Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(70)

Without thought, ōkami moved closer, reaching for her elbows, intent on drawing them toward her center. Giving her better control of the blade. His right foot slid in the space between her feet, his knee grazing her inner thigh.

The instant it happened, ōkami knew it was a mistake. The sharp intake of her breath. The darting eyes.

His thundering heart.

“You haven’t told me not to do this,” she said softly, a becoming flush rising in her cheeks. “Nor have you asked me why I’m here.”

Against his better judgment, ōkami replied, “Why would I?”

“Because I’m a girl,” she whispered.

Irritation took root in his chest. Not irritation with her words. But irritation with her need to say them and what it meant. ōkami steadied his gaze on hers. “You are first and foremost a person. A reckless, foolish person, but a person nonetheless. If I ever say you are not permitted to do something, rest assured that the last reason I would ever say so would be because you are a girl.”

When her eyes softened, ōkami knew he’d made another mistake.

But he didn’t want to take back his words.

She was without a doubt strange. Maddening. A force to reckon and be reckoned with. And—as she’d demanded of him earlier—he appreciated it.

In that moment, ōkami knew he was in a great deal of trouble.

All because of a wonderfully strange girl.





A FOREST OF BLOOD AND FIRE





Kenshin gasped awake. His chest heaved as he struggled to draw in breath. The ground beneath him was wet, the grass by his fingertips charred. Copper and ash coated his tongue.

He sat up and gripped his throbbing head. When he gazed down at his fingers, he saw they were covered in dried blood. Fear coiled up his spine.

He looked around.

The blood was not his.

No. This was not possible. This could not have happened. He could not have—would never have—done such a thing.

Kenshin tried to conjure an image of the last thing he could recall.

Shouts. An angry exchange of words. A refusal to cooperate. Threats blasted both ways. Flashes of blood and smoke and fire, their sources hazy and unclear.

Anger. An uncontrollable rage erupting from his chest, spilling from his lips, whipping into the air around him.

His chest heaved again. Kenshin staggered to his feet, dragging his blade through the charred remains of what was once tall grass along the forest’s edge. The kind of tall slender grass that had bent and swayed in the wind. Kane waited in the same place Kenshin had last left him, the warhorse still tethered to a tree trunk at the outskirts of the clearing. Without even bothering to wipe the crimson stains from his katana, Kenshin sheathed his sword and heaved himself into the saddle.

His head felt as though it had been split in two and sewn back together. Again Kenshin lifted his hands before his face.

Not his blood. But still his pain.

He did not understand what had happened. Could not understand what might have caused anyone to commit such atrocities. The echo of a scream filled his ears, silencing all else. Except the promise of future torment.

Kenshin squeezed his eyes shut.

It was not him. He had not done that.

He would never do that.

—

In the shadow of a thorny underbrush nearby, a ghostly grey fox watched Hattori Kenshin reel to his horse. Watched him stare in horror at his bloodied hands.

The fox smiled like a rogue, its eyes warming to yellow, then fading to black. It waited until the Dragon of Kai rode from the clearing.

Then it vanished in a twist of smoke.

In its wake, a black flower blossomed to life, its center pulsing with the beat of a heart.

Drumming out a warning.

Or perhaps a message.





A MURDEROUS RAMPAGE





It turned out that Ren—her first and finest tormentor—was also perhaps one of the finest singers Mariko had ever encountered in her life.

She’d only discovered this truth in the last few moments. And it had shocked her. Forced her to appreciate the many quiddities of life. While riding with the Black Clan toward the watering hole in which Mariko had first encountered them, Haruki the metalsmith had begun to sing. In vain she’d wished to join in—especially since this was the first time in the three weeks she’d been in their camp that they’d brought her with them to the watering hole. On several occasions many of them had left together at night, returning ribald and robust with drink.

Reminding Mariko of her place, which was always removed.

Until today.

Haruki’s song was a sweet song, with the easy kind of verses that encouraged improvisation. As several of the other members began joining in, the tune became bawdier. Their voices became rowdier.

When Yoshi began to sing of ample bosoms, Mariko quickly urged her steed forward—beyond their earshot—lest the next verse fall to her. She may be pretending to be a young man, but she wasn’t quite certain what a young man would most like to sing about when it came to the fairer sex.

Naked women? Certainly.

But what exactly was it about female nakedness that would be attractive? It was just a body. A form. A vessel. Truly it was a puzzle. Breasts were just breasts, were they not? The most fascinating thing about any woman should be her mind, should it not?

Of course not.