Marc Laidlaw

THE 37th MANDALA

For Geraldine

There and back again…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For inspiration and assistance, direct and otherwise, my thanks to Victor and Cora Anderson; Matthew Bialer; Michael Blumlein, M.D.; Stephen P. Brown; Tim Ferret; Galen Gloss; Jay Kinney; Hal Robins; Rudy Rucker; John Shirley; Gordon Van Gelder; and William T. Vollmann.

ON 37

Number 37 is Dee’s Prime, so named for its function in formulae derived from the Enochian Keys by Dr. John Dee and his scryer Edward Kelly. Aleister Crowley, Kelly’s reincarnation, who conducted extensive investigations into the astral significance of this prime, asserted that the number resonates to a transcendent dimension of enforced stability, as if appointed to keep chaos at bay, and will maintain itself at all costs, expunging any extra digit that threatens conversion to 38 (which falters before Dee’s Prime, being composed of the weak Malkuthian Lattice Prime 19, poorly reinforced by the Dyad) and also constantly adding to—thus overbalancing—pure 36, which is otherwise a most potent square, being divisible by both the Gnostic Prime and the Grand Triad, and having many mystical aspects and counterparts. 37’s influence is thus an essentially baleful one, not fully explicable in human terms, operating according to a geometry inconceivable even on an akashic plane and so resisting categorization as strictly “evil.” The keen-eyed numerologist will notice the manifestation of 37 in countless random places, in newspapers, motion pictures, bus terminals, telephone numbers—displaying an ubiquity exceeding the action of chance and bordering on deliberation. As an organizing principle, 37 is as threatening as it is fascinating, with many of its effects and attributes remaining therefore undiscovered and unexplored. Crowley’s journals lapse into incoherence during his study of the number in Arabia; while John Dee, toward the end of his life, reduced to conditions of persecution and poverty, reversed his lifelong attitude toward open-minded contemplation of the symbols in his work and, in a charred fragment preserved by the Ashmolean Institute, cautioned vehemently against any manipulation whatsoever of 37, blaming it entirely for the reversal of his luck….

—Georg von Rutter, Secrets of Gnostic Sumerology, vol. VIII: Esoteric Personae of the Prime Numbers, 1967

PROLOGUE

It didn’t seem to bother the young couple that the museum stank of blood.

They walked arm in arm through the dim halls of Tuol Sleng, pointing at the watercolors of atrocities and commenting softly, laughing now and then, clinging to each other like giddy lovers under the ponderous scythe-blades of ceiling fans that hardly stirred the humid air. Khmer guards watched them pass, shifting their guns uneasily, as if they’d never seen anything like them. The American trailed them for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

He tried to picture them walking the red dust roads of the countryside, followed by every watchful eye, every suspicious gun—UN teams and Khmer Rouge alike. He himself drew little attention in Cambodia, looking like an aging Asia correspondent: a tall, overweight man with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail that drooped from under a battered canvas hat. He shuffled through the lower floors of Tuol Sleng in sandals and drab cutoffs, his camouflage vest draped over a grimy undershirt, the pockets packed with lenses, film, and filters; his shoulders, chest, and belly were slung with battered Nikons.

The smell should have bothered them a bit, he thought; even cattle balked in a slaughterhouse. It was the residual stench of old blood, never completely cleaned from between the checkered tiles of the schoolroom floors, never expunged from the cold brick stalls the Khmer Rouge had built to pen their prisoners. The journalist who’d steered him to the place had speculated that the German death camps must have been like this in the ’50s, before they’d been sterilized for tourists. Tuol Sleng’s curators had not bothered with disinfectant. The faint reek was more evocative than any number of placards describing the horrors that had made this place their home, more convincing and less susceptible to revision than any propaganda dispensed by the various regimes that had followed the reign of the Khmer Rouge.

In one of several rooms lined floor to ceiling with photographs, the American finally came close enough to eavesdrop on the pair. They were absorbed in their surroundings and in each other, oblivious to him.

“I see it almost as a Warhol piece,” the male said, his voice accented French. “In the repetition, the anonymity of the artist.”

“I think of Avedon,” said the woman, whose accent was German. “The coldness…”

“But with a lived-in look. Irving Penn.”

“Joel-Peter Witkin.”

“Of course, but without his staging, his artifice. This is so spontaneous. Unforced. It really makes all the difference.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Makes all the difference, the American thought, letting them wander off without him now, afraid of attracting their notice when all he really wished was to finish his work and get out of here, back to his hotel, then out of the country forever. There were too many ghosts in Cambodia, ghosts whose bodies had all too recently joined the dust; a million tortured souls floating in the red-flecked haze. Besides, he had already gone where the lovers were headed: past converted classrooms with wooden shutters thrown wide to let in a rose-tinged light that revealed faint blood crusts spreading in tidal swirls beneath bed frames fit with manacles. He stayed to scrutinize the walls they had been admiring for artistic effect, walls covered with before-and-after photographs of Tuol Sleng’s victims. Men, women, too many children: whole families. The torturers had been thorough in documenting their excavations of human flesh. On entering the extermination center—once a lycee, a yellowing relic of French colonial architecture—the captives had posed before the plain dropcloth with hopeful expressions; hopeful, yes, even knowing what they must have known about their photographers. A kind of willful blindness in the frightened eyes. The second in each pair of images showed the victims at the end of their stay, before deportation to the killing fields and mass graves of Choeung Ek, or burial in the courtyard of the high school.

He had explored Choeung Ek while the Ministry of Information processed his application to conduct specific, limited research in Tuol Sleng’s library. He had scuffed his sandals at the edges of the burial pits, bone dust gathering between his toes; he had counted a fraction of the skulls on display, arranged behind glass in order of sex and age (“Femalesenile Cambodian”); he had come up close to photograph the bole of a tree where infants’ brains were said to have been bashed out by the Khmer Rouge in order to conserve ammunition. Now he studied the photographs with a similar morbid fascination, as if looking for something he would not know until he saw it. Some of the victims bore tribal tattoos, or sak, like the ones he’d seen everywhere in the Thai refugee camps—the imprints of magical amulets. The photos revealed another kind of artistry on the part of the torturers—an excruciating attention to anatomical detail. But nowhere did he see the marks he sought. In any case, only a small sampling of the photographs were on display: Tuol Sleng had accommodated 17,000 in its few years of operation. That would have meant 34,000 portraits, of which only a fraction papered these walls. The handful of survivors—fewer than ten escaped Tuol Sleng at the fall of Democratic Kampuchea—had returned to create a survivor’s gallery, primitive paintings and drawings, brightly colored scenes of torture rendered as if by children. These latter he had inspected on prior visits, devoting particular care to the breasts of one watercolor woman whose nipples smoldered between red-hot pincers.

(The bluish blotch like a smeared tattoo above one areola had proved a splash of paint, nothing more convoluted.)

At last he heard bootsteps, hard and businesslike, coming down the main corridor. He went into the hall, where the small Khmer attendant was searching for him.

“All ready now. I take you up?”

“I know the way.”

The American slipped a wad of bills into his hand and pressed past him down the hall toward the stairs.

At the first landing, he paused and drew a pack of cigarettes from inside his vest. He lit one and watched the smoke swirl around his fingers, as if he might find what he sought in the whorls of soot. Below, he heard footsteps on the stairs, curious murmurs from the European couple. A guard called out and the steps retreated. He crushed out the cigarette without taking a puff.

On the second floor, only one door was open to him. Here stood the custodian of records, waiting impatiently. The bony, scarred Khmer looked irritated to see him again, but official arrangements had been made. He had no choice but to stand aside.

The small room was sweltering. It held very little but still felt crammed: two old desks, a filing cabinet, an ancient photocopier. A file folder rested on the farthest desk, under the window. The custodian gestured for him to sit. As he approached the desk, he passed a door that was slightly ajar, opening into another and much larger room. The American glimpsed shelves full of folders, student composition books, yellowing paper. A sampling of these journals were on display downstairs, confessions of crimes against the DK, written in Khmer and occasionally in French. The sheer number of folders was almost inconceivable: each represented a death, eked out page by page. The custodian, noticing his interest, quickly closed that door.

He turned his attention to the folder waiting on the desk, and grunted when he read the name written on the cover.

“This isn’t the file I asked for,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I said, it isn’t the file I—”

The custodian handed him a written request, in his own handwriting, stamped with the Ministry’s seal. It puzzled him for a moment, until he felt his fever’s resurgence. He sank down into the chair, hugging his guts, clenched over the table while bright dots swarmed his eyes and cold sweat came. When the moment of illness passed, he sighed and pulled the folder toward him.

“Yes?” said the custodian.

“Yes,” he agreed leadenly.

The custodian held out his hands. “Cameras.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Cameras. Now.”

Instead the American produced his wallet. Twenty bucks ought to have taken care of it, but the man struck the proffered money aside—a gesture he had never experienced in the city. He had a bad feeling now—a sense of his failure, and the trouble he’d be in. He put his wallet away, sensing that a larger bribe would only meet with greater resistance.

Again: “Cameras.”

The American glared for a moment, then unslung the straps and black bodies of the three FM2’s. In his sack was a copying stand, useless now. The Khmer piled the cameras on the other desk. Then he went to the other desk and sat staring out the window above the American’s head.

When the American set his bag on the desktop and unzipped it, the custodian started to his feet again. He took out a pen and a notebook. As the Khmer sank back down, he tipped the pen toward the copier. “I don’t suppose that thing works.”

The little man paled with anger. “You write by hand! Only by hand!”

“I’m kidding. Relax.”

Inside the folder was a stack of unlined paper an inch thick, each page dated, signed, and marked with a thumbprint. He riffled the sheaf, heart quickening when he saw the first mandalas flicking past, elaborate wheels with wavering arms and spiral centers. This was what he’d been looking for. The circles were enclosed in Khmer script, as if the entire confession were an exegesis on the nature of the symbols. Highly unlikely. The Khmer Rouge had not allowed their guests to discourse on metaphysics.

The American could not read Khmer. He noted instead how the handwriting deteriorated page by page, and then grew further obscured by reddish-black smears and splatters whose frequency increased toward the bottom of the stack. He went back to the beginning, stared for a moment at the first mandala, then drew his notebook closer and uncapped his pen. The custodian’s eyes locked onto him.

The wheel was carefully, intricately drawn, as if every jot of the author’s energy had been conserved for this task. Why had the KR interrogators tolerated the time it must have taken to set down the pattern? It must have been an enormous distraction from the task of confession; yet there were dozens, equally elaborate, scattered throughout the text.

He could not imagine how long it would take him to copy one, let alone all thirty-seven. The last thing he wanted was to spend days in this hot room, in this horrible museum, so drenched in the smell of blood that already he was ceasing to notice it. He did not want to become inured to this place, but he had no choice.

He was slightly surprised to find that he’d tucked a sheaf of tracing paper into his notebook. He could not remember bringing it. He laid one sheet atop the mandala and carefully began to trace the perimeter, which ringed a complex core of woven lines. Sweat from the edge of his hand caused the paper to crinkle; he had to take care not to smear the ink. Finished with the outermost lines, he began to work his way into the whorled center. This required great patience, a hand far steadier than his. He was no artist.

Stealing the file intact would have been the obvious solution, but he would have been the sole suspect in such a theft. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in a Cambodian prison. Nor could he fool himself into thinking he could make it as a fugitive to the nearest border. Cambodia was one vast mine field. No… he would have to trace each mandala by hand, however long it took.

Each line seemed impossibly long. He came upon tangles and involutions he hadn’t noticed until they enmeshed him—endless twists and curls, impenetrable thickets. He didn’t dare lift his hand from the paper. In order to rest, he had to anchor his penpoint in one place and close his eyes; but even then he continued to see the pattern throbbing behind his lids, swimming in the blood-reek, fanning the phosphene currents gently in time to a throbbing in his head. He heard a knocking, too brittle to be his heart, and opened his eyes to discover that his hand, unwatched, had continued tracing the shape. The pattern was complete now; and it had drawn itself in something like an instant.

The custodian stood at the door, peering into the hall. The Khmer began whispering, gesturing angrily. Glancing back, he gave the American a warning look, then opened the door just wide enough to slip out.

The American was startled to see the young Europeans outside. The man’s eyes met his for a jolting instant. His pupils constricted, expanded, tightened again. The woman gave him a smile and a nod. Then the door shut. Voices rose in a babble—the custodian quite upset, the Frenchman calming him, the woman speaking low and soothingly, almost cooing to him. Their voices had an empty, echoing quality in the corridor. He sensed that they were drifting away from him.

The mandala still burned in his eyes. Without further hesitation, as if he had planned for this moment, he took the folder to the copier. He touched the start button but got no response. The plug lay on the floor, below a wall socket. He plugged it in. The copier rattled to life. He didn’t want to know how much time he wasted waiting for the machine to warm up. He laid the first sheet, the same he’d traced by hand, on the glass. Light blazed beneath his fingers, sweeping along in a hot bar. The copier creaked like a metal insect singing in the hot afternoon, calling out to everyone in Tuol Sleng. Once the light had measured the dimensions of the page, he snatched the sheet from the glass and put down a second, which he had in readiness. He flipped through the folder looking for the third mandala, embedded in miserable script. Two different hands seemed to have been at work simultaneously: artist and author.

He quickly established his routine: lay down a page, wait for the machine to ready itself, hit the copy button, wait for the light to go on, wait for the slow scan to finish. Wait and wait and wait; flip through the folder, careful not to miss not a single mandala, getting each one ready to copy, all the time tensed for any sound from the halls—paranoid because the copier made such a racket that he knew he’d never hear the custodian returning. But he mustn’t think of that, mustn’t wonder what might happen if he were caught. His only concern was to copy the mandalas. Only that.

When he had copied the last sheet, he snatched the pages from the tray and quickly counted mandalas. Thirty-seven. That was that. The copy quality was surprisingly good. He yanked the plug from the wall, went back to his seat, hid the copies in his bag, and took up his pen, as if he had never stopped drawing. The copier was hot as an oven now, but why would the custodian bother to check it?

He sat for several minutes, pretending to trace a mandala, wondering how long he should keep up the charade. Anxious to leave, he wanted to ensure the custodian witnessed his departure.

He thought he heard the man speaking urgently from inside the records room. He put his head to the door, listening hard, then tested the knob. The door opened.

He crept to the left down the aisle, past a shelf crammed with notebooks, then peered around the end of the shelf into a corner of the room. The French boy was farthest into the corner, his black jeans tangled around his calves, his hips grinding against the custodian’s bony backside. The German woman knelt before the Khmer, her head bobbing at his groin. The custodian’s head was pulled back, his curving throat long and exposed, his eyes fixed on a circular mirror that the boy held in one outstretched hand.

The American must have made a sound, for the boy looked sidelong and gave him a slight smile, sleepily content as he pumped away. The custodian stiffened and trembled. The woman made a clicking noise as blood spilled from the corner of her mouth.

The American backed away, rounding the shelf, rushing for the other room. He had seen something, something—he had seen it but didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t want to know. He was through with his part of it; the rest had nothing to do with him. He tossed the folder on the custodian’s desk. A flat glassine packet slithered out and rustled to the floor.

He looked guiltily about to see if anyone were watching, then remembered the scene in the next room. No one cared what he did. He shoved the packet into his bag, on top of the photocopies. Then he bolted from the room, still working himself back into the tangled harness of camera straps.

After nearly tumbling down the stairs, he forced himself to stroll toward the exit. A group of drunken American businessmen had come into Tuol Sleng, mistaking it for another kind of museum. They turned around and around, some horrified, most of them clearly amused. He thanked the guards for all the help they had given him in the last few days, and then went out slowly, making sure he was seen leaving empty-handed.

In the streets he could breathe again. He strolled several blocks, slowing under shade trees, relishing the dusty air as if it were a sea breeze. Let it scour the blood-stench from his nose. Let the sun-drenched sights of Phnom Penh purge the unreal, cloistered nightmare of the library….

Out of sight of Tuol Sleng, he stopped and drew the glassine envelope from his pocket. Inside were several large photographic negatives. Fearful of exposing them to dust, he put the packet in his bag and hailed a cyclo to take him back to the hotel.

His bathroom was cluttered with bottles of developing chemicals, plastic trays, the craning neck of his enlarger. His photographs of burial pits, like a flowerbed of skulls, hung in the slimy shower stall. He considered printing the negatives right away, but his fever had returned. He collapsed on one of the twin beds, the glassine envelope resting on his chest. One at a time, he held the negatives up to the cloudy light that filtered through the dingy shades.

In the first, the subject stood naked before a dark background. Intricate white wheels emblazoned every visible inch of skin—skin the color of deeply tarnished silver. These were the very same mandalas scattered through the notebook.

Dizzy, he shut his eyes and saw the circles, now printed on his retinas, begin to spin.

The next two photographs were worse.

The second showed the same subject, now extremely emaciated, suspended by the wrists against a rough wall. His mouth was a bright silver smear, melting at the corners. The blazing white symbols that covered his flesh burned brighter than ever. This was bad enough, but the third picture was worst of all. No sign of the mandalas remained; they had been erased from the subject’s flesh. His entire body now glowed like the moon, luminous silver all over. A puddle of mercury shone on the floor at his dangling feet.

It took the American some time to realize what he was seeing. He had to close his eyes and picture the image in reverse to understand it.

What he saw as gleaming silver was actually glistening black….

Terror poured out of the black images like a swarm of flies, a cluster of silvery whorls swarming into the room, released from the subject’s flesh. It didn’t matter that all these pictures had been taken years ago. Something was here at this instant, larger and more lasting than the atrocities of Democratic Kampuchea. Something filled the atmosphere until it strained at the bursting point. He was on the verge of seeing… what? What would he see when his eyes lost their focus on this world?

He tried to rise from the bed, but sickness overwhelmed him. He lay back and closed his eyes. He was aware of the light fading, the window going dark; the noises in the street—never loud to begin with, there being so few cars—surged and died. It occurred to him that he still had not seen the file he had come all this way to review. Nothing he’d done today made any sense. A lovely new cerebral encephalitis was on the rise in Cambodia, mosquito-borne; perhaps that explained everything. He could feel light pressing in at his eyes, almost painful, and realized that he was standing at the copier again, pressing a sheet to the glass, watching the bar of light travel slowly under his hands. It burned through his flesh like an X ray, searing the mandala into his head. This time it was silvery white, as in the negatives. Blinding….

When he awoke, the room was dark, but he could still see the pattern he had dreamed. It floated just above him, a bright silver disk. He saw one of his eyes reflected at its heart, as in a mirror.

He started to sit, but a hand pushed him back. The touch was familiar, as was the woman’s voice whispering in his ear. They had been here before. A shade knelt over him, pinning his legs. He couldn’t see much beyond the edges of the mirror, which radiated darkness into the room and obscured its other occupants. But he knew the mirror was held in the French boy’s hand; and he knew the German woman was beside him on the bed. The other time, he hadn’t known who they were; but now, having seen them in Tuol Sleng, he could finally put faces to their voices.

This lucidity lasted but a moment, then he felt the woman’s tongue in his ear and a hand groping at his crotch. Oblivion spread from these two points of contact. He withdrew from ordinary consciousness like a snake dragging out of its skin.

“Reveal yourself,” the woman said. They struggled in the dark.

But that was a dream too. He woke up alone except for a mosquito singing in his ear. The sheets were tangled around his legs, his pants were undone, and his testicles ached as if he had just spent himself in a wet dream. He rolled from the mattress and stumbled into the bathroom, running tepid water to splash in his face. He looked in the mirror for reassurance, but there was no mirror. Disoriented by fever and nightmares, he was remembering another bathroom in another country. He dried his face on a towel that reeked of mildew and developer, and went back to the bed.

His bag lay open on the floor.

The copies were gone. They had left him with nothing—nothing but the one sheet of tracing paper he’d copied by hand and folded into his notebook. He stared at the design. It was the same he had dreamed of seeing in the French boy’s mirror. Not dreamed, no; they had been here.

He had been robbed. Drugged, then robbed.

If so, then why did he feel relieved? Fulfilled?

He went into the dark narrow hall. The corridor looked longer than he remembered, and seemed to curve slightly, tapering until it deposited him at the top of the stairs. The clerk watched him descend into the dim, low-ceilinged lobby, smiling unconvincingly.

“Were there two people here to see me?”

The boy nodded. “Yes… your friends. They go up, come back just now. They say you sleeping.”

“My friends?”

“Yes, who come two nights ago.”

“What?”

“Same ones. I remember.”

At that moment the boy’s eyes fixed on the American’s forehead. He squinted, then went pale. The American wiped his brow, expecting to find a squashed insect there, something repellent, but there was nothing. He turned away from the desk and went out into the night, as if they might be lingering just outside.

The street, like the corridor upstairs, seemed to arch away from him, as if he had grown preternaturally aware of the curvature of the globe, as if he were about to slide away over the edge of everything. He was convinced now that these were the early stages of some illness new to him: dizziness, vertigo, and the slow steady throbbing of everything, as if a generator were pumping somewhere deep within the earth. In the intervals between waves of fever, everything looked uncannily clear. The light spilling out of bars and shops turned the garbage in the street into diamond replicas of itself. The babble and broken sounds of traffic merged into one voice breathing a harsh litany. The erratic motion of cyclos and pedestrians seemed elaborately choreographed. He felt as if he alone were capable of transcending the role written for him; the dance revolved on every side, but he had no part in it.

He spun around to see exactly how free he was and saw the desk clerk staring at him. The American moved what felt like an inch toward the street, extracting himself from the complex machinery of events. The boy’s eyes widened as if he had vanished completely, sidestepped the world. The rest of the scene darkened with a violet light that threatened to dissolve the edges of all objects. The buildings looked transparent but by no means unreal.

The American sensed something coming into the light of his piercing consciousness, an opacity swimming up beneath the insubstantial surfaces of everything he saw. For a moment he found himself hovering above the street, above the entire city. Phnom Penh rearranged itself into a wheel, the streets like spokes. He could see all the way to Tuol Sleng, could see two official cars pulling away from the entrance of the museum. They were practically the only two cars in the streets of Phnom Penh at that moment. One of the cars drove away; he could see the custodian’s body jouncing inside. The other headed straight toward him.

A grate clanged down over a shopfront, and his illusion of transcendence broke into a million disappointing pieces. He felt the world settle into place around him, coming down like the iron bars. He sunk to his knees, unsure where his body had been all the time he was hovering above it. He was not sure if what he had seen was the real Phnom Penh or a version that lay disguised within it, like a low flame that had blazed up wildly and then subsided again. The street was as it always had been, every shop different, every random speck of garbage uniquely meaningless. If there were a pattern here, it lay buried so deeply that he would never find it. He felt the night turning like a wheel, accelerating. Whatever wasn’t at the still center of that wheel would be flung violently away. He knew he was nowhere near the center. He must head inward, toward the source of all patterns. He must creep and cling to every surface, crawling like a millipede, or be cast off forever into the surrounding dark.

He threw himself to the ground, scuttling for shelter, oblivious to the Cambodian faces watching him in amazement, the mouths open in warning as he scurried into the street. That was how he came to be crushed beneath the tires of the only car on that long boulevard.

PART 1

We spawn in the sickness of your souls. We feed on and hasten your spirit’s decay. No move is made without our knowledge, no thought of yours but has our seed-thought at its core, which only waits the proper time to germinate. It is right that you fear us, for fear is worship; fear is the one prayer we never fail to answer.

—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

1

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.

Many of you already know this story, but please allow me to recount it briefly for those in the audience who might have attended tonight’s talk as a favor to others more familiar with my work…

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

In November of 199_, a young woman came to me for past-life counseling. This encounter in a professional context was to change not only my personal life but my very outlook on reality. I had recently moved to San Francisco from Los Angeles, finding it more congenial to spiritual pursuits. The Bay Area is a remarkable focal point, where the potent ley-lines of Earth’s magnetism converge among the unparalleled feng shui of surrounding water and rolling hills dominated by the majestic and magical Mount Tamalpais. It is in short an astral omphalos and spiritual retreat for pilgrims the world round. It felt only natural that I should arrive in such a place while writing Exploring Your Past Lives. I found I was able to make a modest living through psychic consultation and hypnotherapy.

My visitor, whom I shall call Ms. A, had also recently moved to the Bay Area from Southern California, and was quite active in the City’s flourishing Neo-pagan community. She had formed alliances with the Temple of Set, the Latest Reformed Order of the Golden Dawn, the O.T.O., a coven of Gardnerian Witches, and several other more politically conscious Wiccan groups. Perhaps as a result of such an eclectic curriculum, she had begun to experience a series of overwhelming visions, powerful trances that came without warning, whose content did not correlate with the imagery of any known mythology. Several of her acquaintances sought an Atlantean explanation, speculating that perhaps she had been a high priestess in that doomed culture of unmatched magical attainment; they thought her recent spiritual explorations had reactivated psychic abilities left untouched for aeons. Ms. A was advised to find a reputable guide to put her in touch with her prior incarnations. My reputation being more than slightly known among such circles, it was by no means an improbable coincidence that brought her to my office and opened the most amazing chapter of my life.

At our first session, Ms. A stated that she chiefly saw bright whirling wheels of light during her visions, like the mandalas of Buddhist philosophy; but whereas the Buddhist mandalas are sacred diagrams constructed for meditative purposes, these mandalas were living organisms, swimmers in the astral sea, and seemingly intent on communication. She was sharp-witted, intelligent, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the world’s religious iconography, but these images baffled her, as they did me.

I suggested a light exploratory trance, to give her time to acclimate to the hypnotic state. I expected this to take several minutes to attain; but no sooner had I suggested that she might feel sleepy and relaxed than Ms. A began to twitch and murmur like a sleepwalker.

“Write,” she said, in a voice strangely altered. “Write down what we say!”

Obediently, I put pen to paper and began to transcribe the words Ms. A channeled. Thus I received, over the course of several months and numerous hypnotic sessions, what I believe is one of the most remarkable documents in human history….

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:

CLUB MANDALA

GRAND OPENING

PRINT THIS SCREEN AND COME AS OUR GUEST!

“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.

2

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.

But tonight the books were opaque to her. The figures lay like insects flattened between the pages, making her feel weary and stupid after five minutes of desultory study. This was not going to work. And tonight Michael was poorer company than usual.

She slammed the book shut. “I’m going out.”

He didn’t look up. “I’ll be in the temple for a while, so don’t, you know, worry about me.”

Don’t bother me, you mean, she thought. He didn’t ask anything else.

Lenore found her heaviest coat in the living room. She couldn’t stand to be in the house another minute. It was horrible to be so cold indoors, where the chill oozed out of every surface and even the floor sucked the heat from your body. At least she expected to be cold outside.

The porch was littered with beer bottles, Cheer Wine cans, and motorcycle parts. A soggy broken-down couch, covered with a greasy sheet, was occupied by Tucker’s automotive tools and a busted color TV set. Tucker had taken fifteen bucks a month off the original rent after Michael complained about the mess. Sometimes in warm weather Tucker came down, pushed the mess aside, and sat on the couch smoking grass and drinking beer, so they had to watch him pacing past their front window and hear him coughing and hacking and spitting over the rails. He was that kind of guy. His rust-eaten pickup truck was pulled up on the dead brown lawn, although he could have pulled it up behind the house or left it in the driveway, which he specifically hadn’t rented to them. An older T-Bird in worse condition sat decomposing at the edge of the yard, half overgrown by brambles. Michael’s crazed VW was parked on the lawn just off the driveway, and Lenore’s dying hulk, a Cutlass Supreme, was on the road out front, beyond the bare hedges. She had the keys in her pocket, but the thought of driving didn’t thrill her. The Cutlass had died too many times, leaving her stranded; she’d never yet been stuck on the roads outside of town, but she wasn’t willing to take the risk tonight. A storm was headed toward the mountains; with her luck it would hit if she went out. Not that there was anywhere she felt like going. Even the nearest video store was a three-mile drive. She wanted to be happy where she was, but that would take some doing.

Music thumped down from upstairs. Even in the cold, Tucker’s windows were open. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she went around the side of the house, down the driveway. As she passed the door to her own kitchen, she saw that Michael was already gone. She tiptoed up the flight of creaking, rotten steps to Tucker’s flat.

The door was unlocked, so she went in. He’d never hear her knocking, but Michael might. Michael didn’t approve of her upstairs visits, since there was only one reason she ever hung out with Tucker.

Tucker’s kitchen was a shabbier version of their own: dishes piled in the sink, pie pans full of crusted cat food on the floor, an algae-colored stream running across the linoleum from beneath the fridge. Scabby, a calico with skin problems, jumped off the sink when she came in and followed her down the hall to the front of the house, until the music grew so loud that the cat refused to go any farther. Since the Renzlers’ stereo was defunct, Tucker’s music was about all they ever heard. Obligingly, he played it loud enough for both homes.

She saw Tucker’s motorcycle boots propped on the foot-locker that served him as a coffee table, among a clutter of ashtrays, lighters, pipes and screens, and a massive, three-chambered red-white-and-blue acrylic bong. After taking a hit from the Patriot, you were required to stand and salute as you exhaled. A nearly full bottle of red wine sat on the floor next to the trunk; her mouth went dry and prickly at the sight of it.

Tucker lay back on the couch, eyes closed. The window above the couch was open; there were no curtains to move in the breeze, but she could feel it. Tucker thrived on the chill. He was almost too tall for the couch. Balding, with long curly hair and a scraggly beard, his beer gut peeping out from under a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, he looked oddly vulnerable. “Tuck!” she said.

He sat up as if a gun had gone off, his eyes bulging and crazed; but instantly, seeing her, relaxed and slumped down again, as if descending straight back into a trance. “Hey, girl,” he said.

“Thought I heard Scarlet up here. Where is she?”

“Scarlet? Naw, she’s not coming tonight.”

“Shit, that’s too bad. I was going to hang out with you guys for a while.”

He opened one eye. “Well, sit yourself down anyway. I’m not doing anything. Where’s your old man?” He reached for the remote control and turned down the volume on the CD player.

Lenore shrugged and sat down in a big broken armchair, folding her legs up close for warmth. Tucker had scrounged up most of the furniture for their downstairs flat when they’d moved in with nothing but a couple bags of clothes and a truckload of books. And their furniture, bad as it was, was in better condition than the stuff Tucker lived with. In his weird way, he was the best landlord she’d ever had.

“You want some smoke?” he offered.

Lenore shrugged. “Wouldn’t turn it down.”

He started loading a small ceramic bong. “Been pretty dry lately, and we’re a long way from summer. You run out of that last bag I give you?”

“Days ago,” she said.

“Wow, girl, you been holding out a good long time. Shoulda come see me before now.”

“Hey, Tucker, I’m not a junkie or nothing. I can do without.”

“Sure you can, babe. Sure you can. Here, taste this.”

He finished tamping something green into the pipe of the bong and passed it to her along with his Harley-Davidson lighter. She burned it down in one deep breath; the stuff was hot and resinous, and immediately expanded in her lungs. She hacked it out in one violent burst, and then the coughing fit began.

“Whoa, girl, you’re aiming high tonight!”

She couldn’t answer. Her eyes were streaming, and her head felt as if it were shooting straight up through the roof of the house. Tucker scooped up the wine bottle by its neck and passed it to her. She knew she shouldn’t; she even hesitated for a minute. Dope was one thing, but alcohol was another entirely, and she’d made a deal with Michael. No drinking. Pot, okay. But no alcohol.

But it wasn’t the first time she’d broken her little rule up here with Tucker, and what the fuck, she was coughing her lungs out. She needed something wet. It didn’t really take her long to make the decision; she put the bottle to her mouth and swallowed. One swig was all she needed. It was all she’d ever needed.

A tight little ball in her stomach uncoiled as soon as she drank; it eased her coughing jag instantly, but then she felt embarrassed because her bowels turned to water and she already knew the condition of Tucker’s toilet. No way would she use it; but she couldn’t go back downstairs. Not yet. She sat very still, holding the bong and the bottle. After a few seconds, she took another swallow. The tension eased. Her guts stopped cramping. She laid back her head and shut her eyes.

She could hear Tucker moving around; he switched the music off and slapped a tape into his VCR.

“So where’s Michael? Did you tell me?”

“Fucking Michael,” she said dreamily, peering out between her lashes. “He’s doing his stuff again.”

“Goddamn, that guy’s a regular devil worshipper.”

“It’s not devil worship, Tucker. He doesn’t believe in that shit. I’m not sure myself exactly what it is, but it’s not the devil.”

“I don’t care. All the heavy metal bands, they’re into that Satan shit. It’s cool with me.”

“It’s fucking lame,” Lenore pronounced. She felt the jug in her lap, cool and comforting, a nice round heaviness.

“You like that stuff?” he said. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Mmm-hm.”

“I’ll give you some, okay? Same deal as last time?”

“Mm-hm, sure.”

“I got a Baggie all ready to sell, but you can have it if you’re sure….”

She was sleepy, drifting. Thoughts were coming to her, thoughts like feelings, drifting up inside her till they burst at the surface of her mind.

“You want a beer?”

At that moment, they both heard a bell ringing downstairs, sharp and pure, penetrating the walls of the house. As the tone faded slowly into inaudibility, she was sure she heard Michael chanting in a deep voice.

Tucker laughed. “There he goes! Let me get you that beer, baby.”

She tried to say no, she had the bottle, but the words didn’t exactly come out in a hurry, and by then Tucker was putting a cold can against her cheek.

“Shoot, honey, you must be feeling pretty good.”

Realizing that she was grinning, she opened her eyes. “Oh, yeah.” Laughing.

“You go right ahead and pop that. I’ll load you up another hit.”

Lenore was laughing hard, and Tucker had the music turned way up again and he was laughing too, and the video was going but there wasn’t any sound from that. Then she knocked over the beer in her lap and reached down to pick it up again, but she wasn’t in the big old chair at all anymore, she was sitting on the couch, and there were a bunch of cans scattered around that hadn’t been there before, so many she wasn’t sure which one she’d been drinking from. The bottle was there; she remembered it like an old friend, wistfully, since it was empty now; and she felt like she was surfacing for a big gulp of air, but then… and then… she looked up and Tucker was standing by the VCR, stepping back from the TV looking over at her with his goofy ugly grin missing a couple teeth and she could see on the screen why he hadn’t bothered with the sound, since there would have been nothing to hear but moaning. He’d slipped in one of his porno tapes. She found her can and swallowed but it was empty, but that didn’t matter because Tucker had read her mind and was pulling the top off another. And then… and then…

And then his arm was around her, and she thought she’d been vomiting because her throat burned and her mouth was sour, but she couldn’t remember it. She opened her eyes and moaned, and sure enough Tucker had his arm thrown across her chest and he was son of helping her, but really more urging her to lie back down. When she realized what was happening she started to fight him, she threw herself forward, but Tucker got rougher then and grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back down on his bed. They were in his room, and what bothered her most was that it all looked sort of familiar, as if she had seen it before in exactly this way but never remembered till now, and would probably forget it all over again—which scared her more than anything that was actually happening yet.

“Tucker!” she said. “Get off!”

He pulled back, looking hurt, as if surprised that she would really object. “Hey, girl….”

She tried to crawl backward. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think? You said same deal as last time. You want the weed or not?”

“The weed?” She stood up, swayed, stumbled but caught herself on the doorframe.

“Well, there’s the rent too, but I wasn’t gonna get into that yet.”

“What, were you gonna come down later and try’n collect?”

“Lenore…“He shook his head, coming back off the bed. “Shit. Don’t do this.”

“I gotta go.” She turned out into the hall, or thought she had. The edge of the doorframe slammed into her face. She stood there with her eyes closed, holding very still but spinning anyway. Just then, from downstairs, she heard the bell again. Michael was finishing up. He could probably hear them up here; he might assume it was Scarlet and Tucker; he was good at wishful thinking. She had to get away—somewhere she could straighten out.

Tucker was right on her, putting a finger to his lips. “Shush, you hear him down there?”

“I hear him. We’re both fucking idiots.”

“Well, baby, takes two to you-know.”

She swerved away, free now. Hoping her clothes were all on, since she didn’t want to have to come back for anything later, she made her way to the kitchen, then out the door into the cold. Her coat.

“Hey, girl, don’t forget this.” Tucker had it; he was right behind her, looking stone sober. “Now don’t be mad at me. You’re a pretty little thing, I’m only doing what comes natural. Besides, I thought we had an agreement.”

She snatched the coat from him.

“I’ll hold onto that Baggie for a while,” he called. “In case you change your mind. But I can’t wait too much longer for the rent. You tell your old devil-man I said so, okay?”

She hardly knew she was going down the steps; her kitchen was empty but she flew on past it. Somehow she got off the driveway and into the bushes, where she had to fight her way through tangles to the Cutlass. The Cutlass was unlocked. She got in and started the engine, put the heater on high, and sat there shaking as if with cold, though really she just felt numb. Same deal as last time, he’d said. What last time? Why couldn’t she remember? What had she done last time? What the fuck was wrong with her mind? She closed her eyes and felt herself spinning as if the car were out of control on a patch of black ice. She put her head down, gripped the steering wheel, and held on tight.

3

The Sisterhood of Incarnate Light had paid Derek’s flat speaking fee up front, before the program. Only now that the show was over, his lecture delivered, did he discover they wanted to cheat him out of his part of the take. That wasn’t quite how the Sisters put it, but Derek knew their scam, time-honored no matter how New Age.

“Your talk was certainly valuable, Mr. Crowe,” one was telling him now, trying to lubricate his goodwill with her buttery Southern tones while another Sister went to enlist the aid of a superior, “but we’re a nonprofit organization. We’re all volunteers here.”

Derek, while seething, was unwilling to waste his rage on an underling. “You might have volunteered to bake cookies and tear tickets,” he said, “but I’m the one who filled this hall tonight, on the strength of my research and hard work, and I did not volunteer.”

Fill was an exaggeration, but one he did not linger over. The only reason the hall had come even close to capacity was because the Sisters had wisely rented a smallish auditorium, something suited to the showing of a midnight movie. Even so, he had no doubt the Sisters had never drawn such a crowd.

“I appreciate that but—”

“You took ten dollars a head and I expect my cut.”

“But that was a donation—it goes toward development of the Incarnation Institute.” She shook her head and changed her tack, as if shame would work better than a bid for sympathy. “None of our other speakers asked any kind of fee.”

Derek had to laugh. “You mean Dr. Spondle doesn’t charge through the nose for his endless discourses on Atlantean astrology?”

The Sister looked slighted. “Everett Spondle is a very popular speaker here. His wife is one of our founders.”

“You work it out.” Derek turned away.

Two old women stood nearby, smiling in his direction and waiting to be noticed. He practiced a form of tunnel vision while wondering how to turn their irritating presence to his advantage. They’d been chatting about him for several minutes, just within his hearing: “Should I?—no, you go first—oh no, I’m too shy—he looks just like his pictures—oh, he doesn’t look at all like I imagined—you can almost see the mysteries in his eyes.”

Such women, all alike, were a redundant human type replicated endlessly across the continent, right down to their pride in how unique they were.

My fans, he thought.

He normally despised such creatures, but tonight they provided a welcome opportunity to demonstrate why the Sisters had attracted any crowd at all. They had come not to gather Atlantean wool but to glean the wisdom of Derek Crowe, occultist and author, direct from the source.

Both women carried books under their arms—books he’d once cringed at the sight of, despite being their author. He was used to them now. They were his stock-in-trade, the secret of his success—such as it was.

“Would you ladies like an autograph?” he said, snubbing the whining Sister. She went off, presumably to help find the superior who had yet to materialize.

“If you would, Mr. Crowe/’ said one, leaning forward as if to offer her wattles for inspection. She held a stack of his books. He reached for the sculpted silver fountain pen he kept in his shirt pocket—a gift from Lilith, with a small crystal ball mounted in a taloned claw at one end.

The other said, in rather harsh mountain tones, “We loved your talk, Mr. Crowe, it was so penetrating? Lately I do feel the—the ones you spoke of—or I think I do… the mandalas? I believe they’re watching over us, you know, like guardian angels?”

Every stammered phrase was open-ended, hesitant. He didn’t think this was entirely the product of the local inflection, which twisted up the last word to make even the plainest statement sound like a question. No doubt this sad woman was used to meeting ridicule or contempt when bringing up these subjects. But Derek smiled sublimely, her instant confidant.

“I understand you perfectly,” he said. “It’s not easy to be open to such perceptions, is it? It can be a tremendous burden on the chosen one, the sensitive soul. But we must accept these gifts and put them to work for the spiritual improvement, and not the impoverishment, of humanity.”

The second lady turned to the first. “Isn’t that marvelous? I find such beautiful messages in your books, Mr. Crowe. So many of the mystics these days are concerned with darkness and evil and casting out everything they don’t understand?” She reached out and lightly tapped him on the wrist. “But I think you must be blessed. You’re a channel for the higher things.”

“I’m not even that,” he said with all humility. “I am merely their secretary.” He pretended to jot on the air with his pen. “I take notes.”

The women’s eyes widened. “Now, that Miz A? The one who channeled the messages? Has she spoken any more? Do the mandalas ever get back in touch?”

Derek put a finger to his lip. “Some things shouldn’t be spoken of. I hesitate to upset a delicate balance…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“…but yes, they do continue to speak through her occasionally, and they have hinted there may be more revelations in the future. More teachings.”

“Another book, you mean? Oh, how wonderful!”

“Well, I hope so. Their visits have meant a great deal to me. More than I can ever put across in words. Thank you so much.” He finished signing off the last of her copies and cleared his throat to interrupt her before she could start in again. He turned his full attention, and an apologetic smile, to the meeker woman.

“Now, to whom should I inscribe these?”

“Oh, goodness, to Opal,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“That’s a lovely name. Very charming.”

He scrawled “For Opal” across one of her books, a dog-eared copy of Your Psychognostic Powers! That exclamation mark still made him wince whenever he saw it. As he closed the book, his reflection swam up through the coils of a silver-foil spiral embossed on the fluorescent orange cover. It was his first book, and he could never regard it without a tiny prick of shame, no matter how callused and scabbed.

“I can’t help noticing that you have all but my latest,” he said.

She turned away, one hand to her mouth, blushing like a schoolgirl. “I’m so embarrassed. I’ve been meaning to buy a copy, it’s just—”

“Never fear, it’s on sale near the door. I’ll give you a special dedication.”

She looked even more embarrassed now. At forty-five dollars for the deluxe edition—all he had carried—he couldn’t blame her. Neither could he resist rubbing her nose in her foolishness.

Taking her by the elbow, he helped her across the room to a table staffed by one of the volunteer Sisters. Her friend tagged along with nothing to say. Copies of the deluxe, collector’s first edition of The Mandala Rites, in its red cloth binding, were stacked in a small pile; all but a few had sold, he was happy to see. Acquired at cost from Phantom Press, which had arranged with his regular publisher to produce the special limited edition, the books turned a good profit.

He opened one of the remaining copies to the title page and started to write across the top, “Dearest Opal:”

“Oh, no, I really couldn’t ask you—”

“You enjoyed my talk, didn’t you?”

“Well, I—”

“The mandalas will open your life to powers beyond your imagining. My other books simply lead up to this. They opened me to the mandalas—brought me to their attention, so to speak. This is the text I was chosen to bring to public consciousness. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

She watched him with an expression of total despair as he finished signing his name below the frontispiece, an ornate red and black symbol that looked like a hood ornament from Hell. The book was full of these designs, intertwined arrow and dagger shapes enclosed in rings, somehow familiar but never quite the shapes one expected from studying traditional mandalas. Some were more reminiscent of Basque symbols or the vevers of Voudoun ritual than of Asian figures—but such familiarity was an illusion. They were wholly unique. That was a big selling point. It was also his chief weapon against the Club Mandala sleazebags, who had ripped off his designs for their nightclub without the slightest authorization and persisted in blithely inviting him to openings, as if he would be delighted to see his creations strobing on the walls for all the world to see.

Angry at the thought of the money he was about to waste on attorneys, he snapped the volume shut and set it in the woman’s tissue-soft palms. For a moment he trapped her hands between his own, holding them clasped around the book.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he said. “This lovely Sister will be happy to take your check.”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up with relief as she found her escape. “You take checks! I’m so glad.”

But he was already spinning away, certain he heard urgent whispering behind him; and yes, here she came, the Valkyrie who spearheaded the Sisterhood of Incarnate Light. An enormous pale woman with long colorless hair and beet-bright cheeks, watery blue eyes, and no lipstick, she came rubbing pudgy hands together—pudgy but powerful. She could easily break his neck in the crook of her elbow. Well, it wouldn’t come to that. She was smiling, still off balance, quite confident of correcting this little problem—and at his expense.

“Mr. Crowe? I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. I’m Cerridwen Dunsinane.” She was out of breath from hurrying to fight this threat to her nonprofits. Not a trace of the local accent. No doubt a sworn enemy of the local Baptists.

He bowed slightly at the waist, harking back to a time of courtly manners. Such gestures always seemed to please these social anachronisms, who, while remaining champions for Equal Rights, had retreated from the complexities of the modern world into an idealized fantasy of “medieval” times, from which the Black Death and other discomforts of that age had been conveniently purged. Her real name was probably something like Carrie Dunn.

“Ms. Dunsinane,” he said. “A pleasure.”

“Why don’t we find a quieter place?” She nodded toward a door near the entrance to the meeting hall, and he followed her into a small room where the Sisters shed their street clothes and locked up their purses when they put on the lavender robes of their order. Cerridwen was perspiring heavily, a light mist of sweat on her lips. He found himself wanting to wipe it away like steam from a shaving mirror. Before she could summon the breath to speak, he cut off what was clearly going to be another bid for charity.

“I gather there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said.

“I know, I—”

“Not on my part, though. It was clear in my letter of acceptance, when I agreed to do this lecture, that I take a flat fee plus a percentage of the audience.”

All this she had heard from her minions. She nodded vigorously, determined to point out some flaw in his judgment. “I know when we got your letter—and I didn’t handle that myself, I have to admit, that was Sister Storm and she came down with the flu tonight—we thought it was clear that we would pay your basic fee and you would waive the percentage. This is a benefit, after all, and once we’ve paid for the hall, there’s little enough left as it is. I know ten dollars a head may seem like a lot…”

“I’m only asking a fragment of that.”

“But Mr. Crowe, you were one of four speakers. If you all took your fragment—”

“Who else would dare to ask? Dr. Spondle, like all good Atlantean High Priests, has forsworn money. And your other guests appeared to be facing their first audience tonight.”

She took on a puffed, indignant expression. “They may be inexperienced as lecturers, but they have a great deal of insight to offer.”

He decided that she must have chosen the speakers personally. Still, she had been sloppy about the financial arrangements, and she was going to pay for it.

“Look, Carrie—”

“Cerridwen,” she said flatly, glaring now. He gauged the threat of those enormous arms, decided to risk it.

“Sister—Lady—whatever you are, I’m not going to waive a goddamn thing. You accepted my terms, but I didn’t agree to yours.”

“We paid for your ticket—”

“Which I plan to use as soon as you pay what you owe me.”

“—and we offered accommodations—”

“No amount of money could convince me to stay overnight in this backwoods hellhole, where no one has anything better to do than listen to crap about the thirteenth sign of the zodiac.”

“And you!” she screamed quietly, her voice muffled among the overcoats. “They came to hear you!”

“And they paid for the privilege. I could have drawn that crowd without your Church of White Light bullshit. If anything, your reputation probably repelled more people than mine attracted.”

It had taken a few moments, but Cerridwen Dunsinane now understood him on the level at which he preferred to be understood—at least in material matters. Her comprehension came with a complementary portion of disgust.

“I’m a businessman,” he said soothingly. “No offense. It’s a free country and you can run your church however you like, but—”

“Get out,” she whispered, her dismay white-hot, bending the air.

“I know it’s not much money, but the principle—”

“Just—get—out!”

Her beamlike arm swung imperiously toward the door. He was inclined to follow the lead.

“I’ll have my lawyer call your office in the next day or two, when you’ve cooled down, and make the final arrangements.”

She couldn’t speak a third time, but her eyes clearly repeated her demand: Out.

The last deluxe copy was just selling as he returned to the table near the door. The crowd had thinned to half a dozen diehards waiting for a look, a touch, a few words, an autograph. One young couple looked truly out of place for a hick town. Both had long hair, the woman’s dark and uncombed and streaked with henna, her eyes ringed with fatigue circles black as mascara; they were dressed in ripped black leather, black jeans, silver skulls and daggers dangling from their ears, and a gold ring piercing the male’s nostril. They were skinny as speed freaks, pitiful as a pair of wet alleycats huddling together for warmth and security in an almost visible aura of nicotine. Out-of-style punks, anachronisms in a time-warped town; far too young to have been real punks, they had evolved from the dregs of the old punk culture, much as Haight Ashbury continued to breed twelve-year-old hippies while twentyish Beatniks spawned in North Beach cafes. And these were occult punks… a more rarefied and less predictable breed than the ones who were merely into the modern holy trinity of sex, drugs, and music.

