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Disclaimer: The concept and characters of Highlander belong to Panzer/Davis; I'm only borrowing them for a while so they can play with the characters from my universe. They will be returned unharmed and, for the most part, unchanged.
While working on my Protégé series, this character just appeared. I tried to fit her in to my other story universe, but she demanded her own. And, as you will see, no one argues with her.
Comments, praise, and constructive criticisms are always welcome, so please send comments.
Nightwind
By TheGreyOwl
China, 1175 AD
The Warlord waved the young woman forward. "You will dance for me tonight." Turning to the other women, he said, "Prepare her." They led the young woman away to another chamber where she was bathed, scented with fragrant oils, and dressed layers of sheer veils. Before they could lead her from that chamber, she retrieved her ceremonial fans from her old clothes.
Through the fortress she traveled then up the far tower stairs to a guarded door, the entrance to the Warlord's private chambers. She was pushed through the door and it closed behind her, sealing the only exit.
He was sprawled amid pillows and throws, clad only in a clout of fine linen. His muscled body shone in the flickering torchlight. "Dance." That single word was a command that must be obeyed; disobedience meant death. She also knew that her dance must please the Warlord...must arouse his jaded tastes...or she would be given over to his soldiers as a plaything before they killed her.
She started with the simple dances of her home village, but she could see he was growing restive. She shifted to a new style, an echo of the Tai Chi she'd practiced for years, made erotic as she removed one layer of veils at the end of each cycle of movements. She watched his eyes as she removed the last veil covering her pert breasts; his undisguised lust aroused her as well, making her nipples swell and distend. Now she was down to the sheerest diaphanous wisp about her hips, and, as she removed it, she flicked open her ceremonial fans.
Her delicate movements of the dance and the positioning of the fans would obscure, reveal, and the obscure her body again. She could feel his fevered gaze as it sought her sex. As she moved closer to him, she let the fans reveal more of her to his eager eyes. Her body glowed from the oils and sweat. She watched as he drew his erection from his clout, slowly stroking himself as he watched her dance closer and closer.
She was now just beyond his reach. She stood with her feet planted shoulder-width apart, the fans moving above her breasts, her body exposed to his eyes which were now locked on her plucked pubis, its outer lips swollen in her own arousal. Sexual tension alone was not responsible for her state. It was rather the apparent power that her body had over this all-powerful tyrant combined with the knowledge of what was to come.
As he surged to his knees and reached for her, his mind clouded by lust, she struck. The fan in her right hand moved across the space between them. Unlike the fan in her left hand with its paper blades, this fan had blades of razor-sharp metal. Those blades, backed by the trained muscles of the female assassin, passed through the man's neck without resistance, severing everything in their path. His head fell one way, his torso the other, his fountaining blood painting the pillows and throws scarlet.
Ignoring the corpse, she strode across the room to the small square opening in the wall. As she had thought, it was only slightly smaller than the width of her shoulders. She could squeeze through it if she didn't mind losing some skin. She threw her fans through the opening and then paused. She went back to the pooling blood and dipped a finger into it. Finding a clean stretch of white linen, she painted the characters depicting the Night Wind. She then wriggled through the tiny window, scraping her breasts, buttocks and hips raw. At last she hung from the sill above the gorge below the fortress wall. Commending her spirit to her ancestors once again, she let go and fell to her death.
As always, rebirth was painful. She lay in the dark at the bottom of the gorge and drew in another sweet breath of air. There was no outcry above, no frantic passage of torches along the walls. Her handiwork had not yet been discovered for who would intrude on the Warlord and his bedpartner of the night. She chuckled grimly as she thought of the reaction in the morning when the grisly remains were found alone in the room with the heavily guarded door. People would whisper of Nightwind, and her formidable reputation would grow.
For even in mid-twelfth century China, people hired assassins. Perhaps to eliminate a rival in business or even in love; now most wanted revenge on the Mongol Warlords that had invaded their country. Where some situations could be solved using local thugs, some targets were too prominent or well guarded. For those cases, only the best would be sufficient. Of them all, only Nightwind had never failed to carry out her mission. Totally without fear, she demanded and received the highest fees ... her weight in gold or precious gemstones. No one ever considered reneging on a deal with her, for no one could and still live.
