This chapter was a pain in the neck to write, and I'm too fed up with it to go back and edit it more. Hope it turned out okay. ~Sage


And I've always lived like this
Keeping
a comfortable distance
And up until now
I had sworn to myself that I'm
Content with loneliness
Because none of it was ever
worth the risk

Well, you are the only exception…
And I'm on my way to
believing

"The Only Exception" –Paramore

"And I think now that fate is shaped half by expectation, half by inattention. But somehow, when you lose something you love, faith takes over. You have to pay attention to what you lost. You have to undo the expectation."

- Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club


Chapter 9: Diamonds

Julia

I pull out the crinkled map of the United States I'd swiped from a gas station somewhere between Arizona and Montana, and peer at the red marks I'd scribbled the days previous. Little arrows and haphazard circles around potential cities and states I want to visit—not like I have a plan. But it's okay sometimes to play pretend that you actually know where you're going. It keeps you from becoming rabid from too much road.

This time it's Oregon.

Oregon's a secret beauty, the contemplative, quiet sibling everyone overlooks in favor of the flamboyant and infamous. Ask any American what "West Coast" means to them and they'll likely forget Oregon exists. The state is sandwiched between two greats after all: a rainy, temperamental, gray-eyed Washington above it, with its depression-inducing mood swings and coffee cults; and the hotheaded, glorified, platinum blonde California below it, a beach bum nirvana and the birthplace of stars, gold mines and false teeth.

It's why I chose Oregon. It's not a cliché. Few discover it. Just a hideaway spot for those weary of the rain or for the ones burned by the sun.

After about twenty hitchhikes and ten truckers, I manage to get to Oregon within days. The journey isn't exactly peaches and cream. Ninety-nine cent coffee and convenience store faux McDonald's McMuffins—"Quick n' Easy, Hot n' Fresh!"—are my breakfast, lunch and dinner for a week. For the first couple days I barely sleep, muscles tense and with my buffalo knife at the ready should any of my travel companions try anything stupid. Other than a trucker's failed attempt at copping a feel—resulting in a swift kick to the crotch—I reach my destination unscathed.

I try not to look like a tourist as I wait on the brick inlaid street corner for the "walk" sign to flash. Then again, Portland is a city so eclectic that maybe no one will notice. People here range from the starched-and-pressed three-piece suit businessperson to the neon-haired, pierced and tattooed starving artist. Families and their crying babies share the perfectly manicured streets with the ragged and the homeless.

Bronze water fountains and animal sculptures dot the sidewalks, protected under trees and lampposts bearing hanging flower baskets overflowing with creeping Jenny and impatiens. Every fifteen minutes or so the TriMet train wails its arrival, taking people anywhere within the Portland metro area for cheap—or, if you're keen, for free; the conductors never check tickets. Upscale sushi bars, dingy tattoo parlors and family-owned Mexican, Greek and Thai food joints often share the same strip of concrete. And on every other block, I kid you not, there's a Starbucks.

If I want to, I can disappear here.

"Can ya spare a dime?"

I look down at a woman about my age. She sits cross-legged on the sidewalk holding a cardboard sign advertising her misfortune in black Sharpie marker. Her oily blonde hair hangs like dead snakes from beneath a frayed beanie hat, a silver stud glistening in her nose; she smells like she hasn't showered in days. Her ample cleavage and sunburned arms are sheathed in vibrant tattoos: the typical orange koi fish leaping from Japanese style oceans, skulls entwined in roses and thorns, and a black wolf's face on her left breast, over her heart, yellow eyes peeking out from beneath a sweaty tank top.

I might have been compassionate save for the venti Starbucks iced latte at her jeaned knee and the fat, well-fed Saint Bernard at her side.

"Not today," I mutter.

Downtown Portland is rampant with panhandlers, most of them twenty-something-year-olds who got bored with loving parents, college and privilege, so decided to take to the road to "find themselves."

