Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  He’d already cut the sheet metal into 3 inch by 3 inch squares and made a small hole in each for a chain or string to go through. Well, after Jerry had endlessly blessed Henry Kershaw’s shop equipment. Any fear and trepidation Lewis had felt at the darkened shop and talk of demons had vanished in the face of Jerry reciting Psalms 51 and 72 over the miter saw and anointing it with Musgo Real after shave. Instead, this all began to feel just a little silly.

  Which was probably not the proper frame of mind, given that he still had to engrave the four pieces of metal. If Jerry ever got done summing up the entire Old Testament.

  “…Thou who has appeared unto thy servant Moses in the form of a burning bush, and hast made him to walk upon dry feet through the Red Sea, who gavest the Law to him upon Mount Sinai, Thou who hast granted unto David kingship and unto his house thereafter….”

  Mitch shifted from foot to foot, a solemn expression on his face, his eyes downcast as though in church. He looked like an overgrown choirboy too, and Lewis had a sudden vision of a row of well-scrubbed children lined up in a pew in order of height from Mitch at the end about fourteen all the way down to a little boy still in skirts holding on to his sister’s hand. There was the sharp, clean smell of the pine boughs adorning the plain glass windows, the spicy scent of cinnamon. There were cakes on the altar where there ought to be bread, or cookies maybe, wrapped in different baskets and cloths, some of them still warm. Their scent mingled with the smell of beeswax from the candles. A woman’s voice rose in sweet song, accompanied by an old fashioned harpsichord. “Silent night, holy night….”

  Lewis blinked. Jerry was still running on, having got up to King Solomon. That was not Lewis’ memory, not his own thoughts. Christmas Eve, yes, but not the Mass, not the familiar words, not the priest at the altar. This was entirely different, and yet the same in spirit. A different Christmas Eve, a different home.

  He glanced over at Mitch, who still stood with his head bowed. Was this Mitch’s memory? Had he somehow shared it for a moment, thinking too of church as a child, half lulled to sleep by Jerry’s voice?

  Alma cleared her throat, catching Jerry’s eye. Her meaning was clear. Wrap it up. They were running out of time.

  “Yes, um,” Jerry inserted suddenly, his lengthy recap breaking off. “Moving right along.” He lifted up the four small squares of metal. “May these pentacles be consecrated by Thy power that we may obtain virtue and strength against all Spirits, through Thee, Most Holy Adonai, whose kingdom endureth without end.” Laying them on his handkerchief, he handed them to Lewis. “You can start engraving now.”

  “Thanks.” Lewis took them carefully, for all that they were pieces of metal he’d cut himself less than an hour before. He laid them out and then chose one, picking up the burin carefully. Sweat stood out on his brow.

  Mitch touched his arm lightly. “They don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “It’s the intent that’s important.”

  Obscurely that made him feel better. There would be time another day to ask Mitch about what he’d seen, whether it was real or just his imagining, but he held on to that feeling of peace. There was something stable about Mitch, solid and bright beneath whatever darkness overlay it. His hands were cutting, tracing the symbols dark on bright, but he was only half aware of them. Yes, there was a darkness there, something the color of old blood beneath affable charm. There was a shadow, and against it the flame burned all the brighter. A decision reached, an acceptance sought again and again. He couldn’t name it, didn’t need to, but it stood at the core of Mitch, just as Mitch stood at his shoulder.

  “Very nice,” Mitch said, as Lewis lifted the first amulet and turned it over, ready to begin the back.

  “This one’s for you,” Lewis said. “It has you in it.”

  Alma’s eyebrows twitched.

  Hers was the second one. He made the first cuts with care, the long semicircle of the huntsman’s bow the twist of her smile. She was strong, stronger than anyone, practical and competent. And under it was joy. For all the sadness that came to her eyes when she spoke of Gil, she had no regrets. Alma never would. Courage came from joy, and for her life would always be sweet no matter what it held. It drew him to her in laughter and tears alike to share in that evergreen strength.

  “This one is for Alma,” he said, his fingers tracing the crescent moon. The new moon pale over forests of dark cypress trees, fragrant wooded glens cathedrals beneath the stars….

