Montag 1 BUILDING SCENES THROUGH DIALOGUE AND IMAGERY by ToriA Montag A project submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY Ogden,Utah April 18, 2025 Approved Signature of Comhie Chair Sian Griffiths Name of Committee Chair Signature of Committee Member Laura Stott Name of Committee Member Signature of Committee Member Yoon Soo Goldstein Name of Committee Member Montag 1 Building Scenes through Dialogue and Imagery Tori Montag The backbone of a good story is, arguably, the scene. Sandra Scofield, in The Scene Book, A Primer for the Fiction Writer, defines scene as “those passages in narrative when we slow down and focus on an event in the story so that we are ‘in the moment’ with characters in action” (33). Meanwhile, H. Thomas Milhorn, in his book Writing Genre Fiction, A Guide to the Craft, describes scene as merely a “unit of conflict” (193). While both are true statements, our goal as writers should be to write a scene that both engages the reader and provides them with the action that takes place in a given point of the story. When I envision a scene, I think of theater, little moments in the play that convey parts of the story and lead us, piece by piece, through the overarching narrative. Without the scene, there is no story. Scene was something I struggled with at the beginning. I was always in a rush to get to the next exciting situation, often resorting to summary to skip moments that would otherwise feel stronger if played out in ‘real time’ or telling the audience something that they could easily derive from context clues. Anna Keesey, in her essay “Making a Scene Fictions Fundamental Unit,” reminds us that “the reader is patient” (149). With so many entertainment outlets today, if someone is choosing to read, they’re willing to take the time. So, how do we build a scene that is both engaging, and in motion? By using our tools. Through detail and dialogue, a writer can create scenes that move the action forward and relay information to contribute to the overarching story. A scene must accomplish many tasks at once. First and foremost, a scene should move the action forward. Michael Kardos, in The Art and Craft of Fiction states that “scenes unfold Montag 2 before us in something approximating real time” (66). That is, that we’re going through the actions with the characters. However, Keesey explores the different paces at which a scene can go, by “infolding,” “unfolding,” and “ellipsis.” How we control the pace of a scene is determined by how we structure it, how much detail we add, how much is summary, and how much is dialogue. Diana Gabaldon in her novel Outlander makes use of all of these in abundance. For example, she uses detail within action to help us feel the environment, such as describing Claire as “fingering through damp leaves for the bright cherries and smooth plump apricots” which helps us to imagine the sensations as we read (160). Kardos expressed that detail is meant to “help the reader imagine the fictional world in vivid, sensory detail” (75). This was something I actively worked on imbedding into my work. In chapter five, when Kyong is killing the drunkards, I wanted to show how time worked for Kyong. I wrote, “for him, time stood still; the world around him froze. Dust particles floated in the air, unmoving grains of stilted time reminding him that time could not touch him” (44). I use the image of the frozen world to help the reader feel that moment. I stretch the moment, but in that moment something is still happening, albeit in slow motion. Jane Burroway, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, and Ned StuckeyFrench, in Writing fiction: A guide to narrative craft, explain that we should use significant details that are “specific, definite, concrete, [and] particular” (22). In each of the cases above, the writer does just that and in doing so provides a vital part of the scene, contributing to the action of it. Likewise, summary is another tool that can be used to move the story. While it shouldn’t be used in excess, otherwise what’s the point of a story, it does have its place. As Kardos states, “less is more” (79). Gabaldon uses summary to pass the time or explain something that is Montag 3 needed but doesn’t necessitate the space of an entire scene. One example is the beginning of chapter eight where she establishes Claire’s new routine in the castle (Gabaldon 159). She could easily have explained every injury and illness that came to Claire, and every single meal she ate in the Hall, but it’s not needed. She gives just enough to give the reader an idea of the routine, the passing of time as time does, filing past us in a blur of events. I did something similar when describing Kara’s shift at the diner. I wrote, “she ushered trays with stacks of pancakes, hashbrowns, and eggs, and delivered countless cups of coffee, each one making her empty stomach ache with need” (Montag 27). I could have written out every single interaction with every single patron, but it wasn’t necessary for the story. In this case, summary was acceptable to move the action forward. In Writing the Paranormal Novel: Techniques and Exercises for Weaving Supernatural Elements Into Your Story, Steven Harper says that dialogue is “a chance to eavesdrop on something fascinating” (189). But it’s also a chance to move the story forward. Ninety percent of Interview With The Vampire is dialogue, as it’s literally as the title states, a man interviewing a vampire and learning about his life. But within that dialogue is more dialogue that contributes just as much to the story as the description and summary. For example, when Louis has a conversation with the vampire Armand about how vampires gain their powers, it’s mostly dialogue back and forth for some time: “I am not certain.’ I said, unable to keep my eyes off that awful medieval satan. ‘I would have to know from what…from whom it comes. Whether it came from other vampires…or elsewhere.” “Elsewhere…” he said. “What is elsewhere?” “That!” I pointed to the medieval picture. Montag 4 “That is a picture,” he said. “Nothing more?” “Nothing more.” “Then Satan…some satanic power doesn’t give you your power here, either as leader or as a vampire?” “ No.” (Rice 234) There are several moments in Interview With The Vampire where this kind of back and forth occurs, but each time, it pushes the narrative forward. I also utilized this in my work as a way to help the reader live in the moment, to help them experience it, rather than hear about it. One example is in chapter one when Kara is on the phone with Todd while also trying to get her twins ready for bed: “But I want blue!” “Kara, you okay over there?” Todd asked, his voice partially drowned out by the arguing. “Eric has decided his favorite color is now purple and he wants Zane's blue things because it's the closest.” “Well, can you quiet them down? I'm trying to tell you something important.” “You try calming two sugared up seven-year-olds by yourself,” Kara said while one hand ushered Zane toward the bed. “Look, can this wait? I'm a bit busy.” “Not really,” Todd said, the irritation clear in his voice. “I’m moving out to California in two days.” “What?” Her voice came out as almost a squeak. (16) Montag 5 This back and forth is not just a conversation, there is movement, and that movement is pivotal to the story. Another task of the scene is to deliver information to the reader. Does the reader need to know that if a vampire is old enough, he can become immune to the sun? Yes. Should I write an entire chapter of Kyong explaining all of my vampire lore to Kara? Probably not. What the reader needs to know is information about the world the characters live in and who the characters are. This information can be giving inside of the scene, thereby strengthening he story and the scene itself. Several times throughout their book, Burroway et. al. talk about the importance starting with broad details and shifting to specific details. One place where I did this was in the beginning of chapter five where we first see Kyong as his vampire self. I wanted the reader to feel what the world was like for him, that difference from humanity. It’s information they need. I wrote, “Scents were stronger now—body odor beneath fragrance pouches, ondol smoke mingled with horse dung, and freshly washed clothes hanging in the breeze and dancing with the stench of rotting food scraps,” and later explained that the world was now in shades of gray due to the lack of sunlight (42). I started with the general change of scents and narrowed it down to more specific scents that make up the overall experience of scent. Each of the scents tell us about the world. We learn that people carry fragrance pouches, there are horses and that people hang-dry their clothing. They are small, simple bits of information that tell us more about the world they live in and set the scene in a specific environment. Gabaldon does this when describing the scars of Jamie’s back. She starts with stating that it is scarred to explaining how “the lines of bone and muscle were still solid and graceful” and hos there was “a smooth, straight groove cut deep between the rounded columns of muscle” (154). Though not outright telling us information about the world, we are being shown the brutality of it. We see through this moment how unforgiving Montag 6 and harsh the world of this novel is, and that brings us further into the story, but it also brings us further into the intimacy of the scene, the interaction of Jamie and Claire as she explores his scars. Anne Rice, in Interview With The Vampire, brings in those tiny bits of information, like how she describes Claudia after her transformation into a vampire to help us understand the characters. She writes, “how soft she was, how plump her skin was, like the skin of a warm fruit, plums warmed by sunlight” (93). In this example, she uses a simile to give detail to the child’s appearance, comparing her to things the audience would know. She wants them to see her, to understand