“The path I’m on?” Archer gazed at Rake with disbelief. “Today an exorcised artifact came back to life. That’s not even possible. Yet it happened. Either uncontrolled magic is returning to the world or—” Once again he broke off before saying something he would surely regret.

“No.” There wasn’t even a shade of doubt in Rake’s voice. “Blood from the cut on your hand must have touched the skin at some point.”

Archer held up his healed hand. “No. The cut’s long gone. Besides, as you untactfully point out, I’m only half faerie. My blood couldn’t restore life.”

“If the cut is already healed, then your blood carries the old magic.”

Archer shook his head. “I heal quickly, true, but I should know if I had that gift.”

“Then the naga skin couldn’t have been properly neutralized.”

Archer laughed. “Now you’re simply fooling yourself.”

Rake said shortly, “Fine. Let’s agree for the sake of argument that neutralization is not infallible. All the more reason why these items can’t be loose in the human realm.”

Apparently Rake couldn’t see the one other obvious possibility. But then perhaps Archer was the one imagining murder plots where they didn’t exist. “No one wanted them loose in the mortal realms. The intent was to return them to their native cultures.”

“That’s not a solution. That’s anarchy.”

“How can you say that? You, a creature of a magical realm?”

Rake’s face colored. “It isn’t a matter of either-or. You, of anyone, should know that. The mortal and immortal realms must learn to exist together.”

“By destroying the culture, traditions, and history of one for the other’s sake?”

“Enough.” Rake straightened. “I didn’t come to debate with you. This conversation is at an end.”

“In fact, it never happened. Like everything else between us that never happened.”

Rake stared at him. For a moment Archer thought he might respond to that taunt, to what he was too smart not to hear beneath the cheeky words. But in the end Rake merely said, “I’ve warned you. If you’re smart, you’ll take that warning.”

Archer smiled. He picked up his briefcase again. “Of course. I appreciate the warning.”

He walked toward the door. For a moment Archer thought Rake would continue to bar his way, but just as they were about to bump noses—or as Archer’s nose was about to bump Rake’s chin—Rake stepped aside.

“Good night,” Rake said curtly.

“Good-bye,” Archer replied.

***

When Archer had first entered into foster care some well-meaning person had given him a book called Flower Fairies of the Trees by Cicely M. Barker.

“You look exactly like the little fairy boy on page six,” the nice lady had said, thereby setting Archer up for a lot of jokes he was far too young to understand. It was a silly book. The fairies in it were all children and they had butterfly wings and wore ridiculous costumes, but in fact, Archer had looked exactly like the little fairy boy on page six. Also known as the box tree fairy. He found the book fascinating and he memorized the box tree poem, which ended with the immortal lines:

And among its leaves there play

Little blue-tits, brisk and gay.

The book had been lost when he had been shuffled off to the next home, but it had eventually turned up at one of the stops along the way of the long journey of national foster care. Archer had reclaimed it with joy. Unfortunately, that copy had belonged to another child. The result of that bitter skirmish was that Archer had been hustled along to yet another strange home and stranger family.

He had bought his own copy of the book a few years later.

Archer paused in unknotting the tangled network of wards and protection spells guarding the hidden entrance to George Gaki’s back door. Odd to be thinking of this now. It was Rake’s fault. Rake’s intimation that Archer was…what?

He’d said he didn’t believe Archer was seeking vengeance. So why had he brought up all that rot about Archer’s past? Making it sound like Archer was some pathetic orphan child trying to…trying to...

Recovering the book—buying the book—had been Archer’s first effort to reclaim his heritage. That was true. But so what? It was natural enough that he’d want something belonging to his family. Family heirlooms. What was so unusual about that? What was surprising there? Great-Aunt Esmeralda’s clock, Uncle Cadamus’s snuffbox collection, the portrait of Grandmother Philomena. He’d paid for them, paid for every single item.

He would have paid for the beads as well, if it had been possible. Since it wasn’t…Well, the beads were his. The beads belonged to his family and Archer was all that remained of his family. The beads were his.

The last of the wards fell away, shriveling to nothing but pale squiggles easily mistaken by the human eye for glow worms. Archer waved his hand in front of the lock and felt it click over, and the door swung silently open.

A sudden prickle across his scalp had Archer glancing over his shoulder, but there was nothing there.

He stepped inside the hall.

It was just a long, ordinary hallway. Hardwood floor, pale walls, framed photographs of generic countryside. At the end of the hall one doorway branched off to the right and one to the left.

The right led to the kitchen, where a security guard sat drinking coffee and flirting with the cook.

Archer veered left and found himself in a sunroom. He stepped around the potted plants and rattan furniture and went out the far entrance. He stopped to listen.

The security guard was still telling a long, dull story only a woman in love would sit still for. Upstairs another woman was singing a department store jingle in her sleep. In another room farther south two more security guards were talking hockey scores.

Archer continued on his way till he came to the long staircase that led to the private room in the faux tower.

The tower door took a little longer to open and sweat was trickling down Archer’s temples by the time the last ward fell away.

The door flew open and the row of candles on their rack jumped, flames dancing in the sudden draft.

Archer stepped inside and looked around. There was not a great deal to see. Rich Persian rugs covered the floor and French tapestries partially covered the windows. A gigantic gold-framed triptych of the first demon battles took up most of the far wall.

Archer’s gaze fell on a Mesopotamian treasure chest sitting in one corner.

No. Too obvious.

He closed his eyes, opened his mind, and began his search.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them…

A soft humming came to him from across the room. Archer opened his eyes. The flame of one of the fat, squat candles had turned green and was shooting up, licking hungrily at the air.

Archer smiled. In two strides he was across the floor. He pinched out the cold flame, lifted the fake candle from its perch, and removed the lid. The strand of beads spilled out, cool and shining as water.

Archer laughed in delight and held them to his face, feeling the weight of the beads running through his fingers, hearing their silken whisper.

The overhead light came on, dazzling Archer for an instant.

“I must say I thought Commander Rake was indulging in wishful thinking when he told me you’d be paying me a call in the next couple of days.” George Gaki, garbed in a luxuriant orange dressing gown and flanked by two security guards, stood in the arched doorway.

It was not Gaki’s presence—unwelcome though it was—so much as his words that struck Archer into statue-like immobility.

Seeing his shock, Gaki made a clucking sound, like a sympathetic maiden aunt. “Yes, it seems the commander has had you under observation for some time, Mr. Green. He came out to the estate this very morning to warn me that you’ve developed a dangerous obsession with an item that belongs to me.” He shook his head. “And to think you could have had them for the asking.”