A Tale of the Christmas Dragon by Steve Miller

Brigid, the Dragon Who Loves Christmas, has been traveling the Earth for millenia, so there are thousands upon thousands of stories to tell. This is one of them. (You can read another in Gifts from the Christmas Dragon, if you like this one.)

The Dragon's Gift

The afternoon sun filtered through silk curtains that billowed in the warm Persian breeze, casting dancing shadows across the mosaic floor of the palace's eastern hall. Brigid reclined on a mountain of cushions, her small frame nearly swallowed by the opulent fabrics—crimson and gold, azure and emerald, all threaded with silver that caught the light like captured starfire. A servant girl, no more than fourteen, knelt beside her with a bowl of grapes, each one perfectly round and glistening with moisture from the palace's underground springs.

"Another," Brigid said lazily, opening her mouth like a baby bird.

The girl obliged, placing a grape on Brigid's tongue with practiced precision. The dragon—for that is what she was, though no one looking at her would guess it—closed her eyes and savored the burst of sweetness. In this form, she appeared to be nothing more than a slight woman, perhaps in her second decade of life, with skin so pale it seemed she'd never seen the sun, despite the constellation of freckles that covered every visible inch of her. Her hair was her most striking feature: a wild shock of red that refused to be tamed, cut short in a style that would have scandalized the Persian nobility had they not known better than to comment on a dragon's choices.

She wore a simple linen shift, white as bone, with no jewelry save for a single copper band around her left wrist—a trinket she'd picked up in Alexandria three centuries ago, or was it four? Time had a way of blurring when you'd lived as long as she had.

"My lady," came a voice from the doorway. Darius, her chamberlain, bowed low. He was a good man, efficient and discreet, which were the only qualities Brigid truly valued in her household staff. "You have visitors."

Brigid cracked one eye open. "Tell them I'm indisposed."

"They are Magi, my lady. From the East. They seek permission to cross your lands."

 
Both eyes opened now. Brigid sat up, causing an avalanche of cushions to tumble to the floor. The servant girl scrambled to retrieve them, but Brigid waved her away. "Magi? How many?"

"Three, my lady. An aged master, a man in his prime, and an apprentice."

Brigid's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though there was too much tooth in it to be entirely friendly. "Well, well. It's been an age since I've had proper magicians at my door. Most of them know better than to disturb me these days." She swung her legs off the cushions, her bare feet touching the cool mosaic. "I suppose I should see what they want. Send them to the garden courtyard. And Darius—have the kitchen prepare refreshments. If they've come all the way from the East, they'll be hungry."

"At once, my lady."

Brigid stood, stretching like a cat. She padded barefoot through the palace, her feet making no sound on the stone floors. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as she passed, their eyes downcast. They knew what she was, of course. Everyone in her household knew. But they also knew that she paid well, asked little, and had never once eaten any of them, which made her a far better employer than most of the Persian nobility.

The garden courtyard was her favorite part of the palace. She'd designed it herself, modeling it after a garden she'd seen in Babylon before that city had fallen to ruin. A fountain burbled in the center, surrounded by beds of roses, jasmine, and herbs whose names she'd forgotten. Date palms provided shade, and the air was thick with the scent of orange blossoms. Stone benches lined the perimeter, and it was to one of these that Brigid made her way, settling herself with her legs tucked beneath her.

The three Magi entered a few moments later, escorted by Darius.

The eldest was a man who had clearly seen many decades, his beard white as snow and reaching nearly to his waist. He wore robes of deep purple, embroidered with symbols that Brigid recognized as Zoroastrian, though there were other markings woven in—older symbols, from traditions that predated the Prophet by millennia. His eyes were sharp despite his age, and they fixed on Brigid with an intensity that suggested he saw more than her human form.

The second was perhaps forty, with a neatly trimmed black beard and the bearing of a scholar. His robes were simpler, dark blue with silver trim, and he carried a leather satchel that bulged with scrolls and instruments. He had the look of a man who spent his nights studying the stars and his days debating philosophy.

The youngest couldn't have been more than twenty. He was clean-shaven in the Roman style, with nervous eyes that darted around the courtyard as if cataloging every detail. His robes were the plainest of the three—undyed wool with a simple rope belt—but he wore them with a pride that suggested he'd only recently earned the right to call himself a Magus.

"My lady Brigid," the eldest said, bowing deeply. "We are honored by your hospitality."

"You know my name," Brigid observed. "But I don't know yours."

"I am Melchior," the old man said. "This is Caspar"—he gestured to the man in his prime—"and our young companion is Balthazar."

"Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar," Brigid repeated, tasting the names. "You've come a long way. Sit, please. My servants will bring food and drink."

The three Magi settled themselves on the benches opposite Brigid. As if summoned by her words, servants appeared with trays laden with dates, figs, flatbread, cheese, and cups of cool water flavored with mint. The Magi accepted the refreshments with grateful nods, and for a few moments, the only sound was the fountain and the distant call of birds.

"So," Brigid said, once they'd had a chance to eat. "You seek permission to cross my lands. Where are you headed?"

"Judea," Melchior said. "To Bethlehem, specifically."

Brigid raised an eyebrow. "Bethlehem? That's quite a journey. What business do three Magi have in a backwater town in Judea?"

Caspar leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement. "We have been studying the stars, my lady. For months, we have observed a conjunction of planets—Jupiter and Saturn, meeting in the constellation of Pisces. It is a sign of great significance."

"A sign of what?" Brigid asked, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer.

"A birth," Melchior said quietly. "A powerful force for good is entering the world. A king, perhaps. Or a prophet. Or something greater still. We have come to honor his arrival with gifts and praise."

Brigid was silent for a long moment. She reached for a cup of water and drank deeply, buying herself time to think. When she set the cup down, her expression was unreadable.

"A powerful force for good," she repeated. "In Bethlehem."

"Yes, my lady," Balthazar said eagerly. It was the first time he'd spoken, and his voice cracked slightly with youth and enthusiasm. "The signs are unmistakable. This child will change the world."

"They always do," Brigid murmured. She looked at the three men, studying them. They were sincere, she could see that. They truly believed they were on a sacred mission. And perhaps they were. She'd lived long enough to know that the universe had a sense of humor, and that prophecies had a way of fulfilling themselves in the most unexpected ways.

"You know what I am," she said. It wasn't a question.

Melchior nodded. "We do. You are Brigid the Dragon, one of the eldest of your kind. You have walked this earth for longer than any human civilization. Your power is vast, and your wisdom is deep."

"Flattery," Brigid said, but there was no heat in it. "You want something more than just permission to cross my lands."

Caspar smiled. "You are perceptive, my lady. We would be honored if you would join us on our journey. A being of your power and knowledge would be a fitting witness to this momentous event."

Brigid laughed. It started as a chuckle, low in her throat, but it grew until it filled the courtyard, echoing off the walls. The Magi exchanged glances, uncertain whether they should be offended or alarmed. The servants, who knew their mistress better, simply waited for the laughter to subside.

When Brigid finally caught her breath, she wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, that's rich. You want me to come with you to honor a powerful force for good?" She shook her head, still grinning. "Gentlemen, I appreciate the invitation, truly I do. But I'm going to have to decline."

"May I ask why, my lady?" Melchior said carefully.

Brigid's smile faded, replaced by something more somber. She leaned back against the bench, her eyes distant. "The last time I tried to visit with a so-called powerful force for good, I ended up making him mad enough to destroy the most advanced civilization on Earth at the time."

The three Magi stared at her. Balthazar's mouth had fallen open slightly.

"You're speaking of Atlantis," Caspar said slowly.

"I am," Brigid confirmed. "Though that wasn't what they called it. The name has been corrupted over the centuries, passed down through stories and legends until it bears little resemblance to the truth. But yes, I'm speaking of that place. That shining city of crystal and bronze, where they'd mastered arts that your modern world can barely imagine. Where they'd learned to harness the very forces of nature, to bend reality to their will."

"What happened?" Balthazar whispered.

Brigid was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the fountain. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost wistful. "I was younger then. Not young, mind you—I was already ancient by human standards—but younger than I am now. Less cautious. Less... jaded. I heard rumors of this great civilization, this place where humans had achieved wonders. And I was curious. Dragons are curious creatures by nature, you see. It's both our greatest strength and our greatest weakness."

She paused, reaching for a fig from one of the trays. She turned it over in her fingers, examining it as if she'd never seen one before.

"So I went to see for myself. I took this form—or one very like it—and I walked among them. And they were magnificent, truly. They'd built towers that scraped the sky. They'd created machines that could think and reason. They'd even begun to unlock the secrets of immortality. But there was a darkness at the heart of it all, a rot that I didn't see at first."

"What kind of darkness?" Melchior asked.

"Pride," Brigid said simply. "Hubris. They'd achieved so much that they'd begun to believe they were gods themselves. They'd forgotten that there were powers in the universe greater than their machines and their magic. And when I tried to warn them—when I tried to tell them that they were courting disaster—they laughed at me. Called me a primitive. A relic of a bygone age."

She bit into the fig, chewing slowly. "So I left. I returned to my true form and I flew away, back to my lair in the mountains. And I should have stopped there. I should have let them face whatever consequences their arrogance would bring. But I couldn't let it go."

"But you said you made someone mad enough to destroy them," Caspar said. "That you were responsible."

Brigid's expression darkened. "I was. Because instead of accepting that I'd done what I could—that I'd warned them and they'd rejected me—I made a choice. I went to see him. The one they called the Maker, the Architect, the First Cause. Different cultures have different names for him. You'd probably call him God, though that's a simplification."

She set down the fig, her appetite gone. "I told him what I'd seen. I told him that the humans in that city had grown too powerful, too arrogant. That they were a danger to themselves and to the world. And I knew—I knew—what he might do. But I went anyway. I couldn't bear that they'd dismissed me, that they'd laughed at a dragon's wisdom. So I reported them like a petulant child running to a parent."

She finished wiping her fingers on her shift, the gesture mechanical. "And he listened. And then he acted. He sent the waters to swallow that city, to erase it from the face of the earth. Every tower, every machine, every person—gone in a single night. And it was my fault. Not because I warned them—that was right. But because I couldn't walk away when they refused to listen. Because I went to the Maker and set that destruction in motion when I should have simply let them go on."

The courtyard was silent save for the fountain. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.

"I've carried that guilt for a very long time," Brigid said quietly. "Longer than you can imagine. And I swore to myself that I would never again interfere in the affairs of powerful forces for good. Because in my experience, those forces have a way of causing just as much destruction as the forces for evil. Sometimes more, because they believe they're justified."