If only that was my reason for this wanderlust.

"Come on. Just a dime to support an aspiring artist," the greasy blonde insists.

"Tell me," I begin, turning to her in disgust, "If you need a dime so badly, how are you able to afford a six dollar cup of coffee? Have a little pride why don't you."

"Man, fuck you, bitch."

"Right back at you."

I abandon her there as the light changes to green, being careful not to trip on the TriMet tracks crisscrossing the road.

It isn't because I lack the extra change. The Navajo Nation is the largest Native American tribe to date, as well as one of the wealthiest. Regardless, I'm not made out of money; I have enough to survive. I'm not, however, so frugal that I can't spare some compassion.

It's just that I'm sick of liars. I'm sick of being taken for a fool. I'm sick of helping the unworthy.


The hawk's scream slices through sky and cloud like a knife, scalping blue flesh in one chilling shriek as it dives for its prey.

The rabbit's shocked death cry echoes through the parched canyons, but is silenced in seconds as the hawk sinks razorblade talons into its flesh, curving inward to crush muscle, sinew and bone.

"Ya'at eeh, Cousin," I call out, eyeing the bird with a lazy smile. "What took you so long to come visit me?" (Hello)

Flipping a red tail in my direction, the hawk turns his back to me and devours his meal in privacy.

"Am I…am I dead, Cousin?" I muse, smiling wider.

It can only be because of death that I am able to see you now, is it not?

"It's easy to be dead, huh. Get to eat all the rabbit and mice you want. Is it a nice life—excuse me, death—here in the arms of The Creator?"

The hawk tears at the rabbit's flesh, swallowing fur and entails in greedy gulps.

"You were never as fierce as your namesake, Gabriel Red Hawk," I tease. "You were just my wimpy cousin who held my hand when your mom told us ghost stories. Cora was a good storyteller, wasn't she?"

The hawk shrieks at me now, wings flapping as he holds me in a golden glare. He seems to mock me, argue with me, but he keeps his distance.

"Hey Gabe, you got some blood on your talons."

For some reason I think this is the funniest thing in the world; I start laughing like an idiot. Bloody talons, bloody feathers. It isn't anything pretty to look at, let alone amusing. But I keep laughing anyway. Apart from the fact that my cousin was a messy eater, the hawk reminds me of how Michelle used to tell me not to meddle in other people's problems. "Live and let live." Otherwise, I might end up with unwanted blood on my hands.

I look down at my palms then, but I can't make out what I see. It's too blurry.

As if weary of my pointless remarks, the red bird spreads his wings and takes to the sky, abandoning me in a canyon as parched and empty as my heart.

I feel a chill slip over me then, but it's oddly calming, soothing, thick and safe as a Navajo blanket.

"Ya-hey Cousin."

Gabriel is at my side, his long black hair falling around his face. He's wearing his favorite T-shirt, that sun-faded blue one with the medicine wheel printed in front, as well as a white bandana, which glows blindingly in the sunlight. He smiles at me, but the sun is too bright in my eyes to make out his other features.

Blink. Once. Twice. The black hair vanishes into shorter, redder strands, kind, gentle eyes morphing into deeper, sensuous almond-shaped ones that peer effortlessly into my mind. I can't read the expression on his face at all.

"Julia. You were right. It's not set in stone."

Moments later, I awaken alone in a silent motel room. The emotions fill my chest like water in a cup, overflowing with aching life; a deep sorrow, an impossible happiness and bitter nostalgia all at once, with the hunting hawk's screams still resounding in my ear.

Dreams always feel real while you're asleep. It's only after you awaken that you realize it was all just another illusion, just another mosaic of mind-manipulating emotions. And yet you just can't shake that strangeness from your limbs, from your thoughts. You know you've just experienced something, because it clings to you yet, pins you to dreamscape like meat to a carving board, tugging at your psyche with fleeting glimpses of the unexplained. It's scarier when you know you have no control. When you're thrown, unwilling and defenseless, into your mind and are forced to watch and wait for its passing before sun, pinch or nature's clock slingshots you back into an even stranger, more painful reality.

