Page 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

K i s a

K isa snatches Hwanin down by his foot as he rises into the air in his sleep. She does so without missing a word of the muffled conversation beyond the bedroom door. It’s wrong of her to eavesdrop—she knows that, of course she knows that. It’s an invasion of privacy, a terrible thing to do, listening in on something like this…But the voices carry, and something about the conversation has struck her as odd.

Not the part where Seokga called her beautiful, although it’s constantly playing on a repeat in her head. Beautiful. Beautiful. He thinks I’m beautiful. Kisa knows she’s pretty, in a factual sort of way, but that’s never stopped her from overanalyzing the slightly uneven curl pattern of her hair, or the way her eyes are constantly rimmed with some form of exhaustion. To hear what Seokga truly thinks of her has her heart fluttering in an odd and spastic rhythm that would, if she were alive, worry her.

Just friends, she reminds herself, but cannot deny that a small, secret part of her is entirely relieved that she no longer must keep up the tiring pretense of squashing. Friends, after all, are allowed to…to feel things that not-friends mustn’t.

Hearing him call her beautiful…It has sent warmth blossoming in her chest and her cheeks, but it’s certainly not the part of the conversation she marked as odd.

Perhaps it’s the way the therapist has initiated this conversation as “off the record.” Perhaps it’s the focus on the Mad God, the subtle prodding toward… something. A manipulation. She gnaws on her bottom lip and presses her ear back to the door.

By the time Dr. Jang leaves, Kisa has the beginnings of a tension headache. As Seokga, with a look of exhausted relief, opens Hwanin’s bedroom door, Kisa wastes no time.

“What sort of creature is Dr. Jang?”

She watches as he blinks once, then twice. “A shaman.”

“Whose patronage?”

“Hwanin’s, I suspect.”

“You don’t know?” Could it be Hwanung?

Orange crests down the thread, and Kisa stiffens when she feels Seokga’s irritation as he eyes her. “Dr. Jang is not on the list of suspects,” he tells her in a voice lacking some of its usual warmth—enough for Kisa to balk momentarily underneath his gaze. “She’s not a claw-carrying creature.”

She takes a small breath. “I wasn’t trying to imply that she’s who we’re looking for,” Kisa says, although they both know it’s a lie. “It just crossed my mind. She seemed unusually interested in the Mad God, and broke more than one code of conduct—”

Seokga’s shoulders stiffen. “The Mad God is my father, whether I like it or not. Is it so unusual to discuss one’s father in therapy? Dr. Jang has been treating me for thirty-three years. If she had some resentment against Hwanin, or me, she had ample time to strike. We’re not looking into her. That’s final, Kisa.”

There is, she thinks, a strange edge of desperation in Seokga’s voice that she cannot help but latch onto out of concern and curiosity. As his chest rises and falls unevenly, Kisa wonders at his clear attachment to the therapist—his inability to even entertain the thought of her as a suspect. How alone has he been these past three decades? Surely he’s made other friends since Hani’s death.

But can he speak to them as openly as he speaks to Dr. Jang? Mago, his mother, has been asleep for thousands of years. His relationship with Hwanin—pre-murder—seemed precarious at best. And then there’s his father. Evil and imprisoned. With nobody else to turn to, the trickster god is dependent on Dr. Jang.

Kisa wonders if such a dependency is really as harmless as Seokga believes. Thirty-three years is a long time for a con, after all, but something about their session has left a bad taste in Kisa’s mouth. As has Seokga’s tone. “Don’t speak to me like that,” she snaps, prickling, and the god looks momentarily taken aback.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—like I’m a position lower than you in this investigation.” Kisa narrows her eyes at him over the top of Hwanin’s head. “If I want to look into Dr. Jang, I will. I’ve just as much riding on this mystery as you do, and I won’t miss my chance for reincarnation because you decided something was ‘final.’ We barely have any other leads to go on at the moment anyway—”

Seokga rakes a hand through his hair. He’s still shirtless, and Kisa concentrates exceptionally hard on staring at his face rather than his cut muscles. His jaw works for a moment. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he says in a slow, controlled voice, “and I’m sorry. But I don’t think it’s a worthy expense of our time and energy to look into Dr. Jang. I once made the mistake of suspecting Dok-hyun—someone who was only trying to help me—and I got him killed. I won’t do that to her. Can you understand that?”

