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honeymoonjin · 5 years

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Chapter Eleven

Summary: When you hear that your recently deceased grandmother left you her property in her will, at first you think that a dinky old cottage in the middle of nowhere isn’t going to mean much for you. But after spending a night there, you discover something far more valuable than the house itself: a hidden door that leads to another time, the same place but over 200 years in the past. In the late 18th Century, there is a king who will die before his 21st birthday unless you can save him. Will you help him, even if it means leaving your own life behind?

A/N: This chapter is a little different, it’s in Yoongi’s point of view. I was going to make it Chapter 10.5 since it kind of occurs alongside Chapter 10 chronologically, but I didn’t want anyone thinking it wasn’t necessary to the plot, because it definitely is. Let me know what you think!

"Can't you just let me go with you, hyung? I'll be good!"

This kid. Yoongi shakes his head firmly, hurriedly grinding some herbs together for a last-minute clarity charm. "You mess up enough here as it is. I can't leave something like this up to you. Besides, Y/n specifically asked for me to go, didn't she?"

The shaman tries to ignore the way Taehyung fixes his puppy dog eyes on his elder. "But what will I do when you're gone? I'll be all bored and alone."

Tipping the ground herbs into a small vial, Yoongi's voice is flat as he makes sure the vaguely green dust makes its way into the vessel. "Then go back to the palace and keep Y/n company. Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. Alright, I need to leave. Be sure to leave the portal door open, but lock the front door with the hex charm; do you remember it?"

Taehyung seems affronted at the suggestion. "Of course I can do a hex charm, Yoongi. I'm not incompetent, you know..."

Yoongi straightens up and stares at the boy who's pouting in the kitchen. Feeling a sliver of guilt, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Listen," Yoongi says, voice gruff but apologetic, "I'm just making sure. I'm trying to keep you safe."

"Forget about it," Taehyung mutters under his breath, studiously ignoring his elder as he grabs an apple for the road and shrugs on a coat. "I'm going, like you wanted."

Yoongi winces when the heavy wooden door slams behind his assistant, and he stands in silence, listening to the the light scrape of Taehyung’s fingernail against the door, paired with the muttering of an ancient Chinese spell. Most of the magic Yoongi used nowadays were more modern Korean methods, but for the more basic enchantments, it was common to use the original spells.

Finally, all was quiet again. Yoongi cleared his throat to try and break the melancholic gloom he had slipped into, and double-checked the minimal belongings on his person before he left. He was not going to be in the modern world long, would not even have to leave the confines of the house itself, but Yoongi never went anywhere without a small leather pouch of basic ingredients tucked into his belt, the glass vial of a clarity charm dangling on a cord around his neck, and a small blade in his boot. All things proceeding as planned, he wouldn’t need them.

The first thing Min Yoongi noticed about the future was how clean and bright everything was. Gone were his heavy curtains, dark walls and sooty hearth. He emerged out into a hallway (something only palaces were large enough to have in his time, but he was familiar with them nonetheless) with a strange spongy fabric floor and impossibly straight, flat walls that appeared painted uniformly. He couldn’t imagine the finesse it would take a painter to manage to evenly coat this expansive surface without leaving streaks. Perhaps magic was more commonplace in this day.

Yoongi had been here once before, to lure Y/n back to his time, but he had transformed into a cat, then, and it was the middle of the night, rather than the break of day. Unsure which direction to go, he followed the hallway left, until he made it to the very end. “She said the communication device was in her sleeping quarters. Here, she wrote down some instructions for its use.” Yoongi felt for the note again in his pocket, comforted by the crisp edge of the thick paper. He had read that note to the point of rote-memory, but was glad it was there anyway. All Yoongi had to do was locate a bedroom, and then the ‘phone’ would be on a wooden stand beside it. He was actually feeling some excitement unfurl within him to find this device; from Y/n’s description, it sounded like a very complexly enchanted item.

As Yoongi made his way from room to room methodically, ignoring everything that wasn’t a bed (even though he was desperately curious to try out the bath – something he recognised from his time, but seemed far more refined) he thought over his previous encounter with Taehyung.

Was there really such a need for Taehyung to take everything to heart all the time? That boy was too sensitive for his own good. It would get him hurt one day.