Melchior stroked his beard thoughtfully. "With respect, my lady, I don't think this is the same situation. We're not going to warn anyone or to interfere. We're simply going to honor a birth. To acknowledge the arrival of something sacred."

"And what if your acknowledgment changes things?" Brigid asked. "What if your gifts and your praise set events in motion that lead to suffering? What if this child grows up believing he's destined for greatness, and that belief leads him down a dark path?"

"Then that is the risk we take," Caspar said firmly. "But we cannot let fear of what might happen prevent us from honoring what is. The stars have spoken, my lady. This birth is significant. To ignore it would be to turn our backs on our sacred duty as seekers of wisdom."

Brigid studied the three men. They were so certain, so full of conviction. She envied them that, in a way. It had been centuries since she'd felt that kind of certainty about anything.

"You're going to go whether I give you permission or not, aren't you?" she said.

Melchior smiled. "We would prefer to have your blessing, my lady. But yes, we will go regardless. This is too important."

Brigid sighed. "Very well. You have my permission to cross my lands. I'll have my people provide you with supplies—food, water, fresh horses if you need them. The route through the desert can be treacherous, and I'd hate for you to die of thirst before you reach your precious child."

"Thank you, my lady," Balthazar said, bowing deeply. "Your generosity is—"

"I'm not finished," Brigid interrupted. She stood, pacing to the fountain. She dipped her hand in the water, watching the ripples spread outward. "I won't go with you. I can't. But I want you to take something from me."

She reached into a pocket of her shift—a pocket that shouldn't have been there, that existed in a space slightly adjacent to normal reality—and withdrew a small leather pouch. She hefted it in her hand, feeling the weight of the coins inside.

"Gold," she said, tossing the pouch to Melchior. The old Magus caught it deftly. "Twelve coins, freshly minted. Add them to whatever gifts you're planning to bring. Tell the child's parents it's from a friend who couldn't make the journey."

Melchior opened the pouch, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the coins. They were beautiful things, stamped with images of dragons and stars, made from gold so pure it seemed to glow with its own inner light.

"This is too generous, my lady," he said.

"It's not generous at all," Brigid said. "It's guilt money. It's me trying to balance the scales, just a little bit. If this child really is a force for good, then maybe my gold will help him. And if he's not..." She shrugged. "Well, at least his parents will be able to afford a decent life for him."

Caspar stood, bowing. "We will deliver your gift with honor, my lady. And we will tell the child's parents of your kindness."

"Don't tell them anything about me," Brigid said sharply. "Just give it with the rest of the gifts. That's all. Let them conclude what they will conclude."

"As you wish, my lady."

Brigid turned away from them, facing the fountain. "Darius will see to your supplies. You should leave at first light tomorrow. The desert is cooler in the morning, and you'll make better time."

"Thank you, my lady," Melchior said. "May we ask one more question before we go?"

Brigid didn't turn around. "You may ask. I may not answer."

"Do you truly believe that powerful forces for good are as dangerous as forces for evil?"

Brigid was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I believe that power is dangerous, period. Good, evil—those are just labels we put on things to make ourselves feel better about our choices. The truth is that anyone with enough power to change the world will change it in ways that hurt some people, no matter how noble their intentions. The only question is whether the good they do outweighs the harm."

She finally turned to face them, and there was something ancient and terrible in her eyes, something that reminded them that she was not human, had never been human, and saw the world through a lens they could never fully understand.

"I hope that child is everything you believe him to be," she said. "I hope he brings light and joy and peace to the world. But I've lived long enough to know that hope is a dangerous thing. It makes us blind to the costs of our dreams."

Melchior bowed one final time. "Then I will hope for both of us, my lady. And perhaps, in time, you will see that not all powerful forces lead to destruction."

"Perhaps," Brigid said, though her tone suggested she didn't believe it.

The three Magi left the courtyard, escorted by Darius. Brigid stood by the fountain for a long time after they'd gone, watching the water and thinking about cities that had fallen, civilizations that had crumbled, and all the times she'd tried to do the right thing only to make everything worse.

Finally, she returned to her cushions in the eastern hall. The servant girl was still there, waiting patiently with the bowl of grapes.

"Another," Brigid said, settling back into the pillows.

The girl placed a grape on her tongue, and Brigid closed her eyes, savoring the sweetness. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Somewhere to the west, three Magi were preparing for a journey that would take them to Bethlehem, to witness the birth of a child who would change the world.

Brigid tried not to think about what that change might cost, about Atlantis sinking beneath the waves, or about all the other times she'd seen hope turn to ash.

But she thought about them anyway. She always did.

And in her pocket—that impossible pocket that existed between moments—the weight of guilt sat heavy, even though she'd given away twelve gold coins to try to lighten it.

Some burdens, she'd learned, could never be set down.

Some mistakes could never be unmade.

And some dragons could never stop being what they were: ancient, powerful, and forever haunted by the memories of all the things they'd seen and done and failed to prevent.

A Ghost of Hong Kong Story by Steve Miller

This is a tale of a legendary assassin. You can find many more about her in The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology.

The Ghost in the Fire

The luxury high-rise known as Azure Heights pierced the Hong Kong skyline like a shard of crystalline ambition, its forty-eight floors of premium condominiums housing some of the city's wealthiest residents. At three in the morning, the building slept in air-conditioned silence, its inhabitants dreaming behind reinforced glass and electronic security systems that promised absolute safety.

Mae Ling moved through that silence like smoke through still air.

The Ghost of Hong Kong—a name whispered in certain circles with equal parts fear and respect—had bypassed the building's elaborate security with the ease of long practice. The night guard would wake in four hours with a splitting headache and no memory of the woman who had pressed a pressure point behind his ear. The security cameras looped footage from the previous night, showing empty corridors where Mae Ling now walked with measured, silent steps.

She wore black tactical clothing that absorbed light rather than reflected it, her slight frame moving with the fluid economy of a predator. Her target occupied the penthouse—all of the forty-eighth floor, a sprawling monument to wealth acquired through the suffering of others. Chen Wei-Tang, known in less polite company as the Viper, had built his fortune on human misery. His trafficking network stretched from rural China to the brothels of Southeast Asia, a pipeline of stolen lives and broken dreams that generated millions in monthly revenue.

Mae Ling had spent two months documenting his crimes, following the trail of disappeared women and children, interviewing the few survivors who had escaped his organization's grip. The evidence was overwhelming, damning, and completely useless in any court that mattered. Chen had purchased his immunity through careful bribes and strategic blackmail, his connections reaching into the highest levels of law enforcement and government.

The legal system had failed. Mae Ling would not.

She reached the forty-seventh floor via the emergency stairs, her breathing controlled and steady despite the climb. The stairwell door opened silently—she had oiled the hinges during a reconnaissance visit two days prior, posing as a potential buyer touring the building. Every detail mattered in her profession. Any oversight could prove fatal.

The penthouse elevator required a special key card, but Mae Ling had no intention of using it. Instead, she moved to the service access panel concealed behind an abstract painting in the forty-seventh floor corridor. The panel opened to reveal a maintenance ladder leading up to the penthouse level's mechanical systems. She climbed with practiced efficiency, her gloved hands finding purchase on the metal rungs.

The penthouse spread before her like a temple to excess when she emerged into its lower level. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Hong Kong's glittering harbor, the city lights reflecting off the water in patterns that would have been beautiful if Mae Ling had allowed herself to appreciate such things. She didn't. Beauty was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous.

The interior design favored minimalist luxury—white marble floors, contemporary furniture in muted tones, abstract art that probably cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Mae Ling moved through the space with her senses fully engaged, cataloging exits and potential threats, her hand resting near the suppressed pistol holstered at her hip.

The penthouse was empty.

Not just unoccupied—empty in a way that suggested deliberate absence. No personal items cluttered the surfaces. No clothing hung in the master bedroom's walk-in closet. The refrigerator contained nothing but bottled water and champagne. The entire space felt staged, like a showroom rather than a residence.

Wrong, Mae Ling thought, her instincts screaming warnings that her conscious mind was only beginning to process. This is wrong.

The massive television screen mounted on the living room wall flickered to life with a soft electronic chime. Mae Ling's hand moved to her weapon, but she didn't draw it. Not yet.

Chen Wei-Tang's face filled the screen, his features arranged in an expression of smug satisfaction that made Mae Ling's jaw tighten. He sat in what appeared to be a comfortable office, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, his expensive suit perfectly tailored to his stocky frame.

"Ghost of Hong Kong," he said, his Cantonese flavored with the accent of mainland China. "I'm honored that you've come all this way to visit me. Unfortunately, I won't be able to receive you in person. You understand, I'm sure—one can't be too careful when dealing with professional killers."

Mae Ling remained motionless, her mind racing through possibilities and contingencies. Pre-recorded message. He knew she was coming. The question was how much he knew and what preparations he had made.

"I've been aware of your interest in my business affairs for some time now," Chen continued, swirling his drink with casual arrogance. "Your reputation is impressive, I'll admit. The ghost who walks through walls, who strikes without warning, who has never failed to eliminate her targets. Quite the legend. But legends, I've found, are just stories we tell ourselves. And stories can have unhappy endings."

He leaned forward, his smile widening. "You're trapped, Ghost. This building is about to become your funeral pyre. Even now, fire is spreading from the ground floor upward, following a path I've carefully prepared. The bamboo scaffolding that surrounds Azure Heights—ostensibly for renovation work—has been soaked in accelerants. The fire will climb faster than you can descend. The emergency systems have been disabled. The alarms won't sound. And by the time the fire department arrives, you'll be ash, along with everyone else unfortunate enough to live in this building."

Mae Ling's blood turned to ice. Everyone else. Hundreds of residents. Families. Children. Sleeping peacefully while death climbed toward them through the night.

"I want you to know," Chen said, his voice dropping to a intimate whisper, "that this is personal. You've cost me money, Ghost. You've killed my associates, disrupted my operations, made me look weak in front of my competitors. This is the price of your interference. Your death, and the deaths of everyone in this building. It's a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can challenge the Viper."

The screen went dark.

Mae Ling was already moving, her professional detachment shattered by the magnitude of Chen's revenge. She sprinted to the penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the building's exterior. The bamboo scaffolding wrapped around Azure Heights like a skeletal embrace, the traditional construction method still common in Hong Kong despite the building's modern design. From her vantage point forty-eight floors up, she could see the orange glow beginning to spread at the structure's base, flames licking upward along the bamboo poles with terrifying speed.

