A Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

 Join the Ghost for a (relatively) quiet evening...

The Ghost Observes

The restaurant Le Jardin occupied the forty-second floor of the International Finance Centre, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Victoria Harbour that justified the astronomical prices on its menu.

Mae Ling sat at a corner table, positioned with her back to the wall and clear sightlines to both entrances—habits ingrained so deeply they no longer registered as conscious choices. The Dover sole she'd ordered was perfectly prepared, delicate flesh yielding to her fork with minimal resistance, accompanied by a Chablis that complemented rather than overwhelmed the subtle flavors.

She ate slowly, savoring each bite while her peripheral awareness catalogued the restaurant's other patrons. A business dinner at table seven, three men in expensive suits discussing merger terms in Mandarin. An anniversary celebration at table twelve, the couple's body language suggesting genuine affection rather than performance. Detective Inspector Chan at the bar, nursing what appeared to be sparkling water and pretending to check his phone while maintaining his usual surveillance. And at table nine, approximately fifteen feet to her left, a couple whose tension had been escalating throughout their meal.

The woman was in her late thirties, elegant in a navy-blue dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her companion was older, mid-fifties, with the soft hands and expensive watch of someone who'd never done manual labor. Their voices had been rising steadily for the past ten minutes, though Mae Ling had paid them only cursory attention. Domestic disputes held little interest for her professionally, and she'd learned long ago that the most dangerous moments came when you were distracted by irrelevant drama.

"You promised me," the woman hissed, her voice carrying despite her obvious attempt at discretion. "You said this would be different."

"Keep your voice down," the man replied, his tone sharp with embarrassment. "We'll discuss this at home."

"We never discuss anything. You just make decisions and expect me to accept them."

The argument continued, building toward its inevitable crescendo. Mae Ling took another sip of wine, her attention drifting to the couple at table four—a woman in her forties dining with a man who appeared to be her husband, based on the comfortable silence between them and the matching wedding bands. The woman had glanced toward the arguing couple twice in the past minute, her expression difficult to read from this distance.

The man at table nine stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor. "I'm leaving. You can stay and make a scene if you want, but I'm done with this conversation."

The woman stood as well, her face flushed with anger or wine or both. "Fine. Run away. That's what you always do."

They moved toward the exit together, their body language radiating hostility. The man paused at the maître d's station long enough to throw several bills on the counter, not bothering to wait for change or acknowledgment. The woman followed him out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

The restaurant's ambient noise resumed its normal level, the brief disruption already fading from collective memory. Mae Ling returned her attention to her meal, cutting another piece of sole with surgical precision. The fish was excellent, the wine better, and the view spectacular. A perfect evening, really, marred only by—

A scream shattered the restored calm.

Mae Ling's hand moved instinctively toward the knife at her side before her conscious mind registered that the sound came from table four. The woman who'd been watching the argument was on her feet, her chair toppled backward, her hands pressed to her mouth in horror. Her husband—or the man Mae Ling had assumed was her husband—had collapsed forward onto the table, his body convulsing violently.

The restaurant erupted into controlled chaos. A waiter rushed forward. The maître d' was already on his phone, presumably calling for emergency services. Other diners stood, some moving closer to help, others backing away from the disturbing scene. Mae Ling remained seated, her expression neutral, her mind cataloguing details with the automatic precision of long practice.

The convulsions lasted perhaps twenty seconds before the man went still. Too still. The waiter who'd reached him first checked for a pulse, his face going pale. He looked up at the maître d' and shook his head slowly.

Mae Ling set down her fork and reached for her wine glass, taking a measured sip while her mind replayed the past fifteen minutes. She'd been half-paying attention, her focus primarily on her meal and the view, but her training ensured that certain details had registered even when she hadn't been paying close attention. The arguing couple. The woman at table four glancing toward them. The timing of—

A hand settled on her shoulder.

Mae Ling didn't flinch, though few people would have dared such familiarity. She turned her head slightly, already knowing who she'd see. Detective Inspector James Chan of the Hong Kong Police Force's Financial Crimes Unit had been following her for three months now, convinced that her legitimate business consulting work was a cover for something more sinister. He wasn't wrong, but he'd never be able to prove it.

"Detective," she said calmly, her Cantonese carrying the neutral accent of someone who'd lived in many places. "I hope you enjoyed the show. As you can clearly see, I've been sitting here the entire evening, nowhere near that unfortunate gentleman."

