I don’t know what to tell Dad. That I believe Grandfather? That I see the very things Grandfather does? Will he think I’m crazy, too?
Dad’s expression keeps me quiet. Color has reentered his face, and his hands have stopped shaking. It’s as if just having said those words made them true for him, and everything is right with his world again.
Even when deep down I know it’s not.
He wraps his arm over my shoulders, and the two of us stand there, gazing out the window as the sun sets over Seoul.
Dad and I have grown closer today. So why do I feel as if we’re also further apart than ever?
At first I’m okay with being locked away from civilization.
But by hour two I’m pacing like a trapped tiger while Dad is back to being wired into his laptop and BlackBerry, totally forgetting I exist. Unbelievable.
I consider throwing my dobok into my duffle bag and heading over to an evening Tae Kwon Do class, but after my recent fight, I’m not sure Master Park wants me back. Besides, Dad doesn’t seem too keen to let me leave the house.
Some people paint for stress relief. Others beat the crap out of punching bags (which, I might add, is very therapeutic). I do what any normal person who’s nearly been kidnapped by an immortal would do. I move furniture.
First, I choose my wall color. A photography store was going out of business after Christmas, and I was the lucky buyer of his background screens, having them shipped to Korea with Dad’s grudging agreement. I pull down a pale-blue color, but as soon as I do, an image of Haemosu riding through the sky in a dragon-led chariot comes to mind.
Good-bye, blue.
I yank another cord to choose the forest scene. Supposedly, green is a calming color.
Next, I drag my desk to the far corner, scraping the linoleum with a squeak that I’m sure is driving Mr. Chung below me nuts. I know I shouldn’t be happy to annoy him, but seriously, his yip-yap dog that wakes me up at two a.m. is way louder.
My yo is next. It’s soft and spongy. Most Koreans roll theirs up to give them more space, but my room is big enough for me to leave it out. Still, I miss my bed in L.A., which makes my insides churn all stormy that Dad not only dragged me over here, away from all my friends, but into danger. Sure, he doesn’t believe in Grandfather’s stories, but aren’t dads supposed to be, like, ultra-protective or something? Shouldn’t he want to protect me from any threat, however implausible?
I throw the yo across the room.
The dragon bow catches my eye. Its bamboo curves and oak handles call to me. I pick it up and run my fingers along its smooth surface, itching to know its pull and release. Once again I hear that hum, and I press the bow to my chest and inhale deeply. The wood is soothing, like ointment on a wound. But then memories of the wall of bows, the scrolls from an ancient time, and being pulled into the mural swim through my mind. My stomach churns, and my hands start to sweat.
My cell cuts the silence, and I nearly drop my bow. I dig through my backpack, following my ringtone: “Eye of the Tiger.”
It’s a text from Michelle: Missing u! Wish u were here.
Michelle! Just seeing her text pop up calms me. She is everything that my crazy family is not. She is normal. And I realize I’m craving that.
Me: What r u doing 2nite?
It only takes five seconds for Michelle to text back. Remember? Coffee Bean. Good Enough. Lily and Kumar here 2.
I slap my forehead. I’d forgotten about the concert. Good Enough is a band comprised of kids from school, and Michelle, Lily, and I always support them.
Suddenly I’m desperate to get out of this stuffy apartment. I’ve got to do something other than sit around and wait for Haemosu to show up and kidnap me like Grandfather says. Plus Kumar is there, and I want to ask him about the possibility of alternate worlds.
I peer out the window, scanning the sidewalk for anything unusual. The memory of Glittery Guy and Haechi stops me short. Supposedly Palk sent Haechi as my protector, but I still don’t buy it. What if they show up again?
I hate this feeling, as if I’m some princess stashed away in a castle unable to escape. No. I won’t let stupid immortals ruin my life. They will not control me. I don’t even fully believe they’re real.
I text her back: Meet u in 20 min and then I slip on a tight black shirt and a pair of jeans. My hair’s a tangled mess, but I don’t bother with it as I toss a few things into my purse: iPod, cell phone, subway card; and then on impulse I snap a picture of my bow with my phone. I can’t wait to show everyone.