how young and innocent she is, information that is vital later in the novel when they are later punished for making a vampire so young. The details of the scene make it more disturbing for the reader, helping them to understand the taboo of the action. In the diner scene of my novel, when Kara first meets the strange young men who later turn out to be vampires, I describe “the first one,” later Minsun, as having cheeks that are “almost childlike in their smoothness, a tiny dimple winking at her from the left side” (28). I did this because I want the reader to understand how young and innocent the man looks, to make the later revelation that he is hundreds of years old all the more shocking. These little details contribute to the scene by establishing who we’re interacting with and what makes them unique. Harper talks about how characters speak differently than one another (190). The way two different characters in a scene speak can give the reader information about who the character is. Gabaldon uses accents as one way of distinguishing characters. Claire, for example, speaks in proper English, while the Scotts have a distinctive parlance. Even between the Scotts, there are differences. In one scene, Jamie says “It doesna pain me much” (155). His speech is somewhere between proper English and the Scottish accent, indicating his higher born origins. Meanwhile, Montag 7 Alec, the old stable master’s speech is much harder to read at first with phrases like “I ken the difference verra weel” and “ye shouldna devil the lad, ye ken” (157-158). These differences in speech styles help us show the reader who the characters are, not just in terms of status, but also in personality. Jamie is much more relaxed, and reserved, while Alec, is perfectly fine saying whatever he wants. In my novel, I did this with the character of Old John. At one point, Old John is freaking out because he recognizes two young men from his service in the Korean war, and says, “‘You were there. You were friends with that man, the one that told Arthur all that nonsense. I told Arthur you lot was dangerous. You ain't aged a day’” (Montag 29). His speech is much different than Kara’s which is more gentle and almost motherly in nature. Old John is rough and casual. Kardos talks about how dialogue creates curiosity about the characters (68). These bits of conversation should and do make us interested in them and make us want to learn more. Something that took me years of schooling to get accustomed to is getting rid of scenes that don’t contribute to the story, or otherwise, can be shown elsewhere and expanding scenes where summary just won’t do. Killing my darlings was not something I was willing to do, but no matter how much I loved a particular scene, I had to learn to remove it if it didn’t contribute. In my first draft of this novel, there were two chapters that could essentially have done the same thing for the story. The first was when Kara initially arrived in the past, signaling her introduction to the new reality she was faced with, and the second was when she met the vampire Kyong, where she realized that her new reality was real and not just a dream (Montag 33-43). For my thesis draft, I opted to combine the two as both realizations could be made in the same scene. Kardos explains that we need to know what to include (19). This means knowing what to add as much as what to remove. The diner scene in my novel, for example, was initially much Montag 8 shorter, but with encouragement, I slowed down and allowed that scene to play out (Montag 2733). The scene has summary, which comes in the form of the rapid explanation of Kara serving patrons, conflict, which comes from Old John freaking out at the two men, and a resolution, which ends with Old John being led off by the police. All of these points are made through the detail I added to the scene, and the dialogue that pushes the scene forward. We see that the overarching story requires scene to move action forward and share information which can be done through dialogue and detail. Rewriting this work has certainly been a challenge, but by utilizing the tools, deciding what is important, including detail, and making good use of dialogue, I feel confident in the improvement I have made to my novel. Burroway et. al. stated that words “must translate into images” (21). The written word doesn’t have the quick succession of images and scene that television and film does, therefore writers must use things like dialogue and imagery to build the scenes that tell our readers the story and allow them to visualize and lose themselves in it. After all, what is a book if not a means of mental transportation into another world. Montag 9 Works Cited Burroway, Janet, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, and Ned Stuckey-French. Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Pearson Inc., 2015. Gabaldon, Diana. Outlander. Random House Publishing Group, 1998. Harper, Steven. Writing the Paranormal Novel: Techniques and Exercises for Weaving Supernatural Elements Into Your Story. F+W Media, 2011. Kardos, Michael. The Art and Craft of Fiction. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2013. Keesey, Anna. “Making a Scene: Fiction’s Fundamental Unit.” The Writer’s Notebook. Tin House Books, 2009. Milhorn, H. Thomas, and Howard T. Milhorn. Writing Genre Fiction: A guide to the craft. Universal-Publishers, 2006. Montag, Tori. Vampires Never Die. Weber State University, 2025. Rice, Anne. Interview with the Vampire. Random House Publishing Group, 1997. Scofield, Sandra. The Scene Book: A Primer for the Fiction Writer. Penguin, 2007. Montag 10 Vampires Never Die: The Vampire Prince By Tori Montag Joseon 1425 A.D. Ashes gathered. They tumbled in the wind and rolled across the grass. Like bits of shaved magnetic stone, they stuck one to another and another until they began to take form again. It took years, decades even, before the shape began to look even a bit humanoid. Consciousness seemed like a vacant dream in this state. There was a sense of nothingness, a blank memory, a sense of being but no understanding of what it meant to be. Then came memories, slow at first, but once they began, they pushed into him like a flood. The first was of being born. Had he remembered being born before? The memory faded as quickly as it came as he recalled his childhood. Gun, your royal highness, that was what they called him as they taught him the laws he was expected to uphold for his people and trained him in the art of the bow and sword. He was a prince of Goryeo, Wang Kyong, his name, Gun, his address— There was so much expectation on his shoulders. He threw himself into his education; he studied every book, practiced his hanja, and listened to every word his father and teachers told him. He was the golden son: noble, righteous, good. Though he was not the eldest, he was his parents’ favorite for all his attributes. His mother wanted him to succeed the throne, but his father insisted on following tradition. His elder brother would be crowned. He saw his beautiful Eunbyul, his star and sun, standing beside him at their wedding. She laughed and teased him when no one else was around and became the perfect princess when outside eyes were watching. He saw her holding his children as they were each born, such sweet Montag 11 small things that brought overwhelming joy. They laughed and played and ran about his feet in perpetual movement as the servants and his wife chased them down. Then the beginning of sorrow came. His father died, his brother took the throne, and he and his wife and children were sent away. Kyong was a threat that his brother couldn’t bear. The sounds of battle echoed in his mind, a chance to prove his loyalty to his brother, but he and his men were outnumbered and outmatched. The scent of sweat mingled with blood as he and his small contingent of men were slaughtered. His clothes were drenched in blood. Was it his, or his enemies? He woke changed; he woke with a thirst for blood. He fought for sanity. His men gave in to the bloodlust. They weren’t strong enough to resist and ravaged the nearby villages, draining livestock and people alike. How he resisted, he did not know, but his men were wild, like animals seeking their next prey. He would not allow them to live like monsters. He would not allow them to slaughter the innocent. So, he hunted his men himself, with his best friend by his side, Yoonseok— and Inho, whom came to call teacher, a vampire hunter of a century old. The memories continued and sensation returned to his hands. They were raw—burned to the bone. It was a horrid, wretched pain that shattered his thoughts as the memories continued to come, disjointed and broken. Again, and again, there was so much betrayal. Everyone, they all turned their backs on him. They all called him monster. Fine. He would be the monster. If that was what they wanted, he would be the nightmare. He would show them the demon he could be. He would make them suffer. Traitors. All of them— except for her, his love, his wife. Traitors. Montag 12 Another love came, Mina, but no—she was a lie too. Her love was a lie. She wasn’t like his Eunbyul. She was a traitor too. Even his own child, Mina’s daughter—his daughter—she was raised against him. Traitors. Then he felt Yoonseok’s arms under his, pinning him in place. He remembered the heat of the sun. The excruciating burn like a thousand needles pierced his flesh until it turned cold, and his consciousness faded. The pain stopped. Kyong pulled himself up from the depths of the dirt. The cool blue of the moon looked down on him as if welcoming him back. His skin itched while the last pieces of himself pulled themselves together and his heart began to beat again. Blood flowed through his veins, and the overwhelming understanding of the true meaning of immortality washed over him like a winter breeze. He pushed his naked body to a stand with trembling limbs. He remembered watching a newborn foal learning to walk, stick-like legs