Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(7)
He’d tracked her. Even with the care Mariko had taken to cover her trail, this man had managed to find her. This shiftless crow who fed on the scraps of his betters. Again she chose to keep silent, secreting the wakizashi completely behind her.
Words would not serve her well with a man such as this.
“Because if you are lost,” he continued at his leisure, “I’d consider it quite a fortunate omen for you. The Black Clan doesn’t take prisoners. Nor does it leave survivors. It’s bad for business, you see. Both theirs and mine.”
Understanding settled on Mariko, its grasp all too tight. As she’d suspected, he was not a member of the Black Clan. Even from the little she’d gathered earlier, the band of masked murderers was far more organized.
Far more precise.
This man—with his filthy feet and soiled garments—was anything but.
When Mariko failed to reply yet again, he furrowed his brow, agitation beginning to take root.
“What if I delivered you to them?” He sidled closer—an arm’s length away—dragging his bō haphazardly through the dark loam at his feet. It should have been threatening, but the man lacked the necessary focus. The necessary discipline of a true warrior. “I’m certain the Black Clan would appreciate me bringing you to them. I can’t imagine they would want word of this failure to reach their employers. Or their competitors.”
As she watched him lose footing on a root, Mariko couldn’t suppress a soft gibe: “Well then, I’d be much obliged if you would lead me to them. It appears they’ve taken a few things of mine. And I would like them back.”
He rasped another laugh, and—even with its lazy resonance—the sound chased down her spine. “You’d almost be amusing if you smiled more.” His lips curled upward. “In case your mother never told you, pretty girls like you should smile. Especially if you’re trying to get a man to do your bidding.”
Mariko stiffened. She hated his words. Hated the suggestion she needed a man to do anything for her.
Hated its truth.
“Don’t worry.” The man swung his bō slowly, directing her to walk before him. “We’ll find the Black Clan. It might take some time. But I happen to know their favorite watering holes ring the western edge of the forest. They’re bound to turn up there sooner or later. And I’m a patient man.” With a sly grin, he removed the coil of fraying rope dangling from his waistband.
Mariko prepared to fight, easing her feet apart. Bending slightly at the knees. Anchoring herself to the earth.
“Besides—” His deepening smile caused her to shudder internally. “You look like excellent company.”
As he uncoiled the rope, Mariko readied her blade. Kenshin had taught her where to strike. Soft places unhampered by bone, like the stomach and the throat. If she could slash above the inside of his knee, his blood would spill fast enough to kill him in mere moments.
Mariko calculated. Considered.
She was so busy in thought that she failed to anticipate his sudden movement.
In an instant, the man had grabbed Mariko by the forearm, jerking her toward him.
She shrieked, pushing back at him. The bō was knocked from his grasp, clattering against the base of a tree trunk. In the ensuing tumult, Mariko sought an angle to slash at his grip. She swung the wakizashi wide, not even caring to aim, hoping to strike anything at all.
Callous laughter rolled from his lips as the man grappled for the wakizashi. His elbow caught the side of her face, bringing Mariko to the ground with no more effort than it took to subdue a mewling calf.
One of her wrists in his filthy grip, the man attempted to bind her hands together.
There was no time for fear or fury or emotion of any kind to steal upon her. Mariko screamed loudly, kicking at him and wrestling for control of the blade. Its tip sliced into her upper sleeve, cutting the fabric away from her body. Revealing more skin.
The man shoved Mariko’s cheek into the dirt.
“It will do you no good to fight, girl,” he said. “There is no reason for you to make this unpleasant for both of us.”
“I am not a girl.” The rage collected in her chest. “I am Hattori Mariko. And you will die for this. By my hand.”
I swear it.
He chuffed in amusement, his lower lip jutting smugly, saliva pooling in its center. “The one marked for death is you. If the Black Clan wants you dead, you’ll never make it through this forest alive.” Wiping his mouth on a shoulder, he paused as if in deliberation. “But I might be willing to consider other options.” His eyes stopped on the swath of naked skin above her elbow.
The look she found on his face made Mariko want to tear out his throat with nothing but her teeth. “I do not make deals with thieves.”
“We’re all thieves, girl. Your kind most of all.” He placed the blade of the wakizashi beneath her chin. “Make your decision. Barter with me, and I’ll return you to your family in one piece. For the right price, of course.” His foul stench washed over her. “Or wait to barter with the Black Clan. But if I had a preference, I would choose me. I’m much nicer. And I won’t hurt you.”
In the lie she heard the truth. Saw it, buried deep in his gaze.
I will not be bandied about by men any longer. I am not a prize to be bought or sold.
Mariko let the desire to fight ease out of her, as though she was contemplating. Capitulating. The wakizashi dropped from beneath her chin just as her palms fell to her sides. Without a second thought, she threw a handful of dirt in the man’s eyes. He flailed, his fingers swiping at clumps of earth, his soft underbelly exposed. Mariko promptly punched him at the base of his throat, then rolled away as he coughed and gagged, struggling to catch breath. Mariko tried to stand—tried to run—but her thin white robe was tangled around his legs. She fell atop him, and he made a blind grab for her.