The accelerants Chen had mentioned were doing their work. The fire climbed with unnatural velocity, consuming the dried bamboo and spreading across the building's facade in a pattern that suggested careful planning. This wasn't random arson—this was calculated murder on a massive scale.

Mae Ling's training took over, years of survival instincts kicking in to wall off the panic and horror. She had perhaps ten minutes before the fire reached the upper floors. Maybe less. The building's residents were sleeping, unaware of the death climbing toward them through the night. No alarms sounded. No sprinklers activated. Chen had been thorough in his preparations.

She pulled out her encrypted phone and dialed emergency services, her Cantonese crisp and urgent as she reported the fire at Azure Heights. The operator's questions came rapid-fire, but Mae Ling cut through the protocol with the authority of someone who expected to be obeyed. "Forty-eight story residential building. Fire spreading via external scaffolding. Hundreds of residents in immediate danger. Fire suppression systems disabled. Send everything you have. Now."

She disconnected before the operator could ask for her name, already moving toward the penthouse's private elevator. The stairwells would be her fastest route down, her best chance to warn residents floor by floor as she descended. But when she wrenched open the emergency stairwell door, smoke billowed out in a choking cloud that sent her stumbling backward.

Impossible. The fire couldn't have climbed that fast. Unless—

Mae Ling's tactical mind supplied the answer even as her lungs burned from the smoke she'd inhaled. Chen had set multiple ignition points. The scaffolding fire was the visible threat, the dramatic spectacle. But he'd also started fires inside the building, probably in the stairwells and elevator shafts, ensuring that anyone who tried to evacuate would be trapped by smoke and flames.

She slammed the stairwell door shut and moved to the penthouse's other emergency exit. Same result—thick smoke pouring through the gaps around the door, the metal already warm to the touch. The building was being consumed from multiple directions simultaneously, a coordinated attack designed to leave no survivors.

 Mae Ling forced herself to think past the horror of the situation. Panic was death. Emotion was death. She needed to survive, and she needed to find a way to help the building's residents survive. The fire department would arrive soon, but "soon" might not be fast enough. The smoke alone could kill hundreds before the first ladder truck reached the scene.

She ran back through the penthouse, her eyes scanning for anything useful. Chen had cleared out his personal belongings, but the space itself remained furnished. She moved through rooms with desperate efficiency, opening closets and storage areas, searching for something—anything—that could provide an escape route.

The rooftop. The building had a rooftop garden and helipad. If she could reach it, she might be able to signal for help, might be able to coordinate with emergency responders from above rather than being trapped inside the burning structure.

Mae Ling found the access stairs to the roof behind a door marked "Private—Authorized Personnel Only." She took the steps three at a time, her lungs grateful for the relatively clear air. The rooftop door opened with a heavy clang, and she emerged into the humid Hong Kong night.

The rooftop garden spread across half of the building's top floor, an elaborate arrangement of planters and walking paths designed to provide residents with an outdoor oasis in the sky. The helipad occupied the other half, its painted circle gleaming white under the rooftop's security lights. Mae Ling ran to the edge of the building and looked down.

The sight stole her breath.

Fire engulfed the lower floors of Azure Heights, flames climbing the bamboo scaffolding with horrifying speed. The structure burned like a massive torch, the fire spreading upward in a pattern that suggested it would reach the roof within minutes. Heat rose in shimmering waves, distorting the air and carrying with it the acrid smell of burning bamboo and accelerants. Below, she could see lights beginning to come on in neighboring buildings, people waking to the spectacle of a skyscraper burning in the heart of Hong Kong.

But no lights came on in Azure Heights itself. The residents slept on, unaware, while death climbed toward them through the smoke-filled corridors and stairwells.

Mae Ling pulled out her phone again, but before she could dial, she heard the distant wail of sirens. The fire department was responding. But they would arrive to find a building already engulfed, its internal fire suppression systems disabled, its residents trapped behind doors they might not even know they needed to open.

She needed to escape. Needed to survive so she could hunt down Chen Wei-Tang and make him pay for this atrocity. But how? The stairwells were death traps. The elevators would be disabled. The fire was climbing too fast for any conventional rescue.

Mae Ling ran back across the rooftop, her mind racing through possibilities. Chen had planned this trap carefully, but he had made one critical error—he had assumed she would panic, would waste precious time trying to escape down through the building. He hadn't considered that she might go up instead of down.

The penthouse. Chen had cleared out his personal belongings, but what about the building's maintenance equipment? What about emergency supplies that might be stored on the roof level?

She found the storage room adjacent to the helipad, its door secured with a simple padlock that she broke with a sharp strike from her elbow. The room contained the expected maintenance supplies—tools, cleaning equipment, spare parts for the rooftop's irrigation system. But in the back corner, partially disassembled and covered with a tarp, she found something unexpected.

A hang glider.

The device lay in pieces, its aluminum frame separated from its fabric wing, the control bar detached. Mae Ling stared at it for a heartbeat, her mind processing the implications. Someone—probably Chen himself—had kept this here as a hobby, a toy for the wealthy man who owned the sky. The irony was almost poetic.

She had perhaps five minutes before the fire reached the roof. Maybe less. The heat was already intensifying, the air shimmering with thermal currents rising from the burning building below. Mae Ling had never assembled a hang glider before, had never even flown one, but she had jumped from aircraft, had parachuted into hostile territory, had trusted her life to equipment and physics in situations where failure meant death.

This was just another impossible situation. And Mae Ling specialized in the impossible.

Her hands moved with desperate efficiency, fitting the aluminum tubes together, her mind working through the logic of the device's construction. The frame formed a triangular structure, the control bar attaching at the apex. The fabric wing stretched across the frame, secured with clips and tension cables. She worked without conscious thought, her body moving through the assembly process with the same focused intensity she brought to every task.

Three minutes. The rooftop's temperature was rising noticeably now, the heat from below creating updrafts that tugged at her clothing. Smoke began to seep through ventilation grates, wisps of gray that would soon become choking clouds.

The hang glider took shape under her hands. She secured the last connection, tested the control bar's movement, checked the wing's tension. It wasn't perfect—she had no way to verify that every component was properly assembled—but it would have to be enough.

Two minutes. The fire had reached the upper floors now, flames visible through the penthouse windows. The glass would shatter soon from the heat, turning the rooftop into an inferno.

Mae Ling lifted the hang glider, feeling its weight, testing its balance. The device was designed for recreational flight from hilltops and cliffs, not for emergency escapes from burning skyscrapers. But the principle was the same—use the wind and thermal currents to generate lift, control descent through weight shifts and the control bar.

She ran toward the edge of the building, the hang glider's frame gripped in both hands, the control bar positioned for launch. The heat rising from the burning structure created powerful updrafts, dangerous and unpredictable, but also potentially useful if she could harness them correctly.

One minute. The rooftop door exploded outward as pressure built inside the stairwell, flames and smoke billowing into the night sky. The helipad's painted surface began to blister from the heat.

Mae Ling reached the building's edge and didn't hesitate. She launched herself into the void, the hang glider's wing catching the rising thermal currents with a violent jerk that nearly tore the control bar from her hands. The sudden lift threw her upward and sideways, the glider spinning in the turbulent air, completely out of control.

She fought the spin with desperate strength, shifting her weight and pulling the control bar, trying to stabilize the craft against forces that wanted to tear it apart. The heat from the burning building created a column of rising air that buffeted the glider like a leaf in a hurricane. Mae Ling's arms screamed with the effort of maintaining control, her body swinging wildly beneath the fabric wing.

The glider tilted sickeningly to the left, dropping toward the building's burning facade. Mae Ling could feel the intense heat on her exposed skin, could see the flames reaching toward her like grasping fingers. She pulled hard on the control bar, shifting her weight to the right, fighting to gain altitude and distance from the inferno.

The thermal currents were both salvation and threat. They provided the lift she needed to stay airborne, but they also created turbulence that made controlled flight nearly impossible. The glider bucked and twisted, climbing and dropping in sickening oscillations that left Mae Ling's stomach churning and her grip on the control bar white-knuckled with strain.

She focused on the basics—keep the nose up, maintain airspeed, use weight shifts to control direction. The glider responded sluggishly to her inputs, the turbulent air making every correction an exercise in desperate improvisation. Below her, Azure Heights burned like a massive candle, flames consuming the bamboo scaffolding and spreading across the building's exterior in patterns of orange and red that would have been beautiful if they weren't so horrifying.

The glider caught a particularly strong updraft and shot upward, climbing a hundred feet in seconds before the thermal released it and the craft dropped like a stone. Mae Ling's stomach lurched, her hands fighting to maintain control as the ground rushed up to meet her. She pulled back on the control bar, flaring the wing, converting speed into lift at the last possible moment.

The glider leveled out, now flying away from the burning building, the turbulent air giving way to the relatively stable night breeze that flowed across Hong Kong's harbor. Mae Ling allowed herself a single breath of relief before focusing on the next challenge—landing without killing herself.

The harbor spread below her, its dark water reflecting the city lights and the orange glow of the burning skyscraper. Mae Ling aimed for a park she could see in the distance, a patch of green that offered the possibility of a soft landing. The glider descended in a gradual spiral, losing altitude as she worked to maintain control and airspeed.

Her arms burned with fatigue, her hands cramping from the death grip she maintained on the control bar. The glider wanted to stall, wanted to drop her into the harbor or onto the concrete streets below. She fought it with every ounce of strength and skill she possessed, coaxing the craft toward the park, adjusting her approach with minute weight shifts and control inputs.

The ground rose to meet her faster than she would have liked. Mae Ling flared the wing at the last moment, bleeding off speed, but the landing was still brutal. She hit the grass hard, her legs buckling, the glider's frame collapsing around her as momentum carried her forward in a tumbling roll that left her bruised and gasping.

She lay still for a moment, taking inventory of her body. Nothing broken. Nothing bleeding. Alive.

Mae Ling extracted herself from the tangled wreckage of the hang glider and looked back toward Azure Heights. The building burned against the night sky, a pillar of fire visible for miles. She could hear sirens now, multiple fire trucks converging on the scene, their lights painting the streets in patterns of red and white.

She had survived. But hundreds of others might not have. The thought sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Chen Wei-Tang had turned her into an instrument of mass murder, had used her presence in the building as justification for an atrocity that would claim innocent lives.