There’s no way Dad will let me escape to Myeong-dong. He’ll suggest his usual: homework, SAT prep, or college applications. I crack open my door and spot him still working on his laptop. He’ll totally see me leaving if I go out the front door.
Operation Sneak Out it is.
I plop two pillows on my yo, toss a blanket over them, and turn off the light. Then I slide up my window until the cool city breeze blusters against me and into my room. The city is alive tonight: restaurants flashing their neon signs, high-rise apartments lit up like Christmas trees against the dark sky, and the buzz of taxis and buses honking below. Even from this high up, I smell whiffs of Korean barbeque—kalbi—and kimchi.
Outside our apartment hangs a balcony that stretches from one end of the building to the other. Their thin privacy walls divide each apartment from the next. It isn’t the first time I’ve dangled over the edge, streetcars zipping below me, to swing into our neighbors’ balconies.
I creep to the railing, careful that Dad doesn’t catch my silhouette through the windows, and climb over the metal bars. I could fall, but I know I won’t. A burst of energy surges through me as I slither around to the other side of the divider into Mrs. Jung’s balcony, careful not to be spotted. I continue my escape route until I reach the end apartment where the fire exit steps are.
In seconds I’m tearing down the concrete stairs of the fire escape and outside, breathing in the night air.
The subway stop is at the end of our street. My ticket to freedom. Dad would never let me go off on my own in L.A., but Seoul’s a totally different matter. Sure, it’s like three times the population of L.A., but it’s so safe to walk around—even little kids travel alone on the subways at night. The neighbors tend to watch out for one another, and though the police cruise the streets, it’s more the honor system of the people that keeps things in order.
It’s Saturday night, so the subway station is packed. I join the throngs surging down the steps, scan my card, and weave my way to the Light Blue line. In the distance I can hear the eerie screech of the subway trains, and I find myself glancing over my shoulder, half expecting Haechi or Glittery Guy to jump out. The first train’s too full, but when the second comes, I manage to wedge myself between a lady with a screaming baby and a black-suited businessman.
Usually I hate crowds. The feelings of claustrophobia and being engulfed in smells of soju, lavender, and kimchi overwhelm me. Not tonight. They are a comfort, blanketing me from harm. There’s safety in numbers, I decide as the door clamps shut and the train lurches into motion. I plug in my earphones, hoping Karp will drown out the growing worry gnawing at my chest, and let my body sway with the train. I focus on the little screens above the sliding doors that scroll the names of each stop, first in Korean and then in English.
Two more stops until Myeong-dong. I text Michelle that I’m almost there, wiggle my way closer to the doors, and wait. The train creaks to a stop, and the doors swish open. I pause before exiting, a sliver of worry edging at my nerves. But if I don’t get off the train right now, I’ll be in a whole different section of the city at the next stop and arrive too late to hear Good Enough.
I step off, and the doors whoosh behind me. That’s when I realize why I had hesitated. What had bothered me.
The platform is empty.
Where are the lines of people? I can’t remember ever being in a subway station completely alone, especially on a Saturday night. The train hurtles away, sendin
g a blast of wind swirling around me reeking of oil and fumes.
I adjust my bag and dart to the stairs. My boots echo along the platform. Clomp, clomp, clomp. I focus on the posters lining the walls, studying their colors, each word. Anything other than the fact that I’m sweating. That my heart feels as if I’ve just finished fifty push-ups.
A burst of bright light flashes over me. Laughter echoes across the platform, a high-pitched screech, sending an ache through my bones. I freeze. The platform falls silent.
I don’t dare move. The light dissipates. In my peripheral vision a shadow scampers along the pipes in the ceiling. My heart stops, and my ears start ringing.
I run.
I’m halfway up the stairs when I’m faced with two black stumps that I assume are legs. The clawed feet aren’t standing on the stairs but hovering over them. The air smells like a goat stable. I grab hold of the cool railing and allow my eyes to trail up the legs, past a cotton loincloth, up its red rippled belly, and into the most gruesome face I’ve ever seen.