What kind of people read Derek Crowe?

He laughed sardonically to himself, but the male of the pair, a pale and skinny kid, picked up on it and also began chuckling. Then he shoved an open copy of The Mandala Rites at Derek.

“Read the regular edition already,” he said. “Wrecked it up already. It gets like a car repair manual, you know? With candle wax and wine stains instead of motor oil? My working copy. But I’m gonna take good care of this one.”

His accent was as vague and untethered as TV had made all things; he could have been from anywhere. It occurred to Derek that maybe only a local would feel comfortable enough to dress this way in a redneck town, knowing his folks would protect him. He imagined feuds in the hills going on for generations thanks to freaks like this. Of course, all he really knew about hick towns was what he’d learned from TV.

Derek handed back the signed book and started gathering up receipts and cash, all his things.

“You try all the rituals in here?” the boy said. “I mean, I know you transcribed them all, but have you worked them all yourself?”

“Every one of them,” Derek said distractedly, looking for a pay phone.

“Even the—you know?”

The girl was looking at Derek with big eyes, lips slightly parted, as if stunned. Younger than she looked, but at the same time older, burned out deep inside. Nerve-damaged.

“The sexual ones?” the guy said.

An elderly woman gasped and moved quickly away, looking at the red volume in her hands as if she had just paid to poison herself. The others drifted off, sensing that they weren’t going to get autographs tonight, not wanting to stress the brittle edges of their celebrity’s mood. Derek stared at the two punks, weary of the crowd, the questions, the whole fucking charade that was his life and livelihood.

“Look,” he said, “is there a phone around here?”

“You need to call someone?”

He didn’t bother answering that one.

The girl slugged her boyfriend in the arm. “Michael, are you an idiot?”

“No, I mean, since he’s not from around here, if he needs a lift somewhere…”

Not with you, Derek thought. But he didn’t know how long it would take to find a cab. The nearest taxi was probably in Charlotte. There was one flight tonight. If he missed it, he would be stuck here till morning. One of the Sisters was supposed to take him to the airport, but he was reluctant to ask them for anything now. Having already refused hotel accommodations, he found himself saying, “The airport.”

“Hey, we can take you. We’re going that way—we live on the outskirts.”

“He doesn’t want to ride with us,” the girl said. “He’s probably got a limo waiting out front.”

At that moment the Valkyrie shoved past Derek, not deigning to grace him with her icy gaze as she headed toward the back of the hall. Reminded of what waited for him here, he nodded to the kids.

“Actually,” Derek said, “if you’re serious, I might just take you up on that ride.”

“Wow, really?” The poor boy seemed in shock. “Okay, great! Wow, I don’t believe this! Lenore, Derek Crowe is coming with us! Oh, man!”

“We’re right outside,” she said. “You need help with anything?”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Can I get your bags? Really, I can’t believe this—there’s like so many questions I want to ask you.”

This is a mistake, Derek told himself, but he went right on making it anyway.

4

The night was colder than he ‘d expected; it cut through the loose shirt to slash his ribs. As he paused on the steps, fumbling for a sweater in one of his bags, the guy said, “Name’s Michael. You know, like the archangel?”

“More like plain old Michael,” said the girl, extending her hand although Derek, caught up in the sweater, couldn’t very well accept it. “I’m Lenore,” she said.

“Like in Poe,” Michael said. “The telltale heart, chopped-up bodies, big swinging razor blades, and rats trying to eat you. Some kids get named for nursery rhymes. Not Lenore.”

Derek finally clasped her hand. It was small, cold, and bony, and studded with garish silver rings, lost-wax skulls and dragon heads, glittering crystal eyes.

“Nope, not my wife,” Michael went on, striding stiff-legged down the steps toward the street. “Lenore’s not like most people.”

Lenore trailed close behind Derek, shadowing him. He glanced down and back, saw her upturned eyes gleaming with moonlight. It was a clear winter night, the waxing moon so bright that only a few washed-out stars managed to burn their way through—and those were near the horizon, competing with streetlights.

“I really liked your lecture,” she said, a bit hesitant.

“Did you?”

“It was—inspiring. I felt something happen to me in there. As if everything you said made sense—as if I’d known it all the time but never realized it, and suddenly it just clicked.” She smiled up at him. “I see everything differently now.”

“Do you really?” he said, trying to hide his disappointment. He was hoping she had more sense than that, but apparently she was just another one of the loonies.

“Whoa, really, Lenore?” said the boy. “Are you serious? Man, Mr. Crowe, she doesn’t usually go for this stuff. I mean, not at all, not Lenore. I sort of had to drag her along tonight.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “I decided to come. I’m glad I did too.”

“Well, that’s very encouraging,” he said. “You two’re married?”

“Sure,” she said.

“It’s just… you both look so young.”

Michael laughed, a hoarse and uncomfortable sound. “We’re old souls.”

“I envy that woman,” she said. “Ms. A. You just had to hypnotize her and the mandalas came, huh?”

“That’s right. I was doing what I thought would be some simple trance work, and she went deeper under than anyone I’d ever seen. Suddenly I found myself… well, out of my element. Everything changed for me then too.”

“I haven’t done any of the rituals in your book,” she said. “Michael’s done most of them I suppose, but I haven’t really been interested. But I think I might like to now. After hearing you talk. You’re really an amazing speaker. You have some kind of animal magnetism. Is that the word?”

It was a phrase that made Derek shudder, but he nodded. “An old word, but outdated. Like mesmerism. Thanks anyway.” Her attention was flattering. He found himself regarding her more generously and finding in her haggard features quite a bit to attract him.

“Wow, I can’t believe this,” Michael said. “You want to do a ritual? Something really must have happened to you tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said, “something clicked.”

Michael laughed and did a little capering step and hurried on ahead of them up the sidewalk.

“So,” Derek said quietly, “do you have any children?”

“I had twins,” she said, even more softly. “Not with Michael. I only saw them for a minute and then they got taken away. I wasn’t on junk, not then, I’d kicked; but the hospital did these tests on my hair and it still showed up, and since I was on public assistance, they—I—they didn’t even tell me they were taking them.”

Derek felt the sickening pang that always came when he pulled too close to reality—when he penetrated the dark, tattered glamour of the streetwise and arrived in the place where illusion was torn away in ragged strips, like a bright circus poster peeling from a gray cinder-block wall. He always ended up facing the reality of hunger and dirt and stupidity—of the addict’s meaningless, driven behavior. So much for the mystique of youth. He didn’t want to ask where her children were, or if Michael was the father. Fortunately, she didn’t say anything more about it. She seemed to feel she had said enough, which was fine with him. He reflected that what struck him as horror was probably all she had. She was one of the new generation, those for whom the future held less than ever before—a polluted, overcrowded world of dwindling resources, few options, not much room even for luck. Derek didn’t like to think about the things these kids would live to see at the tag ends of their lives, when he had passed away. Not that he was much older than they; his perspective was simply greater.

Michael was approaching what had to be their car, a black Volkswagen Beetle with arcane designs painted all over the shell. There were symbols lifted from the Qabala and the Golden Dawn, and Taoist-looking swirls. He wasn’t sure what all the signs meant, although he was glancingly familiar with most of them. He wished he weren’t quite so well versed in useless arcana, but it was a hazard of his occupation. He did a double-take when he realized that the freshest-looking images were mandalas taken straight from his book. Michael had painted out older symbols in order to clear space for the newest images.

Michael saw him staring and must have thought he was admiring the painstakingly copied mandalas.

“What do you think?” the kid asked, as the car keys came out jangling in his hand.

“You drive around here in that?” he said.

“Oh, the local cops don’t bother us too much anymore. They know we don’t, you know, use. Lenore was always more into it than me anyway.”

“Shut up, Michael,” she said.

“I think a magician has to be pure, don’t you?”

“Mm,” Derek said, dropping his bags on hard ground iced with frost; he heard the grass blades snap.

“Maybe that’s why you’re getting interested now, babe. You’ve been clean long enough that your system’s starting to cry out for the real thing. Spiritual sustenance.”

“Are you going to make us stand here freezing all night?” she said.

The backseat looked full of trash; there was hardly room for Derek and his stuff. He wondered if he still had time to call a cab. But Michael started shoving things around inside, and the next thing Derek knew, his bags were in the car.

“Climb in back, Lenore?” Michael asked.

“You don’t have to,” Derek insisted. “I’ll ride back there.”

“You’d never fit,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, it wouldn’t be right shoving you in with our laundry, even if it is clean.”

“I feel terrible,” he said.

“Don’t worry.” She slid in like a wisp of smoke.

Michael pushed the seat back again, closing her in. “I mean, you’ve got to cut those drugs out if you want to do serious magic. Otherwise, how can you tell if you’re hallucinating or if something real is happening? Like Crowley, man, he was always dosed. So how do we know he didn’t just—you know—imagine everything?”

“Would you get in?” Lenore said. “I’m freezing.”

Derek folded over and got in, reaching for the hand-strap over the window as Michael slammed the door on him. Dust and insulation fibers sifted through the ceiling fabric, rasping his nose. Michael got in on the other side and turned on the ignition. The car shook and roared, making conversation all but impossible.

Michael pointed at the steering column, shouting something as he revved the engine. Derek shook his head to indicate that he couldn’t hear. The roar smoothed out. Heat oozed up from pipes beneath the seats, warming his legs. He shivered once, violently, and then began to relax.

“I said, you ever notice the symbols on the steering wheel of these old VW bugs? Look at this thing—it’s like an old mystic Nazi design. You know about Hitler and the occult, right? This is like the Moon card in the Tarot. A castle on the water, and then these wolves… real stylized, real simple, to make it really sink in. Doesn’t register in the conscious mind, but all your life that symbol cooks away, like some kind of sinister survival from the Third Reich. Like Hitler’s still got a grip. I’m kind of glad they don’t make these anymore.”

“I never noticed,” Derek said, wishing there’d been room for him in back. Michael seemed too unstable, a little bit frightening. Even without drugs, someone so manic had to have a bitter, depressive side. Lenore was probably the steady one in their relationship, Michael’s touchstone with reality.

He found himself remembering the cold, frail touch of her hand. Wanting to feel it again.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw her eyes glimmering. He looked away quickly, though she hadn’t been looking at him. How old was she, exactly? Twenty-five? Was that long enough for the world to drain someone as she appeared to have been drained? No doubt it was. Derek kept glancing at her as the streetlights, flicking past, picked out her eyes.

He saw little distinction between the center of town and the outskirts, where the airport lay. Cinderton was the kind of landlocked place that made him glad he lived in San Francisco, where freezing and hundred-plus temperatures were all but unknown. Cinderton probably spent part of the year locked up in ice, the ground so hard it could chip a shovel, sidewalks filthy with muddy salt and snow that never quite melted till spring, when the potholes came out like flowers in the thaw, to be followed shortly thereafter by unbearable heat pressing down on the land like a steam iron. So he imagined the cycle of seasons; but his actual experience was limited to the temperature climes of California and a few bus trips to Reno where he’d watched the snow from inside a casino. He always wondered what kept people in places like this. Didn’t they know the world offered options besides the ones they’d been brought up to expect?

Probably not. Some found release in music, in weirder drugs than alcohol or barbiturates. A few—his current hosts apparently among them—sought escape in a synergistic combination, mixing all of the above with occultism, whose effects were more unpredictable than any drug. The typical young occultist migrated to a big city as soon as he was old enough to hitchhike, drive a car, or buy a one-way bus ticket. The older occultists, late bloomers, were usually simple souls, so near the grave that they had begun to scrutinize the plot with the intensity of a prospective tenant, hoping to find in their future something more rewarding than four windowless walls and a lid that screwed down from the outside.

Michael said, “I can’t get over this. I’ve written you letters; maybe you remember me. Last name’s Renzler?”

Derek shook his head. “Sorry, no. Can’t count on the publishers to forward mail, unfortunately.”

“Huh, yeah, thought maybe it was something like that. Or you get so many letters you can’t answer them all.”

Close, Derek thought. Countless lunatics wrote to ask his advice—as if he were a psychic Miss Manners. He kept a fat file of absurd letters, scheming someday to publish them all and let the sane mainstream public have a laugh at the expense of his cult following. That would be years from now, when his career had run its course and he could afford to admit his hoax, when that alone would be enough to catapult him into talk show fame. Confessions of a Hack Mystic. He would do it as a way of unburdening himself, showing his admirers how ludicrous they looked. In his files were deranged descriptions of psychosomatic maladies; formulas for curing every known disease, from warts to AIDS, with crystals or incense or the powder of bottlebrush trees collected on Thursdays at three in the afternoon when the moon was void-of-course.

He supposed he might easily have a letter or two from a Renzler tucked in his copious crackpot file. He didn’t pay much attention to the names.

“Hey, did you ever know a guy named Elias Mooney?”

Derek stiffened, never for a moment having dreamed that he would hear that name in such surroundings. He had hoped—and fully expected—that he would never hear it again from anyone, ever.

“What?” he said, forcing himself to stay calm.

“Elias Mooney. He was an old shaman out in California, I can’t remember the name of the place but I think it was near San Francisco. I corresponded with him a little, till he died a couple years back. Helped me out a lot.”

“No,” Derek said. “No, I don’t think I knew him.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty ridiculous thinking you would. California’s pretty big, huh?”

“Big.”

“I just thought, you know, maybe the occult scene out there in Frisco—maybe you all know each other. Can’t be that big a circle, right?”

“Bigger than I like.”

“It’s not like he was a celebrity or anything—just a real helpful guy. He helped me out during a real rough time—and I never even met him, you know? Just through letters and tapes and stuff. I guess he had correspondents all over the world. And… this would sound funny to most people, but I bet not to you. We used to meet up in the astral, in dreams. I learned a lot from him then.”

I can’t believe he’s going on about this, Derek thought. What’s he really getting at? Could Elias have mentioned me in their correspondence? Is this some kind of clumsy attempt at blackmail?

He decided to say nothing more, to avoid feeding Renzler’s interest. The ploy seemed to work. The kid seemed at a loss for words. Derek wanted to find out exactly what his relationship with Elias had been, but he was afraid to stir up something that had lain quiet for so long. Finally Michael started off on a wild occult tangent, and Derek began to relax.

It was then the car made a terrible grinding sound.

“Holy mother,” Michael swore.

“What’s wrong?” Lenore said, leaning forward. Michael was jamming frantically at the stick shift, just pushing it around in big loose circles.

“The shift is gone! Hold on!”

He swerved sideways onto the shoulder of the dark road. They went bumping and jouncing over what felt like boulders and fallen tree branches. This is it, Derek thought. This is how it would end. Well, I guess I deserve it….

They came to a rough halt and the engine died immediately. They sat in the dimming glow of the VW’s headlights, facing a thick wall of bare trees and brambles. Michael reached past Derek, pulled a penlight from the glove box, then got out of the car and went around to the back.

Derek looked at Lenore, but she was craning around to peer out the rear window. Finally Michael banged down the engine cover. “Shit,” he said, his voice carrying clearly in the icy night.

“What is it?” Lenore called.

“I don’t know, I’m no mechanic.” He came around to the door and peered in at them. “Mr. Crowe, I hate to ask you this, but… how soon does your plane leave? Are we cutting it close?”

Derek pushed the button that illuminated the face of his watch. “I’ve got a couple hours, actually.”

“You were just going to sit at the airport?”

“It was preferable to sitting in the auditorium. Is the airport a long way from here?” He imagined hiking down dark country roads carrying his bags for half the night, or dying of exposure, or ending up in a scene out of Deliverance.

“Too far to walk, yeah. But just down the road’s a diner with a phone. Lenore, I’m gonna go call Tucker, see if he can come help us out. At the very least give Mr. Crowe a ride. Why don’t you two just sit here and take it easy, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Tucker’s pretty good with cars.”

Derek closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

“We’ll be all right,” Lenore said, and Derek felt his spirits rising. Alone with her, he’d be fine indeed. He welcomed the occasion, unexpected as it was. As long as he made his plane on time, what harm could come of it?

“Great.” Michael zipped up his jacket, gave them a weak salute, and headed off down the road. For a minute they could see him fading out beyond the headlights, and then he was gone.

“So,” Lenore said after a while, “where you from?”

“Originally Los Angeles, but I’ve lived in San Francisco a few years. How about you?”

“Oh, uh, I grew up in upstate New York—little towns you probably never heard of. Lived in New York City for a long time, before I met Michael and we moved down here.”

“So you are a city girl.”

“I guess. No. I’m not from anywhere, really. Lived in a lot of different houses when I was a kid. Foster homes and stuff. Bouncing around.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. With regrets?

“You think you could hypnotize someone like me?” she said abruptly.

Derek laughed, taken by surprise. “Hypnotize you? Why?”

“I don’t know, just to see what it’s like. I’ve always wondered.”

Derek winced. “I suppose I could,” he said. “Some people are resistant. Children, soldiers, people used to taking orders—they can be very good subjects. But I have a feeling you’re the independent type.”

She smiled. “You do, huh? How about Ms. A? What type was she?”

“Well—also very independent, but I believe the mandalas must have been stronger. They had a use for her, and they might have made her more susceptible to hypnosis.”

“Could you do me?” she said.

“Right now, you mean?”

“Sure. While Michael’s gone. We’re gonna be here awhile. Just try. No pressure if it doesn’t work. I’m curious.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Maybe the mandalas will come through me,” she said, mischievously now, and he felt certain she was mocking him, that all this was an elaborate tease. “Maybe there’s something else they want to say to you.”

“I don’t—I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

She made a disappointed sound, and he could see the beginnings of a pout. She reached across the seat, then, and turned out the headlights.

“Good idea,” he said.

“I feel like I know you,” she said in the dark, in a hushed voice. “How could that be?”

“I—I don’t know. Do you really?”

“As soon as I saw you up there tonight, I just sort of felt this click.”

Derek cast his eyes down the road, half expecting to see Michael coming up from the total darkness. Lenore’s mouth was right beside his ear.

“What does that mean?” she said.

“I don’t know. Maybe you recognized me from my book.”

“It wasn’t that. I felt like I had to talk to you. Like, you’d understand me.”

“Talk about what?” he said.

“Don’t you ever want to talk to someone who doesn’t know you? Someone who’s not involved in all your problems?”

“I think we all feel that way sometimes.”

“It’s because you’ve looked into all these things, with the counseling you’ve done, the hypnotherapy and all—I could use some advice. God knows I could probably use some therapy too. I need some help quitting drinking, I know that, but that’s only part of it. There’s things going back—way back—I can’t remember how far back. Maybe that’s where my problems all started. Maybe you could help me remember, you know? Under hypnosis? Because I can’t. There’s like this blank area, early in my childhood. I don’t remember my mother or any of that. I was already bouncing from home to home by then. I was a troublemaker, I guess you’d say. A difficult child. I want to know—what happened to me? When did the trouble really start?”

“Memories from very early childhood may not be accessible to you, even under hypnosis. The infant brain is separate from the adult’s. It stores and processes memory very differently. I’m not so sure I could help you.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe you’re helping me without knowing it. Just talking to you, I feel better. Like I could tell you stuff and you’d understand.”

“I’m flattered you feel that way.”

“But you still won’t hypnotize me.”

“Look, Lenore… I can teach you to do it yourself. How would that be? It’s all self-hypnosis anyway. The hypnotist is only a guide.”

“But I need a guide!”

“It’s nothing to do lightly. It has to be taken slowly, over time. I can’t just put you under right now and clear up all your problems. You have a lifetime to deal with. One little session, here and now, might be worse than nothing. I’d have to see you regularly, over time. Maybe there’s someone around here who could do it.”

“No,” she said, slumping back into her seat. “There’s nobody.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“There’s nobody, all right?” she yelled. “I know what I need, what I’ve been looking for, and I never felt it until now, but you’re not interested, so just shut the fuck up and leave me alone, all right?”

Lenore reached over the seat, switched on the radio full blast, then got out and paced along the opposite shoulder, smoking a cigarette. Every now and then a car swept past, but no one slowed.

Jesus, Derek thought. That’ll teach me.

He sat quietly, deafened by country music. He was tempted to go out to her, but that little teasing dance of codependency frightened him; he already felt snared, involved in something he couldn’t stop. Best just to wait here, hold his tongue, let her anger burn itself out. He was hardly the savior type, but he couldn’t fault her for unrealistic expectations. He’d set himself up for it, painting himself as the great hypnotherapist when in fact he hadn’t used hypnosis (outside of his books) for years. Not since his boyhood, in fact. And in response to that thought, which threatened to propel him into deeper silence, darker reveries, he switched off the radio and opened his door.

“Lenore,” he said into the sudden quiet.

She stopped pacing. He could see her cigarette flare, then her steps came crunching back to the car.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I can’t tune out a call for help that easily. It’s true you need guidance. But I can teach you how to do it yourself, and maybe that will start you on the way.”

“Hypnotize me, you mean? You’ll do it?”

“One trance. And I’ll give you the commands you need to do it to yourself. Then you can—well, explore.”

She crouched before him on the roadside, her cigarette dangling between her knees. “Seriously?”

“Sure. Come on, why don’t you get in the car?” He stepped out and pulled his seat forward, and she slid past him into the back, arranging herself on the long cushion. Derek returned to his seat and pulled the door closed.

“Don’t you have like a pendulum or something?” she asked.

“Don’t need it,” he said, trying to remember the basic steps. But what was there to it, really? “I’m just going to talk you through some visualizations. The real work you’ll be doing yourself. Are you ready? Get comfortable.”

“Go,” she said.

He began to count backward from one hundred, very slowly. He told her that with every number he counted off, she was falling deeper and deeper asleep. Between the numbers of his count, he told her that she was floating down a long tunnel. He told her that she was becoming lighter and lighter, until she weighed nothing. He told her she was dissolving into the sky, melting away. “Your fingers are melting, melting away. Your arms are melting, melting away. Eighty-eight. Your shoulders melting, melting away.” He watched her chest rising and falling softly, her head slumped forward, eyelids trembling, breath steady and slow. “Your chest, melting away.” His eyes lay on her breasts for a long while, hardly more than the faintest curve beneath the stiff fabric of her leather jacket. “Eighty-seven.”

It took a long time. He was more careful than he had ever been. He instructed her that as she went deeper into the trance, her thoughts would become brighter and sharper. She was asleep but acutely aware. With every breath she went deeper into trance, but that did not mean she lost consciousness. Deeper and deeper, seeing more and more, doors opening before her, paths into her past, into her secrets; he told her that she had the confidence and strength and courage to explore them all, to heal herself completely. Deeper and deeper, deeper and deeper, farther and farther back….

“You can do this to yourself,” he told her. “Now that you have come to these places, you can return here anytime simply by willing it. You can recover this mental state at will and make use of it to heal yourself. And every time you induce this state, you will find yourself able to go deeper, faster, than the time before.”

Deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper….

At last he reached zero. How much time had passed? He had lost himself in the study of Lenore, a pale sexual ghost in the backseat. And what now? His voice seemed preternaturally loud, at odds with the mood. She lay there blank, so blank that he could almost see a smile on her lips, could almost hear her invitation.

Stop it, he told himself.

What now?

She was as deep as he dared take her; deeper than he had ever intended to go. Surely something should be accomplished while she was at this level—some work begun. It occurred to him only then that he had begun to believe his own lies! He hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing; he had no reason, and certainly no right, to take anyone through this process. Not again. The hypnotic method worked because it was a method—purely mechanical. It had nothing to do with him.

“I remember…” she whispered.

“Yes?” He searched her still face, her closed eyes.

“…you…”

“Lenore?” He touched her hand, worried. It was time to wake her; he was an idiot to have agreed to this. Who knew what changes, deep within her, he might have set into motion? “Listen, Lenore. Take great care…”

But she didn’t seem to hear him. She was whispering something in a small, distant voice that filled him with fear for no reason he understood. His panic intensified when he heard footsteps outside the car, and an instant later the driver’s door flew open. He looked up and saw Michael staring in at him. It was too dark to see much more than the white oval of his face, but a crazy smile seemed to float there.

“Didn’t mean to creep up,” he said. “Flashlight died on the way back. Tucker’s on his way, though. Should be along any minute. Hey, Lenore? You asleep?” He jerked her shoulder roughly and she jerked up with a grunt.

“What? You’re back already?”

“You were sleeping.”

She turned toward Derek. “Was I?”

He couldn’t tell if she meant it or not; if she was pretending for Michael’s sake, or genuinely didn’t remember. He hadn’t instructed her either to remember or to forget.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Oh. God.” She squeezed out of the car, lighting another cigarette after a moment. Derek watched her closely, to see if she was going to reassure him somehow or otherwise betray her state of mind. Michael sat behind the wheel and began to babble again, picking up his inane conversation where he’d left off, although now Derek was able to pay even less attention thanks to a horrible free-floating sense of something left undone, something he might never be able to put to rights….

It was a relief when a truck came rattling up the road and pulled onto the shoulder facing them, blinding Derek with its lights. Lenore went toward it and returned a moment later with a tall, shaggy-looking hulk.

“Let’s take a look,” he said. “Scarlet’s waiting on me.”

“Mr. Crowe, this here is Tucker Doakes. He’s going to take care of everything.”

“Hey. You one of Mikey’s Satan-lovin’ friends?”

“Cut it out, Tuck,” Lenore said. “Mr. Crowe’s famous.”

“Not exactly,” Derek said.

“Either way, I’m gonna have to get to that backseat. Can you come out of the car? Thanks. What about this laundry, Lenore?”

“Throw it in the well.”

“No engine parts in there or anything? No KFC buckets?”

“It’s clean.”

Derek moved away from the car, watching Doakes lean into it and shove the piled laundry into the little well under the rear window. Then Doakes pulled up the entire backseat, hauled it out of the car, and laid it on the roadside. Michael aimed his flashlight into the dark compartment thus revealed. Derek heard the clank of metal parts in the shadows.

“It’s what I thought,” he said. “Broken cotter pin. This whole assembly just fell apart. Easy to fix, though. You got a bobby pin, Lenore?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I knew I shoulda brought Scarlet along on this expedition. Well, come on, something.”

“How about a paper clip?” Derek suggested.

Doakes shrugged. “I guess, sure, I could wrap it around—might hold for a while.”

Derek dug into his valise, removing the paper clip from the manuscript of the evening’s lecture, and handed it to Doakes, who went back into the car and worked there for a few more minutes. When he was done, he wiped his hands on his jeans and picked up the seat, shoving it back into the car.

“That should get you home,” he said. “I’ll put a real cotter pin in there tomorrow.”

“We’ve got to get to the airport first,” said Michael.

“Whatever. You try that out, see if she’s okay. Come on, I got a feeling Scarlet’s cooling fast.”

“Sure.” Michael started the car, put it into gear. It lurched forward, then into reverse. “Working!”

Tucker was already climbing into his truck. “See y’all later.” The truck backed into the road, then screeched around and drove off.

Derek held his seat up so Lenore could climb in; she did so without looking at him.

“How are we on time?” Michael asked. “Airport’s another fifteen minutes, ten if I floor it.”

“We should just make it,” Derek said.

Lenore didn’t say another word on the drive; she didn’t need to, because Michael more than filled the silence until the stark white lights of the airport finally appeared through trees ahead of them. In the mirror, ovals of glare slid over Lenore’s cheeks like dislocated eyes. She seemed oblivious to their conversation; he wished he could be equally detached. He wished he could speak with her in private again; wished he could somehow take her back into trance, tie up any loose ends, wake her up properly. But she seemed fine, and what did he expect? It wasn’t as if he’d been performing brain surgery.

Instead of heading straight toward the terminal, Michael brought the car into the short-term parking lot. Derek assumed it was because he was distracted by his own chatter.

“You can drop me off at the door,” he said.

“No problem. We’ll keep you company till your plane leaves. Nothing else to do.”

Derek sank back. “If you say so.”

“I guess I wasted my breath in those letters I sent, huh? I have some ideas about the mandalas, maybe I could bounce them off you sometime if you wouldn’t mind, you know, giving me your address? They’re questions you could ask the mandalas next time they come around. I swear I won’t abuse the privilege.”

The privilege? Derek smirked, thinking of all the winos who had been “privileged” to puke in the piss-stains on the front steps of his address.

“All right,” Derek said. “It’s the least I can do in exchange for the ride.” He picked up the paper sack that held Michael Renzler’s copy of The Mandala Rites and scrawled his address on it, taking care not to include his phone number. The car jerked to a halt. In the backseat, a match flared and a cigarette began to burn.

“You want one?” Lenore said, putting her hand between the seats. He was tempted even though he didn’t smoke. Michael took the cigarette absentmindedly, as if he had summoned it out of midair. Most of his attention was on Derek’s address.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll send you something.”

“Wonderful.” Derek opened the door.

Outside, he started to freeze again instantly. He hauled his bags over the seat, helped slightly by Lenore, then hurried toward the terminal, the Renzlers following. As he waited on a curb for another car to pass, he felt one of his bags taken from his hand. It was Lenore, smiling at him now; he could read almost anything in those eyes.

In the city, he would hardly have noticed her among so many of her kind. But he would have been wrong to dismiss her. Here, displayed to best advantage in the watery light of a small-town airport terminal, was an original, an archetype of which all the others were pallid derivatives. Lenore was like a human essence, distilled in secrecy; a fragile bottle waiting to be uncapped, to release her scent. He wished, with a pang, that he could have been the one to free her.

“You better hurry,” she said. “You’re gonna miss your plane.”

He took her hand. “Good-bye,” he said.

“See you later.”

5

“This is a beautiful book, ” said Lenore, flipping through The Mandala Rites as streetlights lit the pages in a protracted strobe.

Michael shifted into fourth on the dark narrow road he knew by heart and quietly said, “It is, isn’t it?” Her comment sounded like the opening to an attack; she was trying to lull him. Next she was going to ask how much he’d paid for it, and if he told the truth—which he’d have to, slipping it in between the grinding of gears—the battle would begin.

“Really, really beautiful,” she said.

Oh, no, he thought helplessly. She’s onto me. This is going to be bad. Maybe the worst yet.

He knew they couldn’t afford it; knew it wouldn’t help to say he’d been secretly saving money all along, collecting spare change here and there for expenses like this. Lenore would have spent his stash by now if she’d known about it. She’d been griping for days that she was out of pot and desperate for more, but couldn’t buy from Tucker till they paid their rent. And forty-five bucks was a sizable chunk of the rent they owed.

But her attack never came—or at least not from the expected direction. He glanced over and saw Lenore gazing down at the open pages, dark now that the last of the streetlights were behind them and only a thickness of trees stood along the road, branches bare but so densely woven that they blotted out the moonlight.

Maybe she would humor him for once; she was unpredictable that way. She flipped out if Michael bought a crystal ball or a magic dagger; she would battle nonstop about him wasting money on occult tools, with much the same ferocity he reserved for fighting when Lenore blew money on drugs. And, like him tonight, sneaking to buy the deluxe Mandala Rites, she had learned to make her purchases secretly and present them as a fait accompli. She no longer told him when she’d scored a fresh bag of pot, leaving it up to him to determine her chemical state by observing alterations in her behavior, her typically manic mornings and dark depressed afternoons. They’d been weaving this pattern in their relationship for so long that now, even in a dry spell, he could no longer look into her eyes without wondering where her mind was at… if she was straight or stoned.

She hated his tools, his occult equipment. It struck her as a wasteful fetish—even basic necessities like incense and charcoal. On the other hand, she didn’t seem to mind when he spent his money on books. It was fortunate for their domestic peace that virtually all of Michael’s spare cash ended up invested in his library.

Maybe she felt some affection for his books because he’d started his collection around the time they met, scavanging treasures from dusty bookshop shelves in Manhattan and environs while he was ostensibly a student in the city. In those days he hadn’t developed much in the way of common sense, but at least he’d possessed enough to ship the volumes to his mother as he acquired them, so they couldn’t be sold again in a moment of weakness or stolen for someone else’s drug money. Drugs had never meant that much to him. They were something to do while he was hanging out. He resented their grip on him and always knew he’d give them up. Magic was his real addiction. He often wished Lenore could have shared his spiritual passions; she didn’t really have any other pursuit to compete with her all consuming interest in drugs.

When he came slinking down to North Carolina with Lenore in tow, all his precious books had been there waiting for him—waiting with his mother poised over them, cigarette lighter in hand. She had threatened to put them all to the torch unless he kicked his various habits. It had been one of her most lucid moments. Since kicking and getting Lenore to kick speed had been his chief aim in fleeing New York, he was able to convince her to spare the innocent pages. His mother must have realized that he’d need some new order in his life. What better than the wealth of magical systems detailed in his books, with their periodic tables of angelic powers and hierarchies of phantom guides and gods all striving toward various grails like players on a vast n-dimensional chessboard?

Despite her distrust and even disgust with anything smacking of religion, his mother had spared the books.

Crowe’s Mandala Rites was only the latest addition to Michael’s library, but already it had pushed all other systems of magic to the edges of his mind. It was the best new system he had ever encountered. Would-be gurus were always inventing new myths and methodologies to suit the current crazes, usually with results as lame as dressing a crone in a Day-Glo neoprene bikini. But the mandalas had an integrity that couldn’t be explained away, as if they had always been lurking about, waiting for the proper time to reveal themselves.

He was more curious than ever to understand what had attracted the mandalas to Derek Crowe in the first place. Why choose him of all people? His first few books had been pure trash. Michael would have sworn they were insincere efforts, bland and uninspired, recycled occult pap cobbled together out of other older books. There was no clue in any of them that Crowe had ever possessed one real insight or would ever produce anything original. Outwardly the man himself seemed as unconvincing as those books. Cold and reserved, difficult to read, Derek Crowe displayed none of the passion that permeated The Mandala Rites, whose diagrams were so intense that they sometimes seemed to vibrate and spin free of the pages.

“So what do you do with these?” Lenore asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Do?”

“Yeah, the mandalas. What are they for? I couldn’t follow everything Crowe was saying tonight—there was just so much of it.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, it’s hard, coming in cold like you did. They’re, you know, symbols. You meditate on them. Each has a certain energy, a—a kind of function. You invoke, I mean, call them and, uh, meditate, and—”

“Call them? Is that what all this is supposed to be? These words here?”

She had the radio on with the sound turned down; enough dim light leaked from the cracked plastic panel to show the pages spread across her knees.

“Yeah, those are the Keys—the Invocations. They’re not in English.”

“No duh.”

He sighed at her mockery. She was setting him up, ready to poke holes in what she perceived as silly superstitions. She tolerated his books, but that didn’t mean she respected their contents. Lenore had never shown the slightest interest in magic or the occult. If he pressed for her opinion, she usually said that all mysticism was bullshit invented to keep people stupid and afraid so they could be conned by hucksters like… well, like Derek Crowe, whose jacket photo she had once satirized for ten minutes. “This guy’s got to be a con artist or an idiot,” she’d said. “Who else would pose like that?” And the photograph was corny, showing his face cloven by melodramatic shadow, his long nose like a beak (it was even more obvious in person, Michael had noticed), a big shiny onyx clasp holding his cloak cinched at the throat as he leaned forward on a carved wooden staff. But Michael had defended Derek Crowe at the time; the mandalas had swayed him.

Now he waited, tensed, not really knowing where the stab was going to come from.

“You’re doing a ritual tonight, right?” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I do it with you?”

He tapped the brakes as if her words had leapt out in front of the car. “What?”

In the faint light she had a secretive, even mischievous look. He knew she wouldn’t clue him in on her thoughts until she was good and ready, but he felt he had to press her for more. “Are you kidding?”

“Kidding? Why?”

“You never cared about this stuff before.”

She shrugged. “Don’t you like me taking an interest?”

“Of course I do! God, I’ve been trying to—to involve you for years. I just gave up, it seemed so pointless. I think I’m in shock.”

“Well, get over it.”

Her tone was so dismissive that he didn’t think of questioning her any further. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He had dreamed of sharing his real interests with her. Two soul-mates could go so much farther and faster in the occult realms than any one person traveling alone. He had never quite given up hoping that someday she would kick drugs altogether and really join him on his quest, the spiritual pilgrimage that had given him the strength to pull his psyche into shape.

“I’ll show you tonight,” he said breathlessly. “We’ll do something out of the book if you want. Just a simple ritual to give you a taste of it, see how you like it, okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

Yes, he thought. She said yes! She had affirmed everything he believed in and hoped for. She had stopped saying no, and maybe now there would be an end to her self-destructiveness. An end in sight, anyway.

He could hardly keep from laughing. “Okay,” he repeated. “Okay!”

“Michael!” She dug her nails in his arm, nearly slashing him; the shock brought his eyes back to the dark road. He’d been blinded by emotion, a veil coming down over his mind, shutting him off from his eyes, and suddenly he saw the headlights sweeping a sheer rock face, heard the tires screaming around a hairpin curve he knew by heart (—by heart?—then how had he forgotten?—stupid—stupid—we’re gonna roll—), felt the Beetle tipping, wheels on one side leaving the ground.

Then the lights swept on into trees, the road straightened, they bounced down again, flat and level, and he could breathe. He slowed gradually, acting as if it were deliberate, as if he’d been in control the whole time, showing off.

Lenore didn’t make a sound. Any other night she would have been raging. But something new hung over them tonight, a presence that neither of them wanted to dispel.

Her grip on his arm relaxed at last. She pulled her hand away.

“Just get us home in one piece,” she said, and left it at that.

6

When they walked in the house, they could hear stomping and banging overhead. The stereo was turned up high. It wasn’t the kind of music you listened to for the words, but he could almost make out the words anyway. Tuck and Scarlet could make more noise than a houseload of people.

Michael dumped the laundry sack on a spring-shot couch and went straight to the library, which doubled as his temple. He was so excited that his fingers shook. Lenore went off down the hall; he didn’t want her getting away, changing her mind, but that was ridiculous. Real change wasn’t so fragile. She would come when she was ready; besides, he had plenty to prepare.

A makeshift altar stood opposite the door; the book-lined walls smelled of dust, incense, and mildew. Every summer the humidity attacked his books and every winter the heater dried the spores to green dust. There was also a lingering cat-piss smell from the time he’d spilled civit on the rug doing a lust spell that had sort of backfired.

He lit the pair of tapers on his altar—actually a bureau with a black velvet cloth draped over it—and cleared a space among bowls of salt and water, a brass incense burner, his hand-carved willow wand, and his athame. When he set the book down, it fell open to one of the mandalas.

Hearing a noise behind him, he turned to see Lenore in the doorway, watching. She seemed to be waiting for an invitation. The library was his private territory. He’d made it clear that she shouldn’t disturb him when he was meditating or practicing some rite. Now he beckoned her in.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you something.”

She entered slowly, almost shyly, clinging to the doorframe till her eyes had adjusted to the candlelight. Then she joined him at the altar and put an arm around his waist, looking down at his tools. He had explained them all to her before, but he doubted she remembered. He touched his athamé.

“Remember this?”

“Yeah, your magic dagger.”

“My athame. It represents the mind—double-edged, keen. The element of air.”

She reached out and traced the edge of it with a finger. “It’s sharp,” she said.

“My wand represents the element of—”

“You told me this before,” she said, already bored, looking up at the bookshelves, starting to pull away.

“You have to understand what we’re doing.”

“I don’t really care about that witch stuff, Michael. I want to know about the mandalas. How do you call them? Or don’t you know?”

“I know, ” he said, irritated that she would challenge him on his own ground. “You have to use these things to call them, and you have to know why you’re doing it.”

“You mean you don’t just call them and they come?”

Exasperated, he found his voice rising in pitch. “Lenore, just listen, all right? It’s not like blowing a bird call. The gods don’t speak English. They communicate with us through symbols, and we can talk back only if we use the symbols right. The tools and gestures are like… like a code or a pidgin language for the astral world.”

“But Derek said the Keys or whatever are already in the mandala language. So you should be able to say the words and they’ll come.”

“It has a lot to do with your attitude, your intentions—”

“That is such bullshit, Michael. Why should it? You’re in France, you say words out of a phrase book and people understand you. They don’t know jack about your intentions.”

“Let me finish, Lenore!”

She fell silent, waiting, and he found himself with nothing to say, no argument left.

“It works,” he said finally. “But maybe not the way you think. They act on thoughts… emanations.”

“So let’s see something.”

His frustration was too much for him. “Why are you so interested all of a sudden? I mean, what do you expect to get out of this?”

“I don’t expect anything. No more than a guy in a lab coat expects some kind of results when he does an experiment. I just want to see what happens.”

It was a fair answer, but he wasn’t sure he believed her. There was something else behind her sudden interest, something pushing her, but he couldn’t see it. The only explanation that made any sense was that Derek Crowe’s lecture had flipped a switch inside her and brought out a latent interest that not even Michael had sighted before. He’d been amazed at how she’d practically thrown herself at Derek Crowe. He never would have expected it of Lenore.

“We should really do some kind of purification, a bath or something—”

“Fuck that, I’m not taking a bath. It’s freezing. If you can’t just do it, then let’s forget the whole thing.”

His hopes of an effective ritual were dwindling by the moment. Maybe they should forget it. She definitely had the wrong attitude. What did she expect? Real magic was nothing like the movies, with powerful shapes appearing in columns of smoke, genies pumping from bottles; it didn’t give you miraculous powers or cause objects to vanish or appear in midair. Those were stage illusions. Real magic was subtle. It whispered in your psyche, putting you in touch with sensations you rarely stopped to notice. You might smell flowers that weren’t there, or unearthly incense. You might hear distant music, voices; or, with your eyes half open, glimpse faces that formed briefly in the shadows but vanished before you were quite sure you saw them. The real effects of magic were internal: increased self-confidence, a heightened awareness of natural beauty, a lingering feeling of calm excitement. It could be like the best parts of an acid trip, though far milder and longer lasting.

If Lenore wanted lightning bolts, shape-shifting, levitation, then she was bound to be disappointed.

But disappointment was a valuable lesson. He couldn’t very well protect her from the experience. She had asked for it, after all.

“We have to undress,” he said.

To his surprise, she didn’t argue this point. She kicked off her boots and put them near the door, tugged off her jeans and tossed them in a wad with her shirt. Her small breasts looked slightly swollen, nipples protuberant in the chilly room.

“My panties stay on,” she said. “I’m still bleeding a little.”

“That’s fine.”

He closed the door and finished undressing himself. When he turned back to the altar, she was paging through the book. He ran his fingers lightly down her spine and felt her shiver.

“Sorry,” he said. “My hands are like—”

“This one,” she said, her voice hushed. Her finger lit on the frontispiece, drawn in dramatic black and red. It was the thirty-seventh mandala, the last in the book. He’d been working his way through the volume, but he hadn’t yet gotten that far. It was a mandala with wavy spokes, a ring of dotted beads circling the circumference, and more of the beads clustered at the center.

“That’s a kind of advanced one.”

The look she gave him was final. Any further argument would only be destructive. She wanted to do a ritual for the first time in her life. She ought to be free to pick the one she wanted.

He flipped to the final rite. The thirty-seventh mandala.

Lenore moved back from the altar. From the corner of his eye he saw her looking avidly around the room, as if expecting weird creatures to swoop down from the cobwebbed corners. Someone trudged across the ceiling, making him wince; then they heard bedsprings creaking, muffled laughter. Tucker and Scarlet. He forced himself to ignore them, to concentrate.

He gathered a little salt on the dagger’s tip and stirred it into the chalice, purifying blade and water alike. Holding the cup, he turned toward Lenore, intending to sprinkle her lightly before purifying the rest of the room.

No sooner had he raised the blade with the water trembling on its tip than Lenore stepped toward him, thrust the knife aside, and knocked the chalice from his hand. It landed without breaking, salt water spilling across the floor; as he knelt to scoop it up again, cursing at Lenore, she lifted the book off the altar and began to read the thirty-seventh rite.

“Lenore, what are you doing? We can’t—”

A movement in the flickering air stuffed the warning back down his throat. Lenore, with her eyes fixed on the page, forehead creased in concentration, didn’t see it. One candle, guttering, spewed smoky webs like a black rope ladder above the altar. As the thin rungs drifted into the room, something crawled out over them, toward Lenore.

She backed away unconsciously, out of its grasp, and knelt to snatch up the dagger. She rose with the athame held out before her, still chanting as if she had memorized the entire incantation.

She commenced carving lines in the air, drawing the thirty-seventh mandala flawlessly, without hesitation, and so quickly—despite its elaborate intertwinings—that he could almost see it hanging there in space above the altar, glowing with a black light, a seeping ultraviolet power that seemed to rush out of the wounded air like luminous blood pouring over her, physically pushing Lenore back so that she staggered and had to take her ground more firmly, planting her feet.

He rose stealthily and stood next to her, looking down at the book. She’s making it up, he told himself, trying to find her place in the text; she’s speaking in tongues, glossolalia.

But then he found her place on the page, toward the bottom of the passage, and saw that her recitation was letter-perfect, impossible as it seemed.

“…nang gjya hehn cheg-cheo…”

He felt his bare skin burning, as if that dark bloodlight had seared him, as if it were still running out of the carved air and pouring over him. He had never felt anything like this in a magic circle—not even when he’d coupled his rituals with psychedelics. This power was all Lenore’s. She had uncorked it tonight.

As she approached the end of the page, he felt grateful that the incantation was about to end. Something about her frightened him. He wanted things back the way they had been: an indifferent Lenore with no interest in magic, not this stranger whose wide blue eyes were fixed far out beyond the tip of his athame, staring at a world to which he was blind.

“…kaolhu,” she said, and that was the end of it, the bottom of the page.

But she kept going.

“…kaolhu kef’n lakthog ranagh…”

And on.

Numb, he turned the page and discovered that the invocation continued for another few lines. These were lines she had not even seen until now.

She recited them without faltering, without a single slip, straight to the end of the passage.

There was a moment’s silence.

That, Michael thought, was the end of it. The webwork of candle soot had dissipated; whatever he’d seen using that frail network for a bridge, it was gone now. Silence hung upon the house, even quieting those upstairs. The music had ended. Lenore’s arm hung at her side, the knife dangling, her eyes shut.

“Lenore,” he whispered, wondering how to end what had not been properly begun.

She didn’t seem to hear him. She stood quite still, a spot of reflected candlelight shimmering over her damp forehead.

“Lenore.” He took her by the shoulders, intending to shake her slightly, but a sudden jabbing in his side made him jump back with a shout.

She’d pricked him with his own blade, warning him away.

He found himself watching her forehead, watching that point of light brighten. He moved between her and the candles, casting his shadow over her face, but the light didn’t dim for an instant. It seemed to writhe, in turmoil, taking on definition; bright lines, thin as capillaries, etched her skin with a glowing light in the shape of a wheel. A mandala.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The symbol had separated from her now. Darkening, it floated in a mist of violet droplets. Blood. Lenore’s forehead was also bloody, stamped with the symbol, while the thing itself now floated in the air between them, growing in size as it blackened in hue. Eyes broke out along its rim, viscous and wet as frog’s eggs, dark alert specks floating in each tiny bulb. A second, smaller ring of eyes blinked out from around the crux of teeth. A lamprey mouth irised open as the black spokes, shiny and hard as the stems of black roses, began to revolve.

Michael reached back, groping on the altar for his wand.

The mandala flailed its tendrils and spun forward, eclipsing the room like a huge anemone or flytrap closing on him. The last thing he saw were the spike tips of its black arms piercing the ceiling, as if striking into the apartment above. Then his panicked groping upset the candles and they went out. Bitter smoke stung his nostrils. In the dark, his hand closed around the dorje handle of his Tibetan bell; with no better weapon, he rang it violently. At the first clang he heard a whirring all around him, felt a vast cyclonic gathering of air. Then Lenore shrieked. The whole house filled with screaming. Upstairs, Tucker and Scarlet were howling too. Something rushed past his ear and slammed into the wall—one of the mandala’s questing arms, he imagined. He dropped down and hugged himself in the dark, wondering why Crowe’s book had given no warnings of danger. Nothing in the Rites had prepared him for this.

After several minutes, with no further sound in the room except for Lenore’s gentle breathing and the nearer thud of his own heartbeat, he got to his knees and found the matches on the altar. It occurred to him that what he had heard upstairs were not screams of pain or terror but of pleasure. Tucker and Scarlet were quiet now; he could hear them gasping for breath, a laughing sort of sound. He almost laughed himself, with relief. Weird timing.

