Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(77)

That was all the servant had said to him. Kenshin had chased after the old man. When they’d rounded the corner, he’d grabbed him by his threadbare kosode, whirling him around.

The old man’s eyes were milky white. He was blind or very nearly so.

Kenshin had cursed to himself. “Do you know who told you this?”

“No, my lord,” the old man stammered. “I was told to convey that message, then given a coin for it. That is all I know.” He spread his fingers wide as if to prove that was all he had in his possession.

“And there was nothing further? Nothing about who intends to raid the storehouses?”

“No, my lord,” the old man said. “It was said quickly, as I was passing by. As though the messenger did not have time to say anything more.”

Kenshin removed his grip on the old man’s kosode.

Someone intended to rob his family. To steal from the stores that fed and clothed the people of his province. That supported the Hattori clan’s rise to greatness.

Without a second thought, he turned toward his family’s garrison.

Whoever they were, these thieves would not leave this valley alive.

—

Mariko’s hands shook as she waited beneath the straw awning. ōkami leaned into the fall of shadows, watching for the signal.

“You don’t have to fight,” he said softly.

She turned toward him. “You don’t expect me to fight?”

“I have no expectations of you or anyone else. I’m simply saying you don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to do.”

Though ōkami’s words held meaning, the cold precision with which he said them stung. Mariko did not wish to fight against any member of her family or any of the samurai who bore them allegiance. She did not wish to partake in any of this destruction.

But she could not ignore the chance to save lives.

And strangely a small part of her felt responsible for what might happen to Ranmaru. To Yoshi. Even to Ren. And to ōkami. The weapon she’d brought with her had the potential to cause damage beyond her wildest imagination. She’d never had an opportunity to test it, and thus had no idea what to expect.

If something happened to ōkami because of it . . .

She banished the thought.

He was a member of the Black Clan. Likely one of the mercenaries who had been sent to kill her. Even if recent events had brought that truth into question, Mariko would never choose the Wolf over her family. Not if she lived a thousand years.

The call of a nightingale echoed through the darkness.

The call that all was clear.

Using his hands to form a cradle, ōkami helped propel Haruki and Ren onto the straw rooftop above. He motioned for Mariko to follow. At the last second, he pulled her to him, chest to chest.

“Don’t be a hero. You’ll make my life harder if you try,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper, his eyes two flashing stones of onyx.

Her breath caught. For a mad instant, Mariko thought to kiss him. “Do your job, Tsuneoki-sama. And I will do mine.” She vaulted onto the roof, trying her best to keep her steps as light as those of Ren. Her heart pounded in her chest as she flattened against the straw, attempting to remain out of sight.

Yoshi and Ranmaru moved like ghosts in the night toward the storehouse. Toward the same granaries Mariko had played in as a child.

There was no sign of anyone around.

All was eerily silent.

As Ranmaru fiddled with the latch of the storehouse, Ren grasped the edge of the roof, taking tight hold of the wooden frame before catapulting to the ground below.

An arrow sailed from the darkness, striking Ren in the side.

Mariko stifled a cry when she saw him fall. She thought to say something—to point out that they were under attack—but the words remained lodged in her throat.

These were her enemies. Her family’s enemies.

Set to rob the Hattori clan.

Even as she warred with herself, it soon became clear that Mariko did not need to say anything. Motion converged in the darkness. As soon as Ranmaru saw Ren fall, he and Yoshi folded into the shadows against the granary.

Torches burst to life across the way.

And the haunted, almost feral face of Hattori Kenshin glowed from the darkness.

—

Fury roared through his body.

One of Kenshin’s men had loosed an arrow too soon. The men endeavoring to rob his family had been warned.

There was nothing to be done for it.

“Show yourselves!” he demanded.

The shadows remained still across the way. Kenshin unsheathed his katana, directing his men with a nod. Two foot soldiers whipped across the path, their backs hunched, their arrows nocked as they grabbed the fallen thief by the arms and hauled him before Kenshin.

“Show yourselves, you cowards!” Kenshin shouted.

The young man at his feet was no more than twenty. He’d been shot in the side, the shaft of the arrow protruding from the folds of his black kosode. When no further signs of movement or sound emitted from the darkness, Kenshin pressed the tip of his foot to the young thief’s ribs, just above his wound.

The boy groaned. Shuddered. Then spat in the dirt beside Kenshin’s sandal. “You miserable whoreson.” He coughed.

Kenshin leveled the tip of his katana at the boy’s throat. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Tell me who you are, and you will die quickly. Painlessly. With a measure of honor.”