But sometimes, if it's a good one, you want so badly for that dream to be real. Go back to sleep, you urge.

But by then everything's already changed.

So then you write it all down upon waking, as much as you can remember at least, and read your dreams over and over, like a map to your subconscious, an outdated field guide to your inner crazy. When introspection fails you might consult dream interpretations on the Web, where everyone claims they're psychic, boasting ludicrous names like Alastair Star Dreamer or Lucinda Clairvoyance. Weary of artificial wisdom, perhaps you'll turn to the genuine dreamers, eccentric medicine men with their spiritual Excaliburs and wads of sacred earth.

It's just the lost seeking meaning when all other tools have failed. When the wandering road has finally met a dead end. When you're haunted by day as well as by night.

But sometimes you have to accept that some dreams aren't supposed to be analyzed or realized.

They are to remain dreams forever, wisps of fantasy, nothing more, because some are too dangerous to pursue. Your mother told you this. Even the wise woman of your tribe tells you this. But you're too stubborn to accept that, too arrogant to accept that you can't possibly solve everything—that you can't save everybody and make every dream of flesh and bone. You decide you'll prove them wrong. It's your life after all.

So you set yourself up for failure. Every. Single. Time.

And yet you're still curious. You pretend you don't care, you feign independence, when all you want is a little taste of that dream. You still wander, with your heart as well as with your feet.

But now you've seen too many dreams shatter. One dream destroyed your family, the other your faith. Now you wish you never tried going back to sleep in hopes of a happier ending.

Because you've learned, time and again, that there is no happy ending. In the end, we all wake up.

Stagnant, vulnerable, you resort to trapping yourself behind veneers of strength, behind brown glare or acetic word, fists or cold indifference. Just like before. You can't afford any more wounds; the benefits no longer outweigh the costs. All dreams, happy or sad, are dangerous. You have to convince yourself that you're strong, so you go to extremes and build yourself a prison of diamonds, waiting in silence for that one soul brave enough to chisel away at those indestructible walls.

So far none but one has succeeded—and now you can never, ever be free.

He's living proof that you don't have to be asleep in order to dream—proof that some dreams aren't meant to come true.

I don't love him.

I don't.

I can't.

I shouldn't.

Hwoarang

I don't know why I'm here.

Let me rephrase that: I don't want to say why I'm here.

I'm lying in that same clearing, where I'd held Julia in my arms no more than two weeks ago, where she'd sliced open her heart and offered it to me, bleeding. Once you start sharing secrets like that, secrets from the deepest hidden corners of your ugly, wounded heart, there's no turning back.

If I concentrate hard enough, I think I can almost smell her hair, feel her pressed up extra close against my chest. I think I can feel my mouth on hers…

But no, it's just the wind again, just the trees watching me and the sky, silent and steady, with its infinite twinkling eyes. Even that wolf is gone. He doesn't sing tonight.

Here I lie in that haunted, quiet clearing, a place emptier than my heart.

I feel like I'm in some cheesy Korean drama, pining for a lost love, angsting over a bad breakup whilst lingering somewhere beautiful and nostalgic. Of course everybody does that. Except Julia isn't a pale, rail-thin, soft-spoken Korean damsel dying from cancer or defying her parents. We don't always unintentionally meet up in exactly the same place at exactly the same time—preferably a little café or near a picturesque water fountain when it's raining—in Seoul, where you're lucky if you see the same stranger's face twice. Or maybe I'll knock over her books and instantly fall in love with her as I help her pick them up.

I despise those dramas. Life doesn't work that way. It's not predictable. Things don't end up perfect eventually.

If you don't chase what you want, you can easily let the best things slip away. Maybe fate may bring you and someone else together. But it's what you do with it that matters. It's the choices you make that determine if that preplanned fate will actually work.

