Plain Jane Assassin ~ Rise of the White Lotus

By H.L. Stephens

Jane MacLeod. Orphaned as a child. An innocent fifteen year old or a sultry Asian assassin? Lost in New York City, this sweet Texas girl is saved from the Russian mob who murdered her family by the powerful Shadow Brigade. Who are they, and why are they interested in Jane? Why do they transform her into the angel of death, giving rise to the legend of the White Lotus? Only time will tell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.L. Stephens
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533523457

H.L. Stephens

H.L. Stephens blossomed with the wild marshlands of Charleston, SC as the backdrop of her childhood adventures. Growing up in a military family, Stephens met people from all over the world. Such diverse experiences ignited her imagination and nurtured her desire to create new and fantastic realms for others to explore and enjoy. Stephens is proudly owned by a delightful Pomeranian named Sassy who is her constant companion and writing partner. Stephens is also married to the love of her life who hails from the ancient lands of Western Sahara. As her biggest fan and her strongest supporter, Stephens' husband adds the spicy flavor of his exotic homeland and intoxicating histories to her rich imagination.By day, Stephens works for a multi-national software company. In her spare time, she is dedicated to weaving wondrous stories for her readers. Writing in a variety of genres, she continues to uncover the possibilities of new and exciting places in the worlds she creates. She is also a prolific poet, sharing much of her work on her various social media sites. She is compiling a collection of her most popular work for release in both English and Arabic formats.Stephens has completed writing and is currently working on the releases of her third Chronicle of Mister Marmee novel and the first book in a new fantasy series. She is also working on a fictional romance set in the Sahara, as well as a second work of fantasy.

Book preview

Shadows

The Mind: a beautiful servant, a dangerous master

~Osho

The nightmares were relentless and always the same. Each time, they began with utter darkness. Then the screams. Screams of terror and pain that tore at my heart and made me want to crawl deeper inside my cold, metal hole to escape from the monsters that lurked just beyond my hiding place. A mere breath away. Cold metal pressed against my back, preventing me from fleeing what lay just ahead. My only respite from the screams and the agony of my helplessness was to cover my ears until it stopped. And just when the silence came and it felt as though the madness had ended, I would find the blood and the bodies.

I always encountered them when I left my hiding place, trying to find a way out. Trying to escape before the monsters returned. So much blood. A river of it touching my feet. Clinging to me. Rising until I thought I would drown in it. The screams of that realm would become my own, and I would wake myself with the remnants of my terror, torn from the nightmare swathed in sweat-drenched sheets, terrified to go back sleep and experience that place again.

The psychologist said my dreams were my subconscious mind's way of working through the trauma of witnessing my family's murder while hiding in the air vent of our brownstone in New York City. At seven years old, I didn't really know what my subconscious mind was or why it had a job that was so dark and evil. The psychologist didn't try to explain it to me. All I knew was that I was raw and pulpy inside. It felt like I was never going to feel whole again. Like I was never going to be happy again.

We tried doodle therapy. I was encouraged to draw my experience over and over again. It just helped make the nightmares more vivid. Then we tried medications to dull my senses and help make me feel better. The drugs just made it harder for me to wake up from the nightmares, prolonging the torture night after night.

I was tossed from one foster home to another. One kid said I had set a record with five homes in a three month period. I never was able to verify his claim. The reason for my ejections was always the same. My presence was too disruptive to the other children. One family made me sleep in a broom closet with a makeshift cot so my nightly screams wouldn't disturb anyone else in the house.

After months of feeling adrift in the world, I was finally thrown an anchor when they shipped me off to Ironco, Texas to live with my Uncle Julian and my Aunt Irene. It had taken the FBI six months to track down my father's next of kin. My connection to Uncle Julian on my father's side was via some twisted half relation, making him my half-step great uncle twice removed, or some such nonsense. I could never get it straight when others tried to tell me what it should be in terms of the family tree. Everyone on my mom's side was dead, so he was all I had left in the entire world by way of blood relation.

My father had always said family was family. He never used a pair of emotional scissors to bisect his relationships into half-sies or steps. People just were who they were. Julian was his brother, regardless of how he got that way so that made him my Uncle and the refuge I now looked to after the great tragedy in my life.

I still remember the day the news of my departure came to the fly speck encrusted door of my latest and final foster home. Whereas tidings of joy or apocalypse were conveyed to the likes of Biblical Mary and Daniel by such glorious beings as the Archangels Gabriel and Michael, news of my impending salvation was delivered to my scrummy meth-mouthed foster mom by a washed up FBI representative name Agent Howard. His appearance was anything but glorious.

