A brand-new horror story by Hundal & Miller!

 A tale of terror by L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller. If you like it, consider checking out Shadow Stories and Moonlit & Other Stories -- anthologies with stories by them writing together and separately.

'Til Death

The cemetery gates had been locked for hours, but Veronica knew the gap in the fence behind the maintenance shed. She'd used it three times before—once to confirm the burial, once on what would have been their anniversary, and now tonight, when sleep proved impossible and the bourbon wasn't working anymore.

Her heels sank into the soft earth as she navigated between headstones, their shadows stretching long and skeletal under the half-moon. October had stripped most of the leaves from the oaks that lined the cemetery's eastern border, and their bare branches clawed at the sky like arthritic fingers. The air carried that particular autumn smell—decay and damp earth and something else, something that made her think of endings.

Robert's plot was in the newer section, where the grass hadn't fully established itself and the headstones still looked too clean, too new. She'd paid extra for the marble angel, though she couldn't say why. Perhaps because his mother had been there, watching with those red-rimmed eyes, silently accusing. Perhaps because appearances still mattered, even when you were standing over the grave of a man who was supposed to be gone.

She stood at the foot of the grave, swaying slightly. The bourbon was catching up with her now, warming her from the inside despite the October chill. Her black dress—the same one she'd worn to the funeral—clung to her curves, and she was suddenly, acutely aware of how alive she felt. How free.

"Hello, Robert." Her voice sounded strange in the silence, too loud and too intimate at once. "I know it's been a while. Nine months, two weeks, four days. Not that I'm counting."

A laugh escaped her, sharp and bitter. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but it bubbled out anyway, echoing off the surrounding headstones. As the echo died, she took a swig from the bourbon bottle she was clutching in her other hand.

"God, you'd hate this. Me standing here, drunk, talking to your corpse like we're having one of our little chats." She took a step closer, her heel catching on the edge of the grave marker. "You know what's funny? Sometimes I actually miss you. Not you-you, but... having someone there. Someone to cook for. Someone whose dry cleaning I had to pick up."

The wind picked up, rustling through the dead leaves scattered across the cemetery grounds. Veronica wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the alcohol in her system.

"But then I remember." Her voice dropped, hardening. "I remember the bruises I had to cover with makeup. The ribs you cracked when I overcooked the roast. The time you held my head underwater in the bathtub because I'd smiled at the waiter. The hospital visits I explained away as clumsiness, as accidents, as anything but what they were."

She crouched down, running her fingers over the engraved letters of his name. Robert James Holloway. Beloved Husband. The lie of it made her stomach turn.

"So no, Robert. I don't regret it. I don't regret finding that number in the back of that dive bar in Newark. I don't regret the meetings in parking garages, the cash withdrawals, the careful planning. And I definitely don't regret spending thirty thousand dollars—your thirty thousand dollars, from that account you thought I didn't know about—to have someone put a bullet through your skull."

The memory of that phone call still sent a thrill through her. It's done, the voice had said. Professional. Detached. She'd asked if it had been quick, and the voice had paused before answering. Quick enough. He didn't suffer.

Good, she'd thought. But not good enough.

"You know what would have made it perfect?" She stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "If it had been a woman. A hit-woman. Wouldn't that have been poetic? You, who always said women were weak, who said I was nothing without you, taken out by someone with tits and a trigger finger."

She laughed again, the sound carrying across the empty cemetery. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and she wondered if anyone could hear her. If anyone would care.

"The undertaker wanted to fix your face. Did you know that? He said he could make you presentable, that he could fill in the hole, use makeup and prosthetics. But I told him no." She smiled, remembering the man's shocked expression. "I told him to leave it. To let everyone see what you really were—a man with a hole where his brain should have been. Closed casket, Robert. You didn't even get a proper viewing."

The satisfaction of that moment still warmed her. His mother had wept, had begged to see her son one last time, but Veronica had been firm. The damage was too extensive, she'd said, her voice appropriately broken. You wouldn't want to remember him that way.

"I hope that hole is still there." She kicked at the grave marker, her heel leaving a scuff on the marble. "I hope it's with you wherever you are. I hope every time you look in a mirror—do they have mirrors in Hell?—you see it. That perfect, round reminder that you're not invincible. That you're not God. That you're just a dead man in a box."

The wind gusted harder, and Veronica stumbled slightly, catching herself on the angel statue. Its cold marble face stared down at her with blank eyes, and for a moment she felt a flicker of something that might have been shame. But no. She'd earned this. She'd earned her freedom, her life, her right to stand here and spit on his memory.

"You're probably in Hell right now." She straightened, smoothing down her dress. "I hope you are. I hope you're burning, Robert. I hope every day is agony. I hope you're surrounded by demons who do to you what you did to me, over and over, for eternity."

The thought made her bold. Made her reckless. She took another long pull from the bourbon bottle, letting the burn settle in her chest, fortifying her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached down, finding the hem of her dress.

This was it. This was the line. Once she crossed it, there was no taking it back—no pretending she was just a grieving widow, no hiding behind propriety or shock or the convenient amnesia of trauma. She'd be choosing to desecrate his grave, choosing to stand here naked and defiant in the dark. Choosing to reclaim what he'd tried to own.

She thought of his hands on her. His voice in her ear, whispering mine, always mine. She thought of the fear, the smallness he'd made her feel. And then she thought of that perfect, round hole in his skull, and something crystallized inside her—cold and sharp and absolutely certain.

She hurled the bourbon bottle at the headstone. It shattered against the granite with a satisfying crack, and she hiked her dress up around her thighs. The night air was cold against her skin, raising goosebumps along her legs.

"You remember these legs, Robert? You used to say they were your favorite part of me. That they were the reason you married me." Her voice dripped with venom. "Well, guess what?"

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—black lace, expensive, the kind he used to buy her before the honeymoon phase ended and the real Robert emerged. She slid them down slowly, deliberately, stepping out of them and holding them up in the moonlight.

"You'll never touch them again." She let the panties fall onto the grave, watching them settle against the fresh earth. "You'll never touch any of this again. And all those side-whores you thought I didn't know about? Jennifer from your office? That bartender at O'Malley's? The personal trainer you were fucking in our bed? They're done with you too. You're nothing now. Just bones and rot and that beautiful, perfect hole in your head."

She pulled her skirt higher, exposing herself to the night, to the grave, to the memory of the man who'd tried to own her. The gesture was crude, obscene, and absolutely liberating.

"This is mine now, Robert. My body. My life. My—"

A sound cut through her declaration. A scratching, scraping noise that seemed to come from beneath her feet. Veronica froze, her skirt still bunched around her waist.

But the sound came again, louder this time. Deliberate. And the earth on the grave—the fresh earth that had been smooth and undisturbed moments ago—seemed to shift. To bulge upward, as if something beneath was pushing against it.

"No." The word came out as a whisper. "No, that's not—that's not possible."

Run, her mind screamed. Run now.

But her legs wouldn't obey. She stood frozen, watching in horror as the grave continued to shift and buckle. Her panties, still lying on the disturbed earth, began to slide down the mound as the dirt beneath them gave way.

A hand burst through the surface.

Veronica screamed, the sound tearing from her throat raw and primal. The hand was gray, desiccated, the skin hanging loose on bones that looked too white in the moonlight. Dirt clung to it, falling away as the fingers flexed, curled, grasped at the air.

She stumbled backward, her heel catching on a root. She went down hard, her palms scraping against stone and earth, but she barely felt it. All she could see was that hand, now joined by another, both clawing at the earth, pulling, dragging something up from below.

"No, no, no, no—" The words tumbled from her lips as she scrambled to her feet, her dress still hiked up around her waist, her legs shaking so badly she could barely stand.

