Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(57)

She glanced at the tall, capable figure striding before her. An odd feeling of warmth settled over her chest. Almost akin to trust.

In the same instant, Mariko banished the traitorous thought, letting horror slide into its place. ōkami had nearly attacked her brother, intent on inflicting untold damage. He’d nearly killed Kenshin. After nearly killing Mariko and decimating her convoy.

He deserves everything I do to him. And more.

She glared at his back, seeing the capable figure in a different light. One tinged in sinister tones. The reds of violence, the blacks of death, the greens of vengeance. Blurring lights and slashing weapons. Trailing bands of smoke.

“How are you able to move as you do?” Mariko blurted.

ōkami did not answer.

“Were you born with this ability?” she continued.

His reply was curt. Not once did he look her way. “No.”

Which meant it was the sort of magic gifted to him.

Though Mariko knew it was foolish to press him further, she ached with the need to know who—or what—had gifted such power to ōkami. Ached with the desire to know what this power was. But she also knew better than to ask at this moment.

Soon they paused before a gate surrounded by broken latticework. The timbers used to construct it were greyed, their edges warping. Mariko was certain a solid kick would render the lock at its front useless.

When ōkami paused to knock softly at the entrance, Mariko permitted herself to glance at his face.

In its depths she could discern nothing.

Unsurprising, as always.

The gate unlatched with a rusty whine. A small lamp dangled from the overworked hand of a woman around the same age as Mariko’s grandmother. Her face was kind, but fatigued.

“Tsuneoki-sama!” she said, briefly peering over ōkami’s shoulder at Mariko. “My lord Ranmaru is not with you?”

The use of ōkami’s given name startled Mariko.

Tsuneoki. If he is the son of Asano Naganori—as Ranmaru revealed that night beside the jubokko—then ōkami’s real name is Asano Tsuneoki.

“We were separated in a skirmish.” Though ōkami kept his voice level, Mariko could hear the undercurrent of irritation in his words.

One side of the woman’s mouth dipped lower as she peered closely at the dark stain on his haori. Close enough to notice the telltale signs of blood.

“I see.”

ōkami ignored her frown of concern. “I wanted to apologize in person, Korin-san.” He reached into the folds of his white kosode and drew out a drawstring pouch. With both hands, ōkami passed it to the woman. “This is all I can give you now, as a result of this evening’s . . . events. The rest of the funds have been waylaid for now.”

The lines on her already weathered brow deepened. “What happened? Have we been . . . betrayed?” Her voice nearly broke on the last word.

Which answered the first of Mariko’s many unuttered questions. This woman was not affiliated with the teahouse. ōkami had not brought her money as restitution for tonight’s damages.

“No.” The smallest of sighs passed ōkami’s lips. “It’s only that we’ve been faced with a few complications.”

“By members of the nobility? Or by imperial soldiers?”

He almost smiled. “Both, actually. It appears we’re in high demand this evening.”

The elderly woman leaned against the door frame, steadying her weary body. “You did not have to come tonight, Tsuneoki-sama.” Korin’s voice was gentle. Kind. “If you were involved in any sort of skirmish, it was a risk for you to remain in the city. Your enemies are always searching for you.”

ōkami shook his head. “You were expecting us, Korin-san. And I would not have those in your care wanting for anything.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “The gold you provided last week will buy the children enough clothing and food for the rest of the month. If we are frugal, there may be some left over for next month as well. Do not trouble yourself, Tsuneoki-sama. The Black Clan does so much for us. You protect us. Watch over us as no one else does. Many here in the Iwakura ward owe you debts of thanks for all you do. None among us would ever question your actions. Or your intentions.”

The Black Clan protects her? Helps to supply the people in this ward?

Mariko could not prevent a flicker of confusion from passing across her face. ōkami’s body tensed. As he fought to relax, his gaze slid to her, his features remaining tight.

He’s irritated that I’ve been privy to all this information.

“Very well.” ōkami nodded. “I shall return next week with the rest of the funds.”

When Korin reached to take his hands in her own, Mariko was gripped by a strange sensation. An odd kind of envy. The wish to be cherished with the same kind of open affection. One without agenda. “May the old gods keep you safe.” Korin turned to Mariko. The way the elderly woman studied her made Mariko shrink back into the shadows.

Finally Korin offered her a smile. “And may the new gods keep your young friend safe.”

“He is not my friend.” Though ōkami’s pronouncement was true for them both, his words still stung.

Mariko thought to say something. To respond to either Korin or ōkami with something equally blithe. Equally biting.

Blessedly the night watchman strolled by at that exact moment, ringing his bell to signify the hour.