When Taehyung and Yoongi met, almost three years ago, the shaman wasn’t looking for anyone. In fact, he had sworn off ever taking an assistant again after… what had happened with the last one, but Taehyung was insistent. His parents didn’t want him working on their farm anymore, he had said, and the King’s Guard wouldn’t take him in. He would have nowhere else to go. Perhaps Yoongi should’ve seen that as a sign that the boy wasn’t a particularly capable worker, but instead he had opened his arms and welcomed him in. He never had been able to say no to a pretty face. Yoongi thought maybe that was his biggest flaw yet.

Behind the fourth or fifth door, past the small door in the wall from whence he came, Yoongi found a bed, wider and more lushly decorated than the modest shelf-and-blanket combination he had. Letting out a gasp of relief at the chance to distract himself from the memories of his assistants, he rushed forward into the room, scanning it for a wooden stand.

Directly to the right of the bed is a short, squarish cabinet. On top is a small metal box with glowing red numbers, a very glossy and crisp book, and a small black device. Yoongi consults with the slip of paper, and tentatively touches the tip of his finger to a protruding button. Gasping with wonder as the surface lights up, Yoongi realizes there are words on the screen, all gathered in small boxes. He takes the time to read some of them, having to re-press that button as the screen keeps going dark after a few moments.

Jimin, 8:21pm: r you still busy at the house? can u please just text me back baby, if ur busy thats okay, im just a little worried out u, thats all… it’s getting late…

Jimin, 10:49am: okay, im heading off to work, flick me a text when u get this xxx

Jimin, yesterday 5:11pm: we dont have to if you don’t want to

Jimin, yesterday 4:28pm: date night tonight? xxx i feel like i havent seen you in ages baby xxx

There are more, but they disappear out the bottom. Yoongi frowns. He thinks he remembers this Jimin; if memory serves, it was the sleeping male curling up to Y/n when he briefly visited her dreamscape. Yoongi had been so caught up in making sure she fulfilled her end of the deal that he had almost forgotten she had a life outside of their time. Those messages were a sobering reminder of how much Yoongi was asking from her. How much she was giving up. He didn’t like that feeling.

Clearing his throat noisily in the early evening silence, he picks up the device delicately and places it on the bed, flattening out the note beside it. Y/n’s instructions make sense as he follows along, although it takes him a while to work out what she means by ‘text bubble icon’.

Once he reaches that screen, and clicks on the name ‘Jimin’, those same messages appear, but in a different format. “I’ve already seen these,” he tells the device. The device does not respond. “I seek to create one of my own.” He sighs. The magic on this glass apparently cannot react to voice, only touch. He reaches out and clicks on the small white box that says ‘iMessage’ in grey. “Yes, I do want to message,” he mumbles distractedly. A large array of small letters appears below. Y/n wrote down to tap each square to write the letter. It seems an awfully impersonal way of writing, and it takes Yoongi quite a long time to tap out what Y/n has asked him to write, as well as pressing a small blue arrow to the right, which pushes the message upwards, resting directly below those from the Jimin.

omg im so sorry i missed these jiminie ㅠ ㅠ i hope ur not too worried.

im ok, just not been feeling great so ive been sleeping a lot! im not sure yet if its contagious so pls dont come out, i know uve got that show coming up and i dont want u to get sick ok!

love you lots baby!

Yoongi sighs once he finishes, resting back on the bed, but soon three bouncing dots appear in a box. He watches them dance, fascinated, wondering what this could mean, until they change into words. Y/n did tell him that Jimin would be likely to reply and had simply written on the bottom of the note, ‘no apostrophes, or capital letters, call him baby or jiminie, and make sure he doesn’t come out to the house!’

Jimin: omg thank god ur safe i was worried!!! i can bring u round some fresh soup and we can have a night in xxx ive already had my flu jab so i wont get sick i promise lol xx

Yoongi swears, trying to speed up his reply, double-checking Y/n’s rules as he goes.

thank you, baby, thats very kind of you. but please dont come out, im just going to go to sleep and hope that this sickness passes in time. i will notify you once

But before he can finish crudely dictating a message, a series of three hard raps echoes through the house. Yoongi stands up ramrod stiff. Surely the Jimin boy hadn’t arrived so soon? Although, Yoongi supposes transport must be more efficient in this time. He bites his lip nervously. Surely, it would be best to go ask him to leave. It was Y/n’s intention that Jimin did not come to the house, since she herself was absent, and Yoongi could not have the boy roaming around and discovering the portal’s entrance.

