by Graham, Jo
The men were waiting for her under one of the arches that gave onto the field, where the lights were strongest. Jerry tipped his hat at her approach, and Lewis put his hand to his cap in something like a salute, his glance appreciative. Mitch lifted his hat as well, set it onto the back of his head. He had his jacket over his arm
“We got lucky, Al. Nomie Jones is still running the rentals here.”
That was good news on all counts — Nomie had served with Gil, gave them a break on the hanger fee — and Alma nodded. “That’s good news.” There was an orchestra tuning somewhere, she realized, looked up the stairs to see lights and movement, and shook her head as she realized there was a restaurant there, apparently with a dance floor.
Lewis grinned. “Feels too much like work, doesn’t it?”
Alma nodded, and Jerry laughed. “Oh, come now, don’t you know this is where you go to see the stars? The ones who fly, anyway.”
“It’s still too much like work,” Alma answered.
Chapter Four
Mitch leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, while Jerry hunted around. He’d long since learned to tune out things that didn’t concern him, and Jerry’s search through his reference books was out of his league. Mitch was pretty cheerful about that. He’d never had any pretensions to academic brilliance.
Yes, he had a degree, and he'd earned it, but it was more the result of concerted effort than natural talent, a lot like some other things in his life. Mitch had learned a long time ago that everybody gets one good, golden talent if they're lucky, to make of what they can. All the rest of life is hard work.
His talent was airplanes. The first day he'd been up he'd understood what to do, felt it all suddenly make sense in a way that nothing else before ever had. This was it. This was the thing, the beautiful thing that Mitchell Sorley was born to do. No more kind of sort of getting it, trudging along in the middle of the pack laboring to do what others did with rare grace. In the air he was reborn.
Gil had seen it. Lt. Colonel Gilchrist had given him the chance to shine.
Gil was pretty much the epitome of everything he was supposed to be, cool, laconic, and remorseless, meaning without remorse. You got the feeling there wasn't anything that could throw him, anything that could possibly be bad enough to ruffle his feathers, much less break him. Nerves of steel, some guys said, but Mitch thought it was more like no nerves. It was less like a guy who reaches into a fire out of courage and more like the wounded with nerve damage who'll touch something burning and never know it.
They'd just been transferred to Aviano in Northern Italy, the 24 planes in the squadron, to back up the ground war against the Austrian offensive around Venice, when he'd seen the picture, a slightly crumpled formal portrait of a woman with long dark hair, a secret smile and the high collared shirtwaist of a decade ago. He'd asked the exec, Browning, if she was Gil's wife. Browning had been there from the beginning, since they were back in the States, and he gave Mitch a hard look. "She's dead," he said shortly. "Her and the baby both. Leave it alone."
He had, of course. He'd never said a word to Gil about it. But he filed it away, the thing that made Gil cold in the air, taking the kind of chances man and machine couldn't bear. The French called it sang froid. Mitch thought it was more like not caring. Gil had picked Mitch up when he'd had to ditch, and Mitch had his tail the first time things went pear-shaped over the Piave River.
And then there was Alma. She was an ambulance driver with the corps, an Army brat who'd grown up at various posts all over the west, the motherless daughter of an Army Sergeant whose benign neglect had translated into remarkably checkered experiences. She spoke a little Navajo and a great deal of Spanish, knew how to break a horse and set a leg, could find her way with nothing but a compass and the stars, and was utterly and completely confounded by the niceties of behavior expected of civilized women. Mitch thought her father had done her no favors, not that he would have said it. There wasn't much a decent young woman could do that she was fit for.
