Текст книги "Irregulars "

Автор книги: Astrid Amara

Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

 Chapter Seven

Even before the naga skin came back to life and ate the guide for the tour that had been specially arranged for a group of retirees from the Slovakian NIAD branch office, Archer was having a lousy day. But an eighteen-foot hooded cobra as wide as a Douglas fir loose in the yellow marble halls of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver took precedence over a sleepless night, running out of honey for his morning tea, and a stolen parking spot.

“Tell Barry to get everyone else out of the museum,” Archer ordered Mr. Baker, who had run, panicked, to his office to report the terrible news. “Where’s the rest of the tour party?”

Mr. Baker shook his head. His mouth worked. His eyes were stricken. He had been acting as docent for this very special event when the glass case had cracked and then burst apart to release a fanged nightmare.

Archer shoved him out of his office and sent him stumbling toward Barry’s. “Never mind. Go tell Mr. Littlechurch.”

As Mr. Baker fled, Archer yanked the fire alarm. Bells clamored overhead, the sound ricocheting off the stone and drowning the cries and screams coming from the exhibition hall. He returned to his desk and pressed the silent panic button under the birch top.

That technically ended his responsibility. According to the government employee handbook, he could now lock himself in his office or flee the museum, whichever seemed to offer the best chance of survival. He certainly owed no loyalty to a group of badges, retired or otherwise, but somehow he could no longer think of Irregulars without thinking of Rake. Not that Rake would ever be an elderly, helpless human, but—

The entire building shook as though the roof had caved in.

Without further thought, Archer left his office and sprinted down the hallway, skidding to a stop in the doorway of the exhibition hall. The naga was in the center of the long, wide room, its own display case reduced to debris beneath its coils. The surrounding cases had been knocked over and a number of people in plainclothes cowered behind them—with the exception of one old codger who was waving his cane to try and distract the snake from an elderly lady trying to crawl away.

Six feet or so of the cobra’s olive brown body reared up, hood spread, forked tongue flicking out. It swung its massive head, hissing as Archer slid into view.

Archer ducked back, leaning against the wall, heart pounding. That was…one…big snake. He swallowed hard, thinking.

“Archer!”

Archer turned his head. Barry wasn’t quite running and still looked startlingly dignified given the circumstances, but he was definitely moving faster than Archer had ever seen him move. “The Irregulars are on the way!”

Archer nodded distractedly. He grabbed another quick look.

The man with the cane was hiding beneath a stone bench. Archer couldn’t see the woman. The next instant a flick of the snake’s tail sent an aluminum-framed walker flying into one of the stained glass windows. The terrified oldsters huddled still further down behind their makeshift shelter.

“What on earth…” Barry’s voice was lost in the wake of another crash.

“I’m not sure we can wait,” Archer told him.

Barry’s eyes went rounder still. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go in there. We’ve already had one fatality this morning.”

Archer could not have agreed more. Unfortunately… “That…thing isn’t going to be satisfied with one little senior citizen snack after a couple of centuries of hibernation.”

“No.” Barry looked aghast. “Whatever you’re thinking. No. We have to wait. That thing will snap you up in one bite.”

Archer’s stomach did an unhappy somersault at that mental image. He didn’t like snakes. He didn’t even like lizards. Caterpillars were his limit.

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“We could—we could—” Barry stopped. “How the hell could this happen?” He stole a quick look around the doorframe. Whatever he saw caused him to put his hands over his eyes. “Oh my God. It can’t be happening.”

The shriek of tearing metal from inside the hall put the lie to that prayer.

Archer’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t seem to get enough spit to gulp. He ran through the mental catalog of everything he knew about snakes. It was a very small catalog. Cobras were, at most, a footnote.

“Have you ever heard of an exorcised item reanimating?”

“No. Never. Not like this. Not spontaneously.”

“And yet that fucking monster is alive.” Archer risked another look around the doorframe. The situation was not improving on its own. “All right. Here’s our plan. I’ll distract it long enough that you should be able to help the people in there get out.”

“That’s not a plan! It’s suicide.”

Archer spared him a quick laugh. “Hopefully not. Think of the paperwork. Anyway, it’s the best I can come up with.”

Barry shook his head frantically. “No. Wait for the ba—the Irregulars. They’ll be here any minute.” They both looked down the eerily empty hallway to the large doors where Mr. Baker and Miss Roya hovered, trying to see through the etched glass. The alarm bells continued to jangle in surround sound.

 A display table scraped and groaned its way across the floor and crashed into the wall. Terrified cries followed.

