The 37th mandala : a novel (3 page)

—from
The Mandala Rites
of Elias Mooney

We live in the quickness of your souls. We strengthen your spirit and guard you from decay. When you are in danger, we are there to watch your steps; when you think on evil, we come near to ward it off. You need fear nothing in the world when you accept us, for the world is love, and prayer is our language. Your love gives us the power to move in your lives. Love is the answer to all your prayers.

—from
The Mandala Rites
of Derek Crowe

Lilith Allure, true to form, was already an hour late.

She did this to Derek every week, so he kept working long past the point at which he would have switched off the computer in anticipation of any other guest. He had finished writing his lecture days ago, and polished it repeatedly. There was no point in memorizing the thing since he was going to read it verbatim from the page. On the other hand, he had nothing better to do than rehearse it one more time.

Derek imagined scattered laughter in the hall. Always start with a bit of humor.

Yeah, right.

He was sick of looking at the screen. Sick of rereading his own words, but that was hardly new. He'd been sick of them since long before the book came out. Now it was publicity time, salt in the wound. He was supposed to muster some enthusiasm for tomorrow's flight to the sticks, push the deluxe edition, put on a show for the blue-haired occult groupies. All he really wanted was to lie in bed with Lilith, listen to the rain, and pretend there had never been a Derek Crowe.

He heard the rain splashing in the street as he walked around his desk to the window. The blinds slanted down, giving him a view of Larkin Street and the sidewalk gleaming below his building, streaky drops of water pulling from the wires. A cab was at the curb, its passenger just vanishing under the faded awning. That had to be Lilith. He went to turn off the computer but froze with his hand on the switch.

In the hall, the buzzer rang. Derek didn't move.

Something was happening on the screen, something he had never seen before. Ordinarily, when the machine sat idle, the screen-saver sent geometric forms tumbling across the screen—lines and pyramids and parallelograms.

Tonight the amber light seemed to strobe, making his vision flicker. The usual linear shapes chased themselves across the screen, twisting back and forth, folding in and out of each other like four-dimensional figures. The patterns were often hypnotic, but tonight the lines moved jerkily, slowing, as if the computer were about to die. Several twitched away from the rest, spasmed and flickered in isolation. The screen filled with wheels, circles, mandalas. One, another, and then still more—tumbling faster and faster, new mandalas appearing before the old ones faded, accreting in layers, an unholy residue clotting on the screen until it looked like a wall worked over by occult vandals.

He backed away from the desk. The buzzer sounded again. He was afraid to move.

Suddenly, with an audible pop, the screen went blank. For a moment he thought it had burned out. Then bright letters flared:

"You fuckers!" Crowe said. The buzzer was blaring. He stabbed at the switch and the screen went black again, this time for good reason. He stormed into the living room and down the short hall, slamming his hand on the speaker button. "I'll deal with you later," he muttered.

Lilith's voice came crackling. "It is later."

"Not you! Come on up!" He pressed the button to unlock the street door, threw the deadbolts, and paced back down the hall to glare at his blank screen. Those sorry thieves would regret they'd ever messed with him. Crowe's lawyer had a full view of San Francisco Bay, from forty floors up, where such pathetic trend-hopping ripoff artists could be viewed as the pitiful insects they were and squashed accordingly.

They must've come in through my modem, he thought. Fucking with me of the Internet. They figured out my codes or something. That's got to be illegal. More fuel for the lawsuit. I'll be lucky if they didn't plant some kind of goddamn mandala virus to eat my lecture before I print it out.

Just then he heard the door open.

For a moment the sight of Lilith erased his irritation. She was wrapped tight in black plastic, lightly beaded with rain. She hooked her umbrella on the doorknob and came toward him, carrying a bottle of wine in a paper sack. It was uncorked, and from the taste of her mouth, she had been drinking from it. And smoking as well.

He pulled away from her kiss. "Cigarettes."

"Well, Derek, you're the hypnotist. Break me of the filthy habit."

"I haven't hypnotized anyone ... in years."

"That's not what your book says."

"Forget about the book."

He took a swallow of wine, swished it in his mouth, swallowed; then he set the bottle on the rickety hall table covered with magazines and phone books, and squeezed her.

"So where did you hide her?" she asked. "And why did you bother?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your sex slave. You know I don't mind."

"Oh—no. It's those assholes from Club Mandala again. They're messing with my computer now. You wouldn't believe what they did."

She looked disappointed, biting her lip. "Oh, really? No girl?" Pulling away, she walked into the apartment and threw her coat over the couch. "I think I saw them today."

"Who?"

"
Them
. Coming out of the shop as I went in. I didn't recognize them at the time, but then I saw a poster for the club on the bulletin board, and Norman said a weird couple had put it up just before my shift. It was the pair I saw. Norman described them to a T. You know how he's always writing police reports in his head—everyone's a suspect in some crime they might commit."

