“So?” Rake pressed.

“So?”

“How long did you plan on staying here? You’ve done your social duty and then some, haven’t you?”

Exactly how long had Rake been watching him? Archer was amused and annoyed. His usual state of affairs with the commander. The three As: amused, annoyed, or aroused. It had to be more than the aftershave. He tried to keep the edge from his voice. “I thought you paid people to keep an eye on me. What is it you imagine I might get up to tonight?”

Rake’s smile was enigmatic. The light from the chandelier picked out bronze glints in his hair; his eyes looked black. He said softly, frankly, so there was no mistaking his meaning, “That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

Archer nearly dropped his glass. “You’re direct.”

Rake’s smile widened devilishly. “Yes.”

Archer wasn’t exactly sure if what he felt was excitement or apprehension. Maybe both. “Isn’t this a conflict of interest?”

“Not for me.”

He turned that over thoughtfully. It was an important distinction. Assuming he understood what the hell Rake was talking about.

“You’re not married?” He was stalling now. They both knew it.

“Not anymore. I ate my wife.” Rake grinned and for one truly weird moment his features seemed to waver, his teeth growing sharp and pointed, his eyes glowing red.

Archer laughed and set his glass down. He’d clearly had enough. “Oh dear. Did she forget to warm your TV dinner on time?”

“She was a very good wife. It wasn’t her fault. I didn’t have a lot of self-control back then and it turned out I liked boys better.”

“They do stay fresher longer.”

“You’re fresh enough.” Rake’s eyes laughed into Archer’s. “Are you coming?”

“Not yet,” Archer replied, starting to laugh too. “But the night is young.”

***

Parking was scarce in the West End. Archer managed to wedge his green Beetle between a Saab and a Kia Soul near Stanley Park. He walked the block back to where Rake waited for him in a triangle of lamplight on Chilco Street. The trees were tall and their sweet scent mingled with the ocean smells of nearby English Bay. It smelled like home. Not Gastown. Home.

As Archer reached him, Rake pulled him close with a hand curving around the nape of Archer’s neck. Rake’s mouth descended in a kiss so hot Archer’s mouth tingled. Rake’s moist tongue flicked out, seeking entrance, and Archer’s lips parted. A dark and dangerous heat flooded him as Rake’s tongue slipped inside his mouth and stole his breath.

It was crazy to be doing this right here on the street, in the open, beneath the smiling moon and the smaller smiling mini-moons of the street lamps. A crazy chance for Rake, certainly, but maybe his self-control wasn’t as evolved as he thought because he seemed unable to stop. Archer had no breath for the words, even if he’d had the will.

Rake’s lips left Archer’s and he kissed him delicately, sweetly beside his unsteady mouth, then trailed across flushed skin to nuzzle Archer’s earlobe, rousing shivers in him. Archer moaned. He felt weak, heavy limbed, as if he had no control over what was happening; it was out of his hands.

Sanity reasserted itself in the form of a pair of headlights that swept around the corner and spotlighted them briefly. They stepped apart. The car zoomed past, exhaust filling the night air.

This was a mistake. Rake was either laying a trap for him or…

Or what?

Archer couldn’t think what—the risk seemed to be Rake’s, really; he was the one who belonged to an organization that wouldn’t take kindly to fraternizing with the enemy—yet Archer still felt it would be dangerous to proceed.

And physically painful not to.

As he stood hesitating, Rake held out his hand. A human gesture, that. An age-old gesture signifying everything from the lack of weapons, an acknowledgment of equality, the implication of solidarity, a binding contract, or even the offer of friendship. Rake said nothing, but that simple move seemed to speak volumes for him. Archer took his hand and they walked in silence up the steps and into the tall, brick-faced, wood-framed building.

Rake’s apartment was an elegant one-bedroom suite with a breathtaking view of moonlit English Bay. The windows and that blue view dominated the room, but Archer had a quick impression of modern, streamlined furniture in earth tones, oak floors, granite countertops, and stainless steel fixtures and appliances.

The natural light would be amazing at any time of year and at any time of day.

“Drink?” Rake asked, bottle in hand, from behind the white wood and granite breakfast bar.

Archer shook his head, pacing the room, exploring everything there was to see. Not that there was so much. In fact, the apartment was as tidy as a realtor’s model. A few throw pillows in gold and cream, oversized earthenware lamps, small steel bowls with cardamom candy.

“This is nice. Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Leather? Leather and wood and brass studs.” Archer smirked. “Traditional.”

“I am traditional, you’re right about that.” Rake poured himself a drink from the oddly shaped bottle. The liqueur was pale green. Absinth? Archer’s nostrils flared. No, cardamom again.

Interesting. But then everything about Rake was interesting. So far. The next hour could change that. Given that Rake was an oversized mortal and in an ultramasculine profession, he would probably opt for the predictable. Archer had no strong inclinations either way. Mortals were often clumsy and brutal in their coupling; so he was mostly curious as to how that precision of manner with which Rake handled himself would translate into sex.

He glanced at Rake, who smiled at him and raised his glass of green liqueur in a small, mocking toast.

Yes, Archer was curious about many things concerning Rake. In fact, the more he learned about Rake—which, granted, was little enough—the more questions he had.

He thought about Rake’s accent, similar to his own really, that almost stripped-bare pronunciation that came of years of living in different countries and places. Where did Rake come from? How old was he?

Perhaps some of his uncertainty showed. Rake said, “You look nervous. Are you truly only now beginning to wonder what you’ve got yourself into?’

“Have I got myself into anything?” Archer couldn’t fathom Rake’s expression. Certainly Rake was amused—by what? There was something else there too. He seemed almost…perplexed as he studied Archer.

Archer moved away, studying the oil painting over the long, beige sofa. An inhumanly beautiful figure sat brooding in a field of flowers. No. Not flowers. Moths. Pale green moths. A cloud of them.

“I know that painting. Or one similar to it. It’s by Vrubel?”

“That’s right. Mikhail Alexandrovich Vrubel.”

“But the painting I know doesn’t have moths.”

“No. This is a companion piece. Do you like it?”

Archer nodded. Oh yes. He liked it. Too much. It gave him a warm feeling in his belly and a fluttery feeling in his chest. Perhaps Rake had a thing for demons too. Maybe he’d taken up the badge to work out a few kinks. That would be sort of a relief. It would make Rake more…human.

Yes. That was it. Rake seemed almost inhuman in his spic-and-span perfection.

Archer continued to explore the room. The eyes of the demon in the painting followed him. “So where do you keep your pipe and slippers?” he joked.

“In the bedroom, of course.” Rake was standing right behind him. Archer hadn’t sensed his approach and excitement prickled up and down his spine. Excitement or unease. Archer wasn’t completely sure.

“Of course. Where else? You’re a traditional guy.”

He moved away toward a bookshelf, reaching for a steel-framed photo of Rake in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. He looked virtually the same, in the Irregulars uniform of a decade ago. Odd. He put the photo down again and picked up a geode at random. “The Irregulars must pay better than I thought.”