“Oh, you know. Dark rituals—I always assumed that someone rubbed dead tarantula on themselves and talked it up at the college.” She rubbed her pricked finger against her palm. “But that Innsmouth was destroyed because the people there made deals with some sort of water demon, and had children who were half demon. Or half mermaid, or half fish. People are more interested in not-talking about the details of demonic marriages than in the details of the kids. But your blood felt—I’m not accusing you of anything! Even if you did marry demons, they’re probably more worthwhile than most human boys. It’s just that your blood doesn’t feel like mine at all. It feels like running toward the ocean as fast as I can go.”
I shared a glance with Caleb, but knew already that the conversational undertow had us. “No demons. And no dark deals—our people have always been like this. We’re human, just a different kind than you. The people of the water don’t age as the people of the air do. We change, as we get older, to live out our lives deep in the ocean. That’s what you felt.” I shook my head. “I’m doing this all backward. There are things you should hear.” I motioned her to sit.
I recited the Litany, sketched for her the vastness of the cosmos and the abundance of lives and minds that strove to survive it. And knew all the while that I had bound myself to something unknown. In my ignorance, I had made Charlie and my brother—perhaps my whole family—vulnerable to any least failure of understanding or empathy or discretion on the part of a near stranger.
Now I must make her vulnerable in turn.
“I told you that we do not age,” I said. “But twenty years ago, when the state raided Innsmouth, they found every other way we could be harmed. Caleb and I are the only ones left that I know of—on land.”
“But your family…?”
“We’re in Arkham for two reasons: to try to get Innsmouth’s books back, and to let our elders know we’re alive. Will you help?”
She took my hand. “This is what I’ve been looking for since I came to Hall. Of course I’ll help.” She paused. “Um. I hate to ask, but your friends downstairs. Do—I mean, I suppose all humans must look alike to you.”
Caleb snorted. “You don’t have a problem with fishfaces because we’re exciting and magical, but you’ve got a problem with Japs and—”
I put up a hand. “Caleb, names have meaning even if you’re mocking them—please don’t use false ones. And Miss Winslow, you bear that in mind as well. We were in that camp for decades, and most of our people dead, when the government decided it would be a convenient place to stash some of their new batch of prisoners. If the Kotos hadn’t come when they did, if the government hadn’t been vague in their order to close the camps, we’d be there still—or dead ourselves. They’re family, and we owe them our lives. And Dawson’s the one who got us library access, so I don’t care to hear whatever you were thinking about her either.”
She shrank back, releasing my hand. “I’m sorry. I was just curious, that’s all. They’re not studying with us, though?”
“Neko’s never been interested. And Miss Dawson hasn’t asked. If she asked—I would teach her. If that bothers you…” Then, I supposed, I would have to learn some way to cut the connection that I’d made with Audrey. I’d heard of such things, but nothing to indicate that they were easy or pleasant.
She wound her fingers together, then placed them firmly in her lap. “You may not claim any title, but as far as I’m concerned you’re in charge. You say who joins us and who stays away.”
Caleb looked doubtful but didn’t argue. Charlie nodded firmly. I bowed my head, accepting the weight.
“So—now what?” asked Audrey.
“Now—” I checked the window and found the night grown dark. “If we want to speak with our elders, we need to learn how to call them. You won’t be able to help much, but if you want to stick around?” She nodded eagerly. “Mr. Day, if you could tell them what we talked about the other night, about how summoning works, I need to get my notes.”
I tarried in the doorway long enough to hear that he remembered our discussion well, then went downstairs. Neko and Dawson were frying eggs with the minimal supplies in Trumbull’s kitchen.
“Margarine and salt,” Neko told me in disgust. “No spices at all. Do you want some?”
“Not just yet. But if you feel a sudden urge to go upstairs—don’t.”
Dawson flipped one of the eggs and looked at me over her shoulder. “We’ll leave you your privacy, don’t worry.”
“Not like that. You should expect a sudden urge to go upstairs. There’s no need to follow it. There’s no particular need to not follow it, either, it’s just not a requirement even if it feels like one.”
Dawson shook her head and slid the egg onto a plate. “Dinner, that’s what I’m doing.”
I found my notes from On the Calling of Kinds, and returned upstairs. Caleb stood to meet me.
“Aphra, I know it’s going to be easier for them to summon us, regardless, but I’d feel more comfortable if we learned to summon them first.”
I considered. It was true that the spell to summon men of the air was practically useless, but it was the foundation for summoning individuals, so not a complete waste. And he was right—I was not ultimately willing to offer this vulnerability without demanding it as well. “All right.”
I wiped the previous diagram and started again. The new one required a central sigil—though a small one—drawn in blood, for which I nicked another finger. I hesitated before pressing it to the slate, but Trumbull wouldn’t need my blood to take advantage even if she cared to do so. Caleb apparently came to the same conclusion, and added his own to the spiraling sign.
“Blood of the kind being summoned is also helpful—if they have blood—but not necessary,” I told them. “The same for individuals. We’ll do without tonight, since we want a relatively weak summoning. We’re not calling anything that would be inclined to do us harm, or to leave as soon as it arrived. This version will let everything of the right kind in range”—and I had shortened that range as much as I could—“know that we’re interested, and then settle at random on one to call. There, that’s done.”
I went over the chant with everyone, but raised my voice alone. I felt silly, sending out a summons for people in the same room. But absurdity, like awe and fear, is a layer of meaning we impose, one of an infinite number of possible ways to interpret the world. I let it fall away. What I felt in its place was not so intimate as our earlier meditation, but still a reaching: a growing awareness that the thing I sought existed, was near, was even now being drawn to me. The pattern came more easily than I expected: even in their silence, the others now added strength and direction to the working.
The call swirled through the house and settled, as promised, close by. Charlie stood abruptly, and I reached automatically to steady him. He stepped into the diagram, and set his cane abruptly to catch his balance. I was about to apologize, to help him back to his chair, but paused at the expression of distracted joy on his face.
“Mr. Day?”
He twitched, and his eyes flew wide. “Miss Marsh! I’m sorry—this is odd.” He looked uncertainly back at his seat. “Ought I…?”