"He let them put up a poster?"

"It's business, Derek."

"Why don't you tell him I'll pull copies of the book if he doesn't tear it down? That's business too. I'll start a boycott against Hecate's Haven."

"Lovely. Last month we had fundamentalist Boy Scouts picketing us for Jehovah's merit points. And now you."

Derek dropped on the couch, steaming.

"Besides," she said, wrapping an arm around him, waving the bottle under his nose, "we probably sell more copies of
The Mandala Rites
than any other shop in San Francisco. You'd be cutting your own throat."

"
Signed
copies," he said. "I don't have to do Norman any favors. He makes his profit too."

"You can't battle Club Mandala in Norman's shop."

"I don't intend to," he said. "That's what the courts are for. I've got an interview with a reporter from the Bayrometer next week, and I'm going to let those club assholes have it with both bores. If they want publicity. ..."

"That's the Derek Crowe I know."

He took her face in his hands. "And love?"

"I didn't say that."

"You came pretty close."

"Derek, everyone who ever met you loved you at first sight. Unfortunately, they mistook their first impression for disgust."

He shoved her away lightly, laughing. "So why do you keep coming back?"

"I've told you, my dear. I'm perverted."

"I only wish you were, Lilith. Underneath your satanic exterior, you're the embodiment of white bread."

She shuddered and sat away from him. "Satanic? That's stale bread. The only real Satanist is a disillusioned Christian."

"All right, all right, don't give me that lecture again. Are you hungry?"

"Not that there's anything in your kitchen worth offering me, but no." She rose from the couch, walking toward the bedroom which doubled as his office. "Not for earthly fare, anyway. A little of your blood would suit me fine, though. Let's get to it."

He followed her somewhat sheepishly, though his skin prickled with anticipation. He shut the door behind him, as if someone in the living room might be watching. He enjoyed the slight claustrophobia that came with reducing his world to this one small cell. He and Lilith, alone. She wore a black one-piece suit, zippered from throat to crotch.

"Speaking of lectures," she said, her fingers toying with the zipper ring at her neck. "You're off to where tomorrow?"

"Cinderton, North Carolina."

"That's it? That's your grand tour?"

He shrugged. "I follow the money."

"You don't seem too excited."

He sat down beside her. "I dread having to talk about the mandalas for the rest of my life. In a way, if they're too successful it will just be a pain in the ass. I want to be anonymous and get on with my next book."

"And all this time I thought you were just trying to hit the jackpot so you could lie back and do nothing for the rest of your life."

"Ah ... I can't fool a psychic. But I don't think this book is going to be the one. That's why I've got to get the next tome started. I might even work on it tonight. Research."

"Tonight? What's it called?"

"
The Big Book of Sex Magick
, " he said.

Lilith's laughter merged with the sound of the zipper. "Oh, really?" she said.

"It's dedicated to you."

One candle burned, and that was the only light in the room. It wavered as the flame bent, dipped. Lilith's hand trembled, and Derek bit his lips, hissing as molten wax scalded his nipple. The plaster wall was cold and clammy against his back and buttocks, arms, and calves. The wax cooled swiftly, but not before the candle darted elsewhere and the next tongue of fire licked his belly. Her hands caressed his inner thighs, her nails traced the cartilege spans that strained from his skin as he flinched and shivered. The handcuffs were cold, and so was the bare floor under his bare feet. The room was drafty and he felt perfectly vulnerable as Lilith whispered the words of some sinister-sounding spell that was probably nothing but a psalm recited in Hebrew. Of course, he didn't believe in her spells, but that wasn't the source of the thrilling fear he sometimes felt. The truth was, he didn't completely trust Lilith. If he had, this game would have held little appeal.

"The demon is with us," she said. "Arise, demon."

Her hand cupped his balls. The candle dripped. Derek clenched. Her teeth on his belly, biting sharply, letting go before the cry was even out of his mouth. Her hair brushed his pubes.

"Lilith," he said, tensing. Her breath on his groin. "Lilith, no."

She rocked back on her heels, looking up at him, the candle held between her fingers. "You cannot order me about, demon master. For you are in my circle now, and all your familiars are mine to command." She opened her mouth, making a ring. She set the candle down.

"No, Lilith. No."

He shut his eyes. He could feel her mouth closing around him.

"Please!" he said, writhing away violently, clenching down so hard that the plaster gave way and one of the hooks tore from the wall. The handcuff flew as he coiled into himself, and the curve of bright metal struck her in the cheek. She tumbled sideways on the floor. His fist, he realized, had also hit her. He hunched against the wall, one hand still pinned high in the air, but no longer angry or frightened enough to rip the second hook free. No longer out of control.

Lilith looked up at him, feeling her jaw. A slash below her eye bled slightly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "God, I'm so sorry."

She drew her bare knees close to her and started to rise.

"Lilith," he said, "I warned you ..."