As he righted one candle and touched flame to wick, he discovered the athame gleaming above the altar, its blade buried half to the hilt in the plaster wall.

He turned, shivering, and looked back at Lenore. She lay fallen on the carpet, apparently asleep.

“Lenore?” he whispered. “Lenore, are you all right?”

She didn’t answer. Her breathing was steady, her pulse strong, but he couldn’t shake his fright—especially when he saw the dark bloody bruise above her eyes, in the center of her forehead. He returned to the altar for his wand, not wanting to leave anything undone. Lenore, apparently, was sensitive as a lightning rod put out in a storm, attracting more power than either of them could handle. He was frightened for her. An undisciplined mind might warp from the force of so much energy streaming through it.

“You’ll be okay,” he told her. “Everything will be okay.”

He faced the dark air where the mandala had appeared. It was empty now, as if nothing had happened except in his mind. If not for the bruise on Lenore’s forehead, he could have attributed all of this to madness. Even then… she might have slammed herself in the forehead with the athame’s pommel.

As he wondered how to proceed, a movement on the altar caught his eyes. Something slithered with a sidewinding motion across the open pages of the Mandala Rites, across the very lines she had spoken. The pages seemed to stir, the letters to writhe.

He struck the book violently with his wand, then slammed the covers shut and leaned down hard, as if to trap the incantation.

Fearful of what he might discover, he cast about the room for some lingering sign of the thing he thought he’d seen; but apparently it had gone off on its own. This was fortunate, because he had no idea how to send it away if it didn’t want to go. The Mandala Rites, he realized too late, were completely silent on that point.

PART 2

We are windows on the realm you call Hell which is our hunting ground, and through us the stunting misery-light spills forth into your souls.

—from The Mandala Rites of Elias Mooney

We are windows on Heaven, your heritage, and through us golden rays of enlightenment spill forth to encourage the growth of your souls.

—from The Mandala Rites of Derek Crowe

7

By the time the airport shuttle dropped him in front of his building, Derek felt dizzy with the sort of wired exhaustion that he suspected would keep him awake well past sunrise. Against his better judgment, he had bought a cup of coffee from an airport vending machine, thinking of Lenore when he dropped his quarters in the machine, thinking of her as it pissed a hot thin stream into a paper cup, and thinking of her also as he scalded his lips.

He paid the driver, picked his bags off the sidewalk an instant before they were fingered by a lengthening trail of liquid draining downhill from a dark doorway where someone shifted around in a nest of cardboard and rags. The bars and corner stores were closed up, caged in. A portion of shadow detached itself from beneath the awning of the Prey Svay Cafe across the street, and a tall man dressed in tattered khaki came forward with one hand out, as if to cadge change or a cigarette. A slantwise streak of streetlight lit a face that looked crumpled as paper beneath a greasy watchcap, his forehead raw and blotched with bloody scabs. He was huge but almost fleshless, like an old hulk wasted away to nothing. Derek spun around, looking for help. The shuttle van was gone though he couldn’t remember it going. Even the memory of picking up his bags seemed unreal, as if he’d done it in a dream. When he glanced back to confront the panhandler, the street was empty.

The gate was ajar, wedged open with a rolled up magazine. He kicked it shut and went into a foyer reeking of urine—animal and human—fish sauce, fried pork, brussels sprouts. The sight of the mailboxes reminded him of Michael Renzler, of crackpot letters past and yet to come.

Up in his apartment, he dropped his bags in the hall and went straight to the kitchen cabinet. The red light on the answering machine burned steadily; no messages. He’d been hoping for a call from Lilith at least. She had the keys to his apartment; she could have surprised him, been waiting in bed. But no. He fumbled the cap from a bottle of sweet black rum and let the syrup burn his throat.

He carried the bottle into the bedroom. The lightbulb expired with a pop when he flipped the switch. He turned on the computer screen instead and sat in the amber glow, rubbing his temples. It was all right for a moment, until the new mandala screen-saver began to twitch, an unwelcome reminder of unfinished business. Tomorrow he would deal with the Club Mandala goons. He shut off the screen and lay back on the bed.

Ten minutes later he got up again. Someone was yelling in the street, inarticulate but still frightening, as if the threat were aimed at him, as if he were the only one awake to hear it. He peered through the blinds and saw a man standing in the center of the street shouting up at the sky. Derek moved back out of sight.

Lenore. It was not her name he remembered—it was the girl herself. Her face. The memory of her cold hand. Just as well she was miles away—though it didn’t seem so far, thanks to jet travel. Just as well she was married.

He started wondering about her husband, wondering if he really did have any of Michael Renzler’s letters filed away. And if so, did they mention Lenore?

He found himself leaning into the closet, digging through stacked boxes. The first he dragged out held spare copies of his second book, Your Psychic Allies. The garish cover showed slit eyes in a swirling mist. Once he had naively imagined giving them away in handfuls to all his new friends in San Francisco. But nothing like that had ever happened; he had business associates here, his publisher and his lawyer. Aside from Lilith he had made no friends, nor had he left any behind in L.A. After the book was published, he’d had high expectations of falling in with a close circle of like-minded people, fast friends. Instead, look what he had fallen into. The same old shit, in bigger piles.

Everyone here was so sincere, the others who wrote this sort of book. He suspected there were more than a few like him out there, but naturally they didn’t congregate. They didn’t get together to slap each other on the back and congratulate themselves on having suckered in another generation of fools. If they were smart, they never stepped out of character. The performance paid all too well. He consoled himself with the thought that he was different. One day he would lay it all aside and expose himself—once he was financially secure enough to do without that particular audience. He would write searing exposes of the occult world, its shills and scams. He would tour the country, sell his story to the tabloids, make a new living out of notoriety. It was something to look forward to.

Here was the box of crackpot letters. He hauled it from under the empty limbs of clothing, dragging it into the living room, where he sat on the sofa under better light. He didn’t realize his mistake until he pushed his hand through the box flaps and touched something leathery and soft, something that seemed to want to cling to him like a second skin.

Disgust was a spasm that involved his entire being. He jerked back his hand and kicked the box aside, remembering now how he’d shoved it to the depths of the closet months ago, wishing he’d had the nerve to burn it instead. It had been waiting for him all along, hiding in there, calling him, putting the thought in his head that he ought to go digging through boxes, disguising its motive as some mild impulse of his own.

It had wanted his attention.

“Eli,” he said. Elias Mooney. And then it came to him that the kid had spoken of the old man—had even corresponded with him.

Sometimes he forgot what a small circle he moved in. Claustrophobically small. And now the mandala texts were becoming real to many others, and that circle was widening. They weren’t a private nightmare anymore. He had risked sending them out into the world, bastard children, and now they were homing in from all directions, seeking their father; fungus spores drifting on psychic winds, settling and sprouting overnight through all the dark forests of the mind.

Bile and brass mingled in his mouth, but self-disgust won out over fear. He regretted everything, now that it was pointless to do so. If he’d been honest with himself in the first place, he never would have listened to the old man, never humored him, never have answered that first letter. He’d thought himself cynical back then, but he’d been a naive fool.

The box drew him back, first his mind, then his eyes, and finally his hands. It called him constantly, but tonight it was especially loud. He managed to insert his fingers between the flaps of the box and skirt down along the edges without quite touching what mainly filled it. There he pinched a fat envelope between his first and second fingers, and drew it out, feeling almost nostalgic. It was his only letter from Elias Mooney. He imagined Michael Renzler receiving just such an envelope, covered with Eli’s spidery script. Could he recover his own frame of mind from those days, the skeptical delight with which he had received this unexpected piece of mail? It had fallen into his lap like inspiration, when he was desperate for ideas.

The letter—penned on blue-lined paper torn from a spiral binder—began in a spidery, elegant hand that strayed repeatedly into near illegibility. He remembered how he had known outright it was an old person’s writing, for it was scripted in a style he had seen nowhere but on antique postcards—penmanship taught in the old schools. He felt even now, after all that had happened, as he had felt then: that in entering Eli’s world, even for the space of time it took to scan the letter, he had embarked on a journey to a stranger realm than he had ever suspected could exist alongside his own. It was a neurotic, paranoid, fundamentally unhinged world, but Eli’s power and persuasiveness were such that Derek had been sucked into it more completely than he had cared to admit at the time—until the end of their relationship. And it was here, first reading this letter, that he had found himself on the outermost turn of that spiral, about to be drawn in closer and closer to the old man… into his madness.

Elias Mooney

16043 Blackoak Avenue

San Diablo, California

Mr. Derek Crowe

c/o Phantom Books

New York City

Dear Mr. Crowe:

Please excuse this letter out of the Blue, which may presume too much of your attention. I hope you will find Something in it worth your while. I intend to offer you the Opportunity of your Lifetime!

I have been an avid reader and collector of Occult books for longer than you have been alive. I can assure you I read with an open yet critical Mind, finding much Garbage touted as true Revelation. One must search diligently to find the kernels of Truth hidden in so much Chaff. There are, however, a few Authors whose works I identify with Integrity—such as the late Dion Fortune, with whom I had the good “Fortune” of corresponding for several years prior to her Death. I am happy to have discovered your two excellent volumes, as I can see you are a devoted Seeker of Truth like myself and Madame Fortune; and indeed a worthy Correspondent. (It says on the back of Your Psychic Allies that you live in San Francisco, only a short train ride from San Diablo; so in fact, more than correspondents, we might even strike up a Relationship over the telephone, or possibly in Person!)

I am certain that an Occultist of your stature receives many letters from all over the Globe. Even I myself, who have no Books to my name, receive a great deal of literature (most of it unwanted Trash!) and letters from people who know me by Reputation. Although I am unpublished, I am considered somewhat of an Authority in certain Circles. You may have come across my Name in the course of your Studies.

But in case you have never heard of “Elias Mooney,” let me tell you a little about Myself.

I was born early in this Century, the victim of a congenital Deformity. I have been confined to a Wheelchair for my entire Life. Yet do not Pity me, for despite my confinement, and occasional fits of Epilepsy, my Health has been better than might be expected and I have lived a completely full and active Life, wedding three Wives and having children by two. (I am a Widower currently, choosing not to remarry a fourth time, as I feel my life’s Course nearing its End. My Enemies may say this is long Overdue.)

As you might Imagine, given such restrictions, I have lived largely a Life of the Mind, though not one given over unduly to Phantasy. Very early on, before any Adult could Pollute my Will with discourses on what is and is not Possible, I mastered the art of Astral Projection, with which I am quite sure you are familiar. This Skill—for I believe it is a skill anyone can develop, and not a Talent or Gift as the Old Biddies who write for Fate Magazine would have us believe—enabled me to travel far and wide, not only on this Earth but throughout the Cosmos and even Beyond, into what are quaintly and inaccurately called “Other Dimensions,” so that long before I could speak the Language of my Terrestrial family, I was conversant in the tongues of no fewer than two dozen Alien civilizations presently unknown to Modern Science. Some of these Species are already Extinct, others have yet to Arise; such are the properties of Space-time—stranger than Einstein or Hawking can Conceive—that the Astral Body can travel into Past and Future as easily as it penetrates Distance.

As a Child, I instinctively kept this Knowledge to myself. I was already considered a Freak by many outside my immediate family. But I roamed the country astrally and so grew acquainted with the Lives of my neighbors, gathering Information no one thought I should have. Sometimes even my family Feared me, although this fear was more Painful and Frightening to me than I can possibly convey, and in response I grew more withdrawn than before. At the age when most children are Free to run in the fields and climb Trees, I was closeted in darkened rooms. My only Friend was my Teacher, a very gentle Woman who showed great concern for me and whom I grew to Love tenderly. I often attended her regular schoolhouse classes in the Astral, watching her unobserved, and learned the day’s Lesson before she brought it to me. Once I followed her home to her Husband, and—with very little Comprehension—perceived their most Intimate acts in great detail and with such absorption that I felt my Astral body being sucked into their Passion like a Mote swirling down into a Whirlpool. I shrank to a mere speck of Consciousness, weak as a tiny filing of Iron before a great blind Magnet; thus the disembodied Soul, wandering between Lives, is drawn down to Earth and Rebirth. (I have felt the same Vertiginous suction on the Battlefield, where the Astral body is irresistibly drawn to fresh Blood, to the passion of Death as well as that of Birth.) I loved my Teacher so much, with a Child’s Love, that I almost surrendered my Deformed body to be reborn as her child. Only as Sperm penetrated Egg did I truly realize my great Danger, and like any Animal whose Existence is threatened, fought my way free again, struggling back to my body along a thin silver Thread, to lie Sick in my bed for many days afterward. This was a great Turning-point in my life. I could never again face my Teacher; I used to Scream and Weep when she came near. Soon afterward she gave up teaching and bore a Child, and I did not see her again until I was much older, and her son—who had nearly been Myself—full Grown.

I say it was a turning-point because it taught me the powerful Danger of Truth. It is not an easy thing to Witness that which we cannot understand—and are not ready to Behold. I saw too much. Fortunately, I had already discovered for myself the existence of those Psychic Allies which you describe so well in your book. I called on them to Shield me from things I was not meant to Know until the time was ripe. I understood that I was not like Others; that the Goals and Dreams and Ambitions of the world were less than Useless to me. I had an entirely different Destiny. I thus devoted myself completely to mastery of the Mysteries.

I cannot of course write much of these Here, as you certainly know that letters may be Intercepted. I have good reason to believe that my mail and telephone are monitored by certain geometrically unstable Forces and their human Agents. They cannot physically block my letters for fear of alerting us to their Presence, but they certainly do Scan the contents in search of my supposed Weaknesses. We live in a Dark Configuration, you see, when it is all but impossible for the tiniest flame of Truth to burn in secrecy. That Flame needs Air for fuel, yet some days I hardly dare open a window because of my neighbors and their Suspicions. I think these Days are worse for Us than the Burning Times, for in the Past communities were small and there were many places to work in secret outside the isolated Webwork of Rumor and Betrayal to which the Inquisitors had access; but today the Web extends everywhere, even over the very Computer and telephone lines that are supposed to have Freed us. The tools of Surveillance are so ubiquitous that we are literally Irradiated with aetherial waves of Suspicion and Paranoia, forced to consign our heartfelt messages to channels which by their very Nature Distort and Obscure our intentions with statistical hiss, not to mention the Government’s deliberate manipulation of wave forms. This Perversion is the cause of every modern War, and even most Domestic misunderstandings. You will understand when I say there are Things I can tell you in Person that I would not trust to the postal “service” or telephone company, just as there are Things you cannot print for wide distribution, things I see you skillfully hinting at, and all but defining by their Absence from your Work. Cunningly done! You may rest assured that some few of your Readers can indeed Decode the Cryptograms you bury in your Text; those who can do so are Initiates sworn to put the knowledge to Good use. Others, the Unclean, no matter how hard they search for these Clues, remain constitutionally Blind, forever Ignorant—at least until they admit their Evil and Reverse their Ways, so that etic truth may permeate the shells of their emic reality.

Please forgive me if I wander. I have little occasion these days to Unburden myself to a Sympathetic ear, and I am straying beyond my Original intention in writing this letter.

I have lived an uncommonly full Life in the pursuit of the Mysteries, a life which I think would be an excellent example to others of like inclination. I know the World is full of such Souls, few of them as fortunate as myself in Uncovering their Latent powers, many Abused since childhood, victims of Rape and Incest, in dire need of Healing. They are Alone and frightened, seeking solace in Drugs and books of the so-called Occult, which you and I both Know are largely compendia of Stupidity and even outright Lies, more Harmful than Drugs to the Minds of those poor, vulnerable Souls who encounter them.

I therefore propose a Remedy to some of this world’s Ills. I have long had it in my Mind to compose an Autobiography, detailing all but the inmost Secrets of my Wisdom, and pointing the way to acquiring even these for the Brave souls who wish to follow the Path I have blazed. While it is true that I have not traveled extensively in the physical plane, my Mind has encompassed the Universe, and I have concrete experience of things most people consider purely Illusory. There is more than enough in my life to fill a thick volume—certainly more than I can write. It is very hard for me to hold a Pen. This short Letter has taken me One full Week to write, and has nearly drained my writing abilities. You will notice that the script—once my pride—deteriorates greatly from one page to the next. Yesterday my hand was so Swollen that I could not write at all. I could not be sure if you possessed a Cassette tape player, nor that you would ever Listen to such an Unusual correspondence from one whose name no doubt means Nothing to you.

My intentions were Great when I set out to write this letter. I meant to tell you how I met my first Wife (she Saw my Astral Body quite clearly on a Summer evening and followed it home to where I lay abed!) but I must cut it short now, in the hope that you will contact me at the address above and we may discuss these Matters further, without so much Formality and discomfort.

Yours in the Brotherhood of Truth,

—Elias Mooney

“Eli,” Derek muttered. “You started it all. It’s too late. I can’t take it back. I can’t stop it now.”

Fatigue was finally creeping up from within, insidious enough to alter the world he thought he saw. The room looked softened and blurred at the edges, part of a drifting dreamscape; he couldn’t believe it was dawn already.

Goddamn you, old man, he thought as he threw himself down on the mattress. I wish I’d had a crackpot file back then; your letter would have gone straight into it. It was your fault, writing to me. You should never have let me near you. You should have known what would happen, if you were so psychic.

As he fell into sleep, he dreamed he opened his eyes and saw a mandala following him down. It hung above like a leprous chandelier, a gray wheel covered with a hundred crawling mouths. It was falling faster than he—gaining on him. A hundred mouths opening, tongues lashing out to catch a taste of him.

I know you, Derek thought. You’re in my book.

Small comfort.

8

It was a slow day for Lenore. She had one class at eleven, a course in number theory, and then she worked from one to seven as a waitress at the Cutting Board. Math kept her mind sharp; the job kept her grounded in reality. The rest of her life, the domestic part of it, was vague and confused, its limits ill-defined. She never knew quite what to do to fill the hours. She did not do well with a lot of free time on her hands—time to think, to remember, to dredge up things she would rather forget. Especially now that she had few means of blotting out those memories. She couldn’t drink—couldn’t and wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, anyway. Even when she had pot, she didn’t let herself smoke it before going to school. Maybe some of the discipline she learned there was seeping over into the rest of her life. She’d never had a schedule before, not one she’d chosen for herself. There had been plenty of curfews and house rules in the foster homes and halfway houses. She needed structure in her life, she admitted that now—but those had been poor excuses for it.

Facing herself in the bathroom mirror, she had a moment of queasiness. There was a huge scabby bruise on her forehead, right in the center. It didn’t hurt. She couldn’t remember for the life of her how she might have gotten it; she only knew it must have happened sometime during the night. Had she fallen out of bed, gotten a slight concussion? She must have hit something on the way down to make such a mess. No wonder Michael had kept staring at her all morning before he left for work. Why hadn’t he said anything?

She leaned close for a good look, but it was just a moist scab. Capillaries had burst in her skin, forming delicate red filigrees under the oozing crust, like the tendrily bodies of bloodworms, wriggling.

Get a grip, she told herself. It’s just a scab. It’s not moving.

She was dizzy, though, and a little nauseated as she stepped into the shower.

She found a black wool cap and pulled it low on her brow; anyway, she needed it in the unheated classroom high in the old math building. It wasn’t a crowded class, not at all like the crammed survey course she had taken her first term, before she found she could pass a few aptitude tests and skip entire courses. The other students were mostly younger than she, or seemed that way—if they were older, they’d hardly lived her kind of life, and might as well have been children. Geeks and nerds and quiet, plain girls. She felt like a barbarian among them, except when she was working, and then her mind seemed to whisper along in cool efficiency, and she knew she was as good as any. She knew she intrigued them, but she kept aloof.

The textbook they were using was off-the-wall, she thought; the young, acne-scarred professor had written it himself. He was taking them now through a discussion of the prime numbers represented as visual images, as groups of points. He chalked one dot on the chalkboard, then two, then three, then five, seven, eleven. The dots fell into irregular patterns. Each cluster elicited a running commentary; each had its own quirks and characteristics, its distinct personality. The professor’s voice was monotonous, but it didn’t lull her. The pictures fascinated Lenore. Thirteen: the professor couldn’t resist a short talk on the historical significance of the set, touching on the obvious associations of bad luck, thirteen loops in a hangman’s noose, Judas as the thirteenth disciple, and so on. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.

Thirty-seven.

The professor kept on, drawing his figures, making his dry remarks at which most of the class chuckled knowingly, their furtive secret little math jokes. But Lenore’s mind hung back at thirty-seven.

37.

Suddenly a circular pattern hung in her eyes like the afterimage of a camera flash, an ornate sun-fleck. It was something she’d seen in that Derek Crowe book—one of the mandalas. She hadn’t really paid much attention to how the things looked, not consciously anyway, but apparently it had seeped into her unconscious mind. She was already bent over her notebook, scribbling notes with one ear cocked to the professor’s voice, but now she flipped to a fresh page. She saw the mandala hanging there as if projected from a slide. Fascinated, she set her pencil at the very center of the wheel and began to trace the lines, wondering at the optical illusion, marveling that her memory could be so sharp.

You see how clear your mind can be when you’re not fucking it up with drugs? she told herself.

She traced quickly, deliberately; if she blinked, she wasn’t aware of it, but she didn’t think she blinked at all. She couldn’t wait to get home and compare it to the book, find this particular mandala and see how accurate she was. The pencil spun and twirled; she rolled it in her fingers to keep the tip sharpened. The professor was wrong. Thirty-seven wasn’t an ill-formed cluster of dots. It looked like this—like thirty-seven little eyes around a serrated center.

It was then she remembered the feel of the knife in her hand, Michael’s knife, carving liquid light in the wounded air.

Her breath drained out of her and hung in space where she couldn’t reach it. She was suffocating. Sparks tingled in her eyes, and she remembered something coming toward her, wheeling about, a whirling vastness placing her at its center.

Lenore dropped the pencil. Several students glanced over, kept gazing when they saw she made no move to retrieve the pencil, but only sat there trembling slightly. Finally a boy in the next aisle reached down, picked up the pencil, and set it back on her desk. He did it with a slight smile, and turned away blushing after a few seconds when she offered no thanks.

Her hand went to her forehead, fingering the scab.

The mandala, incomplete, seemed to burn on the page as if angry, insistent that she finish it. Instead she shoved her pencil into her purse, slapped the notebook shut, and slid out of the seat. The professor gave her an irritated look. She fled the room, thudding down the square spiral stairs of the central tower in her heavy boots, then out into the sun where it was almost warm. Pines cast cold shade on the parking lot.

As she drove home, her nervousness increased. She kept glancing at her forehead in the rearview mirror, picking at the scab. The skin was bright, raw pink beneath it; she tried to stick the scab back in place. Another blackout, she thought. But she hadn’t done any drugs yesterday. It had been, all in all, a dull day, unremarkable except for Derek Crowe’s lecture—and why that had stimulated her, she still didn’t understand. For a few hours she’d thought she finally understood what Michael saw in all this occult stuff—a way of seeing into the darkness that always surrounded her. She had thought maybe there was some way to get back to the source of her troubles, and undo the harm. As if she could ever escape her depressions, her addiction not to any particular drug, but to oblivion.

She felt like a fool today.

And she had done something foolish last night.

That would teach her to let her guard down. She always had to learn these things the hard way.

The Cutlass was banging and groaning by the time she pulled up in front of the house. It was the only car she’d ever heard of that could overheat in freezing weather. She stumped up the driveway, hearing Tucker’s music. The stereo played perpetually. She checked her watch—she had plenty of time to get to work, but she was already thinking she might call in sick. She felt sick.

She stood in the kitchen, anxious for a little hit of something, anything. She brought down a plastic film canister she kept in a high cupboard, plucked off the lid, found it empty of even the green dust of last summer’s homegrown.

Blackouts when she was drinking, those she could understand. Blackouts for no reason, with no explanation, were another matter. They suggested some sort of chemical or physical problem—brain damage… maybe a tumor. Some long-term effect of the designer drugs she’d tried in New York City—dirty, untested stuff.

She could smell incense from Michael’s temple. She almost gagged at the odor, which brought traces of memory. Again she remembered carving the mandala sign in the air. And something else—an impression of something enormous sharing the room with them.

She went down the hall, pushed open the door to the library, and stopped. She felt suddenly dizzy, almost stoned. Optical illusions flickered in the dark room, coiling and uncoiling like tendrils of ghostly ferns. She shut her eyes. Was this some kind of flashback? Had Michael slipped her something last night—some sort of ritual drug, like peyote?

Even before finishing the thought, she dismissed it. No way. Michael wouldn’t feed her habits. He’d quit actively urging her to give up every pleasure she had, every so-called vice, but he was still a fucking Puritan in black leather. You’d think he was a born-again Christian or something, the way he went after her for doing even the mildest drugs. And him with his magic and witchcraft. Some people thought they were worse than drugs!

He had everything so easy, seeing life in religious terms, in black and white. He was as bad as the Baptists, going door to door converting people. He had no idea how mixed up the world could get, how everything bled over into everything else, forming one enormous gray zone that couldn’t be cleared up with candles or crosses or ritual knives. There was no symmetry in life, nothing so easy as good and evil. Sure, Michael knew all kinds of things—intellectual things, bullshit out of books. But logic and common sense were not his strongest subjects. He was off in another dimension somewhere, going on and on about the astral. But for all his occult knowledge, his philosophical talk about how the essence of life was suffering, he didn’t know shit about pain. He’d never been through anything like what she’d gone through. He’d never suffered the kind of abuse that had been her lot. Mrs. Renzler was a drunken cow, but not violent. He hadn’t been taken away from parents he couldn’t remember and sent to a string of foster homes, bounced from one guardian to another. She didn’t believe his life had ever been that bad. They argued about it sometimes, trying to top each other’s store of suffering. Michael’s mother had gone through three husbands, hauling him all over the place when he was growing up—from Miami, to Buffalo, to Baltimore, to Athens, to D.C. She worked sporadically in jails and prisons, and tended to fall for inmates, though not the violent type. Con artists, small-time crooks, they’d left Michael more or less alone. So his mother married criminals; everybody had their problems. Lenore wished her own childhood could have been half as placid.

“Just because I never got beat up or lost my babies doesn’t mean I haven’t been hurt,” he’d say. “Shit’s happened to me that’s just as hard for a guy to go through, things a woman can’t understand.”

Maybe. Just maybe. But she doubted it.

The ironic thing was that Cinderton people thought Michael was the wild one. To them, he looked dangerous, the sort of kid who’d had a hard life, just because he wore toned-down versions of city styles and lived in a house with a quasi-biker upstairs. Around here, it didn’t take much to stand out from the norm. It was worse when they got out of town and into the sticks. Cinderton tolerated a minimal amount of weird behavior because of the campus; freakish college kids bankrolled the town. Past the town limits, all bets were off.

She took a step into the room, as if it might help her remember what had happened last night.

She walked up to the altar and saw Michael’s knife gleaming down in her shadow. Peering more closely, she saw that the tip was broken off, snapped right across. How had that happened? Michael was usually so careful with his things.

She flipped open the beat-up edition of The Mandala Rites lying next to the knife, upsetting the wooden wand that lay across it. The stick clattered softly on the floor, but before she could bend to pick it up, she saw the black mandala trembling on the page.

She bolted down the hall with a hand over her mouth, making it to the bathroom sink just as she vomited.

She hung there for a minute after it was over, running water from the tap, cupping it to her mouth. She sipped and spat, then splashed her face and reached for a handtowel.

As she patted herself dry, she glanced in the mirror. In shock, she put the towel down and leaned closer to the glass.

The scab was hanging from a thread of skin. She twitched it off and dropped it down the drain. The skin beneath was bright as a candy heart, except for the traceries of exploded veins, like the remnants of a hickey. She patted the spot with a damp washcloth. The capillaries looked weird, still oozing. Her eyes hurt from being nearly crossed, but she thrust her face still closer and stared without quite believing what she saw.

Sharp lines like spokes in a wheel, small speckled dots like… like eyes. It was a mandala. The same she’d been drawing that morning—or damn similar. The thirty-seventh mandala, in amazing detail. It looked more like a high-contrast photograph than a tattoo. The harder she stared, the more she saw. She could make out the texture of the spokes, the glistening of teeth in the central mouth, all the moist eyes that seemed to be watching her.

Teeth, mouth, eyes?

Why was she so sure of what she saw?

She stared so hard that the image seemed to change. In the old, stained, badly silvered mirror, it began to warp and waver. The thing’s thin arms rippled and the teeth parted slightly, revealing a midpoint of darkness that held her gaze and deepened, twisting, sucking her in like the water that swirled forgotten down the drain.

9

In addition to Mystery, Science Fiction, Westerns, and Puzzles, Michael was in charge of the Religion and Metaphysics sections at Beagle Books in downtown Cinderton. Several times a week, Michael took his inventory list down the aisles, assessing the history and current state of human spirituality based on titles in print and copies in stock, from Charles Fort to Paul Tillich, from St. Augustine and the Dalai Lama to L. Ron Hubbard and Erich von Daniken. The more outlandish writings had their own long shelf facing Fiction. This stretch was crammed with books on lucid dreaming and dream interpretation, on flying saucers and the Bermuda triangle, on astral projection, clairvoyance, crystal power, healing and visualization. There were tomes on witchcraft by Cotton Mather, Sybil Leek, and Starhawk; a complete set of Max Freedom Long’s kahuna treatises and Franz Bardon’s hallucinatory hermetic confections. No matter how many times he riffled through the section—and taking inventory gave him a good excuse for browsing through more books than he could ever hope to own—he always found something to send him into frenzies of speculation. The Big Five orthodox, received-wisdom cults (Islam, Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism) had an entire wall to themselves toward the back of the store, around the corner from Metaphysics, and separated from their harebrained cousins by the smallish Science Fiction section. He went more methodically and sedately through Religion, a mere cataloger of defenders and heretics. Dogma did not interest him. Sometimes he cracked open a copy of Ignatius of Loyola, to see how the visualizations worked, if there were any techniques he could borrow; or skimmed Thomas Merton trying to figure out why Chogyam Trungpa had pushed him into a swimming pool; and he had long since moved Blake and Swedenborg into Metaphysics, feeling they would be more comfortable among others like themselves.

He was proud of his Metaphysics section, though it had glaring holes that never failed to frustrate him, representing volumes he considered crucial to any comprehensive occult library, but that were either out of print or unavailable through the distributors he was authorized to use. The Black Pullet, for instance. You could find it only in a cheap pamphlet that looked more like a compendium of love spells and hexes, which was admittedly as far as most people’s interest in occultism went. And just try finding a copy of A True & Faithful Relation of What Passed for Many Yeers Between Dr. John Dee (A Mathematician of Great Fame in Q. ELIZ. and King JAMES their Reignes) and Some Spirits: Tending (had it Succeeded) To a General Alteration of most STATES and KING DOMES in the World!

He had ordered another six copies of The Mandala Rites, figuring there would be a run on them after Crowe’s lecture, and this morning he’d moved them to the front counter. It would have been a coup to get Crowe in here to autograph them, but obviously the occultist hadn’t wished to linger in Cinderton for business or pleasure. Two copies had sold by noon, when Michael finished his inventory and took the register. Out of the corner of his eye, as he rang up a stack of magazines, he noticed a large woman standing at the mandala display. When he turned to look at her directly, he saw it was Cerridwen Dunsinane.

“Hey, Cerridwen,” he said. “They’re going good today, after last night. That was a great lecture, wasn’t it?”

The look she gave him was surprising, to say the least. Poisonous. Enraged. She snatched up a copy of The Mandala Rites. “I’d like to tear this thing in little pieces and feed them to my python,” she said. “I’m almost tempted to buy a copy just for the pleasure of mutilating it, except I wouldn’t want six percent sneaking back in that asshole’s pocket. I wouldn’t want to make my snake sick either.”

“Whose pocket?”

She slapped the book face down on the counter. “Derek Crowe’s.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“The guy’s a fraud. A slimeball. I’ve never met a bigger one, and to think I helped him on his greasy way….”

Michael shook his head. “A fraud?” He flashed on Lenore, last night, the power she had summoned with Crowe’s book. That was real magic, more intense than anything he had ever experienced, undeniable and, in retrospect, rather frightening.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I have reason to think he’s got something there.”

“Oh, he’s got something going, all right. It’s just not what everyone thinks. He threatened to sue the Sisterhood.”

Another customer came up with a couple paperbacks; he rang them up absently. “Sue you? Over what?”

“Over a few bucks that were supposed to go to charity.”

“That doesn’t sound too enlightened.”

“Enlightened? The man is pitch black. If I were you, I’d purify these books with a little salt and water, a whiff of frankincense, and plenty of fire. I can’t believe anything worthwhile could come from that evil bastard.”

Michael decided not to mention that he’d given Crowe a ride.

Her fun- vented, Cerridwen produced three copies of another book and laid them on the counter. “I couldn’t help noticing these got moved into the remainder bin,” she said, more subdued now.

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that. It wasn’t my decision.”

They were copies of her own book, Weaving With Moonlight, all rather dusty and bearing that sad little gold “Autographed!” sticker, that always reminded him of the stars given to reward second-grade overachievers. Michael had convinced his boss to buy the books direct from Cerridwen, since it was a small press edition with a tiny print run. A few copies had sold to Cerrid-wen’s friends in the first weeks after the book came out, and then no more. He hadn’t read it himself. Cerridwen was a figurehead of local neo-paganism and a frequent patron of certain downtown shops—Wymmyn’s Mysteries and Smoky Mountain Magick. In wanner weather she did Tarot readings for friends (or five dollars) at the sidewalk tables outside the Cutting Board, using the big round cards of the Motherpeace deck, or sometimes the Voyager Tarot. (Michael himself used nothing but the Thoth deck, despite its obvious deficiencies.)

He felt sorry for her, and so after checking to make sure he was unobserved, he ran the books through the demagnetizer and slipped them into a bag without ringing them up. don’t you just take them?” he whispered. “No charge.”

She looked surprised. “Really?”

“They’re yours anyway. Sorry they didn’t do better.”

“Well… now I know what sells. Crap.”

At that moment, a tall teenage boy wearing a silver pentacle and a ragged parka came sidling up next to them and slapped a copy of The Mandala Rites on the counter.

“Hey, did you hear this guy last night? Intense! Oh, yeah, I remember you! You gave him a ride in your cool Beetle!”

Michael flinched a bit and grinned sheepishly at Cerridwen. Her friendly look gone, she hugged her sack to her breast and headed for the door. Michael rang up the sale.

After work, Michael was supposed to shop for his mother. Her car was dead. She had called in the morning to give him a grocery list, wasting his coffee break while she tried to decide what she needed. Eleven a.m. and she was already drunk; he dreaded seeing how bad she would be by the time he arrived with groceries. He decided to swing by and see Lenore at work.

The steep hill streets of downtown Cinderton were lined with crumbling brick buildings, most of them abandoned or sparsely occupied, except for a few square blocks rejuvenated by clothing boutiques, art galleries, and New Age shops selling crystals and herbs. Lenore couldn’t stand these places, but Michael found them a welcome oasis among the backwoods people. He kept his car parked where it was, tucked the latest “Frauds & Fakirs” issue of Gnosis under his arm, then went down one hill and up another to the Cutting Board.

There was no sign of Lenore at the bakery counter. He poked his head into the dining room, which was quietly crowded with students, aging hippies, recent Yankee refugees drinking coffee, reading, or writing in notebooks. She wasn’t at the register. Before he got to the kitchen, a man with a graying beard and ponytail came out through the swinging doors.

“Hey, Mike.” It was Cal, Lenore’s boss. “Where’s your old lady?”

Michael stopped. “She’s not here?”

“No. She didn’t call in sick. I tried your number but the phone kept ringing.”

“That’s weird,” Michael said.

“Tell her not to do this to me, all right? I already have a girl out. If she warns me, I can make arrangements. Otherwise—”

Michael started to say she wasn’t sick, but realized he didn’t know if this was strictly true. He hadn’t talked to her yet. After last night, maybe she was feeling out of sorts.

“I’ll check the roads and see if her car broke down somewhere,” he said. “We’ve been having trouble with it.”

Cal gave him an exasperated look. “I don’t suppose you want a job?”

Cal let him use the phone to make another attempt at reaching Lenore; but if she was home, she wasn’t answering. He supposed she could have stayed late at school, to work in the library. Lenore had her own reasons for doing things; she wouldn’t appreciate him getting mixed up with her boss. For all he knew, she was mad at Cal and making him pay for it. She couldn’t afford to lose the job, but she wouldn’t stand for Michael lecturing her about responsibility. He reorganized his priorities in order of increasing unpleasantness, and decided to get his mother’s groceries before dealing with Lenore.

The TV was blaring in the kitchen when he walked in the back door of his mother’s house, a bag of groceries in either arm. She was standing at the sink, pouring vodka into a glass of grapefruit juice. Another TV was going in the living room; he could see Earl’s feet up on the La-Z-Boy.

“Where were you last night?” she asked.

He dropped the bags on the table. She immediately started rummaging through to see if he’d forgotten anything.

“We went out,” he said.

“What am I supposed to do in an emergency? You go out and you don’t even tell me where you’re going? How was I supposed to get in touch with you? Call that neighbor of yours, ask him to give me a hand?”

He started putting cans in the cupboard. “We went out, that’s all. I’m supposed to tell you every time we leave the house? What’s wrong with Earl, anyway? Why can’t he help you?”

“You leave Earl alone. His car got repossessed. He’s feeling low.”

High-pitched laughter from the living room didn’t necessarily contradict her. Michael heard the theme music from some game show. Earl was a moody sort of guy, and never said exactly what he’d been doing in the state prison outside of Cinderton, where his mother had met him. She had been “laid off,” as she called it, shortly after his release, and Earl had been a fixture ever since. At least they weren’t married yet. She’d taken that much control of her life.

“I’m sure one of your neighbors would help you out.”

“My neighbors? Are you crazy? They won’t give me the time of day. I’m lucky I don’t have crosses burning on my front lawn.”

“I thought you liked it here.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it. It’s what I can afford. I can’t live just anywhere I want, can I? You tell me how, on what I collect.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Earl says it’s the battery. He was a mechanic, you know.”

“And it took him a week to figure out you need a battery?”

“He doesn’t have his tools, Mike. You leave him alone, I said.”

Michael threw the few vegetables into the refrigerator. “Well, if it’s the battery, I’ll just get you a new one.”

“Would you? That’d be so sweet.” She grabbed the carton of Neapolitan ice milk out of his hands before he could open the freezer. He started to put the six-packs in the fridge, but she said, “Leave one of those out.”

Michael glanced at the clock over the stove. “I’ve got to get home. My night to fix dinner.”

“What about my battery?”

“Sears is open late. I’ll bring it by in the morning, before I go to work.”

“Can’t you do it tonight, Mikey? I just feel marooned out here.”

“You shouldn’t be driving anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Chubby-cakes?” Earl leaned forward in the big chair, peering down the hall into the kitchen. He always dressed like a seedy banker just home from work: white collar open, tie pulled loose. If any social workers or parole officers dropped by, he was prepared to claim he was just on his way to or from a job interview. “Oh, Mikey, how you doing? Did I just hear a pop-top?”

“It’s coming,” said his mother.

“You staying for dinner, son? We don’t see enough of you. Where’s your cute little missus?”

“I’ve got to go,” Michael said under his voice, heading for the door.

“Michael, don’t you be—”

He walked out the back door while she was talking.

Passing the college on the way home, he relaxed a bit. Sometimes, down here, among the old brick buildings covered with frost-bitten ivy, you saw a kid in black leather sporting dyed hair or a mohawk. Not many, but just enough to reassure him that he and Lenore weren’t the only ones in Cinderton who’d survived the previous decade. He cruised down streets lined with ancient thick-trunked trees, bare and lifeless as columns of scaly cement. He was on the lookout for Lenore’s car as he passed the student parking lots. Raindrops spattered the windshield, fattened on groping branches. The sky was patchy, marbled blue and gray. Storms coming; seems they’d been on the way for days, but never quite arrived. He slowed to watch a girl coming down the steps from the student union, long black hair falling over her face, bright lipstick. She glanced up as if sensing his eyes, he stepped on the gas, thinking guiltily of Lenore.

She’d been so weird last night. Nobody could turn weird on you like Lenore. Just when he started thinking he finally understood her, she always came up with something unexpected. They had met four years ago—that was a long time. He’d never done anything for four years in a row—not even lived in the same town. He supposed she was close as he would ever get to finding his ideal type. The sorority girls in fuzzy sweaters, lipstick models with books under their arms—imagine what they’d think of his altar. One glance and they’d probably run screaming, even though it was perfectly innocuous. It wasn’t like he did black magic. He didn’t give evil any credence anyway. That was Christian bullshit, something the priests used to keep people in line, setting down laws to keep folks from thinking for themselves. Michael believed the universe was fundamentally neutral, that you got out of it exactly what you put in. His magical practice stemmed from a heartfelt yearning that couldn’t be satisfied by Christianity or Buddhism or Judaism, with their cores of written dogma and hierarchies of monks and popes and rabbis. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he had reached his own understanding of the cosmos and felt it in every nerve.

He wasn’t sure why Lenore’s behavior last night had frightened him. It seemed miraculous now, to think of her incanting something she’d never read. There was nothing in the mandates themselves, or in her behavior, that implied a threat in a neutral universe.

Nevertheless…

When he remembered the knife quivering in the wall, buried so deep that he’d broken the tip prying it out, he couldn’t help feeling a little fear.

He might have known that if Lenore got into magic, she wouldn’t do it halfway. She didn’t do anything unless she did it to the hilt. Literally. It would take some getting used to, though. And he’d have to work on his unexpected jealousy. It struck him as unfair that her first spontaneous effort was so much more powerful than his most practiced ritual. He had the interest and understanding, the discipline… but Lenore had the knack!

Her car was parked in front of the house. Maybe she was sick after all. Last night, after the ritual, he’d helped her off the floor and she’d gone straight to bed without saying a word, acting as if she were drugged.

Drugged…. That would explain her mood last night. In fact, that would explain a lot. What if she’d bought or begged something off Tucker, then dosed herself to enliven a boring lecture?

Lenore was supposed to tell him when she planned to do anything more intense than smoking a jay. He couldn’t forbid her from doing drugs, but he could at least prepare himself for what might follow. Last Thanksgiving, they had gone for turkey dinner at his mother’s house. In the middle of the meal, Lenore had started hyperventilating, dropped from her chair, and lay facedown on the floor. His mother was shitfaced and although she yelled about it at the time, kicking Lenore and trying to pry her off the carpet, she hadn’t remembered anything about it later. Michael went into such a panic that he almost called the hospital until Lenore began babbling nonsense and he realized she was hallucinating. He and Earl had carried her to the car, Earl making some sly comment about how she had to grow up and learn a little self-control while Mrs. Renzler raged around on the porch waving the gravy ladle. When Lenore finally came down, she confessed to eating a dozen psilocybin mushrooms, dreading the evening with Michael’s mother. He had made her promise that in the future she would always give him plenty of advance notice before doing anything of the sort.

But she would never admit to violating their deal. He heard water running in the bathroom. The door was ajar, and Lenore was standing there, both hands on the sink, staring at her face in the mirror.

“Lenore?” he said.

She snapped around to look at him, blinking. “Huh? What are you doing home?”

“Me? I’m off work. What about you?”

She looked down and shut off the water. “I—I came home for lunch. I guess I better hurry if I want to get to work.”

“Lenore…” He stood there for a moment, not sure what she meant. “It’s almost five o’clock.”

She gave him a look that said he was an idiot. “Yeah, right.” She pushed past him, down the hall, into their bedroom. She came out pulling a comb through her hair, slipping into a new sweater. The blood-smudge on her forehead was dark and freshly scabbed. “It’s your night for dinner, remember.”

“Lenore, are you crazy?”

“Fuck you, Michael, I don’t have time for this. I’m already late. What time is it, really?” She slipped the comb in her pocket and opened the front door. She stopped dead as it swung open. It was almost dark. She looked at her wristwatch.

“What’s going on?” she said, turning to look at him. “Michael, what—what’s happening?”

“I told you, Lenore, it’s five o’clock. You missed work. I talked to Cal, he’s been calling all day, and I called too. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been… here.” She looked around as if lost. “I cut out of class and… and came right home… and then… and then…” She put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my God, Michael, I can’t remember. I just—I just lost the whole day.”

“What do you mean?” He went and closed the door, then gripped her arms. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening. This isn’t…”

“Isn’t what?”

“The first time.”

“Lenore,” he said, as steadily as he could, “I’m not accusing you or anything. I just want to know, okay? Have you been doing any drugs? Anything at all?”

“No, nothing.” She crumpled against him. “Michael, I’m scared. I haven’t done anything, but I keep… keep blacking out.”

Jesus, he thought. She hasn’t done anything except… except that ritual.

In Voudoun magic, there was a place called the white darkness. The gods, or loa, came down and rode humans like horses, occupying their bodies, while their minds roamed through a realm without characteristics, a dream without features, a place none could quite remember when they returned. What if something of the sort had happened to Lenore? A mandala invoked and never properly dismissed, free to enter her when it chose?

It was a privilege to be selected by the loa, transfigured ancestral spirits of scary, lively intelligence. Papa Legba, Ersulie Freida, and Baron Samedi could drive their human “horses” to drink inhuman amounts of rum, consume massive quantities of chili peppers, even eat razor blades and broken glass without harm.

But the mandalas were, without exception, benevolent beings, devoted to human spiritual evolution. There was nothing about them of dark aspect, nothing remotely frightening.

Yet Lenore, now, frightened him. And whatever it was that had come into the temple last night had not impressed him as a bright and loving spirit.

He couldn’t be sure, of course. The mandalas were new entities. Derek Crowe was the only authority on their nature and behavior. There was really no one else he could turn to for advice, if it came to that.

He hoped it wouldn’t.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re probably just coming down with a bug.” There was no point in explaining his loa theory; he didn’t want to put any ideas in her head. He just wanted to observe. “Why don’t you get in bed and let me take your temperature?”

“Okay.” With lowered head, looking suddenly very small and frail she shuffled down the hall toward the bedroom; he kept his arm around her, helped her out of her clothes, got her into bed and covered. He went for the thermometer and slipped it under her tongue.

“Thank you, Michael,” she mumbled, looking pale and vulnerable among the pillows. He felt a pang of concern, as if for a child.

He left her there for a few minutes and went into his temple, taking up The Mandala Rites and skimming Crowe’s lengthy exegesis, looking for clues to their current situation. The text yielded nothing new.

It’s me, he thought.

I fucked up in a big way. Again. Didn’t handle things right. How can Crowe help me when I didn’t even follow his instructions? I’m not sure what we did last night, it got so out of hand.

I should have insisted on doing everything my way, methodically, and not let Lenore participate if she wouldn’t cooperate.

Now I’ve messed up my partner.

Maybe. Maybe.

Okay, yeah. Could be she’s really only sick.

Yeah. Don’t panic. What would Elias say? Look for rational explanations first. Science is an important power in this world, and for good reason: It works.

Let’s try science and see how far it gets us.

He returned to Lenore. Her eyes were half closed; she looked calmer now. She gave him a sleepy smile as he plucked the thermometer out of her mouth.

“How’s it look?”

He turned the glass wand until he saw the thin line of mercury. It was numbered on the Celsius scale, rather than Fahrenheit, which always confused him a bit; but there was a red arrow pointing out the normal human temperature, and she was right on it.

“You’re fine,” he said. “Thirty-seven. That’s normal.”

10

Derek Crowe stood at the chalkboard, dressed in a white shirt and baggy trousers, a pen sticking out of his shirt pocket, a piece of chalk in one hand. Lenore was alone with him in the drafty classroom, her notebook opened to a blank page. He had drawn a ring of dots on the board, thirty-seven points arranged in a mandala, like thirty-seven eyes watching her. And now, one by one, counting aloud as he did so, he began to erase them.

“Thirty-seven… thirty-six… thirty-five…”

The classroom grew dark, and Lenore found herself on the square spiral stairs of the math building, trudging down them in reverse, moving backward down the stairs. Crowe’s voice lowered her into darkness.

“Twenty-seven… twenty-six… twenty-five…”

Lenore’s flesh melted from her, underlying lines of power shedding their outermost excrescences, leaving her floating like a skeleton of bare lines in a diamond realm, steeped in orange haze. This fire-lit mist coagulated into lumps of multicolored moving matter, an astral precipitate jumbled and chaotic around her. She glimpsed the bits and pieces of her past, scenes and faces swirling in a colloidal storm. Old agonies rose up to torment her. Scenes from her life fought for primacy, without purpose, but for once they could not draw her in.

