Winter Tide Read online

  At last the voices silenced, and Audrey made her way back. I wanted to demand a report as soon as she got close, but refrained. I beckoned her further inward, and we hurried to put distance between ourselves and the fence.

  Once we were out of sight, I gave in to temptation. “Well?”

  “Well.” She bounced on her toes, cheeks flushed. “Secret agents, unfortunately, turn out not to discuss specific plans on public streets.”

  “I don’t think they’re ‘secret’ agents,” I said. “We’d all be better off if they tried to keep out of sight.”

  “Whatever they are, they’re cryptic. They were arguing about whether it mattered if ‘they’ have ‘it,’ or whether ‘we’ need ‘it’ whether or not they have it. It sounded like they just walked out of the same discussion with the rest of their group.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah? You know what they’re talking about?”

  “Perhaps.” I felt sick—I’d already thought about what disasters an enemy might provoke, clothed in the bodies of those in power. I’d somehow managed to avoid considering what Spector’s own allies and colleagues could do with the same tool. The next world war would be equally deadly regardless of who started it—and perhaps worse for my own people if the state that still hosted them took the lead.

  I really ought to speak with Spector before sharing his concerns with one of Kirill’s old friends. That I trusted Audrey—for the most part—didn’t mean that her friends were trustworthy, as I had cause to know. Still, while the specifics of what Spector had found weren’t mine to divulge, she deserved to know the generalities. “They might be interested in magic for switching bodies. Trumbull’s people do that, usually temporarily, but a few humans have also learned how—most often to steal younger bodies for their own immortality.”

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You were talking about that the other night. Sounds like the Yith do the same thing.”

  “Yes. But when humans do it, by all the laws of the Aeonist faith it’s a capital crime. Normally it’s mad old magicians—the sort who’re mad before they start their studies, not the sort driven mad by them. If the state starts using this spell as a tool of war, it will go badly for everyone.”

  “Huh. Why isn’t it a capital crime for the Yith?”

  I sighed. “Everything that will survive of Earth, survives because of their work. And there’s the practical difficulty of trying to execute them, but that hardly matters—humans have chosen to honor the Yith’s work, and to believe its cost worthwhile. If any of this world’s other species think differently—and there are some who’d have cause—the Archives don’t record it.”

  Audrey hummed softly to herself. “I wish I knew that song she remembers.”

  I nodded, imagining the symbionts Trumbull had described, their melodies of light and color. In my people’s deep cities there were creatures that might be able to sing such a song: bioluminescent squid, and fish that once fluoresced only to attract prey, now bred to decorate sunken streets.

  Audrey shook herself. “The spooks are less interesting to think about, but we probably should. Is it illegal, if they don’t want to switch permanently?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought about it. “That’s not usually how humans do it—most wouldn’t learn how to switch bodies at all, because the assumption is that you’d misuse it.”

  She laughed. “Lots of ways to misuse body swapping without stealing anyone’s youth. Or to use it perfectly nicely. I think your body thieves must not have much imagination. Aren’t you curious what it’s like to have a different body? To be a man, or to be an Olympic athlete? Or just to be taller?” Audrey looked up at me. “If you gave the body back afterward, or if you were switching with someone who wanted to try out your body, that shouldn’t be any sort of crime.”

  “Probably not, but I’ve never heard of anyone doing that—in all the cases I know about, the thief murdered their victim once they had them stuck in the older body.”

  Audrey shuddered. “Not enough imagination, that’s the problem.”

  I lowered my voice as we passed closer to a herd of students. “I don’t think that’s what Barlow’s group wants, though. They may not care for immortality. But political authority, or military sabotage—we may not have imagined it before, but we don’t want to encourage it either.”

  “That’s for sure. I don’t want anyone doing that, even our side.” She looked at me sidelong. “Didn’t you say that magic wasn’t for power?”

