Last of the Talons

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For those of us who have wanted to see ourselves in a story like this for so long, and for my family, who have encouraged me every step of the way…

This book is for you..

Author’s Note

One of mythology’s many beauties is that the stories are ripe for reinterpretations and retellings that reignite interest in traditional tales stemming back to ancient times. Stories such as these are meant to be passed on—either orally or in writing—throughout the ages. They are to be immortal, indestructible, tales that live and breathe throughout the many centuries the world has since undergone. Retellings keep these stories alive, anchoring them to the modern world even as the danger of fading into obscurity tugs at their every word.

It was therefore irksome to me that Korean mythology was largely dismissed in the world of retellings. Korean mythology brims with a wonderful assortment of magic, romance, betrayal, philosophy, and political intrigue tying in true events of Korean history with fantastical elements such as Yong (dragons) and Gwisin (ghosts)…yet it was often cast aside, just as non-stereotypical Korean characters were often cast aside in favor of the opposite.

Growing up, I rarely saw characters who looked like me and were not crammed into the stereotypical role of geeky best friend. There was nothing I wanted more than to see myself as a snarky assassin, a swashbuckling pirate, or a fearless warrior…and yet I never did. It would have been empowering for me to pick up a book brimming with both Korean mythology and Korean representation, to see Korean gods and goddesses instead of the same old stereotypes that litter both the pages of books and the screens of Hollywood. Bringing that empowerment to other readers was a large motive of mine when I began to write Last of the Talons.

Yet before setting pen to page, a vast amount of research went into fully understanding and appreciating the original lore of Korean mythology, as well as the cultural narratives behind it. I felt that it was exceptionally important for me to ensure that this manuscript—while being a new twist on the original legends—was still written by an author who wholly understood and appreciated the origins of her culture’s stories. The Kingdom of Sunpo and the hidden realm of Gyeulcheon are entirely fictional, but the mythology within both stems from centuries of Korean history and tradition (with the exception, of course, being the Pied Piper element of this novel. That original fairy tale originates from the German town of Hamelin).

Last of the Talons is not intended to be a guide to traditional Korean mythology. This book is a retelling, and as such, there are a variety of spins on the original stories. As an example, the original Tale of Manpasikjeok (also known as A Black Jade Belt and the Flute to Calm Ten Thousand Waves) is quite different from the tale utilized in this novel. The original myth finds its roots during the reign of the Silla Dynasty’s 31st sovereign—Emperor Sinmun (681–692). While the magical flute was never used by a sarcastic and sensual Dokkaebi emperor, Manpasikjeok (만파식적) was gifted to Emperor Sinmun by a sea dragon, and the story is still rich with a magnificent mysticality.

This book also contains creative spins on beings such as the Korean pantheon, Dokkaebi, Imugi, and Gwisin—as well as the underworld realm of Jeoseung. If you would like to learn more about their original forms, I recommend purchasing a copy of Korean Myths and Folk Legends by Hwang Pae-gang and translated by Han Young-hie, as well as visiting folkency.nfm.go.kr, where a variety of resources relating to both Korean mythology and traditional culture may be found.

Last of the Talons is a love letter to the stories of my heritage as much as it is a love letter to readers who have wanted to see themselves represented in a book like this. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you enjoy it.

Fondly,

Sophie Kim

Chapter One

The Temple of Ruin has been abandoned for centuries, but it’s an unspoken rule that nobody enters the looming pagoda.

There are legends of dark, dreadful things lurking within its depths—fanged creatures that lunge out of shadows and drag unsuspecting mortals down into the nightmarish underworld below.

And the gods do not lift a finger to help them.

Yet my lips still whisper a prayer as I eye the damned temple that Konrarnd Kalmin has deemed our mark for a midnight heist.

I am not surprised when there is no answer.

They abandoned us centuries ago, those gods, growing bored of the realm’s human trifles. They are not here now. None of them are. Not even the Dokkaebi look upon this kingdom tonight.

I am alone. Completely and utterly alone, as always.