Mae Ling melted into the shadows of the park, disappearing before emergency responders could arrive and ask questions she couldn't answer. She needed to regroup, to plan, to find Chen Wei-Tang and make him pay for what he had done.

The Ghost of Hong Kong had failed tonight. But ghosts, she reminded herself, were notoriously difficult to kill.

Two weeks later, she obtained the official incident report. Two hundred and thirty-seven confirmed dead—most succumbing to smoke inhalation before evacuation could begin. Her emergency call, precise and professional, had been too late. Each name felt like a weight, a silent accusation: collateral damage in her relentless persuit of a target and a paycheck. That number—237—would become a permanent scar on her conscience.

***

Three weeks after the fire, Chen Wei-Tang sat in his new office—a penthouse suite in a different building, one with better security—and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The Azure Heights fire had been spectacular, a demonstration of his power and ruthlessness that had sent ripples through Hong Kong's criminal underworld. The Ghost was dead, burned to ash along with two hundred and thirty-seven residents who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Collateral damage. Acceptable losses in the war against those who would challenge his authority.

"The Ghost is dead," he said to the three men seated across from him, his lieutenants in the trafficking operation that continued to generate obscene profits. "Let that be a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can interfere with our business. We are untouchable. We are inevitable."

The men nodded, their expressions carefully neutral. They had learned long ago not to show weakness in front of the Viper, not to question his decisions or methods. Chen had built his empire on fear and violence, and he maintained it through demonstrations of power that left no room for doubt about who held control.

"The authorities are still investigating the fire," one of the lieutenants said, a thin man named Wu who handled the organization's financial operations. "They suspect arson, but they have no evidence linking it to us. The accelerants burned completely, and the building's security systems were disabled before the fire started. As far as they can determine, it was a tragic accident caused by faulty wiring in the renovation scaffolding."

Chen smiled, pleased with his own cleverness. "And the Ghost?"

"No body was recovered," Wu admitted. "But given the intensity of the fire and the number of victims who were burned beyond recognition, that's not surprising. She's presumed dead by those in the know."

"Presumed dead is the same as dead," Chen said, pouring himself a glass of expensive whiskey. "The Ghost of Hong Kong is gone. Her legend ends in fire and failure. I want that story spread through every criminal network in Asia. I want everyone to know what happens to those who challenge the Viper."

The other lieutenants murmured their agreement, raising their own glasses in a toast to their boss's victory. Chen basked in their approval, in the knowledge that he had eliminated a significant threat and reinforced his reputation in a single spectacular act.

His phone rang, the sound cutting through the celebration. Chen glanced at the screen, frowning. Unknown number. He considered ignoring it, but curiosity won out. He answered, putting the phone to his ear.

"Chen Wei-Tang," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Hello, Viper." The voice was female, speaking Cantonese with a Hong Kong accent. Calm. Professional. Familiar.

Fear shot through Chen's chest. "Who is this?"

"You know who this is," Mae Ling said. "Did you really think a fire would kill me? I'm disappointed, Chen. I expected better from someone with your reputation."

Chen's hand tightened on the phone, his knuckles white. His lieutenants noticed his expression change, their own faces reflecting sudden concern. 

"You're dead," Chen said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You burned in Azure Heights."

"I survived," Mae Ling said simply. "And I've spent the last three weeks preparing a gift for you. Actually, it's more accurate to say that the residents of Azure Heights are returning your gift. The two hundred and thirty-seven people you murdered—they wanted you to know that they haven't forgotten."

"What are you talking about?" Chen demanded, but even as he spoke, he smelled it. Smoke. Faint but unmistakable, seeping into the office from somewhere below.

His lieutenants smelled it too. Wu stood abruptly, moving toward the door. "Boss, I think—"

The fire alarm began to wail, a piercing electronic shriek that filled the office with urgent warning. Chen ran to the window and looked down at the street forty floors below. Dark smoke poured from the building's lower levels, thick and black, spreading with unnatural speed.

"No," he whispered, his reflection in the glass showing a face drained of color. "No, this isn't possible."

"I've disabled your building's fire suppression systems," Mae Ling said, her voice calm in his ear despite the chaos erupting around him. "I've blocked the emergency exits. I've set fires in the stairwells and elevator shafts, just like you did at Azure Heights. The only difference is that this building houses your organization's headquarters. Your people. Your operations. Everything you've built."

Chen's mind raced, searching for options, for escape routes. The office had a private elevator, but if Mae Ling had blocked the exits, it would be useless. The windows were reinforced glass, designed to prevent break-ins. They would also prevent breaking out.

"You're bluffing," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You wouldn't kill innocent people. That's not who you are."

"You're right," Mae Ling said. "I evacuated the building's legitimate tenants two hours ago. Anonymous bomb threat. Very effective. The only people left in your building are your employees, Chen. The traffickers. The enforcers. The people who profit from human suffering. I thought it was appropriate that they share your fate."

The smoke was thicker now, visible tendrils seeping under the office door. Chen's lieutenants were panicking, trying the door and finding it locked from the outside, pounding on the reinforced windows with furniture that bounced off without leaving a mark.

"This is murder," Chen said, his voice rising with desperation. "You're no better than me."

"I'm exactly like you," Mae Ling said. "That's what you never understood, Chen. You thought you could use fear as a weapon, could kill innocents to make a point. But fear is a tool that cuts both ways. And now you're going to learn what it feels like to be on the receiving end."

"Wait," Chen said, his professional composure crumbling. "We can make a deal. I have money. Connections. Whatever you want, I can provide it. Just let me out of here."

"The residents of Azure Heights didn't get to make deals," Mae Ling said. "The women and children you trafficked didn't get to negotiate. Why should you?"

Acrid fumes choked the air, gray clouds filling the office and making every breath a struggle. Chen could hear screaming from other parts of the building, his organization's members realizing they were trapped, that the fire was spreading too fast for escape.

"Please," he whispered, all pretense of strength abandoned. "Please, I'm begging you."

"Goodbye, Chen," Mae Ling said. "I hope the fire is everything you imagined it would be."

The line went dead.

Chen dropped the phone, his hands shaking, his mind fragmenting under the weight of terror. The office was an oven now, the heat building, the smoke making every breath a struggle. His lieutenants had collapsed, overcome by smoke inhalation, their bodies sprawled across the expensive carpet.

Through the window, Chen could see fire trucks arriving below, their ladders extending upward. But they would be too late. The fire was spreading too fast, consuming the building from the inside out, just as it had consumed Azure Heights.

Chen Wei-Tang, the Viper, the man who had built an empire on fear and violence, sank to his knees as the smoke filled his lungs.

***

Mae Ling stood on a rooftop several blocks away, watching Chen's building burn. She had told Chen the truth—she had evacuated the building's innocent tenants before setting the fires. The only people who died tonight were those who had chosen to profit from human suffering, who had built their lives on the broken bodies of victims.

It wasn't justice, not really. Justice would have been a fair trial, evidence presented, sentences handed down by impartial judges. But the world didn't work that way, not for people like Chen Wei-Tang, not for victims like Lin.

So Mae Ling had become something else. Not justice, but retribution. Not law, but consequence.

The Ghost of Hong Kong.

She watched the fire trucks battle the blaze, watched the building burn, and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No guilt. For a moment, unbidden, the memory of Azure Heights surfaced—the searing heat against her face as she'd stood on that rooftop, the terror clawing at her throat as flames consumed the building beneath her feet, the desperate leap into darkness with nothing but an untested hang glider between her and death. The phantom sensation of scorching air filled her lungs, and she could almost feel the control bar trembling in her hands again, the sick drop of her stomach as thermal currents threw her skyward.

She pushed the memory down, buried it beneath layers of professional detachment. That night was over. Those 237 deaths were a weight she would carry, but dwelling on them served no purpose. What remained was only the cold certainty that she had done what needed to be done tonight, that she had protected future victims by eliminating those who would have harmed them.

Tomorrow, she would receive another assignment. Another target. More monsters who thought themselves untouchable.

And the Ghost would prove them wrong.

--

If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

'The Ghost of Hong Kong' anthology is now available!

If you've enjoyed the Ghost of Hong Kong stories that have been posted here on the blog over the past few months, you want to get yourself a copy of the latest NUELOW Games release!

The Ghost of Hong Kong short story anthology contains fifteen short stories (twelve of which have never been published before), each of which either highlights a point in the Ghost's bloodsoaked career, or gives us a look at her "after-hours" activities.

Since visitors to the blog may have already read some of the stories included in The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, we're making the book available for you at a discount. Use this link instead of the one above to save a couple bucks!

If you get a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong, please let us know what you think of it, either by posting a comment here or on the listings pages at DriveThruFiction or DriveThruRPG.

The Prestige at Midnight - Fiction by Steve Miller

 Writer's Preface: The first idea for this story came when two words popped into my head: "Stripper Magician". Such a strange thought simply HAD to be explored. The following is what resulted...

The Prestige at Midnight

The spotlight hit Angie Hale like a lover's caress, warm and familiar. She stood center stage at the Velvet Room, wearing nothing but a crimson g-string, a black bow tie, and her signature top hat—the one her grandfather had worn when he performed at the Orpheum back in 1952. The sequins on the hat caught the light and threw fractured rainbows across the faces of the dozen or so patrons still lingering at closing time.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she purred into the microphone, her voice carrying that particular timbre of showmanship that her mentor had drilled into her since she was seven years old. "What you're about to witness is not a trick. It's not an illusion in the traditional sense. It's real magic, performed by someone with nothing up her sleeves. Because she has no sleeves.."

She executed a slow turn, arms extended, letting the audience verify what they already knew: there were no hidden pockets, no concealed apparatus, no place to palm a card or hide a dove. Just bare skin and the kind of confidence that came from ten thousand hours of practice.

The Velvet Room wasn't where Angie had imagined herself when she'd studied under Marcus the Magnificent, or when she'd spent her teenage years perfecting the Zarrow shuffle and the classic pass. But life had a way of shuffling the deck, and she'd learned to play the hand she was dealt. The club paid better than birthday parties, and the audience—once they got past the novelty—actually watched. Really watched. That was more than she could say for the corporate events and wedding receptions where she'd spent her early twenties being ignored.

"For my final effect of the evening," Angie continued, producing a deck of cards from thin air—a simple flourish, but one that still earned appreciative murmurs—"I'll need a volunteer."