Chan was in his early forties, with the tired eyes of someone who'd seen too much corruption and the stubborn jaw of someone who refused to accept it. He wore an off-the-rack suit that had seen better days and a wedding ring that suggested he had something to go home to besides case files. His hand remained on her shoulder for another moment before he withdrew it, moving around to stand where she could see him without turning.

"I'm not suggesting you had anything to do with this," he said, his voice low enough that nearby diners wouldn't overhear. "But I think you know who did. And how."

Mae Ling raised an eyebrow, her expression one of polite curiosity. "That's quite an assumption, Detective. What makes you think I know anything about a random medical emergency?"

"Because you're the Ghost of Hong Kong," Chan said quietly. "And ghosts see things other people miss."

She studied him for a long moment, weighing her options. Chan was persistent, intelligent, and dangerously close to understanding the nature of her work. But he was also, in his own way, trying to do the right thing. The world needed people like him, even if they occasionally made her life more complicated.

"Hypothetically," Mae Ling said, setting down her wine glass, "if I had been paying attention to my surroundings—which any sensible person would do in a public space—what might I have noticed?"

Chan pulled out the chair across from her and sat without invitation. "You tell me."

Mae Ling's mind assembled the pieces with the efficiency of a computer processing data. "The couple that was arguing. They left approximately three minutes before the man collapsed. The woman at table four—the one who's currently hysterical—she watched them leave. She glanced at them twice during their argument, but not with the casual curiosity of someone observing a scene. She was tracking them. Waiting for something."

"Go on," Chan said, leaning forward slightly.

"The timing is interesting. The argument provided a distraction, drew attention away from the other tables. In that moment, when everyone's focus was on the drama, someone could have moved quickly. A hand reaching across a table. Something dropped into a drink. It would take seconds, and no one would notice because they were all watching the show."

"You think the wife poisoned him?"

"I think the wife knew the couple that was arguing," Mae Ling corrected. "I think they staged a distraction so she could introduce something into her husband's beverage. The convulsions suggest a fast-acting neurotoxin, probably something that mimics a seizure or heart attack. Elegant, really. In a restaurant full of witnesses, she commits murder in plain sight."

Chan's expression darkened. "That's a serious accusation."

"You asked what I might have noticed," Mae Ling said with a slight shrug. "I'm simply following the logic of a possible scenario."

The widow's hysterical voice cut through their conversation. She was being comforted by the maître d' and several other diners, her body shaking with sobs that seemed genuine enough. "I don't understand," she wailed. "He was fine. We were just having dinner."

Mae Ling watched carefully, trying to read the truth beneath the obvious distress. The woman's grief appeared authentic—trembling hands, flushed face, the kind of full-body shock that was difficult to fake. But there was something about the way she'd positioned herself, angled slightly toward the restaurant's entrance rather than leaning into the comfort being offered—it was as if she subconsciously wanted to escape if need be. And those two glances during the argument—had they been nervous awareness of a brewing confrontation, or something more deliberate?

Mae Ling had seen enough death to know that genuine shock and calculated theater could look remarkably similar. The widow might be an innocent woman watching her husband die unexpectedly. Or she might be exactly what Mae Ling suspected. The truth would reveal itself eventually, but for now, it remained frustratingly unclear.

"I don't know her motive," Mae Ling admitted quietly. "But I suspect you'll find the answer once you locate that couple. They're the key to understanding why this happened."

Chan stood, his expression thoughtful. "The security cameras will show if you're right about the timing."

"They will," Mae Ling agreed. "Though I imagine the footage will be ambiguous. These things usually are."

"Thank you for your help," Chan said, his tone formal but not unfriendly. "But don't think this changes anything between us. I'll still be watching you."

Mae Ling picked up her wine glass again, swirling the pale liquid gently. "I apologize in advance for how bored you're going to be. My life is remarkably mundane."

"Somehow I doubt that," Chan replied. He started to turn away, then paused. "The Ghost of Hong Kong. Do you know why they call you that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know they called me that."

"Because you don't leave traces," Chan said. "You're there, and then you're not. No evidence, no witnesses who can quite remember your face." He paused. "But also because ghosts are supposed to right wrongs. To settle unfinished business. To bring justice when the living can't or won't." He met her eyes directly. "Some people think Hong Kong needs a ghost."

"And what do you think, Detective?"

Chan was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I think the law should be enough. But I also think the world is more complicated than I'd like it to be." He nodded once, a gesture that might have been respect or acknowledgment or both. "Enjoy the rest of your meal, Ms. Ling."

