Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (24 page)

Rake’s eyes turned briefly red again. But he said politely, “I assure you, we’re as surprised and unhappy about today’s events as you are, Mr. Littlechurch.”

“Surprised? Unhappy? That doesn’t begin to cover…” Barry didn’t pause for breath during the next ninety seconds. Rake and Orly waited in grim-faced silence for him to finish.

When the eye of the storm at last appeared, Rake nodded to Orly, who pinned a tight smile to her face and said graciously from between her teeth, “I promise you, Mr. Littlechurch, the Irregulars will be conducting our own in-house investigation into this matter.”

“In-house!” A less civilized man would have spat on the marble floors. “How do we know that won’t merely result in another departmental cover-up?”

“You must realize we’re every bit as invested in finding out what happened here today as anyone at MoSSA.”

“Hardly. It was not your staff in danger of being eaten alive.”

Orly’s exasperation bubbled over. “
Our
staff faces the danger of being eaten alive or torn limb from limb or
worse
every single day!”

Rake spoke, his voice unexpectedly calm. “Your museum visitors today were retired Irregulars, Mr. Littlechurch. We take any threat against our own seriously.”

Barry harrumphed but after a few more minutes permitted himself to be guided by Orly from the hall and all its grim reminders.

The gruesome job of cleanup began. Archer glanced at Rake and found himself under bleak observation. A human would be waiting for thanks, but demons had the same aversion as the faerie to thank-yous.

“Yes?”

Rake opened his mouth, then shook his head. “It will wait.”

Archer remembered the circumstances under which they’d last parted and his face grew warm. Hard to imagine now that he had ever lain in Rake’s arms, that Rake had taken him in the ancient way, and that afterward Rake had whispered soft endearments to him. Lovely words. Secret words.

Give them me, give them me.

Archer was uncertain as to the etiquette of bedding a demon, but safe to say he had not behaved in a gentlemanly fashion toward Rake. To fuck and run was not good manners in any realm.

He started to speak, though he had no idea what he would say.

Rake’s thoughts were clearly running on a different track. “The museum will have to be cleansed before it can reopen.”

Rake was not speaking of sponging the walls and mopping the floors, though that had to be done as well. “Of course.”

“My team will handle the first phase. After that you’ll need to get a private eidolon eraser in.”

“Yes. I’ll see to it immediately.”

Perhaps he hoped that by being cooperative now he could show Rake he was sorry for behaving like a sneak thief in the night. If so, Rake wasn’t having any of it. He nodded in curt dismissal and there was nothing for Archer to do but return to his duties—such as they were, given the events of the afternoon.

He made sure everyone had left the museum. Spoke to the media and reassured them that the minor gas leak responsible for the small explosion within the museum had done minimal damage to the paperwork stored there.      

He’d have liked to speak to Barry, but his door was still shut, Barry apparently still in private conference with Sergeant Orly.

Archer went to his office to get his briefcase. As he clicked the locks shut, the memory of George Gaki’s weirdly benign smile flew into his mind.  

There’s been talk about you, you know, Green. Certain of your old comrades dislike the fact that you’re roaming freely in the world knowing all that you do. Helping us just this once could go far toward proving that there is no need for…worry.

Was it possible that Gaki had seen him leave with Rake, put two and two together, only to come up with five? Was there an other-realm contract out on his life?

Not a cheerful thought.

He picked up the briefcase and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Rake standing in the doorway.

“Guilty conscience?” Rake inquired.

“I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Archer raised his chin. “Meaning?”

“You have a blind spot.”

Archer leaned back against the desk in a show of casualness. “Everyone does.”

“With you it verges on amaurosis.”

“Something like amorousness, is it?”

“Not in your case.” Rake’s voice was dry. “Definitely not.”

Archer considered the words and tone uneasily. Rake didn’t seem angry. No. Anger was something Archer could deal with easily. This was something else. Something worrisome.

Was Rake…
hurt
?

Archer’s eyes widened, considering this possibility. Perhaps Barry had been right. Perhaps there
was
something here Archer could use. But scanning Rake’s austere features, he found he was strangely loathe to try. Because he had no idea what to say, he opted for brusqueness.

“Fascinating. Is there something I can help you with, Commander?”

“There’s something I can help
you
with.”

Archer didn’t like the flat way Rake said it—or the chilly dark look of his eyes. “Well?”

“Stay away from George Gaki.”

It was a shock, but Archer managed to say, composedly, “Who?”

“You heard me.”

Archer’s natural mischievousness got the better of him. “I’d no idea it was serious between you two.”

Rake’s lips compressed further—possibly to conceal his fangs. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not laughing.”

“No? Well, you demons aren’t famous for your sense of humor. Especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.” He didn’t miss the almost infinitesimal flinch Rake gave at the word
demon
. Most definitely not common knowledge. That was some comfort. Though it was still aggravating to think he’d missed something that should have been obvious. But then Rake had had many years to perfect his camouflage.

Rake was not in a playful mood. He said in that same stark, somber voice, “I know about the green glass beads.”

It was like being struck by lightning. Archer couldn’t have moved, couldn’t have spoken if his life had depended on it. Perhaps it did.

Watching him, Rake mimicked, “‘Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?’”

Archer was stung into speech. “What do you know of them? What can you know of them? To you they’re just another artifact to be exorcised, cataloged, and filed away in some airless, sunless place like this.”