Hypothetically, if it is fate, then I just killed it. Perhaps fate determines that she and I are meant to meet—but I chose not to stay. You see? Fate still happens. We meet. But choice—I leave—likes to fuck things up. Either way you can have both.

"You're contradicting yourself."

"No I'm not. I'm saying it's not set in stone, Hwoarang."

Blink. Once. Twice. Did that really just happen? Did I just compromise with my mind? I, a staunch advocate for choice, just reasoned with myself that some things can be meant to be.

Rising from the grass, I abandon the clearing and walk toward my bike parked several feet away. I allow myself to remember again, remember everything.

Remember why.

Remember why not.


"You think you're so tough, eh? Think you're so cool. You ain't nothin'!"

Those were the words of my soon to be best friend Yong Jae. But first, he had to be my enemy. Boys are stupid like that. If a boy's cocky, girls simply avoid you. But if you're a boy facing a cocky boy, you feel as if you have to prove something. You gotta knock 'em down, or make them give you a good reason for being arrogant as hell.

"I am tough, um chum sekki!" I'd retort, not knowing what that meant at the time, but understanding that it was some sort of insult. I thought I heard Ummah call Appa that once or twice. Probably. (Bastard)

Yong Jae, with his bird's nest blacker-than-night hair and legendary neon-yellow sneakers, was as tall as I was, but was the scrawniest kid I'd ever seen. He'd make up for it once puberty decided to take pity on him; but for the first thirteen years of his life, he was a grinning bag of bones and untrimmed hair, with a mouth filled with too much courage.

Yong Jae and I were eight when we first met. We attended the same dojang where, everyday, we fought for our sah bum nim's adoration. Baek was pleased with both of us, but I noticed how he especially watched me out of the corner of his eye when I practiced. I teased Yong Jae about it constantly, bragging that I was our mentor's favorite. Whenever he made mistakes, I'd jeer at him some more, egging him on, laughing as he got red with rage when he couldn't break a wooden board or couldn't remember his pumsae. (Forms/patterns in Tae Kwon Do)

It was only after I'd demolished Yong Jae three times during sparring when he decided that I was better off as a friend rather than a rival. See? I had plenty good reason to be arrogant. The rest, as they say, is history. Yong, as everyone called him for short, would be there when Sundok and Jahalang weren't; when I failed a test or was punished for disobeying a teacher; when I was angry and sad over nothing; or when I was bored and happy and felt like razing anthills and throwing rocks at rich people's houses for the hell of it. It was Yong who kept me sane all those years I was alone. A rival gangster would eventually shoot him to death when he turned sixteen—but that's a different story, one I prefer not to think about.

I remember we discovered this creek that no one had explored yet, except for old man Kyung with his old-fashioned fishing rod and grasshopper lures. That old geezer knew everything about our neighborhood anyway, so we decided that he didn't count. I remember the water was still clear, unlike every other river and pond surrounding Seoul and its suburbs. Yong and I could see straight to the bottom where the sun dappled the colored stones and made the fishes' fins glisten like crystals. It was back when I still had an imagination, when I still thought anything was possible. Yong and I conquered dragons in that creek, caught fish with scales made out of diamonds, climbed trees with golden fruit, and we scared away any kid who dared venture onto our secret place.

One summer though, after we'd both turned ten, the creek started to get murky. Its waters began to shimmer with iridescent rainbow streaks, which I thought looked kinda cool before I found out it was oil. Fish started dying; old man Kyung didn't come to the creek anymore. The cranes and herons that fished its waters had long gone, leaving behind long white feathers and empty nests. Soon, the creek began to stink, and Yong and I decided it was time to find other places to play. But, being the childish idiots we were, we decided to do some sort of farewell ritual and visit the creek one last time before we abandoned it for good. Kids are always sentimental about that kind of crap, and I was no exception.

