Mariko inhaled slowly.
“They might not look kindly on you when you return,” Yumi warned. “They’ve slit the throats of other men for less.”
With a careful nod, Mariko made a decision. “Will you help me with something?”
“As long as it harms no one, then yes. What is it?”
Mariko wobbled to her feet and began unraveling the bandages on one hand. “If I am marching to my death, then I will march to it as a girl. Without fear.”
THE SHADOW WARRIOR
Mariko was not afraid anymore.
As her time with the Black Clan had taught her, avoiding fear made her weak. Embracing it made her strong.
True weakness is weakness of the spirit.
Mariko had lived a life of wealth and privilege. A life spent blissfully unaware of the suffering around her. A life she herself had never fully appreciated. Her mother did not give without expecting something in return. Her father only ever took.
And Kenshin?
Kenshin gave to others from a sense of honor and responsibility. But his honor and responsibility had failed him that night. Mariko had watched him torture Ren. Had seen the aftermath of his attempts to find her in Jukai forest. The bloodied bodies of innocent young men and women. Of an old man much beloved by many.
Only a few days ago, Mariko had been the reason such chaos had unraveled before her very eyes. Her invention had wrought havoc on her people. Undoubtedly hurt some of them. And she did not yet know what had happened to all the members of the Black Clan.
Her . . . friends?
Yes. If they were no longer her enemies, perhaps Mariko could one day consider them her friends. Certainly Yoshi. He’d only ever been kind to her. Offered her guidance and delicious food. Laughter in moments when she desperately needed it. And Ranmaru had been a strange source of reassurance for Mariko. This boy with an almost mysterious air to him, who nevertheless came across as approachable and direct in all of his dealings. Even Ren—her erstwhile tormentor—well, on second thought, Mariko supposed he could never be a friend. Not unless she could catch him unawares with a few strategic strikes of her own.
And ōkami? No. They could never really be friends.
Mariko wasn’t sure she wanted to be the Wolf’s friend anyway. Could she ever be friends with a boy after dreaming of the way his calloused hands felt on her bare skin? Of the way his scarred lips felt pressed against her own?
She supposed not.
Mariko had never had friends before. Real friends. Ones who were not threatened by her family or by her strangeness. Her strange desire to learn about anything and everything.
Not until Mariko had first gone to the forest dressed as a boy did she ever realize how small her world had been. What it meant to be truly challenged. What it meant to be truly happy, in a world where no one questioned her place.
The Black Clan might reject her.
They might kill her.
ōkami had said he would tell them. He’d said he no longer felt any obligation to keep her secret. Not when she’d betrayed them as she had, by helping her brother.
Their enemy.
Mariko stopped in the clearing where Akira-san had perished. Where Kenshin had lost his way. The burned lean-to was still standing. She looked to the trees. Studied the jagged silhouette of the mountain in the distance.
A silhouette she’d often studied while at camp.
Everyone had told Mariko she would never be able to leave their encampment. That she could not run.
But could she make her way back if she tried?
Northeast. If Mariko trekked in that direction, it would be possible to find some kind of path. Some evidence of where the encampment was.
Unlikely. But possible. These were odds Mariko could work with.
She began walking northeast, keeping the mountain in her sights.
If there was any chance of finding the Black Clan’s encampment without stumbling into a trap, Mariko hoped a girl would be the first one to do it.
—
The sun had descended behind the trees. A white-gold glow limned the horizon.
Nightfall was imminent.
Soon Mariko would be lost in Jukai forest. Lost amongst the yōkai. Lost amongst the jubokko. Lost amongst those she’d recently betrayed.
She trod carefully, searching for signs of black flowers. Sniffing the air for the scent of blood. Seeking vines covered in thorns. Watching for anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
Fear kept her alert. She would always let it feed her. Never let it consume her.
Mariko stopped in her tracks when a pair of yellow eyes formed in the darkness.
A pair of yellow eyes she recognized well.
When the beast took shape around them, Mariko held her breath. It eyed her as it had before, its head tilting to one side. Then it leaned back on its haunches and howled. The sound was low, but it began to widen, to layer with the weight of many voices, large and small. It echoed through the trees, ricocheting into the night.
She was not afraid.
Then the beast turned. Waited for her to follow it.
That time before—with the filthy man who had trailed after Mariko the night her convoy was attacked—the beast had warned her.
She would trust it tonight. A part of her understood she’d almost expected the beast to find her again, as it had that first time.
It padded through the dirt and dead leaves. Mariko realized it moved without making any noise. When she tried to draw close, it whipped its head back at her.
The beast was edged in dark smoke. Perhaps even fashioned of it. She followed it up an incline. Until they came across a pool of freshwater. Though it was full dark, the beast stepped with an otherworldly sure-footedness. Then it dissolved on a wisp of wind, its eyes fading into black. Mariko stood within a tight grove of trees. The chirruping of insects halted, and the gentle sound of rustling leaves ceased.
She heard nothing.
Then, from the darkness, a single torch began weaving her way.
It flickered through the branches as it approached her.
Mariko’s heart raced, but she was not afraid.
She was strong. Free.
Other torchlights took shape around her. They all drew toward her like water gathering near a dam. Shapes materialized behind each ring of fire. Darker, thicker shadows, enveloped in night. But corporeal.
They were all masked. All dressed in black. Thick lines of black ink had been drawn across their eyes. Mariko knew they saw her. Saw a girl, dressed in a simple pale pink kimono, its hem stained from her trudge through the forest.
A figure moved to the head of the converging shadows. He stood before her. Mariko knew based on his stature, based on his bearing, that it was Ranmaru.
“To be a shadow warrior, the forest must accept you first,” he began. “It must see you as its equal. As its ally.” His eyes glowed yellow for an instant. He winked at her once.
Mariko remained still, her heart immobilized in her chest.
The beast. The beast formed of smoke and shadow.