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  Trumbull found a resting place for the car, and looked back at us. I sensed her fear so clearly that I couldn’t be certain whether she had deliberately sent the impression into my mind, or whether it was merely that I had never seen that expression on her face before.

  We all got out, slowly and with our hands plainly visible. White flakes drifted down around us, broad and slow, lighting weightlessly on hair and hats and suit jackets. I stared at the ground, so that the fog of my breath rose to cloud my vision. It was terrifying, a claustrophobic pressure against my thoughts, not to be permitted to see what had trapped us. Polished shoes, entirely inappropriate for a Massachusetts winter, shuffled in and out of sight.

  A faint movement of air behind me, and the scent of anger-sweat surging over the putrid smell of exhaust, warned me of the man’s approach so that I didn’t lash out when he touched my wrists. Then the ice-cold steel of cuffs against my skin. As he ran his hands down my light jacket and patted my pockets, I reminded myself that I had dealt with this many times. I regretted every one of those memories, but I could—would—survive one more.

  Neko continued to repeat, so quietly I doubted the men of the air could hear: “Do what he says, just do what he says…”

  He pulled my dagger from my belt. “Not much of a weapon.”

  I gritted my teeth. “It’s not intended as one.”

  There was some fuss over Charlie’s cane, which they let him keep though I couldn’t see the exact arrangements. At last they began herding us in toward the campus proper—only two, I thought, but couldn’t be certain. I knew that if we fought or ran, there would be more of them.

  The administration building stood just around a bend from the gate. I was startled, when we passed through the brick archway, to realize how short the walk had been. High heels and dress shoes stepped hurriedly back as the men directed us through, and murmurs followed our wake. At last, having paraded past several witnesses—presumably so they could attest to our dangerous natures—we entered a whitewashed room with broad windows.

  It must have been until recently an ordinary office—the metal desks pushed to the side still held test papers and framed photos scooped into rough piles. Now larger tables bore neat stacks of files and an official-looking phone. Before I ducked my head again, I saw several more well-dressed men and a secretary look up in surprise. I heard clicks as our captors drew and aimed their guns.

  “What’s this, damn it?” demanded one of the new men. “Sorry, Mary.” The secretary murmured reassurance.

  “A mistake,” said Trumbull. “I’m a professor—”

  “It sure is a mistake,” said one of our captors—I thought the one who’d first taken issue with Trumbull. “I wasn’t expecting our Ruskie spy to try and hypnotize us at the gate. She didn’t manage it—that talisman worked a treat.”

  There were so many things they could have accurately accused us of being. It would have been funny, if I thought they’d believe any reassurance I offered.

  Scent of wood polish, soap, sweat—and fainter, paper and leather and ash. Footsteps around us, more shoes. Fabric rustling. “You’re right, it’s gone all black. Impressive. Mary, a replacement ward, if you would. Why are they all staring at the floor?”

  “I told them not to make eye contact, sir. She seemed to need it, when she tried to roll me.”

  “That’s reassuring. Means she hasn’t found what she’s after yet. Peters, get them some chairs. Who are all these others?”

  “Her ‘research assistants,’ she said. They seem like a motley bunch.”

  Charlie broke in. “This is absurd—we’re American citizens, we have rights—”

  “Are you now? That remains to be seen.”

  I wished I could tell Charlie to stay quiet, not make things worse—but speaking would make it worse as well. He seemed to figure it out on his own. I wished, too, for claws, strength, greater magic. I knew from painful experience that those wouldn’t help either.

  They brought in old wooden chairs, sat us down, clipped our cuffs to the slats. My arms ached already, as much from fear as from the awkward angle. The bottom of a crisp-ironed suit jacket appeared in front of me, and the owner tied something around my face. Folds of fabric dug into my skin and instantly started to itch, an irritant all the greater for my inability to ease it. It smelled of wax and dust.