“Thirteen… twelve… eleven…”

She had come under the sway of a new influence, an organizing principle, something more powerful than the clamors of her ego. As if magnetized, the fragments of her consciousness began to align themselves along inward lines of power, leading her deep into the center of something she could not apprehend.

“Three… two… one…”

She had reached the beginning of her life—but the center was farther in.

Leaving physical memories behind, she plunged cometlike into a void as impenetrable as unconsciousness. There was something there, some lost part of her, crying to be rescued. She reached for it, hauled it out blindly… but whatever it was, she could not see it. She had not gone far enough yet.

“Zero.”

She felt that if she could only reach the center, she could start back out again and she would be changed. She would be whole. Her true nature waited patiently to be born. Strong and pure, intensely bright and fearless, it had existed before her body, before anything.

But now it had a body.

“Now wake….”

She found herself standing outside the door of Michael’s temple. The house was all new. The walls, floor and ceiling were pure black. Pure, essential. The world she had inhabited all her life seemed shallow and incomplete, a failure of imagination. This other, dominant world reminded her that oblivion was her true nature. Consider the universe in all the endless ages before her arrival and after her departure. She was like a little cyst of nothingness ensconced in the middle of that span. Worthless, unless something greater found a use for her.

And now something had.

Down it came, spinning slowly and deliberately, like a vast black sentient ceiling fan, giving off an odor she could almost taste. It gleamed with dark wet liquid, as if recently anointed. Tendrils like drops of thickening blood were oozing, dripping onto her.

She had no fear of blood. Blood had served as carrier for a thousand pleasures. How many times had she watched her own blood backing up a syringe and stared at the ruby liquid, in awe of its beauty and utility?

Nor did she fear needles, for similar reasons, although she had never witnessed anything like the sheer number that now revealed themselves as the palpy tendrils retracted to show their probing tips. Some ancient portion of her brain, something deeply rooted in all the errors and apprehensions of matter, sent a momentary spasm through her muscles, a surge of animal panic—as if there were anywhere to run from the black wheel.

But the flutter of her nerves was too slow; while ions were bridging neural gaps with torturous lethargy, this other thing had already anticipated them and filled those spaces with its own immensities. Then the million or more thin, flexible spikes pierced her soul, delivering her from every care she had ever known.

All weakness in her began to dissolve, old cells giving way before a creative, corrosive tide. As quickly as her vulnerable portions were destroyed, the whirling black wheel replaced them with others of its own manufacture, rebuilding her cell by cell. Healing her, but also changing her.

In tonight’s exchange, she had nothing to give and everything to gain. Her mind unfolded in an unending process of expansion centered on one point that hung in space above, quietly gnashing.

Waves of pleasure, immobilizing warmth washed through her, but she needn’t worry about moving. There was nothing to accomplish. She need only devote her mind to the intricate inward track. For the true center lay yet a long way from where she stood.

She gazed up at her guardian, wanting whatever it wanted for her.

I’m nothing without you. Heal me, make me whole. I give myself to you.

I surrender.

The mandala had been holding back until she was entirely receptive. Now it moved closer. Pain streamed into her unavoidably, though her guardian increased the flow of pleasure at the same time. She was used to the contradictory mixture. Her whole life had been nothing but pain and the things she took to ease it. At least tonight her pain had a purpose.

A faint gray light came burning through the orange haze. It didn’t trouble her as so many dawns had done, announcing the end of a night’s escape, the inevitable return to a day’s hassles. Her new sense of insight would never wear off and leave her stranded in a gray world. This time dawn hardly registered.

Every wall pointed in her direction. The floorboards rushed to join at her feet. The kitchen tiles sorted themselves with Lenore as their centerpoint, their one aim. When she moved, the center moved with her, and the mandala drifted along like a cluster of black balloons with streamers flowing to her limbs. She climbed into bed and lay very still as she contemplated the great distances yet to be covered.

Minutes passed like hours; she savored the time alone with her guardian, free of distraction.

When she heard Michael’s eyes open, she turned to greet him, smiling, and squeezed his hand.

“Hey,” he said, “good morning. How are you?”

“Great,” she said.

The word was well chosen to fill him with relief, to keep him calm until it was time to goad him on. He squeezed her hand in return, but Lenore was somewhere far away. Something else smiled for her, and kissed his cheek.

PART 3

You are our natural prey, our predestined slaves, and we joyously swear forever to whip you to our bidding until you fall and fail us, when we shall devour you as is our right.

—from The Mandala Rites of Elias Mooney

We are your natural guides, your spirit tutors, and have vowed eternally to spur you on to great accomplishments until the time is ripe for you to transcend the mortal plane and rise with our assistance to your cosmic destiny.

—from The Mandala Rites of Derek Crowe

11

The offices of Veritas Books, a division of Runyon-Cargill International, were located in a refurbished brick warehouse south of Market Street. The window beyond Bob Maltzman’s desk looked out on a small park with a swing set and a toddler’s gym constructed from creosote-soaked posts that looked like recycled telephone poles. There were no children in evidence. The sandpit resembled a cat box that had never been changed. A ragged man hung in one of the swings, not even bothering to look furtive as he put what Derek surmised was a crack pipe to his lips. Several others sat at tables in the park, or guarded their shopping carts from benches where they sat wrapped in rags, some isolated and rocking back and forth talking to themselves, others in actual conversation.

The door opened behind Derek and Bob Maltzman came in with two cups of coffee. “Too cold for the hookers today, I guess,” Bob said, setting a cup down on Derek’s side of the desk, taking his around to the other side.

“The view’s enchanting all the same,” Derek said.

“So…” Bob settled himself in his chair. There were stacks of manuscripts, proof sheets, everything in neat piles. Bob himself was short, rather plump, well groomed; he was dressed for a financial district office, white shirt and black tie, as if his conservative demeanor might help counteract the implicit flakiness of the books he published. Veritas was a respectable house, atmospheres above the amateurish Phantom Books; it had specialized and prospered for many years by publishing Christian writings and modern interfaith philosophy, before acquisition by the Runyon-Cargill empire. Veritas’s recent venture into the New Age market was a risk that rode mainly on Maltzman’s shoulders, and he carried it well. On the walls were several framed enlargements of book covers that Bob had purchased and published in his line: a new improved Egyptian Book of the Dead, its ancient lessons reinterpreted for the forward-looking yuppie; a colorful Qabala for children; and, naturally, a mandala. “How’d it go in North Carolina?”

“Fairly well. Good practice, anyway, if I can get some larger audiences.”

Bob shrugged. “I’ve still got my fingers crossed, but it’s hard with the New Age stuff. I can’t quite convince the accountants that it’s a growth industry. Eventually they’ll see the figures for themselves.”

“And how are the Mandalas doing?”

“What I’ve seen so far looks promising.”

Derek nodded, but he had come to expect these vague replies. Royalty checks were the real proof, and he was a long way from collecting them for this book.

“What I really wanted to talk about is these Club Mandala people,” he said.

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen their posters around town.”

“They’re total ripoffs.”

Maltzman squirmed almost imperceptibly. “It does sort of look that way.”

“What troubles me is that they started appearing just before the book came out. I’ve been trying to figure out how that’s possible.”

“I take it you have some ideas.”

“Well, it looks to me like someone leaked them.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Bob to reach the obvious conclusion.

“Someone here?”

“I assume you use temps in your office. Secretaries, receptionists, people who run the photocopiers for instance. People with no particular loyalty to Veritas.”

Bob looked distressed, as if Derek were attacking him personally. “I suppose it’s possible. But we also sent out quite a few review copies, don’t forget. And does it really matter? The fact is, the mandalas are your designs—I mean, insofar as they belong to anyone. Although I suppose the gal who dictated them could make the same claim….”

“The mandalas authorized me to take possession of them, for dissemination,” Derek said rapidly. Bob had asked once, half in jest, to meet “Ms. A,” and Derek had responded that she insisted on anonymity. He suspected Bob had seen through this tale, but he was diplomatic in all things.

“Anyway, you’ve got the rights to them. If you want to enforce those rights, you don’t have to prove how your infringers got ahold of them. But part of the point of the book, I mean, what the mandalas themselves seem to want, is for the widest possible exposure. I know you’re not going to make any money out of this club, but on a broader level, it will bring the mandalas to more people and expand that many more minds.”

“There’s nothing to stop them from distorting the meaning of the mandalas, though,” Derek said. “To use them in a nightclub—it’s offensive.”

“So… insist on involvement. Make sure what they’re doing is in line with the truth. Stay on good terms with them, Derek, and who knows—they might help you promote the book.”

Derek sipped his coffee. Obviously Maltzman wasn’t going to help him ferret out the spy in Veritas. He had been hoping for evidence to intimidate the Club Mandala people when he confronted them. For the moment he was trying to avoid the expense of involving his lawyer.

“Speaking of books,” Maltzman said with a laugh, “how’s the next one going?”

Derek crossed his legs and watched the crackhead staggering away from the sandbox. “I’m still sketching out some ideas,” he said. “I haven’t settled on anything in particular.”

“How about that idea you pitched me a few years ago, before you came up with the mandalas?”

Derek stared at him, feeling blank.

“You remember, that Castaneda thing? You were going to interview that old shaman, do a book on his life, his philosophy? Study with him for a while and share his teachings? Whatever happened with that?”

Derek swallowed. “I thought you weren’t interested in him.”

“Well, at the time… you were an unknown to us, and so was this old guy. But I think we could get up the interest now, if you could come up with the right angle. In a sense, him being unknown would be an asset—you could present him any way you want. Just as you did the mandalas. There’d be no preconceptions.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible now,” Derek said. “He died before I had a chance to interview him. Anyway, I don’t think it would have worked out in the end. He was rather cracked, as it happens.”

Bob looked mildly disappointed. “Oh, well. I thought that might have been a possibility if you were still in touch with him.”

“I’m afraid not.”

He noticed Bob glancing at his watch and was suddenly eager to end the meeting. “Do you have to be somewhere?”

“I have a meeting in about five minutes, but that’s all right.”

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to get your thoughts about these Club Mandala people.”

“It’s really up to you, Derek. Obviously I’d never encourage anyone to get involved in a lawsuit.”

“No, I’d rather take care of it quietly myself.”

“I hope you do. Good luck.” They shook hands. “Give me a call when you’ve got your ideas in order. It’d be nice to get something in the pipeline, keep up the momentum.”

“Yes,” Derek said. He started to turn away.

“Oh, one more thing,” Bob said, “I almost forgot. I thought I’d bounce the idea off you. What about a deck of mandala cards? You know, a kind of Tarot? Full color, nice stock, for meditation or divination, whatever. You could put together a booklet of interpretations, come up with some layout patterns. It wouldn’t be that hard to do it with what we already have. Your artist on the first one, Neil Vasquez? He’s working up a full-color computer-generated thing, with three-D modeling, I’m not sure what all.”

“Hm.” Derek nodded. It was an intriguing idea—a whole new marketing approach, giving him more reason than ever to make sure that he consolidated his rights to the mandalas and came down hard on the club owners. “Yes, that sounds excellent.”

“If I’ve got your go-ahead, I’d like to bring it up in the meeting today. Is that all right?”

“Fine.”

“The only thing is—at the moment, the deck is sort of limited. The regular Tarot has seventy-two cards—that’s a lot to play around with. With thirty-seven… I wonder if that’s enough to really give people much to work with.”

“It ought to be.”

“I was only wondering… you don’t think you could come up with more mandalas? If they were, say, to channel more texts—if Ms. A might sketch a few more? That could be enough for another book right there, and it’d give us a nice full deck.”

“More… more mandalas?” Derek said. “I don’t think so, Bob.”

“No? Well, think about it.”

“I don’t—there aren’t any more of them. There’s thirty-seven, it’s a fixed number, they’re very insistent on that. No more, no less.”

Had he even read the book? Derek wondered. How could he have missed that?

And then he remembered excising that section from the original notebooks. It had opened into discussions he did not care to reproduce for his New Age audience, ones he had been unable to translate into catchy, optimistic phrases. The original texts were nowhere more baffling than in their discussion of the number 37. So, in fact, he was free to invent more if he wished; he hadn’t publicly painted himself into that particular corner.

“But you never know,” he said. “Maybe they were concealing something from us, and when the time is right—if it ever is—they’ll come forward with more revelations. I’d be the last one to say I know everything about them.”

“It’s no big deal, Derek. If there’s only thirty-seven, I’m sure we can work with that.” They shook again. “I’ll let you know what kind of response I get at the meeting.”

The receptionist called him a taxi. He waited just inside the door, watching the sorry figures in the park, hurrying straight to the cab when it arrived. “Market and Sanchez,” he said. “Hecate’s Haven.”

Hecate’s stood at a crossroads—more accurately, it stood where three roads met, a location Lilith claimed was of particular potency. She had helped select the spot when Norman Argos moved his shop from its original, cramped North Beach location a year before. Market, Sanchez, and 15th crossed like the arms of an asterisk. The spiky orange crest of Corona Heights, also called Indian Rock, dominated the skyline above 15th Street. Indian Rock, too, was an energy vortex, according to Lilith, lending the whole neighborhood an air of magic. And vortex was a good way to describe the traffic jams that arose among the confluence of cars and pedestrians streaming from six different directions.

Perhaps because of all the power swirling about chaotically, the triangular point of land between Market and 14th had proven too much for most businesses. The building that stood there had changed hands several times since Derek moved to the city, and between each new regime it stood empty, covered with movie and concert posters, its windows fogged with graffiti. The latest doomed establishment had been a Thai restaurant, which had gone to great expense to alter the architecture of the place to suit its menu. The building looked like a pagoda now, with a three-tiered roof of flaking gold, whose corners were tapered and upturned. It was exotic, but no more so than the contents of the establishment it now housed.

Looking through the front window, Derek could see the usual crowd milling among the tall shelves and cluttered glass cabinets, browsing through books, shuffling Tarot decks, gathering various weird appurtenances. Jars of candles, herbs, and incense rose to the ceiling. It struck him as intensely boring; his first few times in the place had brought an odd thrill, but familiarity had sapped the occult of its mystery. Now he walked behind the scenes, immune to the illusions.

He went in quietly, hoping that none of the customers would recognize him; but no sooner had he entered than Norman called his name from the back of the shop. Several customers parted to let him through, looking as if they recognized him or his name; but most ignored him, for which he was grateful. The mandalas were only a tiny fraction of Norman’s business; here, countless cults competed for primacy and shelf space, some so old they smelled of mummy dust, others invoking the modern myths of quantum physics, cyberspace….

“I’m looking for Lilith,” he said. “I thought she was working today.”

“She’s in the back,” Norman said.

“Has she had lunch yet?”

“Well, she usually runs out for a sandwich.”

“Could I convince you to let me have her for an hour?”

He could see Norman resisting the idea, but eventually he cocked his head and tried to give in graciously. “I guess I’ve got enough girls here. Sure. If she wants.”

“Thanks.”

He found Lilith in the tiny kitchen, screwing lids on bottles of holy water. A box of empty bottles sat on the counter, and the tap was still dripping. She jumped when he touched her in the small of the back.

“Oh, my God,” she said when she saw him. “I thought you were Norman.”

“You said you wouldn’t do this sort of thing,” he said, picking up a damp bottle.

Lilith looked furious. “Norman isn’t qualified to bless a sneeze. I don’t want anyone jeopardized by his negligence.”

“You’re not a priest.”

“My blessing is better than any Christian minister’s.”

“Still… it is fraud.”

“And as soon as I can find another job that suits me, I’ll be calling the Better Business Bureau. In the meantime…” She shrugged and capped the bottle, wiping her hands on her black jeans. “How was your trip?”

He kissed her on the neck, encircling her with his arms. She smelled of the incense and oils she’d been mixing and measuring all morning. Wormwood, myrrh, and benzoin. “Come to lunch and I’ll tell you all about it. I have permission to steal you away for an hour.”

She pushed him away unexpectedly, arching back to give him a worried look. “Derek…”

“What?”

“I do have to talk to you, but not now. I need more than an hour.”

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s too complicated. I’m coming under suspicion.”

“Suspicion? Of what?”

“People think—they think I’m your woman. Ms. A.”

“They what? That’s ridiculous. Who?”

“I told you, I don’t want to—not right now. Can I see you tonight?”

“Of course. But all you have to do is tell them to fuck off. They shouldn’t be bothering you.”

“That’s easy for you to say. The fact is, people assume she’s out there somewhere, and she must be someone you know. I don’t know if you realize it, but there are a number of lost souls around who’ve become obsessed with these mandalas of yours. They come in every day and hang around asking me questions. At first Norman kicked them out because they hadn’t bought anything since the book; but now they’ve caught on. They buy charcoal or single sticks of incense, so he refuses to bother them. He won’t even let me tell them off. They give me the creeps.”

Derek looked over his shoulder, as if he might see some of them coming down the hall.

“That’s right,” she said. “I’m surprised there weren’t any out there when you came in.”

“You’re talking about a bunch of New Age flakes. What are you afraid of?”

“These aren’t… they aren’t the usual crowd, Derek. You’ve managed to attract an element I’ve never met before.”

“Great,” he said. “I’ll have to use the back door now.”

“It’s not funny. I need my privacy.”

“But it’s insane. Just tell them to leave you alone.”

“I’m getting too much attention. Yesterday there was an Asian man here, asking about you. Fortunately Norman wasn’t around or he might have let on that I knew you. He came in because we had signed copies of The Mandala Rites, then he started asking if you ever came in, where you lived, things like that.”

Derek’s flesh began to crawl. “Who the hell was he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He spoke English very well, but with an accent. I don’t know what kind—you know, Pacific Rim. He looked like a businessman, and he wouldn’t let on why he was asking about you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I. But I’m warning you, Derek, I’m going to have to pull out of this situation if it gets any more intense. I don’t need this kind of energy in my life right now.”

“Pull out of what situation? The shop?”

She looked him in the eyes. “No. Us.”

“You can’t—you can’t do that because of other people, Lilith. You’re going to let them rule your life, your relationships? I mean, what do I—is it my fault?”

“Maybe. You created this whole scene, Derek. It’s your livelihood, not mine. I can’t let it take me off my path, and mine has nothing to do with your mandalas. Do you understand?”

He felt as if a cold, blunt metal rod had been thrust straight through him. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. Our relationship is based on what you want; it doesn’t have a thing to do with me.”

“You know how I feel about you, Derek.”

“No I don’t! I don’t know a goddamn thing unless you tell me.”

She reared back, unshaken, cool, as if she had expected him to flare up.

“Even if I told you, Derek, you wouldn’t believe me. You don’t believe anything. That’s your policy. The thing that makes me sad sometimes is it’s painfully obvious that deep down you want to believe everything, unquestioningly. You don’t even know which questions to ask—that’s why you accept all the standard explanations of reality. I think once upon a time you must have been pretty gullible.” She laughed after she said this; he had felt his face change, but couldn’t be sure what he’d given away. “You were, weren’t you? But you’ve built a wall—more like a fortress—around everything in you that’s naive or childlike, everything having to do with trust and faith. And now nothing gets through. Nothing I can imagine, anyway. I’ve tried to reach you, wherever you’re hiding, but it would take more strength than I have. More violence, possibly; and I’m not willing to go that far. Something’s going to bring that fortress down someday, and then look out. I hope nobody’s standing near you when it falls.”

“You’re afraid,” he said coldly. “Afraid of a relationship.”

“That’s not what you want,” she said. “I’m sorry, Derek, but it’s not.”

“Do you love me, Lilith?”

“Love you? I can’t even touch you. You push the whole world away.”

“That’s a convenient way for you to see it, while you’re pushing me away.”

“I have to get back to work.”

She slipped past him, down the hall. He stood there shaking, his face aflame. He couldn’t face the shop again, its fool customers ransacking shelves full of fakery. He made his way out the rear into a small parking lot and strode up 15th Street to the orange crags of Corona Heights. Fog was pouring over the ridge, a gray mass smothering the stones, and soon it smothered him as well. Wrapped in fog, the city hidden from sight below, he could almost believe he was alone in the universe. Almost. Lilith was right.

12

Dear Mr. Crowe:

Sorry to bother you but—weird effects from Rites. Lenore having blackouts/trances—very intense. Hope you can give some advice. Don’t know who else to ask about mandalas. Please call collect anytime. (You’re not listed.)

Michael Renzler

P.S. Had an actual materialization—first ever!

Michael took one last look at the face of the postcard, which he had picked up in Memphis last summer. It was a picture of Graceland. He hoped Derek Crowe wouldn’t think the message itself was a joke. Elvis didn’t seem an appropriate flip side to the mandalas, but it was the only postcard he had been able to find, rooting through drawers while Lenore showered. He had filled it out without telling her, not wanting her to know the extent of his concern, not wanting her to panic or be afraid in any way. He had convinced her to call in sick, and done the same himself, resolving to look after her until he was convinced she was stable. He dropped the card at the mall post office, on his way to Sears to grab a DieHard.

As he drove toward his mother’s house with the battery, he felt alternately stupid and scared. Stupid, because Lenore was apparently fine now; her blackouts, or whatever they were, had not recurred, and they probably had nothing to do with the mandalas anyway. He half suspected that Lenore was simply getting drugs from Tucker and lying about it. Scared, because a moment later he would find himself completely convinced that the mandalas were at work and would return before long—certainly before Derek Crowe could come to their aid. He figured it would take the card three days to get to California. That meant three days minimum before Derek Crowe called. He could hold out that long, but he felt so isolated. Maybe… maybe he should do another rite tonight, try to contact Elias Mooney in the astral or wherever he had gone, and seek the old sage’s assistance. If nothing else, it would make him feel like he was doing something.

When he reached his mother’s house, he went straight to the garage and popped the hood of her car. He was tightening the cable clamps when he heard the back door slam and her footsteps slogging through the thick mulch of sodden leaves on the unraked lawn. She leaned over his shoulder, her breath reeking of beer and coffee. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock.

“What’s wrong with Lenore?” she said.

He straightened so fast he caught his forehead on the corner of the hood. “Ow! Jesus! What do you mean?”

“I called over there to see where you were. Phone must have rung twenty times before she answered.”

“She’s not feeling too good. She called in sick.”

She looked skeptical, waiting for him to go on.

He leaned on the hood until it clicked shut. “What are you staring at?”

“What’s she got?”

“Flu or something, how should I know? I can’t afford to take her to the hospital so some doctor can charge us a hundred bucks to take her temperature.”

“She’s doing drugs again, isn’t she?”

“And you aren’t?”

“Don’t start that! Your wife is the one with the problem! All I did was ask where you were, and she started raving at me—obscene filth, if you’d like to know. Words I never heard before. God knows she didn’t learn them from you; and if she did, you didn’t learn them from me.”

Michael froze, then turned and headed toward the house. He picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed his own number. The phone rang a dozen times, twenty, but Lenore didn’t pick up. He finally put it down.

“Well?”

“She must be sleeping. You probably woke her up, that’s why she sounded incoherent. With fever she gets delirious.”

“But with drugs she gets nasty, and she was nasty. She doesn’t care what she says to her own mother-in-law! If you heard what she said to me, garbage I can’t even pronounce. You can’t imagine—”

Suddenly he could imagine the words. Words right out of The Mandala Rites. To his mother’s addled ears it could have sounded like any foul thing she wished to imagine.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said.

“She needs more than talk. If you ask me, she needs psychiatric help.”

“Who doesn’t? I have to go.”

“What about my car? Does it work?”

“See for yourself.”

As he crossed through the living room, he surprised Earl in a transaction with a tall young man in a shabby black jogging suit. The kid, who could have been younger than Michael, jumped, startled, and spastically started stuffing a plastic bag into a zippered hip pouch—but not before Michael saw what was in the bag. Black capsules.

Earl smiled defensively, swaying toward Michael. “Hey, buddy boy. You fix up your ma’s car?”

“Good as new,” Michael said, pushing past him. He wasn’t really surprised, and he didn’t want to think about what he was seeing. All he cared about at the moment was Lenore.

“Uh, this here’s a friend of mine,” Earl started.

“Yeah, right.” Michael rushed out, leaving the front door open.

Lenore was sitting on the couch, heaps of yesterday’s laundry piled up around her. She was still in her bathrobe, her hair wet and tangled. The comb hung halfway down, caught in snarls. Her eyes seemed clear and focused—but they weren’t focused on him or on anything else he could see. It took her a moment to realize he was in the room; and then her expression soured, as if she were absorbed in something far more interesting and reluctant to deal with him. It was the look she gave him when he interrupted her at work on one of her math problems, or the puzzles she had worked compulsively when they’d first moved to Cinderton. They had been her only addiction for a brief time.

“Did you talk to my mom?” he asked.

She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, watched him with suspicion.

“Lenore… are you okay? Did you have another—another blackout?”

“Shngaha,” she said.

“What?”

Her eyes strayed to the ceiling, making him glance up. Tucker, he thought. Tucker had bragged once that he had a few designer varieties, new drugs. Anything could happen with those things. Lenore might have taken something like that; and who could guess at the effects, especially when you mixed them with magic? He listened for Tucker’s muted voice or footsteps, but heard only the usual muffled music.

“Lenore?” he said.

She didn’t move.

He touched her shoulder but she still didn’t move. His heart began to pound. Her skin was chill. He began to wonder if the universe were as neutral as he liked to believe… or if neutrality was a more awful thing than he’d realized.

She caught his hand, a gesture as startling as it was sudden. She pressed his palm against her mouth; he felt her teeth and tongue against his skin.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You were just sitting here—”

Her pupils were huge; more evidence that she was doing drugs. Tugging harder, she drew him down onto her, shifting back on the couch so that they could lie together in the scattered clothes.

“What’re you doing?” he said, though he already knew. Her hands were on his back, pulling at his shirt; her breath felt hot on his neck. He must be crushing her. Her robe fell open. The sounds she made were broken bits of words, nothing that made sense at first, but he wasn’t really listening now.

“What’s with you?”

There was a trace of a smile on her lips, but little else in her expression except urgency as she worked his pants down over his hips and pulled him closer to her.

Drugs, he was thinking. It has to be drugs. She’s never like this except when she’s loaded. Never that interested in sex without some extra internal stimulation—or something to numb her….

He tried to throw off the tangle of thoughts for a moment, to let himself enjoy the sensations. He lowered his head, slid his hands up along her back to grasp her shoulders from behind. Her cold hands moved down his back; her nails dug into his buttocks.

Then he realized that she was chanting, making wet, clicking sounds timed with his thrusts.

“Silsiliv zezizn maoan, nylyvyl olornon ahrixir memt-hocha…”

The sounds smothered him. Suddenly it was all too much. What was she invoking? What would be consecrated by the mixture of their juices?

He pulled out and drew back, feeling as if he had just struggled up from the bottom of a lake. Lenore gasped anxiously but made no other sound, lying there with her eyes still closed, hardly seeming to breathe. Her words trailed off, but not before he recognized them.

Somehow she had managed to memorize the whole seventeenth Rite, the major sex ritual in Crowe’s book. How had she pronounced it flawlessly in the midst of passion, and drugged to boot? That ceremony had stumped him; it was the single one he couldn’t do alone. And now, given the perfect opportunity, he’d backed off in fear.

Fear of what?

He couldn’t ignore the fact that he had been aroused; if he could manage to get out of his head for a minute he might still be able to find some satisfaction. Maybe if he took a little of whatever Lenore had taken. He looked around for a joint, even a roach, but saw nothing.

Her eyes were completely shut now, her teeth clenched and starting to chatter. He swept his hand across her brow, brushing her hair aside to feel if she was feverish.

In doing so, he revealed the bright wound on her forehead.

Michael went cold when he saw the mandala burning there like a brand: an intricate, spidery tattoo, as detailed as the illustration in Crowe’s book, down to the central mouth of gnashing teeth, the rim of glistering eyes. It was the thirty-seventh mandala, sharp and clear. He rubbed at it, but it would not smudge. Lenore made a moaning complaint and he pulled his hand away. Flustered and frightened, he hurried down the hall, consoling himself with simple acts. He washed in the bathroom, waiting for his thoughts to clear, but they were dense and thickening. There was too much going on here, more than he could handle alone. He needed some advice.

Elias, he thought. Now.

He went into his temple room and opened a drawer in his altar. There were heaps of loose paper, volumes of his magical journals, bits and pieces of thaumaturgical equipment he wasn’t currently using. At the back of the drawer was a stack of audio cassettes and a few envelopes bound with a thick leather cord. These were the only things he had of Elias Mooney’s. He untied the stack and dug his old tape player from another drawer; he plugged it into the socket beside the altar and inserted a cassette, then sat cross-legged on the floor and set the volume low.

Elias’s voice crackled out in midsentence, bringing back clear memories of the time when Michael had received these taped letters once or twice a month. Those had been troubled times. Worse than these? Perhaps not… but Elias’s words had always filled him with courage and reassurance and spiritual guidance. He needed them as a sort of touchstone for contacting Elias now.

“—now, without offending you, Michael, I have to say once again that it is absolutely essential you forgo drugs of any kind. They do have a place in magic, but they have been so abused by modern practitioners that it is practically impossible to use them properly now. The realms to which they give access have been polluted by the millions of untrained, undisciplined tourists who’ve invaded the astral regions in the last thirty years, with the aid of hallucinogenics. In a way, the so-called nonaddictive drugs—such as lysergic acid and mescaline—are even more dangerous than the opiates, which merely lead to oblivion, for that is a featureless void whose essential characteristics can never be altered, and from whose effects it is sometimes possible to recover. But the undisciplined mind may never recover from an unguided trip through the peyote world, and the reverse is also true. The depredations done to the peyote lands are as terrible and irreversible as those done by modern civilization to the native people’s material environment. Just as the sacred Black Hills were mined and stripped of their soul, the ecology of the astral has been seriously wounded. And as it decays, so must this world, which is no more than a dream of the denizens of that place…”

The words affected Michael like a mild hallucinogen themselves. He closed his eyes and let them wash over him, trying to recover his state of mind at the time this tape first reached him.

He recalled he’d had a very bad experience with some mushrooms, and had actually broken down and telephoned Elias and confessed the nature of his experiments—even knowing the old man’s prejudice against drugs. It had been getting dark and he was all alone in an empty apartment, with night pouring down over the windows like a bottle of ink spilled from the eaves; and he had hugged the phone to his ear and clung to the old man’s gravelly voice with all his soul. Elias had dispatched some of his elementals to watch over Michael, then told him to ground himself by gazing at a piece of polished copper. Michael was afraid to stray beyond the circle of light cast by the single lamp where he sat holding the phone. “There’s something near you,” Elias said soothingly. “Something on your person.” “I don’t even have a penny,” Michael whimpered. “Look down. I see copper. It’s small, but it’s enough.” Looking down, Michael had seen a bright copper rivet on the watch pocket of his blue jeans, and the sight of it had affected him like the touch of a woman’s cool, strong hands. The metal of Venus, its small glow a reassurance and a beacon, held him steady even after Elias hung up. And after eons of sitting in solitude with nothing but that tiny orange sun to warm him, he had heard a key in the lock and light fell into the room down a hall that was at least a thousand miles long, and Lenore came in, amazed when she saw him, laughing and sarcastic when she heard his story, because her terrors were so different from his.

Two days later this tape had arrived. It was partially a reproval, however sympathetic, and partially an esoteric lecture on why a refined white boy like Michael was genetically and culturally unsuited to receive the sacraments of the psilocybin spirits. Elias did not believe there were any drugs suited for Michael; pharmaceuticals were soulless. Best of all was to learn to release the body’s own natural compounds, the subtle chemicals for which receptors had existed in the brain long before anyone had ever chewed a mushroom or ingested poppy tar or smoked the dried, serrated leaf of cannibis. But this required discipline, self-mastery, and patience; which meant that few in this day and age would ever experience these effects except by accident, in moments of extreme pain or pleasure, when the body released them spontaneously.

As a current example of his poor discipline, Michael realized he had just spent an uncertain length of time lost in his thoughts, unfocused on the task at hand. What drew him back was a change in Elias’s tone, and a faded quality to the sound, as if the old man were drawing far away from the microphone. The words wavered in and out of audibility. Michael couldn’t remember Elias saying anything like what he was hearing now, although he had not listened to the tape for years:

“—the danger cannot be… especially for the inexperienced practitioner… failed miserably to contain… only spreading them… me as a ladder to climb farther into… growing like thorny weeds in the ravaged places… can fight them, but not you… away from crow… stay away—”

Michael pressed the stop button suddenly. Crow, had he said? Crowe?

He rewound the tape a few inches, played it back, and Elias’s voice was even fainter now, barely surviving passage through a barrier of static he had not heard on the first playing. He could not make out a single word. He rewound it again and restarted it. And now there was nothing left: no voice, no hiss, only blank tape that thrummed faintly with a rhythmic thub-thub-thub as the little wheels of the cassette whirled around and around, its machine parts softly creaking.

It was then Lenore began screaming.

13

Michael found Lenore tumbled at the foot of the couch as if she’d been hurled there. She had clawed splinters from the hardwood floor, leaving bloody gouges; with her head and shoulders twisted back, she howled diminishingly. As he got his arms around her, her cries quieted to dry sobbing.

“Lenore?”

She shut her mouth and eyes, moaning. He pulled a rag rug under her, dug splinters out from under her nails.

Bad drugs, he thought. Toxic impurities. This couldn’t be simply the mandala rites; Lenore was too stable, too skeptical to have let them affect her this deeply. He suspected one of the brands of synthetic heroin he’d heard about. Maybe she’d thought she could avoid the drawbacks of actual junk. Designer drugs were notorious for causing comas, seizures. He had to find out exactly what she’d taken. Tucker would know.

He held her face in both his hands, but she wouldn’t keep still.

“Lenore, please…”

“Madze svelvivl soa mudeeth…”

Her mind was stuck in a loop, retracing the syllables of something she’d glimpsed in The Mandala Rites. It confirmed his belief that she’d been drugged during the ritual. She was still tripping on the same shit days later, stuck in psychic playback. The chemicals had triggered changes deep in her mind, far beyond their physical effects. There was enough desperation in the syllables she spouted to convince him that even she believed she was in trouble.

“Come on, Lenore,” he said. “Come with me.”

He pulled her up by the forearm, got her into a sitting position against the back of the couch. “Come on, come on.” He gave up trying to pull her and bent to grab her around the middle. She shrieked and shoved him so hard that he skidded backward and slammed into the wall. Then she was on top of him, flailing her arms until he caught her by the wrists. His first thought, however unbelievable, was that she was trying to gouge out his eyes. He didn’t want to test his intuition, though. She was spewing a torrent of nonsense words; it sounded like glossolalia, tongues, as if she were speaking a language she knew and not just reciting something her drug-altered mind had photographed out of a book.

Well, he would use words too. There had to be something in the Rites that would work on her. If she accepted that world-view, that language, then he must try to speak to her in it.

None of the thirty-seven rituals seemed relevant, though. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to feed her craziness by following her logic. She needed purification and then disciplined training to give her some psychic shielding. She was sensitive to a fault.

I should never have let her do that ritual. It’s my fault.

He managed to twist away. Springing to his feet, he grabbed her around the shoulders and dragged her down the hall toward the temple room. When she saw where they were going, she relaxed and allowed herself to be taken.

I should call the hospital, he thought. That’s what I should do. But they’ll just think she’s crazy, and what if they try to commit her? How am I going to make any of this sound reasonable? They’ll lock me up too. Unless they discover what drugs she took, and then they’ll probably arrest her.

Forget that.

He slammed the door, closing them in. Lenore surprised him by sitting willingly on the floor, her head slumped forward. He already had a candle burning on the altar. Now he lit another and touched the flame to a piece of self-lighting charcoal. Sparks sizzled and spat over the disk of black coal. When the whole piece glowed orange, he heaped it with chunks of frankincense and myrrh. The room filled with fragrant smoke.

From one of the drawers in the altar bureau, he took a short smudge stick made of herbs woven together like the straws in a broom; the tip was charred from prior use. He lit it from the candle flame; its smoke joined that of the incense. As he watched the smoke rise to the ceiling, he thought of Tucker Doakes. Damn him.

He passed the stick under Lenore’s nose. Her nostrils dilated but there was no other change. She didn’t cough or blink the smoke from her eyes. He began to walk widdershins around the room to dispel the influences that had taken hold of her. Back at the altar, he took a pinch of salt and let it sift down on her hair and shoulders. Salt for purification; salt to banish evil.

Evil?

He found himself staring at her forehead and thinking of what had materialized in this room the other night. Somehow he’d managed to not really consider the implications of these things. He’d conducted himself as if the things that had happened in here were a momentary delusion, a dream. Maybe, he was willing to concede, a nightmare.

But evil?

He stood before the altar with his head bowed, broken athame in his left hand, and prayed for strength.

Help me, Elias, he thought. But he could find no sense of the old man whose voice had filled his ears several minutes ago. He could feel no visiting presence. He tried not to feed his disappointment.

Instead, he imagined a hole opening in his crown, imagined cosmic power like a warm liquid heavy and thick as mercury pouring into him. When it filled him to brimming, when he could literally feel it tingling through his veins and nerves, he turned and raised the dagger over his head. Lenore’s eyes flickered with candlelight; the glow overwhelmed her eyes and ran down over her cheeks like melting wax. Tears. The spirits around her must have begun to loosen their grip.

I won’t have to call the hospital, he thought.

The mandala in the center of her brow began to glow.

He lowered the athame, aiming it right at her head, right at the throbbing emblem.

“All you uninvited, now begone!” he cried. With his words, he imagined a jet of pure power coursing down his arms and out the blade. He willed it to shatter in the air against the circular scar. He imagined the blast burning all impurities from her aura, from the room, from Cinderton—from the Earth itself. And for that single instant, he couldn’t help but think of the thing he fought as evil. In his viscera, drawing on his animal power, he needed to believe in evil for a moment, if only to strengthen his faith in his own goodness, and the necessity for what he was doing.

Carefully he visualized her sickness being blasted into countless tiny disintegrating pieces that flickered and vanished out among the far reaches of the universe.

He lowered the knife, taking a deep breath.

Lenore’s eyes were closed. She looked peaceful, at ease.

He knelt down before Lenore and kissed her on the forehead, as if making peace with the sigil emblazoned there.

“Lenore?” he said.

She opened her eyes, looking very distant, blinking around as if to see where she was. His heart leapt.

“How do you feel, hon? Everything’s all right.”

She smiled faintly and reached out to him. He started to put his arms around her—but that wasn’t what she wanted. She plucked the dagger from his fingers before he knew what she was up to, then scurried back and knelt with her back to the door.

“Lenore,” he said cautiously. “What are you doing? Put that down, okay?”

She put the athame to her throat, punched the broken tip through the thin skin a fraction of an inch, and held the blade there while little beads of blood and then a steady stream dripped down her neck.

Time seemed to slow for Michael. “Stop it! Lenore!”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the blade, the blood, until he noticed a gentle motion in the air above her. Something stirring, stroking the atmosphere. It was so faint that he wouldn’t have recognized it if he hadn’t seen it once before, two nights ago. It was smaller now, hugging close to Lenore, its thin arms like spikes radiating from her hair, seen shimmeringly like the halo of a Byzantine saint—but blackly luminous, rather than gold.

Not all of the spikes fanned outward, though. Most of them now curved down and fed directly into her skull. It was in that moment, seeing the thing clearly, he acknowledged once and for all that the problem was not with drugs. It had not involved drugs for a while. He would have preferred drugs, in fact, because he had fought them before.

And unlike this thing, this mandala, drugs had never fought back.

14

They sat for hours in the temple room, in silent confrontation as tense as any hostage crisis. Meanwhile, the weather worsened; the storm was finally hitting Cinderton.

Rain tapped the windows almost politely at first, but he sensed a growing impatience in everything.

He wasn’t sure if he could reason with her. The mandalas spoke a different language, but somehow they had communicated with humans before—such as when they had dictated their commentary to Derek Crowe. He hoped this one would consent to understand him.

He considered it a victory when he convinced Lenore to remove the knifetip from her skin. Blood continued to run down her throat, but the trickle eventually slowed and scabbed over. She kept the knife at her throat, however, holding herself ransom. He told himself that he could see fear in her eyes, that she knew what was happening to her and was as afraid as he; but that was a desperate rationalization, and most of the time he didn’t believe it. The truth was, he couldn’t see anything he recognized in her eyes.

His gaze never moved from the knife, waiting for signs that her arm was tiring, waiting for the blade to shift however briefly. She seemed tireless.

“What could you gain by hurting her?” he asked. But the mandala had not consented to speak. He waited for a faint touch on his own mind, some sign that it was attempting astral communication, but there was only the prickling static of his own jolted nerves. He was trembling with fatigue, hunger, and fear.

“Why won’t you speak to me? What do you want me to do?”

Lenore’s eyes cleared. He could see her emerging from some inner fog, looking out at him as if amazed at her surroundings. Still, she held herself rigid, and the knife stayed fixed at her throat.

“Michael… Michael, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know for sure, hon. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“There’s something on—no, in me.”

She was close to tears, the blade trembling. She cut herself again, accidentally this time, and twitched at the pain.

“Make it stop, Michael!”

“I don’t know how.”

“You have to. You started it! You made me go to that lecture.”

This reminder gouged his soul. He was responsible. He wanted to turn away, in shame, but he didn’t dare lose a chance to grab the knife.

“I wrote to Derek Crowe,” he admitted. “For advice. I was hoping he would know.”

“Yes,” she said, voice laden with desperation. “He must know. But I can’t wait. I’m frightened. Anything could happen. We have to get to him now. He knows what to do.”

Michael shook his head. “Lenore, we don’t have the money.”

“We could drive….”

“Drive? That’s like three thousand miles! It would take days. I can’t reach him by phone, and we can’t just wait around. We have to do something else now. Something practical. We’re on our own.”

It was a relief to be talking to her, even with the knife poised so threateningly; but he had to remind himself that this was not necessarily Lenore. The mandala had not let her speak all afternoon. Why would it relax its grip now?

Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, Michael… we have to get to him. He’s the only one….”

He could call Crowe’s publisher, he thought. But he knew they wouldn’t give him Crowe’s number.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said uncertainly.

“How can you say that? You don’t know what I’m feeling. I’m fighting, but I don’t know how long I can hold on.”

“Do whatever you have to. But we’re alone, all right? I—I’ll try to think of something.”

“No. We need help. We need Derek Crowe.”

He shared her conviction but didn’t want to admit it. There was no way to get help in anything like the time they needed it; and certainly no way of getting Crowe to fly out here, once they did get in touch with him. But Michael couldn’t admit defeat when the battle was only beginning.

Lenore crumpled abruptly, pressing at her stomach as if her guts were being ripped out. Instinctively he threw himself at her.

She was ready for him, though. It had been a trap. She thrust the knife at his face. It grazed his cheek, but he managed to knock it out of her hand and push her to the carpet, digging his knee into her back. He had a leather cord balled in his hand, the one with which Elias Mooney’s tapes had been wrapped. He got it around her wrists, wrapped and cinched and knotted it as tight as he could, then released her. There were more twists of leather in the bureau, among the candle stubs and incense packets and broken charcoal bits; he wondered if he should bind her feet. She looked broken now, defeated. Surely he couldn’t have beaten it so easily. But maybe he had won her a kind of freedom by binding her, by rendering her useless to the mandala.

She lay panting, not struggling for the moment. Outside, the storm broke. The wind howled louder, and a banging and lashing began, as if giants with whips had come to flail the sides of the house. It was tree branches, he hoped, mixed with the pelting of hail. He was glad that bookcases covered the windows. For a moment, he felt that they were at the center of the storm, in its calm eye, surrounded on all sides by elements more powerful than themselves—barricaded here, unable to send for help… if help even existed in this world.

He had to do something. He couldn’t sit and wait idly for the next psychic attack.

He should take her to the hospital. The mandalas wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything there. She’d be under observation, clinically confined, no use to them. They would vanish under the prodding of technology, the scrutiny of science, as such things always did. The mandalas would sublimate into mental ghosts, neurosis, psychosis; they would become symptomatic of Lenore’s own sickness.

But could he truly take her, knowing they might lock her away? Wouldn’t that be the deepest sort of betrayal?

Truthfully, he almost welcomed the possibility that she was sick and all they had experienced was shared delusion. Science would labor mightily to preserve his belief in a neutral universe. Thinking in this manner, he grew almost desperate to see the doctors and hear their lofty reassurances.

“I’m sorry, Lenore,” he whispered, apologizing in advance for what he was about to do. The scientists would take things out of his hands. They would take Lenore….

A decision—even the wrong decision—would give him a sense of empowerment.

It was freezing outside. The roads would be treacherous. He had to get her bundled up. The trickle of blood on his cheek reminded him to keep his guard.

He supposed she would be safest in the temple room while he got things ready. He hadn’t actually cast a circle, so he needn’t worry about breaking through it; apparently the mandalas didn’t respect such things anyway. He went into the living room and dug a pair of socks and cotton long Johns out of the heaped laundry. There was no way to get a shirt on her without loosening the cords, and he didn’t think that would be wise just yet. He took her heavy down jacket out of the closet.

Lenore was struggling with her bonds when he got back. She made a fierce effort to rise, her face red with rage and terror.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, hurrying over to her.

“Me? What are you doing?”

“Try to remember. You keep going in and out of trances.”

“Trances?” She looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Goddamn it, untie me right this fucking minute!”

“Lenore, I’m sorry, I can’t. You took a knife to me.”

She set her jaw and caught her breath, her eyes red and burning, her voice pitched low as she said, “If you don’t untie me by the time I count to three…”

“I can’t.”

“One…”

He shook his head. “Lenore, I won’t do it.”

“Two…”

“Don’t ask me, ‘cause—”

She gained her feet and hurled herself at him, screaming “Three!” The altar shook as he struck it; candles toppled, salt and water spilled. He sank to the ground, Lenore standing over him. She stared down, naked under her robe with her hands tied behind her back, looking as if she’d like to crush his face under her heel. He was glad he hadn’t put shoes on her yet. He tensed for the attack.

But she didn’t move; her breathing slowed. She sank to her knees, weeping.

“Michael… Michael, where am I?” she said. “What’s happening?”

He got up quickly, slid his arms around her. “You’re here, with me. It’s okay.”

With her head against him, she whimpered the words, “We have to go to Derek Crowe.”

Michael sighed. “That’s impossible.”

“Please….”

“I’ll—I’ll take you to the hospital, okay?”

“The hospital? They can’t do anything!”

“You’ll be safer there than here.”

“Doctors can’t help me. I’ll die in there. They’ll kill me. They’ll do things to my brain! Please, let’s go to California.”

“How could you last that long?”

“I’d be all right just knowing we’re going for help—for real help. It’d help me be strong. There’s something here that gives them strength and takes it out of me. We’ve got to get away. Please, Michael!”

“Oh, Lenore.”

Her voice was hoarse, her eyes red-rimmed. But she put on an air of calm and sank forward until he was supporting her entire weight. She moaned against his shoulder.

“You don’t love me anymore, do you? You don’t care what happens to me. You’d let them lock me up in a hospital when you know it’s not even my fault. It’s something you did to me and you won’t take responsibility. You’re such a fucking shit!”

He sighed. It came to him then that he could win her cooperation with a small lie. But he had to make it convincing.

“Jesus,” he said. “I don’t believe I’m saying this. All right. We’ll go. If it makes you feel stronger to know it, we’ll go.”

He felt her relax with a shudder. “Thank God. Thank you, Michael.”

“You just stay here for a minute. Let me help you put on these clothes. Then I’ll go warm up the car, and ask Tucker to keep an eye on the place, okay? Then we’ll pack whatever we need.”

She looked at him, grateful as a child for a small favor, and let him dress her. Once her underwear and long Johns were on, he zipped up the coat like a straitjacket, her arms trapped inside it. She leaned slightly forward, her face looking green and fatigued.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

“I can hold out.”

He went onto the front porch, down the steps, toward her car. It was black night, later than he’d realized. Sleet slashed sideways in an icy wind. It would be cruel to stuff Lenore into the VW; her car was roomy and stable; he felt safer in bad weather. He climbed inside the Cutlass and tugged the heavy door shut, but the engine refused to turn over. He tried as long as he dared, but he didn’t like leaving Lenore in the house; he could barely see lights through the trees. Anything could be happening back there.