Eyes gleam down at me, and a huge mouth widens into a sick smile to reveal four dagger-like teeth.
I recognize this creature instantly from the Korean fairy tales Mom used to read me. A dokkaebi. The Korean version of a leprechaun, except that these guys aren’t the cute, adorable kind you see on St. Patrick’s Day. They’re the kind that use magic for any whim that may cross their minds. And they’re butt ugly. My mind reels. Dokkaebis hate city life. Dokkaebis avoid crowds. Dokkaebis aren’t real.
This one’s black hair sticks out as if it’s been electrocuted, the ends fire red. Directly on top of his head sits a single horn. He bangs his thick wooden club on the concrete stairs, and sparks of light shimmer into the air. He stares at me with a trickster’s grin on his face.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, banging the club again. “Haemosu is watching you, wanting you.”
My back presses against the railing, but I lift my chin. “Really?”
“Oh, oh, you already know, pretty girl.” He cackles with glee. “I help you. You help me.”
Dokkaebis are known for helping or harming people depending on their whims. He steps toward me.
“What do you want?” I wish my voice would stop quivering.
“More like what you want, is it not, pretty girl? Humans always want.”
“Well, I want you to leave me alone.” I move to dart around him. His massive body blocks me.
“No, no, no. You must come with me. To special place.” He cocks his head to the side, revealing oozing warts on his neck. “Skilled with the arrow, are you?”
How does he know this? “Did Haemosu send you?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Haemosu beckons you.” His red eyes narrow to slits. “Before we go, we make pact.”
Right. Like I’m going to make a pact with a monster. “What did you have in mind?” My pulse races as I estimate how much space there is between him and the wall. Can I squeeze through?
“Yes, yes, yes! I give you clue. You give me orb.”
I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, but I attempt a smile as I prepare to duck around him. “Sounds fair.”
“The heart of the moon. Shoot your arrow into it. There your ancestors are. You can free them from their tomb.”
I stop. “What do you mean by freeing my ancestors?”
“Souls of the princesses cry, cry, cry,” he says. “Do you not hear?”
My head is spinning. Grandfather never mentioned anything about this. Is this a trick or for real?
The stories always say never trust a dokkaebi.
He bangs his club onto the concrete. A myriad of colors spark into the air. “Then, then, then! Get me the orb.”
“Heart of the moon? Orb?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” With each yes, he pounds his club. “You get. I get.”
The only thing I want right now is to be far, far away.
He lifts his club to twirl it again. I take that moment to duck around him and then sprint up the rest of the stairs. When I reach the main level of the subway station, I’m back in the rush of people scurrying from place to place. I skirt around a group of giggling schoolgirls and glance over my shoulder, hoping the crowds have scared him off. The dokkaebi isn’t following me.
Everything is normal.
Then I stop in my tracks. Because Haechi stands just two feet in front of me. People rush along, talking on their cell phones, totally oblivious to the lionlike creature standing on four legs.
“Trouble?” he asks in a growl.
“How—how,” I swallow hard, “did you know?”
“This is my city. But dokkaebis rarely roam these parts. I did not sense the danger as quickly as I should have. A rift between Kud and Palk in the Spirit World has created recent havoc.”
I lick my lips, completely confused. Why is every creature so determined to talk in riddles? “What do you want?”
“Remember. Palk has commissioned me to protect you. Call my name if you should need my assistance.”
I nod, getting the sense that disagreeing with a creature as fierce and strong as he would not be in my best interests. He vanishes before I have a chance to ask him why Palk even cares about a lowly mortal like me.
Although I have to admit it’s a little comforting to know he’s on my side.
By the time I enter the Coffee Bean, I’m out of breath, and my nerves are fried squid. The paper lanterns dangling from the thick-beamed ceiling and olive-green wallpaper give the coffee shop a cozy atmosphere. The aroma of roasted coffee and cinnamon fills the air. The room’s warmth soaks into me, and I realize how cold I am. Good Enough isn’t playing, but their instruments are laid out on the stage, so they must be on their break.