Yong had been held up with studying, as usual—his mom was the biggest grade Nazi you ever saw—so it was I who reached the creek first.

I heard voices coming from somewhere deep in the trees, a little ways off the creek path. Thinking that someone had violated our territory, I rushed toward the voices. Even if that water stank like somebody's ass, it was still my creek for today. Squinting into the trees, I could make out two figures entwined, whispering and giggling to one another.

"Hyah!" I screamed, leaping into their field of vision.

I wished I'd waited for Yong to finish his studying.

My mother and a man who was not my father stood before me, looking startled yet smug at the same time. Sundok didn't have a shirt on, and I was too shocked to look away. Her cheating, lecherous lover laughed slightly and said something to her in Japanese—a fucking Japanese. I knew very little Japanese, only the few phrases I'd picked up from tourists and classmates living in Seoul. But I understood him this time; he'd asked my mother who I was, and if she knew me.

He must have noticed the stunned recognition in my face upon seeing Sundok. I felt my fists balling up then, tears welling in my eyes; but I couldn't run. I couldn't fight. The strength I had always boasted about had suddenly disappeared, becoming choked and polluted like the creek flowing at my feet.

"He's nobody," she answered in Korean.

Still stunned, I could barely move as she approached and slapped me hard across the face. Once. Twice. I stumbled backward the second time she struck me, but I never cried out.

"Go," she said, her voice and face as cold and hard as stone. "Go tell everyone what you saw. I don't care. I've never cared. You'll still be nothing."

My cheek still stung that night at dinner. Appa had cooked this time and noticed that I didn't say a single word. My parents didn't talk to one another much anymore, except to discuss finances and grocery shopping bullshit, so it's usually their squirrely son who talked and filled the silence. But tonight I had nothing to share.

"Ah deul? Hwoarang-ah? Gwaen chan ayo?" my father asked, wondering if I was all right.

I shrugged, stuffing my mouth with rice. Jahalang rarely missed a beat though; he noticed how my eyes flickered to Sundok sitting inches away, gorging herself on my father's cooking as if she lacked a care in the world.

"Where were you today?" Dad asked softly, eyes darkening as his gaze shifted to my mother. "What did you do to my son?"

I left the table then and slipped out the back door so I wouldn't hear them fight.

The next morning my mother was gone. The dishes from last night's dinner were still in the sink. Broken glass dusted the floor. She left a note on the table for Dad and me, condemning us both as she revealed her lover's name and why she hated her life with us. Dad became even quieter than normal, and he seemed to never leave the couch, his cheek resting on a fist as his eyes watched, but did not see, the blaring television. He'd be like that for the next three months, right up until he abandoned me too. Yong kept trying to distract me from the whole thing by talking about Tae Kwon Do, the latest video games and the like, but for long months I'd become like a shell. Hollow, confused, angry. I was so angry sometimes that Baek banned me from the dojang for days, which only fueled the anger tenfold. I used this untamable rage to destroy anything that would make my legs and fists ache—tables, chairs, punching bags, other neighborhood boys—especially if it meant for even one second that it would stop my heart from hurting.

Later, that creek dried up. When I was thirteen, the city filled it with cement and built some cookie-cutter suburban houses there. Everything the same, everything perfect and fake, as if something wild and beautiful had never existed before it.

After my father abandoned me, leaving me in Baek's care, I vowed never to fall in love. I did not want to become broken like my father. I did not want to feel another woman's betrayal. I learned to depend only on myself and on the few who truly cared, like Yong, like Baek.

After that every relationship I've had with a girl has been fucked up.

The only one remotely close to greatness has been my moments with Julia. My time with her has been anything but perfect, but since she semi-beat me to a pulp—which I allowed her to do—I haven't been able to get her out of my mind.