  “Now, ma’am.” The man’s voice stood a little way off—closer to Trumbull. “Why don’t you make this easy on yourself? It must be hard to get a position at a place like Miskatonic. Any offer of a way in must have seemed tempting. You’re hardly to blame for wanting to get a little something for yourself, but you could be in more trouble than you realize. Tell us now what you’re doing here, and we might be able to help you.”

  A long pause. “I’m teaching multidimensional geometry.”

  “Don’t play coy. You burned out Peters’s protective ward. Are geometry professors usually familiar with advanced methods of hypnosis?”

  “Of course we are. What do you suppose multidimensional studies are for?”

  A different voice. “I doubt every math professor would try and mind control our gate check.”

  “It depends how rude your people are, and how patient the professors. But I assure you, it’s not an unheard-of skill on campus.”

  The first interrogator. “Let’s try this again. Who are you working for?”

  “Dean Skinner. Whom you should perhaps contact.”

  “We already have. Mary, there are other talismans we might try testing. Get the box for me, there’s a love.”

  Heels clacking against hardwood floor. Papers rustling; something heavy dragged across the floor and lifted with a dull thunk onto a table. Metal against metal, and the muffled click of a lock turning.

  And Caleb’s voice: “Leave her alone. It’s me you want.”

  A sole scraped against hardwood, and the first interrogator spoke. “What?”

  “Caleb, no,” I said, and heard the same cry from Neko.

  “I’ve been trying to get into the library for months. She had the access I needed, so I offered to help with her research. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “Why speak up now?” asked the second interrogator.

  “I don’t like to hear a woman scream. Gives me bad dreams.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream myself: it was a line from one of the pulps I’d read aloud to Charlie while we were cleaning the store. A dime novel: Caleb must have used a copy to practice his reading. I didn’t blame him for thinking of it—though to real agents, the melodrama might not ring true. At least it had distracted them.

  “So you’re working for…”

  “Russia, obviously. Not directly, of course. There are people everywhere who’ll pay good money for the secrets in Miskatonic’s library.”

  A woman’s voice this time, low and clear—the kind of voice some people put on like makeup. “I don’t believe it, sir. He’s too smooth, and she’s too scared.”

  “Yes. Better try the talisman on both of them.”

  A door slammed heavily, and a sudden draft spilled cool air over my face. Spector’s voice rang out: “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  The first interrogator, sounding unperturbed: “Hello, Ron. Questioning the suspects you didn’t manage to find during all your poking around the library.”

  “Suspects?” Spector’s voice turned dry. “They’re my team. If you take off the cuffs and—blindfolds? What the hell, George?—I’ll introduce them to you, though I don’t think they’ll be much inclined to shake hands at this point.”

  “Yes, I actually did guess that these might be your ‘irregulars.’ I heard you’d picked up some … odd characters. We took them in because they were acting extremely suspicious.”

  “They may be irregulars, but they’re my team nevertheless. Whatever ‘suspicions’ made you pick them up—and leave me out of the loop—I can assure you that they aren’t Russian, or German, or any of the other monsters you thin
k you’ll find with that parade at the gate. Take off the damn blindfolds.”

  “This one tried to hypnotize Peters. And this one claims to be a Russian spy.”

  “I have no idea why Peters would accuse a respectable professor of any such thing, but I promise you she’s working with me. And—Mr. Marsh, why did you tell the man you were a Russian spy?”

  I felt warmth near my face, smelled cigarettes and the faint lemon of Spector’s cologne, and then I blinked against sudden light as he pulled the blindfold off. When I opened my eyes I saw Caleb, too, shaking his head against the change.

  “He was threatening Professor Trumbull with some sort of … talisman, he said.”