A regular named Tommy, a construction worker who came in every Friday, raised his hand. Angie beckoned him forward. This was her closer, the effect that kept people coming back: she would have Tommy select a card, sign it, and then she would make it appear inside a sealed envelope that had been hanging in plain sight above the bar since the beginning of her set.

She was just about to have Tommy select his card when the front door exploded inward.

Three men burst through, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. They wore ski masks and dark clothing, and each carried a gun—not the kind of props Angie used in her bullet catch routine, but real weapons.

"Nobody fucking move!" the largest of the three shouted. His voice was rough, abraded by cigarettes or screaming or both. "Dmitri! Get your ass out here! And shut that music off!"

The music cut out. Candy, one of the other dancers, let out a small scream from where she stood near the dressing room. The bartender, Miguel, slowly raised his hands. Tommy, still standing near the stage, looked like he might faint. The other patrons froze in various stages of confusion and panic.

Angie's heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands remained steady. Years of performing had taught her to control her fear, to channel adrenaline into focus. She assessed the situation with the same analytical eye she used to work out a new routine.

Three assailants. The leader was doing the talking. The other two were flanking him, covering different angles of the room. They were nervous—she could tell by the way the one on the left kept shifting his weight, by the way the one on the right gripped his weapon--the long-gun of the bunch, some sort of semi-automatic long gun-- too tightly. Nervous people made mistakes.

Dmitri emerged from his office at the back, his face already draining of color. He was a large man, ex-military, with hands that could palm a basketball, but right now he looked small.

"You," the leader said, pointing his gun at the club owner. "You thought you could operate in this neighborhood without paying respect to the syndicate? Mr. Castellano sends his regards. You're three weeks late on your payment, and he's tired of waiting."

"I paid," Dmitri said, his voice strained. "I paid what we agreed—"

"The terms changed," the leader interrupted. "Not nearly enough anymore. So we're here to collect what you owe, plus interest, plus a little extra for making us come down here personally. Open the safe. And while we're at it—" he gestured to the room with his weapon "—everyone else empties their pockets too. Call it a convenience fee."

Angie watched as Dmitri moved slowly toward his office, the leader following close behind, gun pressed against his back. The other two robbers kept their weapons trained on the room. There were maybe fifteen people total: staff, dancers, and customers. All of them frozen in various poses of terror.

This was the moment, Angie realized, when she had to make a choice.

She could do nothing. Let them take the money and leave. Hope that "nobody gets hurt" was a promise they intended to keep. That was the smart play, the safe play, the play that any reasonable person would make.

But Angie Hale had spent her entire life doing the unreasonable. She had dedicated herself to an art form that most people dismissed as children's entertainment. She had stripped down to nearly nothing, night after night, to prove that magic was real. She had chosen the hard path, the path of dedication and discipline and endless practice, because she believed in something that most people thought was impossible.

And right now, fifteen people needed the impossible.

She caught Miguel's eye. The bartender had worked at the Velvet Room for six years, and he'd seen her show hundreds of times. He knew her effects, knew her methods—or thought he did. She gave him the smallest nod, then shifted her gaze to the light board. Miguel was smart. He'd understand.

"Hey," Angie called out, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "You guys want to see where the real money is?"

The robber on the left—the nervous one—swung his gun toward her. "Shut up! Get on the ground!"

"You're robbing a strip club at closing time," Angie continued, not moving from her spot center stage. She slowly reached up and removed her top hat, holding it in front of her like an offering. "You'll get what, maybe ten grand? That's not much to bring back to your boss. But what if I told you Dmitri keeps his real stash somewhere you'd never think to look?"

The leader had emerged from the office, dragging Dmitri with him. "What are you talking about?"

Angie smiled. It was the same smile she used when she was about to reveal the final moment of an effect, the moment when the impossible became real. "Dmitri doesn't trust banks. He's old school. Hides his money using methods that go back centuries. And he's got a magician to help him do it."

This was a lie, of course. Dmitri kept his money in a safe like any sensible business owner. But Angie was counting on greed and the universal human desire to believe in hidden treasure.

"Show me," the leader demanded.

"I'll need my volunteer," Angie said, gesturing to Tommy, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. "And I'll need everyone to stay very still and watch very carefully."

The leader nodded to his companions and pointed at the patrons. "Watch them. If anyone moves, shoot them."

Angie stepped down from the stage, her bare feet silent on the sticky floor. She moved with the deliberate grace of a performer, every gesture calculated for maximum effect. Tommy stood frozen as she approached.

"It's okay," she whispered to him, keeping her lips slight parted and motionless. "Just follow my lead. When I say 'now,' hit the deck."

Tommy gave the smallest nod.

Angie turned to address the room, holding her top hat in both hands. "The art of misdirection," she announced, "is the foundation of all magic. You make the audience look where you want them to look, think what you want them to think. You control their attention, and in doing so, you control their reality."

She began to walk in a slow circle, the top hat extended. "For instance, right now, you're all watching this hat. You're wondering what I'm going to pull out of it. A rabbit? A dove? A stack of hundred-dollar bills?"

The robbers' eyes followed the hat. Even the leader, who was trying to maintain his threatening posture, couldn't help but track its movement.

"But the hat is just misdirection," Angie continued. "The real magic is happening somewhere else entirely. The real magic is in the space between what you see and what you think you see."

She tossed the hat into the air. It spun, tumbling end over end, and in that moment—that fraction of a second when all eyes followed its arc—Angie moved.

She had practiced the move ten thousand times. It was a variation on the Topit, combined with elements of the Raven, adapted for her unique performance style. Her hand flashed to the small of her back, where a flesh-colored pocket was concealed in the waistband of her g-string. She palmed the object hidden there—a small, powerful LED flashbang that she'd acquired from a magic supplier who specialized in theatrical effects.

"Now!" she shouted.

Tommy dropped. Miguel killed the lights.

Angie triggered the flashbang.

The Velvet Room exploded in blinding white light and a sound like thunder compressed into a single second. Angie had closed her eyes and turned away at the last instant, but even so, the effect was disorienting. For the robbers, who had been staring directly at her, it would be devastating.

She heard shouting, cursing, screaming, the clatter of something hitting the floor--and then the barking of the long gun . She moved on instinct and muscle memory, her body executing a routine she'd choreographed in her mind during those few seconds of conversation.

The nervous robber on the left had dropped his gun. Angie could see his silhouette stumbling, hands pressed to his eyes. She swept his legs with a low kick—a move she'd learned in the self-defense classes she'd taken after a drunk patron had gotten too handsy—and he went down hard.

The robber on the right was made of sterner stuff. He was firing blind, bullets punching into the ceiling and walls. Angie grabbed a chair and threw it. Not at him—that would be too obvious, too expected. She threw it to his left, and when he turned toward the sound, she rushed him from the right.

She'd performed the cups and balls routine a thousand times, and the principle was the same: make them look where you want them to look. The robber's gun hand was extended, tracking the chair. Angie grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted, using his own momentum against him. The gun clattered away into the darkness.

Two down. One to go.

The leader was the problem. He had Dmitri, and even blinded and disoriented, he was dangerous. Angie could hear him shouting, could hear Dmitri's labored breathing.

"Miguel!" Angie called out. "Spots! Now!"

The spotlights came on, three of them, all focused on different points in the room. It was another principle of magic: control the light, control what people see. The spots were bright enough to create deep shadows, to fragment the space into islands of visibility and darkness.

Angie moved through the shadows like a ghost. She'd performed in this room six nights a week for two years. She knew every inch of it, could navigate it blindfolded. She circled around, using the bar for cover, until she had a clear line of sight on the leader.

He was backing toward the door, dragging Dmitri with him. His gun was pressed against the club owner's temple. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming down his face from beneath the ski mask.

"I'll kill him!" the leader shouted. "I swear to God, I'll kill him!"

"No," Angie said quietly, stepping into one of the spotlights. "You won't."

The leader's head snapped toward her voice. He couldn't see clearly—his eyes were still recovering from the flashbang—but he could see enough. A nearly naked woman in a spotlight, standing perfectly still.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled. "You think your magic tricks mean anything when I've got a gun?"

"I think," Angie said, "that you're not a killer. I think you're a thief, and there's a difference. I think you came here to scare people and take money, not to commit murder. Because murder brings heat that no amount of money is worth."

She began to walk toward him, slow and steady, her hands visible and empty. "I also think that you're scared. You're hurt. You can barely see. And you're wondering how you're going to get out of this."

"Stay back!" The leader's gun hand was shaking.

"I'm going to make you an offer," Angie continued. "I'm going to show you one more trick. And if you can figure out how I did it, you can walk out of here. But if you can't..." She smiled. "Well, then you're going to put down the gun and wait for the police like a good boy."

"You're insane."

"Maybe," Angie agreed. "But I'm also the only chance you've got."

She was close now, close enough to see the sweat on his neck, to smell the fear coming off him in waves. Close enough to strike, if she had to. But that wasn't the play. The play was to make him believe.

"Watch carefully," she said, and she reached up to her bow tie.

It was a simple clip-on, the kind a child might wear to a wedding. She removed it with a flourish, held it up so he could see it clearly. Then she tossed it into the air.

The bow tie spun, tumbling end over end, and as it reached the apex of its arc, Angie clapped her hands together.

The bow tie vanished.

It was a simple effect, one she'd performed a million times. The bow tie was attached to a pull—a retractable cord that snapped it back up her arm and into a holder concealed in her armpit. But in that moment, in that context, it looked like real magic.

The leader's eyes went wide. His grip on Dmitri loosened, just for a second.

That was all Angie needed.

She moved like lightning, like water, like something that couldn't be caught or held. Her hand shot out and grabbed the gun, twisting it away from Dmitri's head. At the same time, she drove her knee into the leader's solar plexus, forcing the air from his lungs.

The gun came free. Angie stepped back, holding it awkwardly—she'd never actually held a real gun before, and it was heavier than she'd expected. But she pointed it at the leader with enough conviction that he raised his hands.

"How..." he gasped. "How did you..."

"Magic," Angie said simply.

The lights came up fully. Miguel was already on the phone with the police. Candy and the other dancers were emerging from their hiding places. Tommy was sitting on the floor, looking dazed but unharmed.

Dmitri stumbled away from the leader, then turned to look at Angie. His face was a complicated mixture of gratitude, shock, and something that might have been respect.

"You saved us," he said.

Angie shrugged, suddenly very aware that she was standing in the middle of a crime scene wearing nothing but a g-string and holding a gun. "Just doing my act."

"That wasn't an act," Dmitri said. "That was..."