The Warlord had been typical, unapproachable by conventional means or by a male assassin. She'd spent two weeks working her way into the fortress and another week attracting his eye. Because the Warlord only liked his women fresh, she'd been spared the attentions of his soldiers - at least this time. Her first death had been at the hands of soldiers like them as they had raped and murdered her entire village.
Nightwind arose to her feet and found her fans. The paper one was badly damaged by the fall, the killing blades gleamed in the starlight. She made her way along the gorge, at last reaching a small hut. Inside the hut waited her companion and lover, Willow, a young mortal woman of 17 summers. Willow rushed into Nightwind's arms, holding her tightly.
"I have been so worried. Is it over? Can we finally leave this place and go home to Hangchow?"
"Yes, little one. It is time for the Sung court to once again hear your delicate voice." Nightwind bent her head and kissed the young woman's lips and she felt Willow's delicate touch on her breasts.
"You need a bath. Come, let me attend you." As she was led near the small fire at the hearth, Nightwind sighed in contentment. The warlord's death had paid enough to last for many years with careful management; years she would spend with Willow.
Peking, 1285 AD
Nightwind watched as the foreigner made his way down the street. Marco Polo and his father had come to Peking to visit the court of the mighty Kublai Khan. Many court ministers and other officials wanted the tall stranger killed. Bidding for her services had been brisk, now up to five times her normal fee. She had yet to respond to any of the offers; she knew she would not kill these outsiders.
Among the elite of Chinese culture, she was considered just the latest female assassin to wear the mantle of Nightwind. The peasants, however, believed she was an evil spirit walking the land, using eternal youth and beauty to snare the victims for her dark lord.
But each strata of society feared her and that allowed her to keep them at arm's reach but also left her completely alone. It had been almost a century since little Willow had passed on. She'd been unable to find someone to fill the hole in her heart.
She was disturbed by the arrival of a high court functionary, come to importune her to kill the outlanders. She was growing tired of this game of ignoring their bids, especially since this odious official thought to pressure her. She told him she was not interested and turned to leave. The fat man grabbed her arm and roughly jerked her around to face him. Her fan whistled through the air and took his hand off at the wrist. Before he could scream at the shock of what had happened, she took his head in a backhand slash. This message would be clear to all the others...Nightwind would not kill the Polos. Others would be approached and someone would finally accept the contract, but they would fail. Nightwind would insure that failure for now she saw Marco Polo as her means to leave China for the West.
Now she followed after the foreign man, eventually catching up to him at one of the stalls in the marketplace. She maneuvered beside him so he would collide with her when he turned.
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not know you were there." He said, as he helped her to her feet.
"It is not your fault. I was standing much too close, hemmed in by the crowds. Do not be concerned. I am unworthy of such attention."
Marco Polo had become used to the self-deprecating speech from the women of this country. Women were treated even more as chattel in China than in his native Venezia. Here they existed solely to please whatever man they belonged to, be it father or husband. The rare unattached female was considered beneath contempt...except of course for the upper-class courtesans who plied their trade among the royal court. The woman's rich silks revealed she was from the upper strata of Chinese society.
"All women are worthy of attention, especially those of great beauty. May I ask for your name?"
"My friends at Court call me Jasmine. You are the famous Marco Polo. I have seen you at the Palace. You must be very careful for there are those at Court who wish you evil. I have heard rumors of efforts to hire an assassin."
Jasmine, the ultimate courtesan herself. She would know things not available to most people. Marco Polo knew many of the functionaries at Khan's court felt he was an interloper and some even felt he was a threat to their power. There were always new obstacles between Marco and whatever he sought, new rules or barriers to trade. He did not know how to combat such subtle warfare. A direct threat he understood. There was something in what Jasmine said that made him believe her.