The thing—because it couldn't be Robert, it couldn't be, the dead didn't rise, the dead stayed buried—pulled itself further from the grave. Shoulders emerged, covered in the remnants of what had once been an expensive suit. The fabric was stained and rotting, hanging in tatters from a frame that was far too thin, far too angular to be human.

And then the head.

Veronica's scream died in her throat, replaced by a sound that was more animal than human. The face that emerged from the grave was Robert's face, but wrong, so terribly wrong. The skin had pulled tight against the skull, gray and mottled, the lips drawn back in a permanent grimace that exposed yellowed teeth. One eye was sunken, milky white, while the other socket was empty, just a dark hollow that seemed to stare at her anyway.

And the hole. The perfect, round hole in his temple, just above where his left ear had been. She could see through it, could see the dark cavity of his skull, could see things moving inside that she didn't want to identify.

The corpse pulled itself fully from the grave, dirt cascading off its body as it rose unsteadily to its feet. For one terrible moment it stood there, swaying, that empty eye socket fixed on her—and then its legs gave out. The thing collapsed forward onto the ground with a wet, heavy sound, and immediately began to crawl.

Not slowly. Not like something weak or dying.

It moved with a grinding, relentless speed that defied everything she understood about the world. Its arms pulled it forward, fingers digging into the earth, dragging its ruined body across the cemetery floor. The sound it made—the scrape of fabric against dirt, the crack of joints, the wet rasp of its breathing—was worse than any scream.

Veronica ran.

 

She didn't think, didn't plan, just turned and bolted through the cemetery, her heels sinking into the soft earth with every step. Behind her, she could hear it following—that grinding, dragging sound, getting closer, always closer, moving faster than anything crawling should be able to move.

This isn't happening, she thought wildly, dodging between headstones. This is the bourbon. This is a nightmare. This is—

She glanced back and immediately wished she hadn't. The thing that had been Robert was pulling itself across the ground with inhuman determination, its body pressed low to the earth, moving like some terrible insect. Its arms reached out toward her with each lurch forward, those gray fingers grasping, and she could see her panties clutched in one hand, the black lace stark against the dead flesh.

She screamed again and pushed herself harder, her lungs burning, her legs aching. The cemetery stretched out before her, suddenly vast and maze-like. Where was the parking lot? Where was the gap in the fence? Everything looked the same in the darkness—headstones and shadows and dead grass.

Left, she thought desperately. The parking lot is to the left.

She veered right instead, panic overriding logic, and found herself running deeper into the cemetery, toward the older section where the stones were weathered and crumbling and the trees grew thick and close. The ground was uneven here, treacherous, and her heel caught on something—a root, a stone, she didn't know—and she went sprawling.

She hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. For a moment she just lay there, gasping, tasting dirt and blood where she'd bitten her tongue. Then she heard it—that wet, dragging sound, getting closer. The scrape of dead hands pulling a dead body across the earth.

"No." She pushed herself up, ignoring the pain in her hands and knees, ignoring the way her dress had torn, exposing even more of her skin to the cold night air. "No, please, no."

She ran again, this time in the right direction. She could see the lights of the parking lot now, could see her car sitting alone under the single working streetlamp. So close. Just a little further.

The thing behind her moaned, a sound that was barely human, barely anything at all. But she heard words in it, or thought she did. Syllables that might have been her name.

"Ver...on...i...ca..."

"Shut up!" she screamed over her shoulder. "You're dead!"

She could see the gap in the fence now, could see freedom just beyond it. Her car keys were in her purse, which was—where was her purse? Had she brought it? She couldn't remember, couldn't think past the terror that had her in its grip.

Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

She was going to make it. She was going to—

She dropped to her knees at the fence gap, already pushing herself through, when the hand shot out from ground level and locked around her ankle.

Veronica shrieked as she was yanked backward, dragged out of the gap, her body slamming against the earth. She kicked out wildly, her free foot connecting with something that gave with a wet, sickening sound. But the grip on her ankle didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened, those dead fingers digging into her flesh with strength that shouldn't have been possible.

She was dragged backward across the ground, her nails scrabbling at the earth, leaving furrows in the dirt. She twisted, looking back, and found the thing that had been her husband pressed against the ground beside her, its body stretched out along the earth, pinning her.

That hole in its head wept something dark and viscous. The empty eye socket seemed to bore into her, and the remaining eye—that milky, dead eye—held something that might have been recognition. Might have been rage.

Its mouth opened, the jaw working with a sound like grinding bone, and it spoke. The voice was hoarse, ruined, like gravel being dragged across concrete, but the words were clear enough.

"Remember... the pool..." Its face was inches from hers now, and she could smell it—rot and earth and something chemical from the embalming. "How you... couldn't breathe... how I held you... under..."

"No!" Veronica kicked again, her heel connecting with its shoulder. The joint gave with a crack, but the thing didn't release her. It just adjusted its grip, pulling itself closer along the ground. "Let me go! You're dead!"

"I know... where you go..." The corpse's head tilted, considering, its body still pressed flat against the earth. Its remaining eye fixed on hers with terrible clarity. "Every coffee shop... every friend's house... I always... knew..."

It reached toward her with its free hand, those gray fingers trailing up her exposed leg, over her thigh, higher. The touch was cold, so cold it burned, and Veronica felt bile rise in her throat.

She wrenched her body sideways with everything she had left, her ankle twisting in that cold grip. For a moment—just a moment—the corpse's hold faltered as its body shifted on the uneven ground. She felt the fingers loosen.

That was all she needed.

Veronica tore herself free and scrambled backward, her bare feet scraping against the cold earth. She didn't look back. She ran—past the headstones, past the angel monument, toward the gates that suddenly seemed impossibly far away. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst in her chest.

She burst through the cemetery gates and into the parking lot, her keys already in her shaking hand. The car door slammed behind her, the lock clicked, and she fumbled the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life. She peeled out of the lot, tires screaming against asphalt, and didn't stop until the cemetery was miles behind her.

But as she drove through the empty streets of the sleeping city, his words kept circling back, relentless as a predator. I know where you go. Every coffee shop. Every friend's house. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white, and tried to convince herself it was just the bourbon talking, just her own fear echoing in her skull.

Except it wasn't. Because he was right. He'd always known. He'd always been there—in the background of her life, watching, tracking, controlling. And now, impossibly, he still was.

She pulled into her apartment complex and sat in the car for a long time, engine off, hands still shaking. The parking lot was empty. The building was dark. Everything was normal.

Tomorrow she'd go to the coffee shop on Fifth Street. Her mother's house on Wednesday. The therapist's office on Thursday afternoon at two.

And he would know.

She'd killed him once. She'd buried him. She'd danced on his grave and poured bourbon on his headstone and reclaimed every piece of herself he'd tried to destroy.

But she would never escape him.

--

If you enjoyed that chilling bit of horror, you can find more from the same team of writers in Shadow Stories and Moonlit & Other Stories.

A Tale of the Ghost of Hong Kong -- By Steve Miller

Here's a new story of the Ghost of Hong Kong, one of the world's most lethal assassins. You can find other stories featuring here on the blog, or you can check out the 15-story anthology.

The Target

The first blow came without warning—a knife-hand strike that would have crushed Mae Ling Chen's larynx if she hadn't sensed the displacement of air and twisted away at the last microsecond. The edge of Harland Coates' hand caught her shoulder instead, sending a jolt of pain down her arm that she immediately compartmentalized and filed away for later consideration.

Former CIA, she reminded herself as she pivoted into a defensive stance. That means Langley's hand-to-hand program, probably supplemented with private training. Dangerous.

The hotel's back corridor was narrow, lined with industrial carpet that muffled their footfalls as they circled each other. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made reading Coates' body language more difficult. He was older than her by perhaps fifteen years, but he moved with the fluid economy of someone who'd spent decades refining violence into an art form.

"You don't want to do this," Coates said, his voice carrying the flat affect of someone stating facts rather than making threats. His hands remained loose at his sides, ready but not aggressive. "Whatever they're paying you, it's not enough."