I had her too. She let me in, and that's the worst part. Julia has an unprecedented understanding of my heart and mind; she knows how dark and scarred and messed up I've become, how perverted and sarcastic and temperamental I can be, but she takes me for everything I am. When she looks at me, I'm the only one in the world in her gaze. When she holds me, I feel as if all fears and bad luck evaporate. And when she weeps, when she hurts, I feel like killing the source of her pain, tearing it to shreds to quell her tears, and then kissing her and holding her close, close, close. I've never…cared…so much before. And I threw all that away, because I saw myself becoming my father—falling in love with a traitorous illusion.

But that's not true at all. Julia's the most real thing I've ever known.

I'm not worthy of her, but I think I might live in regret if I don't follow her to Oregon and at least try to win her back.

Oh she doesn't know of course. When she told me to drop her off at that town, I took a peek at that Pollock-esque little map of hers and found out where she planned to go next. Oregon seems like any other boring place, hopefully not so much as Wyoming or Montana, but that's where I'm headed.

It's hard wanting—needing—someone so much. I'm independent by habit, but not before it was forced onto me. Everyone I have ever loved or cared about has vanished from my life.

Sometimes I feel like I'd rather have thousands of nightmares about that red-eyed coyote rather than see Julia again.

But once you start not being able to sleep, not being able to see the road ahead without that someone with you, you're doomed.

This time I really have caught a fish with diamond scales. The problem is that I'm the one who helped poison the waters she thrived in. Unable to swim, she's metamorphosed into a white crane, abandoning water for sky where she feels freer, somewhat safer and away from the toxic waters that impede her life.

I'm sick of being that angry little boy on the edges of a polluted creek, running away and boasting pretend strength when inside he wished he had parents and hadn't had to bury his best friend.

I'm still a cynic when it comes to love. It's still painful. It still complicates everything. It still scares me like nothing else.

But this time I know it's worth it.


The hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint is the closest thing to heaven on earth, especially after nearly a day of nonstop driving. And they're playing Guns N' Roses for crying out loud, Axl Rose whining "Better" from the sound system. I only wish they'd turn it up, the meek fools; the volume's turned to a setting that would make elevator music proud.

Choosing a tall pinewood table in the back corner, I wolf down a cheeseburger and a basket of waffle fries, all the while keeping a watchful eye on my bike outside the diner's fingerprint-smeared windows. Even if I like to, as they say, "stir the waters" and "play with fire," it doesn't mean I do it all the time. This time around I have to be careful; if I'm to find Julia, I can't afford any delays caused by brash decision-making. So, I keep my eyes lowered and open my mouth only to eat. It's hard, but I manage it.

"Hello Hwoarang."

Freezing mid chew, I feel a vicious chill envelop me. Trying to relax, I swallow the rest of my burger, making no effort to respond to the speaker—as if I have a voice. That has frozen too along with my courage.

Jin Kazama pulls up a stool at my table, a dark smile on his lips. Except this isn't exactly the socially inept, moody rival I was once determined to defeat. It's his voice, face and hair, but there's something…else…present. Kazama looks immaculate, as always; donning an iron pressed, sterile white, button down long-sleeved shirt, dark jeans and shined boots, he embodies that rich, sullen Japanese prick I loathed long ago. His black hair is still gelled up into that corny-ass spike and, judging from the stench, he even took the time to spray on some cologne.

Breaking Benjamin's "Dance with the Devil" blares over the little diner this time, but no one seems to notice the sudden change in volume. My eyes dart to the demon sitting across from me, perched like a gargoyle atop his stony tower; he only smirks, the music's volume decreasing a couple notches.

"Throw one of your little tantrums and I'll kill you and everyone in this room," he says with the same smirk, as if inquiring after my wellbeing, or asking about the weather.

I believe him completely. Keeping quiet, I gradually meet his eyes, which flash red—or perhaps it is a mere flicker of the sunlight. My heart starts beating faster then. The feeling of being devoured overwhelms me, my meal now sitting like stones in my belly, weighing me down and rooting me to the spot. But I keep still, trying in vain to disguise my fear and rage.

