Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

Seokga

S eokga tries very hard to ignore the fact that Kisa is sitting next to him on his bed.

It is just a bed, he tells himself, clenching his phone hard enough that he worries he might break it. It is just a bed. And you are a terrible pervert.

Hwanin, perched on his other knee, gurgles.

From the way Kisa’s cheeks go blue, he can tell that she’s had the incredible misfortune of hearing some of that thought.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, wishing—not for the first time today—to hurl himself off the ship and let the ineo take some chomps out of him. Seokga expects Kisa to stiffly stand up and move, but to his surprise, she stays where she is: perched at the edge, hair a mess of soft curls that fall to her waist as she fidgets with the hairband in her fingers.

He has discovered that he quite likes her hair: an untamed lion’s mane, streaked with so many shades of brown…like coffee, Seokga realizes with a strange swelling of his heart. There are strands of mocha intermingled with warm macchiato. And her roots are somewhat lighter than the Irish coffee ends, reminding him almost of a frappé…

Seokga jerks back to himself as he realizes Kisa is saying…no, thinking something.

—squash—just—squash—squash—

It’s not the first time he’s heard this particular mantra. “Out of curiosity,” prompts Seokga, “I was wondering if you could explain your fixation with squashes. ”

She blinks. Frantically. “It’s a—just a—”

“Mmhmm,” says Seokga. “Do you prefer acorn or butternut?”

“It’s a method, ” Kisa finally settles on, sliding off the bed to stand on the floor ( ah, he thinks, there it is ), shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Of, well, staying focused. On the mystery. And not on, erm, other things.”

He feels a slow, dangerous smile stretching his lips. “Am I distracting?”

“No…” Yet the pained grimace of annoyance and something else on her face is confirmation enough. He blinks. Is Kisa… attracted to him? Subtly, he shifts in his seat to better pose for her admiration.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem as if she’s taking any notice. His disappointment flares down the bond, a morose and humiliating shade of gray-blue.

Immediately, Kisa’s eyes are shining as she tracks the color, and Seokga guesses that she’s about to launch into a detailed explanation of the red thread’s new ability to share their feelings down the bond. He’s proven correct. “First cerebration transference,” she says excitedly, past awkwardness forgotten, “and now emotional transference! It’s a brilliant discovery—”

He dearly wishes to believe that Kisa is excited about feeling his tangled emotions down the bond, but he suspects she’s more thrilled by the sheer discovery of it. As she excitedly speaks on, pacing the length of the room, Seokga stares at his cellphone, wondering what in the seven hells he’s going to say to Hwanung and wishing that Yoo Kisa didn’t possess the unique ability to make him feel like a science experiment.

Kisa’s voice slowly dies, and Seokga feels a surge of guilt as he realizes she must know he wasn’t listening. Stopping in front of him, her cheeks are azure, and when she mumbles an apology, he feels a surge of anger at himself. “Don’t ever apologize for being excited about something,” he tells her, and his voice comes out harder than he means it to.

—need to stop—doing this—to him—

Her eyes, her damn eyes, widen—and warm before she averts them to the ground. “No,” she murmurs, “in this case, I really should. I forget, sometimes, how it must feel to be in your shoes.”

His breath catches in his throat. Kisa looks back up at him, and her expression is pained. And damn it, Seokga can feel his heart cracking down the middle, the fissure spreading and spreading through the useless organ. He would do anything to kick off these shoes.

What rotten luck—to have the red thread manifest the same day Kisa died. The same day, if Hajun is to be believed, that Kisa gave up hope.

I’d like you to consider, Seokga, that it is you and Kisa that fate has chosen to vouch for. How, he thinks bitterly, could fate be so cruel? He’s never done anything to upset Gameunjang Aegi, the pantheon’s shy goddess of luck, fate, and fortune.

(Well, except for the time he secretly submitted an application to Okhwang’s most popular dating show on her behalf and—through an expert work of deception on his part—got her to show up on set in a two-person cow costume. A bewildered Samsin Halmoni had been the rear. In a rare act of solidarity, Seokga and Godly Gossip had had a field day with that one.)