"It is an honor to meet you for I have heard of your beauty. The words did not do you justice. I thank you for your warning. I am always armed, though I will be more on my guard now."
"I, too, have wanted to meet the great adventurer from beyond the western marches. I would enjoy hearing of the lands beyond ours. Perhaps you could come see me some evening?"
"It would be my honor to visit you, Lady Jasmine."
Jasmine withdrew a small card with the delicate characters of her address inscribed. "Give this to a porter and he will lead you to my home. Shall we say nine tonight?"
Over the next few weeks, Marco Polo became a regular visitor at Jasmine's luxurious apartments. Using her inside knowledge, he began to conclude his various trade deals as the obstacles began to disappear. Unknown to Polo, there had been five attempts on his life. Since he'd been staying at Jasmine's, her security was more than adequate to stop any intruders. One had, however, come after Polo at the market. Since she had been following him, she'd spotted the would-be assassin before he could strike. She quietly stepped beside the thug and slipped a long needle into his ear, killing him soundlessly. She had stepped away and was lost in the crowd before the body fell to the ground.
Finally, Polo began to speak of heading back to Italy. It was he who broached the idea of Jasmine coming with him. She let him go on, describing the wonders of the West, while her mind raced with the steps she'd need to take to assure her success in the West. She'd already converted some of her vast wealth to diamonds and other small gems because they were lighter and easier to conceal. The rest of her wealth was now invested in land and other ventures under the management of people unaware of her identity. She was as ready as she could be.
And so it came to pass that, among the many riches and marvels that Marco Polo brought back to Venezia, there was a woman of extraordinary beauty. Most assumed he intended her to be his mistress for she had shared his tent throughout their arduous journey. Nightwind let them assume what they wished for she knew better. Polo was destined to be a man of importance who could not have a wife or even a mistress of such foreign status. No, she would have to be able to survive on her own among the people of the Dojes.
With Marco's assistance and influence, she opened an apartment along one of the better canals. Trading on her unique status as the first of her nation to ever visit the land of the Dojes, she opened her own home as a salon and it became the fashion among the wealthy. She had also brought with her from China seven delicate young women, trained in the arts of the courtesan, which she ruled with a combination of delicacy and ruthlessness. Demand for their services was high and expensive. The information she gathered through their ears became yet another valuable source of income.
Eventually, she developed the right contacts to resume her previous line of work as an assassin. A beautiful courtesan had many opportunities to kill denied a man, and Nightwind was the most exotic courtesan in all of Italy. Rivals were dispatched through exotic poisons or a contrived accident. Some just disappeared into the canals. Nightwind was more discrete now, leaving no clues outside of the whispered rumors. However, after killing a member of the Dojes' family, she had to leave Venice. She traveled to Verona and set herself up in business once again.
Italy, 1637 AD
The years went by and Nightwind shifted her operations among the great city-states of Italy, and eventually beyond the Italian borders. She had kept in contact with the agencies managing her properties in China and knew she was wealthy beyond imagining. She'd often thought about returning but knew there she'd once again be just an object. Women had even fewer rights in China than anyplace on Earth.
Throughout the centuries, she encountered few Immortals. The first had been another woman in China called Mei-Ling Shen and while the two had not fought, they had not become friends. Mei-Ling was a warrior in the same sense as a man would be; she could not accept the subterfuge and deceit implicit in Nightwind's methods. Once in the mid-fifteenth century she had been forced to defend herself from a male Immortal, but his clumsy efforts with the heavy broadsword he carried were no match for her speed and nimbleness. She'd danced around his thrusts, waiting her chance, and then took his head using her fan while he was off-balance.
