Текст книги "Irregulars "

Автор книги: Astrid Amara

Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

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.”

“That’s not a solution. That’s anarchy.”

“How can you say that? You, a creature of a magical realm?”

Rake’s face colored. “It isn’t a matter of either-or. You, of anyone, should know that. The mortal and immortal realms must learn to exist together.”

“By destroying the culture, traditions, and history of one for the other’s sake?”

“Enough.” Rake straightened. “I didn’t come to debate with you. This conversation is at an end.”

“In fact, it never happened. Like everything else between us that never happened.”

Rake stared at him. For a moment Archer thought he might respond to that taunt, to what he was too smart not to hear beneath the cheeky words. But in the end Rake merely said, “I’ve warned you. If you’re smart, you’ll take that warning.”

Archer smiled. He picked up his briefcase again. “Of course. I appreciate the warning.”

He walked toward the door. For a moment Archer thought Rake would continue to bar his way, but just as they were about to bump noses—or as Archer’s nose was about to bump Rake’s chin—Rake stepped aside.

“Good night,” Rake said curtly.

“Good-bye,” Archer replied.

***

When Archer had first entered into foster care some well-meaning person had given him a book called Flower Fairies of the Trees by Cicely M. Barker.

“You look exactly like the little fairy boy on page six,” the nice lady had said, thereby setting Archer up for a lot of jokes he was far too young to understand. It was a silly book. The fairies in it were all children and they had butterfly wings and wore ridiculous costumes, but in fact, Archer had looked exactly like the little fairy boy on page six. Also known as the box tree fairy. He found the book fascinating and he memorized the box tree poem, which ended with the immortal lines:

And among its leaves there play

Little blue-tits, brisk and gay.

The book had been lost when he had been shuffled off to the next home, but it had eventually turned up at one of the stops along the way of the long journey of national foster care. Archer had reclaimed it with joy. Unfortunately, that copy had belonged to another child. The result of that bitter skirmish was that Archer had been hustled along to yet another strange home and stranger family.

He had bought his own copy of the book a few years later.

Archer paused in unknotting the tangled network of wards and protection spells guarding the hidden entrance to George Gaki’s back door. Odd to be thinking of this now. It was Rake’s fault. Rake’s intimation that Archer was…what?

He’d said he didn’t believe Archer was seeking vengeance. So why had he brought up all that rot about Archer’s past? Making it sound like Archer was some pathetic orphan child trying to…trying to...

Recovering the book—buying the book—had been Archer’s first effort to reclaim his heritage. That was true. But so what? It was natural enough that he’d want something belonging to his family. Family heirlooms. What was so unusual about that? What was surprising there? Great-Aunt Esmeralda’s clock, Uncle Cadamus’s snuffbox collection, the portrait of Grandmother Philomena. He’d paid for them, paid for every single item.

He would have paid for the beads as well, if it had been possible. Since it wasn’t…Well, the beads were his. The beads belonged to his family and Archer was all that remained of his family. The beads were his.

The last of the wards fell away, shriveling to nothing but pale squiggles easily mistaken by the human eye for glow worms. Archer waved his hand in front of the lock and felt it click over, and the door swung silently open.

A sudden prickle across his scalp had Archer glancing over his shoulder, but there was nothing there.

He stepped inside the hall.

It was just a long, ordinary hallway. Hardwood floor, pale walls, framed photographs of generic countryside. At the end of the hall one doorway branched off to the right and one to the left.

The right led to the kitchen, where a security guard sat drinking coffee and flirting with the cook.

Archer veered left and found himself in a sunroom. He stepped around the potted plants and rattan furniture and went out the far entrance. He stopped to listen.

The security guard was still telling a long, dull story only a woman in love would sit still for. Upstairs another woman was singing a department store jingle in her sleep. In another room farther south two more security guards were talking hockey scores.

Archer continued on his way till he came to the long staircase that led to the private room in the faux tower.

