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  Alma let out a long shaking breath. "Not much, lately. So very little. Since Gil died…." She closed her hand around his. "Not much," she said, "in terms of saving the world."

  Lewis looked at their linked fingers in the stripe of light across the bed. "Saving the world," he said softly. It was absurd. Kings and dictators and presidents, demagogues and revolutionaries and anarchists with their guns, all lined up around the globe trying to tear humanity apart and against them what? This insignificant woman in her silk teddy? Mitch and his beloved passenger plane? Or Jerry with his missing leg and a doctorate in archeology?

  "If we don't," Alma asked softly, "Who will?"

  Lewis blinked. It was as though some enormous piece slid into place in silence, echoes deeper than his hearing could bear.

  "It's being part of something," Alma said. "Something a lot bigger than we are, vaster than all our lives. We are builders of the Temple, guardians of the world, just like uncounted ones before us and yet to come. It may be that the battles we fight are small in the grand scheme of things, but you know that there's no such thing as an insignificant battle. There's no such thing as a fight that we can afford to lose. You learned that in the war, right? There's no unimportant village."

  "Not when it's yours," Lewis said. The picture was there in his head, a cottage on the western front long since evacuated, long since abandoned to war. They'd sheltered there two days once, waiting for the weather to clear enough to get back to the aerodrome. Robbie had laughed because he'd carefully washed all the dishes they'd used, put them away in the cabinet. They'll just get blown up when there's shelling, Robbie said, but Lewis did it anyway. They might not. And someday maybe the people would come home. He was a guest in their house, an ally, maybe a friend. Guests don't leave a mess behind them.

  Alma saw the change in his face, even if she didn't know the reason for it. "You do know," she said quietly.

  He nodded.

  "It would be great to be part of a big movement," she said. "I'd love to have all the bells and whistles, the pomp and circumstance and the beautiful things and everybody's approbation. But we don't have that. It's just us. We do the little things, we mend what we can, shore up the walls. We do what needs doing."

  "Like being detached," Lewis said. "When you're sent on a mission with just a few men, and maybe nobody will ever know if you got through or not." His eyes met hers. "But you do it right anyway."

  "For honor," Alma said evenly, her eyes on his.

  "For God."

  "That too." She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. "I've been worried about telling you this. But I knew I'd have to sooner or later."

  Sooner or later if they were serious. Sooner or later if he were someone she could love, not just a way of filling up the empty place in her heart with a hired man who didn't matter. The thought made a tiny trickle of joy swell up inside him.

  Lewis swallowed. "So what do you…do? Are you a clairvoyant?"

  Alma smiled, and the light in her eyes could have powered Los Angeles. "Me? No. I can't do any of the oracular stuff. I'm a strong ground. I'm not a half bad Hermeticist, but mostly I handle energy. Picking it up, putting it down, and anything that's specifically geophysical." Alma shrugged. "I'm a Taurus. May 17th. Pretty damn typical." Her eyes flicked over his face. "You're a lot more interesting."

  "Thanks." He supposed that was a compliment. "And Mitch and Jerry?"

  "Mitch is an Aries. He's fire with a lot of earth in his chart. He's a strong foil, a real powerhouse. Jerry's a Cancer, July 5th. Cardinal water. He's got a very fine touch, very good perceptions, a good hand with manipulation. He's our scholar, but I imagine you've guessed that." Alma smiled again.

  "Yeah, I could have gotten there," Lewis said. He didn't want to ask it, but he did. "And Gil?"

  Her smile faded. "Gil was a Libra. Balance and moderation in all things, or perhaps just being caught between. Stronger than Jerry but more finely focused than Mitch. He was our Magister, our leader."

  "And now who is?"

  "Nobody." Alma looked down at her lap. "We haven't decided. We haven't needed to."

  "Because you weren't doing anything." Lewis nodded. He could see how it shook out. And so it was time to change course. "So what about this translation Jerry's doing? What does it have to do with all this?"

