“Tell me about it.”
Komo and I hoped to find a clue in the ancient texts to save me. How am I supposed to get help now that she’s gone? She had become the closest person to a mom for me. It was Komo who was looking out for me. Protecting me.
I can’t wait to see Haemosu again. I’ll show him how my punch feels, how nice my foot looks imprinted on his handsome face.
“Listen, if you don’t want to be friends, I get it,” Michelle says. “But I’m tired of tiptoeing around you. I helped hook you up with Marc, and now you’re too busy for me. Or were you just using me to get Marc?”
My eyes widen. “That’s not it at all.”
“Then what’s your problem? You’ve got a great guy who has the hots for you, and you’re acting like the world has ended.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Maybe my life isn’t as flipping fantastic as it appears.”
“Testy, are we?” Michelle shifts her books and eyes our classroom door. “Are you going to open your locker already or what? We’ve got like fifty-five seconds until the late bell rings.”
A hand reaches over my shoulder, pushing to keep my locker door closed. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
It’s Marc.
My heart skips, and his touch melts the tension in my shoulders. We haven’t talked since yesterday; and on so many levels I wish we were two normal kids falling in love, without immortals, magic lands, and excess baggage from a thousand years ago. I say, “No. But I should.”
Our eyes meet. Mine saying “I need this.” His saying “Bad idea.”
I pull the metal lever up and swing the door open, holding my breath.
There’s no golden light. No hidden world. Just my books sprawled on the shelf with a plastic container of half-eaten kim and Tae Kwon Do pictures taped to the door. Marc runs his hands through his hair and lets out a chuckle. “You sure know how to start a day, Fighter Girl.”
I breathe again, snatch up my books—all of them—and stuff them into my backpack. It’s full, so I decide to carry my bio and Korean textbooks.
Michelle stops studying her split ends. “You’re moving back to L.A., aren’t you? Is that what this is all about?”
“No.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder. It’s heavy. “I just think it’s best to be prepared and study for all my classes each night.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to you later,” Michelle says. “Or not. You decide.”
“Michelle,” I say to her retreating back. She’s upset, and I don’t know how to fix it. “It’s not what you think.”
“She’ll get over it,” Marc says.
“What if she doesn’t?” I ask. What if that’s the last time we ever talk again, and I’ve completely ruined our friendship because I couldn’t tell her the truth?
“Let me help you,” Marc says, his gaze as tight as a drawn arrow, and I realize he’s not just talking about the books.
The bell rings. We’re late.
I open my mouth to say yes but find myself shaking my head. No. How selfish am I even to think of risking his life? Marc, Grandfather, and Dad. I must keep them safe from Haemosu.
Now it’s Marc’s turn to shake his head, but I leave him and race down the hallway toward class.
“I’m fluent in Chinese!” he yells over the rush of everyone dashing into class.
I freeze. What can that boy not do? He must have overheard us talking. I glance back at him before stepping into English. He’s still staring at me, the hallway now empty, with his lips in a half smile. Impossible.
“After school?” I say.
“Coffee shop. At the bottom of the hill.”
I nod and slip inside class, promising myself this will be nothing more than a quick Chinese lesson. I definitely, absolutely won’t let him get involved.
CHAPTER 26
The strong scent of ground coffee greets me as I enter the coffee shop after school. The cozy atmosphere of cafés is one of the things I love about Korea. That and the subway system. I hate being tied down to the school bus. There’s a lot I’m starting to like, I realize as I move to the marble counter to order. If Haemosu hadn’t shown up to ruin my life, I might actually come to enjoy Korea. I order a chai tea, hoping it will calm my nerves, and scan the crowded café. Most of the tables are filled with coffee mugs and laptops, surrounded by students.
I spot Marc in a soft evergreen-colored chair in the back corner, a pile of books resting on a small coffee table nearby. He hasn’t seen me yet; but his glasses are on, and his forehead is scrunched like he’s reading something really good. I smile.
“Hey, Brainiac.” I thread my way to him.
He looks up and motions to the empty chair. “Glad you showed up, slowpoke. I had to beat up half the soccer team to keep your seat reserved.”
“Impressive.” I sink into the cushiony seat and push aside a stack of books to make room for my mug. “Got enough books?”
“You can never have enough books,” he says, but his voice doesn’t have that usual playfulness to it. He sounds tired, and there are dark circles under his eyes. “How are you doing?”
“I should be asking you that. How are your eyes?”
“Never better,” he says nonchalantly; but he won’t look at me, and I get the feeling he’s lying. “But you avoided my question. How are you?”
I cup my hands around my mug and soak in its warmth. He deserves to know the truth. No more jokes. No more pretending everything is fine. Because it isn’t.
I need to tell him everything. I’m desperate, and there’s no one else to talk to about this. Images of Komo spin through my head. I say, “Not good. He took my aunt.”
“What?”
“Yeah. She’s—she’s—” I wave my hand through the air, not trusting my voice, which is full of unshed tears. “Haemosu took her,” I finally manage.
His jaw drops. “You’re serious.”
I nod. Silence hovers over us, and finally Marc leans back and blows out a long stream of air.
“God. I’m sorry, Jae.”
“Yeah. But I’m going to find her. Bring her back. He isn’t going to win this fight.” I had promised myself I wouldn’t get him involved any further, but one request couldn’t hurt him, right? “I need your help.”
I set my mug between two stacks of books, dig through my bag until I find Mom’s Samguk Yusa and my unfinished translation of the legend of Haemosu. “I’m hoping we might find a clue here. But my Chinese kind of sucks.”
Marc takes the book with such reverence that I know he understands its value. Barely touching the pages, he flips through it, scanning the contents. “This is old,” he says. “I shouldn’t even be touching this book without gloves.” He takes my translation next. “Looks like the myth of Princess Yuhwa and Haemosu.”
My insides wiggle. Since Mom died, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let anything hurt me like it had when I’d felt her hand grow cold in mine. I had always tried to be smartest, strongest, and toughest, never relying on other people for help. But here I am, practically pleading with Marc to help me deal with the biggest problem I’ve ever faced. And that scares me. Big-time.
Marc starts reading through the myth, pointing out each Chinese character. Our heads nearly touch as we lean over the text. It’s hard to focus on anything other than his scent and the sharp lines of his profile. I jot down notes in my notebook, hoping that will keep me focused.
“There’s nothing new here,” I say once we’re finished. “Haemosu kidnaps Princess Yuhwa, takes her in his chariot, she escapes using her hairpin, and he never stops looking for her.” I toss my notepad on the table.