He was a tall man by most standards, though most of his bulk had migrated from his shoulders to his waistline long before I was ever born. His dunlap announced his affection for fried food, and the bright yellow mustard stain that graced the roundest part of his belly, just above his belt revealed his affinity for processed meats of the hotdog variety. Agent Howard might not have been the epitome of an angelic presence, but he was good enough for me when he announced that he was taking me away from that hellhole to live with my aunt and uncle.

My foster mom couldn't pack my things fast enough. She never said a word. Heck fire, she never even said goodbye. She was as eager to be rid of me as I was to go.

I had only ever met my Uncle Julian and Aunt Irene one time when I was real little, but I remembered them being kind and a bit eccentric. My mom said they were weird, but she seemed to like them. And my dad, he loved his brother. They talked all the time. The only reason why I only met my aunt and uncle the one time is because Ironco, Texas was so far away from New York City.

If you have never heard of Ironco, don't feel bad. Few people have. It is not on any maps that I know of, but regardless of its exclusion from Rand McNally's geological surveys, out in the dusty armpit of hell sits the less than iconic town of Ironco, Texas.

With a population of two hundred or so odd souls (and I do mean odd), it had just enough people to warrant the usual amenities that town life brings. Ironco laid claim to a post office, a grocery store, a hardware store, some semblance of a five and dime, about fifteen different churches, three bars, and one fully operational strip club named Cheeky's where my Aunt Irene worked as a pole dancer.

I always wondered how it was that Uncle Julian could stand to have Aunt Irene work in a place like that having men stare at her bare body all day. Being of a curious nature, I asked him one day after I had been with them for a while.

Well darlin', we've fought over it a time or two, but truth be told, it's one of the few jobs where the men can't grope my Irene. Even if she was a waitress, she'd have men putting their paws on her like she was a piece of meat. Trust me, she tried that route before, and it was no picnic for her. She had long hours, got little money for it, and received more hassle than it was worth. I don't much care for what she does now, but at least on the pole, men can look, but they can't touch.

It seemed a reasonable enough explanation to the younger me, so I accepted it.

One thing you need to understand about my Aunt Irene and my Uncle Julian. They weren't formally married when I first went to live with them. They met in grade school and had pretty much been together ever since. Since most states considered them common-law man and wife, Irene was my aunt. It made no difference to me what the technicalities or legal ramifications were of it all. Aunt Irene was kind, and with the loss of my family and the abuses experienced in the homes of my foster families, I needed all of the love and kindness I could get.

Uncle Julian was the town's only mechanic and a brilliant one at that. He could fix anything that had an engine in it, regardless of its age or condition. What that man could do with machinery was legendary in those parts, or so I heard when I arrived. I saw enough of his brilliance in action during the time I spent with him to know such claims were not fabricated. If magic existed in the world in which we lived, Uncle Julian had it with machines.

The drive from New York City to Ironco was a long one, and Agent Howard didn't take me all the way there. He handed me off to two younger agents as soon as we cleared the New Jersey Turnpike. I was relieved with the switch because although Agent Howard had been the wellspring of my deliverance, he was not a nice man.

The two new agents were much more pleasant and chatty, and in their company I learned a great many things. Some things were innocuous like the fact that you can't lick your elbow or that your ears never stopped growing, even after you died. Other things they revealed were not so innocuous like the fact that my family was murdered by the Russian mob and that was why the FBI was involved. But such tidbits were mere glimmers of the truth of what happened to my family, lost in the ebb and flow of conversation on the long drive to my new life.

It took us five days to get to where we were going. I will never forget the moment when I first saw Uncle Julian and Aunt Irene standing outside their farmhouse as we drove up in the dark blue government SUV. Their faces were a mixture of anticipation and grief. They didn't wait for me to step out of the vehicle before enfolding me in their arms. The love and tenderness poured out of them like a warm wave, making me feel safe for the first time since the murders. I thought maybe, just maybe, all would be well. The coldness that had settled in my heart from the loss and neglect began to melt and pieces of the underlying stone began to chip away. Such was the strength of their presence in my life. It finally felt like life was worth living once more.

New Beginnings

Hope is a delicate thing. Like a dandelion seed dancing on the wind. The smallest puff of air can carry it for miles or tear the fragile white wisps to shreds, destroying its potential. As I stood there on the threshold of my new beginning, I had no idea which direction my life was going to take. I longed for the carefree dance upon the wind that came with a loving home, but I had spent the last six months being shredded by indifference and outright distain. I was afraid of yet another disappointment.