His own mother would have been dumbfounded and then felt terribly sorry for her. But then his mother was used to getting food on the table three times a day for ten people, baking two pies a day for dinner and breakfast, curing cheese and pickling a hundred quarts of vegetables every summer. She'd sent four boys off to college to better themselves, and all of them had. Mitchell was the oldest, Trinity College class of 1915. Well, he supposed it was called Duke University now, but it had still been Trinity when he’d graduated. He'd gone straight into service, charging off to France as soon as he had the sheepskin in his hand. Frank was class of ‘18, and he was a surgeon now. Charles was class of ‘19, and he was a minister. Howard was the baby, class of ‘24, and he'd just finished law school and gone home to Winston-Salem to set out his shingle. And Grace and Evelyn were both married. There were ten grandchildren between them all, and Mitchell the only one not settled down.
The bed gave as Jerry manhandled the case of books onto it, and Mitch opened one eye. Nope. Didn't need help. Just that abstracted look Jerry got when he was thinking hard, his gold framed glasses creeping down his nose.
Jerry had been an artillery officer, a Classicist who never got tired of walking the footsteps of the Caesars, and certainly never shut up about it, not for ten minutes. He'd been with the artillery defending Venice, a rotten job actually. Much more so than providing air cover, though it hadn't been until Vittorio Veneto in October that he'd been wounded, in the same battle as Gil, less than a month before the Armistice. Alma'd probably saved his life, stopping the bleeding, though ultimately she hadn't saved his foot. It had to come off a year later anyhow.
By that time Alma and Gil were married, and so Jerry had come to stay with them. Easier all around for everybody that way.
Jerry plopped himself on the side of the bed. "What do you think of Segura?" he asked.
Mitch opened his eyes. "He's a good pilot," he said cautiously.
"I mean in other senses."
Mitch blew out a long breath. So many minefields there. "I don't really know yet," he said cautiously. "He's strong. I couldn't tell you what kind of mix he has, but he's got some pretty serious power behind it. He's air, which is a good thing. I had a look at his discharge papers. May 25th is his birthday."
Jerry snorted. "You know the solar position isn't definitive."
"Well, unless you want to ask him what time he was born and where, it's what we've got." Mitch looked at him seriously. "You know Alma wants him in."
"I'm reserving judgment," Jerry said. He raised a placating hand. "I'm not saying no."
"I didn't say you were," Mitch said. He hesitated, but it had to be said. "It's not like replacing Gil."
"In any sense?" Jerry's mouth was tight.
"That's Al's business, not ours."
"I'm just saying it will be a problem," Jerry said. "If it turns out that he's not good material. Or if he spooks."
Mitch nodded. There was nothing he could say that wasn't too stark, too cruel.
"Besides," Jerry said, "It's not like it was back during the war and right after. We haven't pushed ourselves in years."
Since Gil stopped pushing, Mitch thought. Since Gil was too sick. Maybe he should push, maybe he should try harder to get Jerry and Al going, to work the boundaries again. It had been dispiriting, a cart with three wheels teetering along out of balance, the absence of Gil a continual wrong note. But there had to be structural things that would fix that, even if Jerry insisted it wasn't proper form. A tripod has three legs and stands.
"Well," Mitch said, "Let's see what Henry's got for us. And hope it doesn't bite."
"It won't," Jerry said grimly. "Not me at any rate."
Lewis lay in the dark of their seventh-floor room, listening to Alma’s slow breathing beside him, wondering if she was really asleep, or if she just couldn’t bring herself to talk right now. He’d wanted to ask questions, to make love, to celebrate this unexpected holiday, a fancy hotel in Los Angeles and no re
al obligations. But it had been too awkward, signing the register at the desk downstairs while Alma tried not to look at him. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Segura, Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA. While Alma tried not to look like she was afraid someone she knew would suddenly pop out of nowhere in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles and say, “My goodness, Alma! When did you and Lewis get married?”
“Just now,” she’d have to say, “in Las Vegas.” And then they’d really have to. It was easy to get married in Las Vegas. They didn’t even require a blood test. Just walk in, say who you were, and nobody would even ask for proof of anything, much less the proof of his divorce from Victoria which wouldn’t hold water in half of these United States and put him wrong in the eyes of God forever and ever. It wasn’t like he could really marry Alma anyhow, not in the Church.
