Distractions come in all shapes and sizes. Some similarities include charismatic charm, mannerful mannerisms, and genuine sincerity. Hanbin brings shame to the stage of diversions; the latter eluded him like he had a young babe’s filial sense of guilt. I’ve always been spectacular at lying.

Distracting our fair-feathered frenemies was my job; finding Junhoe wasn’t on today’s itinerary. Yet here he is. Hanging upside down from a tree. Legs tied. Arms crossed. I almost purposely miss the deteriorating sack of muscles at first sight.

“Hello, Bobby,” he greets as I pass.

“Goodbye, Junhoe,” I say as I wave.

Past circumstances put us at odds; I don’t describe village slaughter as “fun.” He has reasons aplenty, but vengeful lovers wreak havoc whether warranted or otherwise. Junhoe is infamous for overreacting to the simplest truths. Vampires were never human to begin with — thank god for that.

Feelings are nasty things liable to contradict self-preservation’s basic tenet. 

“Excusez-moi!” I climb Junhoe’s swinging corpse in a flurry of kicking legs and dissatisfied captives. Two bird men approach too late to see my escape into the forest canopy. Who ever heard of a distracted distraction?

“Open wide,” orders the broody, five-finger forehead. 

Junhoe obeys like he has better things to do — he never did waste time. Lips rip at the seams, ten rows of teeth engulfing wild eyebrows. Green residue sticks to enamel here and there. A blue, forked tongue wipes it away. As he should; cookie-stealers deserve embarrassing, impromptu dental checkups. 

“Mino?” asks the prissy daddy’s boy. 

“Mark him, Jinwoo,” Mino commands.

Jinwoo puffs out his chest, black wings springing from bony shoulder blades. Werewolves labeled them angels. Poppycock! Valkyries are glorified crows. Their brains may be larger than average, but a walnut’s a walnut. What’s the gift of flight if it’s in formation?

Plucking a prickly quill from his feather spread, Jinwoo begins work on carving Junhoe’s neck. Junhoe’s writhing, flesh sizzling. Jinwoo’s sloppily tracing a strange symbol. Mino steps forward when the deed’s done, whispering, “You think pixie dust stops forest fires?”

A low blow — even by my standards. They get out of earshot, and sentiment strikes. I have reasons aplenty for leaving him to burn, but doing is easier than asking why.

“Just in time,” Junhoe comments, no feathers to be ruffled. Flames gobble up tinder quickly. Everything’s a blaring red, and fairy folk squeal in terror: green spheres popping into yellow sparks of light.

“Because you would’ve saved little ol’ Bobby without pause,” I jest, cutting him loose.

“I would’ve saved what was left.” He argues, “The neck up is deadweight.” Point taken.