The tower door took a little longer to open and sweat was trickling down Archer’s temples by the time the last ward fell away.

The door flew open and the row of candles on their rack jumped, flames dancing in the sudden draft.

Archer stepped inside and looked around. There was not a great deal to see. Rich Persian rugs covered the floor and French tapestries partially covered the windows. A gigantic gold-framed triptych of the first demon battles took up most of the far wall.

Archer’s gaze fell on a Mesopotamian treasure chest sitting in one corner.

No. Too obvious.

He closed his eyes, opened his mind, and began his search.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them…

A soft humming came to him from across the room. Archer opened his eyes. The flame of one of the fat, squat candles had turned green and was shooting up, licking hungrily at the air.

Archer smiled. In two strides he was across the floor. He pinched out the cold flame, lifted the fake candle from its perch, and removed the lid. The strand of beads spilled out, cool and shining as water.

Archer laughed in delight and held them to his face, feeling the weight of the beads running through his fingers, hearing their silken whisper.

The overhead light came on, dazzling Archer for an instant.

“I must say I thought Commander Rake was indulging in wishful thinking when he told me you’d be paying me a call in the next couple of days.” George Gaki, garbed in a luxuriant orange dressing gown and flanked by two security guards, stood in the arched doorway.

It was not Gaki’s presence—unwelcome though it was—so much as his words that struck Archer into statue-like immobility.

Seeing his shock, Gaki made a clucking sound, like a sympathetic maiden aunt. “Yes, it seems the commander has had you under observation for some time, Mr. Green. He came out to the estate this very morning to warn me that you’ve developed a dangerous obsession with an item that belongs to me.” He shook his head. “And to think you could have had them for the asking.”

Archer said automatically, “The beads don’t belong to you.”

“I assure you, halfling, in the human realm they most certainly do belong to me. And I’ve the bill of sale from Christie’s to prove it.” Gaki stared at the beads sinuously twining themselves around Archer’s fingers. “The baubles seem to share your misconception. Can it be true? Are you the last of the Greenwoods?”

“In any realm but this one my claim would be recognized.”

“But we’re in the human realm, where a piece of paper counts more than blood oaths and family ties.” Gaki smiled. “The only question now is, since I’ve caught you, what shall I do with you?”

Archer said nothing. He couldn’t seem to think past Rake’s betrayal.

“I should, of course, turn you over to the grimly conscientious Commander Rake, but what a waste. Would you like to reconsider my more than generous offer? Before you answer, think. This is what mortals call an offer you can’t refuse.”

“I am refusing.”

“By all that is powerful, why?”

“I already told you. I no longer believe in SRRIM’s methods. I’m not even sure I believe in their motives. It looks to me like you’re just stealing a lot of artifacts for yourself.”

Gaki smiled again, though it was rather pained this time. “I see. I keep forgetting how very young you are. I eat little boys like you for breakfast. That is, I used to. We’re all a great deal more civilized these days. By human standards, anyway.”

“I know what you are,” Archer said scornfully. He was not feeling particularly warm toward demons just then.

“Among other things, I’m an excellent negotiator. Let me help you consider your options. Option one: I call the police. Alas, you’ll be dead by the time they arrive. So sad. Option two: I break my diet and have you for breakfast tomorrow.”

The security guards glanced uneasily at each other.

“I’m joking,” Gaki told them. “I wouldn’t dream of breaking my diet. I’ve lost ten pounds already. Option three: you stop behaving like a rebellious teenager and join us once more. In return, I’ll give you those baubles you’re holding on to like worry beads. I’ll give you other things as well. Lovely things. Things that will make the occasional ping of your half-human conscience all worthwhile.”

Archer stared at Gaki’s implacable smile. He stared at the guards behind him.

He decided to give option four a try and flew to the star-shaped window. A foot away, he recoiled. There was cold iron in the casement.

Not something one ran across much in modern construction.

He backed away from the window.

