Page 8

Chapter Eight

Seokga

A s Seokga stumbles into the suite he will be sharing with Hwanin, his brother leaps to his feet from where he was sitting on one of the plush armchairs.

The suite is just as lavish as any mortal hotel, with two bedrooms joined by a sitting area facing a large window displaying the Seocheongang River outside. It’s the biggest suite—the King Suite. Only the best for Okhwang’s emperor. Art that Yeomra would probably insist is “interpretive” but is really just ugly splashes of paint hangs proudly on the walls above the black-carpeted floor that Hwanin currently treads on as he makes his way over to Seokga. A fire crackles merrily in its hearth—too merrily. Seokga wishes to violently extinguish it. He just might.

“Seokga,” Hwanin says as Seokga leans heavily against the doorframe, “I’m going to assume from your expression that you’re either nauseatingly happy or very seasick.” He hesitates. “Did you find her?”

On trembling legs, Seokga manages to carry himself to another armchair, sinking into the soft fabric and running a shaking hand down his face. “I found her,” he confirms in a whisper.

Hwanin’s brows furrow together. “This is not the happiness I’ve expected for years,” he says. “You look ill. What happened?”

Throat dry, Seokga tells him, detailing everything from the flying paperweight to the café. Hwanin watches him, face growing more and more somber. “I knew not to expect Hani,” he whispers, throat dry. “I’ve been telling myself not to for years. But I still…”

“Expected her,” his brother finishes, eyes kind. But the trickster god’s mood is already turning.

“This never would have happened,” he pants, hurt suddenly replaced by hot anger, “if you hadn’t made that bargain in the first place. Did you have fun?” He launches out of the chair, glowering down at the emperor. “Watching it all unfold? Watching me fall in love with the woman I was meant to hunt down? They say I have Father’s cruel streak, Hwanin, but yours—yours is unparalleled. ”

Hwanin’s eyes flash. “Do not compare me to Father.”

Mireuk. The original creator god. Hwanin and Seokga’s father, who went mad and shaped the worlds’ sufferings. As Mireuk had spiraled further and further into evil, Hwanin and Seokga were given no choice but to imprison him, far within Jeoseung, beneath the river on which the SRC Flatliner cruises.

“You did this,” Seokga sneers, undeterred. “You—”

“I made that bargain for you,” Hwanin interrupts, voice deceptively calm. “To reinstate you as a god. And later, I modified it for you, to save your life. All for you! How was I meant to know you would fall in love with her?”

“No,” snaps Seokga, breathing hard. “Stop lying. You know as well as I do that you did it to betray me the way I betrayed you—”

It is an old argument between them. One that constantly interrupts a newer friendship.

“ Enough, ” Hwanin retorts, a vein on his temple pulsing as he stands. “If you want to play this game, allow me a turn. Hani would never have died if you did not attempt a coup, if you did not get yourself exiled. If she had stayed away from meddling in your business. If you were a better detective and unmasked Eodum quicker. If she hadn’t drained her fox bead. If, if, if. There were so many variables in her death, brother. So many moving pieces and yet, in your anger, you only blame me. But who orchestrated her reincarnation?” Hwanin shakes his head, mouth a thin line. “So she is not what you expected or wanted, deep down. Fine. She is not going to be Hani, Seokga. She is going to be Kisa. I know that logically you are aware of this. So do not set unrealistic expectations for the girl. She doesn’t know you. There is an imbalance, don’t you think? You want something from her that she’s not ready to give.” His face gentles as Seokga flinches, hard wall of fury beginning to crumble. “Time, brother. Give her time. Humor her curiosity. Don’t push her away until you really know her. And let her get to know you.”

Tired. Seokga is so utterly tired as he stands there, shoulders slumped. The exhaustion weighing down his bones is ancient and lumbering. “I miss her,” he whispers. “I miss Hani.” He stares at the red thread, aching with the worst type of loss. The Ship of Theseus, Seokga thinks. Is it still the same ship? Is she still the same woman I loved?

“I know.”

“I would burn down the entire world just to see her again.”

“Unfortunately, I know you mean that literally.” Hwanin sighs. “Look, brother—I’ll call Dr. Jang over for an emergency session. But I know you, Seokga, and I know that you’ve likely decided to dramatically mope for the foreseeable future regardless of any professional intervention. So we’re going out tonight.”