  Jerry’s was hardest, as he’d expected. Mercurial, brilliant, shifting as the seas. It didn’t want to take. His hands slipped on the burin, the lines wavering, and he pressed it back, like holding on to the controls bucking in an unexpected thermal. There was strength there too, strength in yielding, the inexpressible, immovable permanence of the sea. Water yields. It gives, it pours, it shapes itself to whatever contains it. And yet it is nothing but itself, flowing with unimaginable might, unfathomable depth. Jerry yielded. But he did not surrender.

  “This one’s for you,” he said, placing it in Jerry’s palm still warm from his hand. There was a quick flash of amazement there as he felt it, and Lewis thought yes. That is how it should be, each suited to the one it belonged to, hallowed by the craftsman’s love. He could not speak names of power, recite rituals to consecrate. But these were made of his love and concern, and that had power of its own.

  The last one. The one for himself. He had been mistaken that Jerry’s was hardest. The hardest was his own. A wave of fear washed over him. He could not make something that would protect himself. He didn’t know how.

  The shape of the moon mocked him, the hunter’s bow eluded him. Darkness moved with a thousand whispers. They would never get back. They would never make it. If everything depended on him, they would die. He stood in memory beside the downed plane, tugging at Robbie’s jacket, searching for a pulse. If it were up to him, it was over. Night crawled around him.

  A dog howled, high and longing. Then another, and another.

  That was as it was in the first dark, when man knew no fire. There was the pale moon rising to cast her light, heralded by the long song of the wolf. They were not foes but friends, packmates brought among men to work at their sides, and their presence made the night safe.

  Lady of Hounds, Lady of the Crescent Moon, bright protectress…. The metal shone bright, burnished with her light.

  It had been a dog that had saved them, some farm dog who led the old Frenchman to the downed plane, creeping out at night across lands that were once his before they were claimed by war. An ordinary black and white dog, leading a man through the woods. “Please help us, please…” He didn’t speak French and the man spoke no English, but their uniforms spoke for them, Robbie’s blood spoke for them.

  The hunter’s bow, dark on bright, hunter’s truth. I kill that I may live. Lady of the Hunt, Lady of Wild Places….

  The amulet glittered in his hand as though it were made of glass, cool and smooth beneath his touch.

  “That’s beautiful,” Alma said softly as he lifted it, turning it around in the light of the incandescent bulb. “I had no idea you could do that.”

  “Neither did I,” Lewis said shakily.

  Alma unfastened the chain around her neck and slid one end through the hole in her amulet, letting it slide down to rest against her wedding ring.

  “You did good work,” said Mitch. He nodded solemnly. “Let’s anoint each one of these, and then take the working wards down.”

  “So that I can check into a hotel later with my three identically reeking gentlemen friends,” Alma said, giving Lewis’ hand a squeeze. “I always like all my boys to smell alike!”

  “We won’t be checking in anywhere soon,” Jerry said, casting a glance at his watch. “The Chief gets here in about an hour.”

  They took a cab to Dearborn Station under slowly paling clouds, the sky red as a furnace in the east. Red sky at morning, Mitch thought, stifling a yawn. They’d done well to get in ahead of the weather. The clock in the massive tower
showed a quarter to five. Jerry paid off the cabbie, and they pushed through the doors into the main hall. It was busier than Mitch had expected, the station already springing to life. Shoeshine boys were already waiting for patrons, and the first bundles of the day’s papers were opened beside the newsstands, vendors whose sour faces said they’d seen everything deftly pinning a sample to the stand before folding the rest away. The milk train was just in, and a steady stream of passengers, mostly laborers in dungarees with lunch pails in hand, made their way toward the streetcar stops across West Polk. A trio of younger men with too-sharp suits and weary eyes had stopped at the lunchroom counter, were ordering eggs and coffee from the Harvey girl in her old-fashioned uniform, while a couple in evening dress walked slowly past them, the girl giggling as she leaned on her boyfriend’s arm. The left-luggage office was open, and they stopped to check their bags, Alma tucking the claim tickets into her purse. She had changed into a plain shirtwaist, a little crumpled from travel, and the same blue cloche she had worn before.

