Trumbull’s tone chilled. “It has one.”
“And these folks,” the second man continued. “What are they, research assistants?” He motioned for us to roll down the back window. “She’s got a Jap back here. I don’t know what these other guys are, except the ugliest couple I’ve ever seen.”
I held myself very still, and hoped Caleb could do likewise.
“Now see here—” began Charlie from the front, but Trumbull held up a hand to silence him.
“The aesthetics of my guests can hardly be your concern.” She pulled her scarf away from her eyes. “Why don’t you let us pass? There are many waiting behind us, and regardless of our looks, we’re no threat to you.”
The man who’d insulted us nodded and stepped back. But the first man, the one closest to Trumbull, put his hand to his heart. He frowned and squinted down at the spot he touched. Then his eyes flew wide and his hand leapt to the lump beneath his suit jacket. Glancing at the line of cars behind us, he did not quite draw. “Ma’am, I need you to pull your car to the side so these other people can pass. And then I need you and your passengers to step out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them—and your eyes where I can’t.”
“That’s really not necessary,” said Trumbull.
He pulled the gun an inch further out of its holster. “Ma’am, I told you, do not attempt to look anyone in the eye. Now please pull over.”
“Do what he says,” said Neko quietly. “Please, Professor, do what he says.” She kept repeating the demand, holding herself tightly—“do what he says, do what he says”—as Trumbull steered the car through the gate and to the side of the road. Several times she started to turn her head, then forced her gaze forward again. Her hands clenched white around the steering wheel.
“What do we do?” Caleb whispered. He sounded young and frightened.
“For now, what they tell us.” I tried to keep the fright from my own voice—not to fool the soldiers, or whatever they were, but to reassure him and Neko.
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.”