Wicked Fox (Gumiho #1)(22)

Miyoung sneered at the rusted metal. “I think I prefer the snorting, hunchbacked ones.”

“I don’t like any of them,” Nara said with a shudder. “Why were you asking him about bujeoks?”

Miyoung answered with a question of her own. “Do many dokkaebi have things like talismans? Is that common?”

“Junu is the only one I’ve heard of. Most dokkaebi wield a more basic magic like their staffs. They have no need of shaman bujeoks.”

“Well, the other night, when I lost my bead, that dokkaebi had somehow gotten his hands on one.” Miyoung rubbed her hand against her chest, remembering the searing pain.

“If he got it here, I’m sure Junu won’t talk. He has a reputation for his discretion.”

“It doesn’t matter.” That dokkaebi was dead, and whatever evil intentions he’d had died along with him. Miyoung needed to concentrate on returning the bead to where it belonged.

“What do we do now?” Miyoung asked as they reached the main road again.

“We wait for the full moon.”

“That’s not for weeks!” Miyoung complained.

“I’m not experienced in Taoist practices. I don’t want to take any chances. I want to use the power of the full moon.”

Miyoung acquiesced. “Fine.”

“Everything will be okay, Seonbae. Trust me.” Nara started to reach out, and Miyoung took a step back. “If anything happens in the meantime, please call me.”

“What do you think could happen?”

The younger girl sighed, obviously used to Miyoung’s suspicious nature. “I just mean if you need me, I’m here.” Nara bowed before making her way home. “Take care of yourself.”

Miyoung bypassed the bus stop on the main street, choosing to walk instead to clear her head.

The bead tapped against Miyoung’s side. Her own version of a telltale heart, mocking her with its beating presence.





DO NOT BE FOOLISH enough to think all magic is the same.

Though shamans were long the spiritual leaders of the people, other practices came to take their place.

Long after the rise of the gumiho, Taoism arrived to the Land of the Morning Calm in the midst of Jumong’s Goguryeo. A practice taught by the mountain sages, but an influence that reached the throne. Taoism trained the Hwarang of Silla and taught discipline of the mind. A discipline that some thought could transcend death.

Yi Hwang was a Confucian scholar and a gifted Taoist who could wield magic. As a man of discipline, he chose to use his powers sparingly. Still, tales of his deeds traveled across the land. He saved a disciple from a ghost. Extended the life of his nephew. Foretold the crisis of a descendant who wouldn’t be born for nine generations.

He was so renowned he was called upon to restrain another Taoist master, the geomancy expert who served King Seonjo and who did not use his Taoism for good.

They said Yi Hwang’s eyes were so intense they could make a child fall from a tree.

They said he could speak to beasts.

They said he swallowed a fox bead to gain its magic.

Perhaps this was when foxes started fearing the Taoists.





9





JIHOON ZIPPED THROUGH traffic on the small scooter. A flag on the back flew the name of Halmeoni’s restaurant.

The moped never hit over forty kilometers per hour and was always five seconds away from dying. A deathtrap on two tread-bare wheels. Really, Jihoon wondered why his halmeoni had such little regard for his personal well-being.

He prayed it wouldn’t break down as he veered around a large bus spitting out exhaust.

Here the neighborhood had given in to chain stores. Doors swished open to let customers out. Blaring pop songs followed them. Jihoon bopped along to the beat.

The scooter protested as he turned onto a steep hill, and despite Jihoon’s urging, it gave up five blocks from the restaurant. He debated leaving it in the middle of the street, but dutifully pushed the scooter along. His halmeoni wouldn’t be happy if he abandoned the piece of junk.

“Halmeoni, your favorite grandson is back,” he called, stripping off his jacket as he entered the restaurant. The scents of jjigaes still hung in the air, though the kitchen was closed for the rest of the day like it did every Monday evening while his halmeoni made kimchi and other side dishes for the week.

Jihoon already smelled the pungent aroma of fermenting cabbage.

“I’m up here,” she called from the front of the restaurant.

Jihoon found her surrounded by plastic tubs. She’d pushed the tables aside to make space for her work. Some of the tubs were filled with raw cabbage; others held leaves rubbed with bright red paste. Jihoon plucked off one, red as blood, with his fingers. It tasted bitter and spicy, just the way he liked his kimchi.

His halmeoni sat with her plastic-gloved hands deep in a tub of cabbage.

“Jihoon-ah, one more delivery.”

“But we’re closed. And the scooter’s dead.” Jihoon took another bite of kimchi.

“Again?” Halmeoni slapped his hand away when he reached for a third piece. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll need to use the bus. Take those to Hanyang apartments.” She gestured to two containers, packaged and tied up neatly in pink satin cloth.

“Why?” Just the name of the apartment complex put him on edge. “Who are they for?”