“I can…if you can understand why I need to check all possible boxes. We can split up,” Kisa adds, although there’s an ever-growing gnaw of disappointment in her stomach. “You don’t need to come with me, or involve yourself at all in this.”

“I won’t.” Seokga’s jaw clenches.

“Okay, then.” She averts her eyes, and there’s a beat of silence so awkward that she longs for the easy banter of last night—the teasing about love poems and bums that are looking rather good in his pair of cotton pajama pants. Anxiety bubbles up in her, and before she can push it down, it all spills out in a humiliating rush.

“I’m not—I’m not hoping that she’s the murderer. I hope she’s not. I never…I never got help when I really truly needed it, and if I had, I might not be—well, dead. And I’m so sorry, Seokga, I know I shouldn’t have listened in on your conversation, but for what it’s worth…For what it’s worth, I like spending time with you, too. I, erm, when you called me…I felt…I also think you’re beauti…Never mind. Oh, gods. Uh—do you want to get breakfast?”

All of this is said so very fast that when Kisa finally comes up for a big gulp of air, her head is spinning. What is happening to her? Kisa has always rambled when she’s nervous, but this is on another level entirely. She has been reduced from a creature of pure logic and fact to a bumbling bee in front of her purely platonic friend.

Kisa wants to close her eyes before she can see what will undoubtedly be a look of dismayed confusion from Seokga, but when she forces herself to look up, she sees that there’s a small—almost affectionate—smile on the god’s lips. And his eyes are warm again.

—Hani—also rambled—when—she was—nervous—

For once, the fond comparison doesn’t cause any sense of envy. Only a strange sort of relief.

“I’d like breakfast,” Seokga murmurs.

To avoid the Godly Gossip spies, Seokga shape-shifts into a dark-eyed man as they eat breakfast in one of the ship’s many restaurants, shifting back into his regular form as he joins her in the sick bay. It’s restock day. Kisa opens the packages piled on the counter and sorts the medicine into its proper cabinets. Hajun soon joins them, bringing startling news.

“You won’t believe this,” he says as he helps Kisa rummage through the boxes. “For all Soo-min’s HR talk about improper relationships… ”

Kisa arches a brow. “Who did you see her with?”

A mischievous glint blooms in his soft eyes. “The captain. ”

“Captain Lee?” she asks in disbelief as her mouth drops open. “The SRC Flatliner ’s rulebook explicitly states that crew members cannot date co-workers, never mind dating outside of their levels. Captain Lee is well above Soo-min. And he’s…” Alive, she wants to say, but finds herself falling silent after glancing at her—the—god. “Never mind.”

“An interesting tidbit,” says Seokga, who is holding on to a floating Hwanin’s foot like a child might hold the string of a balloon. “I find that interesting tidbits like these are very good for blackmail. The next time she tries to send you away from me—”

“Good morning!” a voice trills, and in waltzes Somi, bearing a cardboard drink carrier filled with two boba drinks and two coffees. There’s also a book tucked under her arm. Kisa watches with a small smile as Hajun blushes upon being given one of the bobas, and helps herself to the flat white that must be hers. Seokga grudgingly takes the iced Americano, but sniffs it first, as if it might be poisoned.

“Here,” Somi says, handing her the book. Kisa glances down to the title. Banging the Vampire Billionaire is printed in sparkling red letters. The man on the cover is (as always) shirtless, a black cape billowing behind him. He’s sinking his teeth into a woman’s neck while she smiles up at him. “I figured you already finished the book I gave you yesterday.”

“I did,” Kisa admits, taking the book and running a finger down its small, cracked spine. Elsie and Finlay’s adventures had been quite…entertaining. The duo had found themselves in many perilous positions—treasure-hunting in the fifteenth century, facing English soldiers during the Jacobite Rising of 1745, roller-skating in the fluorescent eighties—and other sorts of positions, besides. Hajun is looking on curiously, and Seokga seems to be glaring at the vampire in a very competitive way.