struggling under its weight. Grass and mud stuck to his warm, soft flesh and tickled with each unsteady step. His hand slapped onto the hard bark of a tree much harder than he meant it to, and the sting of the bark made him wince. The midnight moon shone above him; the sweet cool breeze brought the scent of spring flowers. Then he felt the hunger again. Yes, the hunger. He remembered the hunger. His eyes burned with the heat that came with the change, and in that instant, the monster was ready to feed again. Montag 13 Chapter 1 Kara Wright had long since given up believing in magic. Her childhood in rural Colorado with her second generation Irish-American grandfather had been magical indeed. With hiking trips into the mountains to search for fairies they never found and her grandfather's tales of the vampire he'd met during the Korean War, Kara's childhood had been its own fairytale. Her childhood never lacked magic, even if it was unseen, and now, as she traipsed up two levels of stairs to her apartment, she wanted nothing more than to return to those days. At least in fairytales, the heroine didn't have to work double shifts at a seedy diner or worry about driving an hour both ways to the city just to get her degree done so she could escape her hometown. The handsome prince was usually here by now, wasn't he? Kara pushed open her front door, looking forward to a quiet evening of homework, but what greeted her instead were two squealing seven-year-old boys slamming into her with full force. Kara hugged them but looked up at her mother in exasperation. “Mom, seriously,” she asked. “Why are they still up?” “Sorry, sweetie,” her mom said. “They were decorating cookies when I picked them up from the after-school program. I have no idea how many they ate.” Kara sighed and forced a smile on her face like she always did. “It's okay. I'll take care of it—boys, go brush your teeth.” The twins giggled and ran off down the hall, their dark brown hair bobbing in the light. Kara was left to glance around the messy room. Tiny socks, half-colored printouts, and favorite blankets were the usual, but today the addition of empty chip packages and forgotten toys added to the mess. Kara began picking things up, putting them into their respective places. Montag 14 Meanwhile, her mother grabbed her stylish leather coat and fake designer bag before leaning in to kiss Kara's cheek. “You got this, sweetie,” she said. She moved past Kara and nearly tripped on the base of the massive Buddha statue in the foyer. “Why do you still have this thing? I'm sure Grandpa Moore wouldn't have minded if you sold it to take care of yourself and those boys.” “I can't get rid of grandpa's collection,” Kara began to say, but she was interrupted by the ear-piercing scream from the bathroom, followed by the sound of something falling. “I got to go. Thanks, mom. See you tomorrow,” Kara said and kissed her mother's cheek before running into the bathroom where the boys were now raising their voices. “That's mine,” Eric screamed. “No, mine's the blue one,” Zane screamed back. Kara stepped between them and knelt down. “Blue is Zane. Green is Eric,” Kara said. “That's how it's always been. Please, just brush your teeth.” “But purple's my favorite now.” Eric crossed his arms over his chest. “Blue's close to purple.” “How about this? Brush with green for now. And when we get new toothbrushes, I'll get you purple.” “But I want a new toothbrush too.” Kara opened her mouth to respond to Zane when her phone rang in her pocket. She glanced at the screen and tried to hide her disappointment. “I'll get us all new toothbrushes. Finish brushing and change into your pajamas.” Kara stepped out of the bathroom and answered the phone with an exhausted 'hello'. “Hey, Kara, it's Todd,” the voice on the other line said. Montag 15 “It's a little late to talk to the boys,” Kara said, rubbing her aching temple. “I'm not calling to talk to them this time.” There was a brief moment of silence before he continued. “Look...I need to tell you something...” Another ear-piercing scream interrupted them, and Kara rushed to the bedroom where the twins were now fighting over a pair of blue pajama bottoms. Kara snatched them away and handed them to Zane. “Guys, come on. What did I just say?” “But I want blue!” “Kara, you okay over there?” Todd asked, his voice partially drowned out by the arguing. “Eric has decided his favorite color is now purple and he wants Zane's blue things because it's the closest.” “Well, can you quiet them down? I'm trying to tell you something important.” “You try calming two sugared up seven-year-olds by yourself,” Kara said while one hand ushered Zane toward the bed. “Look, can this wait? I'm a bit busy.” “Not really,” Todd said, the irritation clear in his voice. “I’m moving out to California in two days.” “What?” Her voice came out as almost a squeak. “I don’t want a green pillowcase,” Eric’s angry voice said. “You can’t just up and leave. The boys need their father.” “Jackie’s parents live there,” Todd said as if it should explain everything. “It’s for her health.” Kara groaned at the mention of Jackie the hypochondriac’s ‘health.’ There was always something new wrong with Jackie. “She can see doctors here.” “But her family is there.” Montag 16 “And your family’s here.” Kara’s head was starting to pound. “Mom, where’s Boo?” “He’s on the couch.” “Jackie will be happier there.” “Your kids will be happier with you here.” “Mom, go get it.” “I’ll get it. Mom’s talking.” “Jackie’s my family now.” “What are the kids?” “Well, their family, but…” “No. Don’t touch Boo.” “I’m not dirty.” “He’s my Boo!” Zane rushed past his mother into the front room with Eric screaming after him. “Guys, please,” Kara shouted after them. “I’m sorry, Todd. I can’t deal with this right now.” “But you’re never home, Kara,” Todd snapped. “That’s because I’m trying to do everything, damn it.” Kara held back the urge to shout at him like a maniac. “I have way too much to deal with without you piling your crap on me.” “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have gone through with the pregnancy like I told you.” Kara hung up, her heart beating in her head. Todd was the one person who knew how to drive her over the edge. His words rang in her head even as the boys chased one another around Montag 17 the room screaming. “One, two, three…” she counted. She couldn’t let this effect how she treated her children. When she finally reached ten, Kara let out a long, steady breath and focused on corralling her blue-eyed monsters and urging them into the bedroom. “Come on, boys, no more games. Mama’s got to do her homework before midnight.” “Is Daddy making you sad again, Mommy?” Zane asked. His big, wide eyes looked at her, innocent and worried. “Don’t worry about it, honey,” she said. “Let’s just go to sleep. Things will be better in the morning.” Todd’s words hung over her head, pounding like nails in an already sealed coffin, noisy and redundant. She had enough on her hands without his antics. Between classes and the little monsters, she had just barely managed to get into bed, she didn’t have space for anything else, let alone his homewrecking girlfriend’s health issues and his unreliable nature. Once the boys were tucked in, Kara sat on the floor between their beds and began singing the usual lullabies. For the first time that day, Kara had a moment of peace where all she had to think about was the next lyric in the song. She closed her eyes, streaming lullaby after lullaby until both boys' breathing was slow and steady. She sat there for a moment longer and savored the silence. The cool darkness caressed her head, soothing the headache that was slowly fading. She'd been a single mother for a year now, and it didn't seem to get easier. Between work and school and energetic twins, moments like this were not to be taken for granted. However, moments like this could not last. Kara sighed, then stood up with an aching groan and headed out to grab her backpack from the front room. Her fingers trailed along the strings of the old gayageum, part of her late Montag 18 grandfather's collection of Korean relics, and began setting things up on the opposite desk in her bedroom. Her house was littered with such old things. Her grandfather had served in the Korean war and had become a bit obsessed with the country. Its culture, its people, even its food had become his obsession. The gayageum was his favorite collection piece, his most precious. She had tried playing it as a kid, but her grandfather had made it clear that it wasn’t a toy. It was a beautiful instrument. It had a long body with twelve strings stretched across 12 bridges at different intervals. The main body was intricately carved with a flock of phoenixes scattered about in different poses. A gift from the Korean vampire, he had told her, who had paid to have it restored before giving it to him. He insisted that the vampire had told him to give it to his granddaughter when she was born, the one with blue eyes. But, Grandpa Moore didn’t even have kids back then. Not that it mattered; no one believed his silly vampire stories anyway, except Kara when she was little. She knew better now. There was no such thing as vampires. Still, she was Grandpa Moore’s only grandchild with blue eyes. The hours ticked by until it reached what Kara’s best friend, Mia, called the witching hour. She was working on refining the conclusion of her history essay when a melodic thrumming filled the air. Kara looked up, confused. She turned toward the sound, and it abruptly stopped as if someone hit the power button on a radio. Kara narrowed her eyes at the old gayageum; it was the only thing on that side of the room that could have made noise. But the instrument lay silent. She shook her head. She was tired, it was late, and she surmised she must just be imagining things, and she had an essay to finish. Montag 19 Chapter 2 Gaegyeong, Goryeo, 1145 C.E. - The Royal Palace Kyong was used to his brother sneaking out at night and coming