But as Uncle Julian took my things up to my room and Aunt Irene guided me to the kitchen for refreshments, life as I knew it was about to change. How many people she had expected upon our arrival was unclear, but I was greeted by enough food to feed the entire New York agency office. It was my first hint of things to come.

It wasn't just a banquet of savory cuisine fit for the cover of a magazine. It was love and a promise of nurturing wrapped up into each and every handmade dish. The aromas whispered to me in ways that words never could. As my aunt filled my plate with all of the things she had made for a growing girl my age, I knew in my heart I had come home.

I savored the start of this new life of mine as Aunt Irene coaxed my FBI escort into staying for a bite to eat. At first, they were insistent upon leaving as soon as I was settled. They said they had no time for such things. They had never encountered the secret weapon that was my Aunt Irene.

Oh come now gentlemen, she said with a smile and her most becoming Texas drawl, even a spy's gotta eat. What are you gonna do? Stop at a gas station and eat something filled with chemicals and no nutrition? I have homemade barbeque chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, biscuits, apple pie, and vanilla ice cream. Are you really gonna turn that down so you can eat tater chips out of a bag?

Not only did she cajole them into refreshments; she wheedled them into staying for supper as well. Irene had that way with people, getting them to do things they didn't think they wanted to. She could weasel an Eskimo out of his furs in the middle of winter and have him thanking her for the privilege of freezing to death. I swore she could put them in a trace or something...the way she did me when she somehow convinced me to take a bath when I didn't want to. I thought she should be studied, but I was uncertain who to contact.

I laughed for the first time that day drinking lemonade and eating chicken with my fingers. I even forgot the horrors for a time until we watched the SUV pull way and it was time for me to face the terrors of the night once more. But that night, things were different. For the first time since the murders, I was not alone.

Uncle Julian held me in his arms and stroked my hair as I told him of the terrible things I saw every night. Of the screams and the sweat-stained sheets and how everyone hated me for it. His arms tightened around me as I sobbed through the details. He held me until my sobs calmed to sniffles and my sniffles eased to sighs.

I warned them nightmares before you came, little darlin', Uncle Julian said with a gentle voice as he held me in his arms. I told 'em they best not show their faces around these parts, or they would have to deal with me. I let them know they were not allowed in this house.

Somehow Uncle Julian's words held some sway in my mind and kept the darkness at bay. Whether it was the strength of his love or the fact that the nightmares really were afraid of him, I cannot say. All I know is as long as I was under his roof, the nightmares left me alone. But they were never far away, nor were their source. Like bacteria that festers and breeds unseen by the naked eye, my enemies remained ever vigilant, searching for the little girl who got away.

Aunt Irene sang me to sleep while Uncle Julian cradled me in his arms. He smelled of tobacco, faint motor oil, and Old Spice; a combination of odors I grew to love. That first night at Uncle Julian's and Aunt Irene's was the most serene night I had had since my time huddled in the air vent, praying the monsters would go away and the screaming would stop.

When I awoke the next morning, I didn't think of death. I focused instead on the heady aromas coming from the kitchen. Smells of bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and gravy filled my mind so I found I could hardly dress fast enough. My usual repast back home was a bowl of cold cereal, so the promise of such luxury first thing in the morning made me eager for the day.

The sight of Aunt Irene cooking in the kitchen was a beautiful vision, and when her face exploded into a glorious smile upon my arrival at the table, I could feel the final vestiges of coldness in my heart retreat in the face of such warmth.

Morning Jane, she said. Breakfast is almost ready. Take you a seat at the table, and we'll be ready to eat here in a jiff.

Uncle Julian was already at the table, reading the newspaper over a steaming cup of coffee. He put the paper down as soon as Aunt Irene said my name.

My Uncle Julian was not a handsome man by Hollywood standards, but few men could equal him in comparison. He had coarse, blonde hair that curled in an unseemly manner, or so Uncle Julian always said when it started to grow longer than an inch or two. Its unruly nature ensured he kept it cut short and close to his head. The slightest curl would provoke a wild ride to the barber with demands that he be shorn like a sheep. He had dark blue green eyes that reminded me of a stormy sea. They were kind eyes, at least when they looked upon those he loved, but I have seen times when the storm broke and raged against others. I never wanted his fury directed at me for he was a force to be reckoned with.

