Irregulars, page 15
A seventy-million dollar restoration in the mid-1990s had secured the hotel’s reputation as the favored hangout for the city’s hoi polloi, and Archer had attended a number of events there. It was not the kind of thing he particularly enjoyed, but taking his turn representing the public face of MoSSA was part of his responsibilities as curator. Barry was much better at this kind of thing, but Barry firmly believed it was good for Archer to “get out and meet people,” as he quaintly put it.
Archer milled around the fringes of the crowd, chatting when spoken to and otherwise smiling pleasantly and thinking of Commander Rake and wondering if the man really had been flirting with him the night before or if Archer was so out of practice he had read the signs wrong.
“What exactly is the Museum of State-Supported Archives?” a portly woman in a purple-flowered gown inquired, referring to the name by which the general public knew MoSSA.
Archer rattled off the usual spiel. “We catalog articles that are difficult to store in the official facilities, but that might be eventually required for study by the state examiners.”
“You mean like tax records and deeds and those kinds of documents?”
“Not so very unlike.”
She smiled politely, eyes already glazing over. “It sounds fascinating.”
“Oh yes! Very much so.” Unlike a full-blooded faerie, Archer was capable of lying, but he didn’t enjoy it. He was relieved when the woman spotted someone she urgently needed to speak to.
He checked his pocket watch. Barry would expect him to put in another hour. He sighed.
Waiters in red jackets were circulating with trays of champagne, but Archer did not care for champagne. Nor did he care for the caviar on crackers and smoked salmon moving in the opposite direction. He had missed supper and was hungry, but his appetite veered more toward fae than human, and the fae ate no flesh, be it fish, fowl, or animal. Archer went in search of a crudités platter he had spotted earlier.
So it was that he happened to be in perfect position to see George Gaki arriving with his entourage. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really, that Gaki would attend the fundraiser. He was a major figure on the Vancouver art scene, both as a patron and a critic, but Archer hadn’t been thinking his method of approach could be anything so simple as walking up and saying hello.
Eye on his quarry, Archer made his way through the crowd, waiting for the moment when he could introduce himself. In the end, that too was made ridiculously simple. One of the gala organizers spotted him hovering and did the honors.
“Ah! The curator of MoSSA?” Gaki said with interest. “At last we meet.”
Gaki was a large, rawboned man, nearly as tall as Commander Rake, and quite a bit broader. His hair was salt and pepper, worn in a style popularized by Julius Caesar. His eyes were a color close to yellow.
“How do you do?” Archer shook hands with the one person in the room, aside from himself, who understood MoSSA’s true purpose.
“Better than I expected when I decided on impulse to attend this event. I’ve been hoping to meet you, Mr. Green.”
“Have you?” Was this conversation taking an odd turn or was it Archer’s imagination?
“I believe you and I have something in common.”
Archer knew of only one thing they had in common and he could hardly believe Gaki would bring up the subject in public. “Oh yes?”
“You’re a collector of clocks, are you not? You have a very fine piece, as I understand from Mr. Littlechurch. A large nineteenth century cloisonné clock with cherubs.”
Archer relaxed. “Yes. But they’re not cherubs. They’re fairies.”
Gaki’s unruly brows rose. “How charming. You’re half faerie yourself?”
For a second Archer thought he’d misheard. Had Gaki truly made a reference to the immortal realms aloud? “I…” He couldn’t help an uncertain look around, but Gaki’s bodyguard was staring into space, and the other guests seemed to be absorbed in earnest conversations of their own.
“Delightful,” Gaki was saying, as though unaware of Archer’s shock. “Such a rare pairing, but the children are always exquisite. Rarely does the intermingling of bloodlines turn out so fortunately.”
Archer colored. Now he was getting angry. Not merely at being appraised as though he was an inanimate object, but at this old fool’s arrogant flaunting of the Secrecy Act, which decreed that the human realm should be kept in blissful ignorance of the others.
“As a matter of fact,” Gaki observed quietly, “I believe we have much more in common than you realize.” He glanced around, rested his large hand on Archer’s shoulder, and said in carrying tones, “I assure you, I’ll more than match any offer you receive for the clock.”
“I’m not going to sell my clock.” Archer found he was being steered through the crowd, whether he willed it or not. He tried to regain some control of the situation. “As a matter of fact, I was interested in an item you purchased from Christie’s recently.”
“You must mean the water beads. Quite a find, I agree. And in marvelous condition. Yes, I imagine you would be interested in those. What a small world it is.”
“This one, certainly,” Archer said.
“And getting smaller all the time.”
They had stopped walking next to a glossy table in the center of the lobby. A giant blue basket with a flower arrangement roughly the size of a small garden allotment sat on the table. They were safely out of earshot of anyone but the bodyguard, who stood a few feet away.
“I’m not sure I understand you,” Archer said.
“I believe I belong to an organization that you were once a member of.”
Archer’s heart stopped. He recovered and asked coolly, “The International Council of Museums?”
“No. Let’s not waste time fencing. I belong to the Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic.”
It seemed to take a long time to find the words. “The society no longer exists.”
Gaki’s eyes kindled with a fanatical light. “But it does—and we’re even stronger than before.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Archer said vaguely. “I like to see people getting involved.”
“You’re very glib about something that I believe once meant a great deal to you.”
