He answered coolly, “I cut myself shaving.”
Rake eyed him long and levelly. No sense of humor? He said politely, “A close shave then?”
“Very.”
Rake’s thin mouth twitched, but he said no more, and neither did Archer.
He could have gone on protesting his innocence and insisting he had no idea what all this was about, but he found he had no energy for it. In fact, he’d have felt silly. It wasn’t going to be like it had been with Brennan. That was quite clear. With Rake he felt strangely—strangely, because they were obviously destined to be on opposite sides of any and all endeavors—that at last he’d found someone who spoke his language.
The SUV reached the Irregulars HQ and stopped at the security gate. IDs were flashed. The gate opened and the SUV pulled through. They parked in the underground structure and disembarked.
They were all still playing the game that Archer’s visit to HQ was voluntary, but as he walked into the elevator with Rake and his boyish subordinate, Archer was uneasily aware that walking out might not be nearly as easy.
Inside, the Irregulars HQ was as generic and nondescript as the outside: blue carpets, white walls, photos of scenic Vancouver. The air was recycled and temperature controlled. Most of the staff bustling down the halls with quiet efficiency were human, but Archer spotted a number of goblin staff members. Even one administrative assistant who was patently Kapre.
In fact, it seemed to him that the extra-human staff ratio had risen since his last visit. He wasn’t sure if that was a positive sign or not. The Irregulars claimed to be an equal opportunity employer, but so many of these government organizations merely gave lip service to the concept of diversity initiatives.
“You’re set up for Interview Room Three,” a well-groomed young woman informed Rake. Rake nodded briskly.
The interview room was new. Not the room itself, the fact that Archer was in it. Brennan had usually conducted interviews in his own office. But this was not an interview. This was an interrogation. That was clear.
A thin, pale woman with sharp features and white-blond hair in a tight ponytail was waiting for them when they entered the room. Her uniform too carried the silver braid of the Irregular commissioned officer. Archer didn’t recognize her. Perhaps she had transferred in with Rake. Perhaps he had just never noticed her.
Either way, she was a witch. Archer could sense the energy crackling around her like static electricity on a windy day. Subdued—perhaps even an effort made to conceal her true nature—but he knew her for what she was. A human lie detector.
“This is Sergeant Orly.” Rake took the chair across the table from Archer.
“Oh really?”
Rake was unamused by the little joke. He absently straightened his tie, reminding Archer of someone rolling up their sleeves before tackling a dirty job.
Sergeant Orly, already seated, didn’t seem to hear. She was going through a thick file. She fastened her pale green gaze on Archer and nodded in greeting.
Archer nodded briefly. He sat down and waited, hoping that he showed neither curiosity nor alarm. He couldn’t help wondering about that enormous file. Was that his file? If so, it had expanded considerably since his last visit to HQ.
Orly slid the file to Rake. Rake glanced through it unhurriedly.
Archer grimaced inwardly. He knew this tactic. He let his gaze wander around the barren room. The other two paid no attention to him and he returned the favor, though that sweetly masculine fragrance Rake wore kept feathering the edge of his consciousness.
After a minute or two, though, he couldn’t help looking at the file. He felt a flicker of irritation. Did they honestly think he couldn’t read that tiny print from across the table? Weren’t they familiar with faeries at all? In the middle of that thought, he noticed that the edge of the table on his side was badly gnawed as though by a giant and very nervous rat.
His own unease increased. Very rarely did he find himself at a disadvantage, but he felt at a disadvantage now.
Archer ignored the file they were pretending to so studiously pore over and considered Rake. His suit was tailored, and cleverly tailored at that. It gave Rake’s large, powerful body an air of near elegance. Archer could see the blue shadow beneath Rake’s freshly shaved jaw. His brown hair was clipped short and inclined to curl and one of his ears was pierced, although he wore no earring. He wore no wedding ring either. No jewelry at all. His hands were big and blunt fingered, but the nails were neatly trimmed and buffed.
Orly leaned forward and spoke into a microphone, giving the time and date of their session.
“Please state your full name for the record,” she told Archer.
“I assume you want my actual faerie name?”
Orly and Rake didn’t exchange looks, but Archer suspected they wanted to.
