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.