  “The Chief’s on time,” she said, as they drifted back into the enormous main hall.

  Mitch slipped his hand into his pants pocket, feeling for the amulet. The rough lines were reassuring, armor against the worst that could happen. He felt heavy, stupid from lack of sleep, and shook himself hard. “Ok,” he said. “So now what?”

  “We find out where he’s going,” Jerry said impatiently. “We follow him.”

  “Yes, but how?” Lewis asked. He rubbed his chin, dark with stubble. “I mean, isn’t there something, I don’t know, magical that would work better?”

  “That’s more likely to attract its attention,” Jerry said.

  “More than us flailing around?” Lewis said.

  “You may have a point,” Alma said, with a quick grin. “But we’ve only got ten minutes to come up with a better plan if we’re going to.”

  “It’s very simple,” Mitch said, and hoped it was true. “Me and Lewis will wait by the gates and follow him. Al, you and Jerry stay in the concourse — the benches over there, maybe, they’re discreet. You’re the ones Davenport knows best, he could care less about me, and he’s never met Lewis at all.”

  Alma nodded.

  “We’ll follow him,” Mitch went on. “You back us up, catch him up if he gets past us. Otherwise, you’ll stay here, and we’ll either come back for you or have you paged.”

  Jerry nodded reluctantly. “We’ll have to collect the luggage anyway if he’s going to a hotel.”

  “Which I, for one, hope he is,” Alma said. “What I wouldn’t give for a nap right now!”

  “What about a cup of coffee instead?” Lewis said, but she shook her head with regret.

  “No time. The Chief will be here any minute.”

  “Right,” Mitch said, with more confidence than he actually felt. “Come on, Lewis.”

  They made their way through the main concourse and through the swinging doors to the head of the platform. Porters were already swarming the platform, and a conductor stood by the open gate of Track 9, checking his watch. The air was much warmer all of a sudden, and stank of coal smoke, diesel and hot metal. Already there were other people waiting — a young man carrying flowers, an older couple arm in arm, a handful of drivers and servants in uniform — and Mitch picked a spot in the lee of the newsstand, trying to make himself inconspicuous. Lewis bought a paper, and folded it back to pretend to study the racing pages.

  A bell clanged in the distance, the sound quickly drowned in the heavy chuffing of the engine and the long screech of brakes. The Chief pulled slowly into the platform, stopping with a last rush of steam and a clatter as the conductors began to open the doors. Mitch straightened and saw Lewis tuck the paper under his arm. The first passengers bustled past the gate, hurrying toward the main concourse. Mitch saw the boy with the flowers embrace a tall girl in a plain hat, and the older couple stoop to welcome a tired-looking woman with a pair of toddlers in tow. There were businessmen, lots of them, porters trailing them eagerly; couples, the men in good suits, the women in smart hats and well-cut traveling sets; another family with a squalling baby; a pair of college boys arguing with a porter over a trunk —

  “There,” Lewis said. He nodded toward the gate. “There he is.”

  Mitch looked where he’d indicated. Sure enough, it was Davenport, looking a little haggard in his good gray suit. He had dispensed with a porter, and was carrying his own suitcase, striding briskly along as though he had someplace to go. Mitch pulled himself away from the wall, and let himself blend into the crowd a few yards behind him, Lewis at his heels.

  In the main concourse, Davenport stopped and looked around as though he was getting his bearings. Mitch brought his hands to his face as though he were lighting a cigarette, peeping between his fingers and the brim of his hat. It must be hell, that thing wearing Davenport like an old overcoat, trapped screaming inside his own head while the creature used him, body, mind, and soul…. Davenport was strong, he always had been, but clearly he’d been no match for this thing. Mitch just hoped the amulets would be protection enough, once they figured out how to confront it.