Uncle Julian was a big man; tall and lean at the waist, though his shoulders were broad as a barn, as was his chest. He had tremendous strength, but he was not a hulk who pumped iron, worshipping his body in the temple of the almighty gymnasium. In fact he scoffed at such activities for himself.

I ain't got time for dirtying myself in other people's sweat stains, he would say if the subject ever came up. I got better things to do with my time like working on this ingrown toenail of mine.

His strength was as natural as the color of his eyes. He used it when it was needed and nothing more. I admired him for it.

Uncle Julian smoked, but never in the house, and I noticed when I arrived that he did his best to stop smoking altogether. He refrained from a lot of things when I arrived; smoking being the least of them. He watched his language and became more creative in his means of swearing at people and situations when they irritated him. It wasn't easy for a man who was as salty as they come, but he was determined when he was around me. One of my favorite expressions of his was 'you dad burn monkey mixing bum nut.' It always made me laugh, and when I laughed, so did he.

Uncle Julian also gave up drinking. The man could drink an army platoon under the table and never slur his words or have cause to stumble in his walk. When I arrived, however, all alcohol was removed from the house. He insisted on it. If he was ever at a social event where drinks were a mandate, he limited himself to a single beer and nursed it for the entirety of the time we were there. More often than not, the alcoholic beverage would still be full when we left.

Aunt Irene said my coming was the best thing that ever happened to Uncle Julian. It made him want to be a better man.

He was already a good man, mind you Jane, but you bring something out in him that is special, she told me one day.

Aunt Irene was a beautiful woman. She had hair the color of strawberry gold that fell in perfect little ringlets to the middle of her back and eyes the color of the Caribbean Ocean surrounded by a pale amber ring. The color changed in intensity based on what she was wearing or what her mood happened to be. Her skin was a perfect milky cream, and she did much to keep it so. The Texas sun was unforgiving friend to skin so fair and tender, yet she managed somehow to maintain her flawless complexion even in a place that turned everyone else to rough, leathery rawhide.

My aunt had a few delicate freckles that graced the bridge of her nose and trickled across her cheeks like the golden footprints of tiny angels. She had a smattering of them across her shoulders as well, but to me they made her skin more beautiful, like subtle cinnamon sprinkled upon the cream.

Just as her complexion had no blemish in it, Aunt Irene's figure was without flaw as well. She was what Uncle Julian referred to as 'the perfect specimen of a woman.' She took great pride in the feminine gifts she had been given and used more creams, lotions, and powders than anyone I have ever known. When I asked her why she was so compelled to lather and primp in such a manner, her response was quite simple.

Well, sweet Jane, she said, God gave me what I have, and I aim to take the best care of it that I can. I know I can't add a single day to my life, but I am gonna do my darndest not to subtract any days prematurely. She went through and explained the use of every single beauty product, cream, powder, and ointment she had in her arsenal.

It made so much sense, it wasn't long before I was following my aunt's retinue of beauty process, to the best of my seven year old ability.

Aunt Irene was of an average height for a woman, but when compared to the stature of my uncle, she looked petite - almost delicate. Of course, just about everyone looked petite next to my uncle, including most men, but my aunt's appearance was deceptive.

Though she could be delicate and tender, my aunt had a fierceness to her you did not want to encounter. Like a tempest that, once touched, would tear you to bits and leave nothing but rubble in its wake. I had seen the aftermath of hurricanes and typhoons that seemed kinder than the force of my aunt's rage. It took a valiant effort to provoke such a storm from her, and thankfully no one else was ever injured by the tempest save the one who caused its creation.

With such potential for destruction seething beneath her lovely exterior, one might think I would fear my aunt, but in truth, I loved her fiercely. No one could have done more to help chisel away at the hardness in my heart than my Aunt Irene.

At times when I believed I wanted nothing more than to crawl inside myself and never come out, Aunt Irene would find a way to draw me back into the world that had seemed so ugly and dark to me. Her effect on me was magical, and I have often likened it to her coaxing a butterfly from its cocoon. Her methods would often begin with a story.

Did I ever tell you about my great Uncle Wally? she would ask. It was back during World War II, and things were bad overseas. Our boys were getting killed, but Uncle Wally wanted to serve; help 'em out. Uncle Wally was a country boy, born and raised in these parts. He was no more than seventeen when he volunteered to join the Army. He was as green as a gourd and as thin as a turnip green, but they let him in on account of the fact that he could shoot a gnat's ass off at five hundred yards. I didn't even know gnats had asses, but apparently they do, and he could shoot 'em every single time. At, any rate, he joined the Army aiming to be a sniper, but Uncle Sam had other plans however. With as good as Uncle Wally was with his riffle; he was even more adept when it came to reconnaissance, and the Army needed information on the enemy's movements. Uncle Wally could blend in better than anyone in his platoon, even with that Texas twang of his.