Though considering who I’m stealing from… I wince. My loneliness is, for once, a rather large blessing.

My stomach tightens with nerves as I adjust my position on the roof of the dingy wooden complex that neighbors the temple. Its scarlet color gleams tauntingly under the light of the night’s half-hearted moon.

Bloodred pillars and a swirling, ink-black finial reach toward the growing storm clouds up above, determined to blot out the already-faint stars that hover over the decrepit kingdom of Sunpo.

I’ve snuck through almost every crevice of the Eastern Continent’s dilapidated territory, every tavern and pleasure hall, every manor and slum in the four sectors. And if I hadn’t, Sang or the twins had described it to me.

But neither Sang nor the twins had ever been in there.

Nibbling on my bottom lip, I check my suit to ensure that my single knife is sheathed at my waist. It is. I glance down at the sloping tiled roof before me with narrowed eyes and make my best effort to transform my clammy apprehension into stone-cold resolve.

For Eunbi.

I launch into action, sprinting across the ragged tiles in a rapid blur. An icy wind whips my face raw as I launch myself into open air. For a beautiful moment, I savor the feeling of utter weightlessness before my stomach drops and I’m crashing downdowndowndown…

The pagoda’s roof approaches me in a blur of crimson.

I land in a crouch, with one hand gripping a curved red roof tile and the other stretched out behind me.

My left leg, scarred and ruined from the merciless bite of a blade, screams in pain from the sudden impact. I do my best to ignore it, quelling a groan as I focus on adjusting my position to glance at the pagoda’s bracket below. It’s about fifteen feet underneath a dip in the red roof. Easy.

My boots hit the ground with a soft thud. Another jump, and I’m on the balustrade below. A moment later, I swing myself over the railing-like structure onto the awaiting wooden floor and land with a soft exhale of relief.

There’s no time to waste, though.

The window I’m planning to enter through, and Kalmin’s precious prize, are waiting. I touch the glass with a gloved finger and run my tongue across my front teeth. The window is certainly small, but just large enough for me to squirm through.

Hopefully.

In a swift, sure movement, I slam my gloved fist into the glass, expecting it to give way completely. Yet it only cracks, a thick sliver running down the center of the square panel.

My jaw tightens.

I’ve never had trouble breaking as thin a glass as this, but a year of working for Kalmin, malnourished and mistreated, has left me weakened.

And angry.

As red-hot fury heats my blood, I slam the hilt of my dagger into the window with a rough growl. The glass shatters into a storm of shards.

Finally, I mutter and glare at the now-open entrance of the Temple of Ruin as I brush shattered glass from my hair. I peer into the inky darkness.

It’s not hard to believe that the Temple of Ruin was once the place of worship dedicated to the Pied Piper—the infamous goblin who, after the gods’ abandonment of our world for another, once reigned over the Three Kingdoms of the Eastern Continent as emperor of both mortals and Dokkaebi alike.

And from whom I’m now stealing.

Wonderful.

I hiss a profanity as I grip the upper windowsill and slide my legs through. I may not be able to see it, but surely there’ll be a floor below. I push myself from the ledge with a slight shift of my arms.

The temple is filled with a series of barking curses as I realize that there certainly is a floor…just thirty feet below. I tumble through the darkness, barely managing to twist my body into a position that thankfully results in my not cracking my head open.

Landing on the ground and flipping myself forward on impact to soften the blow, I envision running Konrarnd Kalmin through with a particularly large sword. Godsdamn him to the depths of Jeoseung for sending me here. Godsdamn him for taking so much from me and expecting to receive pretty little prizes in return.

A burst of agony slices through my bad leg as I struggle to my feet and fish my lighter from the pocket of my stealth suit. With a hiss, it ignites, but the flickering flame barely manages to illuminate the space.

The Temple of Ruin is nothing like I expected it to be.

I anticipated a palace within the pagoda, complete with twisting, winding stairs and richly furnished rooms, haunted with whispering shadows and air thick with a sense of sinister foreboding.