"That's all right," she said, sullen. "We've always skated on the edge of it. I thought I'd take you out on the ice tonight—see how thin it is."

"Really, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's what happens when you play at pain, Derek."

"I just ... I just ..."

"Wait a minute." She found the key and freed him. He was shivering, so she pushed him toward the bed. "Get in," she said. She covered him with blankets.

"What about you?"

She looked toward the door. "I'm going to take off."

"What? Why?" He started to climb out, but she stopped him.

"Derek, it's nothing. I think you need to be alone."

"Alone? I'm always alone. What do you mean?"

"Something happened, Derek. We need to process it."

"What the fuck do you mean? I'm extremely ticklish, that's what happened."

She was already in the doorway, gathering her clothes to her, tugging at her zipper.

"It's more than that," she said. "Maybe I see it more clearly than you."

"You and your fucking third eye!" he called. "All right, Lilith, go ahead. I'm sorry I hurt you, but get the fuck out. And stop looking at my aura like that!"

She picked up her raincoat and looked back at him, sadly. "Have a lovely time in North Carolina, dear. Maybe things will be different when you come back."

The outer door closed a moment later. He knew he had to get out of bed eventually to lock and double-lock it, but he couldn't make himself move. He kept wondering exactly what had happened, what screwed-up ominous thing Lilith thought it all meant.

Sometimes he thought the little he saw of her was still too much.

She had weird notions; she steeped herself in them. She didn't mind him laughing at them either. She was tougher than that. Sometimes he thought she was his exact opposite and if they ever truly came together they would explode, like matter and antimatter in bad science fiction. The very idea that one night in North Carolina could somehow change things ... now that was even sillier than her demonic invocations.

He sat peeling candle wax from his chest, shaking his head.

My little demon
.

"Fucking Lilith," he said, and laughed.

That night it was so cold that Lenore and Michael Renzler sat at their kitchen table with the oven door open. Lenore picked at a congealing pool of creamed chipped beef. Her plate was cold so the glop had chilled instantly. Michael sat across from her, nothing on his plate but a piece of dry toast. He had taken one bite and otherwise ignored his "meal," too busy flipping through one of his occult books, making notes on a yellow pad and mumbling to himself. Watching her husband read was the highlight of too many of Lenore's evenings. He hadn't said one word to her since they'd sat down together. She was getting more pissed by the second.

"You want any shit on that shingle?" she finally asked.

"I'm fasting," he said without looking up.

"Fasting?"

"For tomorrow night."

"You're fasting for a lecture?"

"Not just for the lecture. I'm planning a ritual too."

He threw her a smile. Lately his rituals were the only thing he got excited about, but for the last two weeks it had been even worse. Michael was in ecstacies, obsessed; he couldn't talk about anything else. He kept reading and rereading the same book, making notes in it, trying out pronunciations that sounded like gibberish. Derek Crowe was coming to Cinderton. The mandala man. Michael couldn't contain himself.

"You'll be so weak you'll pass out in the middle of the talk," she said.

"No, by the second day I'm usually flying—I'll feel great. Today's just water and bread, but tomorrow I get bread, milk, and wine. It's my own version of a black fast."

"Whatever that is," she said.

"It's how you get ready for the really important ceremonies."

"It's not a ceremony, Michael, it's just a talk!"

"But I'm doing rituals. One tonight, one tomorrow night, maybe one the next day. Three major rites from his book. It's hard to memorize them." This comment sounded like a rebuke. In other words: Shut up.

"Especially when you haven't eaten all day."

"No—that sharpens the senses, makes my mind clearer."

"You look pale," she said, but he didn't answer. He had gone back to his book, making it clear that he didn't have energy to waste on talking to his wife.

She cut a big square of dripping toast and shoved it in her mouth. It was like eating a sponge dipped in glue; she could hardly swallow.

She got up from the table, went down the hall into the living room, shivering even in her sweater since the front of the house was drafty thanks to the badly hung front door and the cardboard stuck in one of the broken windows. Tucker Doakes, their upstairs landlord, was a lousy carpenter, and he did all his own work.

Her textbooks were stacked on the coffee table. She picked up a few of them and tromped back into the kitchen, throwing them down with a thud next to her plate. Michael glanced up.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Math."

He pursed his lips, nodded. "It's so great you're back in school."

It wasn't the reaction she'd been hoping for. She threw her plate in the sink and sat down to a calculus text. The exercises looked far simpler than those in the books Michael read, his John Dee and Aleister Crowley and Anton Szandor LaVey. But his books were nonsense, endlessly confusing and arbitrary. Mathematics, on the other hand, was like a glittering crystal-clear landscape for the mind; an infinite path where she could lose herself forever. She had always been good at math, even while failing everything else in school. No matter how bad things got, she could find pleasure in puzzles and logic games. At least they fed the brain, developed her intelligence, unlike Michael's medieval bullshit, which rotted the mind as far as she could tell.