“I don’t pay you to stand there,” Gaki told his security guards.

One guard drew his pistol. The other leaped after Archer who did his best to evade him in the small tower room while keeping an eye on the guard with the pistol. He didn’t know much about firearms, but he did know that being shot with a lead bullet would probably be fatal. Not because lead was in itself dangerous to faeries, but being shot with any bullet was probably not going to be healthy.

“This is ridiculous,” Gaki said after thirty seconds of watching Archer dodge and duck the much slower guard. “Shoot him.”

The guard promptly fired, sending a bullet past Archer’s head and into the gold-framed triptych.

Gaki roared and raised his arms above his head. His dressing gown began to tear as fearsomely muscled limbs lengthened and turned black green. The security guards and Archer stopped, staring as if mesmerized, while Gaki’s hands curved into razor-taloned claws and his features twisted into something from a nightmare.

The guard with the pistol dropped his weapon and bolted from the room. The other man backed away and knelt, gibbering below the window, as Gaki advanced toward Archer.

Archer’s heart pounded in terror, but he couldn’t seem to lift his feet from the floor as Gaki stalked toward him. The demon’s tail whipped up and the tip was barbed like the tip of a spear. It loomed up over both Gaki and Archer, and Archer remembered the naga skin.

“It was you,” he said faintly.

The glowing red eyes showed no human comprehension.

He was going to die in the next second. He should have listened to Rake. Except it was Rake who had made his death a certainty. How twisted, then, that his final thought should be a sudden longing for Rake.

The star window shattered and glass blew into the room like silver rain. With it came bits of iron and wood and plaster as the whole wall exploded.

Another demon stood in the ruins of the tower room. Through the opening of where the wall had once been, Archer could see official vehicles parking below. Black-clad Irregular forces rushed the house, battering the doors.

The roar of the second demon sent chunks of the remaining ceiling raining down. His red gaze swept the wreckage, found Archer.

“I thought you’d never…” Archer’s voice cut out.

For a fleeting instant, Rake’s demon form wavered, showed human.

Gaki didn’t miss his chance. He launched himself forward with a bellow. The house shook beneath the force of their collision. Archer sprang clear of the lashing tails, the deadly sweep of shining bat-like wings.

 Go, he thought. Go now. You have what you came for.

Archer’s gaze was drawn to the strands of beads looped around his hand and wrist. He had them at last.

Gaki snarled as Rake’s fangs sank into his shoulder. Green blood squirted. He clawed at Rake’s face. Rake howled and tried to disembowel Gaki with the talons on his feet. One of his wings knocked the Mesopotamian chest off the platform and box and jewels tumbled, glittering, through the night.

Archer looked at the door. He had to go now. The badges were coming. He could hear the thunder of their boots down below.

He had to go. Anything else was stupidity. Madness.

He couldn’t go. Not while there was any doubt to Rake’s fate.

He jumped out of the way again as Gaki, heavier, broader, managed to flip Rake. They landed on the rack of candles. The remaining tapestries and rugs caught fire and went up in a blazing whoosh.

Gaki’s massive head dipped and green blood spurted. Had he bitten Rake’s throat? Archer couldn’t tell. In terror he leaped onto Gaki’s wide back and whipped the strands of beads around his thick throat, yanking them tight.

Tighter.

He used all his strength until he could feel the breath strangling in his own lungs.

Gaki threw him off as though he were no more than a gnat. Archer went sailing and crashed through the remaining section of wall and into darkness.

Miles and miles later, he heard a voice he thought he knew.

“Archer. Can you hear me? Sweeting...” Rake’s voice called to him from down a long, smoky tunnel.

Archer tried to answer, but he could never make himself heard across all that distance. He closed his eyes.

Chapter Nine

“Any way you look at it, that was pretty stupid,” Sergeant Orly said, folding her hands on the file in front of her. Implication being that this case was open and shut.

