Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  He dealt the last two cards quickly, the Magician crowning the reading and the King of Wands in the near future. The King of Wands seemed clear enough: a hot-tempered, passionate, fair-haired man, an expert in his field — someone on the dig, most likely, perhaps Dr. Buck or the German Professor Radke who’d been hired as the Oriental expert, but someone in his future, for good or for ill. And the Magician, mastery of vocation, in the possible future: that was what he hoped to gain, in taking this job. Or even… Three years ago, he had discovered a Ptolemaic medallion that could hold the key to finding the long-long tomb of Alexander the Great. Last year, the Met had provisionally agreed to undertake the first step, finding the Pylon of Isis. Hutcheson, the man in charge, knew it was Jerry’s find, and had promised to do everything he could to get him the dig. At least the cards maintained it was possible.

  He bent his head for a moment in silent thanks, then swept the cards together, tapping them back into a neat stack. He wrapped them in the silk handkerchief that he used to protect them, and returned them to their box, which fit neatly into his small suitcase. It was an unsurprising reading, even taking into account the appearance of the Devil, the sort of reading that could be as much a reflection of his own subconscious as of the future. Either way, though, it was fair warning, and he would not forget. He knew he ought to turn in early — it would be a busy day tomorrow — but he was still wide awake. A last cigarette, he thought, and shrugged on his jacket before he could change his mind.

  It was three decks up to the promenade, a struggle with his cane against the movement of the ship, but at last he’d reached the stern and paused in the shelter of the last row of first class cabins to light his cigarette. Beyond the railing, the Malolo’s wake stretched white toward the darkening east, the sky purple above the darker sea. He wasn’t the only person too excited to be sensible, he saw without surprise. The two Stanford boys who’d shared his dinner table swung around the corner, walking off their dinner and probably a drink or two. One was the son of a plantation engineer, the other the son of a Chinese doctor who hoped to be a doctor himself someday. He nodded a greeting as they passed, got a nod and a smile in return.

  He braced himself against the rail, wedging shoulder and wooden leg against a stanchion, and took a long drag of his cigarette. Malolo was scheduled to dock mid-morning; Dr. Buck had promised that a graduate student would collect him and his luggage, so presumably they would take him to wherever he was staying and then on to the Museum to meet Buck and Radke and find out the rest of the details of the job.

  “Good evening, Dr. Ballard.”

  He turned, tipped his hat to the Misses Carmichael, aunt and niece rather than sisters, both members of a Methodist missionary society that ran a school on Maui. They, too, had shared his table at dinner, and had been pleasant, if sober, company. “Miss Carmichael, Miss Maude.”

  “Apparently we can see Hawaii on the horizon,” the older woman said, with a tolerant smile. “Maude wanted a look, or we’d have turned in by now.”

  “We passed Mr. Chang coming on deck, and he said the islands were just in view,” Maude said. “Won’t you join us, Dr. Ballard?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Miss Carmichael said, and Jerry let himself be persuaded.

  They made their way up the port side promenade, the women matching Jerry’s slower pace without seeming to notice. There were maybe a dozen people on the foredeck, pressed against the rail, the wind of the ship’s passage a steady pressure. Overhead, the sky was hazy, thin clouds veiling the stars. The sunset had faded, was pale blue with only a narrow edge of white-gold where it met the sea, but — yes, there it was, Jerry thought, a thicker shadow between sky and water. And another, lower and fainter, barely more than a thicker bit of sea.

  “Oh!” Maude said, with delight, and young Mr. Chang, the doctor’s son, turned with a smile.

  “Oh, good, Miss Maude, you came. That’s Maui, I think, or maybe Hawaii. It depends on how far south we’ve come.”

  “It looks like Maui to me,” Stewart said. “Your new home, Miss Maude.”

  Chang shook his head. “You can’t tell. Not at this distance.”

  Miss Carmichael gave Jerry an amused look. There weren’t many young women in cabin class, and Miss Carmichael had been a tolerant but no-nonsense chaperone.