“Of course,” Orly said, sounding anything but certain.
Archer nodded. “Spider Reedstaff.”
“What?” That time Orly and Rake did look at each other.
“That’s right. According to the website I play a reed pipe and sing spellbinding songs. I live in a spider-webbed wonderland and vacation in insect grottoes. I can be seen only when the seer holds a four-leafed clover, which I can only surmise you both have stashed on your persons. I wear a tunic made of cobwebs and I have deep green butterfly wings.”
“What website?” Orly asked.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rake’s brows straightened into a single forbidding line.
“The fairy name generator website.”
Orly drew back. Rake’s face twisted into that sardonic expression once more. “You enjoy your little games, Mr. Green,” he remarked.
“As do you, if the last five minutes are anything to go by.”
Rake’s smile was thin and brief. “Let’s try this again. State your legal name and occupation for the record.”
“My name is Archer Green and I’m the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver.” Most people, of course, had no idea what his title meant or what secrets the museum contained, but Orly and Rake were not most people. In fact, in theory, the three of them were on the same side. But that was clearly a theory Orly and Rake did not ascribe to.
“There. That didn’t hurt, did it?”
“Not so far. The morning is young.”
“What is your earthly-realm nationality?”
“I’m English.”
“What are your ties to the faerie realm?”
“None. I’ve lived all my life in the human realm.” Well, the vast majority of his life. At one time it had even been a sore spot. No longer.
Orly made a notation in the file. Rake asked, “What are your duties at MoSSA?”
“I’m responsible for overseeing the arrangement, cataloging, and exhibition of our collections, much like any earthly-realm museum curator.”
Only…not.
Rake said, “The difference is MoSSA’s collections contain some of the most dangerous magical artifacts in the universe.”
Archer smiled tightly. “They’re not dangerous once they reach MoSSA.” That actually still was a sore spot.
“True. At least in theory.” That was Orly.
Archer ignored her. “In addition to curating the existing collections, I supervise and coordinate our acquisition of documents and artifacts deemed too powerful or dangerous to return to their realms of origin. It’s part of my job to arrange for their permanent storage and study.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Rake said.
“I haven’t had any complaints so far.”
Rake smiled. “As you pointed out, the morning is still young.”
“True. Is there some reason you refuse to tell me why I’m being held in custody?”
Rake looked in astonishment to Orly, who shrugged helplessly. “If I somehow gave the impression that you were under arrest or being forcibly held, I apologize. We do have a few questions and most people prefer that we don’t interview them at their workplace. That seemed to be the view of your boss, Mr. Littlechurch.” The words were right and Rake’s tone was sincere, but his eyes were mocking.
“I’ll bet,” Archer said.
Orly interjected, “You don’t get along with your boss?”
“Not at all. That is to say, we get along fine.”
Archer could hear the lack of conviction in his tone. He wasn’t surprised when Orly made another note in the file.
Rake asked abruptly, “Tell us about your involvement with SRRIM.”
Archer managed not to start, warned at the last second by the witch’s cautious effort to delve into his thoughts. Fortunately, like her commander, she was strong rather than subtle.
“There’s no such organization.”
“Not anymore, not officially, but you were once a member of the radical group known as the Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic.”
“That was years ago. I was a kid.”
“By faerie standards, yes. By human standards, you were nearly sixty.”
Archer said nothing.
“Of course, by faerie standards you’re still very young. Which, I think, probably explains a great deal.”
Archer blinked. Hopefully it was his only reveal. He could feel the witch still poking and prying at his thoughts, but he sidestepped her. His attention was now entirely on Rake. Rake somehow knew about Archer’s past membership in SRRIM and apparently understood enough about faerie physiology and culture to realize…too much.
He said carefully, “I did briefly belong to SRRIM. As you say, I was in my early teens. Obviously my views have changed. I’m curious as to what triggered your interest in my past. The subject of my youthful activism never came up during the hiring process and I’ve worked as curator for the museum for over five years.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. Of both facts. Nowadays our records are more centralized.”
What did that mean?
“I don’t understand what this is about,” Archer said, although he now had a very good idea of what it was all about.
“You’re being questioned in connection with the illegal acquisition of a highly dangerous magical artifact.”