So the Beetle won by default. He hurried back to it and the motor turned over easily. He left it purring in the drive and returned to the house, already soaking wet and freezing.

It was true that he needed to pay Tucker a visit, but not for the reason he’d told Lenore. He intended to ask him about whatever drugs he’d been supplying. When he surrendered to the doctors, he would tell them everything they needed to diagnose Lenore’s condition. Only Tucker could say what he’d been dispensing.

From Tucker’s landing, he glanced back at the yard and shivered. The porch lights cast stark shadows through the hedges and trees, making them look artificial. The scene resembled a set from a horror movie, complete with ground fog—actually exhaust from the idling car.

He peered through the plastic storm window into the kitchen. The only light came from the refrigerator, which was ajar. Tucker must be up front. He knocked loudly.

No answer. He tried the knob and it turned. Tucker didn’t usually mind if he walked right in. Opening the door, he unleashed a blast of music.

“Hey, Tuck? Tucker? It’s Michael. You home?”

He shut the door loudly behind him and pushed the fridge shut as he passed.

The doors in the hall were closed. He rapped lightly on Tucker’s bedroom door, which was directly over the temple downstairs. Hearing no answer, he went down the hall into the living room.

It was empty. All the lights were on and the stereo howled. The frozen wind had reached inside, chilling the whole house. He touched the volume knob, cranking the racket down to a bearable level, figuring this would bring Tucker out of hiding—or at least alert him to Michael’s presence.

In the comparative quiet, he grew aware of the house’s exceptional stillness. Maybe Tucker wasn’t home after all.

“Tuck? Scarlet?”

Going back down the hall, he tapped the bedroom door a bit louder than before. This time he heard a scratching sound.

He opened the door a few inches, peeking at a strip of poster-covered wall. He jumped when something brushed his ankle, but it was only Scabby, slipping out of the room. The cat padded away down the bare wood boards, leaving sticky pawprints.

“Uh-oh, Scabby’s in trouble….”

The door swung open the rest of the way.

The first thing he saw was the pattern on the wall. That drew and held his eyes, despite everything else, despite the shattered racks of ribs and torn red meat heaped on the bed below, where two figures lay twisted in the confused and broken pile of their own bones, with their flesh hanging in rags. If nothing else, the design provided a focus for his incomprehension, a welcome distraction from horror.

The pattern might have been lifted intact from The Mandala Rites, from the very frontispiece that had started all his trouble—the same living symbol that had materialized the other night in the room below this one, the same mandala he had seen tonight with its thin tubes sunk in Lenore’s skull. It was like a charcoal rubbing of the mandala, done in dark-red pigments, lacking some details but capturing its essence. The same arrangement of radial arms, that subtle double ring of dots suggesting beaded eyes. For a moment, all he could think was that Tucker Doakes had found a copy of The Mandala Rites and obsessively painted the image on his wall, blotting it indiscriminately over plaster and picture frames and the heavy metal album posters he had tacked and taped up everywhere.

But the color of the mandala matched too closely the gory mess that soaked the sheets.

The mandala must have passed through the wall after rising from the red bath of Tucker’s and Scarlet’s bodies. The plaster had acted as a sieve, separating the physical from the astral substance, leaving this pattern behind.

He couldn’t keep from theorizing; the intensity of his intellectual activity sheltered him from a purely emotional response. This was a horrific problem, yes, but if one applied a disciplined and open mind to its solution, as the doctors surely would when he explained how all of this related to Lenore’s condition, then…

Then…

All thought of science fled. All his illusions about the help he might find in a hospital were instantly destroyed. Now only flight seemed a reasonable solution.

Lenore was right. He had lied to her about where they were going; but now it turned out he’d been telling the truth.

Outside, a horn began to blare.

He stumbled out of the room, not wanting to be found there, seeing a dozen good reasons to plead ignorance of events in Tucker Doakes’s house. In the dark kitchen, he nearly tripped over Scabby. The cat. He snatched her up unthinkingly, wanting only to shield all living beings from the carnage in the other room; too late, he found that Scabby’s fur was matted with stinking gore. By now he was outside, and he could hardly throw the cat into the sleet. From the landing, as wind slapped rain into his face and Scabby kicked to get free, he saw his mother’s car pulling partway into the driveway, coming up at such an angle that it slammed into a hedge and stalled there. He hurried down the steps, forced to go straight through her headlights, hoping that her windshield was sufficiently blurred to hide him from her no doubt blurrier vision. He ran to the back of the house and went in through the utility porch. He couldn’t think of more than one thing at a time. Which was good. With everything to juggle, he needn’t keep wondering exactly what had happened upstairs.

He heard the car horn bleat as he rushed down the hall, dropping the cat in the bathroom and slamming the door to keep her there. He rushed into the temple, praying Lenore was lucid. “Hurry! My mother’s…”

The temple was empty. The leather string lay on the carpet; somehow she’d freed herself. Trembling, mouth dry, he started slowly back out of the room; turned to find her standing in the hall, eyes wide.

He tensed, ready for anything now. He hadn’t remembered seeing his athame on the altar. She could have taken it. His eyes dropped to her hands. At that instant she laughed.

She was carrying a duffel bag.

“I’m packing,” she said.

“Jesus….”

“I told you I’d be fine. I’m better now that I know we’re going.”

He swallowed. “We’re going, all right. But my mother’s here.” Even now he heard footsteps on the porch, advancing none too steadily. He wondered if he could reach the door before her, and lock her out. It would give them time—but for what? The only way to get her out of their hair was to convince her everything was fine.

“Hide the bag,” he said. “Act normal. Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded, slipping back into the bedroom. A moment later, his mother started pounding on the door. When he opened it, she nearly collapsed in his arms. She managed to stagger past him, catching herself on the sofa back. She stood there, damp and panting, staring suspiciously, red-eyed, around the room.

“What are you doing here?” he said; his impatience came out sounding like disgust, but she didn’t notice. It was a miracle she’d made it this far. Another wave of panic caught him when he realized that she was about to collapse where she stood, forcing him to put her to bed right here. And when she woke in the morning, to find them gone, would she explore the house in search of them?

She started past him, stiff-legged, wheeling about as if scouring the room, trying lamely to make her loss of control look deliberate. “I came t’see Lenore. She’s sick, right? I brought you two some… some soup.” She pointed back at the door, and he opened it slightly to peer at the porch. There was an aluminum pot at the top of the steps, the lid half off, rain and hail pelting into it. Perhaps an inch of liquid was left at the bottom of the pot; if it had ever been full, it must have slopped all over her car on the way over. He slammed the door.

“She’s not that sick,” he said as gently as possible. “You should have called. The roads are terrible. Now I’ll have to give you a ride back. Does Earl know where you went?”

“Course he does.” She looked around at the litter of laundry. “Not much of a housekeeper, is she?”

“Mom….”

She stumped heavily around the room. “It’s freezing in here.”

“I didn’t notice.” He took her by the shoulders, but she lurched out of his grasp, staggering toward the hall just as Lenore walked out of the bedroom in her nightgown. The cuffs of her jeans were visible below the hem.

“Hi, Ma,” she said.

“What are you doing out of bed?” His mother’s voice was abnormally loud. “You’re on drugs again, aren’t you?”

“Mom,” he said, getting her by the shoulders, shaking his head at Lenore to stay out of sight. His mother lurched sideways, knocking open the door of the temple, plunging into it.

“Would you look at this shit?” she cried. “My God.”

“That’s private, Mom. Please come out of there.” He tried to pull her back as carefully as he could, but she wrenched her arm away from him and spun around, lifting her eyes to the ceiling with the weirdest expression he’d ever seen. Giee and malice and something else. As if she knew what was up there.

“Mom, please….”

She stumped heavily toward his altar. He flipped on the overhead light to make the temple look more like a simple library. He stood next to her, fearing she might break something in her strange mood.

She stopped where she was, gazing down at the open copy of The Mandala Rites. She reached out, flipped through the pages. Mandalas flickered past.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing. A book.”

“It looks like Satanism.”

“Satanism is inverted Christianity. I’m not into anything like that. This is totally different stuff.”

“It’s the same nonsense, isn’t it? This crap nobody can read?” She stooped over and picked up the book, and he felt a shudder go through him. “I mean, what is this shit? Can’t even hardly pronounce it: ‘P-sm-mim-nou-o-u-e-u-s-v-ee.’ ‘

“Don’t,” he said.

“You telling me this isn’t garbage?”

He heard a steady pounding somewhere, a rhythmic drumming like a flywheel turning, but loud as a house’s heart beating in the walls. It must be Lenore, hammering the walls.

She was turning very red now, with the strain of pronouncing the mandala keys: “L—Loq vey-vulp-sea—”

“Don’t do that, Mom.” He tried to pull the book away, wondering why Lenore was pounding on the wall, pounding and pounding.

“Do what? I’m not doing azca rod du naalauv…”

“Stop it!” he screamed.

But she wasn’t looking at the book, wasn’t even holding it now. The pounding continued, hard and steady in the walls, and the words came from her throat in thick waves, in gouts of vileness splattering the room. It wasn’t merely the words that sickened him; something rode in on the tide of sound, a seething presence that made the air itself cringe and crawl. The tide picked up his mother and carried her across the room, flung her toward him. No one he knew could be seen in her eyes just then.

But in the air above her he saw something familiar and not entirely unexpected.

It was dim, far dimmer than the mandala Lenore had summoned, but its power was very great. This one was flat and shimmering with membranous light, like a fat decayed snowflake, a rotting sea anemone; it was eyeless, colorless, and lacked the flailing arms of the other. It was gilled like the underside of a mushroom, and the thin folds of its astral tissue quivered and rippled, each one raw and open as a toothless mouth. It clung to her skull like an outrageous hat, attached by suction to her soul—fixed by the pressure of its hideous kiss. It fattened on her rage and anger, guiding her this way and that as she rushed about. Suddenly her eyes did not seem drunken; the mist that clouded them could claim a different source.

He backed into the hall, toward the bedroom where Lenore was pounding. The storm raked the sides of the house, tearing at the walls, shaking windows, screaming almost as loud as he wanted to.

His mother came on with both hands reaching for his throat. He ducked from her grasp and came up hard against Lenore. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear, alert with her own consciousness, thank God.

But the walls continued to pound. Lenore had nothing to do with that. There was something else in the house, invoked by his mother’s words, which kept on coming, shaking the house, splitting the wood planks of the floor, clawing at the foundation, hammering nails out backward with the fingers of the storm.

Lenore covered her ears, her face twisting up in pain and horror.

“Make her stop!” she cried. “Make her stop!”

Suddenly Mrs. Renzler paused, choking off the chant; she staggered sideways, grabbing for purchase on the blank wall. Her eyes rolled up as she shivered and let out a groan. She was waging a battle inside herself, but he could hardly help her fight it. He had to protect Lenore and himself; that was his priority.

While his mother fought, Michael dragged Lenore into the kitchen, toward the back door. They could get into the Volkswagen, go for the police—go somewhere. The hospital. California. They’d have to go without luggage; but they needed money.

He turned from the door to the phone, back to the door again. He looked to Lenore for advice, and then his mother lurched into the kitchen. She was chanting again, still reaching for him. She must have knocked open the bathroom door on her way, since Scabby was now weaving between her ankles, smearing them with blood. Her eyes were bloodshot and bloodthirsty. Weakened by alcohol, she had already lost her battle.

The horror of seeing her like this paralyzed him. It struck past all defenses, all intellectual barriers. He couldn’t convince himself that something alien impelled her. She was still his mother, and if this was the nature of their relationship, the delicate balance on which the universe stood poised, then there was no reason to live. It was better to surrender to her. Better to bare his throat for her nails.

She moved quickly to fulfill his desire. He let out a choked prayer as her hands closed around his neck. Then he heard a dull clang.

Her hands fell away. She collapsed to the floor.

Lenore stood over her, a heavy iron skillet dangling from her hand. Grease from their breakfast, eggs and hamburger, dripped from the pan as she stood there. It mingled with the blood that oozed through his mother’s matted hair.

At the same instant, as if the sound of the pan had been the final beat in a tuneless song, the pounding in the walls stopped dead.

He rushed to the sink. The sight of blood and grease, the sudden memory of Tucker’s bedroom, the panic of the last hours—it all welled up in him.

When he managed to look around again, Lenore was taking his mother’s pulse. She looked calm and controlled, kneeling like an angel over the prostrate woman.

“I think she’ll be all right,” she said. “I didn’t hit her too hard.”

Michael crouched and touched his mother’s slack face, his heart crying out inside him at the sight. Lenore showed him where the skillet had hit; the skin had split, spilling blood, and a knot was swelling through the ooze. She had cut her lip falling, and that was bleeding too. Scabby crouched nearby, sniffing at the hamburger grease.

“We have to get her to the hospital,” he said.

“No,” Lenore said firmly. “We have to go.”

“What?”

“If we do that, Michael, we’ll get caught here. We’ll never get away.”

“We can’t just leave her here. It’s my mother, Lenore!”

“I’ll throw more stuff in a bag. We’ll take her home, tell Earl she came in—blind drunk—fell and hit her head. Leave it to him, Michael.”

He gazed down at his mother. She was breathing steadily, but what did that prove? “I don’t know….”

“It’s the only way. Now get up. Hurry.”

He started to protest; he could think of a million good, logical reasons against what she proposed. But as he looked up, he saw the mandala floating over her, as if it had aligned itself along a fracture plane in a crystal, invisible except at certain angles. It hovered there, malignantly sculling the air, stroking Lenore with great tenderness, but also threatening her—letting him know what it would do if he hesitated, or opposed it in any way.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

15

Derek ‘s answering machine was blinking when he walked in that evening. “You have one message,” said the snorkeled voice. Lilith, he thought, his heart leaping. But he was furious at her too and luxuriated in the thought of her pathetic excuse, her inevitable apology. Of course, she had never broken up with him before, and he could not be sure these things would follow. They were certainly not Lilith’s style. In fact, it was too soon for her to be calling. She would let him dangle for weeks, probably; just as she went for weeks without calling him even when things were going well.

Having convinced himself that it couldn’t be her, he decided not to play the message at all.

At that moment, the phone rang. He snatched it up with a hopeless wish he recognized too late to stifle. Lilith!

“Hello?”

“Have I reached Mr. Derek Crowe?” A man’s voice, unfamiliar; street noises—a siren, in fact, blasting its way into his apartment. He realized he could hear a siren on the street below too.

“Who is this?”

“I don’t want to alarm you, Mr. Crowe, but I would like to speak to you about the mandalas.”

“Alarm me? Why should that alarm me? Are you a reporter?”

Absently he reached out and touched the button on the answering machine, as if Lilith might rescue him from this caller, if she were there. The machine clicked its way to the start of the message.

“No, no. I am a very ordinary person—well, maybe not so ordinary. I have unusual knowledge; I think you will understand me better if we could talk in person, even very briefly.”

The message began: “Hello, I hope this is the number for Derek Crowe—your machine did not say.” It was another strange male voice, this one speaking with a French accent. “We have been trying to reach you for a very long time now, and I hope this time I am successful.”

“How did you get my number?”

“I can’t really tell you that. Let me assure you, sir, I am a very good citizen. I mean to cause you no harm, no trouble. I only want to prevent trouble.”

“My name is Etienne. I am one of the owners of the Club Mandala, which is set to open here on February sixth—the thirty-seventh day of the year!”

Club Mandala? This was ridiculous! Now they were calling him!

He tried to keep his attention on his live caller. “How do you mean?”

“I and my partner were really wishing very much to get in touch with you, eh, to talk to you about the mandalas, and your part in the whole show.”

“I don’t—it’s not something I wish to discuss on the phone.”

“I don’t have time for games,” he said.

“I think we could have some very interesting information to exchange.”

“I promise, this is no game. I am quite sincere. I have come a long way to see you. I assure you, this problem is very important to me, as a representative of the Cambodian people here in California.”

Cambodia? Derek thought with a start. Oh, no.

He started to respond with a poorly formed objection, but the answering machine, the hesitant yet cocky voice, was maddening, breaking his concentration.

“Please give me a call as soon as you can, so we can meet and discuss these things. We hope we can involve you somehow in the club. There is a place in it for all of us, I think. My number—”

Derek slammed down his hand, switching off the machine.

“What do you mean, a representative?” he said. “A politician?”

“Well, I am active in a small way in politics, yes. But I am not here in a political office. I prefer to be very discreet just now. My constituents might be upset even to know what I have learned about your work with these, as you call them, mandalas. I am here for their sake. I hope to spare them much pain.”

The mention of Cambodia exhumed the specter of Elias Mooney. It was as if Eli were hounding him in death, resurrected by the publication of the book; as if every time the mandalas were introduced to another fresh mind, Eli’s shade grew a bit denser and darker, asserting its connection to the whole mess. Michael Renzler, Bob Maltzman, and now this man. He prayed this did not mean his caller had known Elias too.

It crossed his mind that some sort of blackmail might be shaping up here. He could shut off the Club Mandala lunatics, but he sensed he could not ignore this man. Not until he’d heard his demands, at any rate.

“Where—where are you?” he said after a moment’s pause.

“I am very close,” said the man. “Can I please buy you a coffee? If we could only meet for several minutes, it would be very important.”

“Where?”

“I could not help but notice, there is a Cambodian restaurant across the street from you. We could meet there….”

“How soon?”

“As soon as is convenient.”

“Now,” Derek said. “Let’s get this over with. How will I know you?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I know you from your books.” He laughed, a deep rattle. “Bye-bye.”

Derek put down the phone. He had not yet even taken off his coat. The mandalas were taking over his life, he realized, making it practically unlivable. But maybe all this would lead to some kind of publicity. Maybe he should devote himself to getting the most out of this book, and stop worrying about the next. See where that took him. A foiled blackmail attempt—and surely the Mooney connection was too tenuous ever to be exposed—could be played up in a big way. He would have to figure the man’s angle, that was all. He was sure of his own immunity; for all practical purposes, he was innocent of anything.

He switched on the answering machine to let it finish its message and noted down the number of the Club Mandala owner on a Post-it, which he shoved in his pocket. He’d call them, all right. He was just getting warmed up.

Outside, he crossed the street one step ahead of traffic, arriving at the door of the Prey Svay Cafe just as a man standing there opened the door to him. He stopped and stared at the man, half a head shorter than he, wiry and very dark, with thinning gray hair but otherwise clean-shaven; exuding strength and confidence, but all of it hard won. The skin of his face was so scarred that it looked like pockmarks; the hand holding the door was also covered with knobbly scar tissue. Derek bowed slightly, as if that were the custom in all of Asia, then felt like an idiot when the man put out his free hand and shook.

“I am Huon.”

“All right.”

Derek entered ahead of him. It was a small restaurant with a counter running down the middle, where several isolated patrons sat sipping soup and watching the kitchen or reading newspapers; the opposite wall was lined with booths. Derek slid into the far corner of the last booth. Huon stood for a moment removing a gray plastic raincoat, revealing a neat tweed jacket, a striped oxfordcloth shirt with several pens in the pocket, black tie knotted in a double Windsor. He folded his coat carefully and laid it on the bench cushion. As he sat beside it, Derek saw that the man’s left ear was missing. A gnarled clump of scar tissue was all that remained of it; that and a livid scar like a fresh bruise.

Huon caught him staring and touched the spot with a scarred finger. Derek made a point of not looking away; he would not be squeamish with a man who, after all, had come to stare at him.

“Many suffered,” he said, “under the Khmer Rouge. Physical anguish was often the least of it. I assume you know something of Cambodia? Democratic Kampuchea? The Pol Pot, Ieng Sary regime?”

“I didn’t come here for a history lesson.”

“Oh, but this is not history—it is more like current events. The Khmer Rouge are a power in Cambodia today.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

Huon sighed and tilted his head to one side, folding his hands. The waiter appeared at the end of the table. “That is what I would like to know,” he said. “Coffee only?” Derek nodded. Huon ordered for the two of them, speaking what Derek supposed was Khmer. The plump little waiter nodded, his eyes lingering on Huon at least as openly as Derek’s had, then he moved away slowly, glancing back at them twice in the time it took him to reach the kitchen. He continued to look over occasionally from beyond the counter. When he returned he carried two water glasses with a half inch of condensed milk at the bottom of each and steel coffee filters perched on their rims, draining into the milk. Derek found such stuff undrinkable, cloying and bitter at the same time; he hated the taste of the canned milk. He pushed the glass away from him. “Just bring me a cup of black coffee,” he said. “You can take this away.”

“I’m sorry,” Huon said. “I thought you might be more of a connoisseur.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Mr. Crowe…” Huon blinked several times, as if finding the right place in a teleprompted script.

“Mr. Huon…”

“No, that is my first name. I prefer not to give you my last, just now. I am a city councilman in Southern California, and I wish to keep all this very quiet, in order to protect my people—Cambodian refugees, I mean—from more harm.”

“What can I possibly do to harm your voters?”

“You have already done a great deal, I’m afraid, merely by printing your book.”

“I don’t follow you at all.”

“I think you must.” Huon’s voice, warm and conciliatory, suddenly opened to expose a reach of colder, deeper levels—those depths in which he had weathered privation and suffering yet found the strength to survive. Nothing in his outward appearance had changed, but suddenly Derek realized that the man was graver than he had suspected. He felt another twinge of fear. Did this really have to do with Elias after all?

“I think you must, because you have the mandalas. You have them exactly. And there is only one place you could have had them from.”

Derek’s coffee arrived. He gulped it hastily, burning several layers of tissue inside his mouth but hardly feeling it as he tried to anticipate Huon’s next words and plan his response. He must get Huon off his track somehow, if what he feared was coming… .

“What does the name Tuol Sleng mean to you?” Huon said.

Derek relaxed, because the name meant nothing to him. He shrugged, pleased to be able to appear wholly innocent now.

“Another Cambodian restaurant?” he asked.

He was glad to see Huon look disappointed. “Tuol Sleng,” he repeated. “The name means, in Khmer, the Hill of the Poison Tree. It is a district in Phnom Penh, but more importantly, it was an interrogation center in that spot, established by the Khmer Rouge during their control of Cambodia, between about 1975 and 1979. Where were you during those years, Mr. Crowe, if I may ask?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was in college and then working in an ad agency. I certainly wasn’t gallivanting about Southeast Asia like one of those hippy mystics you must have mistaken me for.”

“No one went ‘gallivanting’ in Cambodia during those years. Do you know where I was, Mr. Crowe?”

“If I could hazard a guess, I suppose I’d say you were in Tuol Sleng.”

“Very good! But only at the very end of the regime. No one lasted very long there. Only a few survived its collapse. I escaped, yes—first Tuol Sleng and then the Vietnamese invaders. I fled to Thailand, collecting some of these scars on the way to the border.” He raised his scragged hand. “We were not supposed to leave the path, you see; it was mined all around. But whenever shells went off around us, someone always panicked and jumped for cover. In this case it was several children I was looking after. Orphans. I chased after, trying to stop them, but too late. Their bodies shielded me from worse damage. They all died. These lumps—” He touched some of the grainy scars on the back of his hand—“These are shards of their bone, along with shrapnel, buried in my flesh. All that remains of those children.”

Huon held Derek’s eyes, as if daring him to look away. “That was at the border, among friends.” His hand traveled slowly to the left side of his face; he laid the finger along his blackened jaw. “This I lost in Tuol Sleng.”

Derek’s coffee tasted cold and bitter. He realized he had been holding it in his mouth without swallowing; he almost gagged as he forced it down.

“One man I knew there, just before the end, lost more than this. You could say he lost almost everything he had, before they found they could keep him alive no longer. This man, I think you know a great deal about him.”

Derek groped clumsily for the face he’d put on a few moments ago, but it seemed inappropriate now. The best he could manage was to look stupid and horrified.

“Maybe you did not know him. How could you, after all, being a young… what, copywriter? But what he had, everything he had to give, came to you, I feel. I am not sure how that could be. but I will not question too much. Is it not strange how things come together, as if with a will of their own? Look how far I have come, Mr. Crowe—all the way from Cambodia to Long Beach, and now to you. I think there is a reason for this. I think it is because you are meant to give me what you have. It never truly belonged to you, and you have done enough damage with it already. I am begging you to give it to me, so that I may destroy this awful thing.”

Derek realized he had to get a better grip on the situation, or Huon would surely drag him into an endless circle of accusations.

“Could you possibly be any vaguer?” he said. “If I had the slightest idea what you were talking about, or getting at, I might have broken off this conversation before now. As it is, the only reason I’m still sitting here is to marvel at how one man can say so much without making a shred of sense. It’s all very touching, I assure you; I feel for the refugees, and I’m sorry your people are in their present plight. But the rest of it—you haven’t said a single word that means a thing to me.”

“Mr. Crowe—”

“No, wait a minute, please, Huon. Have you read my book?”

“I have seen the mandalas, as you call—”

“That’s not what I asked. Have you read it?”

Huon shook his head reluctantly, as if it pained him to concede any ground. Oh, he is a politician, Derek thought.

“If you’d read my book, you would know how the mandalas came to me. They were channeled, by forces I was unaware of until the moment they announced themselves, through a woman I was seeing for spiritual counseling.”

“I thought you were in advertising.”

“That was in the seventies. In the eighties I turned to spiritual pursuits. My point is, if you think you recognize these symbols, maybe it’s because they have revealed themselves to both of us from the same source.”

Huon’s face darkened. “That is… scarcely possible.”

“I would have said so myself, a few months ago.” And here he had it: the inspiration that would draw Huon off his scent and send him on an even more insane and complicated trail. It was exactly what he needed! “But then I began to see the mandalas around town. On posters, billboards, flyers. The mandalas from my book—but having nothing to do with me.”

Huon’s fingers tightened around his water glass, still full of coffee he had not touched. The bone scars, mine scars, stood out like white kernels beneath the flesh.

“My book had yet to be published, you see? No one else knew of the designs. Until that moment I still might have half-believed they were a delusion of my patient—‘Ms. A’ I call her—but these came from an independent source. There is, even now, a nightclub preparing for its grand opening, with no other purpose than to dazzle the city with a huge display of mandalas. And they are not my mandalas, as you call them. They belong to everyone. They’ve revealed themselves everywhere.”

Huon’s mouth gaped. “This cannot be.”

“Club Mandala,” Derek said, smug and confident now. Oh, it had worked well and truly. “I suggest, if you’re going to stay in the city another day or two, you check them out. Perhaps they know your friend from Poison Hill.” He fumbled in his pocket and found the Post-it. “Here you go. You can call them right up.”

He laid the yellow square on the table between them. Huon stared at it in disbelief. Derek had never felt quite such a feeling of triumph; it was a small battle, but who knew where it might have led had he lost it?

“A nightclub… ?”

“Horrible, isn’t it? If you ask me, that would be far more disturbing to your people than anything in my book, which has only noble intentions behind it.”

He watched as Huon picked up the scrap, which clung stickily to his fingers.

“The fellow you want to talk to is called Etienne,” Derek said.

Huon rose abruptly, upsetting his glass. Derek grabbed a handful of napkins from the steel canister and slapped them down in the pool, but not before some of it had leaked over into his lap. He slid out of the booth, cursing, but there was no one left to blame. Huon’s form was vanishing out the front door, and now the waiter was coming toward him with a towel, looking faintly suspicious at the other man’s sudden departure.

Derek grimaced and dug in his pocket for his wallet. So Huon had stiffed him for the tab. It was a small enough price for getting the politician off his back, but it still rankled.

The aftermath of his victory was equally hollow. As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, he realized how many pitfalls surrounded him, gaping like sudden sinkholes in what had seemed the solid surface of his life. He had to reduce his risks somehow. It was time, perhaps, to remove the tangible evidence that would tie him to Elias Mooney. He didn’t know why he’d clung to it so long, except that the notebooks might still contain enough unused material to yield a second book—maybe enough to turn into a nice fat Mandala Tarot. Well, the notebooks were one thing; they were only words on paper. But there was no reason at all to hang onto the worst part of Elias’s legacy, the part at which he was quite sure Huon had been hinting.

The box was still sitting where he had left it, next to his couch, partially open. He had avoided looking at it, dealing with it, but now was the time. He wondered at the best way. Fire? Burial? The garbage disposal?

He went into the kitchen for rubber gloves. When he got back into the room, the box was opening slowly of its own accord, the flaps creaking up. Well, he’d disturbed them, they were unfolding under pressure. It was creepy but explicable. He stood watching the flaps, waiting for the thing inside to emerge, his hands hanging at his sides in bright yellow gloves.

Come on, he thought. Show yourself, you ugly thing.

Then he chuckled, disgusted with himself. He was clearly insane!

How had it come to this? How?

“You know very well,” he muttered. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

PART 4

We are the corruptors among you, the instillers of deceit and futility.

—from The Mandala Rites of Elias Mooney

We are the angels among you, the instillers of wisdom and tranquility.

—from The Mandala Rites of Derek Crowe

16

Wizards, seers, and sorcerers traditionally inhabit dark caves, drafty castles, decrepit mansions with crumbling spires… the sort of places that even when new seem haunted. In the back of his mind, Derek was expecting something along these lines on the day he first drove to meet Elias Mooney. He knew quite well that California offered little in the way of castles—outside of Hollywood, that is. But he pictured finding Mooney ensconced in a ruinous old Victorian or at least a weathered farmhouse.

Disappointment came quickly. Once he crossed the Bay Bridge and passed through the charred Oakland hills, emerging at the east end of the Caldecott tunnel, he saw nothing but new tract homes lining the weedy yellow hillsides. San Diablo lay in a dry region beyond reach of the bay’s fogs. Once farmland and nut orchards, the area had been given over to developers with a penchant for expensive condominiums in artificial woodlands. Once a small, discrete town with an identity and history of its own, San Diablo’s boundaries had blurred with those of its neighbors, becoming one contiguous bedroom community. Only a sign at the freeway offramp remained to distinguish it from the rest of the suburban sprawl.

None of Derek’s maps showed any route finer than the main strip, a minor freeway lined with fast-food franchises and motels, few buildings more than a decade old. He stopped at a gas station where the pump accepted his credit card and dispensed gasoline without human intervention. The young attendant sat secure in a glass booth, indicating with hand signs that his intercom was out of order when Derek asked for directions. It seemed only proper that he remain inside the malfunctioning booth, cut off from all human contact, rather than step out to answer a question. He was secure in his job, and suspicious of the world beyond it.

Likewise, no one shopping or working in the nearby 7-Eleven actually lived in San Diablo. Minor miracle: A vending machine in the parking lot dispensed local maps. With the aid of one of these, he made his way to Blackoak Avenue.

His encounter with the automated and fortified gas station, the apathetic store personnel, and the fortuitous map machine gave him a sense of disorientation that only increased when he realized he was going to meet a man raised in the days of horse-drawn wagons, general stores, and little red schoolhouses. Someone who, in this bland suburban setting, could discourse about astral travel, reincarnation, and alien civilizations yet to arise. On the other hand, it was easy to see how an old man could have grown lonely and loony and paranoid living out here. San Diablo posed exactly the sort of oppressive, lifeless scene that had always sent Derek fleeing toward the heart of the nearest city. The risks of the urban lifestyle were much more obvious and avoidable, he thought, than the insidious dangers of the placid, conformist suburbs.

Mooney’s house was a tiny, neat bungalow with a roof of pink Spanish tile, set back from the sidewalk on a scrap of parched lawn. The driveway was as empty as the street, which presumably meant Mooney’s visiting nurse had already been and gone; still, he parked at the curb across from the house, watching the place for a moment in the afternoon heat, searching in vain for some sign of its inhabitant’s eccentricity. The dead grass was neatly trimmed, the fence pickets not too faded. No pentacles or runes in sight; not even so much as a ceramic dwarf peering out from under the hedge of sharp-tipped, waxy leaves. The only feature that distinguished the place from its neighbors was a wheelchair ramp leading up to the door at the side of the house.

He checked the address against the black iron numbers pinned to the white stucco wall of the house. He started to slot a fresh cassette into his tape recorder, then saw that the one already in it was nearly blank. He reversed to the beginning, and switched it on, realizing at the sound of ringing that this was his first conversation with Elias. He had to tape everything, since he was a lousy note-taker.

He heard the clatter of a phone snatched up, then labored breathing. An old man’s voice, deep and hushed, said, “Yes?”

“Hello, is this Elias Mooney?”

Suspiciously, though he’d sent him the number himself and invited Derek’s call: “Who’s calling?”

“This is Derek Crowe. I just got your card and I didn’t want to waste any time.”

“Oh, good!” And he suddenly sounded delighted, all suspicion fled. “How grand to hear from you. You took my letter in the proper spirit?”

“I can’t tell you how pleased I was to read it. Of course I’ve heard of you, Mr. Mooney.”

The old man grumbled something.

“I’m sorry?”

“Steiger’s book?” he said. “That’s lies, you know. All lies. He twisted everything I told him to fit his imbecilic theories.”

“Well, that was obvious,” Derek said hastily. “But knowing his prejudices in advance, it was easy enough to get past them and see what you really intended.”

“Ah! Good! I knew you were a discerning scholar. Dion Fortune was much kinder to me. You know I feature anonymously in several of her books. Some of the adventures she claims for herself were actually mine. I gave permission…. I don’t suppose we can use those when it comes to writing my story, can we? I’d be accused of stealing my own accounts back from Dion!”

Mooney laughed long and loud at this, until he broke off muttering at someone.

“Did I call at a bad time?” Derek asked.

“Oh, no, my nurse is here. You’ll have to come by when she’s not around, so we can talk freely. Do you have a car?”

Derek pressed the fast-forward button and listened to the voices squeaking past. When the tape fell silent, he switched it off. Since that conversation two days ago, he had been unable to concentrate on his current project, Remembering Your Past Lives. He had felt like the Hanged Man of the Tarot, suspended by one foot; his hands were free to type, but he found nothing to say. His mind was busy with possibilities. He’d had the feeling this encounter would embark him on a swifter road to his fortune. Carlos Castaneda’s ludicrous tales of “Don Juan” had sold millions and made their author a fortune. Even a fraction of that success would satisfy Derek. Someday “Elias Mooney” might be a household name, if things worked out; and Derek would be living in a house of his own, instead of his squalid tenderloin apartment….

Of course, at the moment all that was a dream-vision as fantastic as any in Mooney’s letter. Derek was well aware that success in any form was a long shot; and this one seemed longer than most. But having spoken to the old man, he’d felt obliged to follow through. He had already boosted Elias’s hopes higher than he wished; he didn’t want to let him down without a hearing. So he’d swallowed his doubts and hesitations, and set this moment for their appointment.

Carrying a briefcase, the tape recorder tucked in a pocket, he walked up to the house, looking closely for any sign that it was inhabited by a Master of Mysteries. At the top of the ramp was a rubber welcome mat, nearly bare of bristles. He heard a TV behind the wall, voices suspended on an almost inaudible background hum. As he banged on the screen door, the voices died. Then he heard another—the deep one that had spoken on the phone—calling out to him: “Stay right there!”

The door gaped slowly, opening into shadow. Derek peered through the corroded screen and saw the silver gleam of metal spokes. The man in the chair was not so easily resolved.

Derek opened the screen and let himself in. Mooney made room, rolling back toward a sofa that ran along the far wall. It was a small room, with shelves on two walls and the TV on a third, opposite the sofa. There was no other furniture. Mooney needed plenty of room for his chair. Derek set his case down next to the sofa then turned back to Elias Mooney, holding out his hand.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Mooney.”

“Oh, please, call me Elias. Sit yourself down. You didn’t have any… trouble?… getting here?”

Derek had the feeling Mooney didn’t mean trouble of a simple order—trouble finding the house, or trouble in traffic. He meant trouble of a deep, intractable, cosmic nature, as if the evil powers of the universe might have been busy throwing obstacles in the paths of two Angels of Light, hoping to forestall a meeting that might otherwise lead to the downfall of some Dark Lord. Derek wondered if the uneasiness induced by the gas station and the 7-Eleven qualified as sufficiently sinister, but he decided not to mention them. An ally had materialized, after all, in the form of the vending machine. The elemental forces were in balance.

“None,” he said.

Mooney received this news with great relief, then wheeled out of the living room into an open kitchen, heading for a pot of coffee and two cups that sat on a small table.

“Can I help you with that?”

“No, I’m quite able. Make yourself comfortable. The nurse brewed this up before she left; she always makes it good and strong. Do you take anything in it?”

“Black’s fine,” Derek said. He sat for a moment, then realized that the old man would have to make another trip back to get the cups. He rose again to help.

In the kitchen, he noticed signs of Elias’s last wife, referred to in Mooney’s letter of introduction. The name “Evangeline” was embroidered on a potholder. A kindly-looking white-haired woman appeared in the photographs of children and grandchildren, among tokens of a domestic orderliness that had been maintained only cursorily by the casual attention of nurses and housekeepers. But Elias seemed comfortable with his current situation, more paranoid than self-pitying. He was surprisingly large-bodied, though his legs were stick-thin in baggy slacks, and his overlarge loafers looked as if they might drop from his feet at any moment.

“You must tell me, Mr. Crowe—”

“Derek, please.”

“Perhaps I know some of your teachers.” Elias wheeled up next to the sofa, both of them facing the blank television. “I had a wide correspondence at one time.”

“My… teachers.” Derek fidgeted with the clasps on his case.

“I’m self-taught myself, although I’ve had many guides and mentors in the astral. One of my finest teachers was an African priest, handicapped like myself but greatly respected in his tribe. A man of incredible power. I have worked in the silver body with some of the great houngans—both alive and discarnate. You are familiar with the real Voudoun?”

“Yes, of course,” Derek said, grateful for a question he could answer with the proper tone of superior knowledge. “What idiots call ‘voodoo.’ “

Elias nodded solemnly. “Some cultures still respect their visionaries. They don’t judge so much by what they can see with eyes of flesh. Not like ours.”

“Ours has serious problems.”

Elias chuckled. “All the more reason to contribute what I can to its health. I want to leave something behind when I must go, something to show that my time here wasn’t wasted. Something to help those who remain behind. Even if I only reach a few of them, it will be worthwhile, eh?”

He shrugged his shoulders toward the ceiling with a sideways crook of his head and Derek gave a sly wink. Gestures of intimacy, secrecy, as if they were two conspirators signaling their mutual knowledge that the room was under surveillance by invisible technicians and they must encode everything they said.

“Is it safe to talk freely here?” Derek asked. “I know you’re concerned about the phones and the mails….”

“Safer here than most places. I spent a good many years casting the proper barriers around this house, though lately they have weakened somewhat. I’ve been ill. They struck at me through Evangeline, but she’s gone now.” He shook his bowed head. “Their doing, yes. I didn’t realize at first the lengths they’d go to; even at my age I never knew such evil cunning. That lovely, innocent woman—I thought she could speak only truth. When I think of her lips being tainted by their words….”

He broke off suddenly, glancing around him. Derek felt his skin prickling as the old man listened to the silence of the suburbs. Outside was nothing but the sound of a dry wind in the hill streets. Windchimes tinkled tunelessly in the distance, a sound that suddenly recalled a fever dream from Derek’s childhood, lying alone in the trailer at the edge of the desert mountains, a hot Santa Ana wind blowing through his mother’s clacking chimes, whispering something specific that he never could recall, so that the sound of the chimes itself terrified him inexplicably and caused him to wake. He had not remembered that feverish waking in years—if ever. It took him a moment to banish it now.

He looked up and saw Elias watching intently, his eyes black, intense, and liquid, seeming to leap and swim unpredictably within his thick bifocals. His skin was pale as ivory, except for the stains and blemishes of age. His thin hair was combed neatly straight back, like wires of pure silver. He was nodding, and now he smiled.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he said.

Derek swallowed, his neck prickling. “How could I not?” He forced himself to grin, and then Elias burst out laughing.

“We’ve joined forces now!” he said. “They’ll be sorry we’ve gotten together, oh, yes!”

Derek had thought Mooney’s paranoia would be easy to dismiss, but already it was affecting him. It was this banal setting that left him vulnerable. In the city there were so many people raving of the End of Time, so many lunatics talking to themselves and casting their hands in the air with wild laughter, that one quickly learned to walk around them. In this case, he had volunteered to confine himself with one of their tribe. It might not be worth the trouble in the long run. There were other sources from which he could crib his books.

Well, he had come all this way. One afternoon’s interview would lead to no harm.

Derek brought out his tape recorder and set it down on the sofa beside him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no, no! You don’t want to miss a thing. And you’ll let me know if I repeat myself, won’t you?”

“If I don’t, this will,” he said, tapping the machine. “Now, why don’t we start with some early reminiscences? That will give me some idea of where to begin. A sense of… of the shape of your life.”

“The shape?” The old man chuckled bitterly. “I can tell you that directly. It’s a cube, a cell, a locked cage. It has exactly the dimensions of this room. We all inhabit such cages, don’t we? I’ve been unique only in having found a temporary means of release—a furlough, though by no means an escape. Even when I nearly shed this body—I wrote you of the time I nearly entered my teacher’s womb, didn’t I?—even then, I would have been reborn into this world. I’d still be a prisoner.”

His head hung forward, eyes fixed on his knees.

“I’m more advanced than others, of course. I’ve learned a few tricks which I hope to pass on to ease the pain of our incarceration.”

Derek hadn’t expected Elias to slip into such a bleak mood. He wondered how to distract him into other, lighter veins, telling the sorts of anecdotes the general reader enjoyed. There was little market for occult pessimism.

“I wonder if perhaps you know,” Elias said, as if talking to himself. “Is that why we came together?”

Derek almost asked what Elias was talking about, but it was an occult axiom that if you must ask, you are not ready to be told. He decided to feign comprehension and let the old man ramble, filling in the silence. But Elias stopped speaking altogether and sat there staring at his hands.

“Do you think it’s wise to dwell on these things?” Derek asked.

“Mm?” Elias’s head jerked up. “Wise? No… no, you’re right. We mustn’t discourage people—especially not the young. There’s always hope, isn’t there? That’s the example I want to set. Look at me: I’ve been trapped my whole life, but I’ve accomplished a great deal. There are things we can do with our lives that amount to more than merely rattling our chains. I don’t mean pastimes, but important things. We can change this material plane for the better. Then those who come after us—including our reborn selves—will have a greater opportunity for advancement, for true freedom. But it’s a constant battle….”

“I certainly agree with that,” Derek said, though he felt that he had stumbled into something much vaster than he’d realized at first. Elias Mooney did not speak quite the same language as the rest of the planet; there were all those alien tongues to reckon with.

“Why don’t you tell me about some of the places you visited astrally when you were a child,” he said, steering stubbornly toward what he hoped would be more accessible topics. “Those other worlds and civilizations you hinted at in your letter. If you don’t mind.”

“Mind? No, not at all. I’d be delighted. I hope you brought a lot of tape.”

“An endless supply.”

“Good, good, and—well, I hope this won’t be our only time together.”

“I’m sure it won’t be.” Unless, Derek thought, you can’t come up with something more commercial than paranoid schizophrenia. “I look forward to a long working relationship.”

“All right, then. Well… the first world I remember visiting, the very first, was inside a little bit of cracked knothole in the pine wall near my bed. I used to stare into that crack, that little jag of darkness, until one day I found myself plunging bodily into it. In my astral body, of course, but from the very beginning my silver form has felt as substantial to me as this frail flesh—and as I age it has become even stronger, while my body sloughs away. Oh, every sensation is magnified in the silver twin….”

Distant planets, Derek thought. I’ve got to get him talking about distant planets, ghosts, and ESP. Things people can grasp right away.

But before he could make others understand Elias Mooney, he would have to understand the old man himself. And that was to be the work of months.

17

Your Psychognostic Powers! was not Derek Crowe’s first book, nor was Your Psychic Allies—the one that brought Elias Mooney’s letter—his second. They were his fourth and fifth books, respectively, but the first three had been published under pseudonyms, for which he was grateful. They had been miserable failures.

Sick of the hypocrisy and stress of the advertising agencies where he had worked since college, increasingly repulsed by the clammy handshakes of plump junior executives who, scarcely his senior, were already cutting their way remorselessly and single-mindedly past him in their quest for the shimmering grail of a name partnership (imagine fat white barracudas, and you will have them), Derek had managed to save enough to keep him solvent for a few years of impoverished experimentation while he began a long-planned assault on the bestseller list. He began by composing novels—hastily written but schematically constructed impressions of gothic romances, sci-fi thrillers, and horror epics, based on a thorough reading of the bestsellers and classics in each market. He had read The Exorcist, The Other, Ghost Story, The Books of Blood, Interview with the Vampire, six or seven tomes by Stephen King, and then sat down to outline and write Horror Hotel in three weeks. After reading Dune, Stranger in a Strange Land, The Martian Chronicles, the Bladerunner novelization, and Neuromancer, he likewise hammered out Cybernaut’s Quest. He read three gothics, all he could stomach, before turning out his own rendition, titled Captive Flesh.

The three books appeared under three different names—none of them his own—and vanished within weeks, lingering on the paperback racks for about as long as it had taken him to write them. The problem, apparently, was that scores if not hundreds of other writers were on the same track, taking the same jaundiced approach to literature. There was no way to carve himself a niche without years of hard labor; not to mention dedication, inspiration, and something—however trivial—to say. He might as well have remained a copywriter. Fiction had failed him utterly.

Nights he lay awake thinking of what he might write and publish under his own name. Something real, something true to himself. Writing was all he felt qualified for, but nonfiction seemed like too much work. He didn’t have a specialist’s knowledge of anything. As a layman, he was easily confused by technical explanations, so he couldn’t be one of those popularizers of abstruse knowledge. He had already proven himself a failure in math, despite his early interest in the sciences; he had shown himself lacking in the necessary logical or anal tendencies needed to pursue a career in the law—or at least to pass the LSATs. In everything he’d ever tried or been goaded into trying, he’d managed to undermine himself somehow; there had always been one element indispensible to his success, which turned out to be exactly where his failings lay. And he had many failings. They seemed custom-fit to doom whatever new enterprise he set himself.

But he was determined not to let himself decline any farther. As a writer he was dependent on nothing but his own mind; there was no one to rely on, no one to blame. It was a way of keeping faith with himself, after years of laboring along as his own worst enemy. He would succeed at it somehow.

And so he lay awake wondering: What can I write? Who should I be? What sort of author is Derek Crowe?

At times his own name sounded phony to him, like a stage name, better suited to an old-time magician. An illusionist, or maybe an actual wizard. Who was that one they called the Great Beast? Oh, yes, Aleister Crowley. Similar….

He fell asleep dreaming of magic and sorcery and woke with a new reading plan fully realized. Within the year he was receiving letters addressing him as Adept, Teacher, or even “Grand Master Crowe.”

The only subject Derek had truly mastered was the occult “nonfiction” format. By skimming a hundred such volumes, he learned to distill them to an essence, creating a boilerplate on which almost any sort of flimsy half-baked supposition might be built up into a complete popular philosophy.

It had all succeeded far better than he had dreamed that first morning. No matter how many writers ran the same scam, there was always room for another. Half-literate halfwits who never read novels didn’t mind picking up a book about psychic phenomena, full of tips on securing a better life by developing one’s innate clairvoyance. Most never read the book once they bought it. Those who did might try an exercise or two and blame a lack of results on their inability to concentrate. No one could sue him if latent powers didn’t blossom overnight. And next week, the fools would buy another book that promised to give easier mastery than the first: five easy steps to telepathy, instead of ten. Lay your money down, boys. They were addicts.

The gypsies made their money on these suckers with no regrets. A palm-reader at an L.A. street fair had once told him he was shrouded by a halo of dark luck, which she would be only too glad to dispel by burning eighty candles over the next three months, for the modest price of thirty dollars per candle. He had laughed, admiring her guts, not even bothering to tell her off. Anyone who fell for such crap deserved to be taken. Her example inspired the rationale for his own scam. He need depend on no confederate; the real shill was the idiot mind of the eternally hopeful, prodding them to take another foolish chance because you never know, this might be the one….

Best of all, from a writer’s point of view, popular occult books never went out of print. Tracts from the Dark Ages were still earning money for canny publishers. He relied on the public’s insatiable appetite for the supernatural to keep him solvent, figuring that by the time he was an old man, he’d have sold enough of the things to finance his senility. Did the authors of innumerable volumes on UFOs, ancient astronauts, and oceanic triangles really believe what they promoted? That was a mystery worthy of several more volumes. In the end, these authors were wealthy enough to believe whatever they chose. An audience of believers could bring anything to life… but especially, he hoped, his flagging, fledgling career.

