Irregulars - lanyon Josh - Страница 44

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“Did he ask specifically to see me or to see the proprietor?”

“Proprietaire.” Marie was a member of the local korrigan tribe. She was about two feet tall with long silken white hair and red eyes. She reminded Archer of those Danish troll dolls that had been so popular in the sixties. She was his shop assistant and the closest thing he had to a confidant in Saint-Malo. Hands on her hips, she waited for his verdict.

“Tell him I’ve gone for the day.”

Marie went out. Archer went back to his paper.

A while later Marie was back with Archer’s tea. A bulky envelope rested on the tray.

“What’s this?”

Marie shrugged. “He left it for you.”

“Who?”

“The American.”

Archer picked up the envelope and examined it doubtfully. He’d had a few run-ins with the local hard cases, but it was hard to believe the drow would hire American muscle. A. Green was dashed off in a strong, unfamiliar hand across the face of the envelope.

He ripped open the flap and tipped the envelope. Green stones as cool and silky as running water pooled in his hand and then spilled over, whispering sweetly.

Better than stars or water,

Better than voices of winds that sing,

Better than any man’s fair daughter,

Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Archer caught the rope of green glass beads before they fell to the floor.

He clutched them, feeling the weight of them swinging gently between his fingers. He pressed them to his face and felt the strange chill of them against his eyelids and lips. His throat tightened. His eyes stung. It was all he could do not to weep with joy. It was the shock of it, the utterly unexpected granting of his greatest wish.

It was only then that he realized that, in fact, recovery of the beads was his second greatest wish.

He lowered the beads to find Marie staring at him, puzzled.

“What did he look like?”

“Who?”

“The American?”

“Big.” Marie spread her arms. “Les Rochers Sculptes.” A man as big as the bas-relief sculptures of sea monsters and giants along the Emerald Coast at Rotheneuf.

“Where did he go?”

Marie shook her head.

Archer dropped the beads onto the tea tray and ran out the door, ignoring Marie’s cries to take his raincoat.

The antiques shop was located in the back streets of quiet and quaint Saint-Servan-sur-Mer, part of Saint-Malo. Barry had chosen well. Archer had felt immediately at home amidst the cobblestones and narrow, vaulted passageways and small, enclosed gardens with trees and flowers and mushrooms. Or as much at home as he would ever feel now that he understood that home was, as humans put it, where the heart was.

He ran down the alleyway and out onto the high road.

In the summer months of July and August the area was overrun with tourists who came for the beaches and the blue surf, but this was May and the streets and beaches were empty as Archer sped along, searching for Rake.

Rain bounced off the cobblestones, skipping and zinging down the narrow road.

Why had he done it? Why had Rake brought the beads, unharmed, untouched, to Archer? Why now? Six months later?

And why had he gone away again?

Archer realized he had dropped the necklace on his desk and left it there unprotected, unguarded, but still he kept running, glancing down alleyways, peering through the rain-silvered shop windows.

There was no sign of Rake anywhere.

Couldn’t he have waited? Couldn’t he have insisted on seeing Archer? After six months couldn’t Rake have given him another half hour?

But then Rake had already given him the thing he believed Archer wanted most.

Six months! Even Archer, young enough to be optimistic in the face of all reason, had nearly lost hope that he would ever see Rake again.

True, at the start of his exile he hadn’t wanted to see Rake again. He had been angry and hurt. Not merely because Rake had made good on his threats but because of the things Rake had said the last day at the museum, because Rake had tried to pretend that there was nothing between them. You didn’t have to read fairytales to know the magical thing that had sprung to life the very first time they had laid eyes on each other.

Love. That was the word for it in the mortal realms. And in the immortal realms as well.

Yes, Archer had been far angrier about Rake’s rejection than Rake’s attempt to trap and imprison him. After all, Rake had given him plenty of warning—as Archer had given Rake. They were on different sides, that was all. What had been harder to forgive was Rake pretending there was nothing else between them.

But when Archer had time to think—and he’d had plenty of time to think these past six months—he’d known Rake was lying. Lying to himself and lying to Archer, but mostly lying to himself.

All Archer had to do was remember Rake’s expression when he had feared Gaki had killed Archer.

That didn’t solve the problem of being on opposing sides. But perhaps they weren’t really on opposing sides.

It still didn’t solve the problem of Rake disappearing again.

Archer rounded another corner and stopped short. Speak of the devil. Demon. Rake stood gazing into a small park ringed by a black ornate railing. His expression was somber, but maybe that was the rain running down the back of his neck.

Having been focused only on finding Rake, Archer realized he didn’t know what to say to him. In his mind, the Rake he was pursuing had been the passionate and tender lover of the single night they’d spent together. This Rake was the severe-faced man of their first meeting.

Rake must have picked his signature up because he turned his head and stared at Archer without surprise.

“You’re welcome. But you didn’t need to run out in the rain to say thanks.”

His voice sounded exactly the same. He looked exactly the same. But then why wouldn’t he? The change was within Archer.

Archer walked toward him. “Why didn’t you wait?”

“I didn’t think there was a reason to wait.”

Archer reached Rake. The faint scent of vanilla mingled with rain and wet flowers. He breathed in deeply and smiled. “I was afraid you were only wearing that to seduce me.”

Rake’s brows drew together. He glanced down at himself. “My raincoat?”

“Your aftershave.”

Rake’s smile twisted. “Of course. The vanilla. I thought that was an old wives’ tale.”

Archer shook his head. Suddenly shy, he stared at the stone bench and flowers, the statues of little people probably intended to be faeries. “Why did you do it?”

“What? Oh. The beads. You know why I did it.”

Archer risked a quick look. Rake was looking at him steadily. Archer said, “I know you think I’m a fool. But when you don’t have a home or a family…”

“I know.” Rake’s face softened. “But it isn’t clocks and snuffboxes that make a home. And family ties aren’t forged in silver and green glass beads.”

“True. But you take what you can get.” That sounded pathetic. Archer said quickly, “How did you manage it? I thought the beads were going to be neutralized.”

Rake’s expression was strange. “The beads don’t pose a threat to humanity. They’re not magical.”

Archer blinked, uncomprehending. “That’s not true.” He’d seen that look on Rake’s face one other time: in his office at the museum when Rake had said he didn’t believe Archer intended any harm. He said bewilderedly, “That’s not possible.”

“If there is magic in them, it’s only for you.”

Archer turned away, trying to make sense of this. “But they are magic. I can feel that they are.”

Rake shrugged.

“They are magic.”

“Why does that matter?”

Archer opened his mouth and then closed it.

Rake took pity on him. “With George Gaki busy doing thirty years for trafficking in culturally significant other-realm artifacts, I appealed for ownership of the beads in the faerie realm. You’ve been awarded custody.”

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