Archer shrugged. She was right, and in any case, he didn’t have energy for more. The bump on his head had been taped and the hospital had released him back into police custody. In handcuffs and shackles. He’d never been in handcuffs before. Let alone shackles. These were made of special cold iron. They didn’t look like much, but they pressed on Archer as though some giant force was crushing him. He could barely walk; running was out of the question—as was escape. But he already knew that.

They were sitting in the interrogation room at Irregulars HQ. Just him and the dour Sergeant Orly. No sign of Rake, but that was a relief, really. Every time he remembered his foolish, impulsive behavior at George Gaki’s estate he burned with humiliation. And he was not thinking of his ill-advised attempt to recover the beads.

“Trespassing, breaking and entering, assault, attempted theft of a culturally significant other-realm artifact, trafficking in and abuse of items deemed to pose a malignant threat to humanity.” Her eyes held his. “Which is a capital offense.”

Yes, even in a country where there was no death penalty, endangering the safety of the entire human realm carried a death penalty.

“That sounds serious. Can I talk to my lawyer now?”

“I wouldn’t advise it.”

Archer raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve been authorized to offer you a deal. Confess to the three lesser charges and agree to cooperate in our investigation into the SRRIM and we’ll reduce the last charge to trafficking in culturally significant other-realm artifacts. It carries a thirty-year prison sentence, which you’ll serve out at the mixed population maximum security facility in Toronto.”

“Toronto? That really is cruel and unusual punishment.”

She was, unsurprisingly, unamused. “I think, Mr. Green, you’ll agree it’s to your vast advantage to avoid incarceration in one of the regular high security facilities for the criminally sorcerous.”

“I’ll wait for my lawyer.”

“This deal is good for exactly five minutes. Or until your lawyer arrives. Whichever happens first.”

“Even so.”

Orly looked at him with real dislike. “You’re not getting out of this, Green. We’ve got you fair and square. We’ve got a mountain of evidence. Even if your lawyer talks you out of the death penalty, you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars in the extra-human special handling unit in the Northwest Territories. You know what that means. You’ll be locked up for the next couple of centuries with everything from Japanese kappa to anthropophagi.”

Archer smiled. “The idea of those extra-humans frightens you?”

Orly smiled right back. “They frighten you. I can read that much of your thoughts. And no wonder. A pretty little faerie isn’t going to survive long in that hellhole. Especially a half-human faerie. Twenty-four-hour CCTV or not.” She looked at her watch. “Time’s ticking.”

“Where’s Commander Rake?”

Orly’s face tightened. “He had an a.m. meeting with the mayor.”

“Such a busy man.”

 “Very.”

Archer sighed. “Seduced and abandoned. It should be the motto on my family crest.”

Orly’s face turned red. “Commander Rake is a highly respected officer with an irreproachable record—”

“He’s a demon. He ate his first wife. Bet you didn’t know about that.”

“—and a brilliant future. I don’t know what you imagine you can gain by trying to smear him, but you won’t get anywhere.”

“Whose idea was this deal? Rake’s?”

“Correct. This deal was Commander Rake’s idea. He felt some consideration should be made, given your service at the museum yesterday. That, and your faerie age.”

Archer said bitterly, “And the fact that he believes I can be of help in tracking down and destroying SRRIM?”

“Correct.”

Archer sat back in his chair. Between his aching head and the oppressive weight of the iron shackles, he was beginning to feel very unwell. It was tempting to tell Orly whatever she wanted to hear so that he could go lie down. He said wearily, “I keep trying to tell you the SRRIM no longer exists.”

“Last chance, Mr. Green.”

“All right. SRRIM might still exist. I don’t know for sure, but I haven’t been a member for years. I wouldn’t be any use to you. I swear it. I swear it on the green glass beads.” He couldn’t help asking, “Where are they, by the way?”

Orly slapped the file down on the table. “Last chance. Take the deal or take your chances with the courts.”

