Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (16 page)

“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.