"Good boy," the monster says, eyes flashing with amusement.

Ever the normal little human, he flags down a waitress and orders a drink. The woman eyes him all the while, licking up his honey charm like chocolate syrup on sticky fingers.

When I finally find my voice I can't resist the sarcasm.

"Nice outfit, Kazama. Did your dead mommy tell you to douse yourself in that dollar store stink too?"

"Careful now," the demon warns, wagging a clawed finger at me. "Julia's life is on the line."

"You wouldn't. You want her for yourself."

Jin laughs, retracting his talons. "Of course I do. But it doesn't mean she won't have to bleed a little. Nobody's exempt from that."

My fists clench underneath the table, and I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from pummeling him right then and there.

"How are you sleeping these days, Hwoarang?" That snide smile again.

"Just peachy, Edgar Allan Poe. Your version of the Tell Tale Heart is Pulitzer worthy. But you might wanna quit it with the cheesy animals."

Jin doesn't even try to conceal his blood red eyes now, the faint shadows of black markings taking form on his forehead like ink blots on parchment paper.

"You know why I'm here," he says after a moment, downing the rest of his beverage.

"You wanted to know how I was sleeping. Kinda homo, don't you think?"

Jin's eyes smolder with hatred; the glass cup cracks in his grip.

"If you reunite with Julia, or so much as try to find her, I'll kill you."

How original.

"Fuck you."

He nods, tracing the rim of his empty cup. "You like pain I see. Don't worry. I'll give you plenty."

I lean in closer. "Fuck. You."

The Japanese man—demon—cocks his head, eyeing me with revulsion and perhaps even the slightest bit of interest. I can't tell which, but either way I have his absolute attention.

"She didn't want to get pregnant," he begins. This time it's my turn to eye him strangely.

"She married him, the man who impregnated her, and gave birth to a son that she thought she loved. But domestic life wasn't for her. Motherhood wasn't for her."

My insides grow cold. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup.

"Soon she discovered that she wasn't happy and never would be. Her husband couldn't satisfy her in bed, and he didn't make enough money. He was always at work, a low-wage job kissing someone's ass in a tall office building. And when he wasn't, he seemed too tired and distant to simply talk to her about his day. Her son was always nagging, always seeking her attention, leeching off of her for money and toys and food, and she grew to despise him too.

"But one day a man came into her life, a strong, handsome man that satisfied her in all ways. She loved his confidence, his money and oh his hands, the way he touched her and mouthed her between her legs, making her scream and—"

Knocking the table and chair over, I lunge for the demon, landing several kicks to his teeth and neck before his clawed hands have me by the throat.

"My mother may be dead," he snarls, a forked tongue snaking out from between long fangs. "But she loved me."

"Go to hell!" I wheeze, sneaking a front snap kick to his ribcage. The demon doesn't seem to feel the attack; he laughs instead, his hold tightening.

"Ironic choice of insult, don't you think?" he cackles.

I look around the diner, frantic for someone to call the cops, scream or something. But nobody seems to notice the now black-winged demon choking me to death.

"If you go near her, I'll kill you. That's a promise."

Then he vanishes, leaving behind a single black feather, as if serving as a reminder of his warning.

But we all know I'm not the obedient type.

The moment Jin disappears I start scrambling. I have to find Julia before Jin does. That's the only thought going through my mind right now.

Once I'd managed to fling a twenty at the waitress—"But sir, your change—"; "Keep the goddamn change!"—I all but break the front door as I sprint for my bike, a bit apologetic that I'm about to use and abuse the poor machine for all its worth.

"Come on," I snarl as the bike stalls, grumbling as if it already knows I'm about to push it to its limits. "God damn it! Come on!"

The motorcycle finally roars to life, growling obedience to my admonitions. Speeding into the road, I exit onto the freeway towards Oregon, hoping to God, fate, spirits, chance or whatever the hell is watching, to keep Julia safe.