“All right. The truth is, George Gaki lured me to his estate last night on the pretext of trying to sell me black market artifacts. I felt it was my duty as curator of the MoSSA to examine these items in case they were legitimate. When I arrived at Gaki’s estate he began raving about adding me to his ‘collection.’”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious. The person you should have in custody is Mr. Gaki, not me. Has my lawyer arrived yet?”

Orly’s chair scraped back. She rose. “You had your chance. We’ll see if you’re still so cocky after a few hours in mixed population.”

The door to the interview room popped open.

“Not now, please!” Orly snapped.

The uniformed officer looked apologetic but beckoned to her. Orly exhaled a long, exasperated breath and went outside. Archer tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, listening.

“We just got the word from upstairs,” the uniformed officer said. “You have to cut him loose.”

“What?” Archer didn’t need faerie hearing to catch Orly’s outraged response. They probably could hear it all the way in the holding cells. “What the hell are you saying?”

“He’s been sprung. Bail has been posted.”

“We’re not even finished booking him!”

“The director of MoSSA showed up with a high-powered lawyer.”

“Littlechurch is bailing him out?”

“Looks like it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am. He must have called in about a dozen favors to do it.”

“We have to stall Green’s release. A couple of hours in mixed population and he’ll take any deal we throw at him.”

“We can’t stall. His lawyer is already accusing us of stalling. She’s downstairs right now screaming that his civil rights as a protected being have been violated.”

“Protected being? Since when are faeries an endangered species?”

“It’s to do with something called the Sussex emerald moth. Apparently Romney Marsh is one of the last places in the world where you can find them and the moths are somehow connected to Green’s family tree and the Greenwood clan.”

“I don’t believe this. Captain!”

A third voice entered the discussion. “Sorry, Sergeant. It’s not my call. Now, don’t look at me like that. I don’t like it either, but we’ve got to cut him loose. The sooner the better.”

Orly began to swear.

“Don’t worry. It’s a temporary setback, that’s all. We’ve got enough on Green to put him away for good this time.”

Archer closed his eyes. He saw Rake bending over him, his face fluctuating between mortal and immortal, his eyes black with pain not his own. Archer blinked rapidly. As tired as he was, he didn’t dare let down his guard.

Orly came back into the room. Her smile was closer to a twitch. “Change of plan, Mr. Green.”

“Oh yes?” No point reminding people that he had certain advantages, not including a close and personal relationship with the Sussex emerald moth.

“You’ve made bail.” Orly nodded curtly to the uniformed officer who had followed her into the room.

Archer rose, waiting as the cuffs and shackles were removed. Relief at the removal of the cold iron was instantaneous.

He was led out to into the hall and then down to a small room where his personal possessions were restored to him. Through the glass window he could see Barry and a tall, stately black woman with features as sharply aristocratic as a Zulu princess waiting. Barry was pacing up and down the lobby, but he stopped, his face brightening with relief at the sight of Archer walking through the door.

Ms. Sibanyoni explained their legal game plan as Barry ushered Archer out of the lobby and into the elevators leading down to the visitors parking level in the underground garage. Archer listened politely and nodded during the pauses. He had no idea what she was talking about, although he gathered his situation was grim. The leg shackles had been his first clue.

Ms. Sibanyoni finished telling Archer how serious his position was, bade him not to worry, and drove away in her silver Porsche.

“This way,” Barry said gruffly, resting his hand briefly on Archer’s shoulder.

Archer followed Barry to his car, waited for him to unlock the passenger side door, and climbed in. He let his head fall back.

Barry started the engine.

“Was it bad?” he asked tersely, pulling out of the narrow parking space.

Archer shook his head. All at once he was too tired to move, too tired even for words. Tears smarted in his eyes. He blinked them away.

“I…”

“Yes.” Barry’s voice was bleak. “You did.”

“Sorry,” Archer whispered.

Barry shook his head. No apology necessary. “How close did you come to finding them?”

Archer said wearily, “I had them in my hands. For a few minutes.”