He walked away, moving toward the widow and the gathering crowd of police and emergency personnel. Mae Ling watched him go, then returned her attention to her Dover sole. It had gone slightly cold during the interruption, but the quality was still evident. She ate slowly, methodically, while her mind continued processing the evening's events.

The arguing couple had been professionals, their performance calibrated to draw attention without seeming rehearsed. The widow's reaction was equally skilled, though perhaps a touch overdone. And the victim—Mae Ling hadn't paid him much attention while he was alive, but now she found herself curious about what he'd done to warrant such an elaborate execution.

Because it had been an execution, regardless of how it appeared. The planning required, the coordination, the risk of performing the act in such a public space—these weren't the actions of a desperate spouse. This was something else. Something that suggested the victim had made enemies who wanted him dead but also wanted to send a message.

Not my concern, Mae Ling reminded herself. She had her own work, her own targets. Getting involved in someone else's operation would be foolish, potentially dangerous, and completely unnecessary.

Still, she found herself memorizing the widow's face, the cut of her dress, the way she moved even in apparent distress. Professional curiosity, nothing more. If their paths crossed again, it would be useful to recognize her.

Mae Ling finished her meal, paid her bill with cash, and left a generous tip for the waiter who'd tried to help the dying man. The restaurant was still in chaos as she departed, police officers taking statements and examining the scene. Chan was speaking with one of the emergency responders, his notebook out.

He glanced up as Mae Ling passed, their eyes meeting briefly. She inclined her head slightly—acknowledgment, not quite respect, but something close to it. He returned the gesture, then went back to his interview.

The elevator ride down forty-two floors gave Mae Ling time to consider the evening's implications. Chan was getting closer, which meant she'd need to be more careful. The night air hit her as she exited the building, carrying the familiar scents of Hong Kong—salt water and exhaust fumes, street food and expensive perfume, the eternal mixture of old and new that defined the city. Her phone buzzed. An encrypted message: new assignment, details to follow. Someone, somewhere, had committed transgressions serious enough to warrant her attention.

Mae Ling deleted the message and continued walking, her path taking her through crowds that parted around her. The widow would face justice eventually, assuming the evidence held and she didn't flee to parts unknown.

But that was someone else's problem.

The Ghost of Hong Kong turned down a side street and disappeared into the darkness.

--

If you enjoyed this tale, you can read more about the Ghost of Hong Kong in a collection of 15 short stories, which is available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

From the Dragon's Hoard: The Demon's Throwing Axe of Returning

Countless thousands of years ago, God banished disloyal angels to Earth. Dragons were not happy with this invasion from Beyond and they managed to set aside their differences and racist resentments of each other to drive the angels to yet another dimension. They have been festering there ever since, hating the dragons as much as they hate God and his loyal angels. Soon, the fallen angels had morphed into demons and became dedicated to corrupting the beings of Earth physically and spiritually..

Roughly 45,000 years ago, the demons launched a major offensive, breaking free of the Underworld and pouring forth onto Earth, spreading death and destruction. The dragons once again came together and formed an even rarer alliance with the angels to, once again, drive the demon hoards off the earthly plane.

Among the dragons who battled the demons was a young red dragon named Brigid. She walked away from the Final Battle of the Demon War with the first powerful magic item for her hoard: The Demon's Throwing Axe of Returning

The Demon's Throwing Axe of Returning

This functuons as a +2 axe of returning.  It can be used in melee combat like +2 axe, or thrown at a target at range,

    When thrown, the axe has a range of 10 feet, plus 5 feet per each point of the wielder's Strength bonus. When thrown, it returns to the wielder's hand immediately after making a ranged attack. The wielder must make a Dex check (DC8) to catch it, but if the attempt fails, the axe strikes the wielder for 1d6+2 points of damage, then falls to the ground. If the wielder cannot catch it, it drops to the ground. This weapon is versatile and can be used in various combat scenarios, making it a valuable asset for players.

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A new Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller!

 We're kicking off the New Year with a new tale of danger and death!

The Ghost Rises

The shaft of light fell through the skylight like a blade, cutting through the darkness of Hu Wan's private chamber to illuminate the small circle where Kam sat. The rest of the room remained in shadow—deliberate, theatrical, the way Wan preferred his fortune-telling sessions. He liked his captive psychic spotlit, vulnerable, a specimen under glass for his amusement.

