blank expression disappeared as he turned back to me, frowning at the chair I still held. “I don’t think this is the kind of place I hang out,” he said.
I exhaled and put the chair down. “Cameron, you have no idea how close you just got to having a very short afterlife.” I turned to Lee. “Nice timing,” I said.
She snorted and ducked back into her office.
“And when did you start redecorating the place?” I called after her.
No answer.
I grabbed the nearest bar stool and double-checked to make sure the paint was dry before sitting down. Cameron reluctantly came to join me.
“Hey, Lee, what the hell do I need to do to get a drink around here?”
“Patience is a virtue, Kincaid,” Lee yelled back. I heard the sounds of rustling papers and a desk drawer closing.
“What I was saying—earlier—about this place not being somewhere I’d go?” Cameron interrupted.
I glanced at him.
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who hangs out here either,” he said, glancing back down at the bar.
“Six months ago I’d have agreed with you, Cameron.” I propped my elbows on the bar and craned my head to get a better look in the office. “Hey, Lee? How about a whisky sour?” I sat back, but my elbows met with glue-like resistance. Damn it, I’d forgotten about the tar smell. The entire wood beam that made up the bar had been coated in creosote, a tacky preservative Lee Ling used to hold back water rot. I tried wiping my elbows off on the side of the stool, to no avail. “I knew there was a reason no one was sitting at the bar,” I said.
“Yet here you are,” Lee said, stepping out of her office and into the bar’s lantern light. Tonight her hair was tied in a low knot and she was wearing a red silk Chinese dress. The colour was a lovely contrast against her pale skin and dark hair. It also drew attention away from the scars that ran across her face like cracks in porcelain—grey rivulets that were difficult to camouflage. The pale green-blue eyes, however, ruined any chance Lee had of passing for the living. Granted, her eyes had been bought and paid for. Dearly. The originals had been ruined more than a hundred years ago, after all.
I held up my creosote-covered sleeves. “Would it kill you to put up a Wet Paint sign?” I said.
She arched a single, perfect black eyebrow. “Everyone else figured it out. I fail to see why you should receive special treatment….” Her voice trailed off as her eyes moved to Cameron. It didn’t matter that he didn’t show any outward signs of decay. Any dead worth their salt can spot another dead; unlike the living, they don’t need to tap the barrier to see Otherside. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to examine Cameron, at the same time as she mixed my whisky sour with the deft grace that came from a hundred years of practice.
She passed me my drink without betraying any of her thoughts. Only a few of the muscles in her face still worked; Lee had turned that state of affairs into a gift of sorts.
“Nice zombie, Kincaid,” she said, the unspoken question heavy in each word.
I took my first sip. Lee made the best whisky sour in Seattle, topside included. “So you caught the same binding anomalies I did?”
“Your work?” she asked, her face still unreadable as she searched my eyes.
“Not mine, Lee, and you won’t believe where I found him. Outside Catamaran’s.”
Cameron cleared his throat. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Yes, but I have to explain it to Lee as you currently have the memory of a goldfish—”
Lee cut me off. “And who are you?”
He pushed his mind to pull the detail up. “Cameron Wight,” he said.
Wonders never ceased, he remembered his name.
Lee flashed Cameron a smile. “Somehow that strikes me as appropriate,” she said, and continued to ignore me as she studied his bindings. I wondered if Cameron could see Lee Ling’s bindings yet and, if he could, what the hell he’d make of them.
At last, Lee
I exhaled and put the chair down. “Cameron, you have no idea how close you just got to having a very short afterlife.” I turned to Lee. “Nice timing,” I said.
She snorted and ducked back into her office.
“And when did you start redecorating the place?” I called after her.
No answer.
I grabbed the nearest bar stool and double-checked to make sure the paint was dry before sitting down. Cameron reluctantly came to join me.
“Hey, Lee, what the hell do I need to do to get a drink around here?”
“Patience is a virtue, Kincaid,” Lee yelled back. I heard the sounds of rustling papers and a desk drawer closing.
“What I was saying—earlier—about this place not being somewhere I’d go?” Cameron interrupted.
I glanced at him.
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who hangs out here either,” he said, glancing back down at the bar.
“Six months ago I’d have agreed with you, Cameron.” I propped my elbows on the bar and craned my head to get a better look in the office. “Hey, Lee? How about a whisky sour?” I sat back, but my elbows met with glue-like resistance. Damn it, I’d forgotten about the tar smell. The entire wood beam that made up the bar had been coated in creosote, a tacky preservative Lee Ling used to hold back water rot. I tried wiping my elbows off on the side of the stool, to no avail. “I knew there was a reason no one was sitting at the bar,” I said.
“Yet here you are,” Lee said, stepping out of her office and into the bar’s lantern light. Tonight her hair was tied in a low knot and she was wearing a red silk Chinese dress. The colour was a lovely contrast against her pale skin and dark hair. It also drew attention away from the scars that ran across her face like cracks in porcelain—grey rivulets that were difficult to camouflage. The pale green-blue eyes, however, ruined any chance Lee had of passing for the living. Granted, her eyes had been bought and paid for. Dearly. The originals had been ruined more than a hundred years ago, after all.
I held up my creosote-covered sleeves. “Would it kill you to put up a Wet Paint sign?” I said.
She arched a single, perfect black eyebrow. “Everyone else figured it out. I fail to see why you should receive special treatment….” Her voice trailed off as her eyes moved to Cameron. It didn’t matter that he didn’t show any outward signs of decay. Any dead worth their salt can spot another dead; unlike the living, they don’t need to tap the barrier to see Otherside. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to examine Cameron, at the same time as she mixed my whisky sour with the deft grace that came from a hundred years of practice.
She passed me my drink without betraying any of her thoughts. Only a few of the muscles in her face still worked; Lee had turned that state of affairs into a gift of sorts.
“Nice zombie, Kincaid,” she said, the unspoken question heavy in each word.
I took my first sip. Lee made the best whisky sour in Seattle, topside included. “So you caught the same binding anomalies I did?”
“Your work?” she asked, her face still unreadable as she searched my eyes.
“Not mine, Lee, and you won’t believe where I found him. Outside Catamaran’s.”
Cameron cleared his throat. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Yes, but I have to explain it to Lee as you currently have the memory of a goldfish—”
Lee cut me off. “And who are you?”
He pushed his mind to pull the detail up. “Cameron Wight,” he said.
Wonders never ceased, he remembered his name.
Lee flashed Cameron a smile. “Somehow that strikes me as appropriate,” she said, and continued to ignore me as she studied his bindings. I wondered if Cameron could see Lee Ling’s bindings yet and, if he could, what the hell he’d make of them.
At last, Lee
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