“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.