"Magic," Angie finished. "Real magic. That's what I've been trying to tell you people."

Dimitri, as experienced with firearms as Angie was with illusions, carefully took the weapon from her, recognizing that she was more likely than not to accidentally shoot someone. "We'll discuss your raise later," he said, aiming it at the robbers.

The police arrived seven minutes later. By then, Angie had put on a robe from the dressing room and had secured all three robbers with zip ties that Miguel kept behind the bar for reasons no one had ever questioned. She gave her statement to a detective who kept staring at her like she was some kind of exotic animal.

"So let me get this straight," the detective said, consulting his notes. "You used a flashbang device—"

"A theatrical effect," Angie corrected. "Perfectly legal. I use it in my act sometimes for dramatic reveals."

"Right. A theatrical effect. And then you... what, exactly?"

"I used principles of misdirection, spatial awareness, and basic self-defense to neutralize the threat," Angie said. "Plus a little bit of showmanship."

The detective shook his head. "Lady, you're either the bravest person I've ever met or the craziest."

"Can't I be both?"

After the police left, after the statements were given and the robbers were hauled away, after the crime scene tape was put up and the club was officially closed for the night, Dmitri found Angie in the dressing room. She was sitting in front of her mirror, still wearing the robe, staring at her reflection.

"I'm giving you a raise," Dmitri said without preamble. "And a bonus. And I'm going to talk to some people I know in Vegas. You deserve a better stage than this."

Angie turned to look at him. "I like this stage."

"You saved my life. You saved everyone's lives."

"I did my job," Angie said. "I performed. That's what I do."

Dmitri was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "That thing you did with the bow tie. At the end. How did you do that?"

Angie smiled. It was the smile of a magician, the smile that said: I know something you don't know, and isn't that wonderful?

"A magician never reveals her secrets," she said.

After Dmitri left, Angie sat alone in the dressing room for a long time. Her hands were shaking now, the adrenaline finally wearing off, and she pressed her palms flat against the counter to steady them. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, that familiar electrical hum that she'd heard six nights a week for two years. Somehow it sounded different now. Louder. More insistent.

She'd been terrified, she realized. Absolutely terrified. But she'd done it anyway.

The gun had been heavy. That's what kept coming back to her—the weight of it in her hand, the cold metal, the knowledge that one wrong move could have ended everything. She'd spent her entire life working with misdirection, with making people believe in things that weren't real. But that gun had been real. The bullets that had punched into the ceiling had been real. The way that nervous robber's body had hit the floor when she swept his legs had been real.

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, and for a moment she didn't recognize the woman looking out. Same dark hair, same sharp cheekbones, same body that she'd learned to use as both costume and distraction. But something in the eyes was different. Harder, maybe. Or clearer.

She noticed her hand was still touching the small of her back, where the flashbang had been concealed. The pocket was empty now—the police had taken it as evidence—but her fingers kept returning to the spot anyway, like a magician checking for a palmed coin that was no longer there.

What if it hadn't worked? What if Miguel hadn't understood her signal? What if the nervous robber had pulled his trigger a half-second earlier? What if—

But that was the trick, wasn't it? Magic only worked if you committed fully to the effect. If you hesitated, if you doubted, if you let the audience see your fear, the whole illusion collapsed. She'd committed. She'd sold it. And everyone had walked away.

Everyone except the three men in handcuffs.

She thought about her grandfather, about the stories he used to tell her when she was a little girl. Stories about the old days, when magicians were more than entertainers. When they were shamans and mystics, people who stood between the ordinary world and the impossible. When magic meant something beyond applause and tips stuffed into a g-string.

"Magic isn't about fooling people, Angie," he'd told her once, sitting in his workshop surrounded by silks and doves and the smell of old wood. She must have been nine, maybe ten. Young enough to still believe in real magic, old enough to start understanding that what he did was artifice. "It's about showing them that the impossible is possible. It's about giving them hope."

At the time, she'd thought she understood. But she'd been thinking about card forces and double lifts, about perfecting her palming technique. She'd been thinking about the mechanics of wonder.

Now, sitting in this dressing room with her hands still trembling, she finally understood what he'd meant. Tonight hadn't been about the flashbang or the self-defense moves or even the bow tie vanish at the end. It had been about making fifteen terrified people believe that someone could save them. That the impossible could happen. That magic—real magic—could be real.

She looked at herself in the mirror—a woman in her late twenties, wearing a bathrobe in a strip club dressing room at two in the morning. Not exactly the image of a hero. But then again, heroes rarely looked the way you expected them to. They were just people who did the impossible when it needed doing.

She reached up and touched the top hat that sat on the counter beside her. Her grandfather's hat. The one that had seen a thousand shows, a thousand audiences, a thousand moments of wonder. The sequins were loose in places, the felt worn smooth by decades of handling. It smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old theaters, of a world that didn't exist anymore except in memory and legacy.

"I hope you saw that, Grandpa," she whispered. "I hope you saw that I made it real."

The hat offered no answer, but then again, it didn't need to. She knew what he would have said. She could hear his voice as clearly as if he were sitting beside her: "You always were my best student. Not because you had the fastest hands or the best memory. Because you understood that magic isn't in the method. It's in the moment when people stop seeing and start believing."

Angie sat there for another twenty minutes, letting the shaking subside, letting her heartbeat return to normal. She thought about the calls Dmitri mentioned—producers, agents, people who wanted to turn tonight into an opportunity. Part of her was tempted. God knows she'd dreamed about it long enough.

But another part of her—the part that had just stood nearly naked in a spotlight and made three armed men believe in the impossible—wondered if maybe she was exactly where she needed to be. In this sticky-floored club where nobody expected magic to be real. Where every night was a chance to prove them wrong.

She stood finally, letting the robe fall away. She folded it carefully and placed it on the chair. Then she picked up her grandfather's hat, held it for a moment against her chest, and set it gently back on the counter.

A week later, Angie Hale took the stage at the Velvet Room at her usual time. The club had reopened three days earlier, and each night the crowd had grown. She wore her usual costume: a tuxedo jacket--which was the first thing to disappear--g-string, bow tie, and top hat. She performed her usual effects: cards and coins, silks and rings, all the classic routines that she'd spent her life perfecting.

But there was something different in the way the audience watched her now. The story had made the local news—"Stripper-Magician Foils Armed Robbery"—and word had spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. People came specifically to see her, the woman who had taken down three armed robbers with nothing but misdirection and nerve. The crowd was twice its normal size, the club packed to capacity, and they watched with a kind of reverence that Angie had never experienced before.

When she finished her final trick—the signed card in the sealed envelope, the one that always killed—the applause was thunderous. People stood. They cheered. They believed.

And Angie Hale, standing nearly naked in a spotlight in a strip club at midnight, felt like the most powerful magician in the world.

Dmitri had mentioned calls coming in—producers, agents, people who'd heard the story and wanted to talk. There would be decisions to make, she knew. Opportunities. The kind she'd once dreamed about when she was younger and hungrier and thought she had something to prove.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, she had shown fifteen people that the impossible was possible. She had made them believe—not in some distant theater or casino showroom, but here, in this sticky-floored strip club where nobody expected magic to be real.

Because that's what magic really was, she realized. It wasn't about the tricks or the techniques. It wasn't about the hours of practice or the perfect execution, or even the venue. It was about the moment when people stopped seeing what was in front of them and started seeing what was possible.

It was about making people believe.

And on that night, in that place, Angie Hale had made everyone believe.

She took her bow, tipped her hat, and disappeared into the darkness backstage, leaving only wonder in her wake.

The prestige, after all, was always in the vanish.

When Gods Fail -- a short story by Steve Miller & L.L. Hundal

 

When Gods Fail

The ancient grove had stood untouched on the north side of Mount Olympus for centuries, its towering oaks forming a natural cathedral where dappled sunlight filtered through emerald leaves. Moss carpeted the forest floor in velvet softness, and wildflowers bloomed in scattered patches of color. It was here, in this sacred space forgotten by time, that Lyra and Daphne found themselves drawn together by forces they couldn't name.

Their love had blossomed slowly over months of friendship, and now, finally alone in nature's embrace, they gave themselves to each other completely. Daphne's dark eyes reflected the canopy above as she pulled Lyra closer, their bodies moving in ancient rhythm beneath the watchful trees.

Their passion was pure and fierce, a celebration of love that seemed to make the very forest pulse with life. Birds fell silent in the branches above, as if nature itself paused to witness their union. The air grew thick with magic neither woman understood, their joy and desire rippling outward like stones cast into still water.

Deep beneath Mount Olympus, something stirred.

Zeus had slumbered for millennia, his power diminished as mortals forgot the old ways. But now, suddenly, he felt it—a surge of primal energy, raw and intoxicating. His eyes snapped open, lightning crackling between his fingers as he sensed the source. Two mortals, their passion so intense it had pierced the veil between worlds and awakened him from his endless sleep.

The king of gods rose from his throne, his form shifting and solidifying as power coursed through him once more. He had been dormant so long, but this... this was exactly what he needed. Young love, pure desire—it would restore him completely. And he would take what he required.

In the grove, Lyra and Daphne lay entwined in the aftermath of their lovemaking, skin glistening with perspiration, hearts still racing. The forest around them seemed more alive than before, as if their union had awakened something primal in the very earth.

"Do you feel that?" Daphne whispered, her fingers intertwined with Lyra's.

Lyra nodded, sensing a presence she couldn't identify. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that made her skin tingle. "Something's coming."

The temperature dropped suddenly, and storm clouds gathered overhead with unnatural speed. Thunder rumbled in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. Then, in a blinding flash of lightning, he appeared.

Zeus stood before them in all his terrible glory—tall and imposing, with wild silver hair and eyes that crackled with electric fury. His presence was overwhelming, divine power radiating from him in waves that made the very trees bend away. He wore the arrogance of eons, the entitlement of one who had taken whatever he desired for thousands of years.

"Mortals," his voice boomed like thunder, "your passion has awakened me from my slumber. I am Zeus, king of the gods, and I claim the right to join your... festivities."

Lyra and Daphne scrambled to cover themselves, fear and anger warring in their expressions. This was their sacred moment, their private love, and this ancient being thought he could simply intrude?

"Get away from us," Lyra said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "We didn't invite you here."

Zeus laughed, the sound like breaking stone. "Invite? Child, I am a god. I take what I wish, when I wish it. Your desire called to me across the void—surely you understand what that means."