Mae Ling didn't waste breath on a response. She'd been hired to eliminate Harland Coates, a former CIA operative who'd allegedly gone rogue and sold classified intelligence to the highest bidder. The dossier had been thorough—his training, his known associates, his last three confirmed locations. What it hadn't mentioned was the possibility that he might be innocent, and Mae Ling had learned long ago not to question the contracts that came through her handler.

She struck first, a testing combination—jab, cross, low kick—designed to gauge his defensive reflexes. Coates deflected the punches with minimal movement and checked the kick with his shin, the impact producing a dull crack that echoed in the confined space. He countered immediately, driving forward with a palm strike aimed at her sternum that she barely managed to redirect.

The exchange accelerated from there, both fighters abandoning caution for controlled aggression. Mae Ling's Muay Thai background emphasized powerful strikes and clinch work, while Coates demonstrated a hybrid style that blended Krav Maga's brutal efficiency with what looked like Jeet Kune Do's intercepting philosophy. They traded blows in rapid succession, each strike blocked or deflected, each counter met with a counter-counter.

Coates drove her backward down the corridor, his longer reach giving him a slight advantage in the confined space. Mae Ling felt the wall behind her and used it, planting her foot and launching herself forward with a flying knee that forced Coates to stumble back. She pressed the advantage, landing a solid elbow to his ribs that produced a satisfying grunt of pain.

But Coates was far from finished. He caught her next strike, twisted her arm, and sent her crashing through the swinging doors that led into the hotel's kitchen.

The kitchen was a maze of stainless steel surfaces and hanging pots, the air thick with the smell of garlic and searing meat. A sous chef looked up from his station, eyes widening in shock as Mae Ling rolled to her feet and Coates came through the doors behind her. The kitchen staff scattered, shouting in Cantonese as the two fighters resumed their deadly dance among the prep stations.

Mae Ling grabbed a chef's knife from a magnetic strip and hurled it at Coates' center mass. He twisted, the blade passing close enough to slice through his jacket, and countered by kicking a pot of boiling stock off a burner. Mae Ling dove aside as scalding liquid splashed across the floor where she'd been standing.

They crashed through the kitchen like a localized hurricane, upending equipment and sending dishes clattering to the tile floor. Coates used the environment ruthlessly, throwing obstacles in Mae Ling's path and using the narrow aisles between stations to limit her mobility. She adapted, vaulting over a prep table and catching him with a spinning back kick that sent him stumbling into a rack of hanging pans.

The noise was tremendous, a cacophony of metal on metal and breaking ceramics that surely had to be drawing attention. Mae Ling didn't care. She was committed now, her professional pride demanding that she complete the contract regardless of the complications.

Coates recovered faster than she'd anticipated, grabbing a heavy cast-iron pan and swinging it like a medieval mace. Mae Ling ducked under the first swing, felt the wind of its passage ruffle her hair, and drove her fist into his kidney. He grunted but didn't drop the pan, bringing it around for a backhand strike that she barely blocked with her forearm. The impact sent a spike of pain up to her shoulder, and she knew she'd have a bone-deep bruise tomorrow.

If there is a tomorrow, she thought grimly.

They grappled among the ovens, each trying to gain a dominant position. Coates was stronger, but Mae Ling was faster and more flexible. She slipped his attempted rear naked choke, drove her elbow into his solar plexus, and used his momentary breathlessness to break free. She grabbed a sauté pan and swung it at his head with all her strength.

Coates caught the pan, twisted it out of her grip, and threw it aside. "Listen to me," he said, breathing hard. "You've been set up. We both have."

"Save it," Mae Ling replied, launching a high kick at his temple.

He blocked it, but the force of the impact drove him backward through another set of swinging doors. They tumbled together into the restaurant's main dining area, a elegant space with white tablecloths and crystal chandeliers. Diners screamed and fled as the two fighters crashed through their midst, upending tables and sending wine glasses shattering to the floor.

Mae Ling used a chair as a weapon, swinging it at Coates' head. He ducked and drove his shoulder into her midsection, lifting her off her feet and driving her backward. She felt the window behind her, the glass radiating cold against her back, and realized his intention a split second too late.

They went through the window together in an explosion of shattered glass, tumbling through the air for one weightless moment before hitting the pavement of the alley below. Mae Ling managed to twist in mid-air, landing on top of Coates and using his body to absorb most of the impact. They rolled apart, both coming to their feet despite the punishment they'd taken.

Mae Ling tasted blood in her mouth and felt a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but nothing seemed broken. Coates looked equally battered, his jacket torn and his face sporting several lacerations. They faced each other in the alley, both breathing hard, both knowing that the next exchange might be the last.

But before either could move, the alley flooded with light and the sharp commands of police officers filled the air. Mae Ling counted at least six officers, all with weapons drawn and pointed at them. She raised her hands slowly, watching Coates do the same from the corner of her eye.

"On the ground! Now!" The lead officer's voice carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

Mae Ling complied, lowering herself to the pavement with deliberate slowness. Rough hands grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back as handcuffs clicked into place. She didn't resist. There was no point—not with this many officers and not when she was already exhausted from the fight.

As they hauled her to her feet, she caught Coates' eye. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—not anger, not fear, but something closer to resignation mixed with grim determination.

This isn't over, his look seemed to say.

Mae Ling turned away, allowing the officers to guide her toward the waiting police vehicles. Whatever Coates thought he knew, whatever game he believed they were playing, it didn't matter. She'd failed to complete her contract, which meant she'd need to try again once she'd dealt with this inconvenience.

--

The police station was a typical mid-sized precinct, all fluorescent lights and institutional green paint that seemed designed to drain hope from anyone who entered. Mae Ling sat in the holding cell, watching the officers process paperwork and make phone calls. They'd separated her from Coates immediately, placing him in the adjacent cell where she could see him through the bars but not speak to him without being overheard.

She'd been through this before, in half a dozen countries. The key was patience and the right connections. Her handler would be notified of her arrest within the hour, and arrangements would be made. She'd be released on some technicality or transferred to a facility where escape would be easier. It was simply a matter of waiting.

Coates, however, seemed less patient. He paced his cell like a caged animal, his eyes constantly scanning the precinct's layout, cataloging exits and counting officers. Mae Ling recognized the behavior—he was planning something, which meant he either had resources she didn't know about or he was desperate enough to try something foolish.

After perhaps half an hour, Coates moved to the bars separating their cells and spoke in a low voice that barely carried to her ears. "You've made a mistake."

Mae Ling didn't respond, keeping her gaze fixed on the far wall.

"They're coming," Coates said. "The people who hired you. They used you to flush me out, and now we're both in their crosshairs."

Mae Ling turned to look at him. His face was drawn, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. Not the expression of a man running a con.

"The contract came through channels you trust," he continued, his words coming faster now. "Intelligence too good to question. They knew exactly how to make you bite."

She kept her face blank, but her mind began to race. The handler's insistence. The perfect intel. The urgency that had felt like opportunity but now tasted like a setup.

"They want us both in one place, locked down, limited security." Coates gripped the bars between them. "We're not prisoners here. We're bait that's already been swallowed."

Mae Ling felt fury rising hot in her chest. She'd been played. Used like a damned amateur.

Before Mae Ling could respond, the lights went out.

The precinct plunged into darkness, the sudden absence of fluorescent humming replaced by startled exclamations from the officers. Emergency lighting kicked in after a few seconds, bathing everything in a dim red glow that turned the familiar space into something alien and threatening.

Then the gunfire started.

The sound was unmistakable—the rapid staccato of automatic weapons, multiple shooters, coming from the front of the precinct. Officers shouted, drawing their weapons and taking cover behind desks. Return fire echoed through the building, punctuated by screams and the crash of breaking glass.