Now, both ends of the red thread glow a deep, dark blue. The colors seep through the thread and cross to the opposite side, both god and gwisin tasting each other’s depthless sadness.

“It’s not a walk in the park,” Seokga manages to finally reply. “Or rather, it is—but a walk in the park while wearing a pair of shoes lined with pins and needles.”

Kisa’s eyes soften.

—has to be—the biggest understatement—

Seokga snorts despite himself. “Yes,” he finds himself saying. “Yes, I’d say that’s an understatement.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, no—did you hear—”

“I did.”

Kisa stares at the thread in what seems like betrayal. And, so fast that he almost misses it, the thread seems to curl itself into small blue letters before innocently smoothing itself out.

“Did you see—?” she chokes out. “It did that in the café—I thought I imagined it…”

“It spelled ‘HAHAHA,’?” Seokga replies, narrowing his eyes at the bond. “I think.”

“That is…” Kisa shakes her head. “I’m really quite certain this thing is alive, somehow.” She reaches out with a finger as if to poke it, but her skin passes through it. She tries again, to no avail. Kisa raises her pinky to her face and stares at the knot with burning intensity.

“ What are you trying to do?” Seokga asks with laughter in his voice despite himself. The thread returns to red from blue. “Goad it into speaking? I think that’s stretching the bounds of what’s possible.”

“If anybody could do it, you could,” she replies, nose crinkling in confused concentration. “Go on, try.”

“What?”

“Try to make it admit to being a sentient creature.” Kisa turns her hopeful eyes onto him. “ Please, ” she adds, and he sighs, setting down the phone. It seems Hwanung will have to wait. Kisa has somehow mastered the art of puppy-dog eyes to the extent that Seokga will willingly behave like a fool for her.

He fixes his eyes on the thread, which seems to him to be putting special effort into looking like ordinary red string. “String,” Seokga says with a very menacing, authoritative air, “reveal yourself!”

Nothing happens.

“It was a good effort,” encourages Kisa. “Try again. Perhaps use some threats. You’re historically very good at that.”

He preens under her praise. How kind of her to notice. “Yes, I am.” Seokga clears his throat and proceeds to tell the Red Thread of Fate, in great and gruesome detail, how he is perfectly capable of finding a pair of craft scissors and chopping it up into small, shredded pieces. If he’s not mistaken, the thread shivers. Yet nothing else happens.

Except Kisa’s laughter. Her shoulders are shaking and she’s clapped a hand to her mouth. A grin pulls at the corner of Seokga’s lips as Kisa shakes her head. In his lap, Hwanin begins to giggle, too, although it’s clear that the baby has no idea why he’s laughing.

“This is concerning,” Kisa half-gasps. “Whenever you say the most horrible things, I laugh. ”

—squash—squash—

Whatever this squashing is, Seokga intends to put a quick stop to it. He shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant and failing as the thread carries his bright golden triumph down to her. He glares at it before realizing that Kisa is looking at him with those godsdamn twinkling eyes of hers.

“I think it’s time you use some of your threats on Hwanung.”

Ah. Right. With a start, he yanks his phone out of his brother’s gummy grip and makes a face of disgust as he wipes the saliva-ridden device on his pants. Kisa laughs then leans over to take the baby from him with a knowing smile, and a small part of Seokga feels as if he is on the precipice of finding something he once lost.

The phone rings once, then twice. Seokga grimaces as he stands by one of the suite’s ginormous windows, staring down at the rushing river below. Kisa is off in the bathroom, changing Hwanin’s diaper—and that actually sounds more appealing than making this fucking call. When Hwanung doesn’t pick up, Seokga calls again. And again. The fifth time, his nephew finally answers.

“ What? ” Hwanung snaps. “Another Godly Gossip article you want to read to me?”

I wish, Seokga wants to say. Hajun and Somi are currently off infiltrating the security room again to pull Korain’s and Chaeyeon’s locations during the time slot of the murder. Even if that checks out, it doesn’t mean that Hwanung isn’t somehow involved in this. Kisa is right—he has a motive. “You finally picked up,” he says smoothly instead, and he can practically hear Hwanung’s eyes roll.

