Chapter One

Never trust a goblin.

Even a child knows that much. But there are times when you’ve got to take the chance, when the prize is worth the risk— which is how Archer Green happened to be in a drafty warehouse on Quebec Street in Vancouver a few minutes before midnight, waiting with a goblin named Ezra for the Moth Man to turn up.

Why the goblins called the Moth Man the Moth Man was a mystery. He was an albino, so maybe that had something to do with it. That, and his predilection for the bright and shiny, especially things that easily caught fire or exploded. The Moth Man had a way of finding artifacts that were, in Archer’s opinion, better left lost.

It was probably a strange opinion for the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver. Not that the ordinary man—or woman—on the street would know anything about MoSSA.

The wind moaned dolefully through the chinks in the old brick walls. Ezra munched agitatedly at one of those violet floral cigarettes he was so fond of. Archer kept to the shadows and resisted checking his pocket watch yet again. He wasn’t nervous, exactly—it took a lot to make him nervous—but he wasn’t happy either.

“He’ll be here soon.” Ezra continued to pace up and down before the empty wooden crates with their faded emblems of skulls and crowns, the dully gleaming vats and ducts that looked like nothing so much as a giant steel stomach. “Don’t worry.”

Archer lifted a dismissive shoulder, but he’d already made up his mind to walk if the Moth Man didn’t show by five after.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the Moth Man had something worth his time and trouble. The Moth Mans of the realms seemed always to have the inside track on beautiful and rare items before they hit the regular black market. Still, Archer would have preferred to know exactly what he was acquiring before venturing out in the dead of night with a wallet full of cash.

“His merchandise is always worth it.” Ezra gulped down the rest of his cigarette and belched an agitated purple puff toward the rafters overhead. “He said he wants to talk to you personally.”
Archer threw him a quick look. “Me? Why me?”

“Eh?”

“Your friend. Why should he want to speak to me in particular?”

Ezra gave a smoky laugh. “Don’t know. Never asked.”

Archer pulled out his pocket watch. Moonlight through the grimy windows illuminated the time. Three minutes after mid- night. He snapped the watch closed. “That’s it for me. I’ve an early start tomorrow.”

“No, wait!” Ezra cried. “Don’t leave. I know he’s on his way.”

Archer studied Ezra, studied the beads of sweat popping out over Ezra’s human features, took note of the anxious licking of tongue over lips. Yep, definitely time to say adieu. Archer opened his mouth, but somewhere to the left of where they stood came a ghostly screech of rusted hinges.

Instinctively, they both turned.

“See. Told you,” Ezra muttered.

Archer ignored him, watching warily until at last he spotted a tall figure in a drab overcoat moving through the darkness like a white shadow. The figure moved swiftly, with frequent glances over his shoulder, as though he feared pursuit through the canyons of metal tubes and casks.

“Well! You took your time,” Ezra greeted the Moth Man when he reached them at last.

“Can’t help it. Thought I was being followed.” The Moth Man’s voice was high and breathy. His eyes were large and protuberant. They appeared colorless in the gloom. He was taller than most humans, certainly taller than Archer, and very thin.

“Were you?” Archer asked as Ezra scoffed.

The Moth Man shook his head. He eyed Archer curiously. “You’re him? You’re—”

“No names,” Archer cut in.

“No. No, it’s just I thought you would be…different.”

Archer got that a lot. “What is it you have for me?”

“Have you got the money?”

“Show me the goods first.”

The Moth Man reached into his overcoat and pulled out a long, plain envelope. He picked at the flap with long gray finger- nails, plucked it open, and held out an old-fashioned Polaroid. He smiled slyly.

“What is it?”

“Take it.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t buy on spec—”

As he spoke, the snapshot gave a tiny pop and green sparks flew up. The Moth Man giggled. “It likes you.”

Casting him a doubtful look, Archer reached slowly for the photograph. It seemed to slip right into his palm. He gazed down.

He was looking at what appeared to be a small mound of broken glass arranged on a square of black velvet. The picture hummed against his fingertips.

Wonderingly, Archer raised his gaze to the pallid one so closely regarding him.

The Moth Man gave another of those unsettling giggles. “Er, might I interest you in a strand of green glass beads?”

At that instant the tall warehouse doors rolled up with a rattle like a million eyelids snapping awake. Dazzling white light flooded the building, bouncing off the canisters and tubing in a blinding glare. Navy-uniformed VPD poured into the building, shouting orders.

Much worse were the familiar dark-clad agents flanking the locals. The regular law enforcement hung back as the men and women in black fanned out behind the slow rolling green-gray of damping dust that tumbled lazily, almost playfully, through the entrails of the machinery and ladders. They wore spell masks and carried mage pistols.

The Irregulars.