Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(22)

Ignoring the giant still howling on the ground.

A sudden hush descended on the clearing. And Mariko could once again feel the threat of a storm on the air. About to ignite, like the strike of flint against stone.

She shifted into the shadows along the periphery, her fingers still wrapped around her earthenware cup. Her last resort of a weapon. Something with which to defend herself. Mariko knew if she even attempted to remove the wakizashi at her side—if anyone saw her moving through the darkness with a blade poised at the ready—it might further provoke the bloodlust around her.

As she continued folding into the fringe of branches along the forest’s edge, Mariko’s eyes stayed trained on the circle of men poised around the wailing giant and the dark ghost. The champion of the Black Clan continued to shudder in place. Continued to heave great breaths. His comrades appeared grim. Contrary to what she thought would happen, they did not cheer at this victory.

For it was clear the victory had come at a cost.

The giant’s men took hesitant steps toward him, as though converging on a wounded bear—one just as likely to bite off a helping hand as it would be to lick it.

Mariko moved with great care, scuttling away from the watering hole like a crab into its shell. Her gaze stayed locked on the men across the way. Continued scanning for any notice of her retreat. Or her position.

Then she saw. Saw what no one else sought. What no one else thought to see, preoccupied as they were.

The hissing vulture. The one who had helped the giant provoke the fight.

He stood in a pool of torchlight a body’s length to her left. She watched him slowly ease his hand behind his back. When he shouldered past the brute of a man at his side, Mariko caught a flash of metal.

The vulture’s gaze was fixed on Takeda Ranmaru.

The fear that had been pressing Mariko to flee blossomed into outrage.

He’s cheating.

If they could not win by the rules they themselves had created, they did not deserve to win at all! And Mariko would never allow herself to lose her prey to such inept, unworthy imbeciles.

Without pausing to think, Mariko tossed back her earthenware cup and took in a mouthful of lukewarm sake.

Then she sputtered it in the direction of the torch.

A burst of flame jetted in the hissing vulture’s direction, startling all the men around him. Catching on the sleeve of one nearby.

Cries of outrage emanated from their ranks.

The jet of fire had heightened their awareness. Had forced them from their trances.

All eyes searched for the source of the outburst.

That was . . . an unwise decision, Hattori Mariko.

Either make good on these actions, or flee from this place. Immediately.

Something in the back of her mind told her she would not get far.

The blood draining from her face, Mariko pitched the empty, earthenware cup toward the hissing vulture. It smashed against the back of his skull, knocking him beyond the safety of the shadows. Into the fray.

“He has a dagger,” she accused in a coarse voice. “He’s trying to cheat!”

It took all the work of a moment for the men in the Black Clan to process her words. The hissing vulture lifted his dagger into the light, intent on finishing his task, whatever the cost. Hands and elbows shoved at his back. At his chest. His weapon was ripped from his grasp. None of the men in his company fought to save him. Nor did they attempt to raise their weapons in revolt.

As soon as Mariko glanced toward Ranmaru, she understood why.

While the chaos had unraveled around them, the dark ghost of a boy had taken position before his leader. Though blood still dripped from the wound in his right shoulder, he managed to aim a cutting smile their way. One tinged by cruelty. His bō spun through the air.

Daring anyone to challenge him.

There is no such thing as honor amongst thieves.

“You cheating bastards.” The one-legged cook spat in the dirt. “Leave. Now. Unless you’d care for a real fight.” He unhooked two of the small daggers along his waist, twirling them between his fingertips with all the grace of a master.

The giant began to howl anew, still clutching the shattered bones in his hand. He yelled for his men to help him to his feet, hurling obscenities every which way.

His fury stirred the embers around him. Soon his men began pointing fingers at one another, riling themselves into another frenzy.

Mariko shrank beneath the branches. Away from view.

I should leave.

But she could not. Not yet.

Not until she knew . . . something of value. Something of surety.

“Enough!” Ranmaru yelled above the fracas, his voice aimed at the giant’s men. “Leave here at once, as you agreed. If any of you show yourselves again—if I even smell one of your ilk on a passing breeze—expect that to be the last day you draw breath on this earth.”

The fervor died to a whisper. A moment of decision.

With a grunt, the giant directed his men to depart. Unintelligible grumbling trailed in their wake.

Once they’d left, Ranmaru shifted into view. He glanced at the ghost boy now at his side, a brow raised in question. The Black Clan’s champion lifted his uninjured shoulder. As though his wound were merely a scratch.

Ranmaru nodded.

The one-legged cook threw a dagger into the dirt with a grunt. A moment later, a gold ryō landed in the earth beside it.

“You’re the devil, ōkami,” he muttered harshly.