Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  “I thought something was off. Bill wasn’t himself — it wasn’t like him to bother with the novices, especially when he’d already said they weren’t a very promising group. I thought at first maybe Mac — Don McKenzie, I think he’s after your time — had leaned on him to make him do it.” His hand was tight on the edge of the curtain, crumpling the expensive linen with its stenciled patterns. “Then…. There was just something wrong, something very dark, and it took everything I could muster to pretend I hadn’t noticed.”

  “So why the hell didn’t you say something to your Magister — whoever, McKenzie?” Jerry glared at him, remembering the sudden inaudible rush of power, standing there by the pool knowing he’d never been as strong as Davenport alone and that he certainly wasn’t as strong as Davenport plus whatever power he carried. And then Alma, thank God, interposing her will and shield, buying him time…. He shook the thought away — it wasn’t even twenty-four hours after, he had a right to be a little shaky still — and narrowed his eyes at Henry. “Or have you been playing politics again?”

  Henry didn’t look away from the pool. “Not me. I learned my lesson last time.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Don’t start.” For a second, Henry sounded unutterably weary, and that pulled Jerry up short. “It wasn’t me,” Henry said again. “But, yes, there was an — issue, some accusations and complications about six months ago, and I didn’t want to say anything. Especially since I’m morally certain that no one else at the ritual noticed a damn thing. What was I going to do, go to Mac and say, hey, Bill Davenport’s playing with nasty toys, only nobody else noticed but me? You really think that’s going to go over well? Knowing what the big boys think of me? Oh, Kershaw’s willing, and he’s got money, but — not much talent.” He controlled himself with an effort. “I did wonder if that’s why he didn’t want to do anything with the tablet. It’s a thing of light, definitely.”

  “That’s why you invited us to the ritual,” Jerry said. “Reliable, unbiased witnesses.”

  Henry let the curtain fall, cutting off the sunlight again. “Yep.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I had no idea he’d do anything like that,” Henry said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  It didn’t, Jerry thought, unless the thing, whatever it was, had recognized the Aedificatorii Templi, recognized the presence of a member of a lodge committed to the Great Work. Davenport had been part of it once himself, had repudiated it, and he’d never liked Jerry. The two things together might have been enough, for a creature like that.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he asked, after a moment.

  Henry seated himself again, steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “I’ll talk to Mac. There’s no other choice.”

  Jerry sighed. “If you want, I can write you a statement. Say what I experienced. Or McKenzie can contact me himself. I’m willing to back you up on this, Henry.”

  “Thank you.” Henry’s eyes flickered closed, just for an instant, visible relief.

  “There is one thing you could do for me,” Jerry said.

  Henry gave him a suspicious look, and Jerry met it guilelessly.

  “I’d like to spend some more time with the tablet, and I’ve got some references back at the hotel that would be very helpful. Let me borrow it for the day, if you would. I can at least give you a decent translation.”

  Henry hesitated, but finally sighed. “I want it back. It’s important.”

  “You have my word,” Jerry said. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Henry said. He went to the glass-fronted cabinet, brought out the well-wrapped bundle and handed it across the desk. “Just — be careful.”

  “Believe me,” Jerry said, and slipped the packet into his pocket. “I will.”

  This man fought him. Managing him was no easy task, but then one worth having was not. He had knowledge and power both, not enough, but more than the first man, the hapless Vittorio Gadda. That one’s mind had been small, filled with nothing but concerns for the family he left behind, with the fear he would lose his job. This one – he had thoughts worth knowing.

  And yet he fought harder. There were times, almost, that he broke free. He could not, of course, and if he did it would regain control. But he was strong, a priest and scholar, nothing to be trifled with.

  He did not want to get on the train. He struggled on the platform, enough that no doubt it looked odd, a man hesitating to board when he had a ticket, letting the others pass him. “Are you coming, sir?” a man asked. Uniform, cap. This man’s mind provided the information. The conductor.