stumbling back onto the palace grounds like a fool at the crack of dawn. What he wasn't used to was his eighteen-year-old brother bringing two prostitutes back with him and begging him to join them. Hyon was three years older than Kyong, and yet, Kyong felt like had to police his brother’s antics. He could see them through the window in the dim light of the half-moon, lovely, yes, but not a dish he was interested in tasting. Not when he had his lovely young wife, Eunbyul, in bed waiting for him. Like his brother’s clothing, they were disheveled, and he smelled their heavy perfume even from inside. “Harin will be lonely if you don't come with us,” Hyon said. His lip was stuck out for dramatic flair as if Kyong would fall for his antics this time. “She wants to meet the poet prince.” “She can be lonely. It's not my job to entertain her,” Kyong said. “Now please take them and go.” “Aw, my baby brother's scared to get in trouble and upset mommy.” Hyon giggled. His slurred words did little to sway the younger man. “Brother, you're drunk.” Kyong took his brother by the shoulders and directed him toward the door, but it was like directing a petulant child who didn't want to go to his studies. His feet dragged, and he put his weight back on Kyong's hands, forcing him to push much harder and redirect him much more sharply. “You know we're not supposed to bring prostitutes onto the palace grounds without permission.” Montag 20 Kyong pushed Hyon out the doors, but Hyon turned with sudden strength and grabbed his brother around the neck to drag him hunched over toward the two waiting women. “Look ladies, I caught him for you.” Hyon announced as if he'd speared a boar just for their delight. “The second prince, our sensitive poet and scholar here to make your hearts swoon with his poetry and art.” “Brother, release me, you fool,” he shouted. He twisted and slipped from Hyon's arms. “Go on your own. I'm not interested. I have a wife.” “So do I, but why should that stop me?” Hyon laughed and poked at Kyong's stomach. “We can always take concubines.” Kyong threw his hands up. “If I take concubines, they won't be the kind of women you find.” Kyong marched toward his room, trying to ignore his brother's shouting from behind. “I'm sure your pretty little Eunbyul won't mind,” Hyon shouted. Kyong turned, his eyes burning with anger. “Go on your way.” Hyon's face wrinkled up in frustration. “Fine, I'll just entertain both ladies on my own. I’m man enough to handle them.” For a moment, Kyong was confident he'd succeeded in getting rid of his brother, but then he turned and froze at the sight of four palace guards stepping out around them and the two ladies. Kyong rolled his eyes before looking back at Hyon who just returned his irritation with a drunken smile. An hour later, the girls had been paid off and removed, and the brothers sat on their knees before two very cross-looking parents. The decadence of their father’s room was expected. Red and gold pillows sat atop intricately carved furniture. Fine pottery was displayed amidst precisely Montag 21 placed screens to offer privacy. His own rooms were nice, of course, given that he was a prince of Goryeo, but Kyong somehow felt like an intruder in these rooms. Hyon was the crown prince; Kyong had no place here. “What made you think it was acceptable for a prince of Goryeo to bring ladies of the night into the royal palace?” Their father, the King, sat poised on a pillow on a raised platform, his stern face somehow more stern than ever. “I just wanted to...” Hyon started to say. Kyong rolled his eyes, knowing the usual cow dung that was likely to spill from his brother’s lips, but their father interrupted this time. “Enough! Your excuses won't free you from punishment.” Their father stood and began pacing the room. “As my sons, you two represent me. You represent Goryeo. I cannot have you flaunting yourselves around like common vagabonds.” Their mother stood, her graceful hands moving to rest on their father's arm. “My dear husband, it's quite clear that Kyong is innocent in this situation. Hyon's actions, alone, have led to this.” “He should never have entertained his brother's antics in the first place.” The King snapped. Their mother drew back. She knew her husband's stubborn nature as well as his sons did. She sat back down, waiting for her husband to issue their punishment. Her eyes met Kyong’s, regretful but reassuring. Kyong knew that look meant that he would simply have to endure, to accept his punishment even if it felt unnecessary and unearned. “Hyon, you shall be confined to your quarters for the next fortnight. You will not leave this palace, and you will be under constant guard.” King Injong said before his sharp gaze shifted Montag 22 to Kyong. “And you. You will be sent to the scholars to help copy books. No free time until you have copied three hundred pages. You are both dismissed.” His father turned his back to them, the finality of his words lingering in the air. Both boys bowed before backing out and leaving their parents alone. There was an unsteady silence as the princes walked down the silent corridors and into the stillness beyond. The night was as silent and thick as the unspoken knowledge that hung in the palace. Kyong knew the whispers, knew that his mother favored him over his brothers, and so did Hyon. “You should have come with me,” Hyon said. His sharp gaze settled on Kyong, accusatory and cold. “You should have just accepted my answer and left,” Kyong retorted. Hyon’s nose wrinkled with distain, and his drunken stagger made Kyong think of how a vengeful spirit might appear, wobbling toward their victim to curse their soul. “You think you’re so perfect,” Hyon said, shoving Kyong’s shoulder. “I never said that.” “Our mother thinks it. She thinks I’m not good enough.” “She doesn’t mean it,” Kyong said. “She’s just…” “She does.” Hyon said. Though he was still unsteady, his voice sounded completely sober. “You’re just a sensitive poet who’s better off as a scholar than a King.” “I’d be quite content being a scholar.” Kyong said. Kyon’s muscles twitched at Hyon’s increase in pitch, and Kyong prepared to defend his person if his bother’s temper continued to rise. “You’re the future King. I’m happy to support you in that.” Hyon’s fists balled at his side, and he stepped closer to Kyong. “I hope you remember Montag 23 that.” Before he could continue, the guards directed him toward his rooms and Kyong to his. Kyong watched his brother get led off by the guards. The sharpness of his words seemed more frightening than the anger of his father. “At least I try,” he muttered under his breath, moving to his own quarters where his darling Eunbyul still lay in bed. He lay beside her, admiring the way her soft lips parted slightly with every deep breath. She was perfect, his wife, at least to him. She was the only person who didn’t expect more from him than what he was. They’d only been married for a few months, just twelve days after his fifteenth birthday, and yet, he felt like they’d been married forever. Perhaps they’d known one another in their previous lives. Perhaps they’d been lovers in heaven before becoming mortals. Whatever it was, she was all he ever needed. While he agreed with his mother that Hyon wasn’t suited to the throne, he didn’t want to take it from his brother. He didn’t need the throne to be happy. He only needed her. He traced Eunbyul’s features, the delicate curve of her nose, the still plush skin of her youthful cheeks. She shifted. Her eyes fluttered open and lit up in a sleepy smile. “Husband,” she murmured. “Awake already?” “Hyon tried to drag me into something,” he said. Eunbyul cupped his cheek, a comforting gesture that made his heart race. “Don’t let your brother cause you trouble,” she said. “You know he just enjoys watching you get upset.” Kyong nodded and laid his head on her chest, her soft curves bringing him more comfort than the cylindrical pillows they slept on. “I know,” he said. For a moment he was silent, unsure if he should continue. Like she always seemed to do, Eunbyul pushed him to continue. “What is it? I know Montag 24 there’s more you want to say. Don’t close your heart to me.” ‘Don’t close your heart to me.’ A mantra that had become the very foundation of their relationship. He couldn’t count how many times he’d heard those words, how many times he’d given in to them. “Hyon thinks I want to take his throne,” he said. The weight of the words floated between them, punctuated only by the sounds of the servants beginning their daily work outside. “Have you told him that you don’t want it?” Eunbyul asked. Her hand idly played with the silken strands of his hair, soothing and intimate. “Yes.” Another silence passed between them. Truthfully, he knew his brother was a dangerous choice for King. Hyon’s love of spirits and women outweighed his love for his country and Kyong worried about what his rule might being to Goryeo. He couldn’t say it though. No, he shouldn’t even think it. It was treasonous. Kyong turned in Eunbyul’s arms, burying his face between the soft mounts of flesh. His arms wrapped around her as if he was afraid that she might float away from him. He didn’t speak. How could he? How could he say such traitorous words aloud? Even if they were true. “It’s okay.” Eunbyul kissed the top of his head. “You don’t have to say it.” “What’s going to happen to Goryeo when he ascends?” he asked himself as much as her. He asked the universe, the heavens, and anything else that might listen. “I don’t know,” Eunbyul said. “But no matter what, we’ll survive it together.” Montag 25 Chapter 3 The next morning brought the twins to the before school program and Kara to work for the first of her double-shifts that day, tending to the sweet and sour retirees that constituted the majority of the morning rush at Joey's Diner. She ushered trays with stacks of pancakes, hashbrowns, and eggs, and delivered countless cups of coffee, each one making her empty stomach ache with need. Officers Smith and Jones had already