Chapter Text
A snarling creature barrels through the dark forest, headed straight for Seungcheol. Before he can even reach for his weapon, a silenced bullet whizzes past his ear.
Thunk.
The deer collapses and twitches feebly on the ground. The shot had gone right between its eyes, its open mouth fanged and foaming. A fatal bite from a desperate vampire had managed to turn this animal feral, attacking anything and everything to sate its newfound thirst.
Jeonghan lowers his pistol. With a sigh, he sinks to his haunches.
“Dizzy?” Seungcheol asks, staking the deer with one swift stab before it can reanimate. The carcass shrivels to a husk.
“A little,” Jeonghan says. His eyes, ears, and nose are so keen as a vampire, he could nail a moving target 100 meters away — but those same gifts leave him with an absurdly sensitive disposition. Karma, as Seungcheol likes to call it. “I think I might be anemic. Should I go see a doctor?”
“Oh, definitely. I bet they’ll even let you stay for free so they can study you in a lab.”
“As long as I get to lie down while they do it.”
Seungcheol sets a hand on Jeonghan’s nape, massaging a pressure point with his thumb. “Can you survive a little longer? If you’re feeling too pathetic to help, I can find you a nice log to crawl into.”
Jeonghan frowns up at Seungcheol. His hair has spent the past two hours trying to escape from its ponytail, which only makes him seem more unhinged when he says, “We’ve scoured this forest. There’s not a single decent log around here.”
“Then how about a nice, shallow grave?”
Jeonghan lifts a muddy boot. “But it’s so… wet.”
“You’re spoiled rotten, you know that?”
“And whose fault is that?”
Guilty as charged. Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. I’m going to keep looking.” He steps over the deer, then turns and points at Jeonghan, who had opened his mouth to break down the last of Seungcheol’s wavering resolve. “No complaints. I’m doing this for us. If we find these witches now, we’ll get to stay home tomorrow.” Seungcheol raises his eyebrows. “All night.”
Jeonghan’s mouth shuts.
Seungcheol suppresses a smirk. “Rest, okay? I’ll be back in thirty.”
“Fifteen,” Jeonghan calls after him. Seungcheol rolls his eyes at the trees.
Two witches had emailed Seungcheol and Jeonghan last month, requesting the flame of a bulgae for some sort of purification spell. They wanted it delivered fresh to the forest where the spell would be taking place. (Delivery will be an extra ₩7,000, Seungcheol typed in response. Jeonghan protested, the ends of his hair tickling Seungcheol’s bare shoulder as he leaned closer to the screen. “If they’re rogue witches then a favor is worth it. Covens are such a pain in the ass to deal with.” We’ll meet you there, Jeonghan typed instead, closing with a smiley face.)
This forest is a fraction the size of what it used to be prior to rapid urbanization. Seungcheol remembers hunting for food here, living off the land. Now it’s no more than a sprawling patch of trees on the outskirts of Seoul, excellent for playing hide-and-seek with flaky witches.
In the decades Seungcheol and Jeonghan have been procurers — hunters, mercenaries, thieves, whatever sticks — they’ve dealt with their fair share of strange clients. No matter how strange or annoying, Seungcheol tries to keep his feelings separate from his work. He’s a professional. As he makes his way through the forest underbrush, however, he starts to feel pretty damn irritated.
It makes sense: Work suddenly seems like a waste of time when there are better things waiting at home.
Experience tells him it's dangerous to be distracted, but it’s hard to feel bad about missing Joshua when the mere thought of him feels good. Joshua’s voice, Joshua’s hands, his affection like sunshine before sunshine became painful. The comfort of their cute apartment. Jeonghan can get so fickle about his lines and limits, but Joshua lets Seungcheol gorge on his time, his attention, his blood. Seungcheol sleeps more than usual now to capitalize on the measly few hours of overlap when he can have Joshua on one side and Jeonghan on the other, their bed the safest place in the world.
Seungcheol reaches the edge of the forest in record time, thinking of the good things.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” he mutters, when he realizes there’s no more forest left. The witches aren’t here. Did he get the location wrong? That’s impossible. Did they mix up the date? Seungcheol’s been telling Jeonghan that calendar invites aren’t enough anymore. They need to bring back the carrier pigeon and train it to peck until people show up on time.
Seungcheol pulls out his phone to call Jeonghan. No signal.
He takes a moment to scan his surroundings. The waxing moon is bright overhead. A soft breeze rustles through the trees. Quiet and peaceful.
Instinct is a powerful thing. Seungcheol is running before he’s even consciously aware of what he’s running for, the alarm of wrong wrong wrong spurring him back the direction he came. He skids to a stop at the deer’s carcass, heart in his throat, only to confirm what instinct had already told him.
Jeonghan is gone.
Seungcheol woke with a gasp.
