Текст книги "Irregulars "

Автор книги: Astrid Amara

Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“What website?” Orly asked.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rake’s brows straightened into a single forbidding line.

“The fairy name generator website.”

Orly drew back. Rake’s face twisted into that sardonic expression once more. “You enjoy your little games, Mr. Green,” he remarked.

“As do you, if the last five minutes are anything to go by.”

Rake’s smile was thin and brief. “Let’s try this again. State your legal name and occupation for the record.”

“My name is Archer Green and I’m the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver.” Most people, of course, had no idea what his title meant or what secrets the museum contained, but Orly and Rake were not most people. In fact, in theory, the three of them were on the same side. But that was clearly a theory Orly and Rake did not ascribe to.

“There. That didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Not so far. The morning is young.”

“What is your earthly-realm nationality?”

“I’m English.”

“What are your ties to the faerie realm?”

“None. I’ve lived all my life in the human realm.” Well, the vast majority of his life. At one time it had even been a sore spot. No longer.

Orly made a notation in the file. Rake asked, “What are your duties at MoSSA?”

“I’m responsible for overseeing the arrangement, cataloging, and exhibition of our collections, much like any earthly-realm museum curator.”

Only…not.

Rake said, “The difference is MoSSA’s collections contain some of the most dangerous magical artifacts in the universe.”

Archer smiled tightly. “They’re not dangerous once they reach MoSSA.” That actually still was a sore spot.

“True. At least in theory.” That was Orly.

Archer ignored her. “In addition to curating the existing collections, I supervise and coordinate our acquisition of documents and artifacts deemed too powerful or dangerous to return to their realms of origin. It’s part of my job to arrange for their permanent storage and study.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Rake said.

“I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

Rake smiled. “As you pointed out, the morning is still young.”

“True. Is there some reason you refuse to tell me why I’m being held in custody?”

Rake looked in astonishment to Orly, who shrugged helplessly. “If I somehow gave the impression that you were under arrest or being forcibly held, I apologize. We do have a few questions and most people prefer that we don’t interview them at their workplace. That seemed to be the view of your boss, Mr. Littlechurch.” The words were right and Rake’s tone was sincere, but his eyes were mocking.

“I’ll bet,” Archer said.

Orly interjected, “You don’t get along with your boss?”

“Not at all. That is to say, we get along fine.”

Archer could hear the lack of conviction in his tone. He wasn’t surprised when Orly made another note in the file.

Rake asked abruptly, “Tell us about your involvement with SRRIM.”

Archer managed not to start, warned at the last second by the witch’s cautious effort to delve into his thoughts. Fortunately, like her commander, she was strong rather than subtle.

“There’s no such organization.”

“Not anymore, not officially, but you were once a member of the radical group known as the Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic.”

“That was years ago. I was a kid.”

“By faerie standards, yes. By human standards, you were nearly sixty.”

Archer said nothing.

“Of course, by faerie standards you’re still very young. Which, I think, probably explains a great deal.”

Archer blinked. Hopefully it was his only reveal. He could feel the witch still poking and prying at his thoughts, but he sidestepped her. His attention was now entirely on Rake. Rake somehow knew about Archer’s past membership in SRRIM and apparently understood enough about faerie physiology and culture to realize…too much.

 He said carefully, “I did briefly belong to SRRIM. As you say, I was in my early teens. Obviously my views have changed. I’m curious as to what triggered your interest in my past. The subject of my youthful activism never came up during the hiring process and I’ve worked as curator for the museum for over five years.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Of both facts. Nowadays our records are more centralized.”

What did that mean? Centralized felt like a euphemism for something less benign.

“I don’t understand what this is about,” Archer said, although he now had a very good idea of what it was all about.

 “You’re being questioned in connection with the illegal acquisition of a highly dangerous magical artifact.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. Archer returned with his best imitation of a fussy museum curator—imitating Barry, in fact—“I thought it might be something like that. I’m aware that many museums are under scrutiny for the illegal purchase of cultural and historical property, but I’m sure you realize our situation at MoSSA is rather different?”

“Oh yes,” Rake murmured. “I’m conscious of just how different you are, Mr. Green.”

“I’m flattered,” Archer said, feeling anything but.

“According to you, your involvement in radical politics was just youthful high spirits. What exactly is your position on the subject of the repatriation of magical artifacts to their realms of origin?”

“Are you asking me as the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities?”

Rake turned his hand palm up as though inviting Archer’s opinion to alight.

“My position is, of course, the official position. These relics do not belong in the human realm.”

“Do they belong in a museum?”