“Did you like it?” Somi bounces on her feet. It’s disorienting, how quickly the gumiho switches from a deadly, sophisticated killer with no small amount of sass to an excited woman with bright eyes and blue-tinged cheeks.

“ Very much, ” Kisa admits, and Somi snickers.

“This is the one I read thirteen times.” She grins conspiratorially.

Hajun takes the book from Kisa and flips through it curiously while Kisa’s face flames. She watches as her friend’s eyes widen then hastily snatches it back.

“And here’s one for you, Hajun,” Somi half-purrs, drawing another small paperback out of her black purse. “If you were serious yesterday about wanting to join the book club, here’s your official invitation.”

Laughter bubbles up in Kisa’s throat as Hajun is bequeathed a copy of Kissed by the Mafia Cowboy.

“I’m honored,” Hajun says solemnly, “to join such a prestigious book club.”

“As you should be.” Somi winks. “Tell me what you think of chapter twenty.”

Kisa hugs Banging the Vampire Billionaire to her chest and turns to Seokga with a smile. Seokga is still glaring at the shirtless cover model. “Do you want a book, Seokga?” she asks, trying not to laugh—and trying not to recall her accidental recitation of smut in the spa.

“I did bring one for him,” Somi admits, and the look of horror on Seokga’s face is incomparable. It only grows as Somi hands a book to Kisa, who snorts at the cover and title before passing it on to Seokga. He leans his cane against the sick bay counter to take it, holding it disdainfully between two fingers, as if afraid to catch germs.

Married to the Sexy Space Pirate.

—where is she—getting—all of these—what the fuck—

Kisa fixes Seokga with a warning look when it seems like he’s about to hurl the novel across the room. Grimacing, he passes it back to her. She places both of their books with gentle reverence in her tote bag behind the counter for later reading. When she emerges, Seokga has turned on Somi.

“You’re awfully cheerful,” the trickster god mutters in disgust, “for an investigator with no leads.”

“No leads, you say?” Somi asks, blinking faux-innocent eyes. “I beg to differ. Last night, I decided to take matters into my own little paws. I went back to the I-95 and poked around some more. And then somebody came.”

Kisa’s heart has begun to pound in her chest and she nervously sips at her coffee. “Who?”

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Seokga snaps with all the sharpness of a honed blade.

“I ducked into a janitorial closet. It was a woman. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her voice. She was speaking on the phone to somebody, and she explicitly said: ‘They don’t know it was me who killed your father. They’re chasing their tails like dogs.’?”

Kisa nearly chokes on her flat white. If this is true, it explains why nobody fell for their Hwanin-bait yesterday—the murderer must have known it was really Seokga underneath the silver hair and starry eyes. “You’re certain?” she rasps. This is confirmation that Hwanung is involved. Her head aches with excitement and nerves. “Please, Somi, tell me that you managed to record that. If we send it to Yeomra, it will be the solid evidence he needs…”

Somi hesitates, nibbling on her thumbnail. “The bad news is—”

“Great,” mutters Seokga acerbically.

“—that I…didn’t record it.” She winces, averting her eyes. Blue stains her cheeks and she suddenly reminds Kisa of a young, uncertain, and anxious girl instead of a notorious Unruly. It’s as if she’s constantly catching glimpses of the Somi that Hani might have known so many years ago, as if Somi’s confidence and swagger are more of an act than anything else and this is the real Somi. “I’m sorry.”

Kisa’s heart falls. Hajun places a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she fights the urge to shrug it off like a petulant child. It’s fine, she tells herself. We have more leads than we did an hour ago. It will be fine.

“And she knew I was there,” Somi continues, seemingly gathering herself. “I was about to see who she was, to jump out at her, but when I tried the handle, it was locked. ‘Meddlesome fox,’ she said, and managed to hurry off before I broke out. I went to the security room right after to pull footage, but Korain—and Chaeyeon—were gathered in there.” She glances warily in Seokga’s direction. “Apparently they’ve had no luck solving your boxers-or-briefs mystery. They’ll be attempting to solve it with renewed vigor today. From what I heard, they’ve managed to get a key to your room.”