  I closed my eyes a moment, filtered the world through touch and sound and scent. I imagined what I might be able to do differently with a taller or stronger body, and what would not change. “It’s not supposed to be. Listen—when a posse goes after someone who’s stolen a body, they bring guns and knives to take them down. And if Barlow’s people steal bodies for power, that power won’t come from magic. Someone put the power there, manipulated or forced themselves into a position to have that much control, do that much harm.”

  “Aphra, you’re a cynic.”

  I shrugged. “I was a prisoner for a long time, for fear of my supposed power.”

  “And what if you’d known how to take the body of someone who had a key?”

  Probably they would have recognized the change, and shot me. Probably if we’d run, they would have come after us with their guns—rounded us up again, or just shot us all to be safe. But if they hadn’t …

  I was quiet the rest of the way back.

  * * *

  When we returned we found Spector away on some manner of errand, Trumbull retreated to her study—and Dawson sitting with Caleb and Neko and Charlie in the living room.

  “She wants to join our confluence,” said Caleb without preamble.

  “Does she?” I asked, surprised.

  Dawson stiffened. “You don’t approve?”

  “If you want to learn, you’re welcome,” I said. A sidelong glance at Audrey drew no complaints. “But…”

  “My sister thinks you don’t like her,” Caleb explained to Dawson.

  “I think,” she told me, “you maybe overestimate how much time I’ve been thinking about you.”

  If I had other concerns, I’d best leave them lie. I’d told Caleb to reveal himself to her, and if I hadn’t predicted what intimacy she might demand as a result, I’d no right to complain that I hadn’t chosen it. Still, my chest felt tight. If my breath shortened, I hoped she didn’t notice. I ducked my head. “My apologies.”

  “As far as Spector is concerned,” continued Caleb, “she’s brushing up on her Enochian.”

  “I will be, too,” Dawson said. “It’s a good idea around here. And I may as well start in on R’lyehn, too. They’re close enough related that I’ll only get confused if I try to learn them separately.”

  “Two languages at once?” Charlie sounded doubtful—he’d been doing the same, but struggling, and most of his vocabulary was memorized ritual rather than conversation.

  Dawson tossed her head. “I didn’t get this job for just my looks.”

  “Deedee’s good with languages.” Caleb’s voice held equal parts pride and envy.

  She patted his arm. “You’ll catch up, boy.” He swatted back, and I could see a little of what they had between them.

  “Did you already ask why she wants to learn?” I asked him.

  He nodded. She didn’t volunteer to repeat her answer, and I didn’t demand it. The tradition’s purpose was to ensure the student knew, not the teacher.

  Lacking a private space for ritual, I instead shared what was becoming my standard introduction to Aeonism and the study of magic. Recalling Trumbull’s disgust with repetitive instruction, I amused myself imagining this lecture as a class in one of Miskatonic’s grand halls, well-dressed young men furiously scribbling notes on the order of Earth’s dominant species. The image was both wildly unlikely and as disturbing as it was funny. Confident young men with easy lives might memorize the Litany, but could hardly do more than glaze over what it said abou
t their place in the universe.

  Dawson showed no such difficulty.

  I wanted to have the promised, frightening conversation about children, about what and where and how we might build a new home. But I didn’t know how overt Caleb and Dawson’s discussion had been, or how much she was willing to say to the rest of us. So we instead discussed history and myth, and practiced conjugation, and kept our thoughts hidden behind our eyes.

  Nothing else of note happened on Sunday, save the tension of people trying to avoid events and conversations of note, well aware that they were unlikely to hold off for long.

  * * *

  That night I slept poorly once more, woke again and again persuaded that someone watched us. Neko did not stir. Eventually I curled around her sleeping form; she murmured wordlessly but did not wake. Lying beside her, unable to so much as doze without nightmare, I asked myself why that guard should come so strongly to mind now after almost three years.