She had been settled once again in the city of Verona for about three years. She'd been successfully pitting one ruling house against another, using information she'd gleaned from their indiscrete pillow talk. The presence of another Immortal was never further from her mind. As a result, she was not prepared for encountering two Immortal men one afternoon. The two were starting to brawl outside her windows. One, a tall dark haired man; the other a smaller man with lighter hair. Their disagreement was broken up by the Watch, who had pointed out that dueling was not permitted in Verona. She asked around and learned the tall one was a Scot called MacLeod and the other was Englander named Fitzcairn. She knew that it was only a matter of time before one or the other found her. She needed to distract them. She learned of the interest one had in the young female being guarded by the dark Scot. She arranged to facilitate a liaison between the girl and the Immortal Fitzcairn. As she'd hoped, the plan had worked. The lovers had been caught; the Scot had stabbed the Englander and then they'd been forced to leave Verona before their status as Immortals were discovered.
As she went down the street the next day, she suddenly felt the telltale rush of another Immortal. There stood the dark Scot, staring at her. Their eyes met and she felt an electric shock race through her.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," his thick brogue making the words hard for her to distinguish.
"I am called Jasmine. I have no familial status to claim for I am my own person. What is it you wish for we are far too public for a fight?"
"Nay, I have no wish to fight with you. I knew another of us was here and wanted to see who it might be." Not knowing whether to trust this man that so excited her, she could only stare at him as he continued to speak. "My friend and I will be leaving Verona now, thanks to a scuffle with one of the houses last night. You should be careful, though. I've heard tell of another Immortal in this part of Italy who has been hunting heads." With those words, MacLeod made a slight bow and then slipped away down the alleys.
She was not surprised, therefore, when she felt the presence of another Immortal a few months later. Whoever it was seemed to be approaching her establishment, for the sensation grew stronger at each passing moment. She moved to her private study and observed the main salon through the discrete spy-hole in the wall. One of her regular clients had brought a guest, a tall man with golden hair and ice-blue eyes. There was no doubt this was the Immortal Duncan had spoken of for he had an aura of menace that seemed to beat at her. She knew he had felt her presence and was looking for her, his eyes casting about the salon, rejecting each person they fell upon. Finally his eyes seemed to fasten themselves on the exact spot on the wall obscuring her spy-hole, and he seemed to be staring right into her soul.
This one would be trouble. She knew she should run, but there was no way to escape him. She knew he would follow her and take her head. She knew she could not withstand his assault, therefore she must pick the confrontation. She summoned her most trusted guards and told them to subdue the stranger and isolate him in another building. She wanted him beaten senseless and stripped naked. As they left the room, she sent runners with notes to her business partners, arranging to sell her shares in the bordellos.
After tonight it would be time for her to leave Italy.
She went to the other building and found the naked Immortal. He was bound to the wall, arms outstretched, defenseless. His defiant gaze met hers as soon as she entered the room. "What cheat is this? You know the rules for our kind."
"Which rules are those? Only one-on-one? We are alone, no prying mortal eyes. No fighting on holy ground? I doubt the outbuilding of a high-class whore house could be considered holy ground, despite the number of men that call out to God in that house. There can be only one? Only one of us will leave this room alive. The rules are observed to the letter. You see, your reputation has preceded you, and I know that I could not withstand you in the typical fight of our kind. I have no skill with the sword; my weapons are more subtle and designed for close-in work with the element of surprise. You would make short work of me, so I must take a different path. One, perhaps, less honorable to the spirit but infinitely safer to my neck."
She walked over to the naked man, and ran her hand lightly across his muscled chest. "Tell me who you are."
"I am Ivar Svenson of the Norse. I have defeated three hundred men in fair combat. Let me loose and give me a chance at least."
"And I am called Nightwind, once the most famous female assassin in all of China. If I acceded to your wish, my blonde giant, you would have more than a chance...you would have my head. No, you shall remain bound at least until our business is concluded. I promise this will be painless and swift." She snapped open the metal fan, displaying the highly decorated scenes. His eyes never left hers, however. She saw resignation finally enter his eyes just before he closed them. She slashed the blades through his neck, spinning away from the sudden arc of blood. She did not attempt to escape the quickening. The massive energy surges swept through her, swamping her senses with visions of the man's life, even as they set fire to the building she was in. As she regained control, she stumbled from the flames out into the night.