Kam's wrists bore the raw marks of the chains that bound her to the heavy mahogany table. The metal links clinked softly as she moved her hands across the zodiac cards spread before her, their ancient symbols seeming to glow in the concentrated light. She wore only the thin silk slip Wan had allowed her. It was more than he sometimes let her have, so she should probably thank the gods for small favors.

"Tell me again," Wan said from the darkness beyond the light. His voice carried the rough edges of a lifetime of cigarettes and violence. "Tell me what you see."

Kam's fingers trembled as they hovered over the cards. Not from fear—she had moved beyond fear weeks ago—but from the effort of maintaining the performance. Her gift was real enough, though not in the way Wan believed. She could read people, sense their intentions, feel the currents of fate moving through the world. But she had learned to shape her visions, to guide them toward the outcome she needed.

"The Tiger prowls in darkness," she said, her voice carrying the ritualistic cadence Wan expected. "The Dragon sleeps in his mountain fortress. But the Ghost..." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "The Ghost rises from the earth to strike down a great enemy."

Wan stepped into the edge of the light, and Kam suppressed a shudder. He was a thick man, running to fat now in his fifties, but the muscle underneath remained solid. His face bore the scars of his rise through Bangkok's underworld—a knife slash across one cheek, a puckered bullet wound near his temple. He wore an expensive silk shirt open to reveal gold chains nested in graying chest hair. In his hands, he cradled an MP5 submachine gun like a lover.

"The Ghost of Hong Kong," he said, his lips pulling back in something between a smile and a snarl. "That legendary bitch thinks she can come for me. For Hu Wan." He laughed, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "I know why she comes. Those brothels in Chiang Mai—the ones I invested in. She thinks she's some kind of avenging angel for those whores."

He moved closer to Kam, close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath and the acrid scent of gun oil. His free hand reached out to trace the line of her collarbone, and she forced herself to remain still, to keep her breathing steady. This too was part of the performance.

"But I'm ready for her," Wan continued, his fingers trailing lower. "I've got fifty men in this compound. Motion sensors. Cameras. And when she comes through that door..." He gestured with the MP5 toward the room's single entrance. "I'll cut her in half before she can blink."

Kam's eyes remained fixed on the cards, but her awareness extended far beyond them. She could feel it now—a presence drawing near, inevitable as the tide. The Ghost was close. Very close.

"The cards say the Ghost will rise soon," Kam said softly. "Very soon."

Wan's hand moved to grip her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated from whatever cocktail of drugs he'd been consuming. "You better hope your visions are accurate, little bird. Because if this Ghost doesn't show, if you've been wasting my time..." He let the threat hang unfinished, but his grip tightened enough to make her jaw ache.

The radio on Wan's belt crackled to life, shattering the moment. "Boss! Boss, we have an intruder! North perimeter, someone's—"

The transmission cut off, replaced by the sharp crack of gunfire. Then more shots, rapid and overlapping, the distinctive chatter of automatic weapons mixing with the deeper boom of shotguns. Wan released Kam and spun toward the door, bringing the MP5 up to his shoulder.

"All units, report!" he barked into the radio. "What's happening?"

Static answered him, punctuated by more gunfire. The sounds were moving, drawing closer to the main house. Kam could track the battle's progress by the acoustic signatures—the firefight starting at the outer wall, then moving through the courtyard, then into the house itself. Wan's men were dying, and they were dying fast.

"Second floor clear!" a voice shouted over the radio, high-pitched with panic. "She's heading for the—"

The transmission ended in a scream, a sound of pure terror that cut off with horrible abruptness. Then silence. Complete, absolute silence that seemed to press against the walls of the darkened room.

Wan's breathing had gone ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the frigid air conditioning. He kept the MP5 trained on the door, his finger white-knuckled on the trigger. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on, you bitch. Come through that door."

"The Ghost rises now," Kam said, her voice carrying an otherworldly certainty. "The zodiac has spoken. The great enemy falls tonight."

"Shut up!" Wan snarled, not taking his eyes off the door. "Shut your mouth or I'll—"

He never finished the threat. His attention was completely focused on the door, on the obvious point of entry, on the place where any rational attacker would appear. Which was exactly what Kam had been counting on.

In the far corner of the room, hidden in the deep shadows beneath a side table, a section of the floor lifted silently. The trap door—an escape route Wan had installed years ago and then forgotten about—opened just wide enough to admit a human form.

The Ghost of Hong Kong emerged from the darkness below like a wraith materializing from the underworld. She moved with absolute silence, her black tactical gear rendering her nearly invisible in the unlit portions of the room. Her face was covered by a balaclava, only her eyes visible—dark, focused, utterly calm. In her hands, she carried a suppressed pistol, the weapon an extension of her body.