  Ressler had never treated the Nikkei girls as entertainment, or as perks to ease an isolated posting. He treated his duties as a guard, and the danger we presented to the outside world, with solemn confidence. He didn’t want us to feel free to conspire, or confident in any momentary privacy. If you woke and saw him in the doorway, he would continue to watch for a few minutes—no lasciviousness, no pleasure in our fear, simply the assertion of his absolute right to observe.

  Barlow’s team didn’t seem nearly so pure in their intentions, but they were equally confident in their rights. Since Spector’s rescue, I’d been hiding from their sight. That choice might be comfortable, but it wasn’t safe. And hiding from Barlow acknowledged, implicitly, some rightful power. Though I was grateful to Spector for claiming us as “his” team, in truth the others were mine—save for Trumbull, they’d said as much—and it was as much my place as Spector’s to prove the legitimacy of our presence.

  Tomorrow night, then, would not be another family dinner safe in Trumbull’s dining room. I needed to let Barlow’s team see me, see us—and I needed to speak to them like someone who wasn’t afraid.

  I was afraid, but after making my decision I slept untroubled.

  CHAPTER 19

  With classes in session, the whole feel of the campus changed. Students hurried with greater purpose, toting stacks of textbooks. Professors donned suits and strode with a confidence born of the rightful order restored. Women reappeared, smartly dressed secretaries bearing packets and parcels. Lacking only Trumbull—on her way to a despised class—and Dawson—caught up in Skinner’s packets and parcels—we made our way to the library. As promised, the crowds were larger than before but not unmanageable.

  The weekend had made one difference—several of us now sought specific texts from the collection. Caleb wanted more journals, Chulzh’th’s especially, while I asked for the Cthäat Aquadingen, an advanced text that discussed the workings of confluences. Quietly, I hoped to find more hints of mist-blooded children flown from Innsmouth before the raid. At Audrey’s request, I also recalled titles that might have something more or less reliable to say about the Mad Ones. They were not common manuscripts, and I was particularly proud of the query that successfully retrieved a ragged copy of A Report of the Trials of J. Pyre by an Admirer and Companion: Concerning the Peoples Underhill, Their Degenerate Worship, Their Violations of Natural Order and Wicked Practices Against Ordained Forms. With that to hand, along with Bishop’s anthology of shorter reports, Audrey was soon immersed in her studies—though she kept close by and occasionally brushed against me as she read.

  The librarian seemed more relaxed about the five-book limit, but I doubted this would extend to direct storage room access. I watched through slitted eyes as he came and went from the shadowed hall behind the desk, but could only faintly discern the distance and direction of the building’s hidden heart.

  Late in the morning Trumbull joined us. Her expression of contempt wasn’t surprising, but after she sat and plucked a journal from Caleb’s pile we learned that no mere undergraduates had roused her distaste.

  “Virgil Peters,” she said, voice dripping disgust, and Spector looked up with a frown. “He claims to be auditing my geometry class. He has a note from the dean.” She glanced over the journal’s bookplate, opened her own notebook, and began scribbling in quick, neat Enochian. A grim smile passed briefly across her face. “Some of the students recognized him from the gate. They didn’t appreciate his inconveniencing their return. A few were quite outspoken on the matter; it does make me feel more kindly disposed to them.”

  “What does Peters want from your class?” asked Spector.

  “I dearly hope he doesn’t want to learn geometry. I’d rather he leave disappointed. And quickly.”

  We returned to our studies, though the reminder of Spector’s unpleasant colleagues distracted me. That they thought overt surveillance of his team worthwhile wasn’t promising. Was it an attempt to investigate Skinner’s suspicions? A threat? Likely both.

  My suspicions grew when, an hour later, Peters entered our reading room. He took in the table, and our various looks of displeasure, and smiled cheerfully at Spector. Their eyes danced a brief dominance contest. I shrank back in my chair, then remembered my resolve and forced myself upright.

  “Let me guess,” said Spector, putting down the Book of Hidden Things. “You had no idea we were here.”

