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