Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (19 page)

“Yes,” Rake said. “You’re a man of principle—even if misguided.”

Archer set his mug down. He said mockingly, “You know me so well.”

Rake took no offense. “I do. I’ve been making a study of you, Green. I think I know you pretty well.”

“As well as any man can,” Archer mimicked.

“Better than Brennan.”

Archer reached for his mug again to hide his smile.

Rake made a soft sound that could have been amusement or scorn. Or both. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?”

“It has amusing elements.”

“There’s not much of the human strain in you.”

There wasn’t, no. Archer was tall for a faerie; his ears ended in graceful points usually hidden beneath his dark curls; his green eyes were wide and exotically tilted, but he doubted Rake was referring to his physical appearance.

“Hopefully not.”

It must have sounded more bitter than he intended. Rake’s eyebrows rose. “Your father was human.”

“Yes.” Rake had indeed been studying up.

“Is that why…?”

“Why what?”

Rake’s tone was bleak. “Why you’re willing to gamble with the safety of the human realm.”

“That’s your theory. I haven’t admitted to anything. I certainly wouldn’t admit to
that
.”

“You haven’t denied it with much vigor either.”

“There’s no point.” Rake opened his mouth and Archer added, “Your mind’s made up. I saw that this morning.”

“True.” Rake drank from his mug. He seemed easy and relaxed. “So your father was a naturalist and wildlife photographer.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Your mother was a groundskeeper on an estate in Romney Marsh.”

“That’s right. Sounds like the start to a risqué joke.”

“But you’re not laughing.”

Archer shrugged. “I’m not crying either. I’m not out to get humanity because my father abandoned my mother before I was born.” It was the loss of the beads that had caused all the misfortune in his life. Losing the beads had cost his mother his father’s love. Banishment from the faerie realm had done the rest. But that was chance. Might as well be angry with the wind for blowing.

Rake was still watching him curiously. “No?”

“No.” Archer gave Rake a sideways look. “If—and I say
if
—what you suspect is true, it has nothing to do with my father or my mother drowning herself or my growing up in human foster care. If I still believed in the goals of the SRRIM, it would be because they’re worthwhile goals. These artifacts don’t belong to you. You’ve no right to destroy them. You’ve no right to them at all. They should be returned to their realms of origin.”

“You talk like a child. But then you are a child. You’re, what, not quite twenty?”

“I’m seventy-four.”

“I don’t mean in human years. I mean in faerie years. In faerie years you’re still wet behind those pointy little ears.”

Archer lost his temper as, no doubt, he was meant to do. “And you’re the tool of an ignorant and bigoted government.”

To his astonishment, Rake laughed. “Luckily you don’t still believe in the goals of the SRRIM.” He drained his glass and nodded to the bartender.

“Another?” he asked Archer.

Archer ignored the question. “The Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic no longer exists.”

“Not under that name, certainly. By the way, your pal Chauhan is already on his way back to India. Maybe he just dropped by this continent to pick up a dozen Tim Horton’s apple fritters.”

“Maybe he did.”

Rake’s lean cheek tugged into a hard smile. “We’ll have a team from NIAD’s India field office waiting for him when he disembarks in New Delhi.”

“You boys get around. Boys and girls, I should say. Your Sergeant Orly is a witch.”

“You noticed. She thought you did.”

“Since when does the sticks-and-stones brigade hire blooded witches?”

“Times are changing. The Irregulars are an equal opportunity employer.”

Archer sniffed in polite disbelief.

“If that chip on your shoulder was any bigger you’d be a hunchback instead of—” Rake broke off.

“Instead of what?”

Archer was expecting sarcasm at the least. The self-conscious look that flashed briefly across Rake’s face intrigued him.

Rake’s reply was brusque. “It’s no secret the fae are inhumanly beautiful.”

“I’m only half fae.”

Rake growled, “You’re well aware of your…physical attributes.”

Archer laughed shortly and picked up his mug. They drank in silence. A silence that, as the minutes passed, softened and grew almost companionable.

Archer swallowed the last mouthful of ale and delicately wiped the foam away with his index finger. He glanced at Rake, who was watching him steadily with a faint, rather odd smile. “Well?”

“Well,” Rake said, “I was wondering about those postcards.”

“What postcards?”

“The French Victorian postcards my agents found in your bedside table. The ones of aroused demons doing anatomically incorrect things to humans.”

Archer’s face warmed. He shifted uncomfortably on his barstool. “So?”

Rake’s smile widened, even grew rather wicked. “You’ve a particular interest in demons?”

“It’s my job description.”

Rake’s deep laugh sent a little shiver down Archer’s spine. “That particular job description could get you arrested for solicitation in this realm.”

Archer couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Rake smiled and glanced around as everyone in the bar automatically followed suit in the wake of that peal. He turned back to Archer. “So you…have a thing for demons?”

The phrase sounded odd coming from Rake, almost anachronistic, though Archer couldn’t have said why. In any case, oh yes. Archer had a thing for demons. Not that he’d ever been with a demon. He gave Rake a cool little smile.

“Isn’t in my file?”

“I’d have remembered that.”

Archer shrugged. “I just have a thing for bad boys.”

Rake laughed. “But you
are
a bad boy, Mr. Green.”

Chapter Five

“Then what happened?” Barry asked.

“Then I finished my beer and went home.”

“
What
?”

Archer laughed at Barry’s expression. “How did you think that story would end?”