Derek’s first book took scarcely a month to write, and with the income thus gained he was able to spend more time researching and writing the next two. He believed that the general occult readers liked their nonsense embedded in a historical foundation, to support them in arguments with non-believers. (Derek had sustained relatively few such attacks himself; first because his books were rarely taken seriously enough to be reviewed by any major publications, but also because he avoided the occult as a topic of casual conversation. It wasn’t something he thought about when he wasn’t working.) He therefore intended to make his third book especially scholarly. He read nothing but history for three months before getting to work on Remembering Your Past Lives. And once he was working on that, he continually sought topics for his fourth book, while plotting a way into the upper reaches of occult publishing—out of the cheesy lower depths that Phantom Press had come to represent to him. He had seen the slick New Age volumes, glossy and presentable, with covers you weren’t embarrassed to be seen toting about in public, perfect for those businessfolk who were concerned about their image as much as their spiritual development. He knew money when he smelled it.

That was when he received Elias Mooney’s letter. With his keen eye for obscure resources, he saw a new source of material falling into his hands. Suddenly his writing plans extended ahead to books four, five, and six. He might not necessarily wish to pen the old man’s autobiography per se, but books based on Mooney’s eccentric knowledge could easily interest the right publisher. He’d heard that the highly respected Veritas was starting a line of New Age writings; this might be his entree to that house. And the old man had said he was a collector, which meant he undoubtedly owned rare volumes that Derek might borrow and scour in search of even more ideas for his own books.

And Mooney did not disappoint him. He was indeed a fertile source of imaginings….

18

Eli did not trust people readily, so it seemed odd to Derek that he had warmed to him so quickly, as if they were predestined soul-friends. His paranoia level fluctuated wildly according to his mood and medication. One day he sang songs and spun out amusing tales of his psychic exploits; the next, he ranted darkly for hours of how his life was a cage and of how his captors were dragging him closer to the hour of execution. They had taken his wives, scattered his children across the globe, and sabotaged his lines of communication with many of his correspondents.

Derek took to visiting twice weekly, and it was not long before he realized that what the old man wanted, more than a ghostwriter, was a sympathetic ear, someone who would not object immediately to his extraordinary worldview. Derek was eager to play this role. Eli embraced a far more interesting, complex cosmology than any he had encountered before, in or out of popular occultism or the world’s religions. He felt certain that whatever book emerged from these conversations, it would be unique and compelling. He began to scope out possible publishers, leaning more and more toward the budding Veritas line.

Yet Eli was maddeningly vague when it came to spelling out the basic tenets of his beliefs. He would discourse for hours on the minutiae of various esoteric sects but never name any particular gods he believed in or any specific devils he feared, as if naming them would draw their unwelcome attention. With the same scrupulous paranoia, he refused to discuss certain subjects over the telephone, stating that government pawns of these powers monitored the lines constantly, and that the mention of key words or phrases would instantly set off alarms in dark fortresses, both of this world and out of it.

In other words, he exhibited swatches of his philosophy but never the whole tapestry. Whenever Derek tried to piece the fabric together, he was left with gaping holes. Part of the reason for this was that Eli presumed Derek already possessed an Initiate’s knowledge, and Derek had to be careful never to reveal his ignorance.

One evening, hoping to loosen the old man’s tongue, he brought along a bottle of wine. Eli accepted the bottle gratefully but put it aside unopened.

“I was hoping we could toast our partnership,” Derek said hopefully.

“Oh, no, I never touch alcohol except in ritual.”

“Ah, well, of course. I should have realized. And when do you think you’ll know me well enough, Elias, so that we might perform a ritual together?”

The old man’s tufted eyebrows hovered above his eyeglass frames. “Together?”

“Well, a sorcerer’s ritual style is a key to his whole character, wouldn’t you say? It would mean a great deal to me in trying to capture your essence for the book.”

“No doubt it would, no doubt… but I’m afraid that’s almost impossible. Not to slight your own abilities, but… it would be far too dangerous unless great precautions were taken.”

“Well, certainly, we would take all the precautions.”

“Alone, I am capable of defending against the things that flock around when I cast a circle. But I’m not used to working with others. I couldn’t be sure of safeguarding you.”

“I think I can take care of myself,” Derek assured him.

“Actually…” Eli bowed his head. “The truth is, after Evangeline died, I swore never to work with anyone, ever again. I learned a terrible lesson then.”

It was late in the evening, Eli a shadow in his chair. It took Derek several moments to realize that the old man was weeping.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up painful memories.”

Eli shook his head, gathered himself upright, and sighed, as if shrugging off his pain. “Why don’t you turn on a light?”

Derek switched on a lamp, filling the room with a glare that was anything but reassuring; too stark, too bright, it caused his eyes to water.

“I have spoken very little of Evangeline,” Eli said.

“The memories are still… too sad,” Derek said.

“There’s another reason, though. What happened to us was the single most important event of my life. I cannot explain my life, or make sense of my philosophy, without referring to those days; yet I find it almost impossible to speak of them. They involve too many things that must never be published.”

Derek checked the cassette to make sure it was nowhere near the end of a reel. “Yes?” he said helpfully.

“Maybe you can advise me, Derek. There must be a way to speak secretly about these things… to make myself understood without being explicit or too grim. As I’ve said before, I don’t want people to lose heart. I want to improve lives, not fill them with fear. But for me, knowing what I know, it is impossible not to feel fear every moment. Resistance is a constant battle-it takes all my will not to give in. The same knowledge might overcome weaker souls. Evangeline never really understood, for which I give thanks every day; but it was through her—damn the corruptors—through her that I learned the truth.”

Eli was silent a long while. Derek said nothing. He set the recorder on pause, thinking to get up and brew a fresh pot of coffee, then either embark on a new subject or say his farewells.

As he was rising, Eli said, “I’ll need your help.”

“Certainly.” Derek was already up. “What can I do?”

“In the hall closet, on the top shelf. I had one of my nurses put it there after Evangeline’s death, so I wouldn’t be able to reach it, wouldn’t be tempted.”

Derek located the closet in the small hall adjacent to the living room.

“There’s a box,” came Eli’s voice. “You’ll see it. Be careful, though, it’s heavy with books. Bring it down.”

Derek opened the closet, which he had eyed curiously on numerous occasions, expecting it to be full of magical talismans and ritual costumes, carved staves and shamanic animal masks. Instead he found several overcoats and a vacuum cleaner. Above, on a shelf, was a stack of shoe boxes labeled “Snapshots,” “Cards,” “Grandchildren.” Next to these was a larger cardboard box, unmarked, which proved to be not quite as heavy as Eli had led him to believe. He got it down without much trouble. When he set it at the old man’s feet, Eli stared at it without blinking, his lips and jaws trembling.

“Shall I make more coffee?” Derek said.

Eli made no reply.

Derek busied himself in the kitchen. By the time he returned with two full cups, Eli was leaning over, trying to fumble at the folded flaps without much success.

Derek squatted down and quickly threw the flaps open, hearing a sharp gasp from Eli as he did so.

At first Derek wasn’t sure what he was seeing. The box was packed with some loose, soft material—a pliant foam padding, but strangely patterned and colored, like handmade paper. He dug under this stuff, exposing the covers of some old ledger books with red binding and black spines. Thinking these the main object of Eli’s fear, he pulled out the packing material and flung it aside with a swift motion that caused it to unravel.

Eli cried out, rolling backward nearly to the kitchen. Derek stared in horror at what he had so casually drawn from the box. It was as if a third presence had joined them, invited but unwelcome all the same.

A complete human skin, rumpled from long confinement, lay spread out on the carpet.

Had it been an ordinary human skin, repulsion might have been all Derek felt. But this sallow hide was riddled with bright lichenous tattoos in dark blues, brownish reds, and dirty greens. The patterns were circular, wheels of all sizes, and none was identical. They speckled the shoulders, the back, and the winglike shreds that fanned out to either side… wings with nipples centered high on each of them. The circles covered buttocks, thighs, calves, and arms, running right to the ragged hems of ankle, wrist, and neck. Derek found himself counting the blotches, as if the mundane task would restore his sense of proportion.

“There are thirty-seven in all,” Eli said, having seen his lips moving. The old man wheeled forward, his expression grim and resolute. “Put it back now—roll it up again. It’s not a good idea to stare at the damn thing.”

Derek could feel the seeds of a nightmare being planted in his soul, pushed down deeper than the reach of his nerves. It was almost impossible to touch the skin again: cool as a snake, but clammy. He started to furl it up, but the underside was worse than the outside, for he could see and feel traces of tissue where fat and flesh had been flensed away. Finally he merely wadded the thing in a crumpled ball, shoving it back into the box atop the stacked red and black ledgers.

“Wait,” Eli said. “Those I want. Bring them out.”

Dropping the hide, Derek lifted the ledgers and heaped them on the floor. Then it was easy to stuff the skin into the empty box; he wove the flaps together so the carton wouldn’t open on its own.

Feeling nauseated, and somewhat wary of Eli now, Derek sank cross-legged onto the floor next to the box and the ledgers. The old man’s dark eyes were full of fear and anxiety. The sight of such trepidation was slightly comforting, though he wasn’t sure how to interpret it. If Eli were responsible for this skin, then perhaps he only feared prosecution; but Derek didn’t think that was the source of his worry. There was something about the skin itself that unnerved him, as it would anyone. He had never expected to see anything so ghastly in this little suburban house.

Now he thought he had finally begun to glimpse the reason for Elias Mooney’s paranoia, a tangible focus for what had previously been a vague sense of dread….

Again he wondered if any possible book was worth exposure to Eli. He’d felt so much safer sitting alone with his research materials, inventing fantasies. There was no sign here of the book he’d intended to write.

“I am responsible for Evangeline’s death,” Eli said solemnly.

Derek nearly bolted for the door, fearing that Eli was about to throw off his disguise of frail convalescent and leap at him, flaying knife flashing. Mooney the butcher, the suburban cannibal….

But Eli didn’t move, and gradually Derek’s panic subsided. The skin in the box was not a woman’s skin anyway.

“If she’d never come near me, she never would have come to their attention. But she was so pure, so loving, and they

knew how much I trusted her. They knew they could use her as a gate because she never feared the evil in this world. She never had reason to fear a thing until she met me.”

In the box, as he spoke, the human parchment rustled, expanding slightly, finding a new position. Like Derek, it might have been settling down to listen as Eli embarked on his story.

19

(ELIAS’S STORY: A TRANSCRIPT)

“Evangeline had no interest in magic when I met her. She was a cook at a handicapped center where I used to spend time after my second wife’s death. While she and I had very little in common, in our hearts we were close from the first. Brother and sister, that sort of warmth.

“We were married twice. Once by a Christian priest we both knew and respected, but first in a much older ceremony. Married in sight of the earth and the stars, our wrists bound with a red silk cord anointed with mistletoe juice and some of my semen and a little of Evangeline’s blood. She wasn’t a squeamish girl; she understood instantly how these things worked, though no one ever told her a thing about them, and she had never in her whole life cared to peek into the sort of books you and I take for granted.

“She had to put up with all sorts of strange things, marrying me. My children from my first marriages had suffered the loss of their mothers, but they took to Evangeline like blood kin, and she to them. The youngest were grown and on their way soon after we married, and then we had only the years ahead of us, and grandchildren, and life here in San Diablo, listening to the bulldozers coming up through the hills where before we had heard only birds.

“She was so patient. She put up with me and never once called me crazy, which should tell you something right there. When I spoke about where I’d been and what I’d seen in the astral, out traveling, she’d just nod and sometimes ask a question that made me wonder if she hadn’t seen the places for herself. We traveled together at night sometimes, though she couldn’t remember our trips in the morning. Wherever we went, everyone—every being we met in the universe—loved her instantly. She was so full of compassion, strong and pure as sunlight; you could live on her light without needing anything else.

“Evangeline….

“Pointless to say I miss her. That only tells them they triumphed, the sadistic… what? I can’t call them bastards; I’m not sure of their parentage. And sadism surely isn’t the right word. No human terms apply. Misbegotten, yes; despicable; but maybe necessary, in their way. That’s the worst of it. Like blowflies laying eggs in corpses, like maggots and bacteria causing rot and corruption and decay. All these things, so horrible to the humans whose flesh they will someday claim, are indispensable. Without the mandalas we’d drown in our own psychic waste; the fragments of ego and consciousness we leave in our wake as we pass between incarnations would be eternal, like the debris of old rockets and satellites that orbit the earth until they crash down upon it…. No god designed them, you see—they evolved. But the evolutionary forces at work in the astral realms are not so well understood as those in the physical world. I have conducted my own investigations, but my abilities are limited. We have not yet had our occult Newton or Einstein, a genius who can illuminate the basic principles of the realm. Swedenborg came close, perhaps, but his influence on following generations has been slight, and Blavatsky and her brood corrupted it so. Our sick modern culture knows less than many more so-called primitive societies that haven’t invested so much into promoting spiritual blindness. Unfortunately, those societies today are all but extinct, their knowledge as lost as the genotypes once hidden in the rain forests….

“But I was speaking of the mandalas, whose imprints mark that skin. I suspect they are organisms, or something like organisms. Archetypes of decay. There are surprisingly few of them, only thirty-seven, but each I think is a template from which an infinite number can be struck—an astral chromosome, if you will. Thirty-seven ideal forms. They seem like diatoms, single-celled, unified of purpose; yet they are conscious and quite deliberate, far more manipulative than any protozoan whipping particles of food into its mouth, though that’s all we seem to be to them. Our souls are their food, the human race their hunting ground, and they breed in our souls like maggots in carrion, giving birth to flies. As I’m sure you know, our thoughts have an independent existence; thought-forms persist in a realm alongside our own, touching it everywhere. It is here that the mandalas scavenge, and to that extent they are dependent on us. But they have a greater reality than our mere thoughts.

“Sometimes the fact of their existence makes me despise the whole cosmos. Things that once struck me as beautiful now fill me with fear by implication, for the same geometries that gave rise to beauty also bore these creatures. I hate them with a fury too great for my body to contain. Thinking of them, I feel my flesh bloating; my skin begins to stretch and crack, my blood burns hot and smoke pours from my throat. But that’s bad; it does their work for them; it harms only me. I dig my grave that much deeper when I give in to rage.

“Perhaps I could have regarded them calmly once, objectively, like a scientist, but not after the loss of Evangeline. I was responsible for her death, but they are the ones who killed her. They did it. I won’t take the blame, or feed my own guilt. They’d like me to. It would rot me from the inside, and they would feed….

“I first encountered them exactly as you did tonight, and with about the same degree of horror—although I had a better idea of what to expect. I’d been warned by letter, though a description of the things can never quite foreshadow what you feel when you see them. There is something in us that fears and is fascinated by them, something that shies away instinctively even as it’s hypnotized into staring. Just as the sight of a Buddhist mandala may cause tranquility, enjoining one to embark on the quest for enlightenment, so sight of these fiendish wheels gives us glimpses of the hells that await us. They are like thirty-seven windows into other worlds—or thirty-seven other ways of looking at this one. They are alive but also symbols—symbols that draw us into darkness as we contemplate them. The difference is that they are alive, you see, while the mandalas of Buddhism, for instance, are merely pictures to be conjured in our minds. Even calling them mandalas is a misnomer, a kind of blasphemy, for that word means ‘sacred circle,’ and these are only sacred to evil. Perhaps there are benevolent living mandalas as well—the opposite of these. If such exist, I have never encountered them. They must be quite rare. These are plentiful as maggots in a war zone.

“But I was speaking of the skin.

“It arrived through the mails, which I had no real reason to mistrust in those days—days not long past, I might add. The package came from a Japanese acquaintance, a professor with a keen interest in curiosities. He had it from a pathologist, a doctor who kept a professional collection of tattooed human skins, having perfected a method of preserving them intact. Apparently the skin had come to this doctor from somewhere in Southeast Asia; my correspondent was unclear on that point. He suspected Cambodia, and hinted of a secret cult with allegiance to Pol Pot, but that was speculation based on rumor. The truth was, something unsettled even the pathologist, who had been pleased at first to add the skin to his collection. After studying it in detail, he concluded that the circular marks had not been made by any known tattooing process. No pigment had been inserted beneath the dermis. The coloration was caused by chemical changes in the skin itself, and the ornate scarring was the result of molecular changes in the cells. The cause was never ascertained, nor those new molecular compounds identified, but I understand they bear some similarity to certain organic psychoactive drugs, suggesting that whoever bore these emblems may well have been experiencing the world in an altered light.

“All this should have intrigued the pathologist, but it only frightened him. He began receiving requests from strangers to visit his museum of skins—strangers who bore similar mandalas tattooed on their foreheads or arms. Of course he denied them permission; his was a collection for professionals and academicians only. Then the museum was burglarized, ransacked, although nothing was taken. He had loaned the skin to my friend by that time, hoping that with his knowledge of various sects, he might be able to identify the process by which the marks had come to be branded—if not the origins of the symbols themselves. After the burglary, he asked my friend to hold onto the hide indefinitely, and with time he made arrangements to totally surrender it. I gather he was troubled by bad dreams… visitations.

“Now my Japanese friend had mentioned some of these events to me as they occurred, hoping that I might be able to satisfy both our curiosities; and once it was his, he shipped it on to me. I had never seen anything like it; nor did I particularly wish to learn more of it. Had I been able to return it, I would have, but further letters to Japan were returned unopened. I learned later that my friend had disappeared completely.

“So the skin was mine.

“Evangeline, as I said, had no experience with the things that most occupied my mind, but she was willing to assist me in whatever way she could. I asked her help in a ritual to neutralize or contain the power I sensed in the skin. I wished to burn it but feared that doing so would release whatever energy was bound up in the tattoos. I had to banish that first. I included Evangeline in my rite as an innocent, a touchstone. I felt her purity would be protective. I didn’t explain what I was doing; I had never shown her the skin, since I knew how she would react to having it in her house. I could not bear to frighten her. So I wrapped it in a cloth and set it on my altar, and that was all she saw of it.

“At first everything went as I planned. At the height of the ceremony, Evangeline’s aura lit the room. But then her soul-light began to flicker and pulsate, and the candles dimmed. I realized that her radiance had drawn an intruder from the dark. It circled her like a moth, brushing my face with a cold wind… not touching her, but only circling, circling, spiraling closer, casting a shadow between us until everything began to strobe. In the dark intervals I could almost see a shape like a cloudy glass bell, or a jellyfish, or a translucent flower with drooping luminous petals; then it covered her completely. I tried to find an opening, to push through the thing, but a sense of euphoria began to grow in me, and I realized too late that I was about to have a seizure.

“Like many shamans, I am epileptic. The doctors try to keep me medicated, but the only drugs they know are poisons that taint the body and the mind. I preferred to risk the fits—in those days, I mean. Now that I have no one to look after me, I submit to the poisoning. On that day, the mandalas used my weakness to render me helpless. I don’t remember anything past the initial rapture of prodrome that came as I watched the whirling shape swallow my wife. I had never felt so powerless.

“Evangeline saw the seizure begin. She rushed to call an ambulance, and the next thing I knew, I was laid out on a couch with paramedics working over me. I was disoriented, but my first worry was that Evangeline had broken the magic circle without properly banishing the things we called. They had been… released.

“Several days later, she began to speak.

“There’s been a resurgence, in recent years, of so-called channeled, trance mediums, Ramtha and that lot. When I was young, there was a similar interest in automatic writing, Ouija boards—whole novels dictated by spirits, with humans as mere secretaries. Ruth Montgomery, Edgar Cayce, Seth. Some of these people are outright frauds, as you must know from your investigations. Others are earnest enough, but not in genuine contact with any force outside themselves; they speak from regions of their mind that are normally suppressed and allow submerged aspects of their personalities to surface for a time in trance. Only a very few, less than one-tenth of one percent of those who make claims or show evidence of spirit speech, are true gateways for the ones beyond.

“Evangeline was completely in possession of herself; there was no buried fear or neurosis, no guilt or unguarded pockets in her soul. Whatever means the mandalas used were forcible, unsubtle ones. Usually astral forces make their presence known to humans subtly, inducing thoughts, images, or voices. The nervous system is a network with many junctures, many synaptic points at which they may interfere and exert control. But for an astral organism actually to overtake a strong physical body is—or was—almost beyond my comprehension. Astrally, electrochemically, they began to work her like a puppet. My Evangeline, whom of all people I would have thought beyond their power. But then, I never understood what they were until too late; I never had a chance to underestimate them. That’s why I take responsibility for her death. I exposed her to something she would never have encountered on her own, a risk she should never have taken.

“We were sitting here in the evening, just like you and me, waiting for the news to come on TV. All of a sudden, very quietly, she began to speak. I turned off the television to listen, but I needn’t have, for her voice grew louder until it was no longer her voice at all, nothing recognizable. It told me things about myself that she couldn’t possibly have known, secrets I had never revealed in our years of marriage; things more personal than dreams. It spoke of mysteries I had discovered for myself while traveling astrally in the far, ancient reaches of the universe, out near the hot walls of creation, things I had never told anyone, and which are described nowhere on Earth.

“At first, not knowing who spoke, I was amazed. But then she began to frighten me. I switched the TV to a blank channel and turned off the other lights; this gives the perfect radiance for viewing astral forms. After a few moments I perceived something floating above her like a dark crown, its myriad arms forming a cage around her face, some of its tentacles piercing her skull, her throat.

“You know the Voudoun term ‘maître à tête‘—‘master of the head.’ Each of us has a master, a loa or ancestral god who guides and protects him; they are like guardian angels, yet more specific than that. Their character reflects the character of the person they guard.

“It is thus with the mandalas. Each of the thirty-seven suits a particular temperament. The one that held Evangeline was foul beyond description. It was in every way her antithesis. Sickly yet powerful, with grasping palps, spotted with livid stains that glowed in astral colors that have no physical parallel, thank God. And its words were equally alien. Even when she used human speech, it was accented in such a way that to hear it caused me profound fear and nausea.

“Get out of her,” I told it. I used the fiercest banishings I knew, dispatched it to the great black hole at the galactic core. I invoked the Shemhamphorasch. But it did not recognize power in any of the forms of human religions; it paid my banishings no more mind than a bacterium. When finally it did leave her, it left for its own reasons; and as soon as it departed, another arrived. The first had been her particular maître à tête; this second was one of its kin. They were hungry, you see. They all wished to take a turn at my wife.

“All thirty-seven came through in that first night. One after another, they paraded through her body. I threw all my spells at them, without effect. Sometimes, by coincidence, one seemed to leave when I wished it. But there was always another after it. And another.

“They nearly drove me to madness in one night. I had never felt so helpless, not in a lifetime of physical confinement. Even my astral abilities were worthless in such a situation, since I feared leaving my body. Feared to examine my own aura in that revealing light. Feared that one of them was waiting for me out there, my own evil maître à tête, waiting like a huge sea anemone to tangle me in its tendrils the moment I drifted into the astral. There was danger enough in the physical world.

“My only peace came from knowing that Evangeline’s awareness was extinguished while they controlled her. Apparently they could not tolerate any spark of humanity in their puppet while they were present. I didn’t know where her awareness had gone, but I feared it was not pleasant; the vague memories she eventually carried back were nightmarish. She thought they were only bad dreams she’d had in the course of a night’s sleep.

“Shortly after dawn, they left. They stayed on into the light as if to show me that the sun could not dispel them, then they let Evangeline collapse. Both of us slept most of that day right through and woke near evening, disoriented, but glad that it was over.

“And then, just after sunset, they returned. As they did the night after that, and the night after that. They ransomed her. Threatened me with the possibility of threat to her. Forced her to hold a knife at her own throat, while I sat here helpless to resist their instructions, which were simple enough, I suppose.

“I wrote, you see. They dictated through Evangeline, and I wrote down every word. It’s all there, in those ledgers beside you.

“They wished to make themselves known. They wanted to begin a new age of relations with humanity. They were tired of anonymity and wished to leave their signature on the things they touched. Imagine maggots leaving graffiti in a carcass. Their ruthless greed and hunger—if one can even attempt to anthropomorphize them—were beyond comprehension. They wished to canonize themselves and force us to worship in a temple of decay. I was to be only the first of their unwilling apostles.

“I took dictation all night long. In the day, I tried to ask Evangeline about our sessions, but I couldn’t make her understand what was happening. There was a wall in her now, one they had erected, one they hid behind when they weren’t using her.

“That period of my life seemed endless, and although those were my last days with my wife, I cannot treasure them in memory. I was exhausted nearly to the point of death, but Evangeline herself was in perfect health. In fact, she had never seemed stronger or more cheerful. The mandalas induced in her a painful mockery of bliss, tormenting me with a semblance of health and happiness.

“I slept through the days. At first I tried to seek answers in the astral—but I had no strength for the travel, and I sensed the mandalas were always around me. Sleep was less a flight than a fall into a bottomless well. The astral substance turned thick as tar around me. None of my familiars could reach me through it. I found later that many of my old correspondents had died in those months, while I filled ledger after ledger with the revelations and invocations that overflowed from Evangeline like floods of poison. Even today, trying to speak one word of their language is enough to make me puke.

“Fortunately, they couldn’t go on forever. You see, they had specific goals, no matter how endless it all seemed when I was their scribe and Evangeline their puppet. One day, without warning, they did finish.

” That is all for now,’ my Evangeline said. She had never said such a thing before.

“I remember staring in disbelief as her eyes fluttered and her hands stirred in her lap. She looked at the clock and said, “Look at the time, Eli!’

“I couldn’t believe it was over. I had grown accustomed to the monotony of their dictation. I wasn’t sure what to do. It had been so long since our lives were our own.

“Evangeline was sitting right there, on the sofa. She looked… afraid… for the first time. As a parting gesture they must have returned her memory, shown her how they’d used her, so that her moments of freedom were a final torment, a cruel slap. As she reached out to me her eyes closed, and she crumpled and passed on.

“They had drained her like vampires. However many years were left in her naturally, they had fed on them, used them to fuel those nights of torture. They knew her limits to the most infinitesimal degree, and when she was no more use to them, they abandoned her.

“There was nothing I could do. Immediately I set out in my silver body to find her. I opened the western gate for her soul, but I could not find it. I sent up my prayers and went calling, looking everywhere, hoping that at least she had escaped the mandalas. There was no sign of them either.

“I never found her. What that means, I don’t know. Perhaps her release was complete, and she found utter freedom. Or perhaps they never really let go of her, but dragged her along with them so swiftly that—

“But I can’t bear to think of that.

“I never dreamed I would tell this story to anyone—not even to you, Derek. These things have no place in a book meant to ward off despair. But it was the central event of my life, though it shed a ghastly light on every other occasion. Now I know what forces rule us and what sort of world we live in. The thirty-seven are the wardens of our souls. And we… we need have committed no crime to end up in their custody. It is nature’s way. I often ask myself if I can live with that knowledge. But it is even worse to think of what awaits me when I die.”

20

Derek fidgeted with the flaps of the box, more intrigued than ever by the contents of the ledgers, the designs on the skin—yet knowing that the old man would panic if he tried opening the box again. He casually thumbed open one of the black and red books and saw that its pages were densely covered with Eli’s arthritic scrawl; the composition of these books must have been sheer torture. Some of the pages seemed to be commentary, written in English; others were gibberish, a meaningless succession of syllables. It must be phonetic transcriptions of nearly unpronounceable speech.

He opened the box wide enough to shove the ledgers back inside, weighing down the skin.

“I’ll just put this back,” he said.

Eli didn’t seem to notice. He might have been off in the astral, still searching for Evangeline.

Returning to the other room, he found Eli slumped and snoring in his chair. The tale had taken a lot out of him. In any case, it was much later than he usually stayed.

He left quietly, drove home preoccupied, and scarcely slept; once he got up to play back the tape in its entirety. Derek was saddened by the story, but frustrated. There was so much madness mixed up in it that he couldn’t be sure where it bordered on truth. Evangeline was dead, but what of the rest of it? An elaborate hoax, and if so—on whom? Had Mooney filled the volumes with his own occult inventions, hoping to give them credence by concocting a tale of demonic possession? Then why did he insist that Derek not publish this crucial part of his life story? Had Evangeline been the one to spin the web, deceiving her husband with her own ravings? And if so, how and why had she timed her death so cunningly?

No explanation made any sense to Derek. He thought Elias Mooney was a man of honor, however fantastic his beliefs. He was not deliberately deceitful.

The next morning, he called and asked Eli if he could visit again. The old man was anxious for his return.

“We left a great deal undone yesterday,” Eli told him when he stepped into the house. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed; he seemed in the grip of fever. ‘T fear I’ve told you too much, and out of turn. There were things I should have done before dragging you into all this. I should have made sure of your own protection. I’m afraid you share some of my personal risk at the moment.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Derek said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.

“I think, in answer to your earlier request, that a certain ritual is in order now,” Eli said. “I wish to bring you into my spiritual lineage—so that you can receive the protection of my guides and guardians. I should have done this sooner, I realize now; until you are properly initiated, the information I passed to you is all ungrounded. We must make sure it finds its proper path. The last thing we want is to create more unfocused channels for the mandalas’ power….”

“I’ll be happy to participate in any rite,” Derek said.

“Very good. First, we must ensure your purity.” He wheeled uncertainly back and forth in a small space, thinking. “I feel that something more than the ordinary precautions are called for.” Derek wondered about this, but he was on Eli’s turf now and not about to argue. He must appear to know already, or he would learn nothing. “More than salt. More than smoke.”

“I agree,” Derek said knowingly.

“In short, my boy, I’m afraid you need work.”

Derek felt the mood take a creeping turn toward shattering. He must prevent it, somehow.

“I realize that,” he said. “Why do you think I’ve come to you?”

“Then,” Eli said darkly, “you have no master?”

Derek bowed his head. He wished he could have studied the old man’s face, but the moment demanded humility and the appearance of deepest shame. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Hm, and so it was,” Eli said. “Raise your head. Look me in the eye.”

He did so. Eli struck out with his hand and laid the palm on Derek’s brow—a potent blow that never exactly touched him. “It is not the student’s fault when he cannot find a master. I sensed in your books that you were still searching.”

“I always consoled myself with one thought,” Derek whispered. “Every text promises that the devoted student shall one day find his master. Until then I tried to behave as if my master was with me unseen.”

“You were quite correct: That brings the invisible teachers, and it is they who guided us together.”

“I’m afraid I’m not worthy of… of your instruction, Elias.”

“These are matters of great significance, it is true. But it is not me who will judge your worth. Prove your sincerity and the rest will follow.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You are already doing it,” Eli said, and Derek realized that he had been staring Eli in the eyes, unblinking, since the moment he’d raised his head.

Eli said, “I see you in a field, among hills.”

“What do you mean, you see me?”

This was too much like hypnosis. He had lost track of himself, and it frightened him. He wasn’t supposed to lose control like this. He hadn’t yet been sucked into Eli’s web; he’d always managed to stay detached with his tape recorder spinning. It was not spinning now.

“You are very young, Derek.”

“A young soul, you mean?” That was it: Break the spell.

“No, a young man.” Eli smiled, as if to say that what he was doing couldn’t be so easily interrupted. This was like nothing in Derek’s experience; he hadn’t the resources to defend himself against it. No… it was like his first overwhelming memory, his first day in this house, when he’d remembered the fever-dream of the evil chimes. But instead of fading, instead of his taking control of it, it was strengthening now and taking control of him.

“You are standing in a field of thorns, crying very hard. You are in the shadow of something huge.”

“This is all very ominous,” Derek said, “but what do you mean, really?” If this was part of Eli’s purification, it was all nonsense. Yes, that was the way to see it. He struggled to free himself from seeing what Eli described, but it was not easy.

“I see what it is now. It’s a freeway.”

Derek grew very still. No, he can’t be…. But he also saw it. Remembered it.

“It ends here, Derek. Right where you are, in midair over you. That is your shadow, my boy. The shadow over your soul.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This thing must be faced. You must approach it with courage and nobility. I see now why otherwise you seem to be so fearless. There is only one thing you fear: facing this. Anything else is easy by comparison; but anything else will be futile and meaningless to you, until you have done this. You must be pure in order to receive initiation….”

“You’ve lost me, Elias,” he tried to say, but Eli was gone. He had been staring at him, but now it was hot yellow sky he saw, burning out from beyond the shade of the unfinished freeway.

He crouched in the dried weeds, plucking golden foxtails from his socks. Somewhere near was the hum of bees, rising and falling as they made their way through the sagebrush hills. The land was so hot it seemed to crackle like fire all around him. But here in the shade it was cool, with his back to the cement columns towering so high and still above him, where the freeway broke off in midair.

He finally saw May, a small figure in a plain blue dress, coming up the hill toward him, picking her way over rocks and avoiding the sprawling growths of cactus. Behind her, the trailer park blurred in the heat, its smallest details vanishing, except for sharp glints of reflected sunlight. Beyond the trailer rows, the sun flashed on crawling cars, the old two-lane highway clogged six hours a day. Someday the new freeway would carry all the cars at top speed, but it had languished uncompleted since before Mrs. Crowe had moved them here to Glenrock, a developing community southeast of L.A., where tracts were springing up in the fertile flats that had once been orange groves, and where Derek could still smell blossoms from the few remaining orchards on warm nights when the wind was right. The huge concrete snake hugged the hillside to the north, but here it rose high into the air as if anticipating some obstacle yet to come—and sheared off abruptly. Sometimes Derek dreamed that it reared up higher still, swaying toward the trailer park, dipping its head like Tyrannosaurus Rex, coming down to root him out of the thin aluminum shell, to feed….

May spotted him now and paused to wave. He waved back, made sure she was still coming, then went around to the far side of the column where he had dropped his backpack and canteen. He had already spread a beach towel in the shade; now he got out his hypnosis handbook and opened it to his favorite induction, the one that started with the subject floating like a cloud in a wide blue sky. Eventually they got so you could pinch them and they wouldn’t feel a thing. Derek had never tried putting pins in the hypnotized subject’s flesh, but some books said you could do that too. He was afraid to try.

May stepped around the cement leg of the freeway, her freckled face brown from the sun. She saw him kneeling in the shade and came running forward. “Did you bring everything you need?” she asked.

“This is it,” he said, slapping the book against his thigh, then holding it up for her to see. She put out her hands and touched it lightly, almost reverently. The cover was dark, washed-out blue, and showed a pair of gaping eyes floating in mist. Hypnosis in an Instant!—by Quinn Selkirk, the author of Quick Clairvoyance! and ESP—1,2,3! She started to look into the book, but she must have sensed that she was encroaching on Derek’s territory. The secrets were his alone to impart; he had the knowledge, and she dare not try to take it for herself. Besides, he knew that the whole idea of being hypnotized frightened her—she didn’t really want to get too close to the book. Closing it squeamishly, she delivered it back into his tense and waiting fingers.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

May bit her lip ferociously, squinting at him, half scowling and half smiling. As always when he was alone with her, his mind seemed to run slightly out of sync with his body. Part of him was adrift in a delirium, blissfully drinking in every detail of her face, her round cheeks, her long dark hair brushed back from her even darker eyes. Everything about May was perfect; she had seemed to him the embodiment of perfection from the moment she moved into the trailer park. The better he’d gotten to know her, the more his love for her had intensified, and the more perfect she seemed. Now she looked up at him hesitantly and his heart felt as if it were going to burst. She put out her hand and locked fingers with him, pulling close, gazing up at him so soulfully that he couldn’t think of anything but her eyes, the sweet smell of her, the dusty warmth of her hair.

“You—you’re sure it’s all right?” she said.

“Yes.” He put his hands on her bare tanned arms, squeezed. “You talked to Mike and Dinah didn’t you? They said it’s safe, didn’t they?”

She nodded, pressing up against him, shivering. “Mike said it was really fun. He said you made him think he was shrinking down like a bug, and he could crawl around between the grass blades and explore. Dinah said you made her see flying saucers come down from the sky and land right in the middle of the highway!” She laughed, clapping her hands to her mouth. “Did you really do that?”

“Yes. I can make you see anything.”

“But you can’t make me… do anything? Nothing I don’t want, I mean?”

“Oh, May….” He caught her hands again and put his arm around her. “May, that’s totally wrong, everything they told you in church. The subconscious is nothing to be scared of. No one can make you do something you don’t want to do. All I do when I hypnotize you is guide you—I show you how to hypnotize yourself. Maybe if there’s something you want to do but you’ve always been afraid to try, then under hypnosis maybe you’ll be able to do it. But you’d never do anything you don’t want.”

“Well…” He’d seen the battle in her eyes; they’d talked about all this before. But she needed extra reassurance the other kids in the trailer park didn’t. She’d been brainwashed from an early age by her church.

May and her parents were Christian Scientists, part of a little congregation in Glenrock. Derek had read lots of books about the afterlife and telepathy and dream interpretation, and when May first started telling him about her religion, he was very interested. It didn’t sound like the usual boring church stuff. The Christian Scientists believed in faith healing and the power of prayer; they wouldn’t let doctors come near them. He was amazed when he learned that May had never received a single vaccination shot.

For days he asked her constantly about the church. He would have done anything to be with her every minute of every day, so when she invited him to come to Sunday school with her, he happily accepted. To prepare him, and because she didn’t know where the church stood on poltergeists and telekinesis, she lent him her copies of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, whose pages were cluttered with little jangling metal markers and underlined in pale-blue chalk. It didn’t take him long to find passages about hypnosis, mesmerism, and animal magnetism. Mary Baker Eddy, the church founder, went on about them at length, and with great vehemence.

Derek considered himself an expert in hypnosis. He had studied the Selkirk book until he knew the inductions almost by heart. He had looked at several other scientific manuals in the adult sections of the Glenrock Public Library. At one time or another, he had hypnotized all the kids in the park—all except May, that is—without complication, and to everyone’s great enjoyment.

He soon discovered that Mary Baker Eddy was full of misconceptions about hypnosis; her opinions were tantamount to superstition. She believed under hypnosis the subject surrendered his will, falling totally under the power of the hypnotist. She thought the hypnotist enslaved his subject through the use of magical passes. This might have been understandable in Mary Eddy’s case. At the time she was writing, so-called mesmerists had traveled the country performing in side shows, using hypnosis for stunts and entertainment, playing on the primitive fears of their rustic audience. She had been deluded by wild, vaudevillian hype.

But so much time had passed! Hypnosis was a science now. There was no such thing as animal magnetism. Trances were induced not by mesmeric passes but by guided relaxation. Dentists, psychiatrists, and doctors used hypnosis regularly. It was safe. It was scientific. There was no reason in the world for modern Christian Scientists to hold onto Mary Baker Eddy’s antiquated misconceptions, when hypnosis was so safe and practical that even a twelve-year-old could master it!

By the time Sunday came around, Derek was ready with his arguments. His mother let out the cuffs of his one good suit, teasing him gently about going to church for the sake of a girl when he had never shown interest before. May’s parents pulled up in their big black Mercury—fat with fins and gleaming chrome, but slow and somehow stately. May’s parents were quiet and pleasant but rather starved looking, like apple dolls carved too thin and dried too long. They had lived in the desert for many years before moving here. Derek had never seen May’s father wearing anything except a white shirt, black slacks, thin black tie, and hard black shoes. Her mother dressed simply; her only accessory was a black pillbox hat with a veil. They said very little on the drive into Glenrock. He sat nervously in the back seat, regretting he had come, until May quietly took his hand and gave him a smile that made everything all right.

The Sunday school teacher, by contrast, was plump and quick and merry. After the sermon, she took Derek by the hand and led him downstairs to one of a half-dozen big round tables where children were gathering in groups with other teachers.

She introduced Derek all around, and May blushed when the teacher said that Derek was her special friend, and wasn’t it wonderful that she had brought Derek along to church? The teacher opened to the first passage they’d been assigned to study, but as soon as she asked if there were any questions, Derek politely put up his hand.

“Oh, Derek how wonderful. What do you want to ask?”

“Something about hypnosis.”

“Well, that wasn’t part of the assignment, but—well, you’re our guest today, so go right ahead. Does everyone understand what Derek’s talking about?”

The other children nodded with huge eyes; under the table May squeezed Derek’s hand. He cleared his throat and stood up.

“Mary Baker Eddy has it all wrong,” he said.

The teacher nodded politely, as if she hadn’t heard him, then cocked her head. “Maybe you could tell us what you mean by that,” she said, still very pleasant because he was after all a guest and she was just naturally a very nice lady.

“I know a lot about it,” he said. “I mean—I’ve done it myself.”

“Have you now?”

“And I’ve studied it, and it’s not at all what she says. It’s scientific. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“That’s very interesting, Derek. I’m not sure the other children here have studied the passages about hypnosis; it’s a little grown-up for them.”

“I have,” said a girl at the table.

“It’s animal magnetism!” a boy said giddily.

The fearful thrill in their voices told Derek they had perused those sections most eagerly of all.

“Only God should control your soul,” said another girl, turning livid eyes on Derek. “Hypnosis is evil.”

“Now, Lisa, Derek is our guest—”

“What is animal magnetism?”

“They can turn you into a bar of iron and walk all over you!”

“It’s like when a snake sees a bird and the bird gets hypnotized—”

“I heard about one guy who thought he was a dog—”

“Children…”

“—and it stands there staring until the snake eats it.”

“—and whenever you said ‘Here, boy!’ he’d get down on all fours and start barking!”

“Children, that’s enough now.”

“Evil,” said the girl again, still glaring at Derek.

“He is not,” said May, clutching Derek’s hand harder now. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“Please, May, Samantha, settle down. I think we’d better get back to our lesson plan, if that’s all right with you.” She gave Derek a big smile. “Now if you’d like to put together a presentation on hypnosis, we’d be glad to hear what you have to say. It sounds very interesting.”

He had expected more argument from her. Flustered, he could only nod. He had been hoping to impress May with his arguments, but instead the teacher had avoided an argument altogether; she seemed all too willing to listen, at the proper time.

After the meeting, he expected some repercussion—perhaps the teacher would take May’s parents aside and whisper about him—but nothing of the sort transpired. They bundled back into the car, Derek carrying a handful of literature for church youth. He read articles about faith healing, including one about a boy who’d gotten a terrible haircut and prayed to God to fix it and make everything better; but in fact what happened was God helped the boy be at peace with his haircut, which was a more economical solution than magically transforming the hair itself. Even so, Derek was disappointed to learn that the “miracles” of Christian Science were really rather prosaic.

But if his debate on the truth about hypnosis had lacked a climax, it had at least impressed and intrigued May, who began to question him about what the hypnotic state was like—a question he couldn’t answer, since no one had ever been able to hypnotize Derek himself. He’d let other kids in the trailer park read the inductions from the book, playing the part of hypnotist, but Derek was not susceptible to suggestion. He wanted desperately to go into trances, to have the wild mental adventures he dreamed up for the other kids, but no. He was always the one in control, the wide-awake logical one, concocting dreams but never involved in them. He was able to put himself into mild self-hypnotic states, where he felt adrift and sleepy, but it wasn’t the same as delivering yourself into the hands of a guide.

For weeks May hinted, shyly, that she might like to be hypnotized. They ghosted around the trailer park together, holding hands in the warm evenings, seeking shade in the hot afternoons—often settling down beneath the unfinished freeway to look out over the hot valley, the trailers, the traffic. And one day, recently, they had kissed—tentative, gentle kisses that made Derek feel as if his insides were melting and his skin were tingling all over and he just wanted to somehow pull May inside him or climb into her skin with her, to be closer than their bodies allowed. And that was when, looking at him through slit lids, May had whispered for the first time, “I want you to hypnotize me….”

“I do want it,” she said now. “I’m ready.”

He took her by the hand and brought her over to the towel he’d spread out. She sat with her back to the cool cement of the pylon, and he sat down facing her. They were completely alone on the hillside that seemed to blur up into the empty beige sky, the trailer park and the highway all hidden from view. The immense gray bulk of the freeway seemed to float weightless overhead. He could hear bees and the wind rustling scrub and the distant hum of traffic, but all that would help May go under.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She gave him a smile and a sly look, then did as he said. When he began speaking, telling her to relax, the smile continued to flicker about her lips. Then there came a moment when he saw her let go, and the nervous smile washed away, and she took a deep, sighing breath and seemed to sag a little. May was in a trance.

Next he told her that her right arm was growing lighter than air, floating up like a helium balloon. May’s rose from her lap, drifting up until it was level with her face. When he told her the arm had turned to lead, it fell as abruptly as a metal weight, crashing down on her legs. Now the arm was completely numb, lacking all sensation. He scooted next to her and pinched the back of her hand so hard it left nailmarks in the skin. She didn’t flinch.

Derek didn’t know quite where to go from here. He crouched next to her, listening to the throbbing of insects in the heat, the warm murmur of the wind, feeling suddenly alone and afraid—as if May were no longer here. Waiting for inspiration, he took her hand and stroked it softly, smoothing away the white crescents left by his nails.

“May,” he whispered, “can you hear me?”

She nodded very slowly.

He leaned close to her ear, as if to whisper a secret that even she shouldn’t hear. And indeed it was a secret, something he had never dared tell her:

“I love you,” he said.

She showed no reaction, no more than when he had pinched her.

“I love you, May,” he said again, and this time he thought he saw her smile returning, but from very far away.

He took a deep breath before continuing. “Do… do you love me?” And waited in suspense for her reply. When she made no sound, no move, he quickly added, “You don’t have to answer unless you want to.”

She nodded, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. That she loved him, or that she understood she didn’t have to answer?

“I was afraid to tell you,” he said. “I thought if I told you now, and it made you mad or upset, I could tell you to forget it when you woke up. But you aren’t mad, are you? May?”

She shook her head. He began to sweat with relief; it was like a fever breaking.

He still had hold of her hand. Now he put it to his mouth and kissed her fingers, her wrist, her forearm, the inside of her elbow. Every kiss felt electric; if felt as if she were the one kissing him. She loved him!

“May, I want—I want you to hold me,” he said. Her arms went out. He sank down clumsily beside her. She shifted around with her eyes still closed until she had both arms around him. They lay down together on the towel. He had worked quite awhile to clear the ground of pebbles and stickers, but he could still feel rocks poking through the cloth, digging into his flesh. Considerately, he suggested to May that she not feel these things. “We’re lying on a cloud,” he said. “Can you feel it, soft and fluffy underneath us? Isn’t it wonderful?”

She nodded, giggling. “Like cotton candy,” she volunteered, more herself now.

“Yeah…”

He held very still for a long time, wishing the rocky ground felt like cotton candy to him as well; but there was no one to soften things for Derek. He tried to cushion her weight, pulling May against him; then he kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids; he nuzzled her ears through the fall of soft black hair. He kissed her neck and the hollow place in her throat.

It was all wonderful, but it wasn’t enough.

He propped himself on an elbow, gazing down on her, watching her sleep. “May,” he said, “please… will you kiss me? Touch me?”

Instantly she pulled him to her and began to kiss him—not timidly, as he had done, but voraciously, opening her mouth, drawing in his tongue, slithering her own between his lips as if drinking him in. Even as he tasted her sweetness, something in him drew back in fear; what if this wasn’t all May’s doing? What if she was doing this only because she was hypnotized? What if, despite what all the books said, Mary Baker Eddy was right and she was somehow enslaved to him? Then these kisses were not born of her own free will. She might not really love him at all, but he wouldn’t know until she came out of her trance and they talked about everything. Suddenly he hated himself for his ploy, his weakness, his lack of courage. But May was kissing him, and things were rushing along with a life of their own, as if he’d become caught in her trance and his own will was itself compromised. He held her face in his fingers; but as she continued to kiss him, his hands moved down her body. May responded by clutching him fiercely, drawing him to her. She was moaning, and the sound made him moan, half in dread, because he knew he should stop but he couldn’t.

“I love you,” he said again, and she said nothing. He was afraid to tell her to speak because it would mean less if it came at his prompting. He was desperate for confirmation, but he had already taken things past the point where he could be certain of anything. Meanwhile, he knew May must be able to feel his erection unless she was numb to everything. And to be sure that she felt him, feeling as if he must share this with her honestly, he guided her hand to the place and said, “May, I love you so much!”

She grabbed his penis through his pants, and he pushed against her hand, his own fingers now brushing at the fabric of her dress, trying to feel her nipples through the cloth. Her flesh was very soft and spongy, and he was afraid to squeeze or try working his fingers under the fabric, afraid to unbutton her or do anything she might not have wanted him doing if she weren’t hypnotized. He mustn’t touch her, mustn’t do anything to her, not that he could have gotten her pregnant or anything like that. He knew from books what was supposed to happen, but he wasn’t old enough yet. He had never ejaculated.