Seokga swallows the pink pill that he must, every day, take at precisely seven o’clock. An anti-depressant, prescribed to him by Dr. Jang. Although he’s not sure it’s been doing much. He is practically drowning in misery.

“Are you ready?” Hwanin asks, hovering by the suite’s door.

He gives his brother a withering look.

“It will be fun,” the emperor says with forced cheer.

“I highly doubt that,” Seokga replies coldly, but still follows Hwanin into the hall, where Dr. Jang waits. The therapist has gotten dolled up for the occasion, swapping out her Hawaiian shirt for an extremely frumpy dress with a rubber-duck print that Seokga dearly wants to laugh at. Hwanin’s elbow digs into his ribs before he can snicker.

“Shall we?” Hwanin asks, offering his arm to Dr. Jang. The elderly woman smiles, excitement rolling off her in waves. Seokga ends up walking behind the pair as they take the glittering, diamond-crusted spiraling stairs down one flight to Deck 6, joined by a handful of other guests, all buzzing with excitement.

The last time Seokga was on a ship had been an unfortunate journey with a handful of pirates, all of whom were Unruly dokkaebi, and all of which he’d had to kill. That ship had been small, cramped, and dirty—certainly not large enough, nor sturdy enough, to hold a greenhouse.

It’s a massive building of neat white beams and polished glass, which displays a sea of rich greens and vibrancy beyond.

“Emperor Hwanin,” says the cruise director—a woman named Soo-min (in accordance with her golden name tag) whom Seokga had already decided to dislike based on nothing but his grumpy nature and inherent distrust of smiling people—“and Prince Seokga. Welcome to tonight’s garden party.” She stares for a moment at Dr. Jang, at the ridiculous dress. “Um…Is she with you?”

“Clearly,” snaps Seokga, suddenly protective of Dr. Jang as her face falls. Now that his awe at the SRC Flatliner has mellowed, part of him writhes uncomfortably about how he spoke to her that morning. “She is.”

“Right,” says Soo-min, still staring at the dress. “Well, please enjoy your time tonight.”

“It’s rude to stare,” Seokga whispers as he passes her.

The cruise director jumps. He smiles.

“ Boo, ” he all but cackles before following his companions into the greenhouse. It is even larger on the inside. Seokga’s ears fill with the gentle murmur of a large, man-made stone pond, in which lily pads float atop earth-hued water. It is a veritable forest in here, humidity-slick cobblestones clicking underneath the heels of a small gathering. Various exotic plants stretch up toward the roof far, far above: high ferns, arching lemon trees, even palm trees which tower over clusters of vibrant flowers. Seokga can almost believe they’re on land, in a rather large garden. The only indication of their true location is the glass walls, which must jut out of the ship. The red river swims below.

Waiters carry platters of hors d’oeuvres through the winding paths. None of them are Kisa. The red thread stretches far beyond the greenhouse—she’s likely still working in the ship’s clinic. Not knowing whether he’s disappointed or relieved, Seokga takes a flute of champagne, downs it, grimaces in disgust (coffee is the only drink besides water he more than tolerates) and then places it back on the tray as a live band—hidden somewhere in the foliage—begins to play soft classical music.

Dr. Jang is chatting away with an elderly couple who seem to be fawning over her dress and laughing as she contorts her voice to a surprisingly good imitation of a popular daytime show host. Staring at the rubber ducks, Seokga hopes that terrible fashion sense isn’t an incurable disease of the old. He is, after all, ancient. Hwanin attempts, futilely, to engage Seokga in conversation with a few other guests—all of whom mumble their excuses as he turns his penetrating green gaze onto them.

“Seokga,” Hwanin says, “you’re scaring them away. Stop it.”

But Seokga doesn’t hear him. No, Seokga is staring over Hwanin’s shoulder, feeling his blood steadily begin to boil as he catches sight of something—some one —whom he has dearly wanted to throttle for some time now.

It was Hani’s last wish that Nam Somi go free. If it were up to Seokga, he would have hung Somi’s pelt in his palace long, long ago. Thirty-three years ago, to be exact.