Instead, I take in a simple, spacious room like that of a studio. To my dismay, it’s empty—save for a thick coating of snow-like dust that now covers my suit and a small black chest in the center of the room.

There are no signs of any wailing Gwisin. No ghosts here—nothing but silence and that odd little trunk accompany me. I fight back an incredulous laugh.

The infamous Temple of Ruin is nothing more than an empty room. If anything, this temple is glaringly obvious proof that the Dokkaebi pay very little attention to the one territory they still possess. And why should they? The immortals have better things with which to occupy themselves in their own pocket realm of Gyeulcheon.

I limp my way over to the chest, in which I’m certain lies this tapestry that Kalmin so desperately desires. I blow a heavy layer of dust off the box and fight back a sneeze as the thick powder rises into the air in a cloud of white.

There is a black lock, engraved with small silver markings in a language that I don’t immediately recognize. Perhaps it is the Old Language, from the time of the gods. The lock itself seems simple enough—I’ve picked hundreds, probably thousands, of locks before. This will be no different.

Yet I hesitate.

Stealing from the Dokkaebi…

I wonder, grimly, if I will face the wrath of the Pied Piper after this. If he will lure me away with his enchanted flute as he’s done to so many mortals and slaughter me in his hidden realm. A sick sort of satisfaction creeps its way into my chest.

If the Pied Piper comes after me, I shall take an immense delight in explaining that it was Konrarnd Kalmin who sent me to the Temple of Ruin, Kalmin and his little gang of Blackbloods.

If I go down, so do they.

I smile as I jimmy the narrow tip of my blade into the trunk’s keyhole. I move the blade farther into the lock, my brows furrowing in slight concentration. Right…about…here.

My grin grows. There we are.

The trunk unlocks with a satisfying click.

Slowly, I open the chest.

And realize, as my light bathes over its contents, why, exactly, the tapestry was deemed such a bother.

It is magnificent.

Washed in the glow of my flame, it shines in starbursts of vivid colors. Interwoven with threads of string, small, gleaming jewels are nestled between each stitch. Thousands of them.

I suck in a sharp breath.

With a trembling hand, I heft the tapestry out of its resting place. It must weigh the same as a small child, but judging from the number of folds, it’s no bigger than a small welcome mat, and just barely as wide.

The jewels bite into my gloved fingers, slicing through the thick, padded fabric with frightening ease. My heart races. Gods, I breathe.

These jewels are from Gyeulcheon, their realm, which is hidden by Dokkaebi magic. Even the jewels from the Southern Continent’s kingdom of Oktari—renowned for its precious stones—do not compare to this.

Touching the jewels sends a rush of giddiness through my body and summons the image of a curly haired, gap-toothed girl with dancing eyes and an infectious laugh. Eunbi.

I wonder how dire the consequences would be if I take the tapestry for myself and run. Perhaps I would be able to buy out the men stationed on the Yaepak Mountains with the jewels…but no. Kalmin would give the order for his cronies to murder my sister long before I’d make it to her mountaintop school.

My throat constricts as I tuck the tapestry under one arm, quelling my fantasies of a life of freedom lived alongside my little sister. I shut the now-empty chest with a thud that echoes through the derelict temple.

Kalmin wants his treasure.

And so he’ll get it. Just like always.

When the moon follows me home through the darkened streets of Sunpo, I can almost swear that Dalnim, its dark-haired goddess, is watching me.

Chapter Two

Beautiful, Kalmin breathes, a razor-sharp grin splitting his lips as he stands back from his mahogany desk, on which he has laid out the vibrant tapestry.

Next to him, his second-in-command, Asina, sends me a cold glance, but even she cannot hide the awe on her angular face.

As I allow my gaze to drift down to the tapestry, I realize that I’ve been too preoccupied with the thrill of thievery to wonder what image the carefully interwoven stitches and treasures creates. When I take it in, my eyes widen slightly, and I struggle for the rest of my face to remain impassive.