You mean he was a spy? I asked, almost against my will. Aunt Irene's stories always drew me in.

In a manner of speaking, I guess he was, she said. He spied on the enemy and brought the information back to his command. Sometimes his spying was done in the countryside where only a few people lived, but sometimes his spying was done in towns or villages where the population denser. Old Wally was good at not getting caught and acting like he belonged if ever he was seen. The information he brought back saved lives, and it earned him a medal for bravery when he took a bullet to save the lives of his fellow soldiers when the enemy tried to set up an ambush. He crawled over two miles after being shot to warn the troops the enemy was lying in wait for them. Every last man would have been massacred had he not made it back in time to sound the alarm.

Did he die from his wounds? I asked, biting at my fingernails with anxious worry.

No sweet Jane, Aunt Irene said. He came home to a hero's welcome, and raised a family right here in Ironco.

Did he ever do any more spying after he came home and got better? I asked.

Well baby girl, Aunt Irene said. Her voice took on a conspiratorial whisper, and she drew close to me as she looked around, as if to make certain no one else could hear. The best spies never let on they are spying. Not even to their families, so who knows. Maybe Uncle Wally had his secrets even in dusty old Ironco. She winked at me, gave me a smile, and fixed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

My life with Aunt Irene and Uncle Julian would be filled with many more stories and fascinating histories that would help shape my future. They would spark my imagination and eventually serve as the basis for my own transformation, but much would happen between being seven years old and the moment of my alteration. Until then, I was granted a respite in the dusty town of Ironco, Texas.

Birthdays Cheeky's Style

My eighth birthday turned out to be the best and hardest of my young life. It was hardest because it marked the first festivity without my family. So many traditions had been established as part of the impending celebration of my birth; traditions that went back as far as my nearly eight-year-old brain could remember. The loss of those simple traditions seemed as great a blow as the murders themselves because it reminded me once again how permanent my loss had become.

This wasn't just an extended visit with my aunt and uncle; I was in Ironco to stay. My life would never go back to the way things were. My birthday would not be commemorated by a yearly trip to the zoo. There would be no balloon animals or ice cream at the park. My circumstances were forever changed, and at nearly eight years old, it seemed more than I could handle.

It was the best birthday of my life because everything changed. I just hadn't gotten to that point yet.

As the big day approached, Aunt Irene found me crying beneath my favorite oak.

Why all the tears buttercup? she asked.

All I could get out was a shutter-y my birthday's going to be different.

I broke out into wracking sobs and threw myself into my aunt's arms. Aunt Irene held me in her arms and cooed at me in her sweet, soft voice.

Don't you worry sweet Jane, she said as she stroked my hair. I know things are different now. It is a terrifying thing to lose everything you have ever known - your family, your traditions, your way of life - and go on to accept something new. It takes courage to do something like that, and I think you are very courageous. Why, it reminds me of one of my ancestors.

The promise of one of Aunt Irene's stories helped me put my grief aside. I sniffled, wiped the tears from my eyes. I was all attentive and wide-eyed.

Her name was Jane, too Aunt Irene continued. Jane Tower. She lived back during the time of the Revolutionary War. Now, she and her whole family were Patriots. There was nothing they despised more than the sight of a Red Coat. It just so happened that Jane fell in love with a Tory. He was handsome and dashing, but he was still the embodiment of everything her family despised. Now this charming young man wanted to marry Jane, but him being a Tory fighting for the British, well...it just wasn't going to happen. So you know what Jane did?

No, what?

She told that Tory love of hers that she would marry him on one condition, Aunt Irene continued. He had to switch sides and become a Patriot. Now that was asking a mighty heavy price for her hand, but she stood by her conditions. Well, that young Red Coat must have loved her something fierce because he met her conditions. He burned his uniform and joined the Rebel cause. When Jane found out what he had done, she hoisted her feather bed out the window of her room, leapt down upon it, and ran to meet him. They eloped the very night of his conversion.

What happened after that? I asked, forgetting for a moment the sorrow in my heart.

That my dear is history, Irene said with a wink. "The lesson for you now is that change takes courage. Only you can decide what course you are going to take