“They all smelled like old wolf,” she said. “One of them really stank.”

Inuzuka, maybe?

“One had a festival toy with him,” she continued.

Hope sprang up like a wildfire.

“And they had dogs.” Her brows drew down. “Rude dogs.”

“That’s them! That’s my team!” Genma’s voice cracked, and he didn’t care. “Are they hurt? Are they safe? Kaori-chan said she dropped a statue on Raidou—”

The look Azami gave him was the grown up version of the one he’d gotten from Kaori: disbelief, dismay, and distaste all at once, with a heavy overtone of judgement. “When I left them, they were unhurt,” she said. “A little mouthy, though, so I can’t make any promises about them staying unhurt.”

Genma’s heart sank; he steeled himself. This was a mission and they were in hostile territory. He had no access to his chakra — it was probably true for the others as well. A child tanuki had taken Genma down almost effortlessly. And the only one in that little party with sense enough not to provoke a fight was Kurenai.

“Was there a woman with black hair and red eyes with them?” Please, gods, let her be there, too.

“Yes. Only one with a lick of sense, if you ask me.” Azami tossed her head, and her tail waved behind her.

Genma pressed his hand to his chest, where his dogtags and the charm his father had given him hung beneath his armor and shirt. Bishamon was a god of war, and a god of war would certainly know how to employ judicious retreat. Keep them from starting a fight they can’t win, he prayed. Even though it was probably already too late. And if they did already, then just keep them from getting themselves maimed or killed before I get there.

Not that he knew what he was going to do when he got there, but he’d think of something. Maybe, if they were very lucky, the worst that they’d come out of this with was with an indelible taste of eggplant.