Honeyed Words Read Online Free PDF Page B

his left bicep. Detailed work there, carved and shaped with precision. I’d like to talk to the goldsmith who made that one.
    He gripped my hand. “Cassidy Aloysius Stone, at your service.” We shook. His grip was strong and his hands calloused from years of playing guitar, lute, and Autoharp.
    “Oooh, nice name,” Katie said. “Means famous warrior.”
    “Aye,” Cassidy said, taking her hand in his, kissing the back of it, and bowing. “A beauty who knows the origins of ancient names and can best young Ari there is a friend to be cherished.”
    Katie seemed to melt. “He’s cute,” she said, hanging onto my arm. “For an oldster.”
    Cassidy laughed, grabbed us each by one arm, and marched us over to his party. He introduced us to the rest of the band, and before you knew it, Katie had a bottle of mead and a twelve-string guitar. I sat behind her, one hand on the small of her back, while she launched into a round of drinking songs.
    I hung with them for an hour, maybe two. Not really sure. The alcohol buzz and the general windowless, smoky haze sorta killed any real sense of time. When they showed no chance of slowing down, I excused myself to find a bathroom.
    Katie stopped playing midchord, her hand over the strings and a worried look on her face. “Where are you going?”
    “Bathroom,” I whispered to her, leaning against her shoulder. “You keep playing.”
    A moment of panic flashed across her face. She glanced around, taking in the room, the people, the party. “Be careful,” she said.
    I placed my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be okay,” I promised. “You keep playing. I’ll be back before you know it. Just need a spot of fresh air.”
    She leaned her cheek against my hand. “Don’t be gone long.”
    I kissed her and squeezed the hand over the fret of the twelve-string. “Sing something raunchy,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”
    She smiled at that and nodded.
    I glanced over at Cassidy, who’d watched the scene carefully. “I’ll watch over her,” he said to me.
    I nodded and took off. It was just the bathroom.
    The room turned around one more corner, and I found a couple of roadies doing coke near an exit. One of them pointed out the washrooms, and I left them to their drugs. The room was fairly crowded, but I managed to do what I needed to do without resorting to the men’s lavatory.
    I wandered the party after that, grabbing another beer and listening to snippets of conversation. Seems that since I’d killed Jean-Paul, Vancouver had undergone some sort of renaissance. Crime was flourishing—prostitution, drugs, gambling, all sorts of vice—but the city was friendlier, less seedy. The new guy in charge was apparently the self-proclaimed King of Vancouver. Unlike Jean-Paul, who got his demands met using charm, wit, and torture, this guy only demanded profits and loyalty. Pretty much he left his people alone to do their business.
    I bet he had an easier time retaining employees than Jean-Paul. I’d seen how he treated his close and personals when he got angry. I couldn’t imagine what doing business with him had been like.
    Just thinking of Duchamp made my right hand hurt. I clenched and unclenched my fist a few times, working out the kinks. You could barely see the scarring, and I had a good eighty percent usage of that hand again. The knitting was helping, much to my chagrin. The pain still haunted me though. Ghost pain, the doctor said, but I woke shaking some nights with visions of my wrist burned down to the bone by dragon fire.
    There was this one moment, however, when I was sure the witch, Qindra, had visited me in the hospital. I distinctly recall her chanting, the smell of whiskey, and a blue fog that rolled from her mouth and doused the fire in my arm like calm, cool water.
    As I wandered back, I could see Katie was having the time of her life. She was holding her own with The Harpers. Ari had disappeared with a couple of his girls. Good riddance, I