Page 91 of Marked

“That’s it. I’m coming up there.”

“What? No!” I sat up so fast Scout gave an offended huff. “You can’t just abandon your new job because I have questionable taste in men!”

“Watch me. I’ll tell my boss it’s a family emergency. Technically, preventing my best friend from starring in the next season ofDatelinecounts as an emergency.”

“Luke, I’m serious. They’re not dangerous.” Even as I said it, I remembered that wild light in their eyes, the way they all seemed to be fighting something inside themselves. “They’re just… intense.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what that girl said about Ted Bundy. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me they have a mysterious basement and a really nice boat.”

“Pretty sure they have a gym instead of a basement. And the only boat I’ve seen is the one in that fountain downtown.”

“Not helping your case here, Kai.”

“Look, just… wait until your new job approves some vacation time,” I bargained. “I start at the bookstore tomorrow. Let me at least establish myself as the quirky new employee before you burst in like my personal bodyguard. Besides, you just started there too.”

“Fine. But I want updates. Detailed, non-murderous updates. And if anything feels weird—”

“I’ll call you faster than you can say ‘true crime podcast.’”

“You better. And call Eomma. She’s been stress cooking all week. The whole house smells like kimchi and worry.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Good. Now go dream about your murder-mountain men. But like, with one eye open.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“Someone has to keep you alive long enough to become a true crime documentary. Now seriously, call Eomma before she recruits a monastery to pray for your safe return.”

“Yes, sir.” I laughed. “Now go unpack your dramatic rescue bag.”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable rescue bag!” he protested. “And I’m keeping it packed. Just in case your mountain men turn out to be serial killers. Or worse—a cult of weirdly attractive lumberjacks.”

“Good night, Luke.”

“Call Eomma!” was his final command before hanging up.

Sighing, I stared at my phone. Last time I’d tried to cheat by calling Luke and having him pass the phone to her, she’d given me an hour-long lecture about how a good nephew calls his aunt directly. “If you have time to call Luke, you have time to call me!” she’d scolded. “What, you don’t love your Imo enough to use my number?” Now I knew better than to risk that particular guilt trip again.

Imo would still be awake—the woman treated sleep like an optional activity, somewhere below cooking and worrying on her priority list. Might as well get it over with.

I hit dial and braced myself.

“Kim Kai!” Imo’s voice filled my ear before I could even say hello, her accent just slightly stronger with worry. “A whole week without calling! Do you want me to die from stress?”

“Sorry, Imo.” I winced. I’d never told her how much it meant to me when she started adding ‘Kim’ to my name, like she had with Luke when they reclaimed her family name after his dad died. It was her way of claiming me as family, of saying I belonged with them just as much as if I’d been born a Kim. Four years of her fierce maternal love, endless supplies of homemade kimchi, and constant spiritual protection had made it real, even if it wasn’t official. Sometimes I thought she was more of a mom to me than… but no, I wasn’t going there tonight.

“I’ve been settling in—”

“Settling in where? That cottage… something’s not right about it. I’ve been getting strange energies. Let me come do a cleansing ritual.”

“The cottage is fine—”

“Don’t tell me ‘fine!’ I’m a shaman, remember? My grandmother was the most powerful mudang in Busan. I know these things.” She paused, switching to full mom-mode. “And why didn’t you take the banchan I made? I spent two days preparing everything!”

“The drive was too long, Imo. It would have spoiled—”

“Aish! You and your excuses! That’s why you need a proper cooler. I just ordered you one. Two-day shipping!”

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