Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (11 page)

There was a little silence, and Jerry saw Mitch take a breath. “Do you?” he said. “Do you really?”

And this was how lodges broke, Jerry thought, statements made in anger that men were too proud to take back, in anger that was a mask for fear. He ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he said. “Not — no.”

“Then it has to be Al.”

“Yes.” Jerry closed his eyes.

Mitch reached for the bottle, topped up his own glass. He held it out again, and this time Jerry nodded. Mitch poured a second glass and carried it across.

Jerry took a sip of the bourbon, letting it scorch its way down his throat. “That wasn’t Davenport,” he said quietly, and Mitch gave him a sharp look.

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t just Davenport,” Jerry said again. “I mean, he doesn’t exactly like me, any more than I like him, but it’s not his style to randomly try to kill his academic rivals. There was something else there.”

“Are you saying he was possessed?” Mitch asked.

“It’s a good guess,” Jerry said, “and an even better guess that Henry knows something he wasn’t saying. I think I need to have words with him in the morning.”

J
erry got out of the taxi stiffly and climbed the steps to Henry’s house. The light of morning wasn’t kind. Miss Patterson had dark circles under her eyes that even Hollywood powder couldn’t conceal, but her lipstick and mascara were defiantly perfect. It could not have been an easy evening for her, Jerry thought, cleaning up after the ritual had gone rather obviously wrong — not the physical clean up, of course, she’d have staff of her own for that, but she’d have been the one smoothing ruffled feathers and providing explanations. He gave her a smile of sympathy, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

She led him down the hall to Henry’s office, past rooms where a few glasses still stood on side tables, and the rugs were rumpled. Jerry was willing to bet there were still a few people sleeping off hangovers, from drink or otherwise, in the bedrooms upstairs. She tapped on the door, and opened it without waiting for a response.

Henry looked up from the papers spread across his desk, and gave a nod of greeting. “Thanks, Pat,” he said. “Tell Mrs. Russo to send up some more coffee, if you would, and then you can take the rest of the day off.”

“I’ll tell her,” she answered, “but I need to stick around. There’s still a lot to be done, Mr. Kershaw.”

“Can it wait?”

She hesitated. “Some of it….”

“Then do whatever can’t wait, and take off. You did a hell of a job last night.”

She smiled then, tired but game. “Thank you. I’m just sorry —”

“What happened was not your fault,” Henry said. “There’s nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

She gave Jerry a swift, dubious look, but nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Kershaw. I’ll have Rosa send up more coffee.”

The door closed softly behind her, and Henry waved vaguely toward the waiting chairs. Jerry lowered himself carefully, propping his cane to hand against the edge of the desk, and lifted an eyebrow. “Nice to have good help.”

“She’s very good,” Henry answered. “Used to work for one of the studios, assistant director. It comes in very handy when we’re trying to do a nice ritual.”

Jerry supposed it would, which raised several questions, but, interesting as it would be to pursue the matter, it wasn’t relevant. “You’ve got a problem here, Henry.”

“No kidding.” Henry twirled a fountain pen between his fingers. “I had no idea he’d try something like that — I don’t even know why —”

“Don’t you?” Jerry fixed him with the stare he’d used on ungrateful undergraduates, and Henry looked away.

“I didn’t know. Not for sure. And I couldn’t say anything, not without proof.”

“Something has possessed William Davenport,” Jerry said. “Or he’s allied himself with something very dubious. I’ve known him and his style, his energy, for too many years to think that was just him, no matter what he may have learned. And if you knew it and didn’t do anything about it —”

“I couldn’t,” Henry said again. He shoved his chair back from the desk, crossed to the windows to pull back the curtains. The windows faced east, and the sun was strong enough to make both men wince, but Henry stared out at the pool house anyway. “I only suspected because Bill asked me to stand in for someone last week — he’d been doing something with a smaller group, teaching new students, and one of the men was ill, and they couldn’t put it off….”

That made sense, Jerry thought. Davenport had never had any respect for Henry’s talent — which was real enough, even if it wasn’t disciplined, and even if Henry was lazy and didn’t always show at his best. If Davenport didn’t believe Henry was any good, then he would have assumed that Henry couldn’t actually feel what was going on. “But you sensed — something,” he prompted, and Henry shrugged.

“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.”

T
his 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.

L
ewis 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.”