Barry swallowed. He looked as sick as Archer felt. “You realize that whatever that thing is, it’s strong enough to throw off centuries of exorcism. You’re…”

“Half-blooded. The thought had occurred.” Archer grimaced. “Right. Get into position at the side door while I try something.”

“What, for God’s sake?”

“Something will come to me. Hurry, Barry.”

Barry whispered, “Be careful, dear boy.” He scuttled down the hall and disappeared around the corner. Archer waited, and a few seconds later, he spotted Barry timidly waving from the side entrance.

Archer took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

The cobra’s head—large as a dining room table—swung his way. The forked tongue tested the air.

Archer stayed perfectly still, summoning the glamour to conceal him from the snake.

It would certainly have worked with an ordinary snake. The naga continued to weave back and forth, hissing gutturally and tickling the distance with its tongue.

Archer concentrated on melding with his surroundings. It would be easier if he was actually leaning against the wall. As it was, he was trying to blend into several scattered objects. The broken cases, the nearby pillar. He tentatively reached for the snake’s mind.

Black.

Venomous.

Void.

He recoiled instinctively. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t…alive. What was it?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Barry helping the frail-looking woman Archer had spotted earlier to her feet. As Barry half dragged her to the doorway the snake’s head swiveled toward them.

Archer looked around for a possible weapon. The display case with ancient Greek artifacts was turned over on its side, shattered glass from the lid and sides scattered across the marble floor. Amidst the silver arrow points, funeral masks, and shards of black and red pottery, Archer spotted one of Hermes’s battered silver sandals. Beaning the naga between the eyes with the sandal was probably not going to achieve much beyond further antagonizing an already irate magical creature.

His gaze lit on another item a few feet further on. Seven wooden pipes bound together with ragged threads and worn leather. Pan’s syrinx. Also known in legend as Pan’s flute.

Archer scrambled for the flute. The frayed leather gave way beneath his fingertips and two of the pipes fell to the floor, rolling away. Archer rose with the remaining pipes between his hands and blew cautiously. Nothing happened.

The cobra began to rock above him.

Archer blew harder, and a choked, dusty spurt of sound issued from the largest of the bleached, brittle pipes. Archer played a shaky little trill.

The snake leaned closer and closer, its tongue undulating mere inches from him. The yellow fangs glistened with venom.

Archer’s lips tickled as he blew softly across the sharp edge of the inner pipes. A sweet ghostly melody slipped out of the syrinx. Archer closed his eyes and tried to remember some of the plaintive tunes he’d learned as a boy. True, the syrinx was a little more complicated than the wooden flutes he’d played, but the basic theory of lip tension and breath control was the same.

He kept his eyes firmly shut and refused to think of his perilous position and the melody turned into the haunting sound of the sea mews and the curlew. As Archer played he could even smell the bitter aromatic scent of the marsh, see the sodden tracts where he had wandered, see again high tide combing silver fingers through the vast surface of sargassum weed floating across the pewter sea, rents and patches of water threading and dappling the reddish brown thatch. He saw the hill of white gravel rising from the heart of the marshes, crowned with ancient thorn trees, accessible only by the old Roman causeway…

Had Barry managed to get the last of the tourists away? Archer was afraid to open his eyes. Even if Barry had succeeded, Archer could think of no way to end his serenade without winding up as lunch for the naga. He was running short of breath, his fingers starting to shake, causing the notes to waver.

The past blurred into the present. Archer swayed, forgetting for an instant where he was. He recovered, stiffening his spine, locking his knees, planting his feet. Already his tune had lasted four minutes.

Despairingly, he wondered how much longer…

He felt a sudden crackling rush of arcane energy that signaled immortal power unfolding around him. It swept up and around him, tendrils slipping through his curls, the space between his elbows and flank, his legs…It surrounded him and then whirled up in front of him, spiraling up like a fountain.

A hand—a hard, human hand—hooked around Archer’s right biceps, and he was hauled back, heels sliding on the slick floor as though on ice. He managed to keep to his feet, opening his eyes wide.

Rake kept one hand clamped around Archer’s arm. The other stretched before him and white light poured forth as he faced the naga. White light. Dimly Archer took note of the phenomenon of white light from a demon before his attention was restored to the immediate threat.

The snake towered over them, weaving back and forth with increasing speed as though attempting to free itself from an invisible net. Its lashing tail struck one of the supporting pillars, sending a crack like a fork of lightning down its mottled surface.

