Lee Chan, my Biz mate

When I came to, I lay on the ground inside the Vinculus office staring at two sets of feet; one was putting on purple sneakers … Linda.

The other feet were bare and were owned by my business colleague, Lee Chan. She never donned shoes at work. She would grudgingly put them on if urged to wander past the tavern, but that was her maximum.

No danger of shattered glass and falls or health headquarters ordinances would shake her; she even ride her car without shoes.

The two women were disagreeing. Linda was struggling to persuade Lee Chan that she could stand in for me at the tavern, pleading with her not to call in a substitute bartender.

"I won't twist anything up," Linda guaranteed.

"You are too sluggish mixing drinks," Lee Chan said.

"Too. Sluggish. Do you know the reason? You converse too much."

A delicate Chinese Earth-bound, Lee Chan had flawless skin, catlike eyes, and a chin-length bob with serious, straight bangs. Two long, thin curls of hair crafted her face, different hairsbreadth longer than the rest of her bob, and she shaved these into quick points that drooped to her shoulders.

All of this was enclosed by an extraordinary aqua-blue ring.

I smacked my neck and nudged myself up off the ground as the two of them proceeded to quarrel.

"Give me a few seconds, then I can complete my shift."

"Oh, you are awake," Lee Chan remarked without sentiment. Linda poked around my clammy forehead.

"Are you okay? What transpired? Are you sick?"

"I am good," I said, shoving her hand away. Then I recollected what induced the blackout. A twinge of concern compressed my chest.

"I mean, uh, yeah. Perhaps getting sick, that is all."

"You need me to blend drinks for a few minutes?" Linda inquired of me.

"Mika can deal with my tables."

Lee Chan made a perturbed sound and tucked her arms across her slender chest. Linda always teased us like a mom and dad. If one said no, she would corner the other to obtain the response that she needed.

Still, operating the back office was Lee Chan's obligation; organizing the tavern and our minor staff was mine. My call, not hers, and I did not feel like squabbling someone else to arrive and sub for me on their night off.

"Who is supervising the tavern?" I inquired.

"Mika, and Bob's assisting her to guard the cash account. Can I blend drinks? Please? I won't touch your mixtures this time, I swear."

"They are not mixtures …" Well, technically that is actually what they were, but whatever.

"Ugh. Good. Go. Don't allow people to lecture you into putting in extra shots without paying. Buzz if you need assistance."

"Thanks, Dotty!"

Linda sprang away as Lee Chan gave me a glass of water and crouched against her desk.

"What is wrong?" she inquired after Linda was gone.

"You look like shit. Your ring is all … bleh." She made a stale face and twitched her fingers.

"In distress, maybe? It better not intrude on business. There are two big performances down the street at the Cypress Club this weekend that is leaving to keep us slammed."

Lee Chan's no-nonsense way of understanding made her an incredible business companion, but not a warm-and-fuzzy pal.

Most of the time this worked out nicely for me because she did not poke into my background too much. Affectionate friends were a weakness for someone in my predicament.

"It is presumably not a big deal. Just something that I wish to resolve. Tomorrow's my night off, so hopefully, I can take attention to it before Saturday."

"Hmph."

Her normal reaction. It meant, I understand you are lying to me, but I am not begging.

I met Lee Chan at college in Seattle, a year after going into concealment, and right after I had accepted my recent personality. Before that, I had been touring around the country under numerous other pseudonyms in an undertaking to evade our substitute magical institution and any stray FBI detectives with nagging scepticism about my parents' unnatural deaths.

Lee Chan's parents resided in Hong Kong. She came to the States to explore global law but abandoned the law agenda for a grade in business.

During her second year in university, she concluded that she did not wish to go back home, so she wedded an American boy to get her U.S. citizenship, then separated him after INS relinquished interest in them.

Even though they had never consummated the fraudulent wedding, her fake spouse appeared absolutely angry to see her go.

After university, she intended to move to Portland. Most Earth-bounds choose a Mediterranean temperature near a vast body of water, which is why there are so numerous residing in our neighbourhood. (If you wish to resist demons, try the Midwest— practically demon free, at least from what I have heard.)

Once we arrived in Portland, I intended to start up the Star bar. We wandered up and down the northern seashore for virtually a month before we resolved on the city of Ceura.

Bounding the Big Sur province, Ceura is the fourth biggest city in the state, half an hour from the brine, and a couple of hours south of New Hampshire, if you ride fast.

And there was Earth-bounds surplus here; you can not sway a deceased cat without slamming one. The blocks encompassing Vinculus are covered with demon-friendly corporations.

So when we establish this site for lease—half underground, the door at the foot of short aviation of cement strides down from the

sidewalk—we realized it was perfect. We had been in a corporation for almost two years, an achievement from day one.

Linda's voice came through the speakerphone on Lee Chan's desk.

"Uh, Dorathi? Is there more white rum out here someplace? I kinda dipped over the container you were using and I can not find—oh wait. Never mind. Crap. A large group of people just arrived at the door."

A boisterous chorus from the bar clattered the speaker before she hung up. Paranormal Patrol was still going tough.

"Can you assist her?" I gave Lee Chan a begging look.

"I need a few moments alone to make a phone call."

She shot me a sceptical glance, then shook silently and accepted, shutting the door behind her. I latched it before pushing up the sleeve of my T-shirt to disclose an elevated design on the middle of my arm, between my wrist and elbow.

Inked in white with a thick needle, the tattoo is not obvious unless you are gazing hard—a long, oval Egyptian cartouche that comprises seven hidden sigils, which I can recognize like Braille from the scarring.

Most of them are defensive wards: instant, ACME-style terms for insurance and stealth. Having them eternally affixed to my skin enables me to prevent hand-drawing the characters in a sprinkle and could mean the difference between life or death … or between staying hidden and being arrested.