Maybe that didn’t matter to her anyway. He’d asked her once what she was and she’d laughed and said, “Contrarian.” Probably some kind of Protestant, at least on paper. She and Gil had been married by an Army chaplain, a strictly civil service in the army hospital in Venice two days after the Armistice. He’d seen the certificate. Mitch had been one of the witnesses and someone with the unlikely name Iskinder Yonas Negasi had been the other.
But nobody would ask any questions in Vegas. Not that he and Alma were in a marrying place. It was just that saying they were married was much too close, treading too near the edge.
It was awkward. Which was probably why as soon as they’d gotten to their room, Alma had proclaimed she needed a bath. Not that she didn’t, it had been a long hot layover in Las Vegas, and the dress shields she’d unpinned from her flying blouse had been nothing but damp little wads. But then there had been a late dinner, hurrying before the dining room closed, and then she’d told him to go ahead and bathe, which he also needed, and by the time he’d come to bed, she’d been curled under the sheets, apparently sound asleep. He listened for a moment longer to her breathing, soft and steady in the dark, settling himself to sleep. It would be better in the morning.
He dreamed he stood in a wood in starlight, a light wind blowing across him, touching his face like cooling breath. He stood beneath trees, but it only took a moment to walk to the edge of the forest and look out, down a long hillside to a lake that whispered opaque like a blackened mirror in the starlight. It should have been frightening, and yet it wasn't.
A white hound paced him, her long nose held high, looking up at him with blue eyes as bright as Alma's. She snuffled at his hand and he bent to pet her, kneeling before her on the thick mat of pine needles, caressing her soft ears. "There, good girl," he said. "There." Her fur was like silk, warm beneath his hand.
She butted his hand, then got up and walked a few paces. She stopped, looking back at him expectantly.
"You want me to follow you?" Lewis asked bemusedly. "Ok. I can do that."
He followed her under the eaves of the woods, through paths cast into deep shadow. Lewis couldn't have said how long he walked or how far, the white hound glimmering like a star ever before him.
There was the sound of chanting, and he was in a room. It was no place he'd ever been before, but it was modern. Though candles were lit, illuminating precious little, there were electric lamps turned off, a chandelier with electric bulbs hanging dark from the ceiling. Four men and four women were there, standing in a circle around empty space, their identical white robes veiling their forms, their bare feet soundless on the thick oriental carpet.
He heard a growl and looked down. The white hound stood beside him, fur standing up on the back of her neck, and her teeth were bared. He looked where she did, at one who drew the eye. He was fifty, perhaps, tall and handsome, with the kind of rugged physique that aged well. He had dark hair threaded with gray, a square jaw, and his movements were purposeful and sharp, gesturing to thin air and speaking words that ought to be familiar but weren't. He almost caught the sense of them, but not quite.
The hound butted his hand again, and her meaning was as clear as if she'd spoken. Look. Look at that one. Know him.
Unerringly, as though Lewis' gaze had touched him, he looked across the circle and met Lewis' eyes, his hand moving in a gesture that was far from random. It hurt. It burned. It was like taking a sudden blow to the chest that shoved him backwards, away from the room, away from the light….
Lewis jerked awake, sitting up before he was even aware what he was doing, the sound of his own breath harsh in his ears. He could still almost feel it, like a blow to the solar plexus….
Alma rolled over and sat up. She was sleeping in her combinations, and a silk teddy in a pale pink that was probably supposed to match her skin, but the deep v at her neck was tanned a lot darker, while beneath the fragile lace trimmed edge her nipples showed through the cloth. "Lewis?"
He didn't trust himself to speak yet, just sat breathing, bending forward over his knees.
Alma leaned against his back, her arm across him. "It's just a bad dream," she said quietly. "Just breathe and let it go."
"Not just a dream," Lewis muttered, scrubbing his hands across his face. "Not this time. It’ll happen." He was too thrown to lie. "Sometimes I dream about things that come true."