“I know the beads are an obsession with you.”

Archer made a sound of contempt. He’d have walked away, but Rake continued to fill his doorway. So he folded his arms in a pretense at nonchalance and waited to hear whatever was coming.

Rake said coldly, clearly, “I know everything about you, Archer. Everything there is to know, I know. I’ve studied you for over a year.”

“Studied
me
?” Archer felt an inkling of real alarm.

“Oh yes. I know you’re descended directly from the Greenwood branch of the ancient fae court in the southeast of England, although your people have hidden in the Romney Marsh vicinity for the last couple of centuries. I know you’re the last legitimate descendent of the wood nymph Thalia.”

“So what? That’s all ancient history.”

“I know your mother was seduced and abandoned by a human, that she took her own life in the River Rother, and that you spent your childhood in human foster care.”

“Oh yes,” drawled Archer. “And I’m taking my revenge on the whole human race because of it—even though I’m half human.”

“No. I don’t think you intend any harm to the human race.” For a moment Rake looked almost sorry for him. That was intolerable.

Archer scowled. “Then what?”

“Do you not realize that it’s well known in the circles we both travel that the curator of the MoSSA will buy any heirloom belonging to the Greenwood connection and that the greatest prize you seek is the necklace belonging to Thalia herself?”

“Green glass gossip,” jeered Archer. “You should hear the things humans say about demons.”

“I’m not repeating what humans say. I’m telling you what’s widely known in the other realms.”

Archer shook his head, denying it.

“Yes.” Rake was adamant. “And finally, I know, however much you pretend otherwise, that you are one of the ringleaders of the organization formerly known as SRRIM.”

“Think what you like. It doesn’t make it true. In fact—” Archer stopped himself. Even if some of his old comrades wanted him out of the way, the last thing he was going to do was confirm their suspicions by running to the badges for help.

Rake regarded him grimly. “In fact?”

“Nothing. In fact, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“I wish that were true. More than you can know.”

Archer had no idea how to reply to that. Surely Rake didn’t mean what Archer hoped—thought—he meant.

Probably not, because Rake added flatly, “How long did you think we’d let you run before we nicked you?”

Archer opened his mouth, realized anything he said would be a mistake, and snapped it shut again.

“I transferred to Vancouver for one reason,” Rake bore relentlessly on, “and that was—
is
—to catch you red-handed.”

Chapter Eight

Given the alarming implications of everything Rake was telling him, Archer was surprised to hear himself ask, “So what was last night?”

Rake didn’t hesitate. “Last night was all part of my plan. Last night was seduction.”

Archer considered it, frowning. Rake sounded sincere. Which was rather funny given that Archer had been fretting about Rake’s injured feelings only a couple of minutes earlier. Well, it just went to prove the old adage about sympathy for the devil.

Into his abstraction, Rake said roughly, “What did you think? That I fell in love with you while poring over your files?”

“Yes.”

The unadorned frankness of it seemed to anger Rake. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

Rake’s display of temper interested Archer. “Why are you angry at the idea?”

Rake’s human visage shifted infinitesimally, proof of strong emotion. But what strong emotion? Aggravation seemed uppermost. “Because it’s nonsense. I suppose you’re telling me you also fell in love at first sight?”

“Of course not.” Rake’s human form gave another of those jumps, like fire in the wind. Archer admitted, “I fell in love last night.”

 Rake said something unpleasant in Babylonian. Or perhaps Hittite. Hittite was especially good for hurtful words.

“Why not?” Archer inquired. “That’s how it works for our kind.”

“We are not the same kind,” Rake retorted. “You’re half human. And a terrorist to boot.”

The half human remark hurt more than Archer would have expected. His own temper flared. “You’re right. We’re not the same. I was just having fun with you last night. I knew what you were all the time.”

Rake laughed, although it was more of a snarl.

Given the demon propensity for violence, it seemed to Archer time to change the subject. “Why are you telling me all this?”

All at once Rake was human again. Human and rather tired. “Because after what you did today…the fact that you risked your life to save others…I’m willing to give you one last chance. Because surely after today you must realize how misguided—how wrong—you’ve been. You must see now that the path you’re on can lead to nothing but danger and destruction.”

“The path
I’m
on?” Archer gazed at Rake with disbelief. “Today an exorcised artifact came back to life. That’s not even possible. Yet it happened. Either uncontrolled magic is returning to the world or—” Once again he broke off before saying something he would surely regret.

“No.” There wasn’t even a shade of doubt in Rake’s voice. “Blood from the cut on your hand must have touched the skin at some point.”

Archer held up his healed hand. “No. The cut’s long gone. Besides, as you untactfully point out, I’m only half faerie. My blood couldn’t restore life.”

“If the cut is already healed, then your blood carries the old magic.”

Archer shook his head. “I heal quickly, true, but I should know if I had that gift.”

“Then the naga skin couldn’t have been properly neutralized.”

Archer laughed. “Now you’re simply fooling yourself.”

Rake said shortly, “Fine. Let’s agree for the sake of argument that neutralization is not infallible. All the more reason why these items can’t be loose in the human realm.”

Apparently Rake couldn’t see the one other obvious possibility. But then perhaps Archer was the one imagining murder plots where they didn’t exist. “No one wanted them loose in the mortal realms. The intent was to return them to their native cultures.”