Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (18 page)

“The…drearies?”

“The badges.
Irregulars
.” The Moth Man said the word with contempt. His eyes looked pink in the poor light. If so, they were the only color in his skeletal face.

“You got away all right. From the badges, I mean.”

“Sure. I blend in with the crowd.” The Moth Man settled at the table in front of the television. There was a plate stacked with pancakes, though where he had cooked them in this tiny stove-less apartment was unclear. He proceeded to pour chocolate syrup over the heap. The syrup pooled on the plate in a brown puddle. “I was just having my supper.”

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“I won’t.” The Moth Man neatly quartered his pancakes and then bisected them again. His attention, that which wasn’t focused on his plate, was all on the soundless television.

Archer began, “Last night you mentioned…”

“Green glass beads,” the Moth Man completed the sentence. He smiled and his teeth were brown with chocolate. The effect was fairly ghastly, but Archer didn’t care. All he heard was “green glass beads.”

His mouth was dry as he said simply, “Yes.”

“Family heirloom, eh?”

“If they’re the right ones. There are nearly as many beads in the world as grains of sand.”

“They’re the right ones.”

“How do you know?”

The Moth Man said in a weird singsong mimicry of an Irish accent, “These belonged to a wee slip of an Irish nymph.”

“She was English. My great-grandmother.”

“Even so. These are the right ones.
Provenance.
” The word came out thick with syrup and chocolate sauce.

“Provenance can be faked.”

The big, pink eyes blinked slowly, thoughtfully at him. “You’d know the moment you saw them, wouldn’t you? If they were the real thing?”

Archer nodded.

“Well then.”

“Are you saying you have them?” Archer felt almost dizzy at the thought. That in a matter of moments he might see them…touch them. The green glass beads.

“What are they worth to you?”

Name your price.
He didn’t say it, though. He wasn’t that lost to common sense. Instead he shrugged. “You’re saying you have them in your possession?”

“No. I don’t have them.”

The disappointment barely had time to form before the Moth Man added through a mouthful of pancake, “But I know where they are.”

 “Well?” Archer asked when nothing further was forthcoming.

“Weeeelllll.” The Moth Man cleared his throat stickily. “I’ll tell you, but I would need you to do something for me.”

Archer narrowed his eyes. “Such as?”

Another sticky throat scratching. “You’ve got the winged sandals of Hermes in the museum, isn’t that so?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Same place I heard about your beads. I keep my ear to the ground.”

To the underground, more like. Archer said slowly, “It’s possible.”

“I want them.”

Archer said nothing for a second or two. “You’ll trade information regarding the beads if I’ll hand over the sandals. Is that right?”

The Moth Man nodded.

“Do you realize what you’re asking?”

The Moth Man hunched his shoulders defensively at Archer’s tone. “You’re a fine one to talk. You’re asking something too.”

“I’m not asking for something that poses a threat to anyone else.”

“You don’t know that.”

He had a point. Archer didn’t know. No one knew, in fact, because the jewels—if you could call them jewels—were mostly legend.

“You’re talking about trafficking in culturally significant other-realm artifacts. That’s a federal, international and inter-realm crime.”

“It’s a federal crime to acquire illegal magical properties, whether intended for sale or not. That doesn’t stop you.”

When Archer said nothing, the Moth Man said uncomfortably, “Everyone knows what you’re up to. You and your friends.”

“Do they?” So much for all those years of perfectly blameless and law-abiding existence. “Even so, there’s a great difference between acquiring these items in order to repatriate them and turning them loose on the streets.”

“Not according to the government. Not according to the drearies.”

“According to me.”

The Moth Man dropped his fork and sat up straight, goggling at Archer. “No need to take offense.”

“I am offended, though.”

“Yes. I see that.” The Moth Man swallowed noisily. “But the sandals are…are harmless. They’d just let me move about faster, more quietly, see? That’s all.”

“They wouldn’t do you any good anyway. They’ve been exorcised. Like everything else in the museum.”

The Moth Man shrugged. “Maybe so. I’d still like them.”

“I don’t doubt it. You’re not going to have them.”

The Moth Man’s pale, protruding forehead wrinkled in thought. “What if I were to ask for something else?”

“Something from the museum? The answer is the same.”

The Moth Man’s expression grew sly. “What if I were to tell someone you came here asking about the beads?”

“What if I were to cast a spell on you and turn you into a moth for real?”

The Moth Man blanched even paler. “No need to get in an uproar. I was only fooling.”

“You’re a fool right enough.”

“Not like I’m planning to make trouble.”

“No, you’re not going to make trouble,” Archer said softly.

The fork clattered against the plate as it fell from the Moth Man’s nerveless fingers. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?”

“What you’re doing. Magic. I can feel it pressing in on me. And your eyes are all funny and green.”

Archer smiled coldly. “My eyes
are
green.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Archer stepped forward.

The Moth Man shoved back his chair, nearly toppling a tower of boxes as he rose, keeping the table between Archer and himself. “If you do something to me, people will know.”

“No, they won’t. If I do something to you, you won’t even know it.” That was an exaggeration. Archer’s mind control abilities were as limited as his ability to cast spells. He knew a few things about psychology, though.

“You don’t have to be this way about it.” With the table still safely between them, the Moth Man offered a conciliatory smile. “It was a suggestion, that’s all. Forget it. Maybe you’ll do me a favor in return some time.”