The tapestry depicts a garden dappled by light and patches of glimmering blue. In between colorful flowers and blades of grass, an orange snake unfurls its body, its eyes a pair of glossy gemstones. The cloudless sky enwraps a white bird in its embrace and silver stones form small crescent moons that cast an ethereal glow onto the garden below.

I loosen a breath. Kalmin, for once, is right. The tapestry is beautiful. Gorgeous, really.

I suspect that I would be content to gaze at it forever. Could it be Hallakkungi’s garden? In the stories, the flower god’s garden is described as lush and alive—I begin to smile, imagining Hallakkungi standing among the lotuses and chrysanthemums.

I’m only vaguely aware that Kalmin is talking. His voice is muffled and muted, like he’s underwater. Despite my better instincts, I ignore him as my gaze swims with those small, beautiful stones and those mesmerizing rays of soft, welcoming moonlight.

Crack.

A burst of pain sends me reeling, a white-hot burn ripping its way across my cheek as I stumble backward. A second later, I raise a hand to my smarting cheek and spit onto the floor in pure fury.

Asina, that godsdamned bitch, has slapped me.

A snarl tears through my curled lips, but the slim, bald woman is infuriatingly unaffected. Her wide, fishlike eyes are cold with disgust, and her right hand still hovers in the air, poised to strike again.

I suggest that you pay attention, she says in a tone of haughty satisfaction.

I straighten myself in one fluid motion—only to stop in my tracks as Kalmin hurls a look of warning in my direction.

Konrarnd Kalmin is ruthless. Violent. His hair is the color of rust, his skin the color of freshly fallen snow. His eyes remind me, horrifyingly, of a snake’s—they’re a dark, murky green and constantly slit in a sly, calculating look.

Gods, give me strength. It takes every ounce of my self-control to restrain myself from shrinking under his sharp attention, to remind myself that this man is dangerous beyond belief—even to an assassin like me.

It is said that he was born in the Northern Continent’s brutally icy kingdom of Brigvalla to a well-off family thirty years ago. It’s also said that he came into the world bearing a knife, with which the minutes-old Kalmin took his mother’s life, then his father’s, and finally, the midwife’s.

During simpler times, I always scoffed at that story. But now, after meeting Kalmin, after working for him… Well. I can easily see how that tale was born.

Were you ignoring me? he purrs, tilting his head. My back molars ache as I clench my jaw, trembling.

I hear his voice every day, but I still cannot ignore the way he makes a mockery out of the continent’s language. Where his words should be melodious, undulating with expression, they are flat and jerky. It’s clear he takes a sick pleasure in mauling our language, its rhythms. In the grand scheme of things, perhaps it’s a small offense. But it still makes my blood rise to my face and burn like fire.

Bastard, I think.

Answer me. His pointedly butchered words suddenly become as sharp as a whetted blade, so at odds with the sickly sweet croon they were just a moment before. Were you ignoring me, Shin Lina? The caustic bite to his question warns me to proceed with caution.

My nails dig into the palms of my hands, surely forming vicious half-moon indents. No, I grind out.

Ah-ah-ah, Kalmin tuts, arching a delicate brow. It’s not your place to tell lies. You understand that, don’t you? He tilts his head, those snake eyes glittering an unforgiving green. Tell me who you are.

I shake from the effort of restraining myself from marring that snow-white face as those bloodred lips form the words I refuse to say.

You’re the Reaper. Sunpo’s finest assassin. And my most impressive heist. Kalmin smiles, and it’s a cold, dead thing.

A silence so sharp it could cut glass tears through the room. My heart stops as my mind snags on that last claim, that last title…

Heist. The whole world freezes on its rotation as I see red at that word.

Red, because that was the color I saw back at the Talons’ manor the night after everything—everything went so unbelievably wrong. The color seeping from those bodies, the bodies of my gang, my family. Red, because that was the last color I saw before a rag—heavy and sodden with the bitter smell of a sedative—was roughly shoved against my face and the world went so very, very dark.

It is an effort to keep still, to refrain from leaping across that glossy ebony desk and jeopardize everything I have left.

My entire body quivers with the effort from containing the violence churning within it. Kalmin exchanges an amused look with Asina.