“Fucking hells,” Seokga groans. Irritation glows orange down the thread. As worry swamps Kisa’s mind and she nervously turns to him, he shakes his head. “I hid everything related to this”—he looks at his brother, and Kisa knows she’s not imagining the flash of affection that crosses the god’s face before being replaced by an annoyance that looks distinctly fake to her—“little demon before we left. And although I hid my boxers…”

“ Aha! ” Somi exclaims before receiving a death glare from the god.

“…I left one pair out where they might be easily found. The sooner those two pathetic, nosy slugs leave the room, the better. I don’t want to risk them finding something else—like the box of diapers.”

Kisa is strangely touched. “A noble sacrifice,” she tells him sagely.

His cheeks are tinged pink. “Yes, well, I have elaborate plans to burn Godly Gossip to the ground within the month.” But Seokga’s smiling as he looks at her, and Kisa can’t help her own face from heating, too.

“Arson really is a terrible crime,” she informs him, pressing the backs of her hands to her blue-stained cheeks.

“Only if you get caught.” His expression is positively devil-may-care.

Kisa shakes her head in a mixture of exasperation and a strange, growing fondness. And if the red thread truly can’t influence attraction or emotion, as Seokga suggested…Well. She might find herself in a great deal of trouble soon enough. Yet staring up at his glittering eyes and crooked smile, Kisa finds herself thinking not of reincarnation but of the way he has a small dimple that she never noticed before. “Seokga—” Did Hani care about getting caught? The thought is almost intrusive, and her amusement falters. And there it is—that wondering if she’ll ever be who Seokga wants her to be. Yet a rule-abiding shaman can’t suddenly transform into a lawless gumiho.

“As cute as this moment is…” Somi clears her throat. “We have a murder to solve.”

Right. Right. Kisa shakes herself out of her reverie. She’s been getting distracted far too often these days. “Did you recognize the woman’s voice at all? Were there any indications of age?”

“High and snooty.”

“That’s half of the female guests on this ship,” Hajun says, sighing.

Somi looks affronted.

“Um, not you, though,” he adds quickly.

Her smile is bright and sharp, her little fangs piercing her lips. “Good,” she purrs.

Glancing between them—the blush on Hajun’s cheeks, the twinkle in Somi’s eyes—Kisa feels a strange twist of jealousy. Whatever the two of them have, it’s completely… new. No expectations from a past life hanging over their heads, no muddled history stemming back to the Dark Days. Blinking rapidly, she takes a deep breath—but the thread has already carried her green envy down its length toward the trickster god.

—why—jealous?—might—understand—

Kisa clears her throat, avoiding Seokga’s eye. “Here’s what I think we should do,” she says, clutching her coffee close to her chest and savoring its warmth. “When we get the chance, we obviously need to access the security room again. Now that we know we’re looking for a woman, we can concentrate on locating one heading to the I-95 both last night and the night of the murder. We should update Yeomra as well, tell him we’re close.” She hesitates, nibbling on her bottom lip. Dr. Jang’s voice isn’t precisely high and snooty, but her inexplicable hunch still remains. At some point today, she’ll slip off for a quick investigation—just to ensure it’s not her—and return. There can’t be any harm in that.

“It’s a plan,” says Hajun, and he sounds excited. “We’re almost there. I can feel it.”

Something begins to wither in her chest at the words, and Kisa mentally curses herself. What is wrong with her? Reincarnation is just within reach. So why does she find herself staring at the red thread, feeling as if she’s about to suffer some great loss? A moment ago, her heart was falling at the lack of solid evidence from Somi. Now, it’s breaking at the knowledge that the mystery is almost over.

Her blue sadness crests down the string, and she jerks away her gaze before Seokga’s eyes meet hers.

—she’ll—leave—wants to—why is she—sad?—is—there hope—

“We are,” Kisa agrees quietly, and the words taste like ash on her tongue. She fights the urge to gag on them, and as Seokga moves closer to her in concern, Kisa acts on a base instinct—some primal remnant of fight or flight—and flees the sick bay.

