CHAPTER ONE
My T-shirt is sticking to my back from the heat off the sidewalk. Even at nighttime, summer in Las Vegas is brutal. Not that I’m complaining. I’ll take the soggy shirt over roasting in the desert sun any day.
It’s 10:00 p.m., and the night is just getting started for most folks. They’re probably packing the main strip like sardines in a can. I take the side streets, where I can walk without constantly getting bumped and knocked around.
The too-old and too-new buildings stand next to each other companionably on the street, promising cheap eats and loose slots. People restlessly pace the sidewalks, holding wads of advertisements to push into the hands of unsuspecting tourists for all sorts and manners of entertainment. I look straight ahead and step with purpose to avoid unnecessary waste of paper. Besides, I do have a very important purpose. Dinner.
My stomach growls, urging me to pick up my pace, and I weave past the glowing neon signs and the shifting darkness with hurried steps. I’m two blocks from my destination when my scalp tightens with the sensation of being watched.
I swivel in a half arc and freeze when two malevolent yellow orbs pierce through a dark alleyway. Green fire ignites in my eyes, and my incisors elongate as magic flares in my veins. I slip into the alley before anyone sees me, preparing to throw down, when a black cat hisses and runs off into the night.
“For fuck’s sake.” I sigh and douse the fire with a deliberate blink.
I slow my hammering heart and bury my magic deep inside me. I’m jumpy tonight. It might be intuition. Or paranoia. I’m not sure which. But both have been instrumental in keeping me hidden—and alive—for over a century. Even so, I should have more sense than to reveal even a hint of my powers like that.
I walk out of the alleyway and continue down the street with my shoulders hunched. My eyes dart around, scanning every inch of my surroundings, from the tourists carrying fluorescent plastic cups filled with sorry excuses for margaritas to the impatient locals stomping past them, shaking their heads in disgust or sympathy. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I let my guard down a notch.
Then I stiffen right back up. I sense a female dokkaebi’s life force—the dark, red, and stormy gi of Underworld—pulsating within a cluster of excited young women walking toward me. The life force of humans flows soft and steady like a shallow stream, but the gi of magical beings roils and churns, powerful as crashing waves. I have no trouble spotting the goblin as she hoots with laughter, the lightness at odds with her tumultuous gi. When she walks past me, oblivious to my identity, I almost sag with relief.
It doesn’t matter if the dokkaebi was a friend or a foe. I don’t want to be recognized for who I truly am. But I don’t know why I’m fretting. I’ve stayed hidden this long. That’s not about to change tonight. I take acalm the fuck downbreath. With my magic under lockdown, my life force becomes a colorless trickle until even magical beings can’t differentiate between me and the humans. No one will find me. I detach my shoulders from my ears and resume my trek to my destination, letting my mind wander.
Contrary to popular belief, goblins look no different from humans on the outside. It’s the magic they carry inside, such as their affinity for gold and silver, that differentiates them. They like to make and spend wealth as though their lives depend on it. I’ve seen more dokkaebis andtheir Western counterparts in Las Vegas casinos than anywhere else in the country, with Wall Street being a close second.
Magical beings of the Shingae—the world of gods that I hail from—walk among the humans and lead ordinary lives on the surface. Humans vastly outnumber us, so it’s not too difficult to melt into the chaos. But we always abide by the rules of the Shingae: Never expose the world of gods. Protect the magic. Keep the Amheuk, an ancient force of darkness, at bay.
The Amheuk once threatened to destroy the worlds as we know them and to plunge all that lived into the dark. It would’ve meant death for most beings, and those who didn’t die would have become twisted, depraved abominations feeding off pain and misery. The Cheon’gwang—the true light—and all beings born of its light came together to defend the worlds from the Amheuk.
The Endless War ended five centuries ago, and the forces of darkness have been subdued, but we stay vigilant against the Amheuk. Too many have perished to protect what we have. So I adhere to the rules of the Shingae, even though I’m hiding from it.
To stay hidden from the world of gods, I can’t allow the nine-tailed fox inside me to awaken. If I do, she will unleash my magic, and anyone from the Shingae will be able to track me down. Luckily, my careless lapse in control over the alley cat was too minor to leave more than a dusting behind.
Even the most talented of the Suhoshin, the powerful guardians of the Shingae, wouldn’t be able to trace it back to me. Thank gods for that. They’re supposed to be thegood guys, but the elite, magical beings that make up the order just rub me the wrong way. They think they’re better than the rest of us just because they’re blessed by the gods with near immortality.
I scoff out loud, making a fellow pedestrian shoot me a frown. I frown right back and stomp past her. I’m hardly the weirdest person walking the streets of Las Vegas. Besides, it’s not my fault the almighty guardians are irritating.
The Suhoshin’s only saving grace, in my humble opinion, is that they don’t discriminate based on your source of life. As long as your gi originates from the sources created by the Cheon’gwang—Mountains, Sky, Water, or Underworld—you can join the Suhoshin’s ranks,ifyou’re powerful and talented enough. And if you break the rules, the guardians will come after you no matter what you are—no preferential treatment. That makes me feel a smidgen better about the probability that I’m one of the Suhoshin’s most wanted.
I arrive at my destination, with its garish sign proclaimingROXY’SDINER,ROXY’SDINER,ROXY’SDINER, the blinding flamingo and turquoise lights blinking in precise rhythm—two seconds on, one second off.
Any lingering thoughts of the Shingae fade into the background as I pull open the door and step inside. The interior reminds me of every other run-down diner in the movies, but there’s no Hollywood magic in Roxy’s Diner. It is authentically tacky and run down, which gives it a unique charm all its own.
“Home sweet home.” I squeak across the red vinyl seat and sit with my elbows on the white table.
“Your usual, Sunny?” Rachel pours coffee into my mug. She’s been working at Roxy’s for thirty-some years but doesn’t look a day over forty, despite her salt-and-pepper hair. She rules the dining hall with an iron fist and an unfaltering smile, wearing her pristine pink-and-white waitress uniform like a badge of honor.
“Yes, please.” I beam at her. Dinner at Roxy’s Diner is my favorite part of the day. What can I say? I appreciate the simple pleasures of life.
My first sip of the scalding coffee makes me feel half-human, so I take a second sip, wondering if it’ll make me fully human. I laugh at myself. Even though she’s hidden deep inside me, I can sense my gumiho’s presence. I can always sense her. No amount of diner coffee will make me human. I ignore the churning mix of relief and despair in my stomach and take another sip of my nonmagical coffee. Yup, still not human.
“May I join you?” The low timbre of the vaguely familiar voice sends a shiver of awareness down my spine.
Taken aback by my body’s reaction, I slowly turn my head to glance up at the owner of the voice. I’m stunned into silence for three pounding heartbeats. The man I find standing by my booth looks even better than he sounds. Even so, he shouldn’t elicit this kind of visceral reaction from me. It must be the shock ... because he shouldn’t be standing there in the first place.
I shake my head to clear it. I haven’t seen him in nearly a decade—he’s a few inches taller and much broader in the chest and shoulders—but I’m sure it’s him. I drag my eyes away from said chest and shoulders with some effort. It’s definitely the shock.
“Ethan? I . . . what . . .” I’m the epitome of eloquence.
“Have you ordered?” He takes a seat across from me and waves over Rachel.