  “I see.” Spector continued to pace, removing the others’ blindfolds. Neko’s face was streaked with salt water. Spector held out his hand to George. “Key? If you don’t like the people I’m working with, take it up with our superiors and go through proper channels. I can assure you they’ve seen everyone’s files. This just looks like a grade-A illustration of why we aren’t supposed to send independent teams to the same site. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I don’t expect the details of either investigation to get in the papers. Or don’t you trust the discretion of your irregulars?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of being embarrassed when we screw up, even if it doesn’t go public. I don’t know about you.” Spector bent to fiddle with the key behind Charlie’s chair, helping him to his feet before unbinding Neko. He handed her a discreet handkerchief, and came next to Trumbull. “My apologies for the inconvenience, professor, on behalf of the U.S. government.”

  As soon as the cuffs dropped away she pushed herself to her feet. She wound her hands together, then forced them to her sides. In Enochian, she said to our captors, “May your eldest ancestors die childless in a tarpit; I hope never to see your eyes again.” She strode out into the hall.

  The men all looked at Mary. “I think that was extremely rude,” she said. “Where did she learn to swear in R’lyehn?”

  “This is Miskatonic,” said Spector. “Perhaps you should all research its history before continuing your inquisition.” No one bothered to correct her identification of the language.

  “Your concerns are noted,” said George. “And I can assure you I’ll look into them. Why don’t you take your team home now?”

  “I certainly will.” He strode over to what I could now see was a small wooden chest, polished in plain style but with ornately carved metal latches. He poked his finger delicately into the interior. “Some sort of talisman … Miss Marsh, what do you make of these?”

  I had no interest in posturing at a roomful of armed soldiers. But he’d rescued us, and it seemed wise to follow his lead. And to get some idea of what he’d rescued us from.

  The chest held a series of charms: stones carved in the Enochian alphabet with a mix of Enochian, R’lyehn, and doubtful nonsense, as well as wholly unfamiliar sigils. A few were bound with herbs or bits of wood. Putting my hand near them felt like standing too close to a bonfire built too high: sparks and hot ash against my skin. I drew back, but not before I sensed, along with the physical illusion—I checked my hand and found it unburnt—the intimation that someone watched me with great suspicion.

  I had not the faintest idea what their diagrams entailed or how they got their effect, or what it would do in close quarters and at length. I tried for Professor Trumbull’s best expression of bored irritation.

  “Very creative,” I told them. “Your grammar is poor, but effective.”

  “No surprise,” said Spector. “George’s team is noted for their creativity. Shall we?” And thankfully, finally, he led us out.

  Trumbull paced the hall, hands writhing. As soon as she saw us she whirled and stalked outside. We followed and found her standing with eyes closed, face upturned to catch the snow. Spector rounded on her.

  “All right. I risked my career to get you out of there along with everyone else, because I trust Miss Marsh’s judgment and she seems to trust you. But before this goes further I need to know who you are, and why you’re here.”

  Her eyes flew open. “I am a math professor. As I have said far too often today.”

  He stepped closer. “Not good enough. You’ve thrown yourself into our research with no apparent motive. You went with Miss Marsh to meet her family, which suggests something well beyond ordinary academic curiosity—and she brought you along, which suggests something well beyond the historical relationship between Innsmouth and Arkham.” He paused. Trumbull had not backed away, as a human would, and I saw his foot lift as he nearly retreated himself. But he continued: “There may be other professors who can hypnotize with a look—though I’ve gathered that Miskatonic’s reputation is exaggerated on that count—but few who’d try it with officers of the law. You were either remarkably confident in your superiority to them—or not at all confident in your right to enter the campus.”

  “Perhaps I’m just strange. Everyone says so.”

  Spector sighed and turned to me. “Miss Marsh? You’ll forgive my unwillingness to continue blindly. Either I understand what she’s doing here, or she’s out of this thing entirely and we find you bunks at Hall.”

  Around us students passed, nonchalant as if their home had not been violated. Many went with heads down in deference to the weather, but others paused to observe our altercation. “We’ll talk. But somewhere private.”