  "Henry Kershaw was in the lodge with Gil before the war," she said. "It was a lot bigger then, and a whole bunch of Air Corps types were involved. He moved on to a different lodge later, a richer one that was neutrally focused – interested in exploring magic for its own sake, to expand humanity's knowledge rather than to channel the Work into specific positive directions. Scientific magic in its purest form. Try some things and see what works." Alma snorted. "The problem with that is that sometimes the things you discover aren't always put to good use. It's like chemistry. There are an awful lot of good things that can be done. And then there's the guy who invented mustard gas." Her jaw tightened. "Right now Henry's in a huge lodge here in LA. A lot of dabblers and movie types, people who want to be told they've got a lot of talent or who want to be involved with something forbidden and exciting." She shrugged. "Not that it's bad, but it's not exactly a serious working group. They have beautiful costumes and do reenactments of ancient festivals, Bacchic revels with bathtub gin. I don't have any objection to a few Bacchic revels," she said, a mischievous expression crossing her face, "but a lot of what they're up to is just overpriced parties. It doesn't do any harm, but it's not exactly the Great Work either."

  Hollywood swimming pools and Bacchic revels were adding up to something in his head, something that looked a lot like Theda Bara dressed as Cleopatra with all the parts of the movie in that nobody could actually film. Lewis felt a slow blush rising in his face. "Like…what? Public gamahuching?"

  Alma turned bright red. "I've never done anything like that in my life. Truly."

  "I never thought you did," Lewis said quickly. Though the idea of Alma…. He ripped his head away from that train of thought. "So what does Kershaw need Jerry for?"

  "He says he has a curse tablet, a Roman artifact, and he wants Jerry to translate it." Alma shrugged. "Don't ask me why. Latin's not exactly an obscure dead language. It's not like Demotic or something really exotic that Jerry reads. He could find plenty of other people. Which is what makes me nervous. He's willing to pay Jerry an awful lot of money and put him up like this." She gestured to the ceiling of the Roosevelt Hotel.

  "For something that isn't worth that much money." Lewis nodded. "That would make me nervous too."

  "I don’t want to say this to Jerry, but maybe Henry's just doing him a good turn. Giving him work because he thinks he's hard up because of his leg." Alma shook her head. "Henry might do something like that. He was a nice guy, a good friend of Gil's. Otherwise, I don't see what the angle is."

  "Unless this thing is stolen," Lewis pointed out.

  "True." Alma brightened. "Which would make sense. Jerry won't go to the police and Henry knows it. But I don't like to see Jerry get involved in something like that."

  "I don’t see how you can stop him," Lewis said.

  "I don't either. But I can sure as hell guard him and make sure he doesn't get in over his head." Alma stretched out her legs, kicking them free of the sheet, bare and lovely and entirely distracting. "That's why I said I'd come with him."

  "Because you're in a lodge together." Lewis was trying to put it together. Like being a strike team, like being wingmen.

  "Because we're family," Alma said.

  Chapter Five

  Jerry paused in the lobby, bracing himself on his cane. There were too many stairs in the Roosevelt for his taste, two steps here up to the restaurant, three steps down to the sunken seating area, four steps to the ballroom’s foyer, never mind the elegant staircase that led to the mezzanine. He fished his watch out of his pocket, checking the time and getting breath and balance back. Three minutes till noon, and sure enough, a young Mexican in dark blue livery was making his way
through the lobby. Jerry knew he wasn’t hard to spot, saw the moment the chauffeur spotted the cane, saw the flicker of his eyes as he confirmed the artificial leg. After that one glance, though, the young man met his eyes, pulling off his cap politely.

  “Dr. Ballard?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Kershaw sent me, sir. The car’s out front.”

  Jerry followed him through the lobby, aware that the younger man was holding back to match his pace, and let himself be handed into the back seat of a Packard sedan exactly the same shade of midnight blue as the chauffeur’s uniform.

  “I expected a Pierce Arrow,” he said, and the chauffeur’s mouth twitched once before he had it under control.

  “I believe Mr. Kershaw prefers a quieter ride, sir.”

  Touché, Jerry thought. The chauffeur put the car into gear, and eased it, purring, into the traffic. Jerry set his cane between his feet and leaned back against the cushions, trying to relax.