  “Yes,” it said, and they stepped aboard. It was easier once the train started, once they were in the compartment. There was no way to get off, and so this man stopped fighting. It wished it could believe he was defeated, not just marshaling his strength. He was no fool, this one. It felt a heady kind of power in that. There was power in the struggle. And each bit of power made it stronger.

  It had hoped there would be real power in California, but there was not. These rites were tasty but no more than that. Money, yes. Some money, and a little energy. But not what it hungered for. Kings and emperors had not been enough for it. Certainly there was no one here worthy of its attention. This man would do until it found a better.

  And then it would ascend again to the heights of power it craved.

  Lewis stared at the square of lead sitting in the middle of the table in Jerry’s room, silk and burlap unfolded around it. It didn’t look like much, just a slab of metal incised with letters and symbols that he didn’t recognize. Mitch held out a pack of cigarettes; Lewis took one, lit it without thinking, and drew in a long breath of smoke.

  “All right,” Jerry said. He opened his notebook, unfolded a sheet of paper. “Here’s the transcription of the Latin, with my translation. Most of it is pretty standard, very similar to the invocations you see on the more elaborate curse tablets — Henry wasn’t wrong about that, at least. It’s only here at the end that we get the crucial part.” He pointed. “Diana in all your aspects, heal the wounds and strengthen the bonds that here imprison this spirit of the underworld, through the power here embodied in these tablets.”

  “Tablets?” Alma asked. She laid a cautious finger against the metal, pulled it back as though she’d been shocked. “Oh. That’s —”

  “Potent?” Jerry said. “Yes. And, fortunately, of the light. But, yes, tablets, plural.”

  Mitch eyed the lead warily. “What you’re saying is that this was intended to imprison an infernal spirit? So it is a binding.”

  “That would be my best guess,” Jerry answered.

  The metal gleamed dully in the overhead light, the air conditioning unit throbbing beneath the curtained window. It was only roughly square, with what looked like silver nail heads in each of the four corners; the lines of Roman letters and spiky Etruscan symbols covered the entire surface. The once-sharp edges were blurred, worn and polished bright, and there were other bright spots among the letters, as though something had rubbed against it. Without thinking, Lewis reached for it, and caught his breath as his fingers touched the metal. It was — not hot, not exactly, and not quite a shock, either, but there was something live there, like the leap of a pulse beneath his fingertips. Like the power he’d felt at the ritual, the deep strength that had blocked whatever it was that Davenport had done —

  “Use the silk if you have to touch it,” Jerry said impatiently, and looked back at his notes.

  “Silk is an insulator,” Alma said. She touched his arm gently. “And this — it has a lot of power.”

  Lewis nodded slowly. “It’s… hot? I don’t know.” He used the silk scarf to turn it over, not sure what he was looking for — he could still feel the power buzzing in it, but not as strong, not as startling now that he knew it was there — and saw an odd geometric design carved into the tablet, along with another block of letters. They were Roman, but there weren’t any spaces between the words,
and he looked at Jerry. “What does this say?”

  Jerry pushed his glasses up again. “Ah, that. The symbols are attributes of Diana, various aspects, and the inscription asks her to punish anyone who disturbs the tablets. Again, plural. This must have been part of a larger working.”

  “That can’t be good,” Mitch said. “Look, Jerry, what are we trying to do here? Or are you just curious?”

  Jerry glared at him. “It seems highly probable that this tablet is one of a set meant to hold — something, an infernal spirit, a demon — imprisoned in Lake Nemi. The tablet was placed in the first year of Claudius’s reign, which would make the demon something associated with Caligula.”

  “Which even I know is bad news,” Mitch said. “But what are we doing with it?”

  Jerry ignored him. “Suetonius says that Caligula interfered with the succession of the priesthood of Diana’s shrine, thus desecrating the shrine, and he also profaned Diana’s holy lake by building the ships that are currently being excavated. No one was supposed to sail on the lake, you see. So I would assume that this thing that the tablets bound was somehow part of the general profanation of the temple fane. And I think we can also assume that it is what we all sensed in Davenport.”

  “Can we?” Alma asked. “You’ve said for years you didn’t like Davenport’s methods, and that he was going to stir up something nasty one of these days.”