“It’s not like you left me much of a choice,” Hwanung says sourly. “I was trying to play CookieRun, and I can’t do that with your calls popping up all over the place. What do you want, Uncle ?” He spits the word out like it’s something dirty.

Seokga has planned what to say in order to probe some sort of indication of knowledge from Hwanung, and thanks to his trickster nature, he’s rather certain he can pull it off. “Hwanin wants to know if you’d like anything from the—”

“WRAHHHH!”

His eyes flare in alarm as Hwanin releases an unearthly yowl from the bathroom.

“If you’d like anything from the gift shop,” Seokga finishes, quickly moving away from the closed door of the suite’s restroom.

“And why doesn’t my father call me himself?”

“ERRRRGREEEEEEE!”

“He’s…occupied,” Seokga manages. “I heard about the fight that you two had last night,” he adds, the lie flowing easily from his notoriously silver tongue. “Would it really be so surprising if he doesn’t want to talk to you?”

Hwanung is silent for a moment. Seokga listens intently to that silence, and dearly misses his mind-reading ability. It wouldn’t work on Hwanung anyway, of course: Gods aren’t technically creatures, but if he had it, he could easily pry the secrets from Chaeyeon’s and Korain’s minds. Yet his head pounds with a dull ache: For the better part of the morning, he attempted to reach for that power, but it’s as if it’s blocked by something. Stress, most likely. Hells know that Seokga is stressed.

“You were listening?” Hwanung finally demands, voice considerably more strained. When Seokga replies in the affirmative, his nephew is silent again before hissing, “Eavesdropping snake. ”

Better a serpent than a traitorous rat. “Having a nice time ruling Okhwang?” Seokga asks, abruptly changing the subject to disorient the other god.

“Jealous?” A dry snort.

“The argument greatly affected your father.” Seokga picks a stray lint off his black turtleneck. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re sitting smug on the throne right now.”

On the other end of the line, Hwanung pauses. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“He cries rather a lot,” the trickster muses, “and naps constantly. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

A longer silence this time. Seokga licks his lips, cocks his head, and goes in for the kill.

“You could say that he’s unrecognizable. What did you do to him?”

“It’s what he deserves,” Hwanung finally replies in a voice cold enough to freeze ice. The little shit. Seokga hopes he’s truly involved in this, if only to finally give the insufferable asshole the punch in the face he dearly needs.

“And what is it that you think you deserve?” Seokga’s reply is quick, viper-like in its speed—but still casual, with a hidden layer of sharpness. It’s easy enough to guess what their altercation was over. “A new godly affinity? Still hung up on ‘sex, drugs, and rock and roll’? Or are you desiring something a little…different? Something bigger?”

“Well,” snaps Hwanung, “I’m sitting on the throne, right now—and he’s not. I have something different, and I like it. Maybe”—and here, his tone becomes white-hot with resentment—“I don’t plan to give it up anytime soon. Enjoy your cruise. Goodbye, Uncle.”

The younger god hangs up.

The audacity of youth these days.

Seokga stares down at his phone in offended disbelief as Kisa joins his side, Hwanin in her arms. When he glances at her, he’s surprised to see that her light blue scrubs are splattered with soapy water and that Hwanin (scowling) looks freshly cleaned.

“So?” she asks, seemingly ignoring how the baby glowers up at her like he wants to throw her to the wolves.

“Hwanung is involved,” Seokga mutters. Kisa peers up at him, brows pulling together.

“You’re certain? Did you record the call like I showed you? With the app?”

“Probably,” says Seokga (who honestly isn’t sure—how in the hells the app works is lost on him), and grudgingly takes Hwanin so Kisa can poke around on the infernal device. A moment later, the conversation plays from the phone, and she listens intently before playing it one more time and grabbing her notebook from her pocket and scrawling down a half-page of notes. When she finally comes up for air, she looks troubled.