Nightwind had integrated the fallen Immortal's spirit into her own. He had not been particularly evil or good, merely a product of his times and caste. A warrior with a warrior's sins. She felt a burning sense of shame over the means she had used to kill him. Perhaps honor had more value than life, after all. As she stumbled into the night, she swore she would only kill from a sense of justice, and that it would be an act of atonement for taking this man's life.
China, 1939
Nightwind seethed as the Japanese troops invaded her home. For centuries she had lived among the peasants of rural China. She had regained control of the massive holdings that had accumulated in her name over the centuries. It was wealth beyond measurement, and she only tapped the smallest portion to meet her meager needs. Her home was the one place she had not skimped; it was almost worthy of a museum, filled with valuable artifacts from China's past.
Now, however, it was all in danger. The uncultured soldiers were destroying her delicate carved jades just for fun. She marked the appearance of each man in her mind; she vowed each would pay for this outrage. Their officer walked in to see what was going on; his sword declared he was Samurai so perhaps he would be outraged on her behalf for the code of Bushido precluded such mindless destruction. Instead, he walked over and ripped the silk bodice of her housecoat, exposing her breasts. Laughing, he pushed her to his soldiers. They bore her outside and each took his turn with her while the others held her in front of her neighbors. When the elderly grandmother from next door tried to explain to the officer that he would be punished by the Night Wind, he laughed and shot her. As the last of the soldiers spent his seed inside her, the officer came over and shot her once in the heart.
She awoke inside her house. She'd been bathed and dressed in her black night suit. The peasants had known the Nightwind would rise again for was she not a spirit who would punish the Japanese? She rose from the bier upon which she rested and went to a hidden door in the wall. From within the now exposed cabinet, she withdrew throwing stars and her edged fans, these painted matte black. There would be no flicker or flash to expose her this night. As she stole from the house, she noted that the Spirits were with her. Clouds covered the moon and the entire village lay in pools of darkness.
She moved like a wraith. Each sentry she found, she killed quickly and silently, some with the stars and the others with the fans. Methodically, she worked her way through the village, killing every soldier she found without warning, without pity, and without remorse. Finally, she found herself at the rooms of the supposed Samurai officer. She entered his rooms through the window like a ghost without sound to betray her. He lay on his back, naked, one hand covering his flaccid organ, snoring lightly through his open mouth. She withdrew his katana from its scabbard.
The whisper of the sword was enough to rouse him, and he opened his eyes to see a figure garbed solely in black holding his family's sword. A deft twist of the figure's wrist and the tip of the sword flicked across his chest, leaving a ribbon of blood in its wake. He'd been cut from nipple to nipple. He suddenly knew fear. His eyes watched mesmerized as the sword spun in the air. He felt something warm and he glanced down. The sword had castrated him cleanly, even shaving the sparse pubic hair. He opened his mouth to scream, but the flashing sword cleaved his head from his neck.
Nightwind stabbed the sword through the body, then stuck the severed head on the handle. She stuffed the penis and testicles in the mouth of the head. Using his blood she painted her signature Nightwind on the wall above the bed.
When the Japanese relief troops arrived the next day, they found the village completely deserted. The only sound were the flies buzzing around the bodies of the dead soldiers. All had apparently been killed without ever seeing their attacker; not a single weapon had been fired. The slaughtered remains of the probing force's leader left little doubt who had been killing them or why; at least if you believed in 800 year old ghosts.
China, 1952
Nightwind listened to the drivel being espoused by the re-education officer from the local party headquarters. She could not accept that any intelligent being actually believed this claptrap. Five-year plans. Collective farming. She could see the same pattern as when the Mongols had come centuries before. The new leaders were setting up the peasants to support them in a life of idleness, enforced by illiterate soldiers. Peasants starving while the product of their labors is taken away at gunpoint to feed bloated Party bureaucrats. The common people terrorized into submission, bereft of even the ownership of their own bodies. The Party Elite would take what they wanted, when they wanted, who they wanted. Not again. Not while she had the ability to redress grievances in a way sure to attract the attention of those in power.