Like a panicked animal, she shoves through the swinging doors, breaths coming in shallow bursts. Dimly, she hears Seokga shout her name in clear worry, but she’s already running. As her feet pound on the corridor’s hard floor, her eyes blur with hot tears.

Gods, she is so confused —and confusion has never been an emotion that she handles well. Clear comprehension has become, through years of study and discipline, Kisa’s resting state, as easy as breathing. To be plunged into total incomprehension is like drowning. She cannot breathe like this.

Her muscles burn as she sprints, sweat trickling down the nape of her neck. Kisa barely feels the annoyed glares from the throngs of guests she pushes past on the stairs, doesn’t hear the cries of watch it! and hey! All she hears is the dull pounding of blood in her head, and her own panicked thoughts. Kisa doesn’t even realize where she’s going until she bursts onto Deck 10, legs turned into absolute jelly, hardly able to breathe as she staggers to the sundeck’s rail and leans over it so her tear-blurred eyes can take in the roaring, red Seocheongang below. Even from the highest point on the SRC Flatliner, a mist of the river’s cold water sprays her face.

Before she can stop herself, Kisa is falling back on an old, terrible habit. She’s swinging a leg over the rail, hands clutching the cold iron and feet slotting in between the lower bars as she swings over her other leg. Her hair whips wildly through the air as she perches on Deck 10’s safety railing, hundreds of feet in the air, a deadly drop before her.

But she’s already dead, isn’t she?

And Seokga—he’s so alive. So utterly and painfully alive, with his sharp smiles and glittering eyes. The way he tilts his head back when he laughs. The way his eyes soften when he looks at her, like she is someone more than precious to him, more than the anxiously frazzled ghost she sees herself as.

The way his blood runs red.

A god and a gwisin.

It is an impossible thing.

Isn’t it?

A bitter laugh swells up in her tight throat, along with a painful ache in her chest as she stares down at the water through her tears. At the hospital, when it all became too much, sitting on the skyscraper’s roof had been a way to, by facing imminent death, regain control of her spiraling thoughts. Perhaps it was also a way to punish herself—for not being as capable of withstanding the long hours and stress as she should have been. Now, Kisa doesn’t know what will happen if she falls into the river, but she won’t die. That ship has long since sailed. A tear trickles down her cheek, and Kisa furiously scrubs it away—only for more to follow.

She’s so lost in her misery that, when the hand touches her back, her entire body seizes up painfully in surprise and terror. A scream rings out from her throat before she can stop it—and she’s only saved from toppling off the ship by the same hand that closes around her arm and drags her back over the rail. Panting, shaking, and trembling, Kisa stares into a pair of outrageously pink sunglasses.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Dr. Jang says quietly. “But in my experience, sitting on a rail like that rarely signifies a peaceful mind. I wanted to ask you if you were all right. You’re Kisa, aren’t you?”

“I-I am,” Kisa whispers, barely audible even to herself. She’s shaking so fiercely that she’s afraid she might collapse. When Dr. Jang gently guides her to sit on one of the deck’s many reclining white plastic chairs, Kisa is too weak to refuse. She tries to sit on her hands to stop them from shaking as Dr. Jang sits on the edge of the chair next to her. She wishes she had sunscreen as sweat trickles down her temples and her skin burns underneath Jeoseung’s hellish sky.

“Kisa,” she says kindly, “I want you to breathe deeply in through your nose for a count of four, hold your breath for a count of seven, and exhale for a count of eight. Can you do that for me, dear?”

She latches onto the clear, logical instruction like it’s a life buoy. Inhale for four. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight. Kisa obediently follows the doctor’s rules, and gradually, her heart rate begins to steady. Her body still trembles, but the terrible panic is receding. Somewhere in between her counting, Dr. Jang ordered her a glass of ice water from a passing cruise attendant. Kisa gratefully wraps her fingers around the cold cup and drinks greedily.

“Thank you,” she whispers, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry…”

“There’s no need to thank me. Or apologize.”

In her frayed state of mind, Kisa wasn’t apologizing for the last ten minutes, but for suspecting Dr. Jang to be the murderer. Seokga is right—Jang is a shaman and has no claws. She doesn’t fit the requisites. Kisa stares regretfully down at her now-empty glass.