“Y/n?” a deep voice calls out, muffled through the walls. Yoongi swears under his breath and pockets the small device and the note, getting off the bed to go find the front door. “Are you there?” Hurrying faster, the shaman eventually locates a door with a clouded glass panel revealing a tall shadow. He fumbles with the doorknob, having to twist a key (thank God that technology hasn’t changed) to unlock it, and throws it open with a nervous huff. The man blinks once, furrowing his eyebrows. “Uh…hi?”

“Yes, hello,” Yoongi blurts out hastily, eyes roaming over the tall man. Although he saw Jimin in very dim lighting, it’s easy to tell that this is not the same man. “Who are you?”

The man is wearing rough-looking blue pants with a belt, and a tunic that’s cut at his hips instead of his legs. He holds a hand out to Yoongi. Yoongi stares at it until the man coughs and lowers it. “My name’s Namjoon. I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’m just here to speak to Y/n.”

“What-” Yoongi’s words catch in his throat when he lifts his gaze from the man’s odd attire to his face. It can’t be. A bolt of deeply-repressed hurt cuts through him. He recognizes those dimples, that smile, even the name is the same as his. It was a face he never thought he’d see again. But, no. It isn’t him. The more Yoongi looks at him closely, the man going a little red in the cheeks under the sudden scrutiny, Yoongi can see the finer details aren’t right. His Namjoon had a narrow nose, more delicate face. His Namjoon wasn’t as tall and was skinnier too. This man in front of him bore shocking resemblance, but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his Namjoon. Sensing he had been silent too long, Yoongi blinks away the tears that threaten to well. “What for?”

“Oh, uh, it’s kind of private business, dude. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Y/n’s sick,” Yoongi says instead, “so I’m afraid you can’t come in. I’m more than happy to pass on a message.”

The man who looks so much like his former assistant furrows his brows. “I’m sorry, who are you? I’d like to speak with her. I’ve been doing some more research for her, you see, really cool stuff on-”

“I’m her doctor,” Yoongi says instead, “I’m concerned she may be contagious, so I’ve advised her not to have guests. If you have the research with you, perhaps I can bring it inside. I’m sure she’d appreciate you coming.”

The guy laughs awkwardly, then digs into a bag at his side for a stack of pieces of paper bound in some floppy, slippery pink material. “I didn’t have time to pick up a ringbinder, so the photocopies are loose, but I managed to dig up quite a bit of the history on the Jeon reign, as well as all the following generations. It’s interesting! Hopefully she’ll get some use out of it.” The man hands the research over, craning his neck to try and glance down the hallway. “Can you tell her hi for me? And that I’m sorry for stopping by without texting ahead.”

Yoongi nods, half in a daze. He doesn’t know this strange feeling in his chest; does he want this Namjoon-not-Namjoon man to leave and never think about him again, or does he wish he would stay so that Yoongi can see just how much similarity there was? The thought comes too late, as the man turns and skips down the gravel path, getting into his car and pulling away without a second look back.

The shaman shuts the door, returning the key to its previous position, and sinks down on the floor. First Taehyung acting up, reminding him of his last assistant, and now this. The fates were being cruel today.

Forgetting about the small device still in his herbs pouch, Yoongi quickly returns to the hallway and crawls through the doorway and back into his own time, trying to ignore the hot tears that gather under his chin.