He stepped closer, his form radiating heat and power. "I have been alone for so long, forgotten by mortals who once worshipped at my feet. But you... you have reminded me of pleasure, of the joy of flesh. I will have you both."

Daphne stood, pulling Lyra up beside her. Despite their nakedness, despite the overwhelming presence of the god before them, she felt no shame—only fury. "You think because you're some ancient god, you can just take whatever you want? That we're just objects for your pleasure?"

"I am Zeus!" he roared, lightning crackling around his form. "I have claimed thousands of mortal women! Queens and peasants alike have been honored by my attention!"

The words hung in the air like a curse, their arrogance so complete it took Lyra's breath away. When she spoke, her voice was ice-cold, cutting through his bluster with surgical precision.

"Honored?" she said. "You mean raped. You mean terrorized and violated."

The god's expression darkened, storm clouds gathering in his eyes as the accusation struck home. "You dare speak to me with such insolence? I could destroy you with a thought!"

"Then do it," Daphne said, stepping protectively in front of Lyra. "But you won't get what you came for."

Zeus paused, his anger warring with his desire. He needed their passion, their life force—destroying them would gain him nothing. Instead, he reached out with one massive hand, intending to simply take what he wanted.

That was his mistake.

Lyra moved faster than thought, her fist connecting with the god's jaw in a blow that sent shockwaves through the grove. Zeus staggered backward, more from surprise than pain, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Impossible," he breathed. "You're mortal. You cannot—"

Daphne's kick caught him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. "We're not your victims," she snarled. "We're not anyone's victims."

The god straightened, rage replacing his shock. "You think your mortal strength can match divine power?" He raised his hand, lightning gathering in his palm.

But something was wrong. His power, so recently awakened, flickered and wavered like a candle in wind. The energy he'd tried to claim had been born of mutual desire, freely given and received between equals—it carried within it the very essence of consent and choice. Such pure force could not be corrupted, could not be bent to serve domination and violation. Like trying to hold lightning in his fist, the power slipped through his grasp, recognizing him as antithetical to its nature.

Lyra and Daphne felt it too—a strength flowing through them that wasn't entirely their own. The grove itself seemed to be lending them power, the ancient trees and sacred earth rising up against this violation of their sanctuary.

They moved as one, their love making them perfectly synchronized. Lyra's elbow found Zeus's ribs while Daphne's knee connected with his thigh. The god stumbled, his divine form flickering as his stolen power continued to rebel against him.

"This cannot be!" Zeus roared, swinging wildly. But his movements were clumsy, weakened by the very energy he'd tried to claim. "I am the king of gods! I am—"

"A rapist," Lyra finished, her fist connecting with his nose in a satisfying crunch. "A predator who thinks power gives you the right to take whatever you want."

"You're pathetic," Daphne added, grabbing a fallen branch and bringing it down across the god's shoulders. "All that power, all those centuries, and you never learned that love can't be taken by force."

Zeus fell to his knees, his form beginning to fade. The power he'd stolen was abandoning him, flowing back into the grove, into the love between the two women who had awakened it. He looked up at them with something approaching wonder.

"How?" he whispered. "How are you doing this?"

"Because our love is real," Lyra said simply. "It's freely given, freely received. It's not something you can steal or corrupt or claim."

"And because you're not a god anymore," Daphne added. "You're just a bitter old man who never learned that consent matters."

The king of gods tried to rise, but his strength was gone. The grove had rejected him, the very earth beneath his feet refusing to support his weight. He looked at the two women standing over him—naked, unashamed, powerful in their unity—and for the first time in millennia, Zeus felt something he'd forgotten existed.

Fear.

"This isn't over," he gasped, his form growing more translucent by the moment. "I will return. I will—"

"No," Lyra said firmly. "You won't. Because we're not afraid of you anymore. And neither will anyone else be."

With a final flash of lightning, Zeus vanished back to his lonely throne and his slumber. The storm clouds dissipated, and warm sunlight returned to the grove.

Lyra and Daphne stood in the sudden silence, still breathing hard from the confrontation. Then, slowly, they began to laugh—first quiet chuckles, then full-throated laughter that echoed through the trees.

"Did we just beat up Zeus?" Daphne asked, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I think we did," Lyra replied, pulling her lover close. "I think we really did."

They sank back down onto the soft moss, holding each other as the grove settled around them. The ancient trees seemed to whisper their approval, and wildflowers bloomed more brightly in the patches of sunlight.

"He was right about one thing," Daphne murmured. "Our love is powerful. Powerful enough to wake gods."

"And powerful enough to send them packing when they overstep," Lyra added with a grin.

They made love again as the sun set through the canopy, their passion even more intense for having been tested and proven true. The grove embraced them, protecting them, celebrating them. And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—but it was only weather now, natural and harmless.

The age of gods taking whatever they pleased was over. The age of love freely given had begun.

--

If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out more fiction from Hundal & Miller... the anthologies are available wherever NUELOW Games products are sold!

The Ghost at the Crossroads - Fiction by Steve Miller

If you've gotten yourself a copy of the Chillers & Thrillers anthology, you know how the Ghost of Hong Kong ended up in the mysterious situation she finds herself in. (And if you haven't gotten a copy yet, you should! It's got some great comics from Steve Ditko and great fiction from Steve Miller!)

The Ghost at the Crossroads

The cold seeped through Mae Ling's bones like ice water through cracked stone. She opened her eyes beside a dirt road, the taste of earth and rain heavy on her tongue. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, her body protesting every movement. She wore nothing but a thin white nightgown, soaked through by gentle rain from the gray sky above.

The fabric clung to her pale skin like a burial shroud, and she shivered from an inexplicable chill that seemed to emanate from within her very core. Mae Ling had awakened in strange places before—safe houses, hotel rooms, the occasional alleyway after a job gone sideways—but never like this. Never so vulnerable, so exposed, so utterly without memory of how she had arrived at this desolate stretch of muddy road.

Something was wrong. More than wrong. She had no memory of how she got here. In fact, her mind seemed hazy and as she tried to focus on what might have brought here, her thoughts just grew more disjoined.

She stood on unsteady legs, her bare feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. The rain continued its gentle percussion against her skin, each droplet a tiny shock of cold reality. Mae Ling wrapped her arms around herself, trying to preserve what little warmth remained in her body, and began to walk. The road squelched beneath her feet with each step, mud oozing between her toes and coating her ankles in a layer of brown sludge.

Maybe it was the cold. If she could find some shelter and warmth, her head might clear.

As she walked, the landscape around her remained frustratingly uniform—rolling hills covered in sparse vegetation, the occasional gnarled tree reaching skeletal branches toward the overcast sky. There were no landmarks, no signs, nothing to indicate where she was or which direction might lead to civilization. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the wet sounds of her footsteps in the mud.

It was then she noticed the figures in the distance.

At first, they were nothing more than dark shapes wavering in the hazy air, distorted by the rain and mist that hung low over the landscape. Mae Ling squinted, trying to make out details, but the figures remained frustratingly indistinct. They seemed to be moving, though whether toward her or away from her, she couldn't tell. A prickle of unease ran down her spine—in her line of work, unidentified figures in the distance were rarely a good sign.

She continued walking, her eyes fixed on the distant shapes, when movement closer to the road caught her attention. There, standing just off the muddy path, was a figure that made Mae Ling's blood freeze in her veins. It was a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, wearing a crisp school uniform despite the rain. The girl's long black hair hung straight around her shoulders, and her dark eyes held a weight that seemed far too heavy for someone so young.

Mae Ling recognized those eyes. She recognized that face, that posture, that particular way of standing with one hip cocked slightly to the side. She was looking at herself—herself as she had been nearly two decades ago, when she was still Mae Ling Chen, honor student by day and something far darker by night.

The young Mae Ling raised one slender arm and pointed to something on the ground near her feet. Mae Ling followed the gesture and saw the crumpled form of a man lying in the mud, his expensive suit torn and stained with blood and dirt. Even from a distance, she could see the unnatural angle of his limbs, the way his head lolled to one side. She knew that body, knew that face, knew exactly how he had died because she had been the one to kill him.

Her first kill.

The world around Mae Ling began to shift and blur, the muddy road dissolving like watercolors in the rain. The gray sky darkened to the deep purple of twilight, and suddenly she was no longer standing on the road but beneath the rotting wooden docks of Victoria Harbor. The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay, and she could hear the gentle lapping of waves against the barnacle-encrusted pilings.

She was sixteen again, her school uniform replaced by dark jeans and a black hoodie. In her hand was a length of metal rebar, its surface slick with blood and seawater. At her feet lay the man from the road, though here he was very much alive—alive and terrified and begging for his life as the tide slowly crept higher around his broken body.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of the approaching water. "Please, I have money. I can pay you. Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it."

Mae Ling looked down at him with the cold detachment that would later make her legendary in the criminal underworld of Hong Kong. Even at sixteen, she had possessed an almost supernatural ability to disconnect from her emotions, to view violence as simply another tool to be wielded with precision and purpose.

"You're a rapist," she said, her voice flat and emotionless. "You hurt my friend. You hurt other girls. You don't deserve mercy."

The man's eyes widened with desperate panic as the water reached his chest. His legs were shattered—Mae Ling had made sure of that, using the rebar to methodically break both femurs and tibias so he couldn't crawl to safety. She had wanted him to have time to think about what he had done, to understand that his death was not random violence but justice delivered by someone who had decided his crimes warranted the ultimate punishment.

"I'll change!" he pleaded, water now lapping at his chin. "I'll never hurt anyone again! Please, you're just a kid—you don't want this on your conscience!"

But Mae Ling had already turned away, walking back toward the street with the same measured pace she would later use to exit countless crime scenes. Behind her, she could hear the man's increasingly frantic pleas dissolving into gurgles as the tide claimed him. She didn't look back. She never looked back.

The memory dissolved as suddenly as it had appeared, and Mae Ling found herself once again on the muddy road, shivering in her soaked nightgown. The young version of herself had vanished, leaving only empty space where she had stood. Mae Ling wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and continued walking, trying to process what she had just experienced. Was it a hallucination brought on by hypothermia? A fever dream? Or something else entirely?

The rain began to fall more heavily, transforming from a gentle mist into a steady downpour that drummed against her skin and turned the road into a river of mud. Mae Ling's hair hung in wet ropes around her face, and she had to constantly wipe water from her eyes to see where she was going. The cold was becoming unbearable, seeping into her bones and making her teeth chatter uncontrollably.

It was then that she saw the second figure.