  “Granted,” Jerry said. “But Henry told me that Davenport started off excited about this tablet, and then dropped it completely. I think that’s significant.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Alma said, and Mitch nodded.

  “Ok. So what are we doing with it? It’s Henry’s lodge and Henry’s problem. They’re in a lot better place to deal with Davenport.”

  “Henry’s consulting his Magister,” Jerry said, “and I said I’d back him up if he needed evidence.”

  Lewis looked up sharply. That didn’t sound very satisfactory at all, and from Alma’s expression, she agreed.

  “Will they?” she asked.

  “I also thought I’d call Bullfinch,” Jerry said. He glanced at Lewis. “Geoffrey Bullfinch. He’s — an expert in these matters, I suppose you’d say. If Henry’s lodge won’t act, or can’t, Bullfinch definitely will.”

  Alma grimaced — thinking of the expense of the long distance call, Lewis thought — but nodded. “Go ahead. It’s a good idea.”

  Jerry shoved himself to his feet, limped to the telephone. “Long distance, please.” He gave the number, listened, and hung up with a quick thank you. “She’ll ring back when she gets through,” he said, and met Alma’s gaze squarely. “Look, I’d prefer to take action myself, but — you’re right, it’s not our lodge. Now that they know, they’ll have to do something, and they’re a large and powerful group. They will deal with him. And if they don’t, Bullfinch will.”

  Mitch stubbed out the last of his cigarette. “Which brings me back to my question, Jer. What exactly are we doing here?”

  Jerry looked at the tablet. “I want to know what this thing is,” he said. “I want to know what they’re up against. Just in case.”

  “In case what?” Mitch asked.

  Jerry reached for his cigarette case, and busied himself lighting one.

  Alma said, “In case Henry’s people can’t handle it. In case something else goes wrong. I agree with Jerry on this one.”

  “Ok,” Mitch said again. “So what’s our next step?”

  “I have an idea there,” Alma said. “Lewis?”

  Lewis gave her a wary look.

  “What we talked about before,” she said. “If you’re willing.”

  “My — the dreams?” It felt weird to be talking about it, especially in front of the others, and he braced himself for disbelief, for mockery.

  “Yes.”

  It was his choice, Lewis realized. She wouldn’t say anything more unless he agreed. Mitch might talk about her bullying people, but that wasn’t her style, not in anything this important. And he wanted to help. He still wasn’t sure about this whole lodge thing, about magic and this network of lodges — it still sounded like something out of the pulps, or out of Uncle Arturo’s tales of Masonic conspiracy — but he was sure of what he’d felt at Henry Kershaw’s house. That rush of power, the unprovoked attack, the sheer malevolence behind it…. “Ok,” he said. “I’m game.”

  Alma’s smile warmed him to the core. “Lewis is a clairvoyant,” she said. “He dreams true. Maybe he can see something for us.”

  Mitch nodded. “Good thought.”

  “That’s very useful,” Jerry said. “A mirror, maybe, or black ink in a silver dish —”

  “Something simple,” Alma said, firmly.

  “Simple would be good,” Lewis said.

  “Simple is about all we can manage on short notice,” Mitch said.

  At Jerry’s instruction, Lewis seated himself at the low table, and Alma slid the tablet in its wrappings so that it lay between his upturned palms. He imagined he could feel the power radiating from it, warm like sunlight on the edges of his hands. He turned his hands so that his palms faced in, and felt the heat gathering, tingling in his palms.

  “Relax,” Jerry said softly. “Close your eyes, let your mind drift. Just relax.”

  Obediently, Lewis closed his eyes, took a deep breath, trying to find his way back into the images of his dreams. He could remember most of them, the dog, the women, the lake, Davenport with his hand outstretched, but they were all clearly memories, nothing new. His foot itched. His eyes snapped open, and he rubbed the arch of his foot, grimacing. The warmth in his palms was fading. “Sorry.”

  “It’s Ok,” Alma said. “Try again.”