  CHAPTER 15

  In the end we went back to Trumbull’s house—it wasn’t far, and I doubted my ability to persuade her anywhere else. The house not having any proper parlor, we settled in her living room. In contrast to the office, I suspected this room more reflected its original owner. The unadorned couches and chairs looked as inexpensive as a new professor might reasonably get away with, and rubbed thin in the centers of the cushions. A bookshelf held a few choice literary classics along with works of philosophy and esoterica. The paintings were of good quality but somewhat mismatched: a pointillist impression of the Miskatonic River from Meadow Hill alongside a pair of swirling abstracts and a surreal dreamscape of fabulous birds flying through a star-studded abyss. I examined this last more closely while the others settled into their chosen seats, and was not entirely surprised to read “C. Trumbull, ’46” boldly scrawled in the lower corner. The others had the same mark, with dates ranging from two years to a decade past.

  Neko headed for the kitchen, but returned quickly. “Professor, don’t you keep anything on hand to offer guests?”

  “It isn’t usually an issue. If the two of you keep inviting people over, I suppose something will need to be done.” Her posture and aspect sharpened. “Mr. Spector, will you accept my word that I do not represent any polity of interest to you, and hold no political opinions relevant to your concerns?”

  He leaned forward on his blue velvet chair. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

  She sighed heavily. “Miss Koto, I do believe there to be tea in the cabinet above the sink. The social prop might in fact be helpful.” She examined her hands, then Spector, with an air of displeased unfamiliarity. “What do you know of Earth’s history?”

  He frowned. “More than most. Would you like a textbook?”

  “Perhaps the question is too broad. Try instead: how much do you know of the history of Earth’s future?”

  He sat back. “I know that the Marshes’ religion includes prophecies and promises of what is to come. My religion includes others. I wouldn’t call either ‘history.’ Beyond that, I suppose I can guess—or fear—as much as anyone.”

  “Hopeless.” Her bored irritation was still more impressive than mine. “Miss Marsh, you explain, since he insists. I shall be curious to hear how you manage.”

  I was curious as well. I must not only explain, but satisfy Spector’s concerns. And I had questions of my own for him, that I suspected he’d be reluctant to answer. “Humans aren’t the only intelligent species to walk the Earth,” I began.

  “I know,” he s
aid, nodding at me.

  “I’m as human as you. Just a different kind.” And truly sick from having to repeat that assertion to people who supposedly respected me. “Civilizations have risen and fallen on this world since the surface cooled. After humanity dies, or destroys itself, people like giant beetles will build in our ashes. After them, five more species in Earth’s own evolutionary chain will rise and fall—and a dozen others who come and go from distant stars, or who last aeons and never learn the art of writing, or who are lost when plagues wipe out their first attempt at agriculture. These races are not prophecy and myth, but recorded history—and Professor Trumbull’s people are the ones who record it.”

  Neko returned bearing a tea tray. Spector snatched a cup and busied himself with sugar and cream. I gave him the moment to consider. At last he took a sip, winced at the heat, and said: “That’s a remarkable claim.”

  “The universe is a remarkable place,” I said. “What do you suggest I do about it?”

  “Evidence would be nice. There are whole corners of the government that go haring off after unlikely prophecies and passages of the Bible. I am not on any of those teams.”

  “A demonstration might be in order,” said Trumbull. “If Miss Marsh will permit, of course.”

  “He’s not my student, but I suggest you ask him directly.”

  She pursed her lips. “Mr. Spector, you have my word that I’ll make no permanent alteration to your state, and do nothing to change your thoughts or beliefs—other than the changes that occur naturally through encountering new information. Or so one hopes.” She put down her teacup, and locked gazes with him.

  Audrey had not only pushed back against Trumbull, but also appeared singularly unimpressed—though I began to suspect that she was not as forthcoming with her thoughts as she sometimes appeared. Spector was more vulnerable. His jaw went slack—then for just a moment, I saw shock in her eyes and cold mockery in his. The moment passed, and their expressions returned to their accustomed faces.