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 think 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.”