  It wasn’t just that he didn’t like Henry. He’d spent long enough in both academia and the Army to have learned how to deal — well, perhaps not comfortably, but efficiently — with people he didn’t care for. And it wasn’t just that Henry worked in a tradition that he considered unsound. That was Henry’s problem, and Henry’s lodge’s, and if they wanted to waste their time with amateur theatrics, that didn’t concern him. It wasn’t even a matter of trust, ultimately. Gil had trusted him in mundane matters, and for the rest, that didn’t matter unless he was going to share the work, and that was never going to happen. He’d told Henry that ten years ago, and he meant it still. And it wasn’t the money, Henry’d earned that — well, maybe he did envy what the money could buy, the freedom to travel, but he knew the business kept Henry from doing much more than buying up stray pieces that made it to the States. No, what was eating him was that Gil had always liked Henry, in spite of everything, in spite of his helping to break up the lodge the first time around, and these days he resented anyone Gil had known who was still alive when Gil was dead.

  And that was unsupportable: trite, sentimental, and exhaustingly pointless. Gil would have laughed in his face at the very idea, and Alma — No, better not to pursue that train of thought. Better not to pursue any of this, in fact, and keep his mind on the business at hand.

  If Henry said it was a curse tablet, that’s probably what it was. He’d also said it was Roman, but Jerry rather doubted that. Even if Henry’s Latin wasn’t up to the job, there must be half a dozen people in this fancy new lodge who could translate it. He was willing to bet that, along with the movie stars and the thrill-seekers who were there for the costumed naughtiness, there was an inner circle who knew what they were doing. If the tablet was Roman, and Henry wasn’t asking them about it, then there was something wrong about the tablet. If it wasn’t Roman — probably Henry didn’t recognize the source, and didn’t want to admit it to the others. He’d always been sensitive about having had to cut short his education.

  The Packard turned off the main boulevard onto a tree-lined street that wound up into the base of the hills. The houses were bigger here, with stone walls and iron gates — expensive houses, and getting more expensive the higher they went. Typical of Henry, he thought. But it was a hell of a place for a temple.

  They turned in at an open gate, between pillars topped conventionally with eagles. The drive curved sharply to the house, three stories of gleaming white stone with bright red tiles on the roof. The door was set back beneath a triple arch, and the chauffeur brought the car to a gentle stop and hopped out quickly to open the car door. Jerry swung himself out — he’d almost mastered the art of getting out of a car without a struggle, even if it meant moving in segments, like a camel — and as he got his cane braced under him, he saw Henry in the doorway. He hadn’t changed much, though perhaps the suit was even more carefully cut. He still had the beard he’d grown at the end of the War, trimmed now to a neat line that made him look like a Montenegrin diplomat, and the thick wavy hair was subdued by a ruthless barber.

  “Welcome,” Henry said, and they clasped hands under the central arch. His hand was hard, callused: still working in the machine shop, Jerry thought, and managed a tight smile. Behind them, the Packard pulled away, and Henry waved toward the shadowed interior. “I appreciate your willingness to help.”

  “I was curious,” Jerry said frankly. “I still am. You never did explain what was so odd about this tablet that you couldn’t read it —”

  “All in good time,” Henry said, with a quick, wry smile that negated some of the pomposity.

  Jerry followed him down the hall, the knob of his artificial leg skittish on the tile floors. It was time Alma added another layer of rubber — past time, really, but they’d been in a hurry leaving Colorado. To either side, wide doors revealed expensive furniture, sunlight hanging in the still air; the sound of water was suddenly louder, and the hall opened onto a wide terrace that overlooked a semi-enclosed patio. A fountain played in the center, and outside a swimming pool glittered in the sun, and beyond it was a low-roofed pool house faced with a pillared loggia. Jerry tipped his head to one side, abruptly aware of a change in energy, and looked at Henry.

  “That’s your temple?”

  The other man shrugged. “It seemed — suitable.”

  “Oh, very.” Now that he looked more closely, Jerry could make out the symbols worked into the pool’s mosaic borders, could just sense the larger rosette of stones at the bottom of the pool itself. There were statues, too, set in the niches of the wall that defined the area. Most of them were copies, not unskillful, but one or two, the ones closest to the pool house itself, were true antiquities. “You didn’t.”

