Текст книги "Irregulars "
Автор книги: Astrid Amara
Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 32 страниц)
Green Glass Beads
Josh Lanyon
They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man’s fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Overheard on a Saltmarsh
– Harold Monro
Never trust a goblin.
Even a child knows that much. But there are times when you’ve got to take the chance, when the prize is worth the risk—which is how Archer Green happened to be in a drafty warehouse on Quebec Street in Vancouver a few minutes before midnight, waiting with a goblin named Ezra for the Moth Man to turn up.
Why the goblins called the Moth Man the Moth Man was a mystery. He was an albino, so maybe that had something to do with it. That, and his predilection for the bright and shiny, especially things that easily caught fire or exploded. The Moth Man had a way of finding artifacts that were, in Archer’s opinion, better left lost. It was probably a strange opinion for the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver. Not that the ordinary man—or woman—on the street would know anything about MoSSA.
The wind moaned dolefully through the chinks in the old brick walls. Ezra munched agitatedly at one of those violet floral cigarettes he was so fond of. Archer kept to the shadows and resisted checking his pocket watch yet again. He wasn’t nervous, exactly—it took a lot to make him nervous—but he wasn’t happy either.
“He’ll be here soon.” Ezra continued to pace up and down before the empty wooden crates with their faded emblems of skulls and crowns, the dully gleaming vats and ducts that looked like nothing so much as a giant steel stomach. “Don’t worry.”
Archer lifted a dismissive shoulder, but he’d already made up his mind to walk if the Moth Man didn’t show by five after. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the Moth Man had something worth his time and trouble. The Moth Mans of the realms seemed always to have the inside track on beautiful and rare items before they hit the regular black market. Still, Archer would have preferred to know exactly what he was acquiring before venturing out in the dead of night with a wallet full of cash.
“His merchandise is always worth it.” Ezra gulped down the rest of his cigarette and belched an agitated purple puff toward the rafters overhead. “He said he wants to talk to you personally.”
Archer threw him a quick look. “Me? Why me?”
“Eh?”
“Your friend. Why should he want to speak to me in particular?”
Ezra gave a smoky laugh. “Don’t know. Never asked.”
Archer pulled out his pocket watch. Moonlight through the grimy windows illuminated the time. Three minutes after midnight. He snapped the watch closed. “That’s it for me. I’ve an early start tomorrow.”
“No, wait!” Ezra cried. “Don’t leave. I know he’s on his way.”
Archer studied Ezra, studied the beads of sweat popping out over Ezra’s human features, took note of the anxious licking of tongue over lips. Yep, definitely time to say adieu. Archer opened his mouth, but somewhere to the left of where they stood came a ghostly screech of rusted hinges.
Instinctively, they both turned.
“See. Told you,” Ezra muttered.
Archer ignored him, watching warily until at last he spotted a tall figure in a drab overcoat moving through the darkness like a white shadow. The figure moved swiftly, with frequent glances over his shoulder, as though he feared pursuit through the canyons of metal tubes and casks.
“Well! You took your time,” Ezra greeted the Moth Man when he reached them at last.
“Can’t help it. Thought I was being followed.” The Moth Man’s voice was high and breathy. His eyes were large and protuberant. They appeared colorless in the gloom. He was taller than most humans, certainly taller than Archer, and very thin.
“Were you?” Archer asked as Ezra scoffed.
The Moth Man shook his head. He eyed Archer curiously. “You’re him? You’re—”
“No names,” Archer cut in.
“No. No, it’s just I thought you would be…different.”
Archer got that a lot. “What is it you have for me?”
“Have you got the money?”
“Show me the goods first.”
The Moth Man reached into his overcoat and pulled out a long, plain envelope. He picked at the flap with long gray fingernails, plucked it open, and held out an old-fashioned Polaroid. He smiled slyly.
“What is it?”
“Take it.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t buy on spec—”
As he spoke, the snapshot gave a tiny pop and green sparks flew up. The Moth Man giggled. “It likes you.”
Casting him a doubtful look, Archer reached slowly for the photograph. It seemed to slip right into his palm. He gazed down.
He was looking at what appeared to be a small mound of broken glass arranged on a square of black velvet. The picture hummed against his fingertips.
Wonderingly, Archer raised his gaze to the pallid one so closely regarding him.