  Lewis took another deep breath, closed his eyes again, but there was nothing but the red dark behind his eyelids. “I’m not — this isn’t working.”

  “It’s Ok,” Alma said. “Let’s take a break.”

  Lewis pushed himself up from the table, went to stand by the window, brushing aside the curtain so that he could stare out onto the heat of Hollywood Boulevard. Below him, a limousine negotiated the late afternoon traffic, the chauffeur in the open driver’s compartment rigidly ignoring every other car on the road. It wasn’t working; whatever talent he might have, it wasn’t looking very useful at all.

  “Diana Nemorensis,” Alma said. Lewis didn’t turn, still watching the limousine creep forward. “Jerry, what about this?”

  “Gil’s denarius?”

  Lewis glanced over his shoulder, saw Alma holding out the blue box, saw the flash of gold as Jerry extracted the coin. Suddenly he was back in the wood, under the trees. A circle of lake as perfect as the moon lay below him; torches flared on the shore, and a congregation in white robes lifted their hands to the sky. The image was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he blinked, shook his head hard.

  “Lewis?” Alma’s voice seemed weirdly distant, and he shook his head again.

  “Whoa.”

  “He saw something,” Jerry said. “Didn’t you?”

  “I — yes,” Lewis said. He let the curtain fall, turned to face the others. “Why now?”

  “Because of this,” Jerry said. He held up the coin. “This is Diana of Aricia.”

  “So there’s a connection to the tablet,” Mitch said, and Jerry nodded.

  “Indirect, but yes, a connection.”

  “Maybe that’s why —” Alma began, and blushed. “I keep it in my dresser drawer.”

  And the dresser was next to the bed. Lewis felt his own cheeks heat. “But why me?”

  There was a little silence. “No offense,” Jerry said at last, “but you were there.”

  “Alma’s about as clairvoyant as a rock,” Mitch said, with a grin.

  “The binding was done in Diana’s name,” Jerry said. “It’s a logical connection. And if a demon has been loosed —” He shrugged. “That’s what we swore our oaths for. Anyone who’s sworn to the Great Work probably feels something. We just happened to have a closer connec
tion.”

  Lewis glanced at Alma, half expecting her to grin and shrug, but she was nodding, her expression perfectly serious. “So you want me to try again?”

  “If you’re willing,” Alma said.

  Lewis settled himself in front of the tablet again, and Jerry set the coin at its foot. The gold caught the light, blurring the figures.

  “Relax,” Jerry said again. “Close your eyes, relax, and let your mind drift.”

  It’s not working. Lewis bit back the words, made himself sit still a little longer. What he really wanted was to be flying back to Colorado, all of this behind him — no more rituals, no more weird stories, dreams and visions, just the cold air at altitude and the deep green of the pines below. And suddenly he was in the grove again, staring at the lake below. The torches were gone, but the lake itself was ablaze with light, as though buildings floated on the water. Music played in the distance, drums and pipes and the rattle of a tambourine; there were voices, and a shriek caught between pleasure and pain. At his knee, the white dog snarled in answer, her hackles raised.

  His eyes flew open, the image vanishing, and Alma met his gaze across the table.

  “Try again,” she said, before anyone else could say anything, and he closed his eyes obediently.

  He was on a patio, stone tiles cool beneath his feet, the air sweet with resin, sparks streaming up from pitch-pine torches to rival the stars. The sound of voices was much louder, and even though he couldn’t understand the words, he couldn’t miss the note of hysteria, laughter hard and high like an estaminet right behind the lines. There was a smell of wine, too, and incense, and under it the tang of vomit, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a man in white sag helplessly over a railing.

  In the center of the patterned floor, on a circle spoked like a wheel, a girl was dancing, naked except for ribbons at her wrists and ankles. He felt himself blush, looked away to see a handsome young man resting on a couch. There was a wreath in his golden hair, and a wine cup in his hand: the emperor of the world, Caligula. He lifted his head and Lewis saw clearly into his eyes. There was nothing human there, only a darkness so deep and hungry that nothing, no act of man, could be more than a momentary satisfaction.