  Davenport was moving again, heading for the main doors. The crowd was thinner there, attenuated by the sheer size of the concourse, and Mitch hung back, not wanting to be seen. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alma angling toward them, carefully casual, and he risked waving her back. She saw and slowed her steps. Davenport was at the door, heading for the waiting taxis, and Mitch hesitated. He was too far away to follow if Davenport took a cab, but he didn’t dare get closer. There weren’t enough people there to cover him. Then Lewis brushed past him, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, came out the doors ahead of Davenport and stopped to light a match. Beside him, Davenport spoke to the cabbie; the man touched his cap and tossed Davenport’s suitcase into the trunk, then held the door for him. Mitch pushed through the doors as the cab pulled away, and saw Lewis standing beside a second taxi.

  “He said the Great Northern Hotel,” Lewis said.

  “Right,” Mitch answered, and slid into the seat behind him.

  “Great Northern?” the cabbie asked, and Mitch reached into his pocket, dangled a five dollar bill over the cabbie’s shoulder.

  “Your buddy who just left,” he said, and the cabbie gave him one quick and comprehending glance. “We want to go where he goes.”

  “Cops or private?” The cabbie grabbed the bill, and put the taxi into gear.

  “He owes us money,” Lewis said.

  “He said he was going to the Great Northern,” Mitch said, “but we’d like to be sure.”

  “You got it, boss,” the cabbie said. “He ain’t got far.”

  Mitch leaned back in his seat as the cab slid into the line of traffic four or five cars behind Davenport’s cab. They made their way quickly down Dearborn Street, traffic still light enough that it was easy to keep the other cab in sight. In the end, though, it didn’t really matter. Davenport’s cab pulled up decorously in front of the Great Northern Hotel, and Davenport climbed out, collected his bag, and headed into the lobby. Their own cabbie looked over his shoulder with a grin and a shrug, and at Mitch’s nod pulled into the curb just shy of the dark gray canopy.

  “That’s got to be the easiest five bucks he ever made,” Lewis said, as the cab pulled away.

  “Yeah.” It was, Mitch thought, starting to be an expensive trip all around. Through the glass doors, he could see Davenport at the massive desk, obviously booking a room, and he reached for his cigarettes, buying time to see if Davenport was going to go to his room or just check his bags and head somewhere else. But, no, the clerk had summoned a bellboy, and they were trailing off into the depths of the lobby. “Ok,” he said aloud. “I guess it’s time we got a room.”

  Lewis winced at that, and Mitch clapped him on the shoulder. “Wait here, make sure Davenport doesn’t come back down.”

  The Great Northern’s lobby was enormous and old-fashioned, with a huge skylight t
wo stories high and an enormous carved marble clock on the mezzanine above front desk. They’d made an attempt to make it look more modern by laying rugs over the ornate marble tile, and by painting the ironwork green and gold, but it still looked like exactly what it was, a grande dame settling reluctantly into middle age. Gil would have had a story to match the place, Mitch thought, some excuse that went with the marble scrolls around the clock and the picture gallery on the second floor — White Russian countesses and stolen crown jewels, something straight out of Oppenheim. He’d be lucky if he could get the clerk to give him a room at all.

  He still hadn’t worked out what to say when he reached the counter. The clerk was a young man, maybe twenty, so fair Mitch doubted he shaved more than twice a week. There was a copy of Black Mask face-down on the ledge beneath the bank of pigeonholes, and Mitch suppressed the instinct to smile.

  “The guy who just checked in,” he said. He reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet to flash his pilot’s license, and took it away again before the clerk could get a good look at it. “Bill Davenport. I’m looking to get two rooms as close to his as possible. Across the hall would be best.”

  The clerk blinked. “Sir, I’m not sure —”

  “There won’t be any trouble for the hotel,” Mitch said. “I can promise you that.”

  “Sir —” The clerk stopped again, tried for sophistication. “Sir, if it’s divorce —”

  Mitch shook his head, gave an easy smile. “No, nothing like that. And nothing to get the cops involved. It’s a matter of — well, there’s a letter written by a lady, an actress, and the studio wants it settled. Very quietly, if you understand me. It’s just a matter of making sure he keeps his part of the deal.” He slid another five dollar bill across the countertop.