Rake and Orly waited for his reply. Archer smiled. “That’s not my call.”

“You must have an opinion,” Rake said.

Archer could feel Orly once again prying at his defenses. He revised his original assessment. She was more skilled than he’d given her credit for. A human would normally not have sensed how much effort it took to get into his mind. He let her read his general discomfort with having missed breakfast and the hardness of the chair.

“I have opinions on many things, but they aren’t relevant to the job I’m paid to do.”

Orly abandoned the mental infiltration and took over the inquisition. “So it’s just a job for you, protecting humanity from these destructive forces?”

Archer sat back in the chair. “I don’t understand the question. Do you mean, is it my vocation in life? No. I believe that’s your job. Sorry. Mission.”

 “You seem defensive,” she observed.

“I feel defensive. I’m dragged here this morning, my plans disrupted, without a word of explanation. Then I’m questioned about what I’m sure amounts to a trivial mix-up. What is it now? A missing signature? The wrong triplicate form? Another misfiled paper?”

“We rarely drag citizens in over misfiled paperwork,” Rake said mildly.

“No? Brennan did.”

Another one of those silent exchanges, although this time Rake and his sergeant didn’t look at each other.

“As a matter of fact, this interview has to do with an artifact known as the Stone of Fal.”

Archer raised his brows. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke,” Rake said, and Archer could well believe it.

“I had no idea the stone had resurfaced. In that case, I understand your concern. I’d heard rumor that it was in the hands of a private collector.”

“Interestingly, one of your old SSRIM friends, Director Ali Khan Chauhan of the National Conjury Clinic in New Delhi arrived in Vancouver International Airport this morning.”

“Ali’s here?” Archer said with obvious delight.

Maybe it was too obvious because Rake got that supercilious look again.

“You think he’s here to purchase the Stone of Fal?” Archer inquired.

“That’s one theory,” Orly put in.

Silence followed her words. Archer could hear their wristwatches ticking in counter beat.

Rake’s phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. The sound would have gone undetected by most human ears, but Archer—as the interview had already made plain in case he failed to understand—was not human. Not as far as most humans were concerned. Rake muttered an apology, rose, and left the room.

Orly continued to ask Archer various questions, but he wasn’t listening to her. He tried to follow Rake’s conversation down the hall, but as powerful as his hearing was, he couldn’t follow words spoken through cell phone circuits and Rake seemed to know instinctively to restrict his responses to unrevealing grunts.

Rake returned to the room and took his chair once more. Once again, visceral awareness of his heat and strength and fabulous aftershave gave Archer a funny sensation in the pit of his belly. He assumed it was merely nerves, but he would have been happier to be certain.

“The other theory,” Rake said, as though there had been no interruption, “my theory, is that Chauhan is here unofficially to retrieve the stone in order to return it to the Tuatha Dé Dannan.”

“I see.” Unwisely, Archer added, “Either way it’ll no longer pose a threat to the human realm.”

“The problem is, if the stone is not destroyed, it could conceivably at some point be returned to the human realm.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“And yet it’s been drifting along in the human realm for years, isn’t that right?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“I think we all know that it’s more than a rumor.”

Archer waited.

Rake seemed to weigh various courses. He said abruptly, “Although our search failed to turn up any physical evidence, I believe the stone is in your possession. I believe you plan to return it to Chauhan.”

Archer relaxed. He even offered a cheeky smile. “You obviously know nothing about museums or museum curators if you think I’d voluntarily hand over a priceless artifact to a rival.”

Rake continued as though Archer hadn’t spoken, “Furthermore, I believe that you and Chauhan are both members of whatever SRRIM’s current incarnation is, in short, a secret and fanatical organization with a mission to retrieve and repatriate dangerous illegal magical artifacts to their source realms.”

He should have laughed. At the very least, Archer should have said, “Me?” in an outraged tone. He did neither. He did nothing. He continued to sit in the hard-backed chair staring across the damaged table at Rake.

Rake’s eyes were lighter than he’d originally thought. Or were they? They seemed to change color in the drab little room. Now they were the color of the brown glass that good ale came in, then the color of old honey, next the color of the winter heath on the old Romney salt marshes. They held Archer’s gaze without wavering.

“That’s interesting,” Archer said politely, at last.

He could feel Orly’s disappointment. Had she really thought he was going to admit anything? Rake’s gaze continued, intent and alert.

“You don’t deny it?”

“I assumed you took my denial for granted.”

“I’m not taking anything for granted.”

“You can take that for granted. Why are you telling me all this?”

