Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(35)

“May I ask what it is you struggle with most?” Mariko prodded.

Yoshi rubbed a sleeve on the sweat gathering above his brow. Then he wandered to the bushes to retrieve the blade he’d thrown at Ren, prying it from where the kunai was embedded in the tree trunk. He lifted the dagger into the light, then lovingly restored it to its place at his hip.

“Learning a new blade,” he replied.

A groove formed at the bridge of Mariko’s nose.

Yoshi said, “Every blade has its own path. Every handle is different. Every tang is unique. The balance of every dagger is its own.”

Again Mariko lingered in thought. “Would consistency not make it better? Consistency in the forging of the steel. In the forming of the blade.”

“Consistency is not enough. It doesn’t account for chance, and there is always a chance the handle will strike the mark instead of the blade. No amount of skill can thwart it every time.”

Mariko studied the hooked dagger Yoshi had used to shave slices of pickled ginger. “Two blades affixed in their centers like a cross would work better.” She considered further. “Or perhaps even three. Like a star.”

“Why not four?” Yoshi said with amusement. “Alas, you will never see me wielding a cumbersome thing like that. Any effective kunai would need to be light.” In one flowing motion, he whipped a blade from its sheath and hurled it toward the same branch. “Quick.”

Mariko considered the quivering handle. Yoshi had thrown it to strike the exact same place as before. It fit into the previous divot at a near-identical angle. The way the handle shook—trembled into solid motion—brought to mind ōkami and his mysterious abilities. Mariko frowned.

She did not wish to be reminded of anything she did not yet understand.

Especially something pertaining to the Wolf.

Mariko lowered into a crouch. Picked up a twig. Began to draw.

Indeed.

Why not four?





JUBOKKO





That night, Mariko woke from her slumber to the sound of screaming.

It startled her into awareness, like a splash of icy water. Her forehead grazed the rock she’d been using as a pillow. Her fingernails dug into the damp soil.

The screams echoing through the forest were the screams of a tortured animal. Not a man.

It couldn’t be a man.

No human could make sounds like these.

As the screams continued, each beat of her heart crashed through her, a drum pulled taut beneath her skin. She opened one eye, trying to focus on the forest’s shadows. Trying to drown out the sounds of pure suffering.

Men with torches were massing in the distance. Several rings of fire blurred through the trees.

For a moment, Mariko considered running. The Black Clan was distracted. Perhaps they would not notice her slipping into the night. Perhaps she could find her way out of the forest without tripping any of their supposed traps.

Perhaps.

A foot kicked the small of her back, frightening her all the more.

“Get up.” It was Ren. “Now.” The tenor of his voice was surprisingly sad.

Mariko scrambled to her feet, too unnerved by the screams to protest. She followed Ren as he wove through the trees, his torch held high.

Save for the screaming, the forest had grown eerily silent. The wind did not stir through the branches. Nor did Mariko hear the sound of any life in the air about her. Only the crackle of Ren’s torch. The snapping of twigs beneath her bare feet.

And the screams.

Ren walked silently, Mariko at his back. As they made their way toward the cluster of torches, the screaming grew louder.

Mariko refrained from covering her ears.

They approached several members of the Black Clan, standing around the base of a tree, its branches twisting into the darkness like skeletal fingers stretching for the sky.

At first glance, the tree appeared completely normal.

What Mariko saw once her eyes adjusted to the shadows almost elicited a scream from her own lips.

At the base of the tree was a young man. His limbs were tangled in the roots. Roots that had risen from the soil, wrapping around him like a thorny vine. Thin rivulets of blood dripped down his face. Down the skin of his arms. Across the meat of his stomach.

The thorns had pierced through the young man’s skin. All over his body, the vines squeezed tight, their thorns cutting deeper and deeper.

But the horror did not stop there.

When the thud of her pulse lessened, Mariko heard a slurping sound emit from the vines, followed by the rustle of dark leaves bursting to life in its skeletal branches.

The vines—the tree itself—was feeding on the boy.

The tree was draining him of blood.

He screamed again, the sound amplified by raw anguish.

Ranmaru and ōkami stood before him, watching.

Mariko wanted to plead for mercy. Surely they could cut the boy away from the branches. Save him from such a slow, horrific death. She reached for a thorny branch, with a mind to rip it from the ground itself.

Quicker than a spark, ōkami seized her by the elbow. “Don’t touch it.”

She blinked, the warmth of his hand searing through the thin hemp of her stolen kosode. He looked strangely severe. Much more so than ever before. His dark eyes roved across her face. Whatever he saw there briefly softened his expression.

“If you touch it, the jubokko will snare you, too,” he said.