“You use math and language in your rituals, don’t you?” Peters tightened his grip, and I tried to keep my voice calm and reasonable. “They can rebound against you, if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. There are reasons the traditional methods are so rigid. And even those carry risks.”
“They aren’t ‘rituals,’” Peters interrupted. I felt his breath against the back of my head. “No more than a new kind of engine, or psychotherapy. Set up a machine or a pattern of actions, and get a certain result from the universe.”
“Call it what you will,” I said, “it went wrong. As any machine can. That wasn’t our doing, I swear by all the gods. We helped shut it down. But the thing you summoned—‘inventoried’—left a piece of itself in Miss Winslow. And we think in Miss Ward as well. You really don’t remember?”
“No, we don’t,” said Barlow. He turned back to Spector. “I can’t believe you would drag your … collection … here, to give us fairy-tale excuses. This is absurd even for you.”
Mary held up her hand. “Mr. Barlow, they could be making this up entirely, but it’s more plausible than it sounds. Some of the energies we work with aren’t entirely compatible with ordinary human psychology. It’s why so many less careful researchers end up in asylums.”
“Are you telling me you believe this? Mary, I know you’re shaken up by what happened, but I thought you had a better head on your shoulders.”
I saw some response rise in her face, wiped away before she turned to face him. “I’m saying it’s plausible, that’s all. It’s also plausible that their ‘help’ was real, but did more harm than our inventory would have if left to run its course.”
“I wish that were true,” I said.
Spector spoke up. “Whether or not you’ll take our help, please listen to your assistant. Let Miss Marsh bring Miss Ward to work on the problem our way, and you can work on it in yours. What really matters is that one of us solves it.”
Ignoring him for the moment, Barlow came over to me. He stopped too near, close enough that the bitter scent of nervous sweat wafted over me. His breathing came too harshly and deeply; he clearly fought as hard as I did to keep himself under control. But at last he gave a quick, tight nod. “We’ve no evidence that would justify an arrest to the Bureau—not yet. We don’t have time to find it right now. But don’t think we’ve forgotten about you.”
Peters released me. I rubbed feeling back into my wrists and forced myself to step away slowly and calmly. Safely among my allies again, I looked back at Sally. It was her decision, I reminded myself, that was most urgent now—more important even than whether Barlow believed me a traitor. “Please come with us, Miss Ward. We can help.” I touched my forearm, meeting her eyes. You tell everyone you’re fine, but you aren’t suffering in silence. This doesn’t harm only you. I saw her notice, saw her consider.
But Mary looked at me with cold eyes. “Don’t,” she said to Sally. “They’re confident enough, but their superstitions may still have caused the trouble last night—and can only do worse now.” She went to Sally, bent over her chair, put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt? Truly?”
Sally nodded shakily. The admission cost her; the shakes continued as she bent over, allowing them at last to show.
Mary’s voice was soothing and determined. “I may not know everything we need to do right now, but I promise you I know how to do the research. I’ll find out what happened to both of us, and I’ll find a way to fix it. We promised to help you learn what you needed to know—and we will.”
“I promise you’ll be okay,” said Jesse. Sally looked up at him, plastering on a smile.
“Good, that’s settled.” Barlow was clearly discomfited. “Ron, take your people and get out of here; you’ve made enough trouble.”
“I wish you’d trust me,” said Spector, only a hint of anger in his voice. “Have you forgotten Geilenkirchen, too? We needed to take those ‘superstitious’ ideas seriously then.”
“Geilenkirchen was entirely theoretical work, and you know it. Hitler was working from the same sources we found, and he never learned anything of substance. If he had, we’d have seen a land invasion on U.S. soil—or worse. The difference between us is that you’ve finally started taking the theory seriously, but you haven’t learned which parts are nonsense.”
I met Sally’s eyes one more time. “Miss Ward, please. If we don’t do something about this, and soon, you could die.”
She looked hesitant, but shook her head. Mary moved between us. “We’ll take care of it here.”
I wanted to drag Sally with us, pull her through the barbs of doubt that Mary had planted. But Barlow and Peters were armed and just barely willing to let me go. I could break the threads that connected us and leave her to her chosen fate. I should.
Only I had yet to see her make the choice.
“We’ll be with my family,” I said. “You know where to find us.”
CHAPTER 26
Beyond the campus, Arkham kept the roads well cleared—but outside of town they were only sporadically plowed. I sat beside Trumbull, my brother and Dawson in the back seat, gripping the armrest and trying not to second guess a skill I lacked entirely. Headlights tunneled through the darkening snowfall, occasionally picking out the answering lamps of Spector’s car ahead.
“I hope your family keep their houses warm for us mortals,” said Trumbull.
“We used to,” said Caleb. Dawson took his hand, and he pressed his face against the glass. I felt an echo of its slick coolness, a comfort filtered through my brother as it wouldn’t be to me. The car slipped sideways, and my grip tightened, but Trumbull righted us with a grimace and a muttered imprecation.
The trip to Innsmouth, which had taken a scant hour the previous week, lasted past dusk—or what seemed dusk, with the sky well hidden by cloud. As we closed in, the road’s poor repair forced us to slow further. No gulls heralded us, no scent besides salt spray and the pervasive smell, crisp and clean and utterly hostile, of the snow.
The construction crews had abandoned the town for the day, leaving the streets thick with snowdrifts. Spector and Trumbull forced the cars through.
Storm-swamped, Innsmouth looked more alien. I could no longer find familiar angles or imagine neighbors still hiding beyond collapsed porches. I could scarcely believe in rebuilding where the elements had so long and so successfully manifested their whims.