He immediately turned over to throw up. He tried to stanch the urge — his last bowl of rice was meant to last another day at least, and he couldn’t afford to lose it when he had to work in the fields all day — but his usual methods were useless. His stomach was on a mission to purge everything it had ever digested.
At the end of the nasty ordeal, he spit and wiped his mouth on the rough cotton of his sleeve. He noticed he wasn’t alone.
He was in a dark, dusty shed with about ten other young men: most unconscious, several in the process of vomiting violently. The combined noise and smell made Seungcheol’s head pound like someone was trying to cave it in with a mallet.
Digging his fingers into his scalp, he locked eyes with another young man across the room in the same pose.
Somehow, despite the darkness, Seungcheol could see his eyes with impossible clarity. They were almost too big for his wan face, and his eyelashes — Seungcheol could see his eyelashes — were wet with unshed tears of pain. Beneath a shaft of moonlight, his irises flashed like a fox’s in the night.
Their heads whipped to the door when it swung open on creaky hinges. A high-ranking officer stepped in, blindingly bright in his red and yellow garb, flanked by two soldiers.
Ah, Seungcheol thought. He was going to die. Someone somewhere had made a mistake and they were going to punish Seungcheol for it because he was a commoner and his family had no power. He had to stop this. He refused to die here.
Except… didn’t he already die?
Seungcheol shivered. What a strange thought to have. But it felt like a real memory. A terrifying memory. He clapped a hand to the side of his neck, feeling nothing but unblemished skin.
“Congratulations,” the yangban said with a grimace. Most of the young men had risen. Three were still unconscious. Seungcheol knew without knowing that this was a test, and those three had failed to pass. “You have been selected to serve in a special unit of the central army. From now on, you will fight on behalf of the King, under a sworn oath of obedience and secrecy.”
“Sir,” one brave young man stammered, pressed to the ground in deference, “sir, may I send word to my mother? Just to let her know I will be gone. I am all she has.”
The yangban tilted his head. “No need. Consider yourself dead.” He looked around the shed. “All of you. Your wretched lives are behind you. I have gifted you a new life. Honorable. Eternal. A chance to prove your worth to His Majesty.”
As the brave young man quietly sobbed, soldiers dragged a chained prisoner through the door and shoved him onto his knees. In one swift motion, the yangban unsheathed his sword and slashed the prisoner’s throat.
Blood — red, hot, viscous blood — oozed down his front. Seungcheol leapt to his feet. Suddenly, his gums ached and itched. He felt empty, thirsty, hungry. So, so hungry. Distantly, he recognized the desire as grotesque and unnatural, but the scent, it was unbelievably sweet. He just had to have a taste. He heard the young man with the flashing eyes snarl like an animal. The quiet sobbing ceased.
The yangban smiled at their eagerness. His teeth were unnaturally sharp. “First come, first serve,” he said.
Panic and fury fight to overwhelm Seungcheol as he jogs through the forest towards his car. At one point, panic supersedes, and he has to focus on breathing in and out every five steps to keep it at bay. By the time he gets a signal on his phone, his head is clearer.
He spends an unmeasurable amount of time calling Jeonghan again and again and again. Only when it becomes abundantly clear that Jeonghan’s cell phone had been switched off and off for good does he start scrolling through his contacts. The list is full of business acquaintances, out-of-touch friends, and people he wouldn’t trust with an unattended drink. He would have to choose extremely carefully. Someone who won’t take advantage, who won’t ask too many questions, who gets things done. He kneads his forehead with his knuckles and paces the length of his car. Finally, he hits dial on the most likely candidate.
The call connects after three rings.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me. I need your help.”
A pause. “Who’s this?”
Seungcheol frowns. “You know who I am.” He huffs. “It’s Seungcheol. Choi Seungcheol. Did you delete my number?”
“Ah,” Mingyu says over raucous laughter and clinking glasses in the background. Werewolves — they’re unbearably social. “It’s been a while, huh? How’s Jeonghan-hyung doing?”
The mention of Jeonghan rouses his paranoia. He stops pacing. “How do you remember Jeonghan but not me? I was the one who introduced you.”
“Well, sorry,” Mingyu replies, easy. “It’s cool doing business with you and all, but you never call and I actually talk to Jeonghan from time to time. We exchange information and sometimes he wishes me a Happy Birthday and I wish him a Happy True Birthday back. That’s a thing for vamps, right? You never told me yours, so I figured we weren’t really friends. No offense.”
Seungcheol relaxes marginally. “It’s August 8, you little punk.”
Mingyu sniffs. “Noted. We’ll need to text a few more times before you can pick a nickname for me though.”
A quip rises to the tip of Seungcheol’s tongue, before reality crashes back over him, drawing his shoulders tight. His nails dig into his palm. “Listen, I’m not calling for fun. Jeonghan is missing and I need you to track him down.”