The Moth Man gave another of those unsettling giggles. “Er, might I interest you in a strand of green glass beads?”
At that instant the tall warehouse doors rolled up with a rattle like a million eyelids snapping awake. Dazzling white light flooded the building, bouncing off the canisters and tubing in a blinding glare. Navy-uniformed VPD poured into the building, shouting orders. Much worse were the familiar dark-clad agents flanking the locals. The regular law enforcement hung back as the men and women in black fanned out behind the slow rolling green-gray of damping dust that tumbled lazily, almost playfully, through the entrails of the machinery and ladders. They wore spell masks and carried mage pistols. The Irregulars. Everywhere you turned these days the Irregulars were underfoot.
The Moth Man gasped in alarm, snatched back the photo, and bolted, his overcoat flapping behind him like failing wings. Archer also bolted—in the opposite direction—ignoring the cries to stop, the shouted warnings, and a few obscenities. He raced for the metal knot of drums and tubing and platforms at the back of the long building. What became of the Moth Man he didn’t see, but his words still echoed in Archer’s mind as he ran.
Green glass beads…
No time to consider it now, but…Was it possible? Had they turned up after all this time?
The air was thick with holy water and incantations that wouldn’t have thwarted a baby brownie. Archer sprang for a sharply slanted ladder, scrambled up, then pelted down a wide landing crowded with mysterious metal silhouettes. Climbing over the rickety safety railing, he leaped across the aisle to another landing. More of a shelf than a landing, but it would do. Below him, the green damping dust billowed up. He pulled his handkerchief out and clamped it over his mouth and nose before dropping down to a large rusted shipping container. He landed with a bang, but what was one more bang in the surrounding pandemonium?
Holding his breath, he sprinted down the scratched and peeling lid of the shipping container, the metallic pounding of his footsteps echoing the beat of his heart. Boom, boom, boom. No time to be subtle. His lungs burned with the need to breathe. The damping dust stung his eyes, but he could still see—an advantage of his half-faerie bloodline. Behind him, he could hear muffled cries falling away.
“Where is he?”
“Where did he go?”
“There he is!”
“That’s not him, dumbass! That’s a pipe.”
Archer dropped to the dusty brick floor behind the container.
Handheld utility lights skimmed the walls of the building and swept the floors. Archer crouched low, breathing hard through the damp silk of the handkerchief. It was not that he was out of shape so much as out of practice. The burst of adrenaline, his human half’s response to threat, left him disconcertingly breathless and a little shakier than he liked. This would do him good. If he got out of it. Out of this trap. That’s what it was. A trap. But was it for Archer or for the Moth Man? Archer had a suspicion and it didn’t make him happy.
Always lovely to be wanted, of course, but that son of a whoring goblin Ezra would regret it the next time they met.
The white beams of the utility lights slid past and Archer took the opportunity to move further away from the approaching tattoo of department-issue boots. Wriggling through a narrow opening between towers of cold and rusted cylinders, he reached up, grabbed for the rough edge along the top of one of the wide vats, and hauled himself up. The soles of his boots slipped on the smooth sides. The muscles in his arms and shoulders, and across his back flared with pain.
Yes, definitely out of practice.
He clambered on top, risked standing upright, and jumped for the landing beneath the giant windows. He almost didn’t make it. Nothing like slamming into a hard, splintery surface to concentrate the mind. The fleshy part of Archer’s thumb caught on a nail as he dragged himself up and then half climbed, half fell over the flimsy railing. He kept clear of the moon-bright window as he scuttled back, vaguely aware that his hand was throbbing. That was going to hurt like hell later on.
Assuming there was a later on.
For a few seconds, Archer sprawled on the narrow ledge, catching his breath and observing the activity below.
A number of regular police officers now searched the narrow walkways of the warehouse. So many cops, in fact, that they were starting to get in each other’s ways. Not so with the Irregulars. They were systematically sweeping the building from one end to the other. Black and silver figures moved quickly up the ladders to the landing across from Archer.
Archer rolled away from the edge and stared up at the rafters far above. What a pity he couldn’t fly. But being a half-blood did have its advantages. There were still one or two tricks up his sleeve.