Once again, she stole through the night in her black suit. This time she avoided all the soldiers and entered the home of the local Party head. One of the village girls, barely past puberty, was lying in the bed, the bruises about her body reflected the struggle she had put up despite the cords binding her wrists. Her bloody thighs also showed she had lost the fight in the end. Nightwind reached to waken her, but the girl was cold to the touch. The beast had killed her in his lust. Well, she was beyond any further dishonor. With a silent prayer to the girl's spirit for forgiveness, Nightwind gently removed her still form from the bed.
Nightwind removed the sword from along her back. She swiftly castrated then decapitated the vermin on the bed. Reprising her past, she impaled his head on the sword handle after stabbing it through his chest, the genitalia inside the open mouth. Once again, the Nightwind characters decorated the wall in the dead man's blood.
Because of the dead girl lying inside the room, there were no reprisals against the village. The common soldiers, however, were unfailingly polite to all the women from that day forward. They all felt Nightwind's eyes watching the, weighing their souls.
China, 1989
Nightwind had at last found peace with the help of a wisp of a girl she called Jade. It had been centuries since she'd allowed herself to love a mortal, but this free spirit had captured her soul. Delicate as a porcelain teacup, Jade was filled with a passion for life. She had become extremely active in the pro-democracy movement sweeping Beijing, and spoke of little else.
While Jade's days were filled with the ideas of democratic freedoms, their nights were enflamed in passion. It was if Jade sensed Nightwind's deep need to be loved without being feared, and she used her body to satisfy that need. Every night they loved and then slept tangled in each other's arms.
Jade began to speak of a big rally being planned at Tiananmem Square. Thousands of students and others like them would make a stand for freedom. They would make the Old Guard take notice, and changes would have to come. Her excitement at being a part of the forces of change evident in her voice.
Nightwind felt a chill of premonition. She knew the Old Guard would not just roll over. They had too much power to just give it up because a few thousand students asked them to. In a country with a population measured in billions, a few thousand were meaningless.
"Jade, please. Do not go to this rally. I fear for your safety. The government will not permit such a rally to go unchallenged."
"Don't be an old woman, Jasmine. The world press will be there. Even the mad Old Guard would not dare act against us with the eyes of the world upon that Square."
Nightwind continued to beg Jade not to go to the rally, but she might as well have asked the moon to stand still or the tides to turn back. On the day of the rally, Jade was gone when Nightwind awoke. A sense of foreboding claimed her, and she began to hurry to the Square. When she got there, she was not allowed to approach because the soldiers had already arrived.
Frantically, she looked across the square for some sight of Jade. There! She was walking, head up proudly, toward the open car holding Marshall Xiao Xiang, commander of the Beijing military forces. She spoke to him and he reached out a hand and caressed her delicate face. No! Nightwind could see his other hand unsnapping his holster and drawing his pistol. The gun came up and Jade's head seemed to explode. The Marshall got back in his car and it drove over Jade's slight body as it moved forward toward the demonstrators.
Nightwind was bereft. Jade had been wantonly put down in the name of political stability, of the status quo. She, and hundreds of others, perished that day demanding freedom. The image that the world remembered was the student facing the tank. The image that Nightwind carried was different. It was that of a delicate jade figure crushed casually under the heel of a Marshall's boot. Someday, she vowed, I will look you in the eyes as I take your life.
Paris, 1998
"The French Government has announced the impending arrival of a trade delegation from the People's Republic of China, coming to discuss ties between the most populous nation on Earth and the growing European Economic Union. Heading the delegation is Xiao Xiang, former Marshall of the People's Army, made notorious by his slaughter of hundreds in the Tiananmem Square massacre." The radio droned in the background as Nightwind finished dressing. "Xiao Xiang was elevated to head this delegation after the mysterious death of the original Minister of Trade. Despite official secrecy surrounding the investigation, we have learned the Minister was decapitated and that the sole clue, a single sheet of linen bearing the ancient character of the Night Wind, was found across the chest. Sources have revealed that Nightwind is the name of a cult of assassins that has operated in China for over 800 years."