Wan was still talking, his voice rising with a mixture of fear and bravado. "You think I'm afraid? You think Hu Wan fears some ghost story? I've killed better than you. I've—"

He turned, perhaps sensing something, perhaps just nervous energy making him check his flanks. His eyes widened as he registered the figure standing in the shadows behind him, the pistol already rising to aim at his center mass.

"No—" he started to say, trying to swing the MP5 around.

The Ghost fired three times in rapid succession, the suppressed shots making soft coughing sounds that seemed impossibly quiet after the cacophony of the firefight outside. The first round took Wan in the chest, punching through his sternum. The second caught him in the throat as he staggered backward. The third, delivered with surgical precision as he fell, entered just above his left eye.

Hu Wan collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, the MP5 clattering from his nerveless fingers. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud, blood pooling beneath him in the shaft of light that had so recently illuminated Kam's captivity.

The Ghost moved immediately to Kam's side, holstering her pistol and producing a set of lock picks from a pouch on her tactical vest. Her hands worked with practiced efficiency on the chains binding Kam's wrists, the locks clicking open one by one.

"Thank you," Kam said softly, rubbing her freed wrists. "I knew a great enemy would fall tonight."

The Ghost paused, glancing at Kam with an expression that might have been curiosity. When she spoke, her voice was low and controlled, carrying a slight British accent that spoke of international education and careful cultivation. "Your great enemy. Not his."

"The cards don't lie," Kam said carefully.

The Ghost returned to working on the chains, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. "The brothels in Chiang Mai," she said, her tone conversational but edged with something harder. "Seventeen girls, the youngest barely thirteen. Wan's investment portfolio was quite detailed once I accessed his financial records. That's why I came for him."

"He liked to brag," Kam said, her voice hardening. "About his business ventures. About how much money there was in selling children. He thought I was just his fortune-teller, his exotic pet."

Another lock clicked open. The Ghost moved to the ankle chains. "Men like Wan always underestimate the people they cage." She glanced up. "How long did he keep you here?"

"Three months," Kam said. "Reading his fortune. Warning him about his enemies. Telling him what he wanted to hear." She paused, then added quietly, "And what he needed to hear."

The Ghost's hands stilled for just a moment, then continued their work. "What he needed to hear?"

Kam met her eyes. "I told him the Ghost would rise tonight. I told him to watch the door. I made sure he was looking in exactly the wrong direction."

The final chain fell away, and Kam was free. She swayed slightly, months of captivity and malnutrition taking their toll. The Ghost caught her, steadying her with a firm hand, then produced a dark jacket from her pack and draped it over Kam's shoulders.

"Clever," the Ghost said, studying Kam's face. "But how did you know I would come tonight? How did you know I would come at all?"

Kam took a breath, her legs trembling beneath her. "Because I called to you."

The Ghost went very still. "Called to me."

"I've been reaching out for weeks," Kam said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sending everything I could—the layout of the compound, Wan's routines, the trap door. I knew you were hunting him. I knew you would come."

For a long moment, the Ghost simply stared at her. Then something shifted in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or confirmation of something she'd been trying to rationalize. "The visions," she said softly. " They came from you."

"Yes."

The Ghost backed away slightly, processing this revelation. Then, cool and professional again: "Can you walk?"

"How did they come through?" Kam asked.

The Ghost's expression grew distant, remembering. "At first, I thought I was losing my mind. Three weeks ago, I was doing my evening meditation—I practice yoga, helps maintain focus for the work—and suddenly I saw this room. Not imagined it. Saw it. The skylight, the cards, your face. And I heard a name: Hu Wan."

She moved toward the trap door, checking it with her flashlight, but continued speaking. "The images kept coming. Always when my mind was quiet. During savasana after a session. In that space between sleeping and waking. I'd see the compound layout, the guard rotations, the forgotten passages beneath the building. It was like watching surveillance footage, except the camera was inside my head."

"I wasn't sure you were receiving them," Kam said, following her on unsteady legs. "I just kept pushing, kept sending everything I could."

"I tried to ignore it at first," the Ghost admitted. "Thought it was stress or some kind of psychological break. But the information was too specific, too detailed. And when I cross-referenced the name Hu Wan with my existing intelligence on trafficking networks, everything aligned. You were giving me everything I needed to find him." .." She met Kam's eyes and asked again, "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Kam said, though her legs trembled. "Yes, I can walk. I can run if I have to."