picked up their daily coffees and settled in the parking lot to wait for some fools to speed by, and Joey had given the usual bagel to the homeless man who slept in the diner’s alleyway. Old John, a regular since before Kara worked at the diner, sat at the bar griping over the morning paper, and Maria, the motherly chef from Colombia, shouted out orders in Spanish when they were ready. Old John slapped the paper he was reading with the back of his hand. A story about new developments being built to house low-income families. “Damned leftist communists,” Old John said when Kara brought him his second coffee for the morning. “Trying to change everything I worked so damn hard for. This is America. We don’t need no handouts. These damn people should just roll up their sleeves and work.” “Now, John, no need for that kind of language,” Kara said. She placed a hand on his shoulder. The smell of fish and tobacco wafted up, something she’d become accustomed to over the years. “Sometimes people just need that little bit extra to get them out of the gutters.” “Not when it comes from whiny snowflakes who never had to work for anything.” John snapped back. He grabbed his coffee and took a long sip before looking at Kara with an uncharacteristic smile. “You’re a good girl, Kara,” he said and took her hand. “Arthur would be proud of you.” Montag 26 Kara responded with a nervous laugh. She wasn’t about to tell him she lived in lowincome housing. She knew better than to voice her true opinions around Old John. Old John and Arthur, her grandfather, had served in the Korean War together, but his politics and no-nonsense attitude were sometimes hard to combat. Her grandfather had adored him since they’d saved one another’s lives several times over, and because he appreciated someone who wasn’t afraid to disagree with him. She remembered the loud, aggressive arguments they got into that often ended up in a fistfight followed by making up with a beer and a fishing trip. Old John was like an uncle to her. She’d grown up with his kids and played in his yard when her grandfather took her to visit. That was why she tolerated so much from John, her grandfather’s affection for him and her memories of a happy childhood. “Kara, new guests in seat four A,” Joey said in passing. Kara thanked him and parted from Old John. The two new faces in Kara's section were young Asian men who looked oddly familiar to Kara. One of them had hooded eyelids, his dark brown eyes so intense that Kara felt uneasy beneath their gaze. She felt something like a prized chicken he was preparing to slaughter for dinner. The other beamed like he’d just won a million dollars, his cheeks almost childlike in their smoothness, a tiny dimple winking at her from the left side. Both looked young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and both smelled earthy, like bergamot, and sandalwood. “Hello, gentlemen,” Kara said in her customer service voice. “What can I get you started with this morning?” The smiling one spoke first. “We’ll both just have a Tall Stack meal,” he said, his eyes glistening as if seeing someone he’d been missing for years. Montag 27 “Alright, two Tall Stack meals,” Kara said. She shifted; the first man’s eyes hadn’t even blinked. “What to drink?” “Black coffee,” the second man said. “Alright, coming right up.” When Kara tried to leave to put in their order, the one who hadn't stopped smiling grabbed her wrist with an almost reverent gentility. “Kara, do you not remember us?” he asked. Kara froze and looked down at the hand that seemed like it had no intention of moving. Even his fingers were soft, unweathered by the troubled world. If she hadn’t been looking, she might have mistaken it for one of her sons’ hands if not for the size. “Um, no.” She met his eyes. “I’m sorry. Have we met?” The man’s smile faded for the first time. For the briefest moment, there was a flash of darkness, and a feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. “It would seem not yet.” Kara stepped back, trying to put some distance between them, but his grip tightened. “I’m sorry, sir, but can you let me go?” “Don’t go, noona,” the man said, using a term she’d heard on Korean films before. “We’ve missed you.” His eerie smile had returned as if it had never been broken. Kara’s brow knit together. “Missed me?” she asked, each word spoken as if they held equal importance. “But…I don’t know you.” She tried to pull away again, and she heard the scraping of a stool behind her. Then Old John’s hand rested on her arm, his voice gruff but concerned. “Kara, do you need help?” the old man asked, but when he looked at the two men, his eyes widened. He pointed at the first man. “You. I know you.” John's voice grew louder with Montag 28 every word. “You were there. You were friends with that man, the one that told Arthur all that nonsense. I told Arthur you lot was dangerous. You ain't aged a day.” The first man finally spoke, his voice soft as a fluffy winter lap blanket. “Sergent John Carter. Twenty-fourth Infantry Division.” The second man sighed like a mother upset that her son had blurted out news of her affair to his father. His hand dropped from Kara’s wrist, and he fixed the first man with a gaze that screamed, “Shut up before I throttle you.” Old John stumbled back as if he’d been struck, his eyes wild as he grabbed a nearby saltshaker and chucked it toward the man who caught it one-handed, his eyes still glued to Kara. ”What are you?” he shouted, moving to grab another. “You know my name. My rank! You were there.” “John, you need to calm down,” Kara said. She stepped in front of him and tried to urge him back toward the bar. “No. No!” John’s breath was ragged, and he began grabbing whatever he could get his hands on to chuck toward the men. “You damn freaks of nature. You get the hell outta here. You stay away from Kara.” Kara kept John away from the men while he continued to rant and throw things. Joey ran out to the parking lot to wave the police officers, still in their car, back in. Meanwhile, the rest of the staff started getting people away from the chaos. It was too late. John was next to impossible to control when he got worked up like this. His years as a soldier hadn't been kind to him and even the smallest thing could set him off. But this was on a different level. Even as the two men looked back at her while the newly arrived officer helped them outside with the rest of the patrons, John didn't settle. Montag 29 Maria grabbed Kara's shoulders and tugged her into the kitchen while the cops tried to calm down the irrational old man. “No, you don't get it,” he shouted. “Those men, they ain't normal. They shouldn't be here.” “John, the war's over,” Officer Jones said, his voice a soothing rumble. “Those men aren't soldiers. They weren't in the war with you.” “No, but they were. I know those faces. They were there.” Old John wouldn't back down. He looked around frantically, pointing at the men through the window. “They’re freaks of nature. They were there, in the war. He knew my name. My rank. Don’t you see? He knew my division…Kara. Where'd Kara get off to? I need to warn her. Kara!” John chucked a nearby empty coffee cup at the officer who dodged it. Kara knew officers wanted to avoid tasing or tackling the well-known war veteran. Everyone knew that Old John occasionally got worked up from PTSD, but he was in more of a tizzy than Kara had ever seen him. Kara looked at Maria, who shook her head. Kara knew she had to try, so she eased back out of the doorway and began to approach him. “Kara, get back here,” Maria whisper-shouted at her. The older woman held her hand out, waving her back. “John,” Kara said, and the old man twisted to look at her. “Kara, we’ve got this,” Officer Jones said, but Kara ignored him and stepped closer. “John, I’m here. They’re gone,” she said, her voice as gentle and soothing as she could make it. The moment Old John’s eyes fell on Kara, he rushed to grab her hand with a knucklewhitening grip. Montag 30 “Kara, there you are,” he said. His wrinkled old hands smoothed over hers as if she were something precious to be cared for, too fragile for the world. “They don’t understand, but I know you will. You need to get rid of it. It ain’t safe. You know what I mean, don’t you? Them kimchiboys are here for you. They’re gonna take you away. You gotta get rid of that thing.” Kara stared at the old man in shock. “John,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m listening. Get rid of what, John?” “That cursed thing,” he said. “That thing’s cursed. You gotta get rid of it.” “Now, Old John,” Officer Smith interrupted. “You need to leave Kara be. She’s just a worker here.” “No!” The old man’s shout made everyone jump back. Kara put a loose open hand up toward the officer. “Don’t worry, Officer Smith, I’m okay.” John turned back to Kara and fumbled with her hands. “Your granddaddy. You know we went to war together?” “Y-yes. I know,” Kara said. She struggled to find the right words to calm him. “All right now, John.” Officer Jones placed a ginger hand on John’s arm. “You’re okay now. You’ve warned her.” “Don’t worry, John,” Kara said, focused on calming him. “I’ll be careful.” John smiled at that and nodded. He let the officers take him off, muttering about the Korean men under his breath. Kara watched him go, and Maria appeared at her side. “¿Estás bien, Kara?” the older woman asked. Montag 31 Kara looked at her with wide eyes and allowed herself to be led to one of the booths. “Sí, pero estoy un poco conmocionada,” Kara said. ‘Shaken up’ was the simplest way to explain the shuttering in her heart. What was Old John talking about? Get rid of what? Maria smacked her arm at that and began rambling in rapid Spanish about how foolish Kara had been, and Kara, for her part, didn’t argue. Customers were already coming in for the dinner rush by the time Kara got in after her classes for her second shift. The usual families and couples filled the air with too-sweet perfume and stinky children. At the end of her