“What? Hold on.” Mingyu murmurs an aside and then the noise grows marginally quieter. “Jeonghan is missing? What happened?”
“I don’t know. He…” Maybe he can trust Mingyu a bit. “I think he might’ve been taken by some rogue witches.”
“Taken? Jeonghan?”
“Yeah.”
“Yoon Jeonghan?”
“If I have to repeat myself one more time—”
“Hey, I’m on your side, alright? Whoever it was must be pretty powerful to sneak up on a vampire like him… You sure he’s not playing a prank on you?”
Before Joshua, Seungcheol might’ve considered the possibility. But Jeonghan had been looking forward to going home all night, whining and dragging his feet. Explaining this to Mingyu would require sharing information about Joshua though, and Seungcheol isn’t ready to do that with an outsider. Even if the outsider knows Jeonghan’s true birthday.
Seungcheol had also found a clue — Jeonghan’s hair tie, left behind in the grass where he’d been crouching. He had to have dropped it intentionally, knowing Seungcheol would find it.
“I don’t care how or what or why,” Seungcheol tells Mingyu. “He’s missing and I need him found. Can you help me or not?”
Mingyu curses. “I want to help, I really do. It’s just… The full moon is tomorrow and everyone’s on edge. Things could get out of control.”
“I understand.” Seungcheol can hear the desperation his own voice. He swallows whatever’s left of his pride. “Please. I’m begging you. I’ll take anything I can get.”
After a tense moment, Mingyu mutters, “Maybe Hansol-ie?”
“Who?”
“Choi Hansol. He might be able to help. He freelances for the pack.”
“A witch?”
“A talented one. Can you let me call him first? To see if he’s available.”
“Of course.” Seungcheol gets in the car, which sways precariously when he slams the door shut. Reigning in his strength, he hits the ignition and tries not to notice the empty passenger seat. “Thank you, Mingyu, seriously. I owe you one.”
“It’s for Jeonghan-hyung. You don’t owe me anything. Hansol’s a different story though.”
Seungcheol has never heard Mingyu sound so solemn before. The sentiment is touching. Before he can regret it, he asks, “So when’s yours?”
“Huh?”
“Your birthday, when is it?”
“Oh,” Mingyu says, surprised. “April 6.”
“Blood type?”
“If I say Jeonghan-hyung’s type, will you kill me?”
“Mm, nice and slow.” Joshua would’ve said it without hesitation, Seungcheol thinks. He’s never met a werewolf before, not officially — Seungcheol could introduce him to Mingyu. With their personalities, they’d be friends in no time.
It’s a wistful, dangerous thought. Seungcheol hangs up and steps on the gas.
Stab. Parry. Stab. Feint. Slash.
The moves were inelegant, but effective. In his new condition, Seungcheol discovered he was stronger, faster, his senses and memory heightened. Hand-to-hand combat came instinctively to him, and he was getting used to the sword, though he had yet to perfect the forms.
He had escaped the ire of the superior officers so far, which had to mean he was doing well.
Guard. Lunge. Slash. Parry.
Abruptly, his opponent held up a hand. “One moment,” he panted, hair fraying from his topknot.
Jeonghan was his name. The recruit Seungcheol noticed in the shed barely a fortnight ago. Jeonghan seemed to be the quiet and clever sort, unremarkable, but in a way that kept him out of trouble.
Selfishly, Seungcheol hoped competition would not pit them against each other — he would hate to have to crush someone who was merely trying their best. And Jeonghan was; he looked exhausted and weak from hunger, leaning on his sword like a walking stick.
Seungcheol glanced at the officer in charge of training today, who was thankfully preoccupied. Punishment would be due if they were caught taking a rest. He rolled his shoulders and raised his blade. “Your moment is up.”
“No one is watching,” Jeonghan assured him.
“If this were a real battle, you would be dead.”
Jeonghan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are we not?”
They were two among fifty men training in the open field, fenced high at the perimeters and far from civilization. The cacophony of steel on steel was mind-numbing. One soldier nearby yelped as his training partner bit him on the arm. Although his flesh began to heal immediately, he abandoned his sword and leapt at his partner in retaliation, mauling his throat with his fangs.
Seungcheol was so starved, the sight made him salivate. The soldiers’ blood didn’t smell appetizing though, not like the criminals they were tossed every few days, plump veins throbbing beneath their skin.
Is a man without a pulse still alive?
“That is beside the—” Seungcheol turned back to Jeonghan to find him bent over, grimacing. “You are injured.”
Jeonghan shook his head. Seungcheol scrutinized him from head to toe. There was no physical ailment he could see.
Soldiers who fell behind in training — or whose bodies rejected the change — all swiftly disappeared from camp. The level of secrecy around their training told Seungcheol that the ministry, if not the King himself, was unaware of this little experiment, and that there was only one fate for those who failed to make the cut.