  “What do you think, Aunt?” Maude asked, and Miss Carmichael shook her head.

  “My dear, I can’t tell. And now, I do think we should retire. We’re docking early tomorrow.”

  Jerry tipped his hat again as they moved away, and took a last drag on his cigarette. Hawaii. A new beginning, God willing, he thought, and turned to make the long trek back to his cabin.

  PRAISE FOR THE ORDER OF THE AIR:

  Scott (Point of Knives) and Graham (Black Ships) avoid the pitfalls of conventional occult adventure thanks to their clean, well-crafted prose and their embrace of unconventional characters in unorthodox relationships. What could have been a mundane collect-the-plot-tokens supernatural thriller becomes a pleasantly intriguing story in their talented hands. -- Publishers Weekly

  Although part of a series, it is also a good standalone novel. It contains elements for everyone: a bit of mystery, romance, history, and adventure, plus some paranormal happenings and humour. It has a wonderful, magical sense of time and place and is pure escapism; however, the authors still capture the feel of life in the 1930s. The novel has all the things a great adventure should be: it is a quick and easy read with nail-biting tension and great descriptions and dialogue. -- Historical Novel Society

  The novel itself is a deft blend of supernatural intrigue and the noir adventure of serials from the 1930s, something that is rare to find and even rarer to find done well. Lost Things is a throwback in the best sense of the word. The action is extremely well-done, and the meticulously researched locations – a transatlantic airship, an archaeological dig, pre-Depression Chicago and New York – give you a true sense of being tossed back in time. (Lost Things) is a vibrant and utterly believable world peopled by characters you can’t wait to see in action again. -- Geonn Cannon for Geek Speak Magazine

  Melissa Scott has returned. And she’s done so in less a whirlwind of activity than a tornado….the entire novel unfolds in this effective, fluidly organic, and ceaselessly engaging way. It’s a subtle skill, an impressive book-length balancing act. It’s beautifully captured in Bob Eggleton’s cover art, in which the novel’s airship balances dreamily with symbols of the moon-goddess in the dreamlike sky of another age. And it makes Lost Things a decidedly difficult novel to put down. I hope you’ll pick it up. I know I’ll pick up the forthcoming sequel, Steel Blues. -- Cynthia Ward for Black Gate Magazine

  ALSO FROM CROSSROAD PRESS

  About the O. C. L. T. Series

  There are incidents and emergencies in the world that defy logical explanation, events that could be defined as supernatural, extraterrestrial, or simply otherworldly. Standard laws do not allow for such instances, nor are most officials or authorities trained to handle them. In recognition of these facts, one organization has been created that can. Assembled by a loose international coalition, their mission is to deal with these situations using diplomacy, guile, force, and strategy as necessary. They shield the rest of the world from their own actions, and clean up the messes left in their wake. They are our protection, our guide, our sword, and our voice, all rolled into one.

  They are O.C.L.T.

  Brought to Light – By Aaron Rosenberg

  The Temple of Camazotz – by David Niall Wilson

  Incursion – by Aaron Rosenberg

  The Parting – By David Niall Wilson

  No Laughing Matter – by Kurt Criscione

  READ ON FOR A FREE PEEK AT THE PARTING by DAVID NIALL WILSON

  THE PARTING – A Novel of the O.C.L.T.

  A vision from ancient Egypt and a call from an old acquaintance send Rebecca York, mystic, occult expert, and adventurer to Arizona, and then Jerusalem and the Dead Sea to prevent a horrifying atta
ck from the annals of history.

  Rebecca and computer expert Wendell "Mack" Macklemore team up with a renegade Vatican monk, a street urchin from Jerusalem, and an agent of the Mossad to prevent her, Amunet, an Egyptian sorceress, works ever closer to exacting an ancient revenge and unleashing a terrorist attack that could plunge the Middle East into an era of darkness.