I stand still and take it all in. It’s all so normal. So safe. I cling to that feeling, pretending for a moment that Grandfather’s story is just some awful fairy tale. That immortals, Haechi, and dokkaebis are mythical.
If only.
“Jae!”
That’s Michelle’s voice. I catch sight of her waving with both hands from a table at the far end, near a mock-traditional Korean-style oven. She’s wearing a pale-pink cashmere sweater rimmed with pearls, and her hair is pulled back into a sleek-styled ponytail.
Next to her is Lily, with her curly blond hair, beaming a lip gloss smile at me as if this is the best night ever. Lily tends to get overdramatic, but then I see why. Kumar is sitting at their table. She’s been crushing on him since day one of school, and apparently she’s finally gotten his attention. He’s easy to spot, being the only Indian in the room. But it’s Marc, also with them, who stops my steps. He looks totally hot in a dark-blue fleece pullover. What’s he doing here?
His eyes leave the TV where the soccer game is playing to find mine. For a moment our eyes lock. He raises his eyebrows as if he’s surprised I’m here, and then his mouth curves into a slow smile. My heart flips. Twice.
I order a latte and head over to them. Lily pats a stool next to her for me to sit on.
“You’re back early,” Michelle says.
Kumar glances up from his mini tablet to nod a hello. “Escaped the relatives, huh?”
“Hey, Fighter Girl,” Marc says. “Your trip go well?”
How did he know I went on a trip? As if sensing my question, Michelle whispered into my ear, “Don’t hate me forever. He was asking about you, so I told him you’d be here.”
Still too cold to take off my jacket, I cup my drink between my hands and watch the steam curl up from the mug. I feel my face flush. “Yeah.” I hesitate and then say, “Dad had to come back early for work.” I hate lying, but the truth is too bizarre.
“Perfect!” Michelle says, totally oblivious. “Now we can get back on board with our weekend plans to shop for the ski trip next week.”
“I wouldn’t mind checking out the shops after the next set of songs,” Lily adds.
Ugh. Shopping. Just the thought of it sounds exhausting. Besides, I have
n’t had much luck lately in going places, with dokkaebis and Haechis and everything else freak-worthy popping up. I shiver at that thought. “No offense, but I’ll skip the shopping.”
“You hardly hang out with us anymore.” Michelle flattens her napkin nice and neat, looking annoyed. “And now you want to quit NHS. What’s going on?”
Great. All I want is to fit in and be normal. Why does it have to be so hard? I glance over at the guys, both oblivious to our conversation as they discuss something on Kumar’s tablet.
“Nothing is going on,” I lie. “Everything is fine. And I’ve decided not to quit NHS.”
“Really?” Michelle asks. She looks so relieved, I only regret my impulsive decision a little. “Excellent.”
“You should tell her,” Lily says to Michelle.
“Tell me what?” I ask.
Michelle folds the napkin into fourths. “Charlie broke up with me this morning.” She presses her lips together, and I see tears edging the corners of her eyes. “By e-mail.”
“E-mail?” I ask. “What a loser. And a coward. He could’ve at least called you.”
“I guess I’m feeling a little needy lately.”
“I’m so sorry.” I grab her hand. “He’s a moron not to want to be with you.”
“That’s what I told her,” Lily says. “That’s why I suggested shopping. We’ll get her mind off it all.”
“Let’s not talk about Charlie anymore,” Michelle says. “Tell us about your trip to your grandfather’s house. Was it as bad as you thought it would be?”
“Worse.” I give a shaky laugh. If they only knew. “Actually, my grandfather gave me a gift. It’s pretty cool.”
I pull out my cell phone, find the picture I took, and show it to the group.
Kumar sets aside his mini tablet. “Very cool,” he says.
Marc puts on his glasses. “My guess is it’s at least four hundred years old.”
“Wow.” I study Marc, who is staring at the picture. “How do you know that?”
“My parents are archaeologists on their off time. They cart me along for kicks.” He shrugs and takes a swig of his Coke as if it’s no big. So why do I get the feeling he’s not telling me something?
Gilded (The Gilded Series, Book One) Page 6