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dazzledbybooks · 5 years

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“Prepare for a snow-frosted, blood-drenched fairy tale where the monsters steal your heart and love ends up being the nightmare.” - Roshani Chokshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Touched Queen A girl who can speak to gods must save her people without destroying herself. A prince in danger must decide who to trust. A boy with a monstrous secret waits in the wings. Together, they must assassinate the king and stop the war. In a centuries-long war where beauty and brutality meet, their three paths entwine in a shadowy world of spilled blood and mysterious saints, where a forbidden romance threatens to tip the scales between dark and light. Wicked Saints is the thrilling start to Emily A. Duncan’s devastatingly Gothic Something Dark and Holy trilogy. “This book destroyed me and I adored it.”- Stephanie Garber, New York Times bestselling author of Caraval Early Reviews: “Prepare for a snow frosted, blood drenched fairy tale where the monsters steal your heart and love ends up being the nightmare. Utterly absorbing.” - Roshani Chokshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Touched Queen "Full of blood and monsters and magic—this book destroyed me and I adored it. Emily is a wicked storyteller, she’s not afraid to hurt her characters or her readers. If you’ve ever fallen in love with a villain you will fall hard for this book." - Stephanie Garber, New York Times bestselling author of Caraval "This is the novel of dark theology and eldritch blood-magic that I’ve been waiting for all my life. It’s got a world at once brutal and beautiful, filled with characters who are wounded, lovable, and ferocious enough to break your heart. A shattering, utterly satisfying read." - Rosamund Hodge, author of Cruel Beauty and Bright Smoke, Cold Fire “Wicked Saints is a lush, brutal, compelling fantasy that is dark, deep, and bloody—absolutely riveting! With a boy who is both man and monster, mysterious saints with uncertain motives, and a girl filled with holy magic who is just beginning to understand the full reaches of her power, this gothic jewel of a story will sink its visceral iron claws into you, never letting go until you’ve turned the last page. And truthfully, not even then -the explosive ending will haunt you for days! ” - Robin LaFevers, New York Times bestselling author of the His Fair Assassin trilogy “Dark, bloody, and monstrously romantic. This is the villain love interest that we've all been waiting for.” - Margaret Rogerson, New York Times bestselling author of An Enchantment of Ravens "Seductively dark and enchanting, Wicked Saints is a trance you won’t want to wake from. Duncan has skillfully erected a world like no other, complete with provocative magic, sinister creatures, and a plot that keeps you guessing. This spellbinding YA fantasy will bewitch readers to the very last page." - Adrienne Young, New York Times bestselling author of Sky in the Deep Excerpt: N A D4E Z H D A L A P T E V A Horz stole the stars and the heavens out from underneath Myesta’s control, and for that she has never forgiven him. For where can the moons rest if not the heavens? —Codex of the Divine, 5:26 “It’s certainly not my fault you chose a child who sleeps so deeply. If she dies it will very much be your fault, not mine.” Startled by bickering gods was not Nadya’s preferred method of being woken up. She rolled to her feet in the dark, moving automatically. It took her eyes a few sec- onds to catch up with the rest of her body. Shut up! It wasn’t wise to tell the gods to shut up, but it was too late now. A feeling of amused disdain flowed through her, but neither of the gods spoke again. She realized it was Horz, the god of the heavens and the stars, who had woken her. He had a tendency to be obnoxious but generally left Nadya alone, as a rule. Usually only a single god communed with their chosen cleric. There once had been a cleric named Kseniya Mirokhina who was gifted with unnatural marksmanship by Devonya, the goddess of the hunt. And Veceslav had chosen a cleric of his own, long ago, but their name was lost to history, and he re- fused to talk about them. The recorded histories never spoke of clerics who could hear more than one god. That Nadya com- muned with the entire pantheon was a rarity the priests who trained her could not explain. There was a chance older, more primordial gods existed, ones that had long since given up watch of the world and left it in the care of the others. But no one knew for sure. Of the twenty known gods, however, carvings and paintings depicted their human forms, though no one knew what they actually looked like. No cleric throughout history had ever looked upon the faces of the gods. No saint, nor priest. Each had their own power and magic they could bestow upon Nadya, and while some were forthcoming, others were not. She had never spoken to the goddess of the moons, My- esta. She wasn’t even sure what manner of power the goddess would give, if she so chose. And though she could commune with many gods, it was im- possible to forget just who had chosen her for this fate: Mar- zenya, the goddess of death and magic, who expected complete dedication. Indistinct voices murmured in the dark. She and Anna had found a secluded place within a copse of thick pine trees to set up their tent, but it no longer felt safe. Nadya slid a voryen from underneath her bedroll and nudged Anna awake. She moved to the mouth of the tent, grasping at her beads, a