This wasn’t like the Stone of Fal or even Hermes’s sandals. This was different. This was personal.

Very personal. A family heirloom, that’s all the beads were. Though the loss of them had resulted in his mother being relegated to the human realm and her subsequent doom. Humans thought of magical artifacts as things to simply possess or divest of at will, but in the faerie realm possession and dispossession of such articles meant life or death. Probably in a great many more realms as well.

So there was no need for that anxious fluttering in his guts. He wasn’t going to do anything dangerous to anyone but himself. And if he couldn’t outwit those overdressed and overarmed meatbags, he deserved to be in danger.

Assuming the Moth Man was correct. Assuming the beads existed at all. And that they were where Archer might retrieve them.

Archer took a long pull on the sweet beer. He felt in his bones that the Moth Man had been speaking the truth. The timing was so perfectly awful that it had to be true. As tricky as it would be to get the beads from Gaki, it would be that much more complicated with the damned badges breathing down his neck.

Ah. And here was another complication. If his intention, no, if even his interest came to the attention of the Irregulars, they might—undoubtedly would—attempt to confiscate the beads in order to neutralize them. That was basic policy. No magical artifacts left loose in the human realm. No exceptions.

Inevitably this worrying reflection reminded Archer of Commander Rake. The thought of the Irregulars’ new officer gave him another of those uncomfortable fluttering feelings in his belly, like a trapped swarm of butterflies. He shook his head at himself and drank another mouthful.

It was a long time since he’d felt anything like that. He had a natural suspicion of mortals when it came to affairs of the heart. Or affairs of the loins. Even if he hadn’t…Humans were so short lived. It was asking for heartache, getting too interested in them.

Ah well. He ordered another pint.

The piped music played a slow Irish waltz, “Sidhe Bheag”, “Sidhe Mhor”. Archer smiled faintly and sipped his ale.

Someone took the bar stool next to him. Someone who took up a fair bit of acreage. An elbow bumped his arm, a muscular thigh brushed his own. The scent of musk and vanilla mixed pleasantly with more prosaic ones. Archer’s heart jumped. He turned his head and met the glinting gaze of Commander Rake.

“Here you are,” Rake said.

“Commander Rock.”

Rake’s mouth tugged into a faint smile. He didn’t bother to correct Archer.

Archer asked unwillingly, “Where should I be?”

“I thought you might be making for the border.”

Archer’s jaw dropped. “Making for the border? Why the hell should I?”

Rake still had that amber gleam in his eye, that hint that he was enjoying himself. “You lost no time getting rid of the tail I placed on you this afternoon.”

Archer sniffed. “Never send a man to do a Cu Sith’s work.”

Rake laughed. “True. Where did you go that you were afraid to be seen?”

“Nowhere. I don’t like being followed as a matter of principle.”

“You’re a man of principles?”

Archer shrugged. It shouldn’t have stung. What did he care what Rake thought?

Rake ordered a pint before turning his attention back to Archer, and Archer, though he hated to admit it, felt another flare of excitement as that dark, moody gaze turned his way.

“Yes,” Rake said. “You’re a man of principle—even if misguided.”

Archer set his mug down. He said mockingly, “You know me so well.”

Rake took no offense. “I do. I’ve been making a study of you, Green. I think I know you pretty well.”

“As well as any man can,” Archer mimicked.

“Better than Brennan.”

Archer reached for his mug again to hide his smile.

Rake made a soft sound that could have been amusement or scorn. Or both. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?”

“It has amusing elements.”

“There’s not much of the human strain in you.”

There wasn’t, no. Archer was tall for a faerie; his ears ended in graceful points usually hidden beneath his dark curls; his green eyes were wide and exotically tilted, but he doubted Rake was referring to his physical appearance.

“Hopefully not.”

It must have sounded more bitter than he intended. Rake’s eyebrows rose. “Your father was human.”

“Yes.” Rake had indeed been studying up.

“Is that why…?”

“Why what?”

Rake’s tone was bleak. “Why you’re willing to gamble with the safety of the human realm.”

“That’s your theory. I haven’t admitted to anything. I certainly wouldn’t admit to that.”

“You haven’t denied it with much vigor either.”

“There’s no point.” Rake opened his mouth and Archer added, “Your mind’s made up. I saw that this morning.”

“True.” Rake drank from his mug. He seemed easy and relaxed. “So your father was a naturalist and wildlife photographer.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Your mother was a groundskeeper on an estate in Romney Marsh.”

“That’s right. Sounds like the start to a risqué joke.”

“But you’re not laughing.”

Archer shrugged. “I’m not crying either. I’m not out to get humanity because my father abandoned my mother before I was born.” It was the loss of the beads that had caused all the misfortune in his life. Losing the beads had cost his mother his father’s love. Banishment from the faerie realm had done the rest. But that was chance. Might as well be angry with the wind for blowing.

Rake was still watching him curiously. “No?”

“No.” Archer gave Rake a sideways look. “If—and I say if—what you suspect is true, it has nothing to do with my father or my mother drowning herself or my growing up in human foster care. If I still believed in the goals of the SRRIM, it would be because they’re worthwhile goals. These artifacts don’t belong to you. You’ve no right to destroy them. You’ve no right to them at all. They should be returned to their realms of origin.”

“You talk like a child. But then you are a child. You’re, what, not quite twenty?”

“I’m seventy-four.”

“I don’t mean in human years. I mean in faerie years. In faerie years you’re still wet behind those pointy little ears.”

Archer lost his temper as, no doubt, he was meant to do. “And you’re the tool of an ignorant and bigoted government.”

To his astonishment, Rake laughed. “Luckily you don’t still believe in the goals of the SRRIM.” He drained his glass and nodded to the bartender.

“Another?” he asked Archer.

Archer ignored the question. “The Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic no longer exists.”

“Not under that name, certainly. By the way, your pal Chauhan is already on his way back to India. Maybe he just dropped by this continent to pick up a dozen Tim Horton’s apple fritters.”

“Maybe he did.”

Rake’s lean cheek tugged into a hard smile. “We’ll have a team from NIAD’s India field office waiting for him when he disembarks in New Delhi.”

“You boys get around. Boys and girls, I should say. Your Sergeant Orly is a witch.”

“You noticed. She thought you did.”

“Since when does the sticks-and-stones brigade hire blooded witches?”

“Times are changing. The Irregulars are an equal opportunity employer.”

Archer sniffed in polite disbelief.

“If that chip on your shoulder was any bigger you’d be a hunchback instead of—” Rake broke off.

“Instead of what?”

Archer was expecting sarcasm at the least. The self-conscious look that flashed briefly across Rake’s face intrigued him.

Rake’s reply was brusque. “It’s no secret the fae are inhumanly beautiful.”

“I’m only half fae.”

Rake growled, “You’re well aware of your…physical attributes.”

Archer laughed shortly and picked up his mug. They drank in silence. A silence that, as the minutes passed, softened and grew almost companionable.