Mae Ling was on her feet instantly. Coates had been right, she decided. The realization brought no satisfaction, only a cold fury at having been manipulated.

The firefight intensified, moving deeper into the precinct. Mae Ling counted at least four distinct weapon signatures—the distinctive hollow cough of suppressed submachine guns, military-spec hardware. The police were outgunned and unprepared for a military-style assault. This wasn't a rescue operation; it was an execution squad.

One of the officers who'd arrested them—a young man with a fresh face and frightened eyes—appeared in the detention area, his service weapon drawn but his hands shaking. He looked at Mae Ling and Coates with wild eyes, his finger tight on the trigger.

"Call them off!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear and adrenaline. "Call off your friends or I swear to God I'll shoot you both right now!"

"They're not our friends," Coates said, his voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "We're targets, just like you. Just like everyone in this building."

"Bullshit!" The officer's gun wavered between them. "You're with them! You have to be!"

Mae Ling stepped forward, ignoring the weapon pointed at her chest. "Listen to me. Those shooters out there are professionals. Military contractors, probably. They're here to kill us, and they'll kill anyone who gets in their way. That includes you and every other officer in this precinct."

"She's right," Coates added. "You can shoot us and die when they get here, or you can let us out and maybe we all survive this. Your choice, but you need to make it now."

The officer looked between them, his face pale in the emergency lighting. Another burst of gunfire echoed through the building, closer now. Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" the officer asked, but his voice had lost its aggressive edge. He was scared, and he knew he was out of his depth.

"You don't," Mae Ling said. "But in about thirty seconds, those shooters are going to reach this detention area. If we're still locked up, they'll kill all three of us. If you let us out, we might have a chance."

The officer's hand trembled as he reached for his keys. He unlocked Coates' cell first, then Mae Ling's. "If you're lying—"

"We're not," Coates said. "Now get down and stay down. This is about to get ugly."

Mae Ling and Coates moved into the precinct's bullpen with the practiced silence of predators. The emergency lighting cast everything in shades of red and black, turning the familiar office space into a maze of shadows and blind corners. Bodies lay scattered among the desks—officers who'd been caught in the initial assault, their weapons still holstered or clutched uselessly in dead hands.

Mae Ling knelt beside the nearest corpse, a female officer who'd taken three rounds to the chest. She retrieved the woman's Glock 17, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. Her hands moved on autopilot while her mind churned with cold fury.

Coates did the same with another fallen officer's weapon, his movements efficient and practiced.

They heard the shooters before they saw them—two men moving in tactical formation, their suppressed weapons sweeping the bullpen methodically. Mae Ling caught Coates' eye and gestured, a simple hand signal that he understood immediately. They split up, using the desks for cover as they flanked the approaching assassins.

The first shooter never knew what hit him. Mae Ling rose from behind a filing cabinet and put two rounds through his head before he could react. The anger made her faster, sharper—every movement channeling the humiliation of being played. The second shooter spun toward her, his weapon coming up, but Coates was already there. Three shots, center mass, and the man went down.

Mae Ling moved to the bodies, retrieving their weapons—Heckler & Koch MP5s with suppressors and extended magazines. Top-tier hardware. European procurement. The kind of arsenal that spoke of deep pockets and deeper connections. Someone had invested serious capital in this operation, and she'd been stupid enough to be their opening move. She tossed one to Coates and kept the other, the familiar weight of the submachine gun a comfort in her hands.

"How many more?" she asked quietly.

"At least four," Coates replied, his eyes scanning the bullpen. "Maybe six. They'll be moving in teams, clearing rooms systematically."

More gunfire erupted from the front of the precinct, followed by the distinctive crack of a flashbang grenade. The assault team was being thorough, which meant they had time and resources. This wasn't a quick hit—it was a complete sanitization operation.

Mae Ling and Coates moved deeper into the precinct, using the chaos to their advantage. They encountered another pair of shooters near the evidence room, and this time the fight was harder. The assassins moved with practiced efficiency, coordinated and lethal, using suppressing fire and tactical movement to try to pin them down.

But Mae Ling and Coates had something the shooters didn't—desperation and the intimate knowledge that comes from years of operating in hostile environments. They worked together with an instinctive coordination that surprised Mae Ling, each covering the other's blind spots, each anticipating the other's movements. The irony wasn't lost on her. She was fighting alongside the man she'd been sent to kill, protecting him from the people who'd hired her.

Coates laid down suppressing fire while Mae Ling flanked left, using a overturned desk for cover. She moved with controlled aggression, each tactical decision fueled by the cold burn of her rage. She caught one shooter reloading and put a three-round burst through his chest. Not for survival. For the insult of being manipulated like an amateur. The second shooter tried to retreat, but Coates was already moving, cutting off his escape route and dropping him with a controlled pair of shots.

They paused to catch their breath, both breathing hard from the adrenaline and exertion. Mae Ling's earlier injuries from their fight were making themselves known now, a dull ache in her ribs and a sharp pain in her shoulder every time she raised the MP5. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury coiling in her chest. Someone had looked at Mae Ling and seen a puppet. A useful idiot to point at a target. That mistake was going to cost them everything.

"You're hurt," Coates observed.

"I'll live," Mae Ling replied. "How many left?"

"Two, maybe three." Coates ejected his magazine, checked the remaining rounds, and slapped it back into place. "They'll know we're armed now. They'll be more careful."

As if to punctuate his words, a voice called out from somewhere in the precinct's maze of corridors. "Coates! We know you're here! Come out and we'll make it quick!"

Neither Mae Ling nor Coates responded. Talking would only give away their position.

They moved toward the voice, using the building's layout to their advantage. Mae Ling had memorized the precinct's floor plan during her initial processing, a habit that was now paying dividends. She led them through a series of offices and conference rooms, circling around to flank the remaining shooters.

They found them near the precinct's rear exit—two men in tactical gear, their weapons trained on the corridor they expected Coates and Mae Ling to emerge from. It was a good ambush position, but they'd made the mistake of assuming their targets would take the direct route.

Mae Ling and Coates emerged from a side office, catching the shooters in a crossfire. The fight was brief and brutal. One shooter went down immediately, Mae Ling's burst catching him in the side where his body armor didn't cover. The second shooter was faster, diving for cover and returning fire.

A round caught Coates in the shoulder, spinning him around. He went down hard, his weapon clattering across the floor. The shooter rose from cover, his weapon trained on Coates' prone form, finger tightening on the trigger.

Mae Ling didn't think. She moved on pure instinct, her MP5 coming up as she squeezed the trigger. The burst caught the shooter in the throat, above his body armor, and he went down choking on his own blood.

She rushed to Coates, helping him to his feet. Blood soaked his shoulder, but the wound looked clean—through and through, missing the bone. "Can you move?"

"Yeah," Coates grunted, retrieving his weapon with his good hand. "Thanks."

Before Mae Ling could respond, a voice called out from the darkness. "This isn't over!" The accent was Eastern European, the tone filled with cold certainty. "ORACLE won't stop until you're dead, Coates! And you, Ghost, you picked your side! You'll pay for your choice!"

Mae Ling heard footsteps retreating, running toward the rear exit. She started to pursue, but Coates grabbed her arm with his good hand.

"Let them go," he said. "We need to get out of here before backup arrives—theirs or the police's."

Mae Ling hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to pursue and eliminate the threat. But Coates was right. They were in no condition for a prolonged engagement, and staying here would only lead to more complications.

They made their way to the rear exit, moving through the carnage they'd created. The precinct was a slaughterhouse, bodies of officers and assassins scattered throughout. Mae Ling felt a pang of guilt for the dead police—collateral damage in a war they hadn't known they were fighting.

The night air hit them like a physical force as they emerged into the alley behind the precinct. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. They had minutes at most before the area was flooded with reinforcements.