“Hopefully it was worth it.”

Archer’s eyes flew open. “How can you say that?”

Barry shook his head. “They arrested Gaki when they arrested you. That’s something.”

“Good.”

“Of course, he’s got the money to pay for the best lawyers. Not that Ms Sibanyoni wouldn’t put up a gallant fight for you.” Barry seemed to be picking and choosing his words. “The badges confiscated the beads as well.”

Archer watched him closely. “So?”

“So…you were right. Gaki hadn’t purchased any antique water beads. They’re the real thing. Carved beads of an unidentified material that’s as translucent as glass but harder than jade or emeralds or any known stone.”

“Did you think I would be mistaken about something like that?”

Barry said nothing.

The real source of his unease dawned on Archer. “Where are they, Barry? What are they planning?”

“Archer.” Barry looked away from the wheel. “You know where the beads are and you know exactly what’s going to happen to them.”

His heart seemed to drop out of his chest like a bird shot out of the sky. “They can’t! They can’t neutralize them.”

“Of course they can. Of course they will.” Barry threw him another of those grimly pitying looks.

“There’s got to be something we can do to stop them. Get some injunction against them. Something.”

“It’s done. Let it go.”

“I can’t let it go.”

“You don’t have a choice. And, to be blunt, you’ve got bigger problems now.”

That was the bitter truth. If he’d waited, controlled his impulsiveness, his rebelliousness, his need to possess the beads and all they represented immediately, it might all be different now. It would certainly be different now. The beads would still be with Gaki, yes, but they would be safe. Waiting for Archer. Waiting for him to find the right moment for their liberation.

He was not good at waiting for right moments. He never had been. He could blame that on his faerie bloodline. The fae were not an accommodating race.

Archer stared out the window at the buildings and cars flying past as Barry wove in and out of traffic, driving with set face and somber purpose. Not like his normal meandering style of travel at all. It occurred to Archer that they were not on their way to Gastown or the museum. “Where are we going?”

“Stanley Park. I pulled some strings—a cat’s cradle worth of strings—and there’s a port-o-let there waiting to take you where you need to go.”

“But I thought…” Well, no. He hadn’t thought. That was the whole trouble, wasn’t it?

Again, Archer started to speak, but Barry was still following his own thoughts. “We’ve got to get you out of the country as fast as possible or you’re going to wind up playing house for the next century with a vampire—or worse—in the Northwest Territories.”

“I told them Gaki tried to sell me black market antiquities. I think they’ll believe it. It turned out Rake was investigating him.” Archer added shortly, “He used me and the beads to get Gaki.”

 Barry snorted. “Don’t fool yourself. You were always the real prize. Rake honestly believes that you’re still with SRRIM. He used the beads and Gaki to get you.” Barry added almost absently, “Anyway, I’m sure the commander has figured out that, unlike a full-blooded faerie, you can lie with the best of them.”

Archer thought of Rake. “Maybe. I’d still like to—”

But Barry interrupted, “Don’t worry. It’s all arranged. We’ve set up a new identity for you in Brittany.”

“Brittany?” Archer echoed. “But I don’t know anyone in Brittany.”

“Exactly. And no one in Brittany knows you. But there’s still a largish faerie presence there. You’ll acclimatize quickly, you’ll see.”

“But…” Once it had been Archer arranging these things. It was confusing to be on the other side. “Don’t I have any say in this?”

“Of course. Say whatever you like. So long as it isn’t that you want to stay and face trial here.”

“No.” It struck Archer that he would never see Rake again. All morning he had been seething with resentment toward him, but now when he needed anger the most, it drained away, leaving him bereft.

“You’ll be set up in business as an antiques dealer,” Barry was saying. “Money is being wired to your account. Am I forgetting anything?”

Probably not. They were not new at this kind of thing, although it was the first time Archer had played the starring role of fugitive. It was not an enjoyable feeling. “What about…”