This one stood directly beside the road, as motionless as a statue despite the driving rain. Mae Ling approached cautiously, her assassin's instincts screaming warnings even as her rational mind insisted that what she was seeing couldn't be real. The figure was a woman dressed entirely in black—a short leather skirt that hugged her curves, a long coat that fell to her knees, and flat-heeled boots. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her makeup was applied with the precision of war paint.

Mae Ling recognized this version of herself as well—herself at twenty-two, when she had begun to make a name for herself in the assassination business. This was the Mae Ling who had earned the nickname "Ghost of Hong Kong" through a combination of skill, ruthlessness, and an almost supernatural ability to appear and disappear without a trace.

"What is this place?" Mae Ling whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain.

The world shifted again, and suddenly she was standing in an opulent office overlooking the glittering lights of Hong Kong's financial district. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city below, while expensive artwork adorned the walls and Persian rugs covered the polished marble floors. Behind an enormous mahogany desk sat a man in his fifties, his silver hair perfectly styled and his tailored suit worth more than most people made in a year.

Mae Ling stood before the desk in a short black dress and a long black coat, her posture radiating the quiet confidence that had become her trademark. To her left stood the man's chief lieutenant, a younger man with nervous eyes and hands that trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette.

"I've completed the contract," Mae Ling said, her voice steady and professional. "I'll take my payment now."

The older man leaned back in his leather chair, a condescending smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You know, if I had known I was hiring a girl, the fee would have been half what we agreed upon. Since I feel as though I've been led on, I don't think I'll be paying you at all. You should be happy that you're leaving here with your life."

Mae Ling's expression didn't change, but something cold and dangerous flickered in her dark eyes. "I did the job. Your business rivals are dead. The traitor within your own organization has vanished without a trace. I want the agreed-upon sum."

The man's smile widened, revealing teeth that were too white and too perfect. "Get out of my sight, little girl, before you vanish without a trace as well."

Mae Ling turned as if to leave, her movements fluid and graceful. "I already have," she said quietly, and then she spun around with inhuman speed, a silenced pistol appearing in her hand as if by magic. The gun made a soft coughing sound, and a small hole appeared in the center of the man's forehead. He slumped forward onto his desk, blood pooling beneath his face.

The lieutenant raised his hands immediately, his cigarette falling forgotten to the floor. "Wait! I was in favor of paying you! I told him it was a mistake to try to cheat the Ghost of Hong Kong!"

Mae Ling kept the gun trained on him, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. "And now?"

"Now I'm in charge of the business," the lieutenant said quickly, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. "And I promise you'll get a one hundred percent bonus on top of your base fee."

He reached carefully into the dead man's jacket, moving slowly to avoid startling her, and withdrew a thick envelope. "The base pay for services rendered is in here. Consider the bonus an investment in future business relationships."

Mae Ling took the envelope without lowering her weapon, quickly counting the bills inside. Satisfied, she tucked the money into her coat and finally holstered her gun. "Pleasure doing business with you," she said, and then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows as if she had never been there at all.

The memory faded, and Mae Ling found herself back on the muddy road, shivering and soaked to the bone. The rain was coming down even harder now, turning the world into a gray blur of water and mist. But through the downpour, she could see that the distant figures were drawing closer. What had once been indistinct shapes on the horizon were now recognizable as people—dozens of them, walking steadily toward her along the road.

As they drew nearer, Mae Ling began to recognize faces in the crowd. There was Chen Wei, the corrupt police captain she had eliminated with a car bomb three years ago. Behind him walked Maria Santos, the drug dealer's wife who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time during a hit in Macau. She saw the faces of targets and collateral damage alike, all of them moving with the same steady, inexorable pace.

They were the dead—everyone she had killed, everyone she had allowed to die, everyone whose death could be traced back to her actions over the course of her career. And they were all walking toward her with expressions of grim purpose.

Mae Ling's assassin training kicked in automatically. She was outnumbered, outflanked, and completely without weapons or cover. The only logical response was to run.

She turned and sprinted down the muddy road, her bare feet slipping and sliding in the treacherous footing. Behind her, she could hear the steady splash of footsteps as her pursuers maintained their relentless pace. They didn't seem to be running, but somehow they were keeping up with her, as if the very road itself was working against her escape.

The rain began to change as she ran. What had been clear water now fell in thick, crimson drops that stained her white nightgown and turned the muddy road into a river of blood. The metallic smell filled her nostrils, and she could taste copper on her lips as she gasped for breath. The world around her became increasingly difficult to see through the curtain of blood rain, shapes and shadows blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare landscape.

Mae Ling ran blindly through the crimson downpour, her lungs burning and her legs trembling with exhaustion. Just when she thought she couldn't take another step, the blood rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She found herself standing at a crossroads where four muddy paths intersected, gasping for breath and wiping blood from her eyes.

At the center of the crossroads stood an old-fashioned streetlamp, its warm yellow light cutting through the gloom like a beacon. Beneath the lamp stood a man who seemed utterly out of place in this desolate landscape. He was elderly but distinguished, with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore an elegant three-piece suit that looked like it had been tailored on Savile Row, complete with a gold pocket watch and polished leather shoes that somehow remained spotless despite the muddy ground.

"Mae Ling," the man said, his voice carrying a slight European accent that she couldn't quite place. "You must make a choice."

He gestured to the three paths that branched off from where she stood. "Go left, and you will be confronted by everyone you have ever killed. They will have their opportunity for revenge, and I suspect they will not be merciful. Go right, and you will be judged and sent to whatever afterlife awaits someone with your particular... resume. Go straight, and you will have the opportunity to correct what went wrong."

As the old man spoke, memories began flooding back to Mae Ling with startling clarity. She remembered now—she was dead. She had been killed by something that shouldn't exist, something out of legend and nightmare. A vampire. The creature had been impossibly fast, impossibly strong, and it had torn her throat out with fangs that belonged in a horror movie rather than the real world.

"Who are you?" Mae Ling asked, her voice hoarse from running and screaming. "And if I go straight, will I be returning to the world as a literal ghost? Instead of just the Ghost of Hong Kong?"

The old man smiled, and there was something both kindly and terrible in that expression. "You will be restored to life, my dear. Once you deal with the vampire in whatever fashion you consider appropriate, you will continue with your existence. There are... powerful beings who are fascinated by the line you have walked between justice and murder, between protection and destruction. They want to see where that path will eventually take you. The vampire killing you was not part of their equation, and they would rather not lose you as a source of entertainment."

Mae Ling looked down each of the three paths, weighing her options. To the left, she could see the crowd of her victims approaching through the mist, their faces twisted with anger and the promise of retribution. To the right, she glimpsed what looked like a courtroom where figures in black robes waited with scales and ledgers. Straight ahead, the path disappeared into darkness, but she could sense something waiting there—an opportunity, a second chance, a return to the world of the living.

"I probably deserve to be judged," Mae Ling said finally, her voice steady despite the magnitude of the decision before her. "I probably deserve whatever punishment awaits me in Hell. But if I have a chance to return to life, I'll postpone Judgment Day until next time."

The old man's smile widened, and he clapped his hands together with obvious delight. "Excellent! I was hoping you would choose that path. It promises to be far more entertaining than the alternatives."

He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a medallion on a silver chain. The medallion was perfectly round, about the size of a silver dollar, and bore the ancient symbol of yin and yang—the eternal dance of light and dark, good and evil, life and death. As he placed it around Mae Ling's neck, she felt a strange warmth spread through her chest, pushing back the cold that had settled in her bones.

"A token," the old man explained, "to remind you of this moment and the choice you made. Now go, my dear. Your second chance awaits."

The world dissolved around Mae Ling like sugar in rain, and suddenly she was clawing her way up through wet earth and mud. Her fingers broke through the surface first, followed by her hand, then her arm. She pulled herself from what she realized was a shallow grave, the soil turned to thick mud by the same heavy rain that had followed her through her journey of memories.

Mae Ling emerged from the earth like some primordial creature, covered in mud and gasping for breath that she wasn't sure she should be able to draw. She was alive—impossibly, inexplicably alive. Her throat, which she remembered being torn open by the vampire's fangs, was whole and unmarked. Her body, which had been drained of blood and left for dead, was once again warm and vital.

For a moment, panic seized her. What if she had become like the creature that killed her? What if her return to life had come at the cost of her humanity? Mae Ling examined her hands in the dim light, looking for signs of supernatural transformation. Her skin was pale but not unnaturally so. Her fingernails were normal, not extended into claws. When she ran her tongue over her teeth, she found no fangs.

It was then that she noticed the medallion hanging around her neck, its silver surface gleaming despite the mud that covered everything else. The memory of the old man at the crossroads came flooding back—vague and dreamlike, but undeniably real. He had given her a second chance, an opportunity to return to life and settle her score with the vampire that had killed her.

Mae Ling pulled herself fully from the grave and stood on unsteady legs, looking around at her surroundings. She was in an unfamiliar forested area, her one-time grave being unmarked at the foot of an ancient tree. The rain continued to fall, washing some of the mud from her body but leaving her chilled to the bone. She was no longer wearing the white nightgown from her journey through the realm of memories. She was wearing her work clothes--black boots, black trousers, black blouse, and a long coat--and all of it was caked with mud and almost pasted to her shivering body. Her guns and knives were missing.

She needed fresh clothes, weapons, and shelter—in that order. But more than anything, she needed to understand what had happened to her and what it meant for her future. The old man had spoken of powerful beings who found her entertaining, who wanted to see where her path would lead. That suggested her resurrection came with strings attached, obligations she didn't yet understand.

Mae Ling touched the medallion again, feeling its warmth against her skin. Whatever forces had brought her back to life, whatever price she would eventually have to pay, there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty: she had unfinished business with the vampire that had killed her. The creature had made a mistake in not ensuring her permanent death, and Mae Ling intended to make sure it was a fatal error.

She stood perfectly still for a moment, then began walking toward what sounded like traffic. The rain was beginning to lighten, and she could see the first hints of dawn on the horizon. A new day was beginning, and with it, a new chapter in the legend of the Ghost of Hong Kong.

Mae Ling resolved to think long and hard about where to go from here, about what her resurrection meant and what obligations it might entail. She needed to understand the rules of this second chance, the limitations and possibilities it presented. But first, there was a vampire she needed to kill.

The thought brought a cold smile to her lips as she walked back into the world of the living. The Ghost of Hong Kong had returned, and she had a score to settle.