He scooted over to the wall between the banks of multi-paned windows. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on melding with the deep shadows. He pictured the edges of his outline softening, blurring, becoming part of the gloom. Yes, that was it. Fade into the darkness. Let it swallow him…
Footsteps were coming his way. He gathered his nerve and stood, taking a careful, silent step back and flattening himself against the bricks. His heart thumped crazily as the march of feet came closer. Two of them. The beams of their utility lights scudded lightly ahead of them like dogs tugging on leashes.
Archer closed his eyes so that this last telltale gleam would not give him away.
They were nearly on him now. He steadied himself, stilled his breathing, willed his heart to pause.
Down below, the noise and activity continued.
Creak. Thump. Squeak. Thump.
They passed so close Archer felt the sleeve of the nearest brush his arm. His heart did truly stop then, but the agents moved past, slow and deliberate and blind to him.
True faerie glamour. To the casual mortal eye his silent figure would appear to be nothing more than shadows and the outline of post or beam. That was one magic that even the Irregulars with all their special forces high-tech equipment hadn’t figured out how to dismantle yet. Too old and too simple perhaps.
Archer remained stone still as the agents continued to prowl the landings and sweep through the puzzlework of aisles below.
“Clear up here.” One of the agents who had passed Archer signaled down.
“Check again! He didn’t go out the back. And he sure as hell didn’t go out the front.”
Archer sank further back into the shallow brick recess.
Thump. Squeak. Thump. Creak.
The agents retraced their steps, moving in unison.
And in unison moved right past him. Archer waited to expel a long, soft breath until the two Irregulars had reached the end of the landing and were starting down the ladder. Their boots clanged on the rungs. They muttered their discontent to each other.
Tense, alert, Archer continued to watch, but at last he accepted they had no more sense of his presence above them than would any civilian. He slid slowly down the wall and sat, knees hugged to his chest, waiting.
It was a long wait.
A very long, very dull wait.
They did not give up easily. In fact, Archer wondered at one point whether they would give up at all, if they would perhaps stake out the warehouse entrance and wait until hunger and thirst drove him out in a day or two.
Had they captured the Moth Man? Archer saw no indication of it, which reinforced his suspicions. Ezra, of course, was long gone. Dear old Ezra. But Archer wasn’t concerned with Ezra. It was the Moth Man he needed to speak to. He wanted to hear more about those green glass beads. Much more…
***
The hunt ended at last. The Vancouver police had long since called it quits by the time the Irregulars reluctantly gave up the search and withdrew to the alley outside. The warehouse lights died out, row by row, leaving the great empty barn of a building to the shadows and moonlight. The heavy doors slid shut with a roll like thunder.
Through the dirt-streaked window Archer watched the agents milling dispiritedly. A tall figure appeared in their midst and began to speak. Archer looked more closely and thought he could make out the glittering insignia of a commander.
He swore softly. He’d heard the Irregulars were replacing Brennan. Inevitable, probably, but still too bad. Brennan had been easy to work with. Or work around, as the case might be. No one knew anything about this new man, except that he was not local, not from British Columbia, perhaps not even from Canada. Apparently the rumor that the higher-ups had been worried about Commander Brennan getting slack had been true.
Thus, Commander Spit and Polish.
Archer rested his head against the rough brick and listened to the agents reporting their failure. The alley would have been too far away for human ears to catch a word, but Archer’s ears were the least human thing about him. In fact, those small but definite points of cartilage were pretty much a dead giveaway of his half-faerie heritage. The difference wasn’t all cosmetic, either. His hearing was as inhumanly keen as his sight.
The commander heard his team out and then reassured them that the night’s efforts had not been a waste.
Which meant…what exactly?
Then, finally, the Irregulars departed in an official rumble of government-owned vehicles. The alley stood empty.
Still Archer waited. One could never be too careful.
Another hour passed. The last of the damping dust flattened and its green faded out to nothing. The moon had now slipped down a few squares in the window panes.
Archer walked lightly down the ledge and let himself over the side, dropping quietly onto one of the oddly shaped containers. From there he jumped to the mossy bricks.
A crosshatch of moonlight lay across the open space of the floor. He stuck to the shadows and headed for the rear entrance.
The door was locked, but it took only a few seconds’ work to fiddle the mechanism. He eased the door open.