  This is the first full length novel of the O.C.L.T. - the Orphic Crisis Logistical Taskforce. The events of this novel predate the actual formation of the O.C.L.T., joining with the novellas "Brought to Light" by Aaron Rosenberg, "The Temple of Camazotz," by David Niall Wilson, and the tie-in novella "No Laughing Matter" by Kurt Criscione. Each of these works introduces another facet of team, which will is formally introduced in the novel Incursion, written by Aaron Rosenberg.

  Prologue to THE PARTING

  Rebecca York was a woman of ritual. Her father had taught her at a very early age to treat every moment of every day with the significance of a final ending, and a great rebirth. To do less was disrespectful to the powers that created the heavens and the Earth. The end of her day was no less to her than the beginning, and in some ways, far more important.

  She had expanded on her father's wisdom over the years, caring for her mind and body with equal parts of her attention. At 5'9" she was taller than most women. She was slender, which accentuated her height, and wore her hair in one long braid, normally draped forward over one shoulder. She kept to herself – evident in her choice of homes – and her clothing was usually dark and plain with only a few meaningful ornaments to set off the glitter of her eyes.

  You would not know from looking at her that she'd traveled the world, or suspect the mystery that had surrounded her life from a very early age. If you didn't know her, you would not suspect the power she was intimate with, or the iron will with which she controlled it. Not unless you met her gaze full on. That was an experience none could ever forget. Rebecca York might appear unassuming, but that appearance was the epitome of the old adage about books and their covers. And despite her best efforts to hide it, she was beautiful.

  Her cottage was tucked in among rolling foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, just west of Asheville, North Carolina. There was a road leading in, but it was closed off by a series of gates she locked carefully each time she drove in. She had other ways out; but they were not shared with the world at large. As far as anyone was concerned, she was the crazy lady who lived in the woods, and that was fine by her. Those who knew her often kidded her about her lack of a social life, and her affinity for seclusion, but she only smiled and ignored them. Born in Israel, she'd lived in France, England, Tibet, and several other even more exotic places over the years, and each of them had left its mark on her. Her worldliness made her choice of homes seem even odder, but she always explained it the same way – she did not choose the place, it chose her.

  If the person questioning her had the proper background, she'd explain about the lines of power, and their convergence. She'd tell them how this was the single place in all the world she'd found completely in line with her energies. In this small cottage she could reach levels of concentration that were impossible anywhere else, and for her work, concentration was essential. That was another reason she chose solitude. There were so few who understood her life, and she grew tired of matchmaking friends and curious colleagues.

  As the sun dropped toward the line of mountains to the west, she walked through the small home, tracing symbols of protection against the glass of each window, checking the wards at the doors, and setting things to rights. Her books were perfectly aligned. The small fountain in one corner of her den trickled with just the right amount of clear water. There were no stray papers on her desk, or pencils laying askew on the blotter. Among other interests, Feng Shui occupied her mind on a constant basis. She was keenly aware of any shift in energy, and quick to correct it. She abhorred imbalance.

  Her bedroom was on the eastern side of the cottage where the morning sun could slide over the sill and invite her into each new day. The room would have looked strange to most, with the bed centered between walls hung with tapestries and lined with shelves. The floor was inlaid wooden tiles that formed concentric circles, each band of which contained a carefully placed ring of hand-painted esoteric characters and symbols. At the head of the bed, the foot, and to either side, centered between the widest of the circles about five feet from the frame, four wooden stands held cast-iron bowls for burning incense. Directly behind her pillow, a stouter stand held a large, ceramic bowl of white stone.

  Rebecca walked slowly around the room, stopping momentarily at each of the stands in the circle. She sprinkled small handfuls of powder into the shallow burners and added in some leaves and twigs for kindling. Her incense was hand-made. Unlike joss sticks, or the tiny pyramids sold in occult shops and at flea markets, she had to get the flames started in the braziers to produce smoke. When they were filled to her satisfaction, she walked to the head of her bed and peered down into the ceramic bowl.

