by Graham, Jo
"You're saying this man can control lightning." Lewis twisted his hat brim in his hands.
"Not as much current as lightning," Alma said, dropping her shoe on the floor. "A much smaller amount of energy, but one that can still do harm. I couldn't have grounded it if it had been much more current."
"Grounded it."
Alma nodded. "That's what I did. I ran the current to ground, absorbing it back into the earth so it wouldn’t hurt anybody, the same thing that happens when lightning hits a lightning rod. It grounds."
Lewis frowned. "How?"
Alma opened her mouth and shut it again. "I don't know," she said. "I just know it works."
"That's what our tradition is about," Jerry said ponderously. "Hermetics is about the experiential discovery of effective esoterica through empirical study. Based upon the philosophy of the Hellenistic sage Hermes Trismegistus…."
Mitch got to his feet. "Come on, Jerry."
"What?"
"Let Alma explain."
For a moment Lewis thought Jerry would protest, but instead he shrugged, his eyes on Alma, a look passing between them that Lewis couldn't interpret.
"It's her place," Mitch said, and Lewis wondered if he meant because they were sharing a bed, or because of something else.
"Goodnight, then," Jerry said. He opened the door and waited for Mitch to precede him out. "See you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Jerry," Alma said. "Mitch." She twisted around on the bed, crossing her stockinged feet beneath her. Mitch gave her a two fingered salute and pulled the door closed.
Lewis came around and sat down in the chair, still hunting for words. "I don’t understand how these things can be real," he said quietly. "It flies in the face of science."
Alma shook her head. "No, it doesn't." She took a deep breath, as if considering. "Do you understand how an aircraft works?"
Lewis nodded. "Yes. I mean, I understand about lift and thrust, about airspeed and wind direction and all of that. That's science."
"And it's new," Alma said. "People forty years ago didn't understand it, much less people five hundred years ago. The principles of flight were always there, but we didn't understand how to use them yet." She sat up straighter, her bare feet in their silk casings tucked under her legs. "But people could observe birds. Probably people have done that since the dawn of time! They could see how birds flew and they could imagine flying. They could observe how baby birds learn to fly, how they glide first and how they tilt their wings to provide lift. Leonardo da Vinci designed a glider that works. He just didn't have an engine to give him sufficient airspeed to actually build a plane." Alma smiled. "He didn't understand the principles, but he knew what he saw and he could experiment based on what worked."
"Ok," Lewis said slowly. "So what does that have to do with magic?"
"To Leonardo, flying was magic. If somebody from the fifteenth century saw one of our planes they would think it was supernatural. But it isn't. It's just that we know more than they did." Alma reached for his hand. "But we don't know everything. We know a tiny little fraction of everything there is to understand about the universe. And a lot of the things we don't understand seem supernatural to us. Like Leonardo, we can observe and we can theorize and we can use to a limited extent the things our observations teach us, but we can't explain it all. Not yet. Hermetics is sometimes called scientific magic, and that's why. We use the empirical knowledge accumulated by different generations and different cultures and we try to understand why it works. Sometimes we can reproduce results and sometimes we can't. Sometimes we can see why a formula has power, and sometimes we don't know anything except that it does. And every century, every decade, we understand better. We understand more about the 'supernatural,' about the way the world works beyond what science can currently explain. Does that make sense?"
"I suppose," Lewis said slowly. "But I don't understand…. How can a person influence electrical energy?"
"We are energy," Alma said. "We all have electrical energy in our bodies." She looked down at their interlaced hands, turned hers in his so that their palms were together. "Hold still." She let go of his hand and moved hers back, three inches between their palms. "Now tell me what you feel." Slowly she moved her hand closer, quarter inch by quarter inch, until only three quarters of an inch remained between. She looked up at Lewis with a smile that was pure trouble. "What do you feel?"
He stared at their hands, ordinary, not quite touching. "It feels warm," he said. The warmth was growing between their palms even though they didn't touch. "Really warm."
"That's what happens when your electrical field interacts with mine," she said. "You can feel it. That's what energy feels like. That's the thing we're manipulating."
Warm, and stronger than he'd expected, right there against the heart of his palm…. And then stronger, like pressure, like she'd pressed her palm to his, though she hadn't moved. He looked at Alma, at the faint pleased expression of concentration on her face, the same one she wore when she flew. "What are you doing?"
"Pushing a little," she said. "That's all. Just manipulating it a little bit, like pushing with my hand."
"That's…." Lewis didn't have the words for it. His eyes met hers, blue and delighted, as though it were fun. "That's real."
"I told you it was," Alma said.
Jerry hung his suit coat in the room’s narrow closet, pulled off his tie and loosened his collar. Mitch had tossed his jacket onto the back of the chair, and pulled out the bottle of bourbon. He poured himself two fingers, and held up the bottle in silent question, but Jerry shook his head. He went into the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves as he went, and turned on the tap, waiting until the water ran as cold as it was going to get. He washed his face and his hands, ran a damp cloth over the back of his neck and held his wrists under the stream. He hadn’t been that close to dying in a long time, not since the war — well, not since they’d had to amputate his foot, but he wasn’t going to count that — and he didn’t like it.
“You Ok?” Mitch called, and Jerry shut off the water and dried his hands.
“I’m fine,” he said, and limped back into the main room. Mitch had taken the one comfortable chair, so Jerry sat on the bed, stretching his bad leg carefully on the spread. “I hope to hell she doesn’t spook him.”
“I thought you didn’t want to work with him,” Mitch said.
“I never said that.” Jerry dragged the pillow into a more comfortable position. “I said I wasn’t sure. Anyway, it doesn’t look as though we have much choice.”
“It’s her right,” Mitch said again.
“She’s not Magister,” Jerry said. He hadn’t meant to say it so bluntly, hadn’t meant to say it at all, but the words hung in the air between them. Mitch fixed him with a stare.
“Gil’s dead.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“We need a leader,” Mitch said.
“We’ve been fine —”
“We have not been fine without one,” Mitch said. “We’ve barely done anything since he died, and what we’ve done — it’s been going through the motions, Jer, you know that. Alma’s the logical choice. I don’t want it, and you —”
“What makes you think I don’t want it?” Jerry asked. He was perversely glad of the argument, anything to take his mind off the moment when he met Davenport’s eyes and knew there was nothing he could do to stop the rush of power.
“You’ve never showed the slightest interest,” Mitch said.
“That was before Gil died,” Jerry said.
“Are you saying you don’t trust Alma? Because after tonight, that would be pretty damned ungrateful.” Mitch glared at him.
“Yes, it would be,” Jerry snapped, “and of course I trust her. She’s damn good, and before you say it, no, it’s not the first time she’s saved my life. Why is it so hard to imagine that I might want to be Magister myself?”
There was a little silence, and Jerry saw Mitch take a breath. “Do you?” he said. “Do you r
eally?”
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.”
Jerry 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 guilel
essly.
“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.