Nightwind looked at her reflection very critically. Everything counted on her being able to attract the attention of the People's Delegate tonight at the reception. The jade green silk dress clung to her figure, leaving no doubt she wore very little under it. The dress was slit up to the hip on the left, allowing the flash of her flawless thigh. The elliptical cutout between her breasts offset the high neckline, as did the plunging back. Satisfied by what she saw, she picked up her ornamental folding fan and left for the embassy.
Xiao Xiang stood in the receiving line, thinking how much he hated these pointless receptions. He'd been a military man his entire adult life, charged with defending Chinese interests at home and abroad. He had crushed dissidents ruthlessly; Tiananmem Square was just the most public. He'd sold Chinese military equipment to foreign powers to both bolster China's image and to bring in much-needed currency. Now he was forced to endure this diplomatic nonsense. For the umpteenth time his eyes swept the crowd in search of diversion. A flash of jade silk caught his eye. [Who is that exquisite woman?] He quickly made his excuses to the American Ambassador and caught the eye of his own assistant.
"Do you see the young Chinese in the jade dress?" At the man's nod, he said, "Go find her and express my desire to meet with her. If she agrees," he thought for a moment, "bring her to the garden. Tell my guards to stay back...an audience may make her shy."
Xiao Xiang marveled at her grace as she approached. She moved with an almost sensual stride, yet her feet made no sound on the gravel path. Her flawless skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. His eyes were captured by the daring cutout, which allowed the swelling inner slopes of her breasts to be revealed. He grew tumescent at the thought of caressing her. She was playing with a decorative fan as she approached...one moment open, the next closed. As her fan flicked open, the moonlight seemed to reflect off its edges.
"Who are you, pretty one?" he asked softly.
"Call me...Nightwind," she said as she swung the fan in an arc. The razor-sharp metal leaves of her fan sliced through his neck, severing everything in their path through his flesh. His blood cascaded down his formal clothes, his eyes glazing as he slid to the ground without a sound.
Her actions had been so sudden, so unexpected, the security detail had no time to react before she'd struck. As the Delegate's body fell lifeless to the ground, the guards drew their weapons. Nightwind dropped the fan atop the Delegate and now appeared unarmed. The nearest guard stepped in too close, and she struck, her fingers rigid in a blow under the ribs stunning the man's heart. He too dropped lifeless to the ground.
The other security personnel took no further chances. Each fired a single shot from their 9mm pistols. Each shot punched a hole the size of a thumb between her breasts, and the impact of the three bullets threw her body backward in a heap.
The gunfire disrupted the reception. Guests were kept back as the Marine Response Team, in full battle gear and Kevlar protective equipment, secured the area. Emergency medical personnel rushed to aid the fallen Delegate and his guard, but they knew it was hopeless. Xiao Xiang was nearly decapitated and had bled out, his bodyguard had been without heartbeat too long but still they tried to bring him back. Once the bodies were removed, attention was turned to their killer.
The woman's body was gone. None of the security detail could explain it. A thorough and immediate search of the embassy buildings and grounds failed to find a single clue. It was as if she'd just gotten up and walked away in the confusion.
Nightwind sat in the serenity of the holy place's garden, enjoying the sun on her face. Once again she had been saved by the Occidental myopia regarding Orientals - their seeming inability to tell one from another. It wasn't their entire fault, however. After all, she was supposed to be dead.
She wondered now what she should do with her life. She was back in the West for the first time in over 300 years. China held too many unpleasant memories for her right now. No, China was no longer her home. She needed to start fresh. She chuckled at the thought of getting a fresh start again. She was over 900 years old and the only businesses she'd ever known were running a bordello and killing for hire.
Well, they say each rebirth is a fresh page awaiting a new story. Her first rebirth had set her on the path of the assassin, to redress the crimes of the powerful against the weak. Her second, in the gorge outside of that Warlord's fortress, had led her full circle to avenging Jade's death. She had now been reborn for a third time. What would this life hold?
End
Email: TheGreyOwl