Archer spied motion on the far side of the room. Sergeant Orly stood behind the naga, wrists crossed in front of her like a cartoon superhero. She was chanting a vanishing spell. Archer could just make out the words above the furious wet growls of the cobra.

He felt power surge through Rake in a torrent of energy that would rightly terrify any sensible creature—not that Archer could currently claim to possess much sense. Uncontrolled, that psychic force could probably knock down the entire building and leave it so much singed rubble, and yet Rake had directed his power with such skill that it had wound safely, gently around Archer like satin ribbons.

 Archer’s knees trembled. He had nothing to offer in this battle. He had done his share and now there was nothing to do but stay still and not distract Rake.

It wasn’t easy. Archer had to fight the natural inclination to move from the center of that force. He could feel Rake’s fingers digging into the muscles of his arm, and he found a strange comfort in this reminder of Rake’s…not humanity, because Rake was not human…But in his own way he was mortal too.

He could lose this battle. He could be destroyed. They might both die here in the marble halls of MoSSA. It would make a nice subject for a frieze.

He felt a surge of hysterical laughter. But that was better than thinking about death. It wasn’t even his own death that worried Archer, but thinking of Rake’s ephemerality filled him with a sorrow he was unprepared for. He rejected the thought at once, lest Rake read it and weaken.

Archer risked another look at Rake. Amazingly, he still retained his human form, but it rippled as though Archer were viewing him through deep water. Rake’s eyes were black red and his hands were beginning to resemble talons, the nails curving long and ebony.

From across the room Sergeant Orly suddenly cried out and staggered back.

Rake stepped forward, still holding Archer in that excruciating grip. The light emanating from him yellowed and then turned red.

The naga gave a sound that no creature, mortal or immortal, ever gave and lived. There was a horrendous wet ripping sound and chunks of flesh and scales exploded across the room.

Archer flinched, but the bloody shrapnel flew safely past him and Rake, encapsulated as they were behind the barrier of Rake’s power.

The air cleared.

Stilled.

It was over.

He felt the outpouring of Rake’s power slowing, slowing, ebbing…

For a second or two they stood swaying, still linked, in the wreckage of the room. Somewhere out in the hallway, a woman was sobbing. Voices murmured in comfort. Sirens screamed in the distance. Archer heard only Rake’s harsh, heavy breaths.

Abruptly, Rake released him. Archer staggered back, half falling onto a broken display case now tilted on its side. The leather thong holding the syrinx pipes together unraveled and the canes clattered to the marble.

Black-clad Irregular forces poured into the room, weapons raking floor and ceiling, searching for any living remnant of the naga.

“Are you all right?”

Rake’s voice was harsh, not quite human. Archer opened his eyes. He watched Rake struggle for control: eyes still black, and the glimmer of fangs behind his tight lips.

He nodded.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Rake snarled.

“What the hell did it look like I was doing?”

 “Feeding a snake.”

Archer’s anger spiked and then dipped. He laughed. The sound reverberated lightly through the room and a few of the Irregulars automatically laughed behind their dark helmets.

Rake’s expression darkened. His form wavered—then suddenly steadied into human guise as Sergeant Orly reached them.

She and Rake spoke briefly before she turned to Archer. “That was a brave thing,” she told him. “Foolhardy. But brave.” With an expression of distaste, she brushed bits of blasted snake from her uniform. “And unexpectedly civic minded. I don’t know many civilians who would have done what you tried to do. Certainly not among the faeries.”

Archer glared at her, though that was perfectly true. “Had you lot done your jobs properly, I wouldn’t have had to risk the public image of the faerie by displaying any courage whatsoever.”

“That wasn’t meant as an insult.” Her pale eyes narrowed. “And just what are you insinuating?”

“Insinuating? I thought that was plainspoken.”

Rake understood him easily enough. “Bullshit. What you’re suggesting isn’t possible.”

“Says the demon commander employed by the Irregulars.”

Orly sucked in a breath. Rake was still, stiller than the herons of Romney Marsh watching the murky waters for shining fish.

“Hold your tongue,” Orly hissed.

“Not common knowledge, I take it?” Archer asked. He was a little ashamed of himself for letting temper get the better of his discretion, but he refused to let that show.

Rake moved his head in quick negation and Orly cut off whatever else she intended to say.

Barry bustled up. “It’s only fair to inform you, Commander Rake, that I intend to file a complaint at the highest level. Sending a partially exorcised demonic artifact to this institution is an act of criminal negligence. The fact that we had only one fatality today is a miracle.”

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.”