The alley behind the warehouse was silent and empty. The smell of garbage and cold exhaust lingered in the damp air. Nothing moved. Not so much as the flick of a rat’s tail stirred the darkness. And yet…unease slithered down his spine. The same unease he had ignored earlier—a few minutes before the Irregulars had burst in.
Archer retreated, slipping back inside the building, slipping back into the shadows, slipping back into the glamour, fading away into the bones of the old building.
He didn’t have long to wait.
The door to the alley opened soundlessly. A man stood framed in moonlight. His face was silhouetted; Archer saw only that he was tall and disconcertingly broad.
“I know you’re here.” The deep voice was conversational, yet it carried. “I know who you are and I know what you are. Why not dispense with these childish games?”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t really expect Archer to give himself up. Archer wasn’t convinced he even wanted him to give up. There was a certain note in the shadow’s voice. Not amusement…something more like anticipation.
Archer kept moving, intangible as a shade, heading for the side entrance. This one was clever and patient, but he couldn’t be two places at once, and since he was busy talking to Archer…
“You’ve had a good long run, but your time is up.” The voice found Archer as he reached the door.
Archer waved his hands in front of the lock and felt the tumblers turn, felt the outside bolt slide. He inched the door open just wide enough to step through.
“Another time,” he whispered and let the door fall shut.
Just before it sank into the frame, cutting the connection between them, there came a whispered answer to Archer’s own whisper, which should have been inaudible to human ears.
“Sooner than you think.”
Chapter Two
Scholarly texts are full of information on what faeries will and will not eat. Archer had read many an earnest description of rose petal sandwiches, of button mushroom and wild root soup, of mashed quince and honey. And in fact, he did like honey very much, though he preferred it on hot, buttered English muffins.
He was cramming a honey-drenched muffin in his mouth and trying not to get sticky crumbs on his white silk shirt as he juggled his keys and briefcase when the Irregulars turned up on his Gastown doorstep.
Not the best start to any day, finding members of the elite task force charged with regulating interactions between humans and the inhabitants of all the other realms hovering outside the front door. Archer nearly put a hand up to shield his eyes from all that hardware shining in the sun. “Hardware” as in the buttons and chrome adorning the commander’s black uniform, not the high-tech weapons his flunky special agents carried, although they were clearly armed to the teeth.
Archer let the muffin fall from his mouth. He raised his hands—still clutching keys and briefcase—above his head.
Since no one was aiming anything at him, the agents exchanged uncertain glances.
“You can lower your hands, Mr. Green,” the commander said dryly after a moment.
He was a big man. Big and brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. Built to move mountains. Come to think of it, he rather looked like a mountain. Craggy and intractable. His eyes met Archer’s and Archer knew his little performance had been interpreted perfectly. The mountain’s expression wasn’t amused so much as sardonic. It was the fact that he had any expression at all that caught Archer’s attention.
He had thought he recognized the voice; now he was sure that this was Commander Brennan’s replacement, Archer’s shadow foe of the night before. The knowledge didn’t do a lot to improve his morning. Brennan had been careful, conscientious, and occasionally a genuine nuisance, but this one…this one was going to be trouble.
But if there was one thing Archer had learned over the years, it was the human maxim “never let them see you sweat”. There had been many wise mortals in the history of the earth, but the man who had come up with that one had been a genius. So Archer smiled at the commander, letting his mockery show, slowly lowering his arms.
The commander’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Commander Rake, NATO Irregular Task Force, Vancouver Division. We have a warrant to search these premises.”
On cue, the tight-faced agent to Rake’s left proffered a sheet of official documentation. Archer took it and studied it.
And studied it.
And studied it.
Eventually Rake caught on and signaled for his minions to proceed. They brushed past Archer and a few moments later he heard the smash of glass in the entryway. Hopefully not Great– Aunt Esmeralda’s cloisonné clock. He was not particularly fond of the clock, but it was worth a lot of money and easily liquidated —in lean times he made a habit of pawning it and then redeeming the thing when he was flush again. It was a useful item to keep on hand, that’s all.
There was another crash from inside the condominium.
“My tax dollars at work?” Archer handed Rake the warrant.
Rake didn’t take the paper. “That’s your copy.”
“Thank you.”
“As a dual citizen of the Glastonbury Faerie Court and the United Kingdom, you have the right to representation from the Glastonbury Court Ambassadorial Corps.”
