TFN C11

Chapter 11

The car began to move.

Wonhyo snapped his drooping head upright.

He needed to stay alert, but his consciousness kept blurring, even as the scenery shifted into familiar streets; he was still drowsy.

No, stay awake.

Even so, the smaller body couldn’t hold out.

He wiped the drool at his mouth with a forepaw and turned his gaze, looking at Cheongmun in the driver’s seat.

Even while driving, the man had made several phone calls; someone else could handle this, so why insist on accompanying him like this?

At this rate, staying together will cause trouble.

He hadn’t kept anyone this close—other than those who had already paid a price—so this felt terribly unfamiliar.

The faint cigarette smell, the skin lotion scent different from his own, and the lingering trace of blood in the air—all of it prickled at his hypersensitive nose.

If he’s high-rank, his body should be sturdy, right?

From that brief glimpse of his aura at the start, he could only believe the man would withstand whatever mishaps might follow.

He decided to think that way.

Otherwise, the back of his head would buzz with needless dread.

Pushing past the unease, he checked ahead.

Sitting on his haunches made it hard to see; he had to rise onto his hind legs, and then the mouth of the alley toward home came into view.

As the car climbed the slope, the body tilted back, and for a moment he lost balance and swayed.

A large palm steadied his ungainly body.

“We’re arriving shortly.”

I know.

“Grr.”

He turned his head away primly.

Once inside, he shouldn’t go out for a while—then he remembered the talismans he’d burned through today.

Paper, brush, cinnabar, and ink—sure—but both paper and water were materials he had to source with care and effort.

Any stock left? If not, more to buy.

Thinking about going out again sank his mood.

He forced the thoughts aside.

Later problems were for later; right now, putting distance between himself and this dangerous man was the priority.

Trailing him and complicating things didn’t justify the man being saddled with bad luck.

They crested the hill and stopped before the mountain-kissing house; Wonhyo’s rump twitched.

Cheongmun pulled to a very smooth stop, neatly blocking the path to the door, and cracked a smile at the wagging tail.

But the moment their eyes narrowed, any speck of visible emotion vanished from his face.

Wonhyo pressed his paw-pads against the transparent space still confining him.

Here, I might be able to break this.

Being close to the shrine, maybe he could channel divine power more smoothly; he checked the timing again, then, as Cheongmun unbuckled and opened the driver’s door, he summoned the Gimyeong and clamped it in his jaws.

Murmuring a charm to burn away defilement, he struck at the barrier with clawed force—but only hollow thuds came; useless.

Not “defilement,” then. This needed a charm to erase a blocking obstacle.

He racked his memory for a similar rite among his talisman or spells—but nothing surfaced.

If only he could use something malefic…

To escape, he needed bad qi, a bad man’s bad energy.

Most shamanic rites channeled beings outside law and order inward to resolve things properly; not exactly synergistic with civil servants.

By then, Cheongmun had circled the car, opened the passenger door, and reached for him.

Wonhyo squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the touch.

With nothing else left to do, he could only pray that this contact would bring as little ill as possible.

His body lifted lightly, dangling.

Holding him, Cheongmun raised his brows at the sight: an old plank house perched on a retaining wall, with barely a proper fence.

Not new to Wonhyo, but he conceded it could be startling; a real old Seoul house with a chimney connected to a hearth wasn’t common.

A swift scan outside, and the man stepped to the aluminum-sashed front door—thin enough to bend under a thumb’s press.

Where one might expect a padlock, there was a digital lock instead.

Looking up from his arms, Wonhyo rolled his eyes.

The stare on the crown of his head stung.

“Can you enter a passcode?”

Wonhyo tilted his small head, grumbled low, and lifted a forepaw.

With this?

At the sight of the plush pink pads, Cheongmun dipped his chin.

He moved his fingers and summoned a cube.

He then expanded it to match his own height and build, and slid the cube flush over where the door stood.

What is he planning…?

“Kyaong?”

As Wonhyo watched dubiously, the man stepped casually into the summoned cube—leaving the door in place.

“Kraang?”

Wonhyo hunched, bracing as if they’d crash through the door. A hand cupped the back of his head, but he couldn’t wriggle away, steeling for the impact.

“We’re inside.”

Huh?

“Grr?”

With a single step forward—without the door disappearing—Wonhyo found himself inside the house.

He checked the thin door—thinner than ever today—and the burglary ward talisman pasted above it.

Banishing defilement and thieves, the talisman sat intact.

Shouldn’t it also block uninvited entrants lacking the owner’s leave? Then he recalled he’d never imbued it with that function or wish.

He licked a saber tooth, already drafting a new talisman.

Either way, you’ve brought me inside; please put me down now.

He tapped Cheongmun’s arm.

Perhaps reassured that he wouldn’t bolt, the man relaxed his arms. As the hold released, the semi-transparent cube around him also vanished at once.

Ahh.

Wonhyo breathed the air of freedom and set down on the floor.

Turning his head, he saw Cheongmun still standing in shoes at the threshold, looking down with a lifted corner of his mouth.

“May I turn on the light?”

Light?

Wonhyo cocked his head.

As a tiger, he could see perfectly—the night-sight of a nocturnal animal, as if his eyes had their own lamp.

If he’s leaving anyway, why brighten the room?

He sent a look carrying that rebuke; perhaps reading it even in the dimness, Cheongmun smiled.

“I’d like to talk.”

Saying so, he pressed the correct switch near the entry—uncannily precise, as if he’d known it was there.

He didn’t fumble once.

When the light came on, tears pricked Wonhyo’s eyes at the glare; his pupils would constrict and settle his vision soon enough, but for now the sting made it hard to open them fully.

Even expecting it, the shock was sharper than he thought; he staggered back. Maybe thinking he was fleeing inside, soundless black currents spread around him, then became a semi-transparent cube once more.

Pinching his nose-bridge with a grimace, Wonhyo looked back up at Cheongmun.

With a shrug, the man took in the room revealed under the light. Wonhyo, too, glanced over his place—nothing special to note.

“Different from what one imagines of a shaman’s home.”

The shabby exterior aside, the inside was stripped and spare; he sounded mildly surprised.

Wonhyo exhaled at the thought of the shrine under the national altar beyond the mountain path where his mother and sister lived.

If he wanted to dress it up, he could bring in a dozen ritual blades, lay out blossoms and ornaments sweet enough to delight the fairies, stand spears and swords for the generals, and pile sweets high for the child spirits—none of it necessary.

His fate was to be a vessel for a great god—or a vessel that contained nothing at all.

Not knowing which god he would serve, it only needed to be clean.

The talisman work area was best kept tidy, so he kept the décor bare.

Thus, even if the workroom had some tools, the living room seen straight from the entry had only a table with a radio and a floor cushion.

If anything stood out, perhaps that.

He eyed the cluster of “talking buttons” stacked in one corner of the otherwise empty room.

“You don’t keep a dog or cat here.”

Of course not.

Wonhyo tapped the barrier around him with his paw: Remove this.

“Will you talk?”

Grr!

He wanted to bark that they’d come this far—talk about what?—but fear made him swallow it.

When he nodded, Cheongmun clicked his gloved fingertips together lightly; the barrier vanished.

Wonhyo trotted over to the pile of talking buttons and pressed one firmly.

“What?”

The recorded phrase rang out.

Watching him, Cheongmun thought a moment, then spoke.

“Can you show me again what you showed at the scene?”

“No.” “No.” “No.”

A bit peevishly, Wonhyo jabbed “No” in succession.

“Then is it something that can never be shown again?”

“No.”

Again, the same.