Coates leaned against the wall, his face pale from blood loss. Mae Ling tore a strip from her shirt and fashioned a crude pressure bandage for his shoulder. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would keep him mobile for now.

"We need to move," she said.

"Agreed." Coates pushed himself off the wall, swaying slightly. "There's a safe house about three miles from here. We can—"

"No," Mae Ling interrupted. "We're not going anywhere together until you tell me what the hell is going on. Who is ORACLE? Why do they want us both dead? And why did they use me to flush you out?"

Coates looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. "It's a long story."

"Then you'd better start talking," Mae Ling said, "because we're going to meet again, Coates. Soon. And when we do, you're going to explain everything. Every detail, every connection, every reason why I was manipulated into hunting you."

"Fair enough," Coates said. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. It was blank except for a phone number written in pencil. "Call this number in forty-eight hours. I'll tell you everything I know about ORACLE, about why they want us dead, and about the people who've been pulling your strings."

Mae Ling took the card, memorizing the number before tucking it into her pocket. "Forty-eight hours. If you're not there, I'll find you anyway."

"I don't doubt it," Coates said with a ghost of a smile. "You're good, Chen. Better than I expected. That's probably why they wanted you for this."

They heard voices from inside the precinct—more police arriving, securing the scene. Mae Ling and Coates moved in opposite directions without another word, disappearing into the Hong Kong night like shadows fleeing the dawn.

As Mae Ling ran through the back alleys, her mind raced with questions. ORACLE. The name meant nothing to her, but the implications were clear. Someone with significant resources had manipulated her into hunting Coates, had used her as a tool to flush him out of hiding. And now that same organization wanted her dead for the crime of surviving their trap.

She'd been played, used like a amateur. The realization burned in her gut, a cold fury that demanded satisfaction. Someone would pay for this manipulation, for turning her into an unwitting pawn in their game.

But first, she needed answers. And in forty-eight hours, Harland Coates would provide them.

The game was far from over. It had only just begun.

--

If you liked this story, you should check out The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology!

A Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

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

The Ghost Observes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A scream shattered the restored calm.

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

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

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

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

A hand settled on her shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think the wife poisoned him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what do you think, Detective?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that was someone else's problem.

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

--

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

The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle: Fiction by Steve Miller

It's a tale of a different sort of Christmas miracle...

The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle

The snow fell in thick, wet clumps across Vancouver's east side, turning the streets into a treacherous maze of slush and ice. Billy Wei's Honda Civic fishtailed slightly as he took the corner onto East Hastings too fast, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The dashboard clock glowed 11:47 PM—he was almost 30 minutes late.

His phone sat silent in the cup holder now, but he could still hear Amy's voice from an hour ago, raw with anger and exhaustion. "It's Christmas Eve, Billy. Christmas fucking Eve." The memory of Sophie's face—confused, sleepy, clutching that card she'd made—twisted something deep in his chest. Two years old. She'd waited up for him.

But Mitchell had called. When Mitchell Chen called, you came.

The house loomed ahead, a renovated Craftsman that looked respectable enough from the outside. Billy pulled into the circular driveway, noting the other cars already present. Tommy's Escalade. Ray's BMW. The whole crew was here, which meant this wasn't just another collection run. Mitchell had sounded tense on the phone, paranoid even. Something about the Mexicans making moves.

On Christmas Eve, Billy thought bitterly.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield. Through the front windows of the house, he could see warm light spilling out, the kind of domestic glow that reminded him of his own apartment. Where Amy was probably still awake, angry and hurt. Where Sophie slept with her new stuffed reindeer.

Billy checked his Glock 19, ensuring a round was chambered, then tucked it back into his waistband beneath his jacket. Three years of this. Three years of telling himself it was temporary, that the money was worth it. Rent. Daycare. Amy's nursing school tuition. Better than construction work, he'd said. Better than breaking his back for minimum wage.

But lately, when Sophie looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes, the weight pressed down harder.

He stepped out into the cold and to Mitchell's front door. It was ever-so-slightly ajar, which struck him as odd immediately. Mitchell was paranoid about security, always had the door sedured and at least two guys posted. Billy pushed it open slowly, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

The entry hall stretched before him, all polished hardwood and expensive artwork that Mitchell had probably bought to launder money. And there, sprawled across the floor near the coat closet, was Danny Cho—one of Mitchell's regular guards. Billy's breath caught. Danny wasn't moving, his body positioned awkwardly, one arm twisted beneath him.

Billy drew his Glock, the familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate. His heart hammered against his ribs as he moved forward, keeping his back to the wall. Danny's chest rose and fell shallowly—unconscious, not dead. A small mercy, though Billy couldn't imagine what had put him down. Danny was ex-military, trained and alert. Taking him out without a sound took serious skill.

The house was too quiet. No voices, no music, none of the usual sounds of Mitchell's operation. Just the soft hum of the heating system and Billy's own ragged breathing. He moved deeper into the house, past the living room where Mitchell usually held court, toward the back offices where the real business happened.

Another body in the hallway. This time it was Ray Martinez, slumped against the wall near the bathroom. Billy checked him quickly—also unconscious, a dark bruise blooming on his temple. Professional work. Someone had moved through this house like a ghost, taking down trained men without raising an alarm.

Billy's mouth went dry. He should run. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and get out while he still could. But he kept moving forward, drawn by a sick need to know, to understand what had happened here.

The third body stopped him cold.

Tommy Nguyen lay face-down in the hallway leading to Mitchell's office, and this time there was no mistaking it. The back of Tommy's head was a ruin of blood and bone, two neat entry wounds visible even in the dim light. The carpet beneath him was soaked dark, still spreading. Billy's stomach lurched. He'd known Tommy since high school, had been at his wedding two years ago.

A sound reached him then—a voice, choked and desperate. Mitchell's voice, coming from the office ahead. Billy crept forward, his Glock raised, every nerve ending on fire. The office door stood half-open, light spilling out into the hallway.

"Please," Mitchell was saying, his voice cracking with terror Billy had never heard from him before. "Please, I can pay you whatever they're paying. Double it. Triple it."

Billy reached the doorway and peered around the frame, and the scene before him seemed to freeze in crystalline clarity.

Mitchell Chen knelt in the center of his office, hands raised, his expensive suit rumpled and stained with sweat. Around him, scattered across the floor like broken dolls, were the rest of his inner circle. Billy recognized them all—Chen's lieutenants, his enforcers, the men who'd made his operation run. Some were clearly dead, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Others might have been unconscious like Danny and Ray, but Billy couldn't tell from this angle.

And standing over Mitchell, dominating the room despite her slender frame, was a woman.

She wore a long red coat that fell to her knees, unbuttoned to reveal a form-fitting black bodysuit beneath that looked more like tactical gear than fashion. Black boots, practical and silent. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, revealing sharp, elegant features that might have been beautiful in other circumstances. But it was her eyes that held Billy frozen—dark and cold and utterly devoid of mercy.

In her right hand, she held a compact machine pistol, some kind of modified MP5K with a suppressor attached. The weapon was pointed directly at Mitchell's head with the steady confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.

"I don't want your money," the woman said, her voice carrying a faint accent Billy couldn't quite place. Mandarin, maybe, or Cantonese. "I'm not here for negotiation."

"Then what?" Mitchell sobbed. "What do you want?"

"Justice," she said simply. "For the girls you've trafficked. For the families you destroyed. For the communities you poisoned." She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a scientist examining an insect. "Did you really that you could do what you've done and simply continue?"

"I'm just a businessman," Mitchell pleaded. "I provide a service—"

"You're a slaver and a murderer," the woman interrupted, her voice never rising above conversational level. "You sold thirteen-year-old girls from rural Bolivia. You promised them jobs and education, then locked in brothels and shot full of your product until they couldn't remember their own names."

