Juliette yanked out the knife sheathed at her thigh, right above where the slit of her qipao ended, and threw it. The blade embedded perfectly into the front door with a deep, sonorous thud. It drew a single drop of blood from the messenger’s ear, where it had cut through. “You don’t whistle at me,” Juliette said coldly. “I whistle at you. Understand?” The messenger looked at her—really looked at her now. He reached up and touched his ear. The bleeding had already stopped. But his eyes were wide as he nodded.
