By Alan Smale
Read by Kris Johnson
Trixie’s dead claws scrabbled faintly against the wooden stairs. The hairs on my arm came alive. It was clear Robbie hadn’t heard a thing.
What the heck could I say next? “I see you have tattoos.”
“Yep,” he said, and pushed up the sleeve on his right arm. “Check this out.”
They were hard to figure; dark shadows against his black skin. Against my better judgment, I was intrigued. I stepped forward.
It was a Celtic knot in a thick swirly pattern that went all around his bicep. He pushed up his left sleeve to show the silhouette of a heart with a long dagger thrust through it, ornamented with scrollwork.
“Neat,” I said. “Got any more?”
Robbie hesitated, and I realized what a potentially stupid question that had been.