Billy's blood ran cold. He'd heard rumors, whispers about that side of Mitchell's operation, but he'd never wanted to believe them. He'd told himself he was just doing collections, just moving product, nothing to do with the darker aspects of the business.

"That wasn't me," Mitchell said desperately. "That was the Colombians, the Russians—"

"You facilitated it. You profited from it." The woman's finger tightened on the trigger. "And now you pay for it."

The suppressed shots were barely louder than coughs—two quick pops that echoed in the sudden silence. Mitchell's body jerked twice, then crumpled forward onto the expensive Persian rug, blood pooling beneath him.

Billy gasped before he could stop himself, the sound escaping his throat like a wounded animal. The woman whirled with inhuman speed, the machine pistol tracking toward the doorway, toward him. Billy raised his own Glock, his hands shaking, and suddenly they were locked in a standoff—two armed strangers pointing weapons at each other across a room full of corpses.

For a long moment, neither moved. Billy could see her evaluating him, those cold eyes taking in every detail—his cheap jacket, his trembling hands, the way he held his weapon like someone who'd been trained but never really wanted to use it. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to remember his training, but all he could think about was Sophie's face, Amy's voice, the Christmas tree they'd decorated together last week.

"You're late," the woman said finally, her weapon never wavering. "Billy Wei, correct? Low-level collections, occasional enforcement. Three years with Chen's organization. No major crimes on your record beyond the drug distribution."

The fact that she knew his name sent ice through his veins. "Who are you?"

"Someone who came to kill Mitchell Chen and his lieutenants," she said calmly. "The others—the guards, the muscle—they just got in the way. I gave them the chance to walk away. Most didn't take it."

Billy's eyes flicked to the bodies on the floor, then back to her. "You killed them all."

"The ones who chose to fight, yes." She took a step closer, and Billy's finger tightened on his trigger. She noticed and stopped, a faint smile crossing her lips. "You're scared. Good. Fear keeps you alive. But you're also thinking about someone—I can see it in your eyes. Someone waiting for you."

"My daughter," Billy heard himself say. "And my girlfriend. It's Christmas Eve."

The woman's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those dark eyes. "Then you have a choice to make, Billy Wei. You can try to avenge your boss, and die here, on this floor, and your daughter will grow up without a father. Your girlfriend will spend Christmas morning identifying your body."

She paused, letting the words sink in.

"Or," she continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "you can accept this as the Christmas miracle it is. You can lower your weapon, walk out that door, and go home to your family. You can hold your daughter and tell her you love her. You can be there for her first day of school, her graduation, her wedding. You can be the father she deserves."

Billy's hands shook harder. Mitchell was dead. Tommy was dead. The whole organization was decapitated in a single night. There would be chaos, power struggles, violence. But there would also be an opportunity—a chance to walk away, to leave this life behind before it consumed him completely.

"I came for Chen and his inner circle," the woman said. "You're not on my list, Billy. You're just a man who made bad choices trying to provide for his family. I understand that. But this is your only chance. Lower your weapon and walk away, or die here with the rest of them."

Billy thought of Sophie's card, the one Amy had mentioned. She'd made it herself, probably with crayons and construction paper, her little hands working so carefully to create something for him. He'd never even seen it. He'd chosen Mitchell's call over his daughter's gift.

Not anymore.

Billy lowered his Glock slowly, his hands still shaking. The woman watched him carefully, her weapon tracking his movements, ready to fire if he made any sudden moves. But Billy just tucked his gun back into his waistband and raised his hands.

"Smart choice," the woman said. She lowered her own weapon, though she kept it ready. "Go home, Billy Wei. Spend Christmas with your family. And when the police come asking questions, you tell them you were late, you found the bodies, you ran. You don't know anything about a woman in a red coat. Understand?"

Billy nodded, not trusting his voice.

"And Billy?" The woman's eyes hardened again. "This is your one chance to change. If I hear you've gone back to this life, if I hear you've hurt anyone, sold anything, facilitated any of the evil that Mitchell Chen represented—I'll come for you. And next time, there won't be a conversation."

"I'm done," Billy managed to say. "I swear. I'm done with all of this."

The woman studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Then go. Before I change my mind."

Billy didn't need to be told twice. He backed out of the office, keeping his hands visible, then turned and ran. He stumbled over Ray's unconscious body, nearly fell over Danny in the entry hall, but he kept moving. The cold air hit him like a slap when he burst through the front door, snow swirling around him in the darkness.

He ran to his car, fumbled with his keys, and somehow got the engine started. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the steering wheel, but he managed to back out of the driveway and onto the street. In his rearview mirror, he saw the house receding, warm light still glowing from the windows, no sign of the carnage within.

Billy made it two blocks before he had to pull over. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't hold the wheel steady, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps that fogged the windshield. He put the car in park and gripped the steering wheel, trying to ground himself, but all he could see was Mitchell's face—the fear in his eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he begged. The bodies on the floor. Ray's twisted arm. The woman's cold, dark eyes as she'd aimed the gun at Billy's chest.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, but that made it worse. Behind his eyelids, he saw it all again. The blood. The stillness. How easily she'd moved through that house, how efficiently she'd ended lives. How close he'd come to being one of them.

His stomach lurched and he barely got the door open in time before he vomited into the snow. He stayed there, bent over, gasping, the cold air burning his throat. When the heaving finally stopped, he sat back, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. The snow fell steadily, already beginning to cover what he'd left on the ground.

Billy sat there for a long time, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield, listening to the tick of the engine. Slowly, gradually, his breathing steadied. His hands stopped shaking quite so badly. He started the car again and pulled back onto the street.

The drive home felt endless and dreamlike. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing in the opposite direction, headlights blurred by falling snow. Billy drove on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely—replaying the woman's words, the choice she'd given him, the weight of Sophie's card in his pocket. The familiar landmarks of his neighborhood appeared and disappeared like images in a fog.

When he finally pulled into his apartment complex, he sat in the car with the engine running, staring up at his building. Third floor, second window from the left. The lights were on. Amy was still awake. He could see the faint glow of the Christmas tree through the curtains.

He turned off the engine. The sudden silence felt enormous.

Billy sat there in the dark, watching his breath fog the air, trying to figure out how to walk through that door. How to face Amy. What to say. What he could possibly say that would make her understand without telling her what he'd seen, what he'd almost become part of. His hands found the steering wheel again, gripping it like an anchor.

Finally, he got out of the car. The cold helped. The snow on his face helped. He climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, and stood outside his door for a long moment with his hand on the knob. He could hear the faint sound of the television inside. Normal life. His life. The one he'd almost thrown away.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

The apartment was dark except for the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner, its colored lights casting soft shadows across the living room. Amy sat on the couch, still awake, her arms crossed. She looked up when he entered, her expression hardening.

"Billy—" she started, anger in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke. "Amy, I'm so sorry. You're right. About everything. I'm done. I'm done with Mitchell, with all of it. I'm done."

Amy's expression shifted from anger to confusion, then to something else as she really looked at him. She stood up slowly. "Billy, what happened? You look—"

"I can't explain it all right now," he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hollow and distant. "But I need you to know—I'm done. I'm getting out. I'm going to find legitimate work, something clean. I'm going to be here for you and Sophie. I'm going to be the father she deserves."

Amy moved closer, studying his face in the dim light. Her anger had evaporated, replaced by concern and something that looked like fear. "Billy, you're scaring me. What happened tonight?"

"Something that should have happened a long time ago," he said quietly. "I saw... I saw what this life leads to. Where it ends. And I can't—" His voice caught. "I can't do it anymore. I won't."

She searched his eyes for a long moment. Whatever she saw there—the truth of it, the finality—made her reach for his hand. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay."

"Can I see her?" he asked. "Please? I need to see her."