  “Let’s not argue,” Henry said. “My office is this way.”

  Jerry swallowed his objection, and followed. The office was at least half a library, two walls covered with floor to ceiling shelves, a third wall draped with heavy curtains. As he crossed the threshold, he felt the ghost of wards, but didn’t bother looking for the symbols.

  Henry drew the curtains, letting in the sun, and Jerry realized they were overlooking the pool again. Which meant Henry probably used this space for his workings as well, which might explain the odd sensation teasing at the back of his mind….

  “Have a seat,” Henry said, and reluctantly Jerry lowered himself into the chair that stood waiting at the edge of Henry’s massive desk. Henry turned toward the bookcases — oh, not a secret compartment, Jerry thought, and then saw the locked cabinet set in among the shelves. The doors were glass and the key was in the lock: apparently it was just to keep idle hands away from the old books, or at least that was what one was meant to think. Henry murmured something, and turned the key. The door swung open, and he produced a small package wrapped in burlap, and set it on the desk in front of Jerry.

  “Go ahead, open it,” he said, and turned to re-lock the cabinet.

  The wrappings were tied with string, none too clean. Jerry plucked it free, and unwrapped the coarse fabric to reveal a bright silk scarf.

  “It was what I had,” Henry said, and leaned his hip against the desktop.

  Jerry lifted an eyebrow, but folded back the first layer of silk. Power warmed his fingertips, trembled in his hands, old and strong and not unfriendly. He took a sharp breath, peeling back the rest of the layers. The tablet lay revealed in the sunlight, the dull lead stamped with seals that he knew he should recognize. Letters had been dug deep into the surface, familiar Latin ritual phrases mixed with ones he didn’t know, and words, whole lines, in an alphabet he recognized all too well. No, Henry wouldn’t recognize Etruscan, and probably neither would anyone else in his lodge, unless Davenport was still a member. He touched the first seal gently, and the power nipped his finger like a spark.

  “What the hell have you got here?” he said, half to himself, and Henry sighed.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Jerry lifted the tablet, careful to keep the silk between his fingers and the metal surfac
e, and turned it over to check the reverse. As he had more than half expected, there were symbols there as well, and another ritual phrase calling down punishment on anyone who disturbed the work — no, on anyone who disturbed the binding. And that was not what he had expected at all. He turned the tablet upright again, frowning, and Henry said, “Well?”

  “Where was this found?” Jerry tilted the tablet. The surface was blurred, worn, almost as though it had been exposed to wind or water. Or to something that rubbed constantly against it, trying slowly and without patience but with infinite time to wear away its bonds. The image made him shiver, and he scowled at Henry. “You’re going to have to tell me sometime, you know. If you want me to make a decent job of it.”

  Henry made a face. “What I know is what I was told.”

  “Yes, all right.” Jerry tilted the tablet again, the power in it strong and cold even through the protecting silk. Its weight seemed to shift with the movement, as though there were a blob of mercury trapped within it, pouring along hidden channels. There were no signs of a plug, or seams; the corner seals were discolored at the center, as though — maybe — something had been pressed into or through the lead, but that would be a visible symbol of the binding, defixio made literal. He checked the back again, but the discoloration didn’t go all the way through. Perhaps not, then, he thought, and became aware that Henry was still silent.

  “So what did — he? she? this person — tell you?”

  “I was told,” Henry said, carefully, “that it was found in conjunction with the excavations at Lake Nemi.”

  Nemi. The Sanctuary of Diana at Aricia, by the lake that had been known to the Romans as Diana’s Mirror. Where fisherman had for centuries dredged up fragments of mysterious ships from the bottom of the lake. Where just last year the Italian government had opened an extremely well-financed and internationally staffed expedition that was not only excavating the sanctuary and sections of the surrounding grove, but actually draining the lake itself. The last report he had seen said that the superstructure of the first ship was now above water, and that it was far larger than any Roman ship previously discovered, and would rewrite half a dozen well-worn assumptions….