Gilded (20 page)

Michelle laughs, and I almost smile. This is good. Exactly what I need.

“It’s a deal.” She hooks arms with me, and we head out into the freezing cold. “But you’ll owe me a movie date after this. Something fun and not involving weapons.”

We pick up my dragon bow and arrows at my apartment and head to the archery center. Michelle chatters nonstop, which is a relief. I can’t talk right now because my head whirls with insane images, and there’s no fix for it except to prepare and plan. I can’t let myself stop and think of what might happen if my plan fails. If my arrow doesn’t hit its mark. If I become another of Haemosu’s victims.

Before heading to the shooting area, I pop into the training center and introduce Michelle to Ahn Seong-Cheol, the head of the archery center.

“You haven’t restrung your bow in some time,” he says.

“I like to do it at my apartment.” There’s no way I’m going to tell him this bow hasn’t needed stretching or new strings yet.

“Sometime I’d like to get a closer look at that bow of yours.”

“Sure.” I smile. I will never show anyone this bow. There’s something special about it. “Maybe another time.”

Michelle and I leave the center. I kick at the gravel road that winds up the mountain and listen to the latest school gossip.

“So you were right today,” Michelle says. “Word is out that Min has made dibs on Marc, and he turned her down.”

“Long Legs?” I smile as I imagine her disappointing pout. “Since when do we make dibs on people?”

“Did you just call her Long Legs?” Michelle stops, and at my sheepish grin she laughs, her breath coming out in white, puffy clouds. “Love it. It really fits. I think we’re meant to be friends for life.”

“I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time.” I grin, not bothering to tell her that our time might be slightly shorter than she thinks.

“You didn’t tell me I was going to get my workout today,” she says, panting.

“It’s not far. Just up over the next rise.”

“I feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere.”

She’s right. Forest lines the sides of our path, and there hasn’t been a car that’s passed us yet.

“Wait until we get to the Pavilion of the Yellow Stork, where the shooting range is,” I say. “Then you’ll see Gwanghwamun.”

At the clearing, Michelle sags on a bench inside the pagoda while I unpack my bow and take in the view of Gwanghwamun below. Downtown Seoul is an eclectic mix of skyscrapers jutting tall like cranes, with ancient palaces and temples scattered about their feet. The low roar of the city floats up to where I’m standing.

I slip on my arm guard, gloves, and thumb ring, then notch in an arrow. There’s a slight breeze that kicks up my hair. I wish I’d tied it back, but I’d been so desperate to get away I hadn’t bothered.

The target I’m aiming for lies a hundred meters away. Most
bows couldn’t possibly hit a target that far, but the Korean horn bow is known for its ability to hit unbelievable distances.

“Please forgive my archery,” I whisper to the wind. This comes so automatically that I hardly even remember I’m saying the words. It’s been ingrained in me ever since I first started taking lessons from my archery master in the States.

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.”

“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:

J
OHN
G
RAYSON
—
assisted in deciphering the Rosetta Stone, 1799

C
ALVIN
S
HARSDALE
—inventor, 1826

H
OWARD
S
OCKWELL
—
archaeologist, 1964

S
TEVE
B
OURGET
—headed the archaeological find at Huaca el Pueblo, Peru, 2009

D
AMIAN
G
RAYSON
—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.”

He heads off to the kitchen for drinks. There’s a stack of newspapers and magazines scattered about on the antique coffee table. I pick up a magazine; but I’m not careful enough, and the vase in the center of the coffee table wobbles. I grab for its base, righting it before it falls, and let out a long breath.

Marc saunters in carrying two glasses of lemonade. “That’s from Beijing. Xia Dynasty.”

I snatch my hands away, tucking them in my lap. “Leave it to me to break something thousands of years old.”

“Just messing with you.” Marc hands me my glass, cool beneath my sweating palms. “Most of the really valuable stuff is in museums or in the glass cases along the back wall.” He rattles off a couple of artifacts that are his favorites: a ram’s horn from Bethlehem, a boomerang from the Outback, a carved elephant from Java, a mask from Africa, a tea set from Pakistan. My head swims just thinking about all those places.

He points to the vase. “I’m pretty sure that’s a knockoff.”

“What a relief.” I sip my lemonade. “Do you ever travel with your parents?”

“Sometimes. If I can get out of school. Summers we usually go somewhere for research or to a dig.”

“I’m completely jealous.”

“Everyone in my family has discovered something huge.” He leans back and stares out the massive window. The sun is setting, washing the skyscrapers with liquidy pinks and reds. “My parents never let me forget that.”

“So they expect you to discover something?”

His jaw tightens. He sets his glass on the table a little too roughly and moves to stand at the glass wall, his back to me. “I speak and write six languages fluently, been on the honor roll practically my entire life, and even know some judo moves. But here’s the kicker. I don’t want my parents’ lives. What I want is something completely different.”

I follow him and lightly rest my hand on his arm.

“And what’s that?”

“I don’t know yet.” He reaches out and runs his fingers along my jaw. “Or maybe I do. Have you ever felt as if you were meant for something in particular, but you don’t know what it is?”

I nod.

“That’s exactly how I feel. Like I’m ready and waiting, but it’s not here yet. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll ever figure it out.”

Electricity from his touch sparks along my skin. The memory of his kiss from earlier haunts me. I want more. I reach to pull him closer. But Marc cries out, leaning back.