  It was filled about halfway with clear water. The interior of the bowl was mirrored. It was a relic she'd brought back from a trip to Europe, and it was a very ancient piece. She'd followed a map so old it had threatened to crumble before she could photograph it through mountains and down musty, cob-webbed tunnels to retrieve it. When she'd finally located it, it had rested in a large pool of water that was clear, deep, and protected by water spirits. It had taken her nearly a week of careful preparation to communicate her need to the spirits, buy them off, and brave that pool, and all for this apparently unremarkable bowl.

  As with Rebecca herself, appearances were absolutely deceiving. The bowl was – in every way – remarkable. Rebecca had done a lot of research on it before launching her search. It was said to have belonged to Morgana herself, though there was no provenance to validate such a claim. Rebecca knew what it was, and what it was used for, and that was what mattered.

  The sun had completed its circuit of the sky and fallen behind the mountains. The shadows were deeper than they'd been even a few moments before when she entered the room, and she turned, just for a moment, to stare out her window at the fog-wreathed hills and the darkening sky beyond.

  The mountains were a place of power, a place that had attracted creative spirits for centuries. They also attracted those with dangerous hungers. Rebecca felt the spirits in the hills, dark and light, and she blended with them. Secluded as she was, she was far from alone.

  Before building her home, she'd spent weeks walking the forest paths. She'd slept in the mountains. She'd spoken to those whose families had lived there for centuries, learned their ways and studied their myths. She had found other powers in the hills. Some she'd contested, others were allies. All the while, she'd carved her place, carefully creating the proper boundaries, negotiating the wards and digging in roots. It was home now, more than the sand and rock of her homeland, or the high peaks of Tibet where she'd learned so much, or the deep glens and rolling hills of Europe. As much as possible, she had made herself a place of absolute tranquility and peace. The madness that was her life required it.

  From her nightstand, she pulled out a long, slender joss stick. It was sandalwood. She had many scents available to her – cabinets filled with herbs, spices, leaves and tinctures of all sorts – but it was the Sandalwood that brought her peace. It was the Sandalwood that strengthened her vision.

  She also extracted a box of wooden matches. Working in a counterclockwise direction, she made a circuit of her bed. She lit the scented powders and leaves, blowing gently on each to fan the flames in each brazier. When all four smoldered, tendrils of smoke wafting in slow circles in her wake, she lit the joss stick and stood at the foot of her bed, facing North. She held the stick out in front of her, closed her eyes, and spoke softly, invoking the Archangel Michael. Next she moved to the West and called upon Gabriel, then Raphael and Uriel in turn.

  Her circuit complete, she placed the still-burning incense stick in a holder beside
the ceramic bowl, drew back the covers, and slid between the sheets. There was no light other than the faded orange of the dying sun, and the glowing tip of the joss stick, burned halfway down. She saw it in the periphery of her vision, smiled, and closed her eyes.

  Very gently, the water in the bowl above her head rippled. The motion began in the center, rolling out in rings that matched those embedded in the wooden floor. When the ripple reached the edge of the bowl, it made a soft slapping sound, but Rebecca didn't hear it.

  She dreamed.

  She woke to the sound of laughter. All around her, women chattered excitedly, bustling about in a rustle of silk and the scents of sandalwood and musk. When she sat up, bells jangled. She glanced down at her ankle and frowned at the delicate band of gold and it's noisome bangles. She felt the cool cotton of the sheets she lay upon, and the fresh air blowing over and around her. It was not her room, and it was not her mountains. The air tingled with power, and she knew it for a vision.

  The air had a thick, ethereal quality that she was very familiar with. Lucid dreaming was a skill she'd practiced since she'd been a small girl, and she was as at home in these other worlds as her own. Rebecca smiled and rose. She was surrounded by silken draperies. She pushed them aside and stepped into the room beyond. There were at least half a hundred other women, young and old, in various states of undress. The conversation of many more drifted in from doorways leading in three of four directions. In that last direction, a larger doorway opened onto a long hall. The entrance was draped with beaded curtains.