A warrior is never weak.
Seemingly satisfied by her show of resistance—as though he relished the thought—the boy with the murder eyes released his grip. “Next time you try to run, I’ll break your fingers, knuckle by knuckle.” He leaned in. “One by one.”
She choked out a retort. “Do you think I intend to run?”
“Only a fool would stay.”
“Are you hoping to gain my cooperation by threatening me?” she blustered awkwardly.
He did not respond. He merely shoved her forward, hard. She almost tripped, catching herself at the last instant. When the boy yanked her into the light of the nearest torch, she thought she saw him smile.
Alternately yanking and shoving her along, the boy led her toward Ranmaru, who had once again taken his seat at the table seemingly reserved for him and him alone.
The leader of the Black Clan studied her in silence for several breaths. “Well, it seems I am in your debt . . .” Ranmaru paused, waiting for her to offer a name.
Thankfully Mariko had one at the ready.
“Takeo.” She deepened the note of her voice. Roughened its edges. “Sanada Takeo.”
Ranmaru smiled slowly. “It appears your parents had rather lofty designs when they named you.”
“Because they named me after a warrior?”
“No. Because they gave their tactician son a warrior’s name.”
Mariko sniffed. Furrowed her brow to offset her mounting distress. “I’m a warrior. Just like you.”
He laughed. The lines around his eyes crinkled in consideration. “Perhaps you are just like me.”
She frowned at his mocking tone.
“I won’t call you Takeo, though,” Ranmaru continued. “I can’t in good conscience call a scrawny boy a valiant warrior.”
His judgment echoed in her ears. Forcing her to choose a path. Courage. Or fear. Standing taller, Mariko chose the path of courage—a tenet of bushidō. “I have not yet made comment on your name. But I can, if you like. And since Takeo is my given name, I insist you call me—”
“Lord Lackbeard,” a voice behind Ranmaru declared. Mariko stiffened once more, her courage wilting. It was the Black Clan’s champion. ōkami. The boy named after a wolf. “It suits this little upstart far more than Takeo.”
Ranmaru grinned. “I agree. If you wish to be called by your given name, you must first earn it, Lord Lackbeard.”
At that, the men around him laughed.
“You can call me whatever you like,” Mariko said over their laughter, knowing all too well how much she sounded like a petulant child. “But it doesn’t mean I will respond.”
“Is that so?” Ranmaru’s grin widened.
Mariko stayed silent, eliciting another bout of laughter from the men nearby. As they amused themselves at her expense, knots began twisting in her stomach. Color began creeping up her neck, into her face. She hated this feeling. The feeling of being vulnerable. Mocked. It was the first time in a long while she’d had to stand still and experience abject ridicule. It was true many people found her odd, but her family’s position and influence had spared her from being met head-on by the judgment of others. When she did hear it, it was at her back, whispered behind lacquered fans or in the shadow of elegantly papered screens.
She tipped her chin upward and bit her tongue.
A warrior is never weak.
Mariko repeated the refrain in her mind, letting it feed her, like kindling to a flame.
Frowning, ōkami glided toward her, passing along an earthenware bottle of sake to Ranmaru as he walked by. The men grew silent while he circled her slowly, no doubt searching for blood in the water. Mariko fought to conceal the rush of indignation that bloomed in her cheeks at his silent appraisal. At the obvious latitude the Wolf was granted as the Black Clan’s champion.
He stopped in front of her. Stared down at her. She could almost feel that same low hum hovering in the air about him.
It unnerved her.
“Now”—Ranmaru raised the bottle of sake in her direction—“I do believe I owe Lord Lackbeard a drink.” He waited for her to respond, the picture of patience.
My best chance to learn the truth.
Making no effort to conceal her wariness, Mariko took a seat on the bench across from him. She did not fail to notice how Ranmaru’s men watched her like hawks would a dove.
The leader of the Black Clan poured rice wine into a small cup, then handed it to her.
She stared at him over the lip of the cup. Sniffed its contents.
Smiling at her distrust, Ranmaru poured himself a drink from the same bottle. He knocked it back pointedly.
In response, Mariko took a small sip from her own cup.
“So,” the knife-wielding cook said in a conversational tone, all while twirling the hilt of a dagger between his fingertips, “what sort of fortune is a young boy like you hoping to find along the western edge of Jukai forest?”
Mariko attempted a lazy, satisfied kind of smile. The kind she’d seen many of her father’s younger vassals adopt in moments like these. “The sort that makes me rich.” She knew she sounded foolish, but that, too, seemed appropriate.
“There are many kinds of wealth,” the cook mused.
She nodded as she took another sip of sake. “But there is only one kind that matters.”
The cook tilted his head to one side. “And what kind is that?”
“The kind that buys freedom.”
His lips pursed together. Not in judgment. No. She did not think he disagreed with her. Though Mariko was not yet sure he agreed. Perhaps she should not have been so forthcoming with her answers. Or quite so clever when she decided to spare Ranmaru from the hissing vulture. Her gaze drifted toward ōkami. The Wolf looked through her. Past her. He leaned against the table, one hand resting on a knee. Dried blood tracked the veins of his right forearm, like the tributaries of a sinister river. Once again, he seemed wholly uninterested. Utterly bored. But of all those present, the Wolf was the most difficult to read. Mariko had been wrong in her initial assessment of him, and that made her . . . uncomfortable in his presence.
In an attempt to conceal her sudden unease, she took another sip of sake. It warmed through her, heating her blood. Tingling her skin.
Tingling her skin?
“Is freedom important to you, Lord Lackbeard?” Ranmaru asked as he rolled the bottle of sake along the rough-hewn table’s edge. His expression was light. Easy.
Knowing.
The tingling along Mariko’s skin intensified. A burst of warmth flooded her face, clouding her vision.
No.
The sake.
Mariko stood suddenly. “You—” she spluttered. “You cheated. You’re . . . you’re . . .”
ōkami floated before her, the dark ghost once more.
The last thing she remembered was a clear pair of onyx eyes.
—