We’re running a bit late, but we got it done. I blame the weekend holiday. And college. And … yeah, anyway, here’s chapter eleven. Enjoy!
Irish shook his head ruefully, and made an attempt to brush some of the vomit off his sleeve. His effort just resulted in ripping the already tattered garment, and he just ripped the whole thing off. Shirtsleeve, too. “Aye, I did, too, didn’t I? Why does it hurt so much to look at that Glyph whatsit?”
“Hurt? Irish, your brain ought to be oozing out your ears right now. Humans can’t… you shouldn’t be able to do that!”
He nodded, rubbing his eyes, again. “The Lord watches over me.”
I knelt down in front of him, and took his chin in my hands. I turned his head from side to side, and even in the gloomy half-light, his swollen and red eyes looked painful. “Sure he does, big guy. Seriously, though. Cards on the table.” I slapped his cheek gently, and stood up, turning on my heel and walking away. “You’re not human.”
Next week: Gianna deAngelo, Bushie’s, Betty Page doing a pirate act, and some phone calls. New to Black Alice? Start here.
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