“Oh yes,” Rake murmured. “I’m conscious of just how different you are, Mr. Green.”
“I’m flattered,” Archer said, feeling anything but.
“According to you, your involvement in radical politics was just youthful high spirits. What exactly is your position on the subject of the repatriation of magical artifacts to their realms of origin?”
“Are you asking me as the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities?”
Rake turned his hand palm up as though inviting Archer’s opinion to alight.
“My position is, of course, the official position. These relics do not belong in the human realm.”
“Do they belong in a museum?”
Rake and Orly waited for his reply. Archer smiled. “That’s not my call.”
“You must have an opinion,” Rake said.
Archer could feel Orly once again prying at his defenses. He revised his original assessment. She was more skilled than he’d given her credit for. A human would normally not have sensed how much effort it took to get into his mind. He let her read his general discomfort with having missed breakfast and the hardness of the chair.
“I have opinions on many things, but they aren’t relevant to the job I’m paid to do.”
Orly abandoned the mental infiltration and took over the inquisition. “So it’s just a job for you, protecting humanity from these destructive forces?”
Archer sat back in the chair. “I don’t understand the question. Do you mean, is it my vocation in life? No. I believe that’s your job. Sorry.
“We rarely drag citizens in over misfiled paperwork,” Rake said mildly.
“No? Brennan did.”
Another one of those silent exchanges, although this time Rake and his sergeant didn’t look at each other.
“As a matter of fact, this interview has to do with an artifact known as the Stone of Fal.”
Archer raised his brows. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke,” Rake said, and Archer could well believe it.
“I had no idea the stone had resurfaced. In that case, I understand your concern. I’d heard rumor that it was in the hands of a private collector.”
“Interestingly, one of your old SSRIM friends, Director Ali Khan Chauhan of the National Conjury Clinic in New Delhi arrived in Vancouver International Airport this morning.”
“Ali’s here?” Archer said with obvious delight.
Maybe it was too obvious because Rake got that supercilious look again.
“You think he’s here to purchase the Stone of Fal?” Archer inquired.
“That’s one theory,” Orly put in.
Silence followed her words. Archer could hear their wristwatches ticking in counter beat.
Rake’s phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. The sound would have gone undetected by most human ears, but Archer—as the interview had already made plain in case he failed to understand—was not human. Not as far as most humans were concerned. Rake muttered an apology, rose, and left the room.
Orly continued to ask Archer various questions, but he wasn’t listening to her. He tried to follow Rake’s conversation down the hall, but as powerful as his hearing was, he couldn’t follow words spoken through cell phone circuits and Rake seemed to know instinctively to restrict his responses to unrevealing grunts.
Rake returned to the room and took his chair once more. Once again, visceral awareness of his heat and strength and fabulous aftershave gave Archer a funny sensation in the pit of his belly. He assumed it was merely nerves, but he would have been happier to be certain.
“The other theory,” Rake said, as though there had been no interruption, “
“The problem is, if the stone is not destroyed, it could conceivably at some point be returned to the human realm.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“And yet it’s been drifting along in the human realm for years, isn’t that right?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“I think we all know that it’s more than a rumor.”
Archer waited.
Rake seemed to weigh various courses. He said abruptly, “Although our search failed to turn up any physical evidence, I believe the stone is in your possession. I believe you plan to return it to Chauhan.”
Archer relaxed. He even offered a cheeky smile. “You obviously know nothing about museums or museum curators if you think I’d voluntarily hand over a priceless artifact to a rival.”
Rake continued as though Archer hadn’t spoken, “Furthermore, I believe that you and Chauhan are both members of whatever SRRIM’s current incarnation is, in short, a secret and fanatical organization with a mission to retrieve and repatriate dangerous illegal magical artifacts to their source realms.”
He should have laughed. At the very least, Archer should have said, “Me?” in an outraged tone. He did neither. He did nothing. He continued to sit in the hard-backed chair staring across the damaged table at Rake.
Rake’s eyes were lighter than he’d originally thought. Or were they? They seemed to change color in the drab little room. Now they were the color of the brown glass that good ale came in, then the color of old honey, next the color of the winter heath on the old Romney salt marshes. They held Archer’s gaze without wavering.