The God and the Gwisin is in no way intended to be a guide to traditional Korean mythology. As in all my books, I have taken significant creative liberties. It is a belief of mine that retellings keep stories alive and spark interest in the original lore. It is also a belief of mine that in order to retell, an author must understand the original cultural context of the stories they work with. Please rest assured that I have carefully researched the traditional tales of my heritage and the centuries of history that inspired them.

With that said and done, welcome to your vacation upon the SRC Flatliner! I dearly hope that you enjoy your stay.

All aboard!

(And remember to mind the rails.)

Chapter One

Kisa

Seoul, 2018

The glittering behemoth that is Seoul’s Shamanic Hospital towers above the city’s streets, lording over its nightlife with a certain smugness only a building of great esteem can possess. Within this pillar of cold steel, steadfast concrete, and sparkling glass lies a world of bustling paramedics, striding doctors, a symphony of mechanical beeps and white-tiled floors that somehow remain pristine even as creatures and mortals alike are wheeled through the winding halls on gurneys.

Up and up the hospital stretches, pulling itself toward the night, where dark gray clouds smudge the rich navy sky and where a young woman sits underneath the stars and kicks a foot in a calculated motion over the edge.

She has carefully tied her hair back in a low bun, but wisps of dark, mocha-colored curls escape their band and brush against her cheek, accompanied by a cold kiss of wind. The young woman wonders, feeling rather detached from it all (a side effect, no doubt, of pulling twenty-four-hour shifts in the Magical Maternity Unit), if another gust would be enough to knock her over. Enough to send her fluttering down like an autumn leaf from a tree, crumpling on the ground below.

She sighs, leaning her cheek against the knee of her propped-up leg and staring down at the crawl of traffic below.

Yoo Kisa is utterly exhausted with her life. Exhausted from the long shifts with her hands fumbling for the slippery skin of a newborn, the eternal sleeplessness and concerning dependency (addiction, really) on fruity energy drinks and flat whites. Exhausted from being a shaman.