He answered coolly, “I cut myself shaving.”

Rake eyed him long and levelly. No sense of humor? He said politely, “A close shave then?”

“Very.”

Rake’s thin mouth twitched, but he said no more, and neither did Archer.

He could have gone on protesting his innocence and insisting he had no idea what all this was about, but he found he had no energy for it. In fact, he’d have felt silly. It wasn’t going to be like it had been with Brennan. That was quite clear. With Rake he felt strangely—strangely, because they were obviously destined to be on opposite sides of any and all endeavors—that at last he’d found someone who spoke his language.

The SUV reached the Irregulars HQ and stopped at the security gate. IDs were flashed. The gate opened and the SUV pulled through. They parked in the underground structure and disembarked.

 They were all still playing the game that Archer’s visit to HQ was voluntary, but as he walked into the elevator with Rake and his boyish subordinate, Archer was uneasily aware that walking out might not be nearly as easy.

 Inside, the Irregulars HQ was as generic and nondescript as the outside: blue carpets, white walls, photos of scenic Vancouver. The air was recycled and temperature controlled. Most of the staff bustling down the halls with quiet efficiency were human, but Archer spotted a number of goblin staff members. Even one administrative assistant who was patently Kapre.

In fact, it seemed to him that the extra-human staff ratio had risen since his last visit. He wasn’t sure if that was a positive sign or not. The Irregulars claimed to be an equal opportunity employer, but so many of these government organizations merely gave lip service to the concept of diversity initiatives.

“You’re set up for Interview Room Three,” a well-groomed young woman informed Rake. Rake nodded briskly.

 The interview room was new. Not the room itself, the fact that Archer was in it. Brennan had usually conducted interviews in his own office. But this was not an interview. This was an interrogation. That was clear.

A thin, pale woman with sharp features and white-blond hair in a tight ponytail was waiting for them when they entered the room. Her uniform too carried the silver braid of the Irregular commissioned officer. Archer didn’t recognize her. Perhaps she had transferred in with Rake. Perhaps he had just never noticed her.

Either way, she was a witch. Archer could sense the energy crackling around her like static electricity on a windy day. Subdued—perhaps even an effort made to conceal her true nature—but he knew her for what she was. A human lie detector.

“This is Sergeant Orly.” Rake took the chair across the table from Archer.

“Oh really?”

Rake was unamused by the little joke. He absently straightened his tie, reminding Archer of someone rolling up their sleeves before tackling a dirty job.

Sergeant Orly, already seated, didn’t seem to hear. She was going through a thick file. She fastened her pale green gaze on Archer and nodded in greeting.

Archer nodded briefly. He sat down and waited, hoping that he showed neither curiosity nor alarm. He couldn’t help wondering about that enormous file. Was that his file? If so, it had expanded considerably since his last visit to HQ.

Orly slid the file to Rake. Rake glanced through it unhurriedly.

Archer grimaced inwardly. He knew this tactic. He let his gaze wander around the barren room. The other two paid no attention to him and he returned the favor, though that sweetly masculine fragrance Rake wore kept feathering the edge of his consciousness.

After a minute or two, though, he couldn’t help looking at the file. He felt a flicker of irritation. Did they honestly think he couldn’t read that tiny print from across the table? Weren’t they familiar with faeries at all? In the middle of that thought, he noticed that the edge of the table on his side was badly gnawed as though by a giant and very nervous rat.

His own unease increased. Very rarely did he find himself at a disadvantage, but he felt at a disadvantage now.

Archer ignored the file they were pretending to so studiously pore over and considered Rake. His suit was tailored, and cleverly tailored at that. It gave Rake’s large, powerful body an air of near elegance. Archer could see the blue shadow beneath Rake’s freshly shaved jaw. His brown hair was clipped short and inclined to curl and one of his ears was pierced, although he wore no earring. He wore no wedding ring either. No jewelry at all. His hands were big and blunt fingered, but the nails were neatly trimmed and buffed.

Orly leaned forward and spoke into a microphone, giving the time and date of their session.

“Please state your full name for the record,” she told Archer.

“I assume you want my actual faerie name?”

Orly and Rake didn’t exchange looks, but Archer suspected they wanted to.

“Of course,” Orly said, sounding anything but certain.

Archer nodded. “Spider Reedstaff.”

“What?” That time Orly and Rake did look at each other.

“That’s right. According to the website I play a reed pipe and sing spellbinding songs. I live in a spider-webbed wonderland and vacation in insect grottoes. I can be seen only when the seer holds a four-leafed clover, which I can only surmise you both have stashed on your persons. I wear a tunic made of cobwebs and I have deep green butterfly wings.”

“What website?” Orly asked.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rake’s brows straightened into a single forbidding line.

“The fairy name generator website.”

Orly drew back. Rake’s face twisted into that sardonic expression once more. “You enjoy your little games, Mr. Green,” he remarked.

“As do you, if the last five minutes are anything to go by.”

Rake’s smile was thin and brief. “Let’s try this again. State your legal name and occupation for the record.”

“My name is Archer Green and I’m the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver.” Most people, of course, had no idea what his title meant or what secrets the museum contained, but Orly and Rake were not most people. In fact, in theory, the three of them were on the same side. But that was clearly a theory Orly and Rake did not ascribe to.

“There. That didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Not so far. The morning is young.”

“What is your earthly-realm nationality?”

“I’m English.”

“What are your ties to the faerie realm?”

“None. I’ve lived all my life in the human realm.” Well, the vast majority of his life. At one time it had even been a sore spot. No longer.

Orly made a notation in the file. Rake asked, “What are your duties at MoSSA?”

“I’m responsible for overseeing the arrangement, cataloging, and exhibition of our collections, much like any earthly-realm museum curator.”

Only…not.

Rake said, “The difference is MoSSA’s collections contain some of the most dangerous magical artifacts in the universe.”

Archer smiled tightly. “They’re not dangerous once they reach MoSSA.” That actually still was a sore spot.

“True. At least in theory.” That was Orly.

Archer ignored her. “In addition to curating the existing collections, I supervise and coordinate our acquisition of documents and artifacts deemed too powerful or dangerous to return to their realms of origin. It’s part of my job to arrange for their permanent storage and study.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Rake said.

“I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

Rake smiled. “As you pointed out, the morning is still young.”

“True. Is there some reason you refuse to tell me why I’m being held in custody?”

Rake looked in astonishment to Orly, who shrugged helplessly. “If I somehow gave the impression that you were under arrest or being forcibly held, I apologize. We do have a few questions and most people prefer that we don’t interview them at their workplace. That seemed to be the view of your boss, Mr. Littlechurch.” The words were right and Rake’s tone was sincere, but his eyes were mocking.