“It certainly doesn’t sound good,” she admits, and he sees that she’s transcribed the entire conversation onto the page.

“I’ll text Yeomra,” says Seokga, eager to rid himself of his drooling brother. He attempts to trade baby for phone, but Kisa shakes her head, stopping him.

“Wait,” she says. “I want to listen one more time.”

She’s so careful, so meticulous. Seokga watches her, admiring the way her nose wrinkles in concentration. He can’t help but remember how he and Hani had dived right into their investigation, throwing caution to the wind, ready for a whirlwind adventure. A pang of sadness strikes at his heart, but there’s a pang of something else, too.

A wanting.

Kisa scrubs at her face, stopping the recording as Hwanung says “cruise.” Her thoughts bound into Seokga’s head, but at such a speed that he can hardly follow them. They’re like race cars, bending into hairpin turns at a breakneck speed. Finally, she hands him the phone and takes Hwanung. “Send the recording to the CEO while we wait for Hajun and Somi.”

“How do I send the recording?” Seokga asks blankly, and what follows is another baby/phone swap where Kisa sends the recording and Hwanin sneezes on his brother’s shoulder. When he has his phone again, Seokga reads what Yeomra has sent back with high brows and a vast amount of irritation.

Yeomra: Maybe I’m cynical, but this isn’t enough evidence for me to descend in all my fury and accuse the crown prince of murdering his own father. Context is everything, and you were being deliberately subtle…It’s good, but I need more.

Yeomra: Was Hwanung even on the ship? I would have known if he took a trip down into my realm.

Kisa sighs, reading the text over his shoulder. “Explain that we think he sent two lackeys,” she says, and it’s even harder than usual for Seokga to tap his fingers across the screen. If they’re right, he loses Kisa. With painstaking slowness, he types out a typo-riddled explanation, and waits for Yeomra’s reply.

Yeomra: Seven hells, Seokga. Learn to text. Please. I can’t read whatever the fuck it is you tried to send over.

When Kisa giggles (sounding as if she’d attempted very hard not to), still leaning over his shoulder, Seokga thinks he might have a heart palpitation. Her hair smells like cinnamon and soap and it tickles his nose. His fingers tremble slightly as he types out a new explanation, and he hopes his bumbling, nervous thoughts aren’t finding their way into Kisa’s head. How inept he must seem in comparison to her. Seokga is halfway certain that Yoo Kisa is some sort of genius.

“You are awful at texting,” she informs him a moment later.

—actually the worst—I’ve ever—seen—

“I heard that,” he mutters and presses Send on his second attempt.

Yeomra: Slightly better. And I mean SLIGHTLY.

Yeomra: When you have solid proof of the “lackeys,” send it over to me. Until then, I’m not counting this case as closed.

Yeomra: P.S. Seokga…This cruise ends in five days. So hurry up, or your new reputation is ruined and the girl doesn’t reincarnate.

Kisa’s breath catches. Angrily, Seokga punches the tiny little letters on the screen into what he feels is an elegant way of defending his—of defending Kisa.

Seokga: fucko ff leave her OUT of ti his!!

With gusto and some pride at his improving texting skills, Seokga shuts off his phone and rams it back into his pocket. A hesitant light yellow color blooms on Kisa’s end of the thread, and when it reaches him, Seokga is surprised to feel such warm gratitude from her.

“Your spelling is still atrocious,” she says quickly, looking embarrassed.

Seokga smirks.

“While we wait for Hajun and Somi,” Kisa adds a long moment later, almost shyly, “perhaps we can take Hwanin to the sundeck? Babies need air, you know, even if the air here isn’t exactly…well, fresh …”

Seokga hesitates. Jeoseung’s ungodly blazing red sun will be out, and even as an adult, Hwanin’s skin was abnormally sensitive to heat. “I don’t want him to get a heat rash,” Seokga explains after a moment, feeling a strange surge of protectiveness toward the child.

Kisa smiles. “That can be easily prevented,” she reassures him, and ten minutes later, they’re in one of the SRC Flatliner ’s many shops, browsing for a tiny pair of sunglasses and a tiny sunbonnet for the former heavenly emperor.