Amy nodded and led him to Sophie's room. The door was already open, and Billy stepped inside quietly. His daughter lay in her toddler bed, her stuffed reindeer clutched to her chest, her face peaceful in sleep. On the nightstand beside her bed was a piece of construction paper folded in half—her card. Billy picked it up carefully and opened it.

Inside, in crayon, she'd drawn three stick figures—a tall one, a medium one, and a small one, all holding hands. Above them, in Amy's handwriting helping Sophie's attempt, were the words: "I love you Daddy. Merry Christmas."

Billy's vision blurred. He set the card down gently and leaned over to kiss Sophie's forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of her baby shampoo. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just hugged her reindeer tighter.

"I love you too, baby girl," he whispered. "I'm here now. I'm going to be here."

Amy stood in the doorway, watching him. When he turned to her, she opened her arms, and he went to her, holding her tight. They stood there in the hallway, wrapped in each other, while Sophie slept peacefully and the Christmas tree lights twinkled in the living room.

Billy pulled back just enough to look at Amy's face. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Sophie's card, the one he'd been carrying all night. He held it in both hands, looking down at the crayon drawing—three stick figures holding hands—and then at the Christmas tree beyond, its lights reflecting in the dark window.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the city in white.

--

If you enjoyed this story, you can read more about the mysterious killer in NUELOW Games' The Ghost of Hong Kong, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

A Tale of the Christmas Dragon

 We're counting the days till Christmas, and if you are as well, we hope our every-other-day posts will help make the time go by faster!

Today, we're bringing you a story about Brigid, The Young Lady Who Loves Christmas. (You can read another one in Gifts from the Christmas Dragon if you like this one.)

Christmas Miracles

By Steve Miller

The December wind bit through the empty streets of downtown, carrying with it the faint echo of distant carolers and the metallic scent of impending snow. She hummed "Silent Night" under her breath as she navigated the cracked sidewalks, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. The grocery bags in her arms were heavy—one filled with carefully selected gifts wrapped in cheerful paper covered in snowmen and reindeer, the other stuffed with ingredients for tomorrow's Christmas dinner: a small turkey, cranberries, sweet potatoes, and all the fixings that would transform her tiny apartment in the city into something that felt like home.

At five-foot-one and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, she knew she didn't cut an imposing figure--and she was more than okay with that. Her short red hair stuck up in its usual chaotic arrangement and her face was a constellation of freckles that became even more pronounced in the cold. She wore a threadbare winter coat that had seen better days, jeans with worn knees, and boots that were more practical than fashionable. To any observer, she looked like a young woman of modest means trying to make Christmas special despite her circumstances.

The streets were eerily empty for ten o'clock on Christmas Eve. Most people were already home with their families, gathered around trees and fireplaces, exchanging gifts and making memories. Earlier, she had filled in at the diner for her friend Kerrie and worked a double shift—someone had to serve the lonely souls who came in for coffee and pie on holidays. She'd stopped at the twenty-four-hour grocery store on her way home. Tomorrow, the two kids from next door—their mom deployed overseas—would come over, and Brigid was determined to give them a Christmas worth remembering.

She switched to humming "Deck the Halls" as she turned down Maple Street, a shortcut that would shave five minutes off her walk. The streetlights here were spaced farther apart, creating pools of shadow between islands of sickly yellow light. Graffiti decorated the brick walls of closed businesses, and the occasional piece of trash skittered across the pavement, pushed by the wind.

She didn't notice the figure in the alley until he was already moving.

He emerged from the darkness between two buildings like a predator lunging from cover—a man in his thirties, lean and wiry, with a scraggly beard and eyes that darted with the nervous energy of someone riding a chemical high. In his right hand, he held a knife, the blade catching the streetlight and throwing back a wicked gleam.

"Money. Now." His voice was rough, aggressive, brooking no argument. "And the bags. Give me the fucking bags."

"It's Christmas Eve," she said, her tone almost conversational despite the tremor she couldn't quite suppress. "This isn't very Christmas-spirity of you, threatening people with knives."

The man's face twisted with rage. Before she could react, his left hand shot out and connected with her cheek in a sharp, stinging slap that made her head snap to the side. Stars exploded across her vision, and she tasted copper.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled, stepping closer, the knife now inches from her face. "You want this in your gut? Huh? You want me to gut you like a fish right here on the street? Shut your mouth and give me what I want, or you'll get the knife next."

Her cheek burned where he'd struck her, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—partly from pain, partly from the shock of sudden violence, partly from the crushing disappointment that this was how her Christmas Eve was ending. With shaking hands, she held out the bag of presents.

"Here," she whispered, her voice thick. "Take them. The Spirit of Christmas will set you straight, though. You'll see."

The man snatched the bag from her hands, then grabbed her purse from her shoulder with such force that the strap broke. "I said shut up about—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, with a swift arcing of his arm and hand, he drove the knife into her shoulder.

She cried out and stumbled backward, her remaining grocery bag falling to the ground as she clutched at her shoulder. Blood seeped between her fingers, soaking into her coat.

"I told you to shut up," the mugger said, his voice cold now, almost matter-of-fact. He wiped the blade on his jeans and pocketed it, then turned and walked away, carrying her purse and the bag of Christmas presents as if he'd just completed a routine transaction.

She sank to her knees on the cold sidewalk, then collapsed onto her side. Blood spread across the concrete beneath her shoulder, dark and glistening under the streetlight. The groceries from her dropped bag scattered—a can of cranberry sauce rolled into the gutter, a box of stuffing came to rest against the curb. Her body shook with sobs, her small frame convulsing with each breath.

Above her, the first snowflakes of the evening began to fall.

--

Matt Holt felt pretty good about himself as he walked swiftly away from the scene. The adrenaline was still pumping through his system, making everything seem sharper, more vivid. The knife was back in his pocket, and he had a purse—probably not much cash in it, but maybe some credit cards he could use before she reported them stolen—and a whole bag of Christmas presents.

He'd been watching the twenty-four-hour grocery store for the past few hours, waiting for the right mark. Someone alone, someone small, someone who wouldn't put up a fight. The redhead had been perfect. He'd felt a momentary pang when she'd mentioned Christmas spirit—his mother used to say stuff like that—but he'd squashed it down. Sentiment was something he'd driven from his person long ago.

The stabbing had been necessary, he told himself. She wouldn't shut up, kept talking about Christmas spirit and consequences, and he'd needed to make sure she understood the seriousness of the situation. Besides, it was just the shoulder. She'd live. Probably.

Matt turned down an alley that would take him toward his apartment, a studio in a building that should have been condemned years ago. He was already planning his next moves. First, he'd go through the purse, take any cash and cards. Then he'd open the presents. With any luck, there'd be something valuable—electronics, jewelry, something he could pawn. Whatever he couldn't sell, he'd wrap back up and give to his buddies. They'd get a kick out of that, receiving stolen Christmas presents. The irony was delicious. Somewhere overhead, he heard a strange whooshing sound, like a rush of wind or maybe the heavy beating of wings. He glanced up briefly but saw nothing except the dark sky and falling snow—probably just a bird or the wind playing tricks between the buildings.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice the figure ahead of him.

She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, perhaps fifty feet away, backlit by a streetlight that created a halo effect around her silhouette. Even from this distance, Matt could make out the distinctive outline: small, slender, with short, messy hair that stuck up at odd angles.

His blood ran cold.

It couldn't be. He'd left her bleeding on the sidewalk six blocks back. There was no way she could have gotten ahead of him, not with a stab wound in her shoulder, not without him seeing her pass.

Matt's hand went to the knife in his pocket as he walked forward, his pace slowing. As he got closer, the details became clearer, and his stomach dropped. It was her. Same threadbare coat, same jeans, same boots—though the coat was dark with blood spreading from her shoulder, a wet stain that should have left her weak and trembling. But something was different. She stood perfectly still, not swaying or clutching her wounded shoulder. And there was something about the way she held herself—a confidence, a presence that hadn't been there before.