That look snaps something inside me.

I can do it.

I can fling myself across the small expanse of polished wood between us and claw at his face, his chest, until he bleeds the same red as the Talons did that night. I bare my teeth, tensing, allowing my hand to drift toward my dagger…before I remember Eunbi and freeze.

Eunbi, with her chubby freckled face and bright, sparrowlike eyes.

Eunbi, with her love of sticky candies and a laugh that sounds like the tinkling of bell chimes.

Eunbi. My Eunbi. Innocent and sweet, untouched by bloodlust. A child still, small and sensitive, with her whole life ahead of her.

With a chance to become somebody I never got to be.

Let’s behave ourselves, shall we? Kalmin slowly makes his way around the desk. You’ll be meeting with one of my Oktarian buyers in the Fingertrap tomorrow to give him his share of the jewels in exchange for the money. If he refuses, kill him. I can feel Kalmin’s gaze seeking mine. It leaves a damp film on my skin. If he hesitates, kill him. If he tries to give you anything less than the agreed amount—

Let me guess, I interrupt icily, glowering at the ever-watchful moon through the window. I wonder if Dalnim can hear my steady stream of prayers, even though she abandoned the mortal realm’s moon long ago. Kill him.

I can always find other profitable buyers. The Oktarians hunger for more stones, and they possess the means to retrieve them. These, these are Dokkaebi treasures. I will not accept any less than what they are worth. Kalmin taps a gemstone with a quick, sharp rap. Even you seem fond of this tapestry. Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. Whatever’s coming next—it can’t be good. I’ll let you be the one to tear it up. You have that dagger of yours, don’t you?

Tear it up? I furrow my brow in confusion. But why…? Oh.

The beautiful garden, the painstakingly small stitches of shocking color, is not what these men want. These Oktarian buyers want the materials, not the art.

Do it yourself, I jeer, forcing every bit of indolent arrogance I have left into each and every word. I am occupied for the rest of the night. It isn’t enough, I think, as Asina rolls her eyes in exasperation.

Or—perhaps it is too much.

Kalmin stiffens as he examines a gnawed cuticle. Lina, Lina, he warns, cruel laughter tingeing my name, if the jewels are not separated from the threads, I will be unable to receive my money. And if I don’t get my money, things will turn out quite badly for you. And your sister. Although the threat is one used often, my stomach still drops. He gestures to his desk. See that it is done by the time the sun rises. The snake cuts his eyes to Asina. Watch her, he adds.

It’s a small delight that she looks immensely peeved.

Sending Asina a saccharine smile, I decide that I will take a very, very long time to dismantle the tapestry.

…

Hours later, my hands ache, and my vision is bleary from painstakingly cutting through the threads to free the sparkling treasures.

Asina had nearly nodded off in her spot in Kalmin’s chair but quickly came to, and is now scowling at me as the faint beginnings of morning sun trickle in through the window.

There were hundreds of gemstones within the tapestry, all of which now sit atop a pile of shredded thread. Destroying the garden, tearing apart the sunset-orange snake, made my chest tighten and my heart ache. It felt wrong, so utterly wrong, but what other choice did I have?

I will not sacrifice my sister’s life for a tapestry.

Finally finished, I rise to my feet from where I have been kneeling on the floor. It’s an effort to find my voice after the hours of disuse. I’m done, I rasp to Asina, and I don’t bother to wait for a response before stalking out the door.

Brash, a little voice of rationality warns as I stride through the Blackbloods’ base, but I ignore it. The sun is up, and I’m done playing games.

I expect Asina to storm after me, demanding that I clean up my scraps, but she doesn’t. I’m uninterrupted as I make my way through the building that has been my prison for a year now.

The cramped hallways are lined with murals stolen from every museum within the continent, priceless paintings hanging lopsided on chipped walls. A crooked chandelier casts a shimmer of light on me as I walk toward the door half hidden underneath a flight of uneven stairs.