"We'll take it slow," the Ghost said. She gestured toward the trap door. "

Kam looked down at Wan's body one last time. In death, he seemed smaller, less monstrous. Just another predator who had finally met something higher on the food chain. 

"The zodiac was right," she said quietly. "The Ghost rose from the earth. The great enemy fell."

The Ghost glanced at her, something that might have been respect flickering in those dark eyes. "Your gift is real."

"Yes," Kam said. "Though not in the way Wan believed. I can't see the future, not exactly. But I can feel the currents of fate, the patterns of cause and effect. And I can sometimes... nudge them. Guide them toward the outcome that needs to happen."

"You guided me here."

"I called to you," Kam corrected. "You chose to answer. You chose to hunt Wan. I just... made sure you had the information you needed. Made sure he would be exactly where you needed him to be."

The Ghost nodded slowly, processing this. Then she gestured toward the trap door. "We should go. The authorities will be here soon. I made sure to trigger several alarms on my way out."

Kam moved toward the escape route, then paused. "The other girls. The ones in the brothels. Will they—"

"Already handled," the Ghost said. "I hit Wan's operations in Chiang Mai three days ago. The girls are safe, being processed through legitimate aid organizations. Wan's partners are either dead or in custody." She paused. "That's why he was so paranoid tonight. He knew I was coming for him. He just didn't know how."

"Because I told him," Kam said, a small smile playing at her lips. "I told him the Ghost would rise. I told him to watch the door. I made sure he was looking in exactly the wrong direction."

"Clever," the Ghost said, and there was genuine admiration in her voice. "You're wasted as a fortune-teller."

"Perhaps," Kam said, beginning to descend into the passage below. "But the cards don't lie. They told me a ghost would rise to strike down my enemy. They told me I would be free. They told me that justice, however delayed, would come."

The Ghost followed her down, pulling the trap door closed above them. In the darkness of the passage, lit only by the Ghost's small flashlight, they moved away from the room where Hu Wan's body lay cooling in its shaft of light.

"Where will you go?" the Ghost asked as they navigated the narrow tunnel.

"I have family in Taiwan," Kam said. "If they still remember me. If they'll take me back after..." She trailed off, the weight of her captivity settling over her.

"They'll remember you," the Ghost said with quiet certainty. "And I'll make sure you get there safely." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "What you did—reaching out to me like that—it wasn't just impressive. It was useful. Intelligence I could trust completely because it came from the source itself."

Kam glanced back at her in the dim light. "You want readings."

"I might," the Ghost admitted. "My work requires knowing things others don't. And you have a gift for seeing what's hidden." There was a beat of silence, then: "I don't usually work for free, and I suspect you don't either. But tonight... let's call it an introduction. A demonstration of what we might offer each other."

"You're proposing an arrangement," Kam said, understanding dawning.

"I'm proposing we stay in touch," the Ghost said. "You helped me tonight more than you know. Handed me Hu Wan on a silver platter. In the future, when I need to see clearly, I'll know who to ask. And when you need a ghost to rise..." She let the sentence hang.

"I'll know who to call," Kam finished softly.

They emerged from the tunnel into the humid Bangkok night, the compound behind them already alive with the wail of approaching sirens. The Ghost led Kam to a nondescript motorcycle parked in the shadows of a nearby alley, producing a second helmet and a leather jacket from the storage compartment.

As Kam settled onto the bike behind her unlikely savior, she felt the psychic currents shifting around them, the patterns of fate realigning now that Wan's dark influence had been removed from the world. She had been right to reach out, right to trust in the legend of the Ghost of Hong Kong.

The Ghost started the engine, the sound a low purr in the darkness. "Hold on," she said.

Kam wrapped her arms around the Ghost's waist, feeling the solid reality of her rescuer, this woman who had seemed like nothing more than a myth until tonight.

"Thank you," she said again, the words inadequate but sincere. "For hearing me. For coming."

The Ghost didn't respond, guiding the motorcycle out of the alley and into the flow of late-night traffic. They disappeared into the neon-lit streets of Bangkok, two women bound by violence and liberation, by psychic connection and shared purpose. Behind them, Hu Wan's compound blazed with police lights, and somewhere on the top floor of the house, in a shaft of light, on a mahogany table, ancient symbols spoke of justice delivered and debts repaid.

--

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like this other Ghost of Hong Kong story that can be read here at the blog. You might even consider getting a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, which is full of stories you can only find there!