She looks different now. The years have hardened her. He realizes, with growing disgust, that her clothes mirror what Hani would once wear. Perfect, polished, fashionable in the nineties but perhaps a bit outdated now, out of place amongst the more modern wear of the party. The way she flirts, laughs…Somi is mimicking Hani. Mimicking her former friend, her mentor, the most notorious gumiho to ever exist.

His stomach rolls.

But oh, how Somi pales in contrast to Hani. This air of cheer and confidence is so calculated. So plastic and fake. For years, Somi terrorized country after country, eating her way through their supply of men—almost as if following in the Scarlet Fox’s footsteps. But some paws are too small to fill the prints left by the Scarlet Fox.

She’s a cheap knockoff.

Seokga feels a bitter regret that he was not the one to end her life or put her on this ship.

But now that she’s dead…

A wicked smile curves Seokga’s lips. It’s the same curve that graced them moments before he unleashed a horde of Gamangnara monsters into Okhwang. The same crooked grin that Hwanin stared at as Seokga rode a roaring Unruly jangsan beom into the throne room, the massive tiger-shifter launching for the throne.

Now that she’s dead, he can really begin to torment her.

How Seokga adores loopholes.

“Excuse me,” says Seokga and, with that same nasty smile, makes his way toward Somi. The gumiho’s eyes widen as she looks up, clocks the six-foot-three trickster god shouldering his way toward her.

And, there. She freezes, a deer in the headlights, prey cowering before predator. He can practically smell her terror, rolling off her in waves as those big brown eyes widen even further. Somi tries to smile but oh, how clearly Seokga sees right through her act. She’s just as much of a coward as she ever was. That nervous, trembling café worker isn’t too far beneath the surface. A bumbling teenager in a woman’s skin.

“Hello, Somi,” Seokga sneers, shoving aside her conversation partners.

She attempts bravado. It’s laughable. “Seokga,” she greets, drawing her shoulders back. He has the feeling his name is supposed to drip with disdain, but all he hears is trepidation. Good.

“I hope your death was painful and bloody,” he drawls.

Somi swallows and he feels a surge of triumph when she flinches. If he had to guess, some truth hit home. He doesn’t care. Perhaps a better man would stop now. But Seokga has never been a better man. He has only ever been a wicked, wicked god.

“And I hope,” Seokga whispers, cocking his head, “it’s nothing compared to this.”

In one swift snap, Seokga has transformed his cane into the long silver sword he has carried for thousands of years. Partygoers shriek, and Seokga snorts in disgust. He’s never really understood how Jeoseung works—hasn’t really bothered to understand it, at any rate—but he knows one thing.

Even if he can’t kill those who are already dead, he can hurt them.

“Seokga!” That’s his therapist, rushing toward them as fast as her aging body allows, rubber-duck dress flapping. “Seokga, please, you cannot bring out your sword during a garden party, you cannot stab somebody—”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” That’s his brother, howling his heavenly emperor head off in outrage. The music grinds to a halt.

Somi’s eyes are wide. Seokga’s blood is boiling, hotter and hotter. All of the frustrations, the heartbreak, of the past day has reached its tipping point. He knows what Dr. Jang will say. He’s projecting his own self-hatred onto Somi who, admittedly, played a rather small part in the Dark Days. He’s letting his grip on his anger problems slip, he’s giving in to the darker parts of his nature, he’s subconsciously imitating the rage his father showed when his sickness began. He’s attempting to compensate for his complete lack of a sense of control by being entirely in control of someone else’s pain.

Oh, well.

He grins in a way that has the frozen gumiho paling…

“Seokga?”

The trickster god freezes. Slowly, so slowly, he turns his head over his shoulder.

Kisa stands behind him, breathing hard, curls in a state of flustered disarray. Her bright eyes dart from him to the sword to Somi and back. The woman’s face is slack with shock—and disappointment. Between them, the red thread tightens and once again, for a moment, glows scarlet. Seokga’s next thought is not his own.

—would—hurt—she didn’t mean—eat the banker—is that why—

The shock of it is enough for Seokga to drop the sword. It clatters to the ground and he is vaguely aware of Somi hissing something at him, of Dr. Jang taking one of his shoulders, of Hwanin leaping into a furious lecture…But none of that matters. Amidst the chaos, Seokga and Kisa stare at each other, fate glowing between them.

He can hear her thoughts.

He can hear Kisa’s thoughts.

And judging by the growing roundness of her eyes, she can hear his, too.