As I enter my pathetic excuse for a room, ignoring the heavily tattooed Blackblood guard stationed a few feet away from my door, I shuck the boots off my sore feet. I don’t know who had this room before me. There must have been somebody, as the Blackbloods take hostages all the time.

The bedroom is glaringly empty, save for the tattered blanket on the floor, a crate full of clothes, and a bucket of murky water I’m allotted for face-washing. There is also a small mirror on the wall, chipped and cracked from years of use.

I don’t look in the mirror as I peel off my tunic. The smudged glass holds nothing that I’d like to see—only an image of filth and hunger, guilt and desperation incarnate.

Instead, I turn my back to the godsdamned thing and try to ignore the fact that I can count my ribs. I try to ignore the greasy, dirty feeling of my waist-length hair as I undo the black braid with fatigued hands.

As I splash the bucket’s cold water onto my face, I feel the ridges of my face—sharp and sallow and gaunt—underneath my fingertips. Starvation has made my pointed nose even more defined, and my cheekbones protrude from my face, uncomfortably bony.

It wasn’t always like this.

I wasn’t always like this.

A year ago, I was strong and fit, my tanned skin toned and muscular. Although I was lean, I’d had curves, and in all the right places. I was able to sprint for miles on end without stopping, disarm a man three times my size in one move, and have him lying prone on the ground in the next.

Of course, there were things I wanted to change about myself back then. My small height, for example. I also hated my nose itself—the tip’s curve is unseemly; it points up too much. It’s a trivial thing, but one that incessantly bothered me all the same.

Now I am a stranger, a malnourished and frail girl with deep, dark circles under her eyes. The change isn’t just from lack of food. It is from everything else…the loss, the grief, and most of all, the guilt.

The guilt that gnaws on my bones every minute of every day, never fading, never ceasing. Never.

Not bothering to remove any other articles of clothing, I collapse onto my tiny cot with a groan from the mattress. My left leg is sore and strained from the exertion, and I massage the puckered skin with a grimace. The pain is always there but is now even worse from the exertion of my mission.

But it’s a pain that I deserve. An injury that I deserve.

Slowly it fades, leaving behind only the usual dull ache, and I close my eyes.

And just when my toes have dipped into the shores of sleep…

As it does every night, the Thought enters my mind.

I stiffen as a cold sweat pools underneath my arms and beads its way across my clammy forehead.

It is a vile, twisted thing that takes satisfaction in worming its way through the crevices in my brain, trailing a stream of sticky black oil in its wake.

I don’t bother to fight it. Never do, even though I know what is coming.

I just grip my ragged blanket in a death-tight embrace and wait.

What would they think of you? the Thought hisses, every rasping word dripping with accusation. Filthy, filthy traitor. Your fault. Your fault. They lie buried in the silt, and still you breathe the city air, helping guide the hand of the monster who slaughtered them. Sick, twisted, vile, wretched thing…

I choke as the Thought winds its way around my lungs, laughing deviously as it pulls, tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe, can’t do anything but claw at my throat and struggle for even just a sip of air, hot tears burning as they drip down my cheeks, tremors shaking my body…

Sang, the Thought whispers. Chara. Yoonho. Chryse. Sang. Chara. Yoonho. Chryse…

The spots of darkness dancing across my vision begin to coagulate. I go limp, even as my lungs scream for air.

Sang… Chara… Yoonho… Chrysssss…

With a final hiss, the Thought seeps away to whatever inner corner of my mind it slithered from. It leaves nothing behind but the faint echo of a low, grating laugh.

I gulp down shaking breaths of air, pressing my face into my hands as I shudder. Sometimes the Thought brings me visions, visions of the dead Talons standing in a world of misty darkness where nothing grows—the Underworld, Jeoseung. Sometimes I see them as Gwisin, blurred and translucent human bodies, nothing but flickering echoes of lives once lived. Other times it pushes me through memories with forceful hands, laughing as I sob.

The Thought comes in that early stage of sleep when I teeter on the edge of consciousness and blissful oblivion. It has now for the past year. There is nothing I can do to escape it, not when it’s a manifestation of my own guilt.

