Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(20)

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.

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.