When I raise the bow, I visualize how Chumong, Korea’s most famous archer, must have looked two thousand years ago as he drew back his bow. Then I begin my ritual. First, I focus my heart. Then I check to see if my chest is wide-open and my hands are in line. Finally, I draw back past my shoulder and aim slightly upward. The bow tingles beneath my palms. It speaks to me, whispering magic through my veins.
Haemosu’s face is the target.
I allow my heart to guide my arm.
Release.
The arrow sinks into the bull’s-eye with a thud.
Michelle squeals and claps. “Damn. You never told me you were so good. How do you do it?”
I squint against the late-afternoon sun. “I’ve been practicing since I was six. Plus, this bow is kind of special. It was a gift from my grandfather.”
I pick out another arrow and repeat. Over and over. My goal is perfection. Anything less than perfect will mean death.
“Any progress with Hot Stuff?” Michelle asks, tearing me away from my obsession. “What’s your plan for ripping Long Legs’s talons off him?”
“You mean Marc?” I turn around to gather up the arrows that are being ferried back to me from the basket. My face is burning twenty shades of red, and my heart has catapulted into a full-out sprint.
“Of course, silly girl!”
“We kissed.” There. I said it out loud. Just saying those words makes it real. And I already feel that ache itching to break free. I need to see him again.
“Oh my gosh!” Michelle jumps over to me. “Seriously? When did this happen? Why didn’t you text me right away?”
“Girl, you really need to try out for the cheer squad.”
She waves her hand dismissively.
“It was right before the end of school,” I say. “I was having a bad day, and he was there to help me out.”
“I bet he was.”
I roll my eyes at her knowing look. “It was nice.”
“Nice?”
My face is definitely on fire. It’s a good thing she can’t read my mind, because all I can think about is how his lips were on mine. The feel of his arms wrapped around me. The way he said my name as if I’m the most beautiful girl in the universe.
“When are you going to see him next?” She starts pacing. I bet a million bucks she’s planning out my entire love life.
“I don’t know. Things are kind of complicated right now.”
“Then uncomplicate them.” She grabs my arm. I’m surprised at how strong her grip is. “Call him. See him tonight.”
She has no idea how much I want to do just that. “I don’t know. Won’t it seem like I’m desperate or something?”
“You must have some kind of good excuse to see him.”
“Actually, I do.” I rub my bow, thinking about his dad and metamorphosis. I groan. “There’s no way I can call him.”
“I can’t believe this. You’re a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and can shoot an arrow into the bull’s-eye from a hundred meters away, but you can’t call the guy?”
She has a point.
Michelle digs through my coat pocket and pulls out my phone. She starts texting. “I can’t believe I’m freezing my bum out here for you.”
“What are you doing?” I try to grab the phone from her, but she ducks away.
“Voilà!” She pushes SEND.
“You didn’t.”
“It’s done.”
I start whacking her with my glove. Then the phone chimes. I got a text. Michelle screams and eagerly stares at the message.
“Hey!” I grab the phone from her, but she’s already read it. “Do you mind?”
“Not really.” She grins. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I read the message.
I’m free tonight to talk. You want to come over?
“He just invited me to his house,” I say.
“And that’s how it’s done.”
CHAPTER 22
“Hey there.” Marc stands at the door to his house, the wind flapping his faded blue shirt and sending strands of hair over his eyes.
“You,” I say.
“Me.” He grins. “I see you found my house all right.”
He lives in Seongbuk-dong, a nice neighborhood that climbs up the mountain behind the president’s Blue House. Marc’s house is tucked inside a walled courtyard, similar to Komo’s place.
“Come on in.” He swings the door open, and I step inside.
After I kick off my shoes, he leads me up the stairs. I stop midway, noticing the rows of photographs, medals, and awards.
“Who are these people?” I ask.
“My lineage.” His tone is sharp, almost sarcastic, and his eyes darken.
I start reading off the names:
JOHN GRAYSON
—
assisted in deciphering the Rosetta Stone, 1799
CALVIN SHARSDALE
—inventor, 1826
HOWARD SOCKWELL
—
archaeologist, 1964
STEVE BOURGET
—headed the archaeological find at Huaca el Pueblo, Peru, 2009
DAMIAN GRAYSON
—assisted in discovery of ancient city near Be’er Sheva, 2012
“Wow,” I say. “That’s quite the list. Are they really your relatives or people your family admires?”
“Relatives. Some are distant cousins.”
“I can’t believe it. You must be proud.”
“I used to be.” He shrugs.
“Not anymore?”
“Big shoes to fill.”
“No one expects that of you, though, right?”
“Want to see the rest of the house?” Marc asks, and I know he’s avoiding my question.
He leads me upstairs into the main room, and I’m blown away by its high, wood-beamed ceilings and a glass wall on the far side that overlooks downtown Seoul.
But that’s not why my jaw drops. It’s the artifacts that pack the walls and cram the shelves. A massive golden disk hangs from one wall with what looks like Hebrew script on it. Persian carpets cover the wooden floors, pots that look a thousand years old are scattered everywhere, and tall rectangular hanji lanterns pool light into the corners of the room.
Marc laughs at my expression. “Yeah,” he says. “My parents are professors, but they also do archaeological digs and studies around the world. The Mongolian government loaned my mom the Sabek necklace to study in return for her work to get medical supplies to northern Mongolia.”
I follow his finger to a case hanging on one wall. Tucked inside dangles a gold necklace riddled with stones.
“That’s really cool.” I pull my sweater over my bracelet. “But lately jewelry has kind of lost its appeal.”
“Sorry about that.” He runs his hand through his hair. “That was stupid of me to mention it.”
I wave my hand, not really wanting to talk about it, and set my bow case against the wall. I jam my thumbs into my pockets. There’s an energy buzzing in the air. It’s as if both of us have so much to say, but we don’t know where to begin.
“You want to sit?” he asks.
As we weave through the pots, I nearly trip over a gong resting on a wooden frame.
“Do you ring that when special guests arrive?” I grin.
“Only people we’ve put on high alert.”
“Ah. So I don’t fit into that category?”
He considers me for a moment. I can’t help but notice how his eyes trail down to my lips. “Maybe you do.” He grins, and I punch him lightly on the shoulder.
“Easy now.” He rubs his arm playfully. “Careful with that punch. You underestimate yourself.”