Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 by Melissa Scott Page A

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.
     
    J erry 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 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