Wicked Fox (Gumiho #1)(2)

“Got him. I’ll call you back.” Miyoung hung up as she stepped off the roof. She landed lightly on the ground, creating a cloud of dust and stink.

The man stumbled drunkenly and Miyoung kept pace with him. As she moved out of the shadows, muscles flexing as she prepared for the kill, he dropped a soju bottle he’d been carrying. Cursing, he sneered down at the shattered glass. Miyoung hid herself from sight. It was a knee-jerk reaction, but unnecessary. It didn’t matter if he saw her. He would tell no one of what happened tonight except other spirits.

She was so caught up in her musings that she didn’t notice when he started walking again, down the narrow streets, leading to where civilization gathered. She cursed herself for waiting. Another of her mother’s rules: Find somewhere private for the kill.

The salty smell of boiling jjigae and the charred scent of frying meat surrounded her in smoke and steam. Bare bulbs hung from the corners of food stands. Their harsh light distracted the eye from the run-down, cracked plaster of the buildings beyond.

She’d just moved here and she’d already decided she didn’t like it. She’d lived in Seoul before, among the soaring skyscrapers of Gangnam, or in the shadow of the old palace in Samcheongdong. But this new neighborhood was neither brand-new nor significantly historical. It just was. The air was filled with the scents of spicy tteok-bokki and savory pastries. Her mouth watered despite her disdain for the greasy food.

The man paused to stare at dehydrated ojingeo. The legs of the dried cephalopods twisted, brittle enough to snap off at the slightest touch, hard and fragile at the same time. It was a dichotomy Miyoung often pondered. If someone cut out her heart, it would probably be a twisted chunk of brittle meat like the ojingeo.

The man broke off one of the eight legs and stuck it in his mouth.

“Ya!” shouted the ajumma manning the food stand. “Are you going to pay for that?”

Miyoung sensed a fight brewing and didn’t have the patience to wait for it to resolve itself. So she broke her mother’s final rule: Don’t let anyone notice you when you’re on a hunt.

“Ajeossi!” She slid her arm through the man’s. “There you are!”

“Do you know him?” The ajumma looked Miyoung up and down.

“Of course, sorry about that.” Miyoung put down a crisp orange bill. “I don’t need change.”

“Whozit?” The man squinted at her through bleary eyes as she led him away.

Miyoung grimaced at the heavy stink of soju on his breath.

“It’s been so long. You were childhood friends with my father.” She turned them onto a less populated road. Trees loomed at the end of the street, a perfect cover.

“Who’s your father?” His eyes rolled up, as if searching his brain for the memory.

Miyoung almost said, Good question. She’d never met the man. So she built him out of her imagination as she started up a dirt hiking path. Trees rose around them, sparse at first, then thickening as she led him deeper into the forest, winding away from the road.

“You went to middle school together. I met you a few years ago. You came to our house. My mom made japchae.” Miyoung used any random detail that popped into her head. She wound through the trees toward the more secluded trails.

Her plan to take him farther was ruined as he finally took in their surroundings. “Where are we?”

Miyoung cursed.

“What is this?” The man yanked his arm away, spun around, and ran, clearly disoriented or he’d know he was headed farther into the forest. It almost made Miyoung feel pity for the old fool. He barely made it a dozen steps before she caught him by the collar. He yelped, struggling to free himself.

She shoved him against the trunk of an ash tree, wrapping her fingers around his thick neck. She tasted his distress as she siphoned some of his gi—the energy that emanated from all living things. The energy she stole to be immortal.

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering him, Miyoung pulled out her phone.

Nara’s face filled the screen, a classic oval with pale skin and a brush of bangs. Her eyes wide with concern. There were bags under them, a souvenir of the past few sleepless nights she had stayed up to help Miyoung stake out her prey.

“Did you catch him?”

Miyoung turned the phone toward the frightened man. The sight of it pulled him out of his shock. His eyes took in Miyoung’s form: an eighteen-year-old girl with long limbs, dark hair, and a heart-shaped face. He visibly relaxed, lulled into complacency by her pretty looks. It only made Miyoung pity him more. Foolish man didn’t know beauty was the best camouflage for a monster.

“Is this him?” Miyoung ignored the man’s lurid stare, far too used to the look.

“Yes.”

Miyoung nodded and hung up.

“Who was that?” The man’s demand was rough, fed by agitation and the belief that he was not truly in danger. Her prey always made this mistake, every month like clockwork.

“She’s a shaman,” Miyoung answered because it didn’t matter what she told him and because, despite her morbid intentions, Miyoung was a proper Korean girl taught to respect her elders.

“Some quack fortune-teller?” the man spat out.

“People have no respect for the old ways anymore.” Miyoung clicked her tongue with disappointment. “True shamans do more than tell fortunes. They can commune with the spirits. As in the dead. As in the girl you killed last month.”