“Dual representation?” Archer took his time folding the document into neat squares and tucking it in his raincoat pocket. Where had the Glastonbury Court Ambassadorial Corps been when he’d been handed off into mortal foster care following the death of his mother? Now, suddenly, he was entitled to dual citizenship? That was rather funny. He said gravely, “Thank you for your meticulous attention to the letter of the law, Commander.”
Rake returned, as if by rote, “The laws exist to protect us all, Mr. Green.”
Another crash issued from inside the house. Archer’s smile tightened. “Great. What does the law have to say about being recompensed for property damaged in the course of an Irregular search?”
“That would depend on what might be discovered during the course of the investigation.”
Archer made a rude sound. Commander Rake was sadly out of date. These days nothing in Archer’s home would get him arrested, though the French postcards depicting ninetheenth century demons might raise some eyebrows.
“Wouldn’t it be faster to tell me what you’re looking for?”
Rake was suddenly and, Archer suspected, uncharacteristically urbane. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Green, we’d like to discuss that with you, if you’d be good enough to accompany us to headquarters.”
Archer tilted his head, considering. “Headquarters? That sounds serious.”
“Just a few questions,” Rake said in that same intractable, unnervingly pleasant way.
“Well…the thing is, I’m late for work now.” It wasn’t that Archer imagined there was any getting out of this, but he hated to make it too easy. He felt certain Rake needed more trouble in his life. Something Archer could offer in great supply.
“That’s all right. We’ve spoken to your boss. Mr. Littlechurch, is it? He said he—and you—would be only too delighted to cooperate with our investigation.”
“But what are you investigating?”
“We can talk about it downtown.” Rake’s tone remained smooth, but there was a glint in his eyes that was almost…derisive.
A frisson of unease curled down Archer’s spine. For the first time it occurred to him that he might actually be in trouble. Brennan had had his suspicions, of course, but Brennan had been such a stickler for proof, for evidence. Archer had the uncomfortable feeling that Rake might play by a different set of rules. The same set Archer played by.
Which meant none.
He had no choice and they all knew it. All the same, the normal thing to do was to fuss and fume a bit. He offered, “Well, I suppose. If it will help. But it’s most…irregular.”
He didn’t even hear what he’d said till Rake gave a curt laugh. “It is at that. Shall we go?”
They departed with the sound of the Irregulars laying waste to Archer’s home.
***
Archer lived in old downtown Vancouver, the neighborhood affectionately known as Gastown. It was an eclectic and trendy mix of boutiques, cafes, galleries, and overpriced apartments and condominiums. The courtyards and mews had cobbled streets and were lined with old trees and historic buildings. It looked like a well-scrubbed Disney version of the Old World but with all the conveniences of the New.
Needless to say, the Irregulars were not headquartered in Gastown. The black SUV sped silently through the rush hour traffic. No one spoke. The dashboard radio—could equipment that expensive and advanced be called a radio?—crackled with news updates from various investigations in progress. It sounded as though another special task force was closing in on a house in Victoria where Chinese illegals, including a vengeful Yóu Hún Yě Gui, had taken refuge. There were also infrequent bursts of static that didn’t come from the human realm. No one in the car seemed to register the transmissions.
It was not particularly cramped inside the official vehicle, but Archer was uncomfortably aware of Commander Rake. Rake was a big man. Not just physically big. He had presence. Still, he kept his muscular length and his muscular presence to his own half of the backseat. Though Archer felt crowded, his personal space was being scrupulously observed. Maybe it had to do with Rake’s aftershave, a blend of spicy vanilla and something woodsy. The faerie half of Archer responded instinctively and enthusiastically. He quelled that gut reaction, not that he really suspected the commander of choosing his personal scent based on its power to attract and disarm half-humans.
Then again, Rake didn’t seem like the type who left much to chance.
“How did you injure your hand?” Rake asked casually as the tall art deco building that housed city hall appeared ahead of them.
Archer glanced automatically at the white strip of bandage neatly wrapped around the base of his thumb. A few drops of blood collected in a DNA kit by the magical forensics team were as good as the ink on the signature line of a confession. The odds of Rake’s team finding where he’d snagged himself on that fucking nail were slim. Slim, but not nonexistent.
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.”