Rake leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He said in a flat, hard voice, “I’m giving you notice. It’s over. We both know I don’t have enough evidence to arrest you today, but it won’t be long before I have what I need. In the meantime, I’ve reported my suspicions to the director of the museum.”

“That…wasn’t very nice.”

“We’re not in a very nice business, Mr. Green.”

“Suppose I’m innocent?”

Rake grimaced. “Then I guess I’d owe you an apology. But I’m just an ordinary, everyday policeman, Mr. Green, and that supposition would take more imagination than I have.”

Chapter Three

“Furthermore, I don’t enjoy starting the day with police knocking on the door, Mr. Green.” Barry Littlechurch’s prim voice carried down the arched marble hallway and drifted into the exhibit room where Miss Roya and Mr. Baker were cataloging beakers of amber and gold tears reportedly belonging to the Norse goddess Freya. The tears carried no particular properties, but they had been exorcised and relegated to the museum all the same. Official state policy.

Miss Roya and Mr. Baker kept their heads bent over their work, though Mr. Baker’s cheeks were pink. He had a severe crush on Archer. Archer thought he was a charming boy, but he hadn’t been interested in charming boys since he’d been one himself. And that was a very long time ago.

He replied evenly, “I don’t enjoy it either, Mr. Littlechurch.”

Littlechurch was a small, slim man with prematurely silver hair swept into a pompadour. His beard was precisely trimmed. His eyebrows circumflexed in perpetual skepticism. “Nor do I appreciate your offhanded attitude. I don’t think you realize quite how serious this situation is.” The museum director led the way into his office, still complaining loudly.

Archer followed without comment. Just before he closed the door behind them, he threw a look back at Baker and Roya. They hastily returned to their cataloging.

As the lock clicked into place, Barry stopped huffing and puffing. “How did it go?” He took his seat behind the enormous desk positioned beneath the gilt-framed portrait of Carl Peoples, the museum founder.

“It could have gone better,” Archer admitted, taking the velvet-upholstered chair on the other side of the desk.

“They released you.”

Archer nodded.

“But?”

“They know about my involvement in the SRRIM.”

“Of course they know.” Barry shrugged, unperturbed. “Knowing and proving that you are still an active member are two different things.”

“Not necessarily. Not given the broad spectrum of powers the current administration has given law enforcement agencies like the Irregulars.”

“There are no law enforcement agencies like the Irregulars,” Barry said gloomily.

“True.”

Barry grimaced. “Still. Given your position, I’m sure they’ll—”

Archer laughed. “I shouldn’t bet on it. I don’t think my position is going to protect me this time.”

Barry nodded. “What exactly did Commander Rake say when he brought you in for questioning?”

“He believes I’m involved in the effort to return the Stone of Fal to the sidhe.”

Barry made a disgusted sound. “That’s nothing more than species profiling.”

“Well…”

Barry threw him a quick look from beneath his silver brow. “A boy’s enthusiasms—”

“They’re not merely the enthusiasms of a boy. You know where my sympathies lie.”

“Of course. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re not involved.” Barry did not go so far as to ask why Archer had been in that warehouse allegedly meeting a notorious fence, but his gaze was inquiring.

“No. True.” Briefly, Archer considered telling Barry the whole story, but this was personal. Truthfully, Barry was better off not knowing.

And Archer didn’t want to hear what Barry would have to say.

Barry sighed. “I can see this Commander Rake is going to be a thorn in our side.”

“Not necessarily. His interest seems focused on me. That could work to everyone’s advantage.” Barring his own.

“He plans to nail you to the wall. You’re right about that.” Barry sighed. “I think he’s one of these fellows that takes it all very personally.”

“Unlike us.”

“I don’t know.” Barry seemed thoughtful. “Do we take it personally? I don’t think I take it personally. This is beyond personalities.”

“We’re fanatics, according to Commander Rake. He’s probably right.” Archer smothered a yawn. It had been a long night and a busy morning. “The bottom line is we’re out of time. I certainly am in any case.”

“This isn’t like you.”

Wasn’t it? Archer liked to think his idealism was tempered by pragmatism. It was one reason he’d managed to fly under the radar this long. “They were waiting for me last night.”

“You think it was a setup?”

“Yes.” Honesty compelled Archer to add, “I’m not positive, but yes.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. It’s not as though I pose a threat to anyone.”

“A threat? No. Although I suppose the Commander Rakes of the world will always see people like us as threats.”

Barry was polite enough to say us, but he meant you. Archer knew he was right. “I suppose I should think about moving on now that I’ve been targeted by the authorities.” The thought gave him a pang. He had been happy in Vancouver.