All those nights spent taunting death above the hospital, and not one person—not her fellow doctors, not any nurses or assistants—came to help her. It means something to her that Dr. Jang is acting like she cares. It’s…nice.

“It’s none of my business, but can I ask what sent you running to the rail like a demon of the hells was on your heels?”

Kisa manages a small smile. “You can certainly ask, but I might not tell you.”

Dr. Jang laughs. It’s a nice, warmly quiet sound, like the crinkling of tissue paper during the holidays. “Fair enough. Fair enough.”

Jeoseung’s flaming red sun beats down on Kisa’s face as she looks toward the rail, to the underworld beyond. Somewhere within the dark, mountainous peaks, there’s a chilling cry. Despite the heat, she shivers and turns back to the therapist, who seems to be watching her through the dark shades. “I ran because I…don’t know what I want anymore. And I suppose I’m terrified of wanting something I can never have.”

“You’re talking about Seokga,” Dr. Jang guesses, voice kind. Kisa hesitates but nods. “Ah. It can be so complicated, can’t it?”

“Friendships shouldn’t be complicated. They’re supposed to be—easy. Like Hajun and I—”

“I’m not talking about friendship, Kisa.”

“Oh.” She swallows nervously. “I see.” Friends who are purely platonic probably do not feel faint with desire at the sight of each other’s muscled backs. Her cheeks heat as Kisa remembers how she’d had to dunk underwater to collect herself and douse the heat blooming in places that it should not bloom with a just-friend. She’s still astounded that she joined Seokga in the wet spa. It is not like her to do such impulsive, almost risqué, things—but he brings out another side of her that she didn’t know even existed. Like the sun, coaxing a flower to bloom.

“Do you?” Dr. Jang’s voice is so gentle and warm that it reminds her almost of the Samsin Halmoni she thought she knew—before Seokga told her of the goddess’s betrayal. She feels herself relaxing as Jang smiles. “Let me ask you this, Kisa. Have you ever been in love before?”

“No,” whispers Kisa.

“Why? Is it because you never met the right person?”

She pauses, thinking. Kisa supposes that there have been a few boys she might have allowed herself to love—if she’d had the time. But her first love has always been work. And work is a jealous lover, not allowing others to get too close. “I was busy.”

“By coincidence or on purpose?” When Kisa frowns, slightly insulted, Dr. Jang holds her hands up in supplication. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I’m just suggesting that work has been your defense mechanism in the face of affection—but now, having met Seokga, your defense mechanism isn’t working anymore. But let me tell you something about defense mechanisms, Kisa. They won’t work when we’re not feeling threatened. Something to think about.” She rises to her feet, drawing her floral tote bag up with her. There’s a slight thunk as something falls from it, but Kisa barely notices, mulling over Jang’s words. “It was nice to meet you, Kisa.”

“Yes,” replies Kisa distractedly, “you, too.”

It’s only when the therapist has left that Kisa sees what she accidentally dropped: a bottle of lotion. Kisa grabs it and stands, looking around for the yellow-bonnet-wearing woman, but there’s no sign of her. The bottle is slick in her hand, and Kisa examines the label, wondering if it’s some SPF she might borrow as she sweats under the sun.

Dermatrick’s Anti-Aging Collagen Cream with Pulverized Licorice Root & SPF 50.

Just a little might do the trick, and she can return the bottle to Dr. Jang the next time she sees her. Brows furrowing, Kisa pops open the cap, and squeezes a dollop onto her hand. The scent of the lotion hits her in the back of her throat and she chokes, slamming the cap shut and staring down in horror at the little white blob as the powerful stench makes her feel ill. With hands that are once again shaking, Kisa slips the lotion into her pocket and scrubs the rest of the cream onto the leg of her pants.

It’s a common enough scent for lotions, Kisa tells herself, even though the stench of it is—to her—wholly unique in that it’s the worst fragrance on earth. No need to feel ill over it.

But she still hurries down to her cabin and changes into a clean set of scrubs, leaving the bottle on a shelf. Kisa stares at it, swallowing hard.

Dr. Jang has given her a lot to think about.