Honeyed Words Read Free Page B

on Granville. The sign over the marquee read S OLD O UT , and the fire marshall’s sign said the place held 1,500 people. Great, I thought. Fifteen hundred screaming filking fans. Maybe this was hell after all.
    Katie tugged my hand as the line snaked between velvet ropes. Katie skipped with every other step, totally loving this. Ari Sveinsson. Who knew the little pisher would be a huge singing sensation? Hell, the last time I’d seen him, he’d been trying to schtup one of the tavern wenches at the same ren faire where I’d met Katie. Now the waif had grown up to be a hunk, with a voice that made girls’ panties fall off.
    I squeezed Katie’s hand when the line slowed, and she leaned in to kiss me. “This is so great,” she said.
    I shrugged, embarrassed. The public displays of affection were getting more commonplace, but I still had moments of total freakitude. Don’t get me wrong, I was coming to grips with the relationship, and we had been building it back slowly, after the events of the spring. While she still hadn’t gone into details about what happened to her and Julie after Jean-Paul kidnapped them, I know she cried when she thought I wasn’t looking. She was hurting more than she wanted me to see, but I loved her. How could I not see?
    “I just hope I don’t want to kill myself when he starts singing.”
    Katie laughed, flashing a smile that sent my heart fluttering. “He sings divinely,” she said. “And he’s hella cute, too.”
    Two college girls in front of us squealed and began ranting about how hot Ari was. It was pretty annoying.
    We followed a group of older women once the line split into two: one line for fast entry, the other to check IDs and wrap glowing plastic bracelets around the wrists of anyone who wanted to buy alcohol. Most of the patrons were underage, so they didn’t bother to try but rushed into the club.
    Once we were ensconced in alcohol-friendly shackles, we grabbed a side table and flagged down a waitress. In the middle of the club, the dance floor was clear of tables and chairs, allowing a standing-room-only crowd. I would’ve considered it a mosh pit, but that didn’t jibe with the phrase— filk concert.
    “Dear Odin, or whomever is listening,” I whispered as the waitress walked toward the long bar in the back. “Please, no Simon and Garfunkel.”
    The drinks arrived before the opening act started. I demolished my Long Island iced tea just as the mandolin and Autoharp began the opening strains of Zeppelin’s “The Battle of Evermore.”
    Katie squealed and grabbed my arm, shaking me. I could barely make out what she said over the screaming crowd, but my guess is, “Told you so.”
    So, in general, The Harpers did not suck. Reminded me of a cross between Flogging Molly, Jethro Tull, and the Hammer of the Gods—Led Zeppelin.
    The alcohol even loosened my shoulders. By the time I’d finished my second Long Island iced tea, The Harpers had polished off a great set—ending with the lead string player rocking a seven-minute version of “Going to California” with a twin-neck lute.
    “Did you see that?” Katie asked as the house lights came up enough for everyone to find the restrooms and the bar. “Did you see what he was playing?”
    “Lute of some kind,” I said as I stood and stretched.
    “Chitarrone,” she said, practically bouncing. “That is the coolest.”
    I smiled. Double-necked lute. Never knew what would make Katie excited.
    Katie went to the bar to refresh our drinks, and I excused myself to go to the LGR—little girls’ room—as my mother always said. Once Katie was in the crowd at the bar I diverted to my real goal and went to find Wenceslas. I’d bought the tickets from him, and he’d promised to get me passes for the after-party. It was the icing on the cake for Katie’s birthday.
    I veered away from the stupidly long line to the women’s restroom and walked up to a muscular man who was striking out with a young coed.
    What a