Still, it wasn’t the first time. He would survive.

Barry was shaking his head. “No, no. Nothing of the kind. Remember how gung ho Brennan was at first? We’ll wear this one down too.”

Archer thought of Rake, of that big, powerful body clothed in the Savile Row suit. The buffed fingernails and expensive haircut. Beneath that civilized veneer was something not remotely civilized. Oddly, the thought of that unknown excited him. “I don’t think so. He’s a different breed.”

“Speaking of different breeds,” Barry said. “I got confirmation this morning that the naga skin will be delivered tomorrow afternoon.”

The snakeskin, shed by an Indian demon some eight thousand years earlier, had been under study by the R&D department of NIAD in DC for the past three years. It was be returned to the museum to be cataloged and reshelved and ultimately forgotten.

“No worries there.”

“Er…no.”

Archer glanced up. “Is there a problem?”

Barry grimaced.

“There can’t be. The bloody thing’s been exorcised.”

“You know the way rumors get started.”

Archer’s brows drew together. “What rumors?”

“That the skin is…”

“Is what?”

“Showing signs of life.”

In the resounding silence, Archer said, “It’s just a skin. How much life could it show?”

Barry shook his head. “You know how these rumors get started.”

Oh yes. Every legend began life as a tiny, persistent rumor. Sometimes as nothing more than idle gossip.

Barry added, “Nothing that need worry us, I’m sure.”

Because they had bigger things to worry about?

***

The rest of the day passed without incident. At five, Archer slipped his jacket on, grabbed his briefcase, and left the mus-eum. He caught a streetcar and then a SkyTrain to Library Square where he spent the next hour or so browsing book stacks and services.

When he was sure he’d lost the tail that Rake had planted on him, he headed toward Kerrisdale. He crossed the Burrard Street Bridge and turned right onto Cornwall Street. That put him in the Kitsilano neighborhood,were Ezra lived.

“Kits” was an arty-crafty enclave of artisan bakeries, art studios, organic markets, trendy cafes, and Vancouver’s Greektown. It was mainly populated by college students and yuppies and yoga teachers. Pretty much the last place one would expect to find a goblin lowlife like Ezra, which was why it was such a perfect place for him to hole up.

As Archer walked he could smell the salty scent of the nearby sea. It reminded him of Romney Marsh. Of home. Home and long ago. He was impatient with himself, but perhaps the sense of nostalgia wasn’t surprising given his mission.

Ezra lived in an old apartment building on Vine Street. The scent of lamb moussaka filled the downstairs hallway and tagged along with Archer up to the second floor. Beatles music played from a few doors down.

 Archer tapped on Ezra’s door. After a few seconds, he knocked again.

The door swung open just as Ezra’s goblin face was morphing into more socially acceptable features; the lipless piranha smile transformed into something equally toothy but cheesy and human.

That smile too faded as Ezra took note of his caller.

“Green.” His voice came out in a croak.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Archer said.

“Oh. Hello. I di—” Ezra staggered back as Archer applied the heel of his hand and the toe of his boot to the door and shoved. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“I thought we might have a little chat.”

Ezra took another few steps back and looked around as though seeking an escape way that had suddenly disappeared. “Chat? About what?”

Archer slipped inside and closed the door, leaning casually back against the painted plywood. “Guess.”

Ezra shook his head.

“You set me up.”

Ezra’s human face wavered as his masking spell dissolved and reformed itself in goblin lines. He bit his nearly nonexistent lips, and though he was considerably taller than Archer, he seemed to shrink into himself.

“I heard there was trouble.” Ezra gulped. “But it wasn’t anything to do with me. How could I know the badges were watching the Moth Man?”

“That’s your story? That the Irregulars were following the Moth Man?”

“Of course. You can’t think I’d work against you.”

Archer smiled. “Can’t I?”

Ezra shook his head. “I’m no friend of the badges.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t sell me out to save your own skin. Hell, you’d sell your own mother out if you thought there was something in it for you.”

Ezra looked hurt. As hurt as a goblin could look. “That’s not true. I’ve got scruples. Not many, I admit, but I’ve got’em. Same as you.”

Archer considered Ezra’s sweaty, misshapen face. He could have been telling the truth, of course. It wasn’t impossible. Unlikely, but not impossible. The relationship between fae and goblin had always been…unpredictable. And with the mounting instability among the Irish fae in the Tuatha Dé Dannan Islands and the large goblin mercenary forces there, they were likely to become more so.