For Jeonghan to show his weakness like this… He was either severely underestimating Seungcheol’s will to live or preying on his compassion.
Seungcheol was weighing the odds when Jeonghan’s head snapped up. “Stab me,” he hissed. “Now!”
Seungcheol’s survival instinct reacted without question. His sword pierced clean through Jeonghan’s midriff. Jeonghan fell to his knees, gasping.
Barely a moment later, Seungcheol registered approaching footsteps.
“I see one of you has earned his meal,” said the supervising officer. He paused to sneer at Jeonghan before resuming his rounds. “What are you waiting for? Get up.”
Seungcheol helped Jeonghan to his feet. “You asked for it,” he muttered. “Are you alright?”
Gripping Jeonghan’s shoulder, Seungcheol extracted the sword in one even pull. Jeonghan coughed. Dark blood spilled from his mouth — blood he had stolen from nameless prisoners and, by some sort of dark magic, remade into his own. Hypnotized, Seungcheol watched him suck his bottom lip clean. Their eyes met. His eyelashes were even longer up close.
“Good as new,” Jeonghan said drolly, drawing a hand over the closing wound. His sweat-slick skin reflected the moonlight overhead. “You are stronger than you look.”
“You are weaker than you look,” Seungcheol shot back, still gripping his shoulder.
Jeonghan failed to rise to the bait. “Is that your gift? Strength?”
Seungcheol frowned. “My gift?”
“Yes.” Jeonghan stepped back and readied his weapon with a sharp glance towards the patrolling officer. Seungcheol took the hint and mirrored him. “You must have noticed.”
His sword swung without warning. Seungcheol ducked and spun out of reach. They circled each other.
“What? Speak plainly.” Seungcheol lunged. They came together and fell apart, again and again. There was a subtle rhythm to the duel, now that Seungcheol was listening.
“Not all monsters are made equal,” Jeonghan said between clashing metal. His voice floated around them like the wind. “We are different from the others, you and I. Exceptional.”
Seungcheol nearly laughed. The urge was so alien that it sent him stumbling back to avoid the tip of Jeonghan’s blade, a hair’s breadth from his nose.
Jeonghan grinned, twirling his sword. He was challenging Seungcheol to prove him wrong.
Seungcheol regained his balance. “Well, I can snap you in half. What can you do?”
He charged forward to tackle Jeonghan to the ground with pure force, but suddenly, there was nothing but air where Jeonghan had been standing. Seungcheol landed hard on one knee, immediately shifting to rise to his feet.
He froze as cold steel pricked the back of his neck.
“Spare your life, for one,” Jeonghan said.
Seungcheol discovered he did not enjoy the feeling of being ambushed from behind — the feeling of surrendering even less. It was insulting that Jeonghan assumed their fight was over so soon. Seungcheol’s mind spun. Jeonghan clearly possessed superior speed, but Seungcheol was stronger. If it were hand-to-hand combat…
Seungcheol threw down his blade. It fell on dry soil with a clatter. “Fine. I surrender.”
The blade left his neck. “Wise choice.”
“Is that your plan? Hold back so everyone can underestimate you?” While he spoke, Seungcheol pricked his senses for any sign of movement. One opening, one moment of weakness, and he would take it. “You should have kept it hidden from me. Now I know your secret. What if I tell everyone?”
There was a soft breath that sounded like laughter. “Are you going to tell everyone?”
“No.”
“Then there is nothing to worry—”
“Why would I give away my only advantage? They can figure it out for themselves.”
“…Ah.”
Seungcheol watched as Jeonghan circled around him, jabbing the tip of his sword into the soil and leaning on it again. With a well-aimed kick and surprise on his side, Seungcheol could knock that sword aside, send Jeonghan off balance, and tackle him to the ground.
It was the perfect opportunity. Jeonghan was looking elsewhere, lips pressed thin and nodding to himself. Until he said, “I guess we have no choice but to be friends.”
Thoughts of retribution and victory evaporated from Seungcheol’s mind. “And why is that,” he asked, baffled.
“Because I would rather us be friends than enemies. A friend would not stab me in the back.”
“Barely a moment ago you were about to stab me in the back.”
“Yes,” Jeonghan said, a curl to his mouth that suggested he was teasing. But he did not waver when Seungcheol continued to stare at him. They remained at an impasse until the sound of the patrolling officers voice nearby, reedy and berating, brought them back to reality.
Instantly, Jeonghan held out his hand. Seungcheol grabbed his sword before taking it, letting Jeonghan tug him to his feet. They fell into their stances and resumed their duel, this time purposeful, coordinated.
When their swords clashed in a cross, bringing them nearly face to face, Seungcheol leaned in. “No promises.”
Jeonghan smiled. It was frail and a little eerie on his overly pale face. But his eyes shone through the dark. “I can work with that.”