shift, Kara packed away the leftovers from the kitchen; day old rolls that were made that morning, mashed potatoes and steamed veggies that were at the bottom of the pot, and fried chicken that had been made in bulk and never made it out to the patrons. She chatted with Maria and the other servers, thumbing the decent wad of tips she’d made that evening. The group headed out the back doors together and began to disperse into their cars when Maria grabbed Kara’s arm and pulled her aside. “El diablo está aquí,” she said and pointed to a pair of people standing by Kara’s car. The devil was there. As if her day hadn’t been bad enough. Kara had to actively stop herself from cringing. Todd and Jackie stood with cigarettes in hand waiting for her. Kara sighed and went to them. “I thought you were going to call me,” Kara asked and did her best to hide her frustration. “Yeah, but our timetable moved up,” Todd said. Kara opened her car door and set the steaming bag of Styrofoam containers down on the seat before turning and locking eyes with him. “You going to come see the boys soon?” Montag 32 “No, sorry. We’re heading out first thing in the morning.” He pointed a thumb behind him at the large moving truck parked street-side. “Our roommates helped us pack last night.” Kara had to force her hanging mouth closed and nodded. “So soon? What about the boys, Todd?” “Yeah. I’m sorry but, I need to do what’s best for Jackie.” Todd reached a long arm to scratch the back of his head. Kara was briefly struck by the question of why she ever thought he was attractive. He was scrawny, and his eyes were uneven. She used to think his large ears were cute, but now they just made him look like a popular cartoon elephant. “So, actually, I was wondering if you could spot us some cash for gas.” “And cigarettes,” Jackie said behind him, and Kara noticed for the first time that Jackie had gotten into the leftovers on the seat. Jackie must have seen Kara’s disbelief because she held up her hand with a hot roll. “You don’t mind if we take these for the trip, right? You can always get more.” Kara’s lip twitched, and she tried to keep her composure. “Todd, I have kids to feed.” It took everything in her to not explode. “You can have the leftovers, but I need to keep my tips.” “Yeah. Right. Of course,” Todd said, and for a moment Kara saw a glimmer of the man she once loved. Todd smiled and bent down to hug her. Kara tensed up and pat his back apathetically. “Thanks, Kara,” he said, “Don’t worry. Once I get a job in California, I’ll start sending you money to help you out, alright?” Kara nodded with her smile pasted on her face like a child’s doll. Jackie gave a snide smile with bread-stuffed cheeks and grabbed the bag of leftovers. Todd issued a final farewell and the two of them moved to the truck. Kara watched Todd open the door for Jackie like he had never done for her, then gave a wave before rounding the truck to get in and drive off. Montag 33 Kara stared after the truck longer than she realized. Movement from across the street broke her from a daze and she shifted to lock eyes with a hooded figure standing in the flickering of a streetlamp. The world funneled around them. The figure took a step forward. Kara’s heart began to beat faster in her ears, until Maria’s hand slapping down on her arm caused her to jump and look at the older woman with wide eyes. “You okay, my dear?” Maria asked, and Kara stumbled to find words. “Y-yeah,” she said. “I’m fine.” She looked back across the road, and the figure had vanished. “Did you see…” “Sí, that devil woman took your food.” Maria spat on the ground. “Why do you let those people push you around?” “They needed help,” Kara explained. “They need a chankla to the face.” Maria practically growled. She turned and stood directly before Kara and forced her to meet her eyes. “Kara, ignore those idiots. The only people you need to worry about are you and those sweet little boys.” Kara gave a breathy laugh. “I know.” She said so, she did know, but practice was harder than the concept. Kara was pleased to find that her mother had gotten the boys to bed on time and after a kiss and a hug, Kara was left in the silent apartment alone save for the twins asleep in their room. She dropped her backpack off on her bed, changed into her pajamas, and slipped into the boys’ room to plant light kisses on their soft cheeks. She started to leave but instead turned and leaned against the door frame for a long time. She didn’t understand. How could anyone willingly leave such beautiful little boys? Kara looked Montag 34 at them and all she felt was a welling joy that they were in her life. Her chest felt full to bursting and her cheeks were pained from the smile they gave her. How? How could any parent not love their children with everything that they are? Kara would go to the ends of the earth for her children. Why wouldn’t Todd? Kara reached up to wipe her face and looked up at nothing. “Come on, Kara, pull it together.” Melodic music made her turn. Kara closed the door and rushed to her room. By the time she flipped on the light, the music stopped. Kara narrowed her eyes at the gayageum and moved over to it. It didn’t move. She plucked a string. Still nothing. Kara sighed and muttered under her breath. “I’ve watched too many movies.” That said, she popped in “The Vampire Prince,” her favorite Korean drama that she’d forced her grandfather to start watching just a few months before he died. They’d never finished it, and Kara couldn’t bring herself to watch past the last episode they’d watched together. Kara set herself up to work on her Spanish homework. The night crawled along, until the witching hour struck and like a match lit in the corner of a dark room, the music came again. She turned her head quickly enough to watch the strings settle into silence. Kara stood and moved over to the instrument on tentative toes. She considered that, perhaps, she was more tired than she thought. Her eyes jotted over it as she approached. Her brows narrowed with disbelief. Kara stopped in front of it, fingers brushing the strings. The moment she did, they burst to life. Kara yanked her hands back with a squeak and looked at the spirited instrument in shock. It played an old song that seemed like a memory, slow and steady. For several moments all she Montag 35 could do was stare until the music grew louder. Kara shot forward in a panic to try and silence the strings with her hands, but the instant her fingers landed on the instrument, the world began to spin. Her stomach did summersaults, and the floor tilted beneath her feet. Her vision blurred. Or maybe it was the room itself that was blurring. It swirled like planets and stars being sucked into a black hole. The single light of her room was suddenly overhead, Kara wrenched from her feet with a scream. She was dragged along with the tide, floating on the frothy colors and trying to stay afloat. The light grew smaller and smaller above her until it vanished entirely. Like a flame in a breeze, Kara’s world vanished into the ether. Montag 36 Chapter 4 Gaegyeong, Goryeo, 1146 C.E. – The Royal Palace That little corner of the gardens was his sanctuary. The bright green leaves sparkled like silver in the sensual breeze that carried the smell of flower pollen that tickled his nose and made him sneeze. It was away from his brother’s shouting and fighting, away from his mother’s coddling and his father’s expectations, and away from the kowtowing servants who refused to leave his side. It was a tiny slice of peace where he could read and write his poetry without interruption. It was close to the abandoned manor of a consort of his great grandfather who had died there. To everyone else, it was too close to the cursed dead, but to him it was a place where spirits lay quiet. Sure, sometimes he heard the singing some people claimed came from the woman’s ghost, and other times it was so quiet not even the birds dared sing. But he didn’t mind. Her singing was beautiful, haunting, and the silence was peaceful, hollowed. So, he stayed. He read. He escaped. On a day when there was silence, Kyong sat on the grass, his legs folded beneath him as he held his sleeve to protect the still wet hanja on the paper from being smeared. His hand moved across the paper with the same delicate strokes as always. The sound of footsteps nearing him stopped his motions, and he lifted the brush from the paper and set it down before turning to see who was coming to disrupt his peace. “Your royal highness, you must hurry,” Minho, one of the palace eunuchs said, his breath ragged. Kyong sighed and moved the tray to stand, facing the exhausted eunuch with trepidation. “What is it, Minho?” he asked. Montag 37 “It’s his majesty, the King. Please. Your mother requests you to be by her side.” Kyeon stiffened. The silence of his little corner seemed somehow suffocating, heavier than the weight he carried day by day. Without a word, he nodded and followed the eunuch to his father’s rooms. Even the journey was silent. The servants bowed when they passed but said nothing. Their eyes held sorrow, pity. Kyong felt like he was walking to his own funeral. The first sound that reached his ears was the wailing coming from his father’s courtyard. He followed behind Minho. His feet grew heavier with each step. Women and servants alike sat on their knees, crying and calling out to the heavens, and the sight of his mother wrapped in the arms of her elderly servant woman made him stop dead. His mother looked up at him and stumbled to her feet, crossing the courtyard to cry against her favorite son. Kyong stood tall, unmoved. He schooled his expression and ignored the tears that threatened to fall. Everything would change now. Kyong was a ghost in the days that followed. He did his duties by rote, attended the funeral like a stoic soldier, and comforted his mother just by being present. The kingdom mourned the loss of a king. Kyong mourned the loss of a father. It felt like the dirt on his father's grave hadn't even settled