  “I didn’t, in fact—hello, Professor Trumbull. George sent me to look up a few specific texts, and they told me I’d find them in the rare books collection. Which I gather is here.”

  Spector waved his hand at the desk. “Go on then, don’t let us keep you.” Then added, as Peters took a step past, “You should know that they require professorial permission before they’ll grant access.”

  Peters paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Since it’s a matter of national security, I’m sure they’ll be cooperative.”

  Spector looked at his hands. “If only. They’ve already reminded me that this is a private library. Unless you happen to have a warrant…”

  “Hm.” Peters’s eyes drifted first to the books on the table, then to Trumbull. “Professor, you could give me that permission.”

  She didn’t look up from her notebook. “I could. But I won’t, because I hold grudges.”

  Peters’s expression nearly matched Trumbull’s for blandness, but he turned his attention back to Spector. “Perhaps you might remind your team that we’re colleagues—of a sort.”

  I reminded myself—though I knew I lied—that this man had no power over me. That I had more right to be here than he. I stood. “Mr. Peters.” He blinked, looked me over—and I saw in his eyes the usual dismissal of a woman found unappealing. I could not let that hold. I strode around the table, approached him though all my instincts screamed of danger. “You haven’t apologized for Saturday. Your—” Calling him their master would be a poor choice of words. “Mr. Barlow has not apologized. The way you treated us was unconscionable, and it is not your place to insist that we let it drop. We had an extremely unpleasant afternoon, and Mr. Spector recognizes that.”

  He took a step back. “My apologies,” he said without feeling. He whirled away without waiting for reply. I remained standing, watching, not daring to turn my back for long enough to reclaim my seat. So I saw him approach the desk, heard him attempt to charm the librarian and traverse the same refusals we had initially encountered.

  Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention: Trumbull had stiffened. I’d thought her face bland before, but now she looked like she’d forgotten to animate it entirely. She reached smoothly across the table and took my copy of Cthäat Aquadingen, flipped to a specific page, and made a complex gesture over the symbol thereon. She then found the passage I’d been reading, returned the book to its original place on the table, and resumed taking her notes on the journal.

  Peters’s voice rose in frustration. He brought it under control, clearly with some effort, and returned to our table. “Miss Marsh,” he said. “May I spea
k with you in private?”

  Spector looked up sharply, and Charlie started to rise. But I didn’t want to get everyone involved in an argument—not until I knew what he wanted. “Of course.”

  Out in the hall, he turned to me. “Miss Marsh. You’re from Innsmouth.” A statement, not a question.

  I swallowed the fear that welled up at his words; it was hardly a secret he could use against me. “I’m certain my files say as much.”

  “And it was Ephraim Waite’s old case that brought us out here in the first place. Your people knew the body-snatching trick—and even if the raid in ’28 was an overreaction, you were never exactly loyal Americans. The Waites and the Marshes … pretty closely related, right? The town’s leading lights.”

  I bit back a fitting response. I needed to tread carefully here. But I could feel sweat on my palms, and the scent of it wafted up like some nauseating incense. “Our families are related, yes. But Ephraim Waite was a criminal, and his studies an aberration.”

  “Really? It sounded like your leaders were as concerned with covering up his ‘crimes’ as punishing them.”

  I sought an answer that wouldn’t simply mimic Caleb’s excuses—there was all too much justice in Peters’s accusation, though none in the smug insinuation alongside.

  He went on: “And here you are, coincidentally, at the heart of the investigation despite having no clearance, and no special expertise that isn’t itself suspicious.” His voice grew honed. “Whatever you thought to get out of this, I suggest you watch yourself.” He stalked away.

  The librarian came over as I returned to the table. “I presume, Professor, that he did not in fact have your permission to access On the Sending Out of the Soul?”

  I winced, distracted from my alarming conversation with Peters; if such a book had originally come from Innsmouth it was not a volume I’d been permitted to read as a child. Trumbull said only, “Certainly not.” The librarian nodded and left us to our studies.