"You have one final chance," she said, her voice carrying clearly through the cold night air. There was no tremor in it now, no fear. It was calm, measured, and somehow terrible in its certainty. "One final chance before the Spirit of Christmas punishes you for your crimes."

Matt's fear transformed into rage. How dare she? How dare this little nobody threaten him? He'd already stabbed her once; clearly, she needed a more permanent lesson. He pulled the knife from his pocket and advanced on her, his lips pulling back in a snarl.

"You're going to regret you were ever born, bitch," he growled, raising the knife. "I'm going to make you wish I'd finished the job the first time."

"My name is not bitch, it's Brigid." Brigid didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't show any sign of fear.

Instead, she began to glow.

It started as a faint luminescence, like she'd swallowed a light bulb, a soft golden radiance that emanated from her skin. Matt stopped in his tracks, his knife hand wavering, as the glow intensified. It grew brighter and brighter, forcing him to squint, until Brigid was blazing like a star, like a bonfire, like the sun itself had descended to the street.

And then she began to change.

Her body elongated, stretched, expanded. Her arms thickened and extended, fingers fusing and lengthening into massive claws tipped with talons like curved daggers. Her legs bent backward at the knee, becoming powerful haunches covered in scales that gleamed like rubies. Her neck extended, her face pushing forward into a reptilian snout filled with teeth like ivory swords. Wings erupted from her back—vast, leathery wings that unfurled with a sound like thunder.

In the space of three heartbeats, the small, freckled young woman had transformed into a dragon.

She was magnificent and terrible, a creature of myth and legend made flesh. Her scales were the deep red of arterial blood, shot through with veins of gold that pulsed with inner fire. Her eyes—still recognizably Brigid's eyes, but now the size of dinner plates—fixed on Matt with an intelligence that was utterly inhuman and yet somehow more human than anything he'd ever encountered. They held judgment, and wrath, and a terrible, implacable justice.

Matt's knife clattered to the ground. His bladder released, warm urine running down his leg. He tried to scream, but his throat had locked up, producing only a strangled wheeze.

The dragon that had been Brigid lunged forward with a speed that belied her massive size. One enormous claw closed around Matt's torso, pinning his arms to his sides, and then she was rising, her wings beating with powerful strokes that created windstorms in the narrow street. Trash and snow swirled in the vortex of her ascent.

Matt found his voice and screamed. He screamed as the ground fell away beneath him, as the buildings shrank to the size of toys, as the city spread out below like a map. He screamed as the wind tore at his clothes and face, as the cold bit into him with teeth far sharper than any December night had a right to possess. He screamed until his throat was raw and his voice gave out.

The dragon climbed higher and higher, until the city lights below looked like a field of stars, until Matt could see the curve of the horizon, until the air grew so thin that each breath was a labor. Then, finally, she stopped, hovering in place with slow, powerful beats of her wings.

She brought Matt up to her face, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her scales, close enough to see his own terrified reflection in her enormous eyes. When she spoke, her voice was like an avalanche, like a volcano, like the wrath of nature itself given sound.

"PRAY FOR A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE."

Then she opened her claw.

Matt fell.

The scream that had died in his throat returned with renewed vigor as he plummeted toward the earth. The wind screamed past his ears, drowning out his own voice. The city rushed up to meet him, growing larger and larger, details resolving from the blur—individual buildings, streets, cars, the hard, unforgiving pavement that would be his grave.

His life didn't flash before his eyes. There was only terror, pure and absolute, and the certain knowledge that he was about to die, that his body would be found splattered across the concrete, that this was how it ended, on Christmas Eve, killed by a dragon, killed by the Spirit of Christmas itself.

The sound of rushing air seemed to grow louder in his ears. The ground was so close now. He could make out individual bricks in the building facades. Could see—

Darkness took him.

--

Matt woke to the sound of voices and the feeling of something hard and cold beneath him.

"—the third one this week. I'm telling you, these junkies are getting bolder."

"Yeah, well, this one picked the wrong night to pass out on our steps. Come on, let's get him processed."

Matt's eyes fluttered open. He was lying on stone steps, and standing over him were two police officers, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and weary resignation. Behind them, the facade of the Fifth Precinct police station rose into the night sky.

He was alive.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He was alive. He hadn't hit the ground. Somehow, impossibly, he was alive and uninjured, lying on the steps of a police station with his stolen goods—the purse and the bag of presents—arranged neatly beside him.

"All right, buddy, up you go," one of the officers said, reaching down to haul Matt to his feet. "You can sleep it off in a cell."

Matt's mind raced. He could talk his way out of this. He was good at that. He'd spin some story about finding the purse and presents, about being a Good Samaritan trying to turn them in, and then—

He saw her.

She stood at the end of the block, illuminated by a streetlight. She was human again, small and slender in her threadbare coat, her short red hair sticking up in its chaotic arrangement. But she was holding her shoulder—the shoulder he'd stabbed—and the look on her face was one of absolute, unwavering certainty. Her eyes met his across the distance, and in them, he saw the dragon. He saw the judgment. He saw the promise of what would happen if he lied, if he tried to escape justice.

"I did it," Matt heard himself say. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other in his haste to confess. "The purse and the presents, I stole them. I mugged a woman on Maple Street. I stabbed her in the shoulder. And there's other stuff, other crimes. I broke into a car last week on Fifth Avenue, stole a laptop. I sold stolen phones to a guy named Eddie at the pawn shop on Broad Street. I—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," the second officer said, pulling out a notepad. "You're confessing to all this?"

"Yes," Matt said, unable to look away from that girl's steady gaze. "Yes, I'm confessing to everything. I want to confess. I need to confess."

The officers exchanged glances, the kind of look that said they'd seen a lot of strange things in their careers, but this was a new one. People didn't usually show up on the station steps with stolen goods and a burning desire to confess to multiple crimes.

"All right," the first officer said slowly. "Let's get you inside, make sure you know your rights, and take a full statement. This is going to be a long night."

As they led Matt into the station, he looked back one more time. She was still there, still watching. As their eyes met, she nodded once—a small, almost imperceptible gesture—and then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the falling snow.

Inside the station, as Matt sat in an interrogation room and confessed to every crime he could remember, as the officers typed up his statement with expressions of increasing disbelief, as the reality of what he'd done and what would happen to him began to sink in, he found himself thinking about his mother. About the Christmas stories she used to tell him when he was young, about Santa Claus and his list of naughty and nice, about redemption and second chances, about the magic of Christmas.

He'd thought those were just fairy tales, stories for children who still believed in magic.

He'd been wrong.

Outside, the snow fell more heavily now, blanketing the city in white, covering the bloodstain on the sidewalk where Brigid had fallen, transforming the dirty streets into something clean and new. Church bells began to ring in the distance, announcing the arrival of Christmas Day.

--

In a small apartment across town, Brigid sat on her couch, her shoulder bandaged—the wound already healing with a speed that would have astonished any doctor—and looked at the gifts she'd selected from her treasure hoard during a quick visit after dropping the mugger off at the police station: a silver music box that played lullabies and granted peaceful dreams, a kaleidoscope that showed visions of far-off lands, and a set of wooden toys carved by craftsmen centuries dead that never broke and always brought joy to their owners. They were perhaps a bit unconventional as children's presents in this age, but they had the added benefit of being enchanted. Tomorrow, the neighbor children whose mother was deployed with the Navy would come over, and they would have Christmas dinner, and it would be wonderful.

But tonight, on this Christmas Eve, justice had been served. The Spirit of Christmas had spoken, and a man who had chosen cruelty and violence had been given a Christmas miracle.

Just not the kind he'd expected.

Brigid smiled, took a sip of hot chocolate, and began to hum "Silent Night". Outside her window, the snow continued to fall, and the world turned toward Christmas morning.

It was the most wonderful time of the year.