when Hyon was crowned King. Two years later, Kyong sat in his rooms, attending to his duties. The soft rustle of cloth and Kyong’s steady breathing intermingled with the rolling and unrolling of scrolls and the turning of pages. The atmosphere of the palace had been changed since his father’s death. Hyon…no the King, was always throwing parties, humiliating their soldiers, and bringing women with Montag 38 questionable backgrounds into the palace. Then there was the paranoia. Hyon was paranoid that Kyong was plotting against the throne but could never prove it. Kyong reached for another book when Yoonseok, one of his best and oldest friends, entered with a bow. Yoonseok was the son of a noble. They’d attended school together, practiced the sword, and watched the women walking in the gardens. His presence had been a constant since his youth, and with his father’s death, Yoonseok stood closer to him still. “My prince,” Yoonseok’s voice broke the silence. “I have news. There are rumors that Eunuch Chong Ham and several others have issued an accusation of conspiracy against the crown. They believe that you’re trying to usurp the King.” Kyong’s hand froze over the book, his eyes unfocused. He drew his hand back and folded it in his lap before looking up at Yoonseok. “And the king’s response?” “He’s inclined to believe him,” Yoonseok said. “An investigation has been launched. The guards will be here soon to collect you.” Kyong sighed and brought a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Find out what grounds they have. We need to be prepared to prove my innocence.” “Yes, my prince,” Yoonseok said. A moment of silence passed before Yoonseok tilted his head, trying to see around the hand blocking his view of Kyong’s face. “Are you troubled, your royal highness?” Kyong looked up at Yoonseok. “My brother thinks I’m out to steal his throne because my mother tried to convince my father to make me crown prince…” he said. His words lingered in the air. Yoonseok moved closer and poured them each a cup of tea from a nearby tray and offered the cup out to Kyong with both hands. Montag 39 Kyong took the cup, taking a long sip before meeting Yoonseok’s eyes. “I wish this was soju,” he said, a light glint in his eyes. Yoonseok chuckled. “Maybe after we prove your innocence. We wouldn’t want you to get accused of stealing his favorite spirits.” Montag 40 Chapter 5 Hanseong, Joseon, 1430 C.E. The world stank more than it had when he was human. Scents were stronger now—body odor beneath fragrance pouches, ondol smoke mingled with horse dung, and freshly washed clothes hanging in the breeze and dancing with the stench of rotting food scraps. Beneath it all was the metallic tang of blood that once repulsed him. Now it was everything he craved, those beating hearts that slept in their beds, vessels for his nightly meals. Kyong crept along the rooftops, a monster in his own home preying on the descendants of people he once swore to protect. He followed a group of three drunken laborers stumbling home from the soju house. His nostrils flared from the scent of soju, sweat, and manure that masked the red blood beneath. The men laughed together, boisterous and foolish. Half-slurred words made their Korean feel foreign to Kyong, but then, everything felt foreign since he’d come back from death. Joseon was much like Goryeo, yes, but his forced nocturnal lifestyle meant that he was cursed to a world of greys and ash. Gone were the vibrant colors of the day, the silk hanbok and intricate designs he’d once taken for granted. He missed the beauty of nature, the bright colors of spring and the silver glow of winter snow. He shook away such meaningless memories. He needed to feed, and his feast was stumbling away. He had jumped to the next rooftop, preparing to leap down to claim his meal, when something cut through their stench…something sweet. Kyong turned a corner with the laborers from above and saw her before they did. A woman with red hair—a foreigner—with pale skin and European features, crawled up from the ground. Her scant clothing was obscene, more like undergarments that barely covered her pale Montag 41 skin that glistened in the moonlight. She was delicious, but it wasn’t her curves or the sweet confusion on her face or the way she wobbled on her feet that made her so. No. It was her scent, her blood, filled with sugar and fat. It was her blood that smelled like the finest plum blossom wine and begged him to partake, to consume, to get drunk on its taste. The three men spotted the woman who was now bent over, vomiting on the ground, the stench of it making his nose wrinkle. They surrounded her, their crude, drunken words lending to the confusion etched on her face. “Where are her clothes?” one asked. He reached out for her, and she pulled away. “Maybe she was waiting for us,” another man answered with a boisterous laugh. “Um…sorry…I’m still learning Korean.” She spoke in a tongue that was similar to the European merchants he’d once met in China. “Where am I?” she spoke in Korean, her English accent thick. “Aw, she’s doesn’t know where she is,” the first said. The third man snatched at her pajama shorts, and she smacked his hand away, which only sparked the man’s anger. Kyong’s muscles tensed. Something in him wanted to save her, protect her, be the guardian of the weak he once was, but another part wanted to see what she would do. He’d been alive long enough to know that there were two kinds of prey: the runner and the fighter. He was curious which one she was. Then he saw it. Her foot slipped behind her, her eyes shifted both ways, and she turned on her heel down the street as fast as she could run. So, she was a runner. Those were the fun ones. The men gave chase and Kyong followed. When one of them managed to grab her arm and slam her against a nearby wall, Kyong’s blood boiled. She fought back, pushed the man Montag 42 away, and tried to run again, but she was soon surrounded. “No,” Kyong said to himself. “We can’t have them tainting my sweet dessert.” The cruelty of men against women was one Kyong could still not bring himself to tolerate. He was a monster, yes, but even monsters had their rules. In a whir of wind, Kyong leaped from the roof and pushed the men from her. He pulled the man who touched her first against his body and sank his teeth into his neck. A sickening gasp rang in the air, and Kyong began draining the wretch of every last drop of blood. The alcoholsaturated blood made his head spin, and its warmth spread across his throat and coated his stomach in its life-giving flame. The blood had the bitter taste of soju and a poor diet. Not the best meal, but tolerable. Once the meal was finished, he let the dried-up husk of the man fall to the ground with a dusty thud. The other two men and the woman looked at him with shock and horror, and all Kyong could do was smirk. He looked up and wiped the bit of blood that had escaped and trickled down his chin. Rolling his neck, his hungry eyes settled on the woman. The shock on her face pleased him. She knew, he could tell, she was next. He looked back at the two males that stood frozen in fear, staring at their dead friend. He hated such men. He looked back at her just as the two men snapped out of it and began running with clumsy drunken steps. “This is your only chance,” he said over his shoulder. “Run.” He wanted to enjoy the chase. Kyong snapped out with unnatural speed to grab the closest man. “No. Not you.” The wind whistled in his ears and whipped his hanbok around him like a flag at sea. For him, time stood still; the world around him froze. Dust particles floated in the air, unmoving grains of stilted time reminding him that time could not touch him. He sank his teeth into the Montag 43 man and drained him with an insatiable hunger. Then, before the first man even hit the ground, Kyong had hold of the last man. When he stopped, both men fell to the ground and stirred the dirt beneath them. In the end, they were just like every other human he had fought, dead, on the ground, and void of blood, their vacant eyes reflecting their last moment of fear. He cleaned off his mouth once more, enjoying the buzz from the alcohol for a moment before rolling his shoulders. It was time to catch his dessert, but when he turned, he froze. The foreign woman was still in the same spot— —staring at him— —as if he were something to be studied instead of feared. He moved forward, her foreign green eyes meeting his with unflinching bravery…or foolishness. “I told you to run, girl.” Kyong said, drawing out each word in the hope of helping her understand better. He couldn’t help but find amusement in her actions. His curiosity piqued, he drew closer, his eyes burning with hunger and something else he dare not name. “You should be afraid of me. I’m the demon that people tell their children about at night.” “Afraid? No,” she said and Kyong quirked a brow. “That would be silly.” “You’re not afraid?” he asked. He understood the part, but the second part eluded him. His knowledge of European languages was as scarce as her understanding of Korean. “No…I’m certain this is just a dream. You…You’re not real. You can’t be real. You’re impossible. You’re a dream. A bad dream.” “A dream? Am I a dream?” She hummed in agreement. “Yeah, you’re pretty,” she said in her language with a playful tone and a nervous laugh, “Geurimja, is pretty handsome.” “Geurimja? You know me?” Geurimja was the nickname he had acquired over the years; Montag 44 in Korean, it was the word for ‘shadow.’ It had been centuries since anyone new had known it. He hated the name. “Of course.” She continued to speak in disjointed Korean through nervous laughter. “The vampire prince.” “Vampire?” He focused his eyes on her. She had said the word in a Korean way, but it was not a Korean word he knew. Kyong laughed. He couldn’t stop himself. The utter absurdity of her accusation. She thought he was a dream? “My dear, pretty, meal,” he said with the same slow drawl, enjoying the hunt. “You speak such beautiful nonsense. I am not a dream. Besides, dream or not…” He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her flush against him. Her plush body felt soft and warm, but he was more interested in what lay beneath the supple flesh. “I can still eat you.” He stopped to take in her scent. Filled with euphoric desire, he let a slow, shaky breath out through his mouth. His eyes opened, and his fangs grew. “Is this really a dream?” he asked, allowing his lips to brush her ear, “You’re just a short human female, and I am a very real demon.” Her scent was torturous. He opened his mouth and moved from her ear to her neck. He could feel the heat of his own breath reflecting on his face, and he paused with his mouth still open against her skin. He wanted to feel her shiver beneath him. He wanted to know the effect he had on her. He was about to feed when the sensation of a single tiny finger poking his cheek gave him pause. He pulled back, trying to understand what had just happened. “My dear…What are you doing?” She poked him again, and then a third time before she pressed down on his chin to urge his mouth open. Kyong wanted to hold her hands down and sink his teeth into her, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he let her do whatever strange thing she was trying to do. He Montag 45 opened his mouth, and that same offending finger poked one of his fangs. It didn’t take much pressure for the fang to pierce her skin, and she yanked her hand back with a short gasp. She cradled her finger as a bead of blood bubbled up and Kyong balked. No longer stifled by her skin, the scent of her blood accosted his senses with brutal insistence. His muscles tensed, his mind swirled, and an almost animalistic need to consume every last drop took over. Kyong hadn’t felt like this since he was first turned, this painful biting hunger that seemed all consuming, clawing and ripping at his very soul. He snatched her wrist with a speed that made her jump and tugged her finger into his mouth. The bubble of blood burst across his tongue, the coppery flavor so inviting he couldn’t settle for just a taste. It was like a crumb when one was starving. He threw the woman's hand down and grabbed hold of the back of her neck to pull her closer. His other arm tightened around her waist as he pulled her hard against his body. Her body was warm and soft against his, and so very delicious. For a moment he fought between his hunger for food and his hunger for flesh. It had been decades since he’d enjoyed a woman’s company. He felt her try to push at his chest with all her strength, but it was not enough to save her. “Geurimja!” A familiar voice rang out across the expanse of road; on a nearby rooftop, stood another man in a silk hanbok, and gat. Unlike Kyong’s tousled hair left free in the wind, the other man’s hair was pulled into a tight topknot under his gat, a string of beads hanging loose around his face. Through still heavy breaths he looked up at his source of interruption with murderous intent. His body shook half with rage and half with ravenous hunger. “Kim Yoonseok,” Kyong spoke the name as if it were poison. “Can’t you see I’m eating?” Montag 46 Kim Yoonseok stood on the roof of a nearby shop. The wind whipped around him like some sort of pathetic hero in a legend. With a familiar silver-plated sword in his hand, he leaped to the ground below and began walking toward him. Kyong’s face was pained from the persistent sneer, the sight of his old friend bringing up unwanted memories. “Leave the girl,” Yoonseok said. Kyong scoffed and stood up straight. He glanced at the girl for a moment then flipped her so that she was standing beside him facing Yoonseok. He kept a firm grip on the female’s shoulders and held her close in defiance. Returning his eyes to Yoonseok, he spoke. “Come to steal my new pet, have you? Now that your current one is old and on the verge of death?” The corners of Yoonseok's lips twitched in irritation at Kyong's words, and Kyong relished the annoyance in his old friend's features. “Are you why she knew my name?” Kyong asked. “Was this a trick to try and kill me again?” “Let go of her, Geurimja, and face me.” Yoonseok dared to order his once prince? “Geurimja,” he scoffed. “Yes, that’s what you started calling me when you betrayed me.” He pulled the girl closer. “But let her go? What can you do? I came back from death! There is nothing you can do to stop me if I choose to eat this child.” “I’m not a child.” The girl’s voice interrupted their argument. Kyong looked down at her as his irritated sneer morphed into an amused one. His eyes glanced at her chest, then back at her face. “Yes.” He chuckled. “I suppose you’re not.” Montag 47 The woman’s eyes grew wide at the realization of what he was talking about. Both arms shot to cover her chest, and she looked at him with defensive annoyance. Kyong gave her his best devilish smirk then looked back at Yoonseok who looked like he was about to charge. “Let me keep the woman, and I’ll let you leave unharmed tonight.” “You know I can’t let you do that,” Yoonseok argued. “The woman is innocent. I can’t let you kill her.” Kyong looked at the traitor with amusement. “Only children are truly innocent.” “Geurimja.” Yoonseok drew his attention again. “This is your last chance.” “My last chance?” Kyong outright laughed. “What do you care about this woman anyway? She’s just another temporary creature in a world full of death.” “As I stated, she’s innocent,” Yoonseok said. “I won’t let my failure to stop you end anymore lives.” Kyong scoffed. “Your failure? No…it was more than that.” The traitor’s expression turned to confusion and Kyong paused. An instant later, the woman went completely limp in his arms. Confused, he lost his grip and watched her fall to the ground with a thud. “She fainted?” He chuckled. “And I thought she was brave.” It seemed she was just like every other human, weak, pathetic, worthless. Kyong didn’t have much time to think on her foolishness as Yoonseok took advantage of the moment. The traitor charged at him and made a swipe toward his face with the silver sword. Kyong moved with quick precision, dodged the attack, and jumped back. It was almost nice—to finally fight someone on his level. It was more fun than the bumbling humans who had gone down in moments. It was a challenge. The two of them rushed here and there around the woman in some kind of dance, missing one another by centimeters in succession. They were like two Montag 48 dark whirlwinds rushing around a battlefield, always moving and yet somehow never disrupting one another's paths. “Get him!” The woman's voice made Kyong freeze. She stood on the dirt road with a bright smile, pumping her hand in the air in some sort of ritualistic cheer. Yoonseok also paused to look at her. “She’s awake?” Kyong looked at Yoonseok. “So, this was your plan. She tricks me and you attack?” “I assure you, there was no plan.” The traitor told him. Kyong looked back just in time to watch the woman wave at him with a smug expression and his blood boiled. “How dare you?” he snarled. Yoonseok smirked, clearly finding the woman's antics amusing. Kyong’s features tightened, and his lip twitched as he moved toward her, but Yoonseok blocked him, only infuriating Kyong further. He knew that he would have to get rid of the traitor before he could get the woman. “Fine. So be it,” Kyong said as he rushed Yoonseok again. He almost didn’t hear the light squeak come from the woman's throat. He turned to witness another vampire scoop her up and begin leaving the battlefield with her. In his distraction, the sharp sting of the silver dagger shot across his cheek. He cursed and grabbed for the front of his rival’s clothing. With the whole of his force he threw the man with one hand across the rooftops in the opposite direction. Kyong turned and began heading after his prey. He had gotten only a few streets over when Inho, one of Yoonseok’s many lackeys, jumped in front of him. “You too?” Kyong grumbled. “I have more important matters than to deal with you.” “You can’t have the woman,” Inho said Kyong in a calm voice that reminded him of their Montag 49 one-sided shouting matches when he was a new vampire. “She’s far too important.” “Important?” Kyong’s lip curled up, “So there is more to this. Is she another attempt to destroy me? Why, that makes me want her even more.” “There are more of us now, my prince,” Yoonseok’s voice said from behind him. It had been a long time since he’d heard his friend address him by his royal courtesy term. “Once again…” Kyong turned back to Yoonseok. “…we find ourselves fighting over a woman.” “It would seem so, old friend,” Yoonseok said. There was pity in Yoonseok’s eyes, and it only served to exasperate the situation. He didn't want, nor did he need, anyone's pity—least of all Yoonseok's. “I stopped calling you 'friend' the moment you turned against me, Kim Yoonseok,” Kyong spat. “I'm sorry, my prince,” Yoonseok said with far too much sincerity, “but I couldn't allow you to continue on the way you had become. You only needed to come back to your senses, and it never would have happened.” “My senses?” Kyong lunged toward his once friend. “After enduring betrayal after betrayal, I finally have my senses. Humans are nothing but traitorous wretches made solely for my survival.” The two exchanged several blows before they separated again, and Kyong continued. His skin stung from the silver blade he blocked with his arm, but he pushed through the pain. “And you—with your human heart—you're no better than they are.” As the men continued their battle, Inho acted like a moving wall that kept the fight from getting any closer to the woman. “You had a human heart once too, my prince.” It was pathetic how Yoonseok tried to Montag 50 reason with him. He took a swing and continued. “You could have one again.” “I would rather die a million times than allow myself to be weakened by the scourge that is a human heart again.” Kyong growled and lunged at the traitor. “Now enough talking—”