Ezra unwisely launched into further protests, finishing, “We all know what you’re doing. You and your friends. We’re all beh-ind you.”

Ezra’s intel was out of date—Archer’s radical youth was well in the past now—but perhaps that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Archer said gently, “If I were to discover that you had tried to double-cross—”

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t!”

“I have a very long memory.”

“I know that. You don’t have to do the glowing eyes thing. I know! I’m not a collaborator.”

He was lying. The more he denied it, the more certain Archer was, but what course would best serve his purpose? Knowing Ezra couldn’t be trusted made him a useful conduit for feeding incorrect information to the Irregulars. While it was true Archer was no longer involved in radical activities, his sympathies were largely unchanged and he was privy to the plans and schemes of many whose aims did not align with those of the NATO Irregular Affairs Division.

Besides, Archer wanted something more than he wanted revenge. All day long the thought of the green glass beads had haunted him. If there was a chance they still existed…

“If it wasn’t you, then it was the Moth Man.”

“Yes.” Ezra leaped at this explanation. “That’s what I told you. It had to be that freak.”

“Where does he live?”

“Somewhere in Downtown Eastside.”

“Where?”

“Hastings Street.” Ezra babbled out the address.

“All right. I’ll pay a call on him. See what he has to say for himself.” Archer watched Ezra’s fluctuating features.

Ezra’s gaze shifted. “You can’t trust anything he says.”

“Now, now. People say the same thing about you, Ezra.” Archer smiled maliciously before slipping out the door.

***

Downtown Eastside wasn’t the hellhole it had been a few years earlier, but it was still no place to be after dark if you didn’t need to be. Archer had his favorite places in the DTES. Carnegie Center with its century-old stained glass windows. The Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden with its mirror-like ponds and exotic flowers scenting the smoggy night. Hypodermic needles no longer littered the pavement, but the ratio of drug addicts, prostitutes, and the homeless compared to regular citizens was still too high for most people’s comfort. The streets always smelled of blood and urine to Archer, but his olfactory sense was more highly developed than that of a pure-blooded human.

He walked briskly, and though a couple of revenants followed him for a few streets, only the still-living variety hassled him with offers of drugs for sale. At five foot nine and slightly built, Archer looked like easy prey from a distance. Up close, his faerie heritage was apparent, and while the semblance of birth defects was rarely a deterrent, possible—or at least sober—predators veered off.

Archer found the Moth Man’s place without trouble. It was an old brick building, a former hotel from the 1920s, converted into a number of single-occupant residences. A musical clash of cultures was being waged in the dingy halls, and somewhere a baby wailed unconsoled. People sat in open doorways, smoking pot and talking loudly. Red-rimmed eyes watched Archer pass, but no one spoke to him.

He knocked on the door next to a tarnished nameplate stating R. Mann.

A double look at the peephole revealed a pale, protuberant eye peering through at him. Archer waited.

There came a sound of sliding bolts, several of them, and then a chain, and at last the door swung open.

“Good evening,” Archer said.

Without speaking, the Moth Man nodded for Archer to enter.

Archer stepped out of the hall into a gloomy room full of boxes. The boxes were stacked all the way to the ceiling and marked with the brand names of televisions and stereos and fans. The fans were a little puzzling, but whatever. A chair and table were positioned a few inches from a television set. The television was on, but it was muted. Teenagers danced and sang, silently energetic on a large stage.

“I thought you would come.” The Moth Man pulled his chair out. “If you got away from the drearies.”

“The…drearies?”

“The badges. Irregulars.” The Moth Man said the word with contempt. His eyes looked pink in the poor light. If so, they were the only color in his skeletal face.

“You got away all right. From the badges, I mean.”

“Sure. I blend in with the crowd.” The Moth Man settled at the table in front of the television. There was a plate stacked with pancakes, though where he had cooked them in this tiny stove-less apartment was unclear. He proceeded to pour chocolate syrup over the heap. The syrup pooled on the plate in a brown puddle. “I was just having my supper.”

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“I won’t.” The Moth Man neatly quartered his pancakes and then bisected them again. His attention, that which wasn’t focused on his plate, was all on the soundless television.

Archer began, “Last night you mentioned…”

“Green glass beads,” the Moth Man completed the sentence. He smiled and his teeth were brown with chocolate. The effect was fairly ghastly, but Archer didn’t care. All he heard was “green glass beads.”

His mouth was dry as he said simply, “Yes.”

“Family heirloom, eh?”

“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.” The word came out thick with syrup and chocolate sauce.

“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?”

Name your price. 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 are green.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Archer stepped forward.

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.”