prayer already forming on her lips, smoky symbols trailing from her mouth. She could see the blurry impressions of fig- ures in the darkness, far off in the distance. It was hard to judge the number, two? Five? Ten? Her heart sped at the possibility that a company of Tranavians were already on her trail. Anna drew up beside her. Nadya’s grip on her voryen tight- ened, but she kept still. If they hadn’t seen their tent yet, she could keep them from noticing it entirely. But Anna’s hand clasped her forearm. “Wait,” she whispered, her breath frosting out before her in the cold. She pointed to a dark spot just off to the side of the group. Nadya pressed her thumb against Bozidarka’s bead and her eyesight sharpened until she could see as clearly as if it were day. It took effort to shove aside the immediate, paralyzing fear as her suspicions were confirmed and Tranavian uniforms be- came clear. It wasn’t a full company. In fact, they looked rather ragged. Perhaps they had split off and lost their way. More interesting, though, was the boy with a crossbow si- lently aiming into the heart of the group. “We can get away before they notice,” Anna said. Nadya almost agreed, almost slipped her voryen back into its sheath, but just then, the boy fired and the trees erupted into chaos. Nadya wasn’t willing to use an innocent’s life as a distraction for her own cowardice. Not again. Even as Anna protested, Nadya let a prayer form fully in her mind, hand clutching at Horz’s bead on her necklace and its constellation of stars. Symbols fell from her lips like glow- ing glimmers of smoke and every star in the sky winked out. Well, that was more extreme than I intended, Nadya thought with a wince. I should’ve known better than to ask Horz for any- thing. She could hear cursing as the world plunged into darkness. Anna sighed in exasperation beside her. “Just stay back,” she hissed as she moved confidently through the dark. “Nadya . . .” Anna’s groan was soft. It took more focus to send a third prayer to Bozetjeh. It was hard to catch Bozetjeh on a good day; the god of speed was notoriously slow to answer prayers. But she managed to snag his attention and received a spell allowing her to move as fast as the vicious Kalyazin wind. Her initial count had been wrong; there were six Tranavians now scattering into the forest. The boy dropped his crossbow with a bewildered look up into the sky, startling when Nadya touched his shoulder. There was no way he could see in this darkness, but she could. When he whirled, a curved sword in his hand, Nadya sidestepped. His swing went wide and she shoved him in the direction of a fleeing Tranavian, anticipating their collision. “Find the rest,” Marzenya hissed. “Kill them all.” Complete and total dedication. She caught up to one of the figures, stabbing her voryen into his skull just underneath his ear. Not so difficult this time, she thought. But the knowledge was a distant thing. Blood sprayed, splattering a second Tranavian, who cried out in alarm. Before the second man could figure out what had happened to his companion, she lashed out her heel, catching him squarely on the jaw and knocking him off his feet. She slit his throat. Three more. They couldn’t have moved far. Nadya took up Bozidarka’s bead again. The goddess of vision revealed where the last Tranavians were located. The boy with the sword had managed to kill two in the dark. Nadya couldn’t actually see the last one, just felt him nearby, very much alive. Something slammed into Nadya’s back and suddenly the chilling bite of a blade was pressed against her throat. The boy appeared in front of her, his crossbow back in his hands, thank- fully not pointed at Nadya. It was clear he could only barely see her. He wasn’t Kalyazi, but Akolan. A fair number of Akolans had taken advantage of the war between their neighbors, hiring out their swords for profit on both sides. They were known for favoring Tranavia simply because of the warmer climate. It was rare to find a creature of the desert willingly stumbling through Kalyazin’s snow. He spoke a fluid string of words she didn’t understand. His posture was languid, as if he hadn’t nearly been torn to pieces by blood mages. The blade against Nadya’s throat pressed harder. A colder voice responded to him, the foreign language scratched uncomfortably at her ears. Nadya only knew the three primary languages of Kalyazin and passing Tranavian. If she wasn’t going to be able to com- municate with them . . . The boy said something else and Nadya heard the girl sigh before she felt the blade slip away. “What’s a little Kalyazi as- sassin doing out in the middle of the mountains?” he asked, switching to perfect Kalyazi. Nadya was very aware of the boy’s friend at her back. “I could ask the same of you.” She shifted Bozidarka’s spell, sharpening her vision further. The boy had skin like molten bronze and long hair with gold chains threaded through his loose curls. He grinned. Buy Link: https://static.macmillan.com/static/smp/wicked-saints/ About the Author: EMILY A. DUNCAN works as a youth services librarian. She received a Master’s degree in library science from Kent State University, which mostly taught her how to find obscure Slavic folklore texts through interlibrary loan systems. When not reading or writing, she enjoys playing copious amounts of video games and dungeons and dragons. Wicked Saints is her first book. She lives in Ohio. Website: https://eaduncan.com/ Twitter: @glitzandshadows Instagram: @glitzandshadows Tumblr: https://ift.tt/2K0iS2l

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