“Maybe. I have a long memory.”

The Moth Man coughed and then looked wistfully at the half-eaten pancakes in the lake of syrup. “Do you know who George Gaki is?”

Archer stared. Oh yes. He knew who Gaki was. A rich antiques dealer who was reputed to have taken more than a few legal and ethical shortcuts in building his impressive personal collection. A collection that reportedly held magical artifacts as well as treasures from the mortal realms.

What few people knew—and perhaps it had little bearing—was that Gaki was an old and powerful demon.

He said at last, “Are you telling me they’re in Gaki’s collection?”

The Moth Man nodded. “He bought them at an auction two weeks ago.”

“That’s not possible. I’d have heard.”

“Antique water beads. That’s what they were sold as.”

Archer was silent. He did remember something about the sale of antique water beads. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. Water beads could hardly be taken for magic by anyone over five years old.

“How were they discovered?”

The Moth Man made a noise that Archer realized was supposed to pass for humor. It sounded like something needed oiling. “The most famous string of beads in the history of the faerie realm?”

And yet they had gone undiscovered for over two centuries. “You’re
sure
?”

“Well…” The Moth Man’s white lids lowered modestly. “I haven’t seen them myself, but a friend saw them. Swears it’s them. And Gaki has been boasting in certain quarters that he’s got them.” His colorless lashes rose. He watched Archer. “You could find out. You have the connections.”

“Yes,” Archer answered absently. Could it really be this simple?

“Or,” the Moth Man said slyly, “you could always ask him.”

Chapter Four

There was a pub in Gastown not far from where Archer lived that stayed open till one in the morning on weeknights and served good English ale. No vodkas from all around the world, no dance floor, and thankfully no televisions, plasma or otherwise. Archer found a seat at the bar, ordered a pint of Royal Stinger Honey Ale, and considered what he had learned.

And what his options were.

If it was true, if the beads had resurfaced at last, he had to have them. That part was simple and required no thought. The beads belonged to him. Their existence was irretrievably intertwixt with that of his faerie bloodline. He had searched for them for years. He
would
have them.

Anyway, there was no reason not to have them. What did they amount to? The original love beads. A strand of shining stones guaranteed to win the wearer the heart of anyone he or she desired. How could that pose a threat to anyone? It wasn’t as though the possessor of the beads could command worldwide adoration, and the magic worked only if the wearer truly loved.  

This wasn’t like the Stone of Fal or even Hermes’s sandals. This was different. This was personal.  

Very personal. A family heirloom, that’s all the beads were. Though the loss of them had resulted in his mother being relegated to the human realm and her subsequent doom. Humans thought of magical artifacts as things to simply possess or divest of at will, but in the faerie realm possession and dispossession of such articles meant life or death. Probably in a great many more realms as well.

So there was no need for that anxious fluttering in his guts. He wasn’t going to do anything dangerous to anyone but himself. And if he couldn’t outwit those overdressed and overarmed meatbags, he deserved to be in danger.

Assuming the Moth Man was correct. Assuming the beads existed at all. And that they were where Archer might retrieve them.

Archer took a long pull on the sweet beer. He felt in his bones that the Moth Man had been speaking the truth. The timing was so perfectly awful that it had to be true. As tricky as it would be to get the beads from Gaki, it would be that much more complicated with the damned badges breathing down his neck.  

Ah. And here was another complication. If his intention, no, if even his
interest
came to the attention of the Irregulars, they might—undoubtedly
would
—attempt to confiscate the beads in order to neutralize them. That was basic policy. No magical artifacts left loose in the human realm. No exceptions.

Inevitably this worrying reflection reminded Archer of Commander Rake. The thought of the Irregulars’ new officer gave him another of those uncomfortable fluttering feelings in his belly, like a trapped swarm of butterflies. He shook his head at himself and drank another mouthful.

It was a long time since he’d felt anything like that. He had a natural suspicion of mortals when it came to affairs of the heart. Or affairs of the loins. Even if he hadn’t…Humans were so short lived. It was asking for heartache, getting too interested in them.

Ah well. He ordered another pint.

The piped music played a slow Irish waltz, “Sidhe Bheag”, “Sidhe Mhor”. Archer smiled faintly and sipped his ale.

Someone took the bar stool next to him. Someone who took up a fair bit of acreage. An elbow bumped his arm, a muscular thigh brushed his own. The scent of musk and vanilla mixed pleasantly with more prosaic ones. Archer’s heart jumped. He turned his head and met the glinting gaze of Commander Rake.

“Here you are,” Rake said.

“Commander Rock.”

Rake’s mouth tugged into a faint smile. He didn’t bother to correct Archer.

Archer asked unwillingly, “Where should I be?”

“I thought you might be making for the border.”

Archer’s jaw dropped. “Making for the border? Why the hell should I?”

Rake still had that amber gleam in his eye, that hint that he was enjoying himself. “You lost no time getting rid of the tail I placed on you this afternoon.”

Archer sniffed. “Never send a man to do a Cu Sith’s work.”

Rake laughed. “True. Where did you go that you were afraid to be seen?”

“Nowhere. I don’t like being followed as a matter of principle.”

“You’re a man of principles?”

Archer shrugged. It shouldn’t have stung. What did he care what Rake thought?

Rake ordered a pint before turning his attention back to Archer, and Archer, though he hated to admit it, felt another flare of excitement as that dark, moody gaze turned his way.