He felt her stiffen almost imperceptibly against him, but her hand was gentle on his shoulder, kneading the stiff muscle. "Like what?"
"I dreamed about you before I met you. Well, not about you, exactly. About the plane and about the airshow. I knew that if I went something good would happen." Lewis rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I do it a lot."
Alma took a deep breath, controlled, like she was taking off. "And this was a dream about something bad? Happening to you?"
"I don't know," he said, and told her the dream, his heart slowing to normal as they talked, the quiet dark of the hotel room safe and anonymous around them. "I don't know who that man was," he said. "I've never seen him before in my life. But I will see him, I know that. And he'll try to kill someone." He looked at her sideways, her face pale in the reflected light from the street. "It's ok if you don't believe me, Al."
"I believe you," Alma said slowly. "I believe you completely."
"You don't think I'm crazy?"
"I think you have an untrained clairvoyant gift." Alma squared her shoulders as Lewis blinked. "That's unusual, but not unheard of. I've known a number of clairvoyants. They're more uncommon than more typical energy projection mixes, and for some reason it's less common in men than in women, but some of the best known clairvoyants in history have been men. I wouldn't say you're unique."
"What?" Lewis sat up straight, the sheet pooling around his lap. She looked so awkward, sitting there in her thin teddy, biting down on her lower lip. He couldn't snap at her. Lewis took a deep breath. "Are you some kind of Spiritualist?"
"I tried to tell you," Alma said. "I was trying to. But it's complicated. At first I didn't know you well enough and then…."
"Then you were afraid I wouldn't understand?"
Alma nodded.
Lewis reached for her hands, folded her strong fingers in his. He’d wanted answers, and he couldn’t complain now that he was getting them. "Ok. How about you start from the beginning?'
"When I met Gil he was already a member of a lodge, the Aedificatorii Templi. It wasn't an old lodge, but it had a pedigree." Alma looked at him as though wondering if she should continue. "Technically it's an offshoot of the Golden Dawn, founded by people who left the Golden Dawn when there was a horrible schism about twenty five years ago."
"We're talking about a bunch of magicians here," Lewis said slowly. "About black magic."
"No!" Alma looked indignant. "I should hope you know me well enough to know that I'd never be involved in something like that, never! Magic isn't black or white, Lewis. Not any more than a machine gun is, or an airplane. It's a tool that serves its user, just like any other. And what it does, whether that's good or bad, depends on what someone is using it for."
Lewis nodded slowly. "My grandmother could find los
t things," he said. "It was a thing she did for people. She said it was a gift from God."
"Exactly like that," Alma said. "There are some people who have these gifts, and it's their responsibility to use them for the good of the world, for the good of humanity. To serve God in whatever form one prefers by serving His creation."
"In whatever form one prefers?"
Alma bit her lip again. "The world is a really big and complicated place, Lewis. Lots of different peoples have tried to find the divine, and have made names for it based on what worked for them in their culture and time. You're Catholic, but do you, personally, really believe that all Presbyterians are going to hell?"
Lewis took a deep breath but didn't look away. "No," he said quietly. "I've known some good people who weren't Catholic. Some really good people. I don't believe they're going to hell."
"My dad used to say that you should judge people by their actions, not by how loud they prayed," Alma said. "I bet you've known some churchgoing people who weren't so good."
Lewis snorted. "Oh yeah."
Alma shifted, the light through the window making a stripe across her shoulder. "So that's all I'm asking, Lewis. Wait and judge us by what we do."
"We." He didn't need to ask. "You and Mitch and Jerry."
"Me and Mitch and Jerry." Alma nodded. "We're what's left of the lodge, of the Aedificatorii Templi. Some of them were killed in the war and some of them moved on. It's just us now."
"Just you." It made sense. Lewis was absolutely certain she wasn't making this up. It fit with the strangeness he'd seen, the odd sense that something was just a little off. He turned her hand over in his gently. "So what do you do?"