But as always with May, his thoughts ran on one track, his body on another. “Yes,” he was saying, “oh, May, yes. There.” He unzipped himself for her, so her hands could get through to him. The sensation he felt when she touched his flesh was almost unbearable. Heat and cold ran through him. He lay back on the towel, afraid to touch her now, afraid of what he might do to her. He saw her slit eyes above him, her face so serious and distant, hair mussed and mouth wet. He looked down at himself and saw her hand still holding him. It was like looking at something happening to someone else. And he sounded like someone else when he said, “Kiss me there, May. Please… put your mouth on me.”

Her face hovered above him for a moment, gentle and sweet, and then she drifted away and he closed his eyes, thinking No! No!

But when her mouth touched him, enveloping him in liquid and warmth, all his inner voices went silent and still and he lay in a quiet hush of anticipation, waiting for something he could not name, something unknown and yet familiar, which he had imagined but never felt….

It came as a hot rush of uncoiling flame, a tingling knot of fire from his groin, burning unexpectedly in a place where he had never felt anything but the merest hint of this sensation.

Recognizing it too late for what it was, uncontained and uncontrollable, he sat up gasping and embarrassed, shouting “Stop!”

May drew back from him, a wet hand at her mouth, thick whitish liquid dripping from her lips and chin. Her eyes were wide and stunned. She jumped up choking and spitting, gagging as he scrambled to his feet, trying to contain himself, his guts already in knots.

“May,” he said, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

She made a retching noise, stumbling back from the column, and vomited in the dirt. He stuffed himself back into his pants, rushed to put a hand on her shoulder.

“May, you—you’re still in a trance,” he said, forcing himself to be calm, wondering what he could do to make things okay, whether he could tell her to forget it, if he could make her remember nothing of this when she awoke. Or if instead he should wake her up instantly. “Deep, deep in a trance,” he insisted, as if he could salvage everything that way. She didn’t look like a person in a trance. Her face was red, her eyes full of tears, and she was still coughing and choking.

“May, I love you,” he said desperately. “Everything’s okay! You’re safe, May. May! I didn’t know that would happen. Are you okay? Please, May!”

She got to her feet unsteadily, her eyes sleepy and distant again, although now she was weeping. She pushed past him, coughing, still making gagging sounds. He followed her past the cement leg of the freeway, clutching at her hand but letting it drop when she didn’t squeeze his fingers in return. Was she in trance or awake now? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know what he had done.

Passing from the shadow of the unfinished freeway, she lit up as if the sun had set her on fire. She became one with the burning landscape, too bright to look at. He shaded his eyes and stood waiting for the sobs he felt building in his chest, watching her hurry down the hill through brush and rocks and cactus. Would she tell on him? Could he stop her somehow? He covered his eyes completely and whisper-howled her name.

As if in reply, she started screaming.

He bared his eyes, saw her standing halfway down the hillside between the freeway and the trailer park, beating at the air. She stood rooted to one spot, her hands making thrashing motions as if she were trying to swim straight up. Then she began to leap and dance around, brushing at her dress, her hair, jerking and twitching. She took a few steps one way, then another, and then she toppled.

The air around her was blurred with bees; they closed on her face in a swarming ball.

Derek ran, jumping over rocks and cactus, plowing through bushes, straight for the spot. He had no particular fear of bees; he knew if you were calm they wouldn’t sting you, and in fact he’d never been stung. But he had never seen so many at once, rising in a pall over the spot where May had fallen. The swarm darted away, thinning out, and then he saw her blue dress down in the sagebrush between some cracked slabs of rock that had tumbled here during the freeway’s construction. He swatted at the air, still hung with bees like drops of solid fury, and jumped down beside her.

May lay curled in a ball, her hands covering her head, her head tucked in toward her chest. There were red welts on her arms and hands, on the back of her neck and her calves. She was sobbing, choking, as he put his arms around her middle and tried to pull her up. “May, May, it’s all right! I’ll help you!”

She started to rise, then crumpled again, landing on her side with her head twisted up to him. Her mouth was still smeared and wet, and now caked with dirt; he wiped it with a hand, careful around her swelling lips. She had been stung on her eyelids, on her cheeks and chin.

“May, please, let’s go—we’ve got to get help. Can you walk? I can’t leave you here.”

She didn’t answer except to sob, and then she started screaming again.

Desperate, he pulled her to her feet, bent and took her weight on his shoulder, then started off downhill toward the trailers, hardly able to keep his footing but knowing he must not falter. “You feel no pain,” he told her insistently as they went, as if he could somehow redeem the hypnotic state for her. Since he had sent her sleepwalking into the hive, the least he could do was relieve her pain. In fact her cries began to soften as they went.

May’s screams had already brought Derek’s neighbors into the open. These were mainly old men and women, retired, living alone in their trailers. Some of them started up the hill to meet Derek, but most stood around on the road at the edge of the park, waiting for him to come down. Someone must have called May’s mother, because he could see her hurrying up the road.

By the time Derek reached the trailers, a crowd had gathered; they’d come so quickly that they might have been waiting impatiently for something like this to happen. Dr. Grand, a lanky old man who made model ships, slipped May from Derek’s shoulder and laid her on a chaise longue in a bit of shade. When he saw her face, he gasped. “My God, someone call an ambulance!”

“She—she walked right into a hive,” Derek said.

Dr. Grand leaned over her. “May? May, dear, tell me how you’re feeling.”

May’s eyes were completely swollen shut. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out except a ghastly rattle, a wretched moan that made Derek think for a horrible moment she was choking on what she had swallowed. May’s mother was calling out now, harsh birdlike cries as she came running.

“She’s going into shock,” the old man said. He turned around to look at the others. “Watch her! I’ll be right back.”

Dr. Grand rushed off to his trailer, leaving Derek to hold May’s hand. Her fingers suddenly clenched, crushing the bones of his hand together; her whole body arched and she began to writhe about, clutching at him with her other hand as if she were drowning and he might bear her up.

“May!” he cried. “May, don’t!”

Her eyes were rolling up so hard they pulled her poor swollen lids open. Her tongue crawled in her gaping mouth. She continued to choke and rasp; he grabbed her around the chest and shook her, as if he could dislodge whatever it was. At that moment, May’s mother tore him away. He stood back almost gratefully; she would know what to do, she would save her daughter. May’s mother got to her knees besides the chaise longue and put her hand on May’s blistered brow and took one of her hands and began, very softly, to pray.

Dr. Grand trotted back with his leather valise. He had already taken out a syringe and a small glass vial. He threw the case onto a patio table, working the hypodermic needle into the vial. As he drew back on the plunger, filling the syringe, he walked up behind May’s mother and said, “Give me room.”

May’s mother didn’t move; she seemed not to hear him.

“Out of the way, Beryl. Did you hear me?”

May’s mother saw the needle. It seemed to snap her from her calm. “What are you doing?”

“This is epinephrine.”

“Absolutely not.”

Dr. Grand began to bellow. “She’s having an allergic reaction—”

“Yes, she’s allergic to bee stings.”

“She’s been stung before? Goddamn it, move out of the way—she needs this now!”

“Leave us be! She needs prayer, not your blasphemies!”

“Prayer? I’ll show you—” He made a grab at May’s mother, but several other men converged on the doctor and pulled him away: “Now, Grand, you can’t go forcing your beliefs on her!”

“I’m not treating the mother! This girl will die without treatment. Can’t you see she’s suffocating?”

Derek had been distracted by the commotion. Now he looked back at May, who lay writhing and struggling with her head thrown back, her face darkening, and her mother bent above as if to shield her from the sun. Her mother’s lips were moving very quietly, and there was great concern in her face, but also great calm and certainty. She looked up at Derek suddenly, saw his terror, and took a moment to give him an encouraging smile.

“May needs you to pray for her too, Derek. Come now, won’t you?” She put out her hand to drag him down to his knees.

May’s face was turning purple. He couldn’t believe her own mother could look on calmly at such a time. He watched in disbelief as Dr. Grand was wrestled away from the chaise longue. He looked down on May with the dirt smeared on her swollen lips, her eyes bulging, her fingers digging into her mother’s arms. May, dear May.

“God will heal you, dear,” the woman was saying, stroking May’s hair so mechanically that Derek felt certain her mind had snapped.

This realization freed him somehow; he broke from his own paralysis and ran toward Dr. Grand, whose hand was still outstretched, trying to keep the syringe out of reach of those who restrained him. Derek snatched the syringe and turned back toward May, determined that nothing would stop him, not even her mother.

“There’s no place for fear,” she was saying urgently in May’s ear as he rushed up beside her. May’s lips were blue, hideous blue. Bubbles burst from her mouth in a bloody froth. She was sagging. “There, there.” Softening. “God will make you well.” Sinking back onto the cushion in her mother’s arms, as Derek’s arm fell to his side and he heard the syringe drop, the needle snap. “Our Father who art in Heaven…” May needed prayers now, yes. Prayers to send her on her way.

“No,” he said, frozen there. He could not bear to look at her. His eyes went to the gray monstrosity that rose above the trailer park, rearing up incomplete and never to be finished, its shadow somehow to blame for all this—as much as anything. As much as bees or Christian Science or hypnosis or Derek himself. That shadow where he had gone so furtively, to do what he would never have dared in open light, seducing May to her death, ensuring he would never know if she had loved him or not.

“The ambulance is coming,” someone said.

“No hospitals,” May’s mother said with ruthless consistency. “We don’t need hospitals.”

But the ambulance wouldn’t reach them in time anyway. It was miles off, caught in traffic on the two-lane highway, unable to advance; and so May’s only other possible source of rescue had also been thwarted by the unfinished freeway.

“No,” he said again, louder now, because he could not let his eyes fall. He could not see her again; he had chased that sight from his memory and all this was a terrible lapse, he could not believe he had indulged it so thoroughly after consigning the events of that day to a place in his mind he had taken daily precautions to avoid for more than twenty-five years. He stared at the freeway and refused to see what lay below it, although he knew full well.

But what did Eli know?

He opened his eyes.

The old man sat staring at him, quiet and intent, gripping the arms of his wheelchair. Derek had the impression that somehow Eli had seen all of it, had relived it through him, reading his every thought, every sensation. And then he wondered if Eli might not have deliberately propelled him through the memory, playing it back like a videotape, not for Derek’s benefit but for his own, to see what sort of man he was, exactly how far he could trust him….

Eli nodded. It was like waking from a dream beside your lover and knowing you had shared the dream exactly.

“All right, Derek,” Eli said. “It’s a beginning.”

“What?” Derek felt obliged to plead ignorance, to refuse to honor Mooney’s crazed currency of occult implications. It was impossible, what he’d just thought—impossible that Eli could have witnessed an event from Derek’s past.

“The beginning of purification. But we must do more. We have opened the gate to healing, but you are quite vulnerable now. We must finish up the work before proceeding. Now, I want—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eli. Honestly.”

He stood up restlessly and began to pace, determined to shake the old man’s psychotic spell. It was time to leave anyway; the hour was much later than he usually stayed. He began to pack his briefcase.

“Don’t run from these things, Derek.” Eli sounded as if he were on the verge of pleading.

Don’t run from you, you mean, Derek thought. But I can’t be your sole entertainment.

“Sorry, Eli, I have to get moving. It’s later than I realized. I have some other obligations tonight.”

“Cancel them, Derek. This is critical. I insist. Too much is at jeopardy here—”

“Oh, come off it, old man,” he said harshly, his tone surprising even to him.

Eli took it like a slap in the face. “I’m serious. I cannot reveal any more to you without being sure of your commitment to the path.”

“How can you doubt it? I’ve sat here day after day, recording every word while you drone on and on. I should think I’ve more than proven my commitment by now.”

Eli took the implied insult without blinking, as if eager to join in battle. “You’ve only proven your commitment to a book,” he said caustically. “And that, only to the extent you can figure out some way to cash in on my madness, as you see it.”

“Oh, Christ,” Derek said.

“You don’t even believe in him,” said Eli, “yet his name comes easily enough to your lips. Is it that way with everything you do?”

Derek said nothing, stung to think that Eli had finally seen through him. His thoughts were in turmoil, because he realized that what was happening now might be permanent. He was turning his back on the old man; he was on the edge of abandoning his project, and it pained him not only because he had believed in the book more than in anything else he’d begun, but also because he had begun to feel friendship for Eli, which it surprised him to admit. Friendship and sympathy and, of course, pity for an old lunatic.

“Like it or not, aware or unaware, you have taken the first step on the path,” Eli said portentously, as he said all things. “You cannot leave it now. Willingly or not, you must travel it to its end. I suggest you master yourself, my friend, or you will be mastered by others. In fact, I hope that you have not already been overmastered. That could even be… Good Lord…. I took you for an ally against evil; but what if you have always been their agent?”

“Don’t be ludicrous.” He said it coldly, but at the same time he was overcome with guilt. His motives were false; he could believe—truly, skeptically, rationally believe—at most one word in ten of Eli’s tales. He was here entirely on a pretense. And yet he had grown fond of the old man, and this admission of mistrust hurt him deeply, though he certainly deserved it.

“I would never do anything to hurt you,” he said as sincerely as he could. “You may not think highly of me, but I’m a peaceful man. I’m certainly not evil. And I think of myself as your friend.”

Eli nodded, his own face full of pain now, tears starting from his eyes. “I know that. Believe me, Derek, I know you far better than you wish. I know you think that much of what I say is nonsense.”

Derek tried not to squirm or blurt an immediate defense. He couldn’t very well compound Eli’s mistrust with lies.

“But underneath all your scorn, you do believe, and wisely fear the truth in what I say. Beneath your superficial rationality, your skin of skeptical calm, I believe you are hysterical with fear. It lends you perfectly to their errands….”

“Please, Elias!”

Eli bowed his head and growled, “So… they brought you to me. They needed someone to take the ledgers, someone who can… enlarge their following. I’ve carried their words as far as I can, fighting all the way. All I’d done for them, until I met you, was preserve the skin and the books. It would be futile for me to destroy the ledgers, after all, when they’d simply find someone weaker to corrupt, another life to ruin. I would not wish that on the world. It seems clear now. They put your books in my path and perhaps even clouded my mind, so that for a time I perceived your words as full of truth and light. I am often clouded and confused from the medications I take. They made you seem understanding, a sympathizer, an ally, when the truth may be otherwise. It’s not too late to fight them, though, Derek. If you will only face these things in yourself which have delivered you into their service.”

A slow sickness began to pervade Derek. God, how the old man must loathe him! Seen in such a light, the whole discourse, the story of the mandalas, might easily be taken as a hoax, a cruel fable thrown in his skeptical face.

He had never felt at such a loss. Accused, yet unable to plead his own case, which was after all founded on lies.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.

“Tell me what you think is the truth.”

“I… I would never hurt you.”

“Evangeline held a knife to her own throat. Do you think that was her will at work, or theirs!”

Derek leapt from the sofa. “I think I’d better leave,” he said. “If you distrust me so much.”

“It’s not you, for God’s sake. I don’t distrust you—no more than I distrusted Evangeline! But how can you resist telling my story, putting it out into the world—spreading their words, so that many more may learn to pay them the filthy respects they so desire?”

“Publishers aren’t interested in that sort of thing.”

“There—you see? Already you’re wondering how to do it. You’ll find a way to pitch it, Derek; that’s your talent. People believe what you sell them; I believed you myself. That’s why the mandalas wanted you. I was a fool not to see it sooner.”

“There are a million other books I can write.”

“You think that now. But one day you’ll find yourself staring at a blank page; the words you need won’t come. It will seem as if the only ideas left in the world are the ones they put in your head—the ones I’ve given you. You will write that story, believe me. I cannot stop you. I’ll be dead soon enough myself. All I can do is limit the damage.”

He sensed Derek’s curiosity.

“Yes, limit it. What if I told you you’d have nothing but the memory you bring away tonight? What if I asked for the return of your tapes?”

“You can have them.” Derek dug into his case and thrust a handful of the rattling cassettes at Eli. But the old man swept them aside, sent them scattering over the carpet.

“What if I said I’m burning that box tonight? I should have done it ages ago.”

Derek found himself unable to speak. Something hot and choking burned in his throat, something he couldn’t name.

“You see?” Eli said. “The idea frightens you, doesn’t it?”

Derek spat out the words: “If it meant so much to you, I’d burn them myself.”

Eli straightened in his wheelchair. “Would you really? No matter what happens to me? Can you swear it?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“No? Then why do I feel like an empty vessel, now that I’ve told you what they wished?” He stared around the room, eyes bulging. “It was their doing all along, wasn’t it?”

“Old man, you’re crazy!” Derek knelt to reclaim his tapes. He would record over them, destroy all these records, leave Eli alone to his madness, anonymous and unremembered. “But you’re right about one thing,” he said from the floor. “I don’t believe any of this. I made up all my damn books—they’re garbage, cynical trash. No one with any brains believes them. I don’t believe them. And I don’t believe in your thirty-seven astral jellyfish. I think a heart attack killed your wife. We’re all going to die eventually, but it won’t have a thing to do with these mandalas. That’s bullshit, all of it.”

Eli’s voice remained deep, unshaken, as if he had been expecting this. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes I do. I’m trying to reassure you, Eli. I want you to get in touch with reality.”

Eli said nothing. Derek began to pace the length of the room, clutching his case, starting toward the door and then turning away again and again.

“You—you’ve been cooped up in here, an outcast your whole life, taking hold of any fantasy that offered itself. Now you’ve found the flip side of escapism. It’s like some nightmare where you can’t wake up, isn’t it?

“You need help, but not from me, not from someone who feeds your fears by nodding and taking notes and agreeing with you. You need someone to tell you honestly that you went over the edge somewhere in the past, maybe when you were a kid; someone who can bring you back to reality while there’s still time. But I’m not that guy, Eli. Maybe you should talk to your children, your family, people who know you. I’m just… just a hack, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t help you either. Except by refusing to write your book. From this point on, I’ll be out of your life, Eli. I’ll leave so you can get in touch with people you trust.”

Eli’s eyes were dark hollows. Derek scarcely dared to glance at him. His hand was on the doorknob and he turned it, aware of that distant bone chime chattering somewhere out there, in a dry wind that made no sound in the skeletal trees. The sound of an ambulance crept in as he opened the door. Eli stiffened as if he heard the banshee coming for him.

“Good night, Elias,” Derek said. He had to get out; he was close to weeping.

Eli didn’t answer.

Walking out, closing the door, continuing on to his car: These were among the hardest things he had ever done. He started the engine, looking over at the house. With the shades drawn, it seemed lifeless, empty. All up and down the street were dozens exactly like it. No comfort there. Madness mushroomed in the rows of stucco and Spanish tile bungalows. On Blackoak Avenue, sanity had gone the way of the black oaks themselves.

He flew home toward the city, anxious for its noise and disorder, the reassuring sounds of fermenting humanity. Cars swerved in a high wind among the gray girders and whistling cables of the Bay Bridge, cutting each other off with blaring horns; a wino hurled a bottle on the sidewalk when he was locking up his car, splashing the cement with shattered glass and wine that smelled like vinegar; arguments brewed in the walls of his building, while somewhere above or below him, or out in the street, a woman cried rhythmically, her voice a pulse of sexuality. The sanity here was impossible to ignore, and the insanity was all standard issue. This was a world for humanity: They filled it to brimming with their sweat and their swearing, their wars and their anxious arts. No room here for invisible things, myths of dread, or acts more sadistic and improbable than the ones humankind already encompassed. The skies were empty; even the stars hid in fog.

I’m not afraid, he told himself, wondering why he should lie awake feeling fear and shame coursing through him in waves, thinking of Eli, the mandalas, of May and the cold shadow of the freeway.

I’ve been with him too much, listening to his tapes, hearing his voice in my head. I can still hear it now. But it will go away eventually. I’ve been under his spell; gullible as one of the fools who read my books. Or his book, if I’d agreed to write it.

But it’s over now.

No voices in my head.

I’ll write what I want to write. I don’t need to crib from his ledgers or copy from a disgusting piece of skin.

As Derek lay reciting this litany, the phone began to ring. He had shut off the answering machine.

Leave me alone, old man. I can’t help you.

It rang ten times, twenty times, thirty.

He waited, counting, sure it would stop at exactly thirty-seven. But Elias gave up before that.

21

Late in the morning, the phone rang again, bridging the gap between night and day. He couldn’t remember what dreams he might have had; his mind was sucked empty. Groggy, thick-tongued, he mumbled into the phone and heard a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize.

“Is this Derek?” she said.

“Who is this?”

“I’m sorry, all I have is your first name. Are you a friend of Elias Mooney’s?”

He remembered the previous night’s argument. All his self-loathing and rationalizations returned to him now.

“Why?” he asked.

“Your name and number were written on a pad by Mr. Mooney’s phone. I thought you might have talked to him recently.”

“And?”

“I’m his visiting nurse.”

He suddenly knew why she’d called. He sat up, throwing off the sweat-soaked sheets. “Is he all right?”

“Elias passed away during the night.” She let her news sink into silence for a moment, then said, “Did he call you last night—is that why your number’s here?”

Dead….

“Can I come over?” he said, forcing the words through a choked throat. “Are you going to be there awhile?”

“Not very long; I have another patient to attend. I’ve notified his daughter up in Auburn, that’s all I can do. I thought if you’d spoken to him recently, you might want to know. Actually, from the way he talked about you, I thought you were his son. But you’re not on the list of relatives to contact, so I figured you must be a very good friend of his. You saw a lot of him recently, didn’t you?”

“A lot, yes,” Derek said, numb.

“I’m sure it meant a great deal to him. He was very much alone.”

“Can… can you please stay there a little longer? A half hour? I need to—”

He wasn’t sure what he needed. To see Eli’s house before his daughter arrived, perhaps. Before anything was touched or rearranged.

“He’s not here anymore, you know. The coroner’s already come and gone.”

“Still, I—” He glanced at the clock. “I can get there in half an hour.”

“Well, all right, if you hurry. But I’ll have to leave right away.”

At that hour, there was little traffic on the bridge. He scarcely saw the other cars. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he plunged out of the fluorescence of the Caldecott tunnel and descended into the suburbs that had subsumed San Diablo and, as of last night, Elias Mooney as well.

Suicide, he thought.

The old man killed himself to dramatize his point. To get at me. To fulfill his own prophecy. But the nurse would have mentioned any suspicious circumstances, wouldn’t she? She would have asked if he’d seemed depressed.

He was expecting a matronly middle-aged woman in a white cap, white dress, white sneakers, but the nurse was younger than Derek, colorfully dressed, her white coat draped over the arm of the sofa. He stepped inside hesitantly, as if it were her house now. She watched him sympathetically, saying little, following from room to room as he looked restlessly for… what?

The bedclothes were slightly rumpled, though the bed did not look slept in. Then he saw the wheelchair folded up in the corner and realized that Eli must have been laid out here to await the coroner.

He turned around quickly and came face to face with the nurse.

“How did he die?”

She shrugged, pursed her lips. “He was very frail. The coroner suspected a heart attack.”

Derek slipped past her, toward the far end of the hall, where he had often noticed the closed door of Eli’s temple room. He glanced at the closet as he passed but made himself go on without letting the nurse see him falter. How long would it take to drive from Auburn? he wondered. And when had Eli’s daughter been called? It was twenty minutes to two.

He opened the door at the end of the hall.

The room was dark and spare. A small votive candle guttered in a glass holder on the center of a plain black table pushed up against the north wall. Pale blurred patches on the paint showed where pictures or objects had once hung. One shape marked where a round mirror might have hung; the spot looked faintly scorched.

What did the candle represent? A last offering? Something to light the old man’s way and dispel a bit of the darkness his madness had drawn in around him?

It was painful now to think of Eli as insane. He’d been a visionary, imaginative, extremely sensitive—not a madman. If he was deluded, it was because his mind was so vast, so open to the myriad unadmitted possibilities of nature. Mad only in comparison to the bland assumptions of a dwarfed, stunted society.

He backed out of the room and closed the door.

“Would you like to wait here for his daughter?” the nurse asked.

“I don’t know her but… I’d be glad to stay. If you have to go on, I’ll take care of things here. His daughter might be glad to know he had some friends nearby.”

The nurse smiled, nodded, squeezed his arm gently. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Crowe. He was a remarkable man.”

“I know. I…”

He couldn’t finish, but she didn’t expect him to. How many such scenes had this young woman witnessed? Death was a prosaic fact of her career. So she left him there, another friend of another deceased, in another empty bungalow.

When she was gone, he went directly to the closet and took down the box.

He listened for Eli’s voice, bearing advice or warnings, but his head felt clear. He heard nothing, not even himself, as he carried the box outside and put it next to him on the front seat of the car.

He had something precious now—the only thing in the little house that meant the least thing to him; the only link, however tenuous, with Eli Mooney.

The box seemed absurdly important, almost a second person in the car. And as he drove away he shrugged off the thought that, like a passenger with a destination of its own, the skin inside might be giving him directions.

PART 5

Wherever a soul goes dying, we gather there to feed.

—from The Mandala Rites of Elias Mooney

Wherever a soul goes crying, we go to the one in need.

—from The Mandala Rites of Derek Crowe

22

Daggers of ice grew like deadly fruit in the bare white trees. Sunrise set the water-daggers gleaming, and also lit a frozen poison sheen that caked the highway, forcing Michael to slow down through the steep, winding gorges time had carved in the Smokies. The sheer rock walls to either side were cloaked in mist, bearded with frost. Icicles, layered like shark teeth, dripped from the ledges. He rode the brakes, watched his speed, gave the road exactly what it demanded—no more, no less, his panic held in check for the moment. He had a job to do and he was doing it. Lenore claimed she felt steady, normal, but there was still a trace of the alien in her eyes, and sometimes he thought he saw that whirling shape like a ghostly buzzsaw seething around her head.

Ahead were nearly three thousand miles of unfamiliar road. He couldn’t imagine how many days of travel that meant. He’d heard of people driving it in a few days without stopping, splitting shifts at the wheel, but he didn’t see how he could possibly manage that alone. He had a pocket full of Black Beauties now, thanks to Earl, but you could only ask so much of amphetamines. Eventually the body would enforce its need for sleep.

They had, as Lenore suggested, dragged his mother back to her car; she was breathing drunkenly but steadily, and his fear of concussion had gradually eased. Michael didn’t want to leave her car in the driveway, since he had good reason to make sure no one came around the house for as long as possible, so he’d given in to Lenore’s insistence that she was able to drive. He had driven his mother home in her own car, and Lenore had followed in the Beetle.

Earl was watching TV in his pajamas and bathrobe when Michael hammered on the door, but he’d pulled on a pair of boots and slogged out into the rain to help carry Michael’s mother into the house. They laid her on the bed, snoring now, while Michael explained how her car had come crashing into the driveway and he’d found her there unconscious, apparently having cracked her head in a minor crash. Earl didn’t ask too many questions, and Michael was anxious to get going. Then he remembered what he needed.

He’d already dug into his mother’s purse to take her gas station credit cards; she retained quite a collection from her crosscountry perambulations. He’d also taken what little cash she carried. But he needed more than that.

“Earl, I wonder if you could help me out.”

He had never asked Earl for anything before, and he could see that it warmed the man, as if they were coming closer together, Michael playing the role of son.

“Sure, boy. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure how to say this—I really don’t want her to know.” He gestured at the body laid out on the chenille bedspread.

“Well, then, she doesn’t have to.” He put a hand on Michael’s shoulder, easing the door shut. “Come on now, you can tell me.”

“Lenore and I are driving up to Manhattan to see some old friends for a few days.”

“Yeah? That sounds like a blast. Sure wish I could leave the state; I could use a vacation myself. What’s the problem, you need some money?”

Michael hunched into himself but managed to nod. It pained him to ask, but they needed something, and even sucking their checking account dry tonight at an ATM, before leaving town, wouldn’t get them very far. “I sure could use some,” he said. “But I also need some… some of what I saw you selling.”

Earl’s smile was wide and slow. “Well, well, boy, nothing escapes your notice, does it? I heard you had a taste for that sort of thing, but I never saw a sign of it. I thought you were clean.”

“Well… not that clean,” he said.

“No wonder you didn’t want your ma to know. I’d be glad to help you out on both accounts.” He went over to a little writing desk in the living room and opened one of the lower drawers. Inside were bags and bottles and a triple-beam scale-Michael tried not to look. “How many you think you want? Black Beauties, right? I got other stuff too.”

“Just the Beauties. Could you spare, uh, fifty?”

“Fifty? Jesus!” He howled. “You thinking maybe to make a little profit up there?”

“I was thinking about it, yeah.”

“Well, shit. Tell you what, why don’t you take a hundred?”

“A hundred?”

“Sure. Sell what you don’t use, get what you can for ‘em, and if you make a profit, it’s yours. Finance your trip, right? Now be sure you ask top dollar—whatever the market’ll bear up there. These are pure pharmaceutical—clean stuff.” He tossed Michael a big plastic canister with a child-proof lid. “That’s a hundred right there. Now… the cash.” He walked into the hall. Michael made a point of not following; he heard the door of the hall closet creaking.

Earl kept talking. “This isn’t all mine—I still owe my man. But I’ve got a bit put by, and you kids need yourselves a good vacation, don’t you? Stay in a nice hotel or something, treat yourself. You can pay me back in your own time; or, hell, consider it my gift. I never did get you no wedding present. When’s your anniversary?”

“Uh… it was last month.”

Earl walked back into the living room with a rubber-banded stack of bills. Fives on the top, hundreds on the bottom. Grinning, he started peeling from the bottom.

“Wow, Earl, that’s—that’s way too much.” He looked up in amazement, but his surprise dwindled into horrified dismay.

In the flickering light from the TV, he could see a faint round yellowish glow around Earl’s head, like a huge pale happy-face beaming at him.

“Happy anniversary, son!”

Michael had swallowed one capsule about thirty miles back and was nearing amphetamine midstream, gliding on the rush, taking everything easy even through his underlying panic. His thoughts were calmer and more ordered than they’d been all night or the day before, and he wasn’t gritting his teeth or any of that. It was exceptionally clean stuff. He felt like he could eat a gallon of ice cream, but other than that he was fine.

I’m steady, I’m safe, he told himself as the first full day of their journey dawned.

Then a blue cop-light flashed in his rearview mirror.

There was no mistaking it for the rising sun; his heart struck a new rhythm at the sight, and every bit of habitual drug paranoia rose up in him. He began to grind his teeth uncontrollably and gulp at a thick paste that coated his tongue and throat.

The tailing car was plain blue, unmarked; the blue beacon flashed from the dashboard. He could see the silhouette of the driver as the car pulled closer and filled the Beetle’s rearview mirror. He dimly remembered passing the car on the upgrade several miles back, looking over and seeing an ordinary clean-cut guy in a business suit at the wheel: Joe Commuter getting an early start to Knoxville. The fact that the guy was wearing dark glasses before sunrise should have tipped him off.

He glanced over at Lenore. Her eyes were closed. She’d been sleeping since they left Cinderton, Scabby the cat curled up in her lap. It had been Michael’s idea to bring the cat, since otherwise he’d have been abandoning her with no food and no master; Lenore hadn’t asked him to explain. Scabby had licked herself clean of blood, and now, tired of howling to escape, she slumbered peacefully, as if she had lived all her life in a car.

He braked slowly, angling off the road. There was scarcely any shoulder; he was afraid of scraping up against the icy rocks. The oncoming lanes were worse, though: nothing there but a low rock wall, and beyond it a river chasm full of rising mist and sparse trees clinging to sheer walls in what looked suspiciously like desperation.

Lenore began to mumble. Scabby put her head up.

Michael looked back and saw the driver getting out. Gray suit, white cuffs and collar, black tie; his black hair was greased back and looked stiff as a helmet. Michael held his breath through the interminable approach, gravel crunching louder and louder under black wingtips, until finally the man was leaning against the door, bellowing steam and motioning for him to lower his window. Michael let the window down a few inches, which was enough to let most of the preciously hoarded heat escape. The engine ticked, cooling, as he tried to read the badge the man held loosely in front of his face. He could hardly focus on it, he was so worried about Lenore and the sounds working down in her throat.

“License and registration.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael reached for the glove box, trying not to disturb Lenore but failing. Scabby meowed and Lenore stretched, yawning, fisting her eyes.

“Mmm?” she said.

“I don’t usually pull people over,” said the cop or narc or whatever he was. “I usually leave it to my trooper friends to haul folks like you down to the Buncombe County jail. Guess I just felt like doing them a favor this morning. No one ever passes me on that slope.”

Michael suspected there was more to it than that.

“Urau salu ka oalos,” Lenore said.

The man bent over, peering in. “Beg pardon?”

Michael felt the blood leave his face. “She doesn’t speak English, sir.”

“Brolorsor hesook!” she cried.

The man put his hand on the door latch. “Get out of the car. Both of you.”

“Uh, I don’t want to let the cat out, sir. We have to hold onto her real good. Would it be okay if maybe just I get out?”

Lenore’s voice ratcheted up another notch of gravelly rage. “Bawnur mosol ilderbeus!”

Before Michael could pull the latch, the agent wrenched on the door and hauled him out. He twisted Michael around to face the Volkswagen, holding him by the scruff of the neck with his arm crooked up behind him, as if ready to dislocate his shoulder. Scabby was too terrified to bolt for the opening; she cowered under the dashboard.

“All right, now, what do you call this shit?”

He thrust Michael’s head toward the car, letting go of Michael’s arm long enough to point at a large pentacle painted on the roof above the door.

“Well, sir, that’s a five-pointed star, just like forty-nine others you’ll find on the American flag.”

“Looks more like a pentangle to me. You know what that is? I have a feeling you do. I have a feeling you know all about pen-tangles and what you’d do with an inverted crucifix.”

Michael groaned. The cop had seized on the only symbol he recognized and interpreted it in the only terms he knew. There was no point arguing with him, but Michael couldn’t help himself. Defense of his car was habitual now, and the speed made him think for an idiot moment that he could talk his way out of this rationally.

“If you’re talking about Satanism, sir—”

“There you go! You do know, don’t you?”

“Satanism is inverted Christianity. I don’t follow Satan because I don’t follow the Christian religion, or any of the other major western faiths. Nothing against them, I just—”

“You are a fucking Satanist, aren’t you, boy?”

“Excuse me, sir, but you saw a biased TV show or heard a lecture down at headquarters from somebody who makes a living feeding your prejudice. These symbols are older than Christianity. Older than the so-called Devil, who I don’t happen to believe in anyway, sir. But if I did believe in him, that wouldn’t give you the right to hassle me. This is America! I’m guaranteed freedom of religion.”

“Freedom to perform animal sacrifices?”

“If that were part of my religion, then yeah, it should be guaranteed.”

“So what kind of animals do you sacrifice?”

“I don’t. I took a Buddhist oath not to harm any living—”

“Squirrels? Dogs? Maybe bigger animals? You think our Founding Fathers went to the wall for you so you could murder babies for the Devil?”

“They went to the wall to protect their interests in slaves and tobacco—”

“That’s the Devil talking right there!”

“Why don’t you go kiss the Devil’s big red ass?”

Oh, fuck… who said that?

The cop slammed him against the car, catching his jaw on the upper doorframe. “Fuck you, little devil-dick-sucking scum,” he grunted in his ear. “There’s been some nasty ritual-type killings in these woods lately and you’re just the type we’re looking for. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some of these same pretty pictures of yours, these big nasty circles, carved in the skin of the victims….”

Michael gasped as his arm was twisted in a way nature never intended. Lenore’s voice kept getting louder. The cop’s hands moved over his chest, into his jacket, and paused after squeezing the inner pocket, gripping something there. The Black Beauties rattled in their plastic container. Michael’s bowels turned to ice.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

“Wait,” Michael said, sounding lame even to himself.

Just then, Lenore let out her loudest cry yet. The cop scooped out the canister and simultaneously reached into the neatly pressed suit jacket for his gun. Michael, craning around, saw the gun and squirmed away, unable to hold still; he huddled down into the driver’s seat, drawing up his legs.

The man took a moment to uncap the container. Gazing down inside it, he began to grin. “Now, don’t tell me. You have a prescription for these. You’re on a diet, is that it?” He raised the gun again, aiming into the car.

“Please,” Michael begged, opening his hands in supplication. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gun.

“Out of the car, I said. Both of you.”

Lenore’s whining and mumbling rose to a high pitch. Michael twisted around and screamed at her: “Shut up, goddamn it!”

She wasn’t aware of him. Her eyes were closed and the sounds kept pouring out and the cop was going to arrest them and God knew what would happen then. Maybe they’d already found Tucker; maybe they were already looking for this car.

He looked back and saw the gun still leveled at Lenore. The hand that held the gun was trembling and the barrel wavered, as if the cop were warring with himself. His expression was equally inexplicable—fierce but puzzled.

“Please,” Michael said, “you don’t have to use that. She’s sick. She doesn’t mean anything by it. You don’t have to threaten us.”

The cop’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl.

The hand holding the gun began to shake harder, wavering back and forth between Lenore and Michael. The man’s other hand spasmed uncontrollably and opened wide; the container hit the asphalt with a clatter, and black capsules scattered like rain.

The man’s face was turning dark red, almost violet. His lips were drawn back in a rictus, as if he were already dead.

The gun twisted around, around. He is already dead, Michael thought. The cop fought the gun’s inexorable motion with his other hand, but then that second hand betrayed him, caressing the wrist it had formerly opposed. Both hands worked with a common aim, bringing the gun to bear on the cop’s face.

In the dim morning light of the Great Smokey pass, Michael saw a spherical squirming around the agent’s head. It beat like a heart in time to Lenore’s chanted words. The agent fought, fought, pulling his head back as the gun rose toward his lips; but at the last instant he must have surrendered completely, because he bowed his head as if in prayer, going open-mouthed to swallow the barrel.

Michael jammed back deeper into the car, pulling the door shut after him. The slam was lost in the explosion.

For an instant, a balloon of blood-mist inflated around the agent’s head; blood neatly colored in the intricate outlines of a translucent mandala, pumping the empty thing full of the man’s soul.

When he fell, the sphere lingered in space for a moment, superimposed on the shredded mists and blue-patched sky like a translucent red sun. Then it shrank upon itself and vanished, freeing Michael from his stupor.

Such was his need and determination that for a moment he checked the ground for scattered Black Beauties. Only after seeing how much blood was on them, how they floated in the spreading pool of it, did he abandon that particular hope.

He even considered dragging the body toward the stone wall, pushing it over the verge, but that would have helped nothing. He might be seen. As it was, no cars had yet passed to witness any of this. He hoped the agent hadn’t called in the Beetle’s license number before making the stop. But he couldn’t control that; he could only keep moving. The mandalas had made sure he was free to do that much and no more.name

He twisted the key, stamped on the gas. The engine roared and they fled. He looked back once, before rounding a bend, and saw what looked like a discarded business suit crumpled in the road, waiting to be found. Then a veil of rock hid it from view.

Soon after, the vapors parted and the sun streamed brightly down upon them, glittering merrily on the ice-lined walls of the mountain pass, melting the ice-slick from the road, singing on the waters of all the little falls they passed, as if the sight of these things could somehow brighten his heart.

Cheer up, all nature seemed to say. The way is clear. You kids are off to a great start!

23

Lenore woke with a crick in her neck, mouth dry and pasty. She tried to stretch but found it impossible in the cramped backseat with all their luggage. They were winding through traffic, the radio flickering in and out as they drove through a freeway underpass and then up again among city buildings. The tune clamoring out of the tinny little speaker, almost unrecognizable, was Sonic Youth’s “Satan Is Boring.” Michael had found a college radio station. At first she thought they must be in Knoxville, but then a huge billboard flew past, advertising a used car lot in Nashville. She sat up quickly. Scabby perched on the seatback and meowed at her.

Michael spied her in the rearview mirror. “Hey. You feeling any better?”

“I feel like shit,” she said. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

As far as she recalled, she’d been sleeping since they left Cinderton. She was ravenous.

“Are we gonna eat?” she asked. “There’s a McDonald’s up there—you see it?”

He changed lanes, gliding toward the off ramp. His eyes looked bloodshot. “Caffeine,” he croaked.

“What don’t I remember?”

“The narc.”

“What narc?”

“Forget it.”

While Michael waited in line to order, Lenore went into the bathroom to wash her face. Looking into the mirror, she saw the little mandala printed on her forehead. It was like a porthole, a window swinging open on another world. A thin dark light poured out of the symbol. Most of the light shone backward into her skull, burning out all the stagnation, hesitation, and pockets of decay that had formed in her mind while she slept.

The metal stalls began to waver. The ceiling darkened to a shade of stained stone, the fluorescents took on a bruised, purplish hue. She felt a sudden terror of meeting her own eyes.

She had forgotten this part—forgotten how the world could melt and run if you looked at it the right way. When it happened in her house it was one thing, but this place was alien. She wanted to run, but everything was too strange, and the car was out somewhere in the foreign landscape. She could get lost between here and there. Instead she retreated to a stall, trying not to notice how the metal door hung at such an impossible angle that it didn’t swing straight, but folded into itself like a four-dimensional solid rotating through three dimensions, never quite all there. The toilet was even worse: It slopped and surged, blackish-green slime working like a noxious tongue down in the stained throat. She turned away and leaned against the wall, her eyes inches from a tangle of incomprehensible graffiti, crude mandalas done in Magic Marker; the text of the Thirty-Seventh Key ran down to toilet paper dispensers that gave out pads of waxy sandpaper. She had to shut her eyes not to begin pronouncing the words herself.

At that moment, she heard the rest room door scream open, and then voices: a woman’s, a child’s. The room sank into a darker light as the toilets gurgled and cooed; Lenore’s mind began to dip into unconsciousness, retreating from the harsh new presence.

No, she thought. I want to see everything, remember everything. No more blackouts.

Her mandala must have responded to her sincerity, since the encroaching haze was suddenly blown away. She felt her mind expanding with crystal clarity. Her consciousness hovered somewhere over her body; she hung below the ceiling like a helium balloon, looking down on the open area of the restroom. An enormous woman stood there, foreshortened before the mirror that was now a black window and not a mirror at all; she clutched by the hand a small girl who was screaming and crying and trying to tear her arm away. As Lenore gazed down, the woman slapped the child across the face. The girl fell still, hunching away and backing into a corner between the sinks and the wall. The woman massaged her hand then chased the child into the narrow corner, taking a handful of her hair and wrenching her out into the middle of the floor. The toilets groaned and vomited their contents on the slime-caked tiles. Bloody shit began to flow up the walls. The girl tried to scream again, but the woman clapped her in the mouth and slammed her head against the edge of the sink, catching her by the forearm when she would have slumped.

Lenore was not alone. Two mandalas blistered through the ceiling, drawn in by the spectacle.

The fat woman glanced up for a second, her eyes red, her face aboil with pus, flesh and fat slithering from cheek and jaw. She seemed to be smiling at the mandalas, but Lenore knew she couldn’t actually see them. Her attention went back to the girl, now more like a charred monkey dragged along unresisting. The mandalas bobbed lower, wheels of grainy flame. One flailed the mother with tendrils like bullwhips coated with broken glass and razors, goading her on like a horseman whipping its broken mount to impossible feats. The other hung above the child and peeled back filmy lips from a myriad pores that perforated the pulsating disc of its body. Each pore or mouth was a gate into another world, and as they opened Lenore could hear screams from somewhere within that realm the color of a stomach. As it lowered toward the shriveling girl, it began to siphon off a thin mist like smoke or steam that curled wispily from her soul, an aroma of agony visible to Lenore, who could no longer look away or forget or ignore anything. The girl was left with a little less juice, and the mandala looked quite a bit fatter. From the shriveled look of the child, this had been going on for quite a while. Once the one had fed from the girl, the other wrapped itself around the mother and caught at the streaming ribbony flecks of astral tissue, like bloody chunks of soul, that had torn free with every act of violence and now hung around the woman’s head waiting to be harvested by her keeper. The mandalas kept the humans like a couple of prize milk cows, like ants tending aphids.

Lenore jarred back into her body. The cold metal walls of the stall clanged in around her, drab and unmarked, the toilet paper hanging in limp strands, the porcelain bowl sparkling, all its chrome recently polished. Thinking herself safe, she opened the door and stepped out.

The mother stood there, running water, holding her daughter to the sink. The woman’s face was restored; the girl looked small but not withered; she startled at the sight of Lenore, but otherwise showed no particular signs of suffering. The woman was scooping water into the girl’s face, and now she reached for paper towels to dry her daughter’s mouth; but Lenore’s appearance slowed and distracted her. They both stared at Lenore, openly disgusted by her black clothes, her streaky dyed hair, all of which Lenore could see in the mirror behind them. When the woman’s eyes went to the symbol on her forehead, she jerked her daughter away, but her lips were moving and Lenore could hear her muttered obeisances. She ducked and bowed, as if humbling herself before a priestess of her religion. Lenore scraped past them toward the door. It took a conscious effort to continue seeing them as humans, especially when their auras gave off a brittle electric buzz accompanied by the stench of rot and burning hair.

Lenore hurried out to the car, afraid to sit where she would have to look at people. Michael returned with a tall cup and a paper bag stuffed full. She unwrapped an Egg McMuffin, but when she saw what it had turned into she set it on the floor for Scabby.

“I saw…” she started to say. “In the rest room just now….”

“What?” He washed down his eggs with a huge swallow of Coke.

“A woman beating her child.”

“I think I saw them. The little snot was making a scene in there; she wanted a milkshake for breakfast. I’d have paddled her too.”

“She was really beating her. I thought she was going to kill her.”

“What? I doubt she would beat her in a McDonald’s.”

“They were in the bathroom. They didn’t know I could see them.”

“Maybe you—maybe you were seeing things, Lenore. You know what I mean? I saw them come out of there, and the girl was quiet, but she didn’t look abused.”

Lenore couldn’t answer, because she wasn’t sure what she’d seen. She’d seen two things: the scene of torture, and then the pair facing her, looking superficially unharmed. She wondered which was real and then realized that both were. The first scene, the one she’d witnessed from above, had been a mental projection, something running parallel to the physical world; she had seen what the mother wished to do in that moment; she had seen the fulfillment of repressed anger; and she had also seen its effect on the child. The attacker’s vicious thoughts, in that realm, took a tangible toll from their victim. It was in this way that the mandalas fed and worked their magic. And since so much of what was thought and dreamed and accomplished in that realm worked its way eventually into the physical plane, the mandalas had established a solid foundation here as well.

“You think you’re okay to drive?” Michael asked suddenly.

“Me? Drive?”

“I don’t know if I can make it all the way to California, Lenore. I mean, if we’re gonna get there in a hurry and all, you should help out. If you’re, you know, lucid.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m perfectly… lucid.”

Even as she said it, the car shifted slightly, becoming something other than she had realized. Usually cars gave her a feeling of security, of speed, all that protective metal pushing them on. But now she had an unwelcome vision of the Beetle as a little death trap. It only waited the right opportunity to buckle and crush inward, trapping the soft things (them) in hard jagged pinchers of torn steel.

No, that’s not real, she told herself. I can see through to reality—I can see clearly enough to drive.

“I’ll take over,” she said. “For a while.”

“Great. I could use some sleep. You let me know if you start to feel funny, all right?”

“Sure.”

But she could not tell him that by the time she climbed into the driver’s seat, the parking lot itself had changed. She caught a glimpse of her guardian in the rearview mirror, black and whirling about her crown. Well, if you can’t keep me from getting in an accident, what good are you?

The thought stung; her head seemed to clog with black bitter smoke. Then it cleared and she saw the landscape with perfect clarity, as if it were an extension of herself, as if she were inhabiting a map. The trees were arranged in intricate symmetry; the clouds had been laid upon the sky and set into deliberate motion. Everything funneled together as in a perspective drawing, pulling her eyes westward. She felt like a god at the wheel….

This is going to be easy.

Then she twisted the key and the car moaned to life, sounding like something resurrected to torment. It screamed when she trod on the pedal, as if the small explosions of gas in its guts were unbearable.

Where McDonald’s had been she now saw a squat, smoldering box like a black concrete bunker with nervous death camp faces peering out from glassless slits in the sides.

The car lurched forward and the ground squirmed away underneath. There was only one road, leading in only one direction, covered with endless rows of flexible dagger caltrops like tastebuds on a demon’s tongue that bowed as she drove over them, and sprang back instantly to prevent her from retreating. If she hesitated even a moment, the road-tongue would curl up like a chameleon’s and suck them back into that black bunker, shrouded in the smell of carrion charred and raw.

Ignoring the car’s apparent agony, she sped toward higher ground.

24

Michael stopped for coffee, Coke, and gasoline, never for sleep. He knew he would need it eventually, but he held off as long as he could.

