Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(68)

Ranmaru stepped into his path, his hands raised in peace. “I understand. It isn’t necessary for you to wield swords in battle.” His lips thinned into a hard line. “But it is important that you not forget from where it is you came.”

ōkami remained stubbornly silent.

The leader of the Black Clan tried a different tack. “Your father was—”

“I know who my father was.”

“Good,” Ranmaru said quietly. “And you know who my father was.”

“I never forget. Not a single day of my life do I forget who your father was.”

Hurt flashed across Ranmaru’s eyes. It would be different if ōkami made clear how angry he still was. Showed Ranmaru the pain that shaped his fury instead of rejecting its existence.

But perhaps it was time for them to overcome the mistakes of their pasts. The mistakes of those in their pasts. Ranmaru’s anger had long since passed. But ōkami’s?

It was difficult to move past an emotion so long denied.

“Nevertheless . . .” Ranmaru stepped closer. Close enough to make any other man uncomfortable. It was a tactic Ranmaru had learned from ōkami when they were younger. Stand in another man’s space and watch him squirm. Ranmaru watched now as the tactic nearly worked on his friend. The Wolf almost stepped back in response. Then ōkami cut his gaze. And stood firm.

“Nevertheless,” Ranmaru said again, “starting today, you will spend two afternoons this week teaching Sanada Takeo how to fight with a sword. It doesn’t matter which sword. A katana, a wakizashi, a tantō . . .” He moved his hand in a circle meant to encourage. “All that matters is whether or not the boy can hold his own in a basic fight. If Takeo is to be our newest recruit, he must at least know how to wield a blade.”

ōkami opened his mouth, a slow, cutting retort building, ready to barrel forth.

Ranmaru braced for it. Welcomed it.

There were times when even a howling wolf needed to be silenced.

Then ōkami closed his mouth without uttering a single word. He inhaled slowly through his nose. “Fine.” His shoulders relaxed. “It won’t make any difference anyway. When the boy dies during his first fight, don’t blame me.”

“At that point, it wouldn’t make a difference if I did.”

ōkami snorted. Once more glib and unaffected. “It makes no difference to me anyway.” With that, he shouldered past Ranmaru, back into the morning sun.

Ranmaru shook his head.

One day, these lies were going to catch up with his friend.

On that day, Ranmaru hoped he was there to bear witness.

—

Mariko thought he was joking with her.

Or just wanting to watch her fidget, in that way ōkami liked to watch anyone fidget when faced with his mocking stare.

“Well,” he demanded, “why are you just standing there?”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” she shot back. “How you want me—to stand.” Her voice trailed off.

Mariko swore she saw the muscles in his jaw leap at that. Then ōkami cleared his throat. He strode closer, using the tips of two wooden practice swords to tap her legs until she shifted her feet into the right position for sparring. If Mariko hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought ōkami was trying not to touch her. As though she’d been marked by a demon. Or kissed by a plague.

If he is avoiding me, then perhaps I can use it to my advantage.

ōkami is not the only one who likes to make people uncomfortable.

When the Wolf had glided toward her that morning and ordered her to follow him, Mariko had hated the way her heart had responded, jumping from her chest as though it wished to meet him halfway.

Her stupid heart. It was time she taught it a lesson. Taught it to stay at heel. Here was a chance to get her own back somehow.

If ōkami was mad at her, then she was mad at him, too.

The next time he thwacked the back of her knee and told her to root herself better, Mariko intentionally crumpled into him. ōkami jumped back, as though a tendril of fire had leapt his way. She straightened, then smirked at him. He blinked. For an instant, Mariko thought he might smile.

“Do that again,” he said in a dangerous whisper. “See what happens.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

That time, he did smile. But just barely. Then ōkami stepped an arm’s length away. Without warning, he tossed the wooden sword in her direction. Mariko caught it. But just barely.

The practice sword was heavy, its blade fashioned of solid wood. Made to model the weight of an actual katana. Its surface was smooth, meant to take on the full blow of an opponent’s strike.

Mariko brandished the weapon, hoping she didn’t look quite as green as she felt. “Should I not be practicing with a real blade instead of one intended for a child?”

“This is the type of sword we all use when we are not in battle. It is not just for a child.”

She held the blade in the air with one hand as her eyes ran the length of him. “You don’t want to do this.”

“A master of the obvious.” He snorted. “Truly I’d rather chew sand.” ōkami walked to her side, his practice sword dangling from his fingertips. “Use both hands. Who do you think you are? Musashi?”

Mariko ignored the jibe about the famed swordsman. “Why are you doing this if you don’t want to?”