“The man was flirting with you.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“He bought you a drink. He brought up your naughty French postcard collection. He was coming onto you.”

“He was trying to seduce me.” Archer’s voice was bored. It was an act. The idea of Rake trying—and succeeding—in seducing him was alarmingly exciting. It was a long time since he’d felt this way.

“That could be very useful.”

“If his interest was genuine, but I think…” Archer’s voice tailed off. In fact, he did think Rake’s interest was genuine. That didn’t mean it wasn’t calculated. Badges were known for their unorthodox investigation techniques.

“It’s just a game for him,” he said without conviction.

Barry pointed out, “As it is for you.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Intriguing insight into our new commander all the same.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“I should hope not!”

“You know what I mean. There’s something different about him. Something I can’t put my finger on.”

Barry said, “But you’d like to?”

“
Ever
so funny, you are.”

Barry chuckled. The phone on his desk jangled. He pressed a button. Miss Roya’s demure voice said, “The naga skin has arrived, Mr. Littlechurch.”

“Thank you, Miss Roya.” Barry rose. “Perhaps Commander Rake is part of the escort. That would add some zest to your day, eh?”

Archer didn’t deign to answer.

In any case, Commander Rake was not part of the naga skin escort. There were only three agents, none of them familiar. It was a little unsettling that the local badge brigade seemed to have so many new faces. Too many for ordinary turnover, in Archer’s opinion. Recruitment must be up.

The exorcised skin was carried in a small teak trunk carved with cobras and eagles and painted gold. The heavy lid was inlaid with jade and mother-of-pearl.

Barry opened the lid. The skin inside was silvery, almost transparent. When stretched to full length, it would be over eighteen feet. It looked like a pile of tissue paper.

“Any problems?” he asked briskly.

“No problems,” the youthful lieutenant reported.

Clipboards were exchanged. Signatures were scribbled in silence. Archer studied the crumbled pile of fragile scales. It seemed to him that he could see two black beady eyes gazing back at him. The next instant the eyes resolved themselves into two holes in the skin.

“Anything wrong?” Barry asked him.

Archer looked away from the skin. He shook his head. “When was the naga exorcised?”

He was speaking to Barry, but it was the lieutenant who replied, “Twelve years ago. We don’t refer to it as exorcism anymore. It’s called neutralization.”

 “Of course.” Archer’s eyes met Barry’s. “More than a decade. And there has been no recidivation in all that time?”

“Certainly not!” All three Irregulars scrutinized Archer as though he had sprouted three heads—or was out of the one he had. And no wonder. What he was suggesting probably sounded like sacrilege to them, having, as they clearly did, utter faith in the earthly-realm dogma they’d been weaned on.

Archer shrugged. “Thank you. We’ll take charge of it now.”

Mr. Baker took the small trunk from the uniformed officer. Archer noticed that despite the rejection of the idea that the naga skin might miraculously reanimate, the Irregulars appeared only too pleased to hand off their charge.

In a small, silent procession they traveled to the display room and the large glass case that had been prepared for the skin.

Archer lifted the lid and Mr. Baker carefully lowered the open trunk onto the large red velvet cushion. Mr. Baker stepped back and Archer slid the glass lid into place and locked the case.

“And that,” Barry said, “is that.” He gave a brief smile to the agents. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. The naga skin is safely home once more.”

The agents snapped him three perfect salutes and turned in unison on their gleaming heels.

***

There was a great deal of information about George Gaki on the web, but very little of it was relevant or even true. According to various sources, the wealthy antiques dealer and philanthropist was sixty-five and Austrian born. Archer knew for a fact that Gaki was over six hundred years old, hailed from Prussia, and that the only recipient of his philanthropy was himself. Gaki acknowledged no children and was on his eleventh human wife. One thing the news media got right: he was very rich and very well connected. Connected in ways most humans couldn’t fathom. None of that mattered to Archer. His only interest was in Gaki’s fabled collection of art and artifacts.

The first article that popped up was the sale of the antique water beads through Christie’s a few weeks earlier. The auction wasn’t significant. The only reason a photo of the beads even popped up on the website was because George Gaki was news.

Archer gazed avidly at the photo in the monitor. The beads amounted to two strands of something that resembled natural pearls in size and luster. But the color was an amazing green like the blazing heart of the first emeralds or the darkest, stillest, deepest water.

Archer’s heart pounded. His chest tightened with emotion so powerful it was hard to draw breath. He had to close his eyes for an instant against the onslaught of feeling. At last.
At last…

His office door opened. Archer’s eyes blinked open.

“You haven’t forgotten tonight’s benefit at the Fairmont, have you?” Barry stopped at Archer’s desk. His gaze fell on Archer’s computer monitor. “Gaki? What’s the old rogue up to now?” His benign smile fell. “Oh hell. Not those damned beads again.”

“You knew they’d come on the market. Knew Gaki had bought them.” Archer tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t help feeling this was perfidy on Barry’s part. A small one, perhaps, but hurtful all the same

Barry looked uncomfortable. “Rumor. That’s all it was.”

Archer shook his head, turning back to the monitor screen. “There they are.”

Barry instinctively leaned forward, peering at the monitor. “That could be any string of old beads.”

“It’s them. I know it.”

“How can you know it?” Barry straightened.

“I do.”

“You want the beads to be real so you’re telling yourself that they are. Think for a moment. It’s too great a coincidence.”