Letting Lenore drive again was out of the question.

He had tried that for a while; been lulled into dozing; and then awoke, somewhere east of Memphis, just as the car veered off the road toward a slough. He grabbed the wheel from Lenore, who was babbling about stones—singing stones with bloody hearts—and how the clouds were blood and blood rained down everywhere. He barely managed to get back onto the road.

Never again.

“Leave the driving to me, Lenore.”

He had shouldered the responsibility for the entire trip.

Of course, he was just as likely to get them into an accident as Lenore had been—though his reasons were more mundane.

Late at night, the oncoming headlights became a torment, jabbing his eyes like bits of broken glass. They drifted past endless oases of light in the dark of the landscape—gas stations, motels, Western Sizzlin’s. The thought of rest was torture. His eyelids grew heavier, heavier. The sound of the engine was a constant reassurance, lulling him to sleep… sleep….

He swerved onto the shoulder, crashed through a litter of bottles and cans, braked to a halt just short of a road sign showing the distance to Oklahoma City.

“I’ve gotta sleep, Lenore,” he said. “Just a little while, okay?”

She didn’t answer. With her head slumped against the window and her eyes closed, she appeared to be sleeping herself. He couldn’t be quite sure of what that meant in her state.

The overhead light was burned out, but anyway there were no pertinent maps in the car. He couldn’t see his wristwatch. Time didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he find a rest area before he crashed. They seemed to be spaced about every sixty miles, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one. That was probably a good sign; it meant one should be coming up soon, unless he had spaced out and passed it without noticing.

He found it ten miles later and came cruising in past rows of station wagons, family cars, people walking their dogs and stretching under floodlights where a few insects circled in the chill. As soon as he shut off the engine, the cold crept in to exert its claim on everything that dared to cross the plains this time of year. He draped himself and Lenore with blankets, then sank down in his seat and tried to get comfortable enough to sleep.

Comfort, it turned out, made no difference to his exhaustion. He was dreaming within minutes. He stirred once, hearing Lenore’s door slam, but didn’t wake. Her footsteps trailed off in the direction of the rest rooms.

His dreams were a surrealist’s collage of the day’s drive. Faces rushed toward him like pieces of the landscape, streaking around his eyes like the edges of the road. The tires squealed on sharp curves, the car rocked from side to side. His eyes began to burn—literally. Flames filled them, singeing his brain; flames lit the whole world, a ghastly orange scene of smoke and screaming and always the language of The Mandala Rites babbling at him, in Lenore’s voice, in his mother’s. Derek Crowe appeared in a state trooper’s uniform, tearing the door from its hinges, and as he dragged Michael from the car with metal fingers, his features dissolved into bloodred steam.

Michael woke hearing unintelligible words floating on the night wind. He had sprawled over into the passenger seat, the emergency brake handle gouging his thigh.

Sitting up, wide awake, he found he was alone in the car.

His breath had fogged the windows. With a corner of the blanket he tried to wipe a clear spot in the glass, but the smear was worse than the fog. He found a bottle of Windex between the seats and tried to squirt it on the glass, but the liquid had frozen to an icy slush and merely oozed all over his fingers. He dropped the bottle, cursing, and opened his door. Stepping out into the still air, he looked down the row of silent cars. Silent except for the voice, still chanting. Suddenly a woman rushed out from the open area between the rest rooms, glancing back over her shoulder as she hurried toward the cars.

Michael ran toward the brick shelter, hearing Lenore’s nightmare voice echoing louder, hearing car doors slam behind him.

“What’s going on in there?” a man called.

“Some crazy girl!” a woman answered.

The circular cement plaza was lined with vending machines, maps under Plexiglas, informative displays on the Great Plains. Lenore stood in the center of the circle with her arms reaching out to the sky. The moon, nearly full now, was visible through a weathered plastic skylight. She seemed to be pleading with it, screaming and shouting and weeping, tearing her hair and clothes. Her shirt was open, her breasts bared to the sky and the floodlights. But it wasn’t the moon she addressed.

Like a dark balloon bobbing against the plastic skylight, the black mandala hung tethered to her words, a thick black root buried deep in Lenore’s open throat.

Michael glanced back and saw a man moving cautiously forward from the cars, followed by the woman who had run from the plaza. He grabbed Lenore by the elbow and the mandala vanished. He pulled her into the dark behind the brick way-station. She wouldn’t stop raving, but there was no point wasting strength or time trying to shut her up. As soon as he got to the car, he thrust her in and started the engine. Headlights off, he drove down the short ramp toward the highway, leaning out his window for visibility. Glancing back as he gained the highway, he saw several figures gathering under the plaza floodlights.

It was one more scattered bit of havoc strewn in their trail. How long would it take the law to catch up with them if anyone ever managed to piece the loose links into a single chain? As soon as Tucker was discovered, he and Lenore would be wanted for questioning, no doubt of that; presumably the cops would interview Earl and start searching New York. But how could they ever tie that event to the North Carolina cop shot through the head with his own gun?

They couldn’t, that was a fact. At the very least, they should have time to get answers—and help—from Derek Crowe before anyone started looking for them. Tucker and Scarlet were always jaunting off for days at a time; they didn’t have anyone dependent on them, or anyone who’d come looking very hard.

For the time being, they were safe. He felt like a turtle in its shell, his whole world reduced to this tiny compartment that could carry him wherever he wished. His entire existence had sharpened to a single point. He had to stop thinking about his destination. It was waiting somewhere ahead; it would be there when the journey ended. First they had thousands of empty miles to deal with. Miles when he hardly dared sleep and couldn’t use the rest areas for fear of what Lenore would do in a crowd. At least he had this little world of his own, covered with protective symbols inside and out, a pentacle swinging from the rearview mirror, the cryptic Tarot emblem on the steering wheel. It gave him an infantile feeling of security: the roar of the engine was a mother’s heartbeat, a cat’s purr; it felt like a cradle rocking. He had come to resent even the necessity of pulling over to refuel, to eat.

The moon moved steadily ahead of him, downward, westward, followed by all the planets in their course. The car might have been another satellite, pulled by some force beyond his ability to identify—as inexplicable as gravity prior to Newton. Science had not managed to illuminate the universe’s moral nature; there was no road map for Michael’s real journey. But the mandalas knew the way, possessed of some insight that he lacked. Good, bad or neutral, they were, like gravity, irresistible.

25

Nicholas Strete, the reporter from the Bayrometer, was waiting for Derek just outside a North Beach coffee bar in the cold midday fog. At first he thought the kid was loitering, waiting for a bus or spare change; then he came forward grinning, and Derek saw he was carrying a laptop computer. He had expected a serious young man with a pencil behind his ear and a spiral notebook in his hand, ready to take shorthand notes. Strete looked childishly young, with long black hair, a silver nose ring, and clustered loops and gemmed studs in each ear. Bands of symmetrical tribal tattoos ran like chevrons from under the cuffs of his black leather jacket and out over the backs of his hands. But no mandalas, he was glad to see. “Mr. Crowe, I recognize you from your picture!” “Yes, hello.” He peered into the cafe, and Strete opened the door to usher him toward a booth in the corner. There were others at the table already, which caused him to hesitate. Friends of Strete’s? Journalistic parasites, hoping to sit in on the interview? “I hope you don’t mind,” Strete said as they approached the table; the other two rose to let him slide in if he wished, “but for this ‘Mandala Madness’ thing, I thought I’d do sort of a group interview. Originally I planned to just talk to you separately, then it occurred to me, more of a forum thing would be really cool.”

“Cool,” Derek echoed. The couple at the table were not much older than Strete. The male looked Asiatic, but when he extended his hand and greeted Derek, his voice was accented French. Derek’s skin crawled when he realized where he had heard it before.

“Mr. Crowe, at last we meet!” said the young man. “I am Etienne and this is Nina.”

“Club Mandala,” Derek said with undiluted venom.

“I assume you know each other,” said Strete.

“No, no! We have been waiting so long!”

“Too long,” said the woman, Nina. Her hair was black with red highlights, sleek and cut short, curving in toward her jaws like a helmet; she wore horn-rimmed black glasses, lipstick some shade of dark metallic green that reminded him of a tropical insect’s carapace. Her nails were painted to match. As she withdrew the hand Derek refused to take, he saw that her bare shoulder was brightly tattooed with a mandala that might have been taken intact from his book.

“I can’t believe your nerve,” he said in a low voice, glaring from one to the other.

“What’s that?” Strete said, swaying nervously between them. “Did I walk into something?”

“No, everything is fine!” Etienne said. “We relied on you to introduce us, Mr. Strete—this is so much better than a lawyer’s office! But now, I think, you can go.”

Strete bit his lip, looking baffled. “Uh… well, the article…”

“There’s plenty of time for that, don’t you worry,” Nina said, taking Strete by the shoulders and gently walking him away across the restaurant, leaning close to murmur in his ear. Derek watched them go. Etienne’s hand closed on his own shoulder.

“Come, have a seat with us,” he said very easily. “I really wish you would relax.”

Derek stiffened, but what was he to do? He had intended to confront them all along; if he could just shake off his surprise, he could reduce their advantage to nothing. He would come out on top of this with a few surprises of his own. He thought of how he had already sicced Huon on them, and smiled.

“Ah, that’s better! What would you like to drink? Capuccino? Let me get you something. I had an excellent macchiato.”

Derek avoided sliding into the booth, as Etienne seemed to be urging him, and dropped into a chair beside the table. Nina came sauntering back, leaving the journalist staring in at them through the window with vague disappointment; she gestured him away, and he went. She sat down in the booth and smiled sharply at Derek.

“I think Mr. Crowe would like just coffee, Etienne. Am I right?”

Derek nodded, beginning to enjoy this. He lived for these battles, didn’t he? He had never realized until lately just how much he enjoyed them: the sparring, the manipulation, the deceptions just beneath the surface. He almost broke out laughing, and Nina seemed to read his mood with uncanny accuracy, for she smirked and rolled her eyes as if to say Me too. They were all three sharing a nasty little secret.

“You’re all right with us, you know,” she said. “I mean… you’re right to be protective, and it’s good you keep the secrets… but you’re truly among your kind now. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand,” Derek said, and indulged himself in an open laugh.

Etienne set a cup before him and slid into the booth beside Nina. They stared at him for a few moments, then glanced at each other.

“Well,” Etienne said, “where do we begin?”

“How about this,” Derek said. “You tell me how you got ahold of the manuscript.”

Now they really gaped at each other. He had been right all along! Someone at Veritas had slipped it to them, sold it probably; he would love to get names, but he doubted they would betray their source. Still, the confirmation of his suspicions was enough.

“You are very well informed!” Etienne said. “I admit, I am impressed.”

“Amazing,” Nina agreed.

“But if you know so much, do you really need to be told that? Does our agent’s name matter? He was dispensable; he did as we directed, and we had nothing further to do with him.”

“You paid him, I suppose.”

“Paid him?” Nina suppressed a gleeful laugh. “We cut him loose, that was his reward.”

Etienne was snorting with mirth. “Yes, completely loose. I don’t think he got very far after that. Not so far from home.”

“That would have been a long walk, I think!” Nina said.

Derek had to backpedal up a bit. They had lost him somewhere, or else he wasn’t catching the full implications of what they were saying.

“And the mines,” Etienne said. “Do you realize how many millions of mines were sown in Kampuchea? How many years it would take to disarm them? Each one costs money, and Cambodia is a very, very poor country.”

“Wait a minute,” Derek said. “Cambodia.”

“Of course, that’s where the manuscript was kept. It was written in Tuol Sleng, and that’s where it stayed.”

Tuol Sleng again? Derek thought. Now he was truly lost—and his fear once again running rampant. It wasn’t just the possibility of blackmail that frightened him; the idea occurred to him that a larger danger was brewing, one that involved him and Huon and these two, and who knew who else besides?

“We got a very good copy though. We found someone with legitimate access and borrowed him for a while.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said. “My lawyer is on the verge of sending you a cease-and-desist letter. It doesn’t take long to get a temporary restraining order, you know. I could shut down your club before it opens.”

Etienne looked hurt. “Mr. Crowe, please… what is the issue?”

“The issue is your infringement of my property.”

“Oh, now that is novel,” said Nina. “Infringement? What can you possibly mean?”

“It’s my obligation to defend the mandalas or lose my right to them.”

“Yes, defend them, by all means! We all are defenders, aren’t we? But at the same time… we want them to get around, now, don’t we?” Etienne leaned close, his breath wretched from coffee, like a blast from a cat box. “You’ve seen our posters, our flyers?”

“Your computer viruses, yes. But don’t tell me you didn’t pull them all, steal them from my book.”

“Oh, my,” Nina said, sitting upright, quite serious and startled now. “Etienne, I think we have misjudged Mr. Crowe.”

Etienne looked naively surprised. “Yes, dear, I think so too.” He lit a cigarette, offering the pack to Derek, who declined. “Mr. Crowe… where did you get the designs?”

Derek blinked, uncertain how to answer. “It—it’s in my book,” he said.

“Very good. And it doesn’t suggest to you that the mandalas might speak to more than just your Ms. A?”

“I suppose… in theory.” And this was just what he had told Huon the night before. But he hadn’t believed it himself; nor did he now.

“My dear, perhaps we should show Mr. Crowe the manuscript.”

A conspiratorial look.

“He is one of us, whether he knows it or not. I suppose he ought to see.”

Etienne opened a small leather valise that lay on the seat beside him and took out a velobound folder with black vinyl covers. It looked like a business report, some shareholder’s document, until he riffled the pages and Derek saw they were photocopies of lined notebook paper, covered with handwriting and diagrams. The script was in characters unfamiliar to him, but it came as no surprise to see mandalas scattered throughout. His mandalas.

“I assume you recognize these,” said Etienne.

“What does this prove, except that you copied them?”

“Look at the dates,” Nina said, pointing to the bottom of one page, where Derek saw a thumbprint and small notations in Arabic: 15-10-78. Which, since there was no fifteenth month, must have indicated October 15, 1978.

“We can authenticate them, if you persist in doubting,” said Nina. “But why should you?”

Derek sagged, caught off guard once more. How far could he reasonably pursue his threats of a lawsuit? What would his own story sound like in court? Who would appear the greater idiot before a jury? Assuming they could prove their claims that these mandalas had been drawn a dozen years before he’d even seen Elias Mooney’s collection, what did that tell him, except that the skin and the notebooks and these pages all shared a common origin? He had given enough lip service to reality; he might as well bow to it. Here was the real author of the mandalas.

“The writing is my father’s,” said Etienne. “I assume you do not read Khmer?”

“No,” Derek growled.

“He was not Cambodian, but he was a fluent student of the culture. Many young Cambodian intellectuals and activists came to Paris for an education and ended up studying communism. My father was an anthropologist, but more, he was a Cambodian junkie; he emulated, I think, everything about his exotic friends—even embraced the Communist revolution in Cambodia, which had nothing to do with him. When I was very young, he moved there altogether, leaving me with my mother in Paris; there was no place for a child in what he was doing.”

“Poor boy,” Nina said, patting Etienne’s forearm. “Abandoned at a tender age.”

“Well, he was right. I have no longing for the guerrilla life.”

“Guerrilla?” Derek asked.

“Yes, he lived in the jungles with the Communist Party of Kampuchea—the Khmer Rouge. They were on the run, you know, till they took Phnom Penh in 1975. But it must not have been long before he lost his illusions about politics and returned to his true passion—anthropology. He vanished into a remote plateau, cutting himself off even from the Red Khmer, and lost himself among the phnong, the hill tribes. The older cultures interested him more than politics. He lived with one semi-nomadic group for many years, a tribe that called itself the people of the mandala.” Etienne grinned and nodded when he saw Derek’s eyes. “Oh, yes. That is not the Khmer word, but it will do. It is a good word for our purposes.”

Nina smiled. “It evokes such beautiful feelings,” she said. “Among your readers, for instance.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Crowe. I love what you have done with them! They will reach a much wider audience the way you’ve painted them—a wide and unsuspecting audience. And the emotions released when their true nature is understood… the mandalas will feast on that!”

“Go on,” Derek said in irritation. “Your father lived with this tribe for how long?”

“Well, I think he would be there still if his old friends the Khmer Rouge hadn’t tracked him down and hauled him back to Phnom Penh. They called him a traitor to the party. They accused him of training the tribes for a counterrevolutionary offensive, working for Vietnam or the KGB or the CIA. He expected to be forced to confess his part in a conspiracy to overthrow Democratic Kampuchea, but instead he found himself an object of other attention. His body, you see, was covered with sak. These are magic tattoos he had received among the phnong.”

Derek grew rigid, not out of fear that his own secret was about to be revealed but because at last he had a glimpse of the skin’s original owner—and of its origins. This was a story that not even Elias Mooney had seen, with all his talk of astral investigation. He must be triply careful himself to reveal nothing.

Still, he had to say something: “Tattoos?”

“In Cambodia they were very common, especially among soldiers and the tribal people. The sak are like amulets—most often Buddhist symbols of power and protection. The soldiers of Lon Nol, who held Phnom Penh until Pol Pot seized it, had little training or weapons. They relied on talismans. Many were covered head to toe with sak. This didn’t keep the city from falling, of course. My father’s sak were different. They were unique to his tribe—I mean the phnong who took him. And there was one interrogator in Tuol Sleng who took a particular interest in them.

“Chhith was his name. He treated my father very well at first; the interrogations began to resemble anthropological discussions. Chhith asked my father to write down everything he had learned from the phnong, and in return he became his protector in Tuol Sleng. Of course, Chhith’s motives were not what you would call pure. The mandalas spoke to him, through my father, and he believed he could somehow control and use them for his own ends. The three of us understand that the mandalas wish to be spread—but Chhith worked to keep them to himself. A very selfish man, and doomed because of that. He misunderstood them completely; he wished to take their domain for his own.

“After my father’s death, there were a series of murders in Phnom Penh, which was already a skeleton city, a fraction of its original populace working for the Khmer Rouge under rigid strictures, while the rest were out dying in the countryside. At each of the murder sites, one of the mandalas appeared crudely painted in the victim’s blood. Chhith was sacrificing to them, you see? As if they needed his help in that respect! The killing fields were feeding them plenty. And they must have been fat already after the war in Vietnam, the carpet bombing of Cambodia, the Maoist revolution, the Korean war… well, we could go back and back. The twentieth century has been a time of unparalleled feasting, has it not?”

But Derek was thinking of Huon’s story, his concern for his constituents—among them, no doubt, many refugees from the Phnom Penh of those days. “So there are other Cambodians who know about the mandalas? Others who would recognize them in my book or the posters for your club?”

Etienne looked puzzled. “Very few, perhaps. I do not think many. The people in Phnom Penh were kept like prisoners; they wouldn’t have come in contact with Chhith or his sacrifices. And the people of the mandala, the tribe that had kept their secrets for ages, they were wiped out by the same Khmer Rouge who captured my father. It was that act, in fact, which truly set them free.”

“How do you mean?”

Etienne looked down at the notebook he held. “It is hard to be sure exactly—what I have here are fragments of the whole confession. We wanted to be sure of getting the images, that was the main thing. I’ve pieced together the story from the writing that surrounds my father’s drawings—these pieces here and here. I believe he was initiated into the mysteries of the mandalas gradually, over the years he dwelt with the phnong. Now in the tribe were thirty-seven initiates, each devoted to one particular mandala; when one initiate died, a new one must take his place. My father was honored to receive one initiation, and with it one sak—the mark of his own guardian mandala. It was not created with needles and pigments, like other tattoos; it appeared spontaneously at the climax of the ceremony, along with a rush of clairvoyant visions. I suppose you must have had a taste of those yourself, eh?”

Derek chewed the inside of his cheek, still determined to give away nothing until he knew exactly where he stood. He pointed at Nina’s mandala tattoo. “I suppose that was spontaneous too.”

She looked crestfallen, shaking her head. “This is only mimicry, I’m afraid. I have not yet felt their touch, like Etienne.”

“You?”

Etienne grinned slowly and pulled down the collar of his black T-shirt. In the center of his nearly hairless chest, small and sharp as an engraving, was one of the intricate mandala patterns, a sun disk of radiating lines tipped in barbed hooks.

“Were you drunk when you got that?” Derek asked, figuring that his best bet now was to break the mood of rampant occult insanity.

“Drunk? No. A more lasting and enlightening intoxication nourishes me,” Etienne said. “You must have your own sak, Mr. Crowe.”

“I’m not about to bare my ass in public.”

The couple laughed. At least they had a sense of humor.

“Well,” Etienne said, “my father did have them on his ass. And everywhere else. The night the phnong were massacred, while he lay in captivity, the thirty-seven came to him—through him. He had visions then—visions such as we can never conceive. Imagine your own experience, multiplied by thirty-seven. All of them coming through you, into you, at once. It must have been magnificent! He was the last initiate. He had to become their vehicle, their vessel. They did not perhaps trust him to keep his sanity for long, and so they made sure to impress themselves on my father in a way that was… indelible. What a sight he must have been!”

“You never saw him yourself?” Derek asked cautiously.

“I was only a boy, and in France at the time. It was not until later that I tried to trace him. I was denied access to the records of Tuol Sleng, since he was considered an active member of the Khmer Rouge, not one of its innocent victims. Then one day a man found me, a Khmer himself; he told me some of my father’s story, though not all, and questioned me closely. He was looking for my father’s skin, and thought it might have come to me after the fall of the Phnom Penh.”

Derek strove to sound shocked and surprised. “His… skin?”

“Yes. You see, in the end, Chhith had my father flayed. It was the only way to be sure of preserving the mandalas intact, I suppose. Then when the Vietnamese took Phnom Penh, Chhith escaped but lost the skin. This man said he had been imprisoned beside my father in Tuol Sleng and had befriended him there.”

Etienne began to chuckle, looking over at Nina, who was laughing too. But Derek did not consider at first why they were laughing so hard. He was thinking: My God! It must be Huon!

“Excuse me, but that was the final irony,” Etienne said. “This man who said he was a prisoner of the Khmer Rouge, himself a victim of torture, I felt very bad for him. I thought he must have suffered as my father suffered. And I still thank him, you know, for setting me on the path that led me to the mandalas. He showed me a few of the designs—I first had them through him. It is all very funny, really.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Etienne put his thumb down on a line of Khmer script. “Here, my father is writing directly to Chhith, thanking him for his interest and protection, sympathizing with his own losses in the service of the Khmer Rouge, ingratiating himself. It is my father’s brief and touching homage to the man who was about to murder and skin him. But when I finally read this passage, I recognized him.”

“Recognized who?”

“My father’s so-called friend, the one who sought me out. He was terribly scarred, you see, and missing one ear.”

Yes, Huon!

“And here,” Etienne said, emphasizing lines that Derek could not read, “my father calls Chhith, fondly, ‘my one-eared fellow sufferer.’ “

Etienne and Nina convulsed into laughter again. It did not sound ironic in the least—it was good-natured, almost whimsical. But Derek could take no part in it. He felt as if the room were sliding away from him; as if some livid wheel were even now appearing in the center of his chest, flooding him with awful insight. Huon was Chhith, the concentration camp interrogator, the torturer and sacrificial murderer. He was still on the trail of the mandala skin, and it had brought him to Derek. He had narrowly deflected the monster… but for how long?

“You do not look amused, Mr. Crowe,” said Etienne.

“I—I know this man,” Derek blurted, because now there could be no joking, nor could he keep this a secret. He must warn them. He swallowed nervously, as if ashamed before Etienne’s look of astonishment, and went on. “He came to me the other night. I think now he was looking for your father’s skin. He thought I had it, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. I pointed him in your direction. I even gave him your number.”

“No!” The couple looked at each other again, and Derek expected horror and dismay; but instead the news sent them once again into hysterics, whooping with laughter.

“Chhith is here!” Etienne cried in jubilation.

“He called himself Huon,” Derek said.

“Yes, Huon! The name he used when he said he was my father’s friend.”

Nina said, “I told you! I’ve been getting strange calls, someone hanging up when I answer. He must be waiting to hear your voice.”

“I don’t believe it! Well, it is all coming together.” Etienne looked almost smug. He sat back in the booth, arms crossed, beaming.

“You’re not… nervous?” Derek asked.

“Goodness, no.”

“I mean, if this is the man you think… he tortured and murdered your father, and how many others besides?”

Etienne made a dismissive gesture. “I am ready for him this time. He doesn’t know what we know about him. And he still persists, apparently, in wanting the mandalas to himself. He is pathetic, really.”

“He says he’s a councilman in Orange County.”

“That would be like the Jews nominating a Nazi as their spokesman. Chhith is too well-known. I think he must be traveling inconspicuously. I wouldn’t worry about him, nor should you. The mandalas will take care of us.”

Derek sat rubbing his temples now. He rose with his coffee cup, went to the counter, and waited for them to refill it. When he returned to the table, he felt he had resigned himself to this alliance—this partnership—whatever it was. Well, at the very least, he had saved himself a great deal in legal fees.

“You know,” he said, “I still don’t know what you want with me.”

“From you? My God, nothing! Or I should say, your blessing.”

“My blessing?”

“Yes. For Club Mandala. The opening is near. We could all benefit from this—our club will boost your book, and your book has no doubt drawn attention to us.”

“No doubt.”

“I think when you see the place you will be impressed. It is a tribute to my father. It will do the mandalas’ work in a very modern way, we like to think.”

“You must come by and see,” Nina said emphatically clutching his hand. “We feel very close to you, Mr. Crowe.”

Derek did not bother retrieving his hand. Resignation mixed now with thoughts of inflated profits. Maybe they were right—he hadn’t really hit the club-goers with his book, which was too much limited to the New Agers. Besides, he thought, she was pretty sexy. He enjoyed her cool fingers, and found himself suddenly thinking of Lenore Renzler.

A sharper pang ran through him then. These two were like the Renzlers in a way, but so much more polished. Etienne’s demeanor spoke of money—old money. How else could a young kid come up with the cash to open a club in the city? It was odd, because their conversation was, if anything, even more insane than Michael Renzler’s babble; but it was grounded in reality, and he had no problem separating the obvious fantasies and falsehoods from the kernels of fact at the center of those hallucinations. In Michael Renzler’s case, everything had been equally improbable. Lenore was a lost soul, attached to another weaker, unmoored soul; Nina had found a solid place beside Etienne. Nor did he have that sense of losing his mind, which conversations with Elias had always given him; Etienne lacked the psychotic’s edge. They seemed like reasonable types, businesslike, determined. They were getting things done, making their mark on the world. He found to his surprise that he liked them very much.

“You will consider it?” Etienne said. “We will happily acknowledge our debt to your book, if you like. Let’s leave the actual history in the dust. I think your approach is more consumer-friendly; it has a much wider appeal. No one wants to hear about prisoners of war! You needn’t do any work with us, nothing like that, but it would be a great honor to have you in attendance for the opening. Our special guest of honor. Our mentor. What do you say?”

Derek shrugged. “Why not?”

“Wonderful!”

“I should really call back poor Mr. Strete for his interview,” Nina said with mocking sorrow. “Do you have a little longer, Mr. Crowe?”

“I… have nowhere to go.”

She pulled a phone from her purse and quickly punched a number. “Hello, Nicholas? Yes, we’re ready for you now. Oh, let’s do it, yes. We’d really like to see your article in time for the opening.” She looked up at Derek and gave him a wink. “Yes, Mr. Crowe is here too. Come back, darling. We don’t mean to be fickle. We want you. We need you.” Her eyes slid past Derek, out the window, and she waved. “Very good. Hello! Bye-bye!”

Derek twisted around and saw that Strete was sitting across the way, on the steps of a church, waiting with his laptop in his hand, phone to his ear, his hangdog expression turning joyous as he rose and started into traffic.

“Poor little puppy dog,” Nina said. “I told him to stay, and you see how long he obeyed? He’ll write whatever we want.”

26

Purple twilight drenched the cloud-feathered New Mexico sky, pooling in snowmelt that puddled a muddy rest stop edged with barrows of dirty ice. Lenore sat in the car, watching the rest rooms. They had bought Mexican take-out that afternoon, and Michael began complaining of stomach cramps immediately after eating. They had stopped at every rest area since then. She knew he didn’t like bringing her around other people, but this time he had no choice. At least theirs was the only car in the parking lot.

Scabby started scratching at the glass, climbing over the seat-back, yowling. She looked at the cat and saw distress. It occurred to her that Michael had shared his taco with Scabby.

“Thanks for the warning,” she said, and dug their makeshift leash out of the glove box. She tied the length of clothesline to Scabby’s flea collar, then opened her door and got out, burrowing into her coat against the cold desert wind. Scabby ran ahead of her, darting a few steps, sniffing around a puddle, raising her head to taste the wind, then darting on another few yards.

At the far end of the rest area was a livestock corral, as in every rest area they’d visited recently. Michael joked about Texans getting out to walk their cattle, but they couldn’t imagine what else the corrals were for. The wooden boards ran in black lines against the thinning orange band where the sun had set. Scabby tugged Lenore toward the corral. The fenceposts were topped with bright little caps of snow, luminous in this light; the black mud within was trampled and churned.

Lenore tried climbing to the top of the fence, but the leash slipped from her fingers and Scabby scraped under the boards into the corral itself, as into a mucky moonscape. She swore, then jumped down inside after the cat. Her sneakers squelched into mud, trapped, but she didn’t have to hurry. After sniffing at a soggy cowpie, Scabby went into a squat. Lenore snatched up the end of the leash, then went back to the fence, careful to leave plenty of slack so the poor cat wouldn’t get pulled off balance while she poised on her haunches, tail quivering.

As Lenore leaned against the fence rails, looking through the slats, she saw a blue compact car driving slowly down the length of the parking area, headlights extinguished. It glided past the last parking space, turning onto a small length of access road that led right up to the corral. The violet clouds melting into darkness overhead suddenly sprouted fangs and talons, leaning over her warningly as the wood beneath her fingers hardened and sharpened into a thousand jagged, splintered knives. Lenore pressed closer to the fence, taking the warning personally.

She knelt down, reeling in Scabby before the cat could begin piling mud over its turds. The car came to a stop near a big Dumpster, halfway between the parking lot and the corral. A tall, broad-shouldered man got out, seeming bigger than the tiny compartment could have held. In the poor light she could see nothing but his shape. His face was a black blur; his whole head seemed to be wrapped in a caul, soft and shifting, clinging to him like a plastic bag. He moved furtively to the back of the car. Headlights streamed behind him on the highway; his figure seemed to bend and throw the light, like a smoky prism. That smooth head rotated like a camera on an oiled bearing, scanning the parking lot. Lenore held her breath as the cold monitor swept its gaze over the corral, even though she knew she was no more than a shadow among many others. With the black eastern sky behind her, she was all but invisible.

Satisfied that he was alone, the man moved to the rear of the car. The trunk flew up, hiding him. He reappeared carrying two parcels in Mack plastic trash bags. Lenore knew instantly what was in them. She could see exactly how he had wrapped the dismembered parts individually in Sa ran Wrap, then bundled them together and wrapped the bundles again in plastic wound in silver duct tape, then sealed those larger bundles into the trash bags. There were more bags in the trunk. She could smell the blood—smell it in the car, from this and prior trips; she could smell it also on his breath and oozing from his

He trudged straight toward the Dumpster. Reaching ft. he momentarily shifted both bags to one hand and shoved at the cover. She could see him straining, could see the moment he realized it was locked. He cursed and moved back, stood midway between the Dumpster and the car, tense, seeming to darken to a deeper shade of black as the last of the light leached from the sky and the clouds went gray.

Scabby took that moment to dart from the corral the muddy leash slipping through Lenore’s fingers.

She crouched lower, but the cats movement caught the man’s eye. He hurried back to the car, threw the parcels into the trunk, and slammed the hood shut. Then he waited as Scabby came padding toward him. He wasn’t looking at the cat. though: he was staring at the corral.

Lenore saw the black swirl of face condensing around two whirlpools of ink where his eves must have been. They seemed to invert, thrusting out like a snail’s eyes, roving over the seal of dark-against-dark where the fence lay against the night and Lenore huddled within the wooden grid, the only thing that wasn’t utterly rigid and angular. The tarry eyestalks quivered, while in the lower half of the blank face a pit formed slowly, like Mack plastic drawn into a suffocating mouth.

Scabby crouched at the man’s feet, meowing loudly. The man stepped over the calico, taking a few steps toward the corral. He was corning for Lenore now.

Lenore shut her eyes, wanting to escape, to block this out—but she had already made her deal with the mandala. She would see everything; no more blackouts.

Once more she sprang upward, liberated into the sky. She seemed to be hovering just above the fence. She could see the man ahead of her, his features clearer than before, although still hidden inside the murky sac that enclosed his head. This bag now detached itself and came drifting toward her, flattening, spinning, spreading out as it came; it dragged itself along with barely visible filaments, like a crippled jellyfish groping its way among enormous molecules. The man dragged along after it, his ears cocked for the sound of Lenore’s breath; she wondered if he could smell her, as she smelled him.

The man’s mandala stopped and extended itself completely, blazing with darkness against the black nest of the sky. It glowed and flickered with internal colors, as if expressing itself through coded pulses of light; but Lenore wasted no time decipering the message. Her mandala flung itself at its opponent, and as they joined, the man himself stumbled and dropped to one knee.

Lenore felt as if she were riding a vicious steed into battle. She sat apart from the fight, but only by the thinnest of margins. Slashing barbs and irising teeth fought slime and rippling tissue that tensed and purled like infinitely elastic muscle, a liquid form that escaped any possible grip, healing instantly wherever it was cut, so that it could no more be wounded than water. Lenore found herself observing the struggle with something like love for her protector. She had never felt so completely cared for. This was well, for at that moment she could not have moved her body, no more than the man who knelt staring hungrily at her, oblivious to the battle overhead, wanting to reach Lenore but finding his strength and will had abandoned him for no reason he could understand.

Just then there was an explosive, sucking roar from the rest rooms. The man jerked upright, looking over at the building, then back at Lenore. He got to his feet and staggered toward the car, wrenching his mandala away from Lenore’s, the puppet pulling its master along for once. Human fear had resolved the struggle.

He threw himself into the car, slammed the door, and backed out in a slather of mud. Lenore saw the smoky blob of his mandala sinking through the roof of the car, rejoining him. Her own mandala had not given up, however. It threw itself onto the roof and lashed down sharply several times as the vehicle wove away. Lenore could feel it striking into softness within and grabbing at something hard as a polished bone knob, unprotected in the core of a quivering warm blur. It took control of the man as easily as that; and while the other mandala swarmed up and over it—over her—it could find no weakness, no opening by which it could reclaim its pet.

The car sped straight across the highway, jounced violently over the dividing barrier of brushy mud, and swerved into the opposite lane. As the car screeched out into traffic, its headlights were still doused; but it was well lit by the oncoming truck that plowed into it.

The collision surrounded Lenore. She could not quite manage to put herself entirely back into her eyes, which peered blankly through the fence rails. Instead, with a ravenous hunger she hardly recognized, she found herself caught in the crash as the car went twisting and crumpling under the truck’s enormous cab, as the truck careened out of control across both lanes and went off into gravel and ice at the side of the road, shoving the car ahead of it, scraping sparks and trailing smoke, the screams of so many voices dividing up her attention as the cars behind the truck drove into its trailer, which had swung out ahead of them like a sudden wall, metal collapsing into metal, flesh squeezed somewhere in the middle. A dozen souls popped free, desperate and scattered in their shock and agony, and Lenore was there as her mandala swooped down like a bat catching moths, like a bird dipping over a lake at twilight to catch low-flitting insects, nipping a bit of horror here, and there a taste of shock and disbelief, love lost, my children, no this isn’t happening, everything undone… It was the terrible surprise that gave everything its sharpest, most addictive flavor, its intensity, so strong and nourishing that some of it flooded straight through the mandala into Lenore, jolting her all the way back into her body.

She threw herself over the wooden barrier as Michael came running from the rest room, hitching at his pants. The cars and truck had come to rest across the highway, and in the dark it was hard to see more than a tangled heap of smoking shapes, a lick of hidden flame here and there to suggest the horror of the wreck in bright glimpses of bare steel and blood-slicked glass.

Lenore caught Michael by the arm and pulled him toward the Beetle.

“What happened?” he was saying. “What happened?”

“Get going, Michael, please—let’s just get out of here!”

“Someone could be hurt. We should call—”

“Someone else will call. Other people have car phones. Just go!”

She didn’t relax until the flames, growing higher behind them, had faded into distance on the long straight highway.

Soon they passed the first of the ambulances heading east.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Michael said. “Did it have something to do with… with them?”

“No, Michael. It was just an accident. I didn’t see a thing until it was happening. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He doubted her, she knew. It was an awkward lie. But he would have been equally skeptical of the truth.

A hundred miles later, he finally dared to speak again. He looked in the back of the car, then over at her, eyes wide, in a panic. “Where’s Scabby?”

27

On his way out of the building, Derek stopped to check his mail. The foyer reeked of piss; he had found a derelict sleeping in it the night before, and now the carpet squelched underfoot. He had to wrestle with the battered mailbox to get his compartment open; most of the doors had been bent out of shape by check-pilferers, and his was one of the few that even locked. Inside was a wad of junk mail, which he deposited in the paper-recycling bin conveniently located beside the mailboxes. The only other item was a postcard, which he glanced at curiously, since it was hand-lettered and he didn’t recognize the writing. Of course, once he saw the signature he knew who it was:

Dear Mr. Crowe:

This card is your complimentary pass for the grand opening of Club Mandala. Please come as our guest—and bring as many as you like! February 6—the 37th day of the year! Present this card at the door—or better yet, come with us!

—E&N

The face of the card showed a strikingly done mandala, and elegant lettering: Club Mandala (& Gallery 37). He could see now that these were not exactly his designs. The images in his book and those Etienne and Nina used in their posters were similar but not identical; they represented the work of different artists portraying the same subjects, and there were slight but appreciable differences in the renditions.

He felt relaxed today, absolved of a tremendous weight. Entering an ambush where he had expected to meet only enemies, he had emerged with two new friends—allies, in fact, who might well help him push his book into realms of actual profitability.

Etienne’s beliefs, of course, were as mad as Elias Mooney’s, but he seemed to have sound business sense. He was the sort who could make a career of madness—not to mention a fortune.

Derek tucked the card into his pocket, considering it a pleasant coincidence, since he was even now on his way to inspect the club.

The waiting taxi carried him across Market Street, through the brisk mix of scavengers, tourists, and workers who made the downtown district simultaneously so exciting and depressing. The new office towers fell behind, and older commercial buildings rolled past. The cab pulled up in a region of dense shadow, and he had paid and stepped out before he realized why it was so dark down here.

The belly of a freeway hung above him, gray and ponderous, with no sound of cars clacking down from above. It was a section of the interstate, closed off since the last earthquake, awaiting either retrofitting or demolition. Derek hardly grasped the reason for his apprehension, the sudden chill and sense of suffocation. On an ivy-covered bank above the street, close to one of the huge concrete pylons, were a cluster of cardboard houses and ragged blankets; but these barely snagged his eye, for on the pylon itself someone had stenciled an immense mandala, one of the thirty-seven. He spun around, bereft of bearings, and homed in on a grubby brick warehouse that stood beside the freeway, unremarkable except for the elaborate neon sign (dark now) above its door, the tubes of brightly powdered glass forming intricate wheels whose glowing splendor in full darkness he could only begin to imagine. Between two such pale mandalas, awaiting only electricity to come alive, were the words “Club Mandala” in a script like cursive writ in glass; the letters looked almost hieroglyphic.

He rang the bell beside the door but heard nothing. Once more he glanced up at the overpass, noticing another mandala impossibly stenciled on the underside. They were on the street and sidewalk as well, etched in cement like celebrity footprints. Before he could begin to count them, Nina said, “You made it! We were afraid we’d scared you off.”

“Now, what could scare Mr. Crowe?” said Etienne, coming up behind her. They opened the door wide, into a shadowy vastness, and Derek entered between them. Nina slid her arm into his, and he thought of Lilith, thankful he had all this to distract him from what otherwise would have been days of gloom and obsession.

“I got your invitation this morning,” Derek said. “It came quicker than I’d expected.”

“Oh, we mailed it before we met you—we were sure you’d come. Now, the tour!”

The warehouse was divided into a number of rooms on the ground floor. The central room, a dance hall, was two stories tall, with lofts and balconies edging it; there were a number of other smaller chambers on the ground floor, and stairs running up and down. Each wall in the main room was embellished with an immense mandala, smaller mandalas of varying sizes arranged in overlapping orbits around them. He was reminded of the tattooed skin, similarly crowded. A few painters were up on ladders, putting finishing touches on the mandalas. In the center of the dance floor was the largest of all the wheels, the one that figured last in his book and also served as frontispiece, with its central circle of lamprey teeth and its outer ring of speckled eyes. They took a wide path around it, since it was still incomplete; several women were on their knees, painting in the sketched tendrils. The thing was coming to life even as he watched.

“Wow” was about all Derek could think to say. Nina pulled him tighter, beaming with pleasure.

They toured the adjacent rooms on the ground floor, where the walls were hung with framed fine-art versions of the mandalas. They looked too symmetrical to have been done by hand; peering close he could see no ink marks.

“Are these prints?” he asked.

“An artist friend of ours does them on computer—he’s the one who sneaked that little program into your system, I’m afraid.”

Derek shrugged. “No harm done. It’s nice work.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so. He’ll be at the opening—you two can meet. He is also, you see, one of us.”

One of “us,” Derek thought. He had come farther down this path than he cared to consider; his relationship with Etienne and Nina was dependent to a certain extent on continued deception, at least as to his own beliefs.

They made their way upstairs, through a connected series of smaller rooms; mandala prints were centered on every wall. Mandalas dotted the floors like the tracks of some strange beast. Everywhere they went, assistants were mounting lights or putting finishing touches on the hand-painted mandalas. A number of them wore mandala tattoos, but apparently these were in reference to the club alone, and not to his book, for when Nina introduced Derek, his name meant nothing to them.

“We’ve ordered copies of The Mandala Rites,” Etienne reassured him. “If we can borrow you for a little while, we’ll have you sign a few during the party.”

“Yes, and we’re recording all the keys,” said Nina. “They’ll be playing all night, right along with the music.”

“It will be wild!” said Etienne. “And think of all the drugs! Many very receptive minds… the total effect will be incredible. We have also commissioned a number of mandala paintings from local artists. They should be arriving very soon.”

“And Nicholas Strete tells me his article will be in tomorrow’s edition—just in time for the opening!”

“Everything’s coming together,” Etienne said gleefully, rubbing his palms briskly together. At that moment they were passing a window on a level with the raised freeway; little could be seen outside except the gray concrete slab, but there was a gap visible just below the freeway, through which one could barely see the street.

“Speaking of which,” Etienne said, pausing to point down at the pavement, “I saw our friend Chhith—or should I say Huon?—sometime in the night, just down there.”

“Did you?” Derek said nervously.

“He must be very curious.”

“He must be very angry,” Nina said, “to see his precious mandalas let loose like this—given out so freely to everyone.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll come around,” said Etienne.

“I’m sorry I gave him your name,” Derek said.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m glad to see him, actually. He belongs with us. Only his role may not be quite what he expects.”

“Etienne!” A fellow with a long ponytail and shaved temples was coming down the corridor. “We’re having a problem with the sound.”

“Excuse us a moment, Derek,” Etienne said. “Feel free to explore.”

They left him at the window, listening to the sounds of sawing and hammering, voices echoing through the building where everything seemed bright and new and happy, and anticipation was almost a tangible substance.

Derek had a sense, then, of the mandalas as a budding cottage industry. What would Elias Mooney think of this? At least he couldn’t have blamed it on Derek, which was some comfort. The mandalas would have surfaced anyway, with or without The Mandala Rites. In fact, he supposed his book would have a negligible impact on the public, compared to the exposure the mandalas were about to get at Club Mandala.

What he had done with Eli’s notebooks was only a minor mischief.

And he had never actually sworn to burn them, had he? He’d tried countless times to remember exactly what he’d said to Elias on their final night together, but the act of remembering seemed to push things around in his head and alter the memories themselves. He was reasonably sure he hadn’t promised anything. What the hell. No harm was done, in the end.

It was time to put away his guilt. Swallow his sins and get over it. He was torturing himself, which was pointless.

Except, of course, as Lilith had shown him, he was a bit of a masochist—a martyr without a cause. She loved to point out the pleasure he took from writhing in the hair shirt of his occult hypocrisy, writing books for the praise of people he considered imbeciles. What could be more masochistic than that? By comparison, her candlewax drippings and needle-pricks and plier squeezes were gentle teases, a child’s game. It little pleased him to realize he had now created for himself a world based entirely on this masochism. He was in league with fools and madmen who had been taken in by their own con; by coincidence, it was his con as well. Derek was apparently the only one still undeceived.

If he had been a superstitious man, if he really had been convinced by Elias, he never would have published the Rites. But by doing so, he had proven to himself that Eli’s ranting was nothing but nonsense. The old man was a fool, and everything he thought he’d seen in Eli’s house was a ludicrous dream. He had deserted the so-called shaman not out of fear, not because he dreaded some false cathartic confrontation with his “Shadow,” but because flight had been the only sure way of preserving his sanity.

Once Bob Maltzman had expressed interest in the mandala notebooks, Derek had found himself unable to present them without revision. The old man’s basic view of reality was too bleak and strange for mass consumption. He had altered the text of the ledgers not as a precaution against invoking evil, but simply to enlarge his audience and put some of his own work into the final book, so that he wouldn’t feel he was simply plagiarizing. It gave him an odd feeling of power to revise Eli’s universe in this fashion. By couching the incantations in New Age terms, borrowing phrases and attitudes from other popular books, he had transformed the Rites from something dark and unholy into a message of spiritual hope for an optimistic but easily frightened readership.

The gibberish of the rites themselves he had left untouched. What difference did that make?

Derek acknowledged the presence of a tiny part of himself that remained infected with Eli’s madness. He hated and resented this irrational mote; it was childish, naive, and potentially dangerous, should it ever mushroom out of control. This region of his psyche had never climbed out of pure animal suffering, onto the lofty intellectual plateau where pain and its causes could be analyzed. This mad, fearful, superstitious part of him never doubted for an instant what Eli taught. It knew what lay in those ledgers; it recognized the signs that blotched the skin.

Thankfully, this part of his mind was poorly developed, in turn-of-the-millennium terms. It was easy to cow the poor shivering thing with all the whips and threats his rational mind had mastered.

“Derek!”

“Mr. Crowe!”

He had come out onto a balcony overlooking the dance floor. Etienne and Nina stood in the center of the room, in the mouth of the black mandala, waving to him.

“What do you think?” Nina called.

Derek’s grin, unforced and unbidden, surprised even him. He spread his arms to encompass the club, as if it and all within it were his doing.

“Wonderful!” he called. And then, unsure exactly what he meant, but giving in for once to spontaneity, he added: “Let them come!”

28

America, Michael had decided, was mostly wasteland.

They had been driving through flat arid deserts for an eternity. The last woods he’d seen were in western Oklahoma, and since then it had been flat and rocky, windswept, bare; red rock and white rock, orange, green, and black rock. When they’d gained altitude in Arizona there had been the freshness of pine trees in the night, but that hadn’t lasted long, and they came down once again into desert, past cacti draped with snow, under a starry sky so vast that it mocked the emptiness of the desert. Now here they were in California, land of sunny beaches and orange groves and lush green mountains; but the sun was dawning on another endless reach of desert. The mountains were black and alien as a scorched satellite; the rocks themselves looked burned. They skirted the edge of a crusted lakebed that looked as if it had been set on fire in ages past. It reminded him of an early science-fiction dream of Mercury, a desert world whirling close to the sun, only barely inhabitable. He was always amazed when he saw the winking lights of some settlement or other. Who would ever live out here?

A sign flew past, and he saw the offramp up ahead: GAS, FOOD, LODGING. gas, food, lodging. What wouldn’t he have given for the latter? A night in a spring-shot motel bed would have felt like a week in a luxury hotel. He had been so exhausted for so long that he could hardly remember any other mode of consciousness. He had always wondered how humans could whip themselves to feats of great endurance, and now he knew. All it took was desperation.

He figured they could reach San Francisco tonight, if the car held out. If he held out. It was always a temptation to let Lenore drive, but each time he seriously considered it, he remembered their near-disaster outside of Memphis.

He followed the off ramp down to a gas-station minimart, an oasis of fuel and junk food. The pump was self-service. He left Lenore sleeping and went into