“This one,” Kisa suggests, holding up a bright pink atrocity with little flowers all over it. Seokga gags.

“It’s too cheerful, ” he snaps before he can stop himself, and winces. But Kisa—to his pleasant surprise—laughs softly.

“You like fashion,” she guesses, returning the hat to its shelf and picking out another, this one a dark green that Seokga immediately likes. “You always look…You’re always in style. Don’t you ever wear T-shirts?”

“I would rather die.” He’s holding Hwanin uncomfortably in his arms, and he could swear the infant snorts at his dramatic words.

The dokkaebi at the boutique’s counter snickers before Seokga glares at her and she turns her attention back to the glossy magazine she’s flipping through. It’s an issue of fucking Godly Gossip. The headline reads, Hunky Hwanung Follows in His Father’s Footsteps! Read More About the Interim Emperor Here! Hwanung is winking on the cover in a way that makes the trickster god want to set the page on fire. Perhaps he will.

Seokga clenches his jaw and refuses the urge. With difficulty.

Dr. Jang should be proud.

“Even this one?” Kisa asks, holding up a horrible tie-dye. His face wrinkles in disgust before he can stop it.

“Hwanung’s tits —” On the atrociously blotty fabric, big bubble letters read: Let’s Get Ship-Faced!

“Yoo Kisa!” Seokga’s back stiffens as a pair of high heels click against the small boutique’s tiled floors. A woman who looks vaguely familiar stalks past the rows of swimsuits and merchandise before coming to a fuming stop before Kisa and Seokga. Her eyes are narrowed, and her lipsticked mouth is pressed into a tight line. Lee Soo-min, her golden name tag reads.

The dokkaebi at the counter makes an ooooh sound, eyes lifting from Godly Gossip before hastily averting them back down as the woman directs her glower to her.

Hands on her neatly pressed skirt, Soo-min narrows her eyes at Kisa, who’s quickly shoving away the shirt. “And why aren’t you in the sick bay? Why are you bothering this guest?”

Kisa flushes and opens her mouth to reply, but Seokga gets there first. “She isn’t bothering me,” he snaps with withering coldness, and Soo-min’s head whips to him.

“You!” she hisses, hands balling into fists at her sides. She stomps a heeled foot on the glossy tiled floor. “You ruined the greenhouse soiree! You trampled the flowers; you broke the glass—”

Seokga stares down his nose at her, unimpressed. The woman huffs and puffs for a long moment before clumsily regaining her composure. “Kisa,” she warns, attention turning back to her, “if you continue to shirk your duties in the sick bay, I will be forced to notify the CEO. You have five seconds to leave.”

“Yes, fine,” Kisa mutters, looking rather peeved. But there’s no way that either of them can explain that the CEO is allowing her to shirk her duties without explaining the little fact of Hwanin’s murder. She looks to Seokga, who feels rather frustrated at being thwarted of a mid-morning spent lounging on the sundeck with Kisa, before hastily leaving the little boutique, the red thread growing longer and longer with each step she takes away from him.

“I’ll thank you not to consort with the ship’s workers,” snips Soo-min. “The girl should know better: It’s in direct violation of Rule 5 of the SRC Flatliner ’s handbook.”

Seokga’s right hand, which is not holding Hwanin, tightens on the hilt of his cane. “I’ll thank you, ” he sneers, “to stay out of my business.”

The woman’s face is growing blue with anger. “As cruise director, everything that happens on this ship is my business—”

His smile is small and sharp. Dagger-like. If Soo-min knows what is good for her, she will run away. Very fast. “Mere sniveling mortals have no business meddling in the affairs of their gods. I will spend as much time with Kisa as I please, and if you choose to interfere, I’ll make your job as cruise director more of a living hell than it already (and literally) is. Now, if you’ll excuse me”—Seokga takes a menacing step closer to her, letting her hesitate in his shadow, allowing his eyes to darken and fill with ice—“I have a bonnet to buy.”