14

Minho let out a hefty sigh as the bullet fired off by Taemin buried itself in a tree far beyond the line of glass bottles set up as target practice. He'd had a theory that he'd been mulling over for a week, but what he was witnessing now had that fizzling out into nothing but disappointment.

Taemin stared at the gun in his hand like it had bit him, adjusted his grip, then gazed down the iron sights again. One by one, almost rhythmically as if a choreographed ballet, the bottles exploded into shards. The fragments of glass caught the light as they crashed down to earth, casting a shimmering spectrum of colors across the forest, across Taemin, and across Minho himself.

"It's a little different than yours," Taemin explained with a proud grin, waving the gifted gun Minho had bought him back in Frenchtown in his hand. He resembled a dog with a bloodied maw, excited to have made a fresh kill. "I had to get used to it, I guess. Was I okay?"

Leaning against a tree for support (his back was still aching), Minho tried to pull those dusty memories of the ride back to camp out of the murkiness where they lurked. He was hardly conscious then, but what he could recall of the sound of gunfire was enough to make him certain: Taemin did what he couldn't. In exactly four shots, Taemin dispatched those four men with the precision of a trained executioner.

Minho uncrossed his arms and bridged the small distance between himself and Taemin. He placed a hand on Taemin's shoulder and inspected once more the carnage of shattered glass.

", Taemin," Minho said. "Yeah, you were okay. You're more than okay. I'm just glad you're on my side."

Taemin put the gun back in its holster and covered Minho's hand with his own. With a grin, he replied, "Now, who said anything about that? I'm on my own side."

Minho rolled his eyes and let his hand drop. He turned and began to shamble slowly down the foot-trodden dirt path back to camp.

"S'pose that means you can find your own tent, hmm?" Minho called out behind him. "That you don't need me to ask Honoré what kind of meat is in our dinner because you're too nervous to live with the mystery? Guess you can teach yourself the rules of poker all by—"

"No!" whined Taemin as he hurried after Minho. "That's not what I meant! Where are you going?"

"Back to camp. It's kinda hard to run a target practice when there's no more targets."

"Sorry," said Taemin sheepishly. He slowed to match pace with Minho.

"For what? I'd prefer it go this way rather than have you waste both our time pretending you aren't a crackshot, though it would have been nice if you clued me in earlier."

"I—I didn't know if I would be. The gun I normally use is a lot different than this, and—"

Minho interrupted Taemin by holding his arm out in front of his chest, stopping him in his tracks. The hint of an imminent complaint was swallowed down when Taemin followed Minho's gaze to a man standing further down the track, igniting a cigarette with a gold-plated lighter. He was a stranger to Taemin, but certainly not to Minho.

Aloysius Cain had cultivated an entire persona on the premise that the most dangerous weapon was mislaid trust. His meticulously combed hair was perfumed and slicked back with pomade, not a strand out of place. He was clean-shaven to perfection; his clothes were spotless and wrinkle-free. The cigarette he brought to his lips was slotted into a carved ivory holder—he couldn't stand the stains on his fingertips, he'd always say. A heavy gold signet ring sat at the knuckle of his index finger was engraved with a hint of his true identity: A coiled serpent, primed to strike. His appearance was only a ruse, after all—a lure. He was a snake in a rose bush, and if someone was tempted to stop and smell the flowers, they'd end up with his fangs buried in their neck.

"Aloysius," Minho said in greeting. He received the faintest nod of acknowledgement. He spared Taemin the most cursory of glances, then disregarded him completely. He was a tree for all it mattered.

The tall, lithe man took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "We need to talk," he said in an affected southern drawl. It was a gimmick like the rest of him—he was originally from Ohio or Iowa or somewhere else boring and nondescript—but it made even his threats sound sweet like honey. 

Keeping his face unsettlingly expressionless, Aloysius added, "Now." The cigarette was discarded on the ground and suffocated under his heeled calfskin boots. 

"He doesn't speak English," Minho said, gesturing to Taemin.

Aloysius wrinkled his nose as he stored the cigarette holder within an inner pocket, and he ended the exchange by responding, "I have no intention of speaking to him."

He turned away and set off down the path, expecting Minho to follow, which he did, hurrying as fast as his injury would allow. Aloysius strode through life like a man whose time was twice as precious as that of everyone else.

"You're scared," Taemin murmured, walking so closely to Minho that they bumped together every other step. "You're scared of him."

Through gritted teeth, Minho commanded in hushed Korean, "Go to the tent. Wait there until I return."

"But—"

"It wasn't a request, Taemin. Th