Not when the piercing, burning knife of self-hatred is forever embedded in my chest.

Chapter Three

After a measly two hours of sleep, I stand in the middle of Sunpo’s marketplace in the Fingertrap. It’s the kingdom’s commercial sector, only a short distance from the Coin Yard—the wealthy district where the Blackbloods’ giwajip lies.

A heavy black satchel is slung over my right shoulder as I lean against the cold stone of an alleyway wall and watch the goings-on of the early-morning market. Women dressed in hanboks ranging from fine and silken to worn and shabby are careful not to let their slippers touch the dirty puddles on the street. Men wearing paeraengi—hats made of thick strips of bamboo—lead donkeys carrying baskets of fish through the ambling crowd.

The mackerels and salmon come from Fishtown in the eastern part of Sunpo, known for its harbors atop the Yongwangguk Sea. Sunpo has no shortage of fish—since we’re blocked off from the other two kingdoms by the Yaepak Mountain Range, we’ve been forced to make a living off the one natural resource this armpit of a kingdom supplies. I watch the fishermen closely and scour their windburned faces, but none of them meet the description of the person I’m searching for.

According to Kalmin, I’m looking for a man of about fifty with graying hair and a drooping mustache—as if that doesn’t describe half of Sunpo’s population, and undoubtedly Oktari’s as well.

As I wait, I fiddle with my one remaining cigarette—the very last of the pack that was in the hidden pocket of my stealth suit a year ago, when I was first captured.

Ever since he realized what the spark of introducing me to smoking halji ignited, Sang warned me of the danger of inhaling those gray, ashy fumes, but…

Sang isn’t here now, is he?

Now seems to be as good of a time for a smoke as any.

I crave the inhale of ash and dust, the biting bitterness of the halji leaves, with every fiber of my being. I put the cigarette between my teeth and fish around for my lighter. And scowl because…

It’s bad for you, Lina, Sang’s voice cautions, and I can almost sense him, feel him next to me like he was that night on the roof. You need to stop.

I still remember what I did next. I rolled my eyes, blowing a puff of smoke in his face. Hypocrite. You smoke what? Twelve a day? This is nothing.

Sang’s face darkened. I’m not proud of it. And I shouldn’t have given you that first roll.

I leaned back onto the tiles of the roof, watching Sang carefully.

His face was bright under Dalnim’s moonlight, his chestnut curls falling into his face. His hands, scarred from years of spy work and weaponry, sat in his lap as he twisted his fingers into his palms, a nervous habit that rarely showed itself.

I’m worried about you, L, Sang said quietly. You’re a living, barely breathing smokestack… If I had known, I wouldn’t have offered… He trailed off. A moment of silence stretched out between us, the two Talons. The assassin and the spy.

Don’t worry about me, I finally said. I’m fine. It was true, more or less. Contrary to Sang’s dramatic metaphor, my lungs were clear, my breathing easy.

For now, a little voice in the back of my mind warned. I ignored it.

I don’t believe you. You’re young. Sometimes, I think… He swallowed hard. Sometimes I think you’re too young to be the Reaper.

The words rang in my ears, and I went still. You’re only three years older than me, Sang. I rolled my next words around on my tongue, then spit them out like bullets from my favorite pistol. And you didn’t think I was too young four months ago.

A tangle of silken white sheets. Sang’s hand covering my own.

A bottle of champagne on the bedside table next to two glasses, one overturned, dribbling droplets of pale gold onto the clothes scattered on the floor below.

Sang blinked in surprise and, quite possibly, admittance. Because four months ago… I told you that was a mistake. He avoided my gaze, turning his eyes to the moon. Its light did little to hide the regret painted on his face.

I wondered if Dalnim was watching us from above, if the moon goddess was watching my heart fracture in my chest over and over and over again.

I made myself crack a coy smile. A fun mistake.

Pale pink bloomed on Sang’s cheeks. Stop smoking, Lina. Please. If something happens to your health, I can’t bear knowing I handed you that first one. Sang closed his eyes.