Ōkami sank beneath the water, keeping nothing but his head above the surface. The resulting waves rippled against her skin. Reminding her they shared a bath as heated as their words.
The very idea set her heart apace. She was reminded of her earlier thought. Her earlier wish to kiss him silent. How traitorous and wrong it was. How it had become a desire she could no longer deny.
“I see,” Mariko said slowly, hating how much everything about him bothered her.
When he did not reply immediately, it became clear Ōkami was still considering something. Per
haps a course of action. Finally he came to a hesitant decision.
“Yumi is my sister.”
Mariko’s eyes went wide. She caught the relief flooding through her and despised herself even more for it. “You let your sister become a maiko?”
“She’s safe in Hanami. Safer than she would be here in Jukai forest. And safer than she’d ever be if anyone in Inako found out who she is. Who her family is.” He slid closer, and Mariko flattened against the rock, wishing it would move with her. Wrap her like a cloak. “I’m . . . trusting you with this, Sanada Takeo. Against my better judgment. If you tell anyone who Yumi is, I will personally throw you to the jubokko and watch it drain you of your life’s blood without a moment’s thought.”
“I told you.” Mariko stared back at him. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He did not smile. “And you need to tell me you understand what I’m saying.”
“Do you want me to promise?”
“Promises mean nothing to me.” Ōkami’s tone was soft. Severe. “They are words said to assuage any fool who wishes to believe.”
“Then what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me you understand that I will kill you—without pause—if you ever betray me.” His onyx eyes glittered. “Do you know the story about the rabbit who played with fire?”
He burned to death, along with all his loved ones.
“I understand what you’re saying,” Mariko replied.
Ōkami’s brows lifted in question.
She clarified, though her hands balled into fists beneath the water. “I understand you will set me to flame if I ever betray you.”
But not if I destroy you first.
—
Ōkami briefly considered telling Ranmaru about his most recent interaction with Sanada Takeo. Briefly considered telling his friend about his suspicions.
That the slight boy with the doe-like eyes had been sent by their enemies in Inako to spy on the Black Clan.
But whenever Ōkami had voiced his concerns with regard to their newest recruit, Ranmaru had been unmoved. Almost uninterested. And if Ōkami had to disclose all that happened, he would need to tell his best friend what Sanada Takeo knew about Yumi.