Archer kept his voice low. “Like many, I remain sympathetic to the goals of SRRIM, but I couldn’t condone the tactics being used at the time I left.”
“Fight fire with fire.”
“That can end creating a bigger fire.”
“Let it. Sometimes it takes razing the old to the ground for the new to spring forth.”
Archer stared at Gaki’s sharp, ageless features. “What are you getting at? What do you want?”
“We need your help.”
“What does that mean?” Something clicked in Archer’s brain. “Let me guess. The Stone of Fal. I don’t have it and I don’t know where it is.”
“But you could use your position at curator of MoSSA to find it.”
“No.”
Gaki said good naturedly, “Hear me out.”
“I don’t want to hear you out. I’ve already heard too much. This conversation alone could get us arrested.”
Gaki ignored that. “If you do this one little thing for us, the beads are yours.”
Across the room, Archer could see the woman in purple he had spoken to earlier. She was laughing, but the sound of her laughter, bouncing off the marble ceiling and floor, sounded disembodied and out of time.
“We’re not asking you to place yourself in any danger. Just do this one little task. Help us recover the stone. That’s all.” Gaki was still smiling. “Do it and the beads are yours again. Forever safe from the threat of state-sanctioned neutralization. Think about it.”
“I can’t do that. I’ll pay you for the beads. I’ll pay you anything you like. Anything I can.”
“The price of the beads is your help.”
Speaking the words was physically painful, but what choice did Archer have? “That price is beyond my means.”
Gaki made a dismissive sound. “Nonsense. For old times’ sake. One last job for your old comrades?”
Archer shook his head.
Gaki seemed to contemplate him for long, solemn seconds. “You disappoint me.”
Archer said wearily, “The feeling is mutual.”
“There’s been talk about you, you know, Green. Certain of your old comrades dislike the fact that you’re roaming freely in the world knowing all that you do. Helping us just this once could go far toward proving that there is no need for…worry.”
“There’s no need for anyone to worry.”
“So you say. But then you would. Think about it. It’s a generous offer. You say you’re still sympathetic to SRRIM’s aims.”
Archer met and held Gaki’s gaze. It wasn’t easy. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
Gaki’s regard never faltered. Then he smiled suddenly and broadly. “Then there’s nothing more to be said. It’s disappointing for both of us, of course.”
“Yes,” Archer said huskily.
“I’d have liked nothing better than to see those beads rightfully restored to you. But I always say, if a thing is worth collecting in the first place, it’s worth hanging onto forever.”
“Forever is a long time.”
“No one knows that better than me.” Gaki grinned, his teeth very sharp. He reached for a champagne flute from the tray wafting by. “Cheers.” He turned his back and walked away.
Archer watched him go. Watched the bodyguard fall into respectful step behind.
He was surprised at the choice he’d made, and yet as he questioned his decision, he realized he did not regret it. It was the right choice.
Not that making it had brought him any pleasure.
He wandered over to the bar and ordered a Yukon Jack on the rocks. He reached for his wallet.
“I’ve got it,” a familiar voice said beside him. Commander Rake’s honey brown eyes smiled into Archer’s.
Chapter Six
“Why is it you’re always trying to buy me drinks?” Archer put his own cash on the counter and the barman swept it up.
“That should be obvious. I want to get you drunk and have my wicked way with you.”
“You needn’t get me drunk for that.”
Rake’s eyes kindled with a light that made Archer briefly shy. Rake was not…handsome exactly, but he was striking—or imposing might be the better word—in his severe black evening clothes. There was something about him, some energy, some zest. In the old days they’d called it virility. Archer had no idea what they called it these days. These days they didn’t seem to make many men like Rake.
“You surprise me.” Rake’s voice seemed to reverberate right through Archer as though Archer’s spine were a tuning fork and Rake was playing his song.
His cock twitched. Elaborately casual, Archer reached for his glass. “I think that’s unlikely.” He took a long drink and decided it might be wiser to strike out for the shore and safety. “What are you doing here anyway? Following me?”
Rake’s eyebrows rose. “Following you? I have people to do that for me. No, attending fundraisers for the Vancouver Arts & Antiquities Alliance is part of my job description.”
“Why would it be?” Archer was trying not to be illogically irritated by the information that Rake couldn’t be bothered to follow him himself.
“Because deals are made and alliances, if only temporary, are forged at these events.” Rake added, “And occasionally the art and antiquities that change hands fall under my jurisdiction.”
Archer sniffed in a show of not-so-polite disbelief and sipped his whiskey.
“Speaking of which, you seemed to be having a pleasant chat with George Gaki.”
He didn’t think he gave himself away by so much as a flicker of an eyelash, but Rake chuckled, a low, growly sound that sent another pleasurable ripple of alarm and anticipation down Archer’s spine.
“Something funny?”
“Funny might not be the right word. You do like to live dangerously, don’t you, Mr. Green?”
Archer tried to sound bored. He wasn’t sure he pulled it off. “Maybe you know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe I do.” Rake tossed off his own drink, measured Archer from beneath dark, shadowy lashes, and said, “How much longer did you plan on staying?”
Archer grinned. “In a hurry to get home to your pipe and slippers?”
“In a hurry to get home. Not to my pipe and slippers.”
“Ah.” Archer was surprised at the wrench of disappointment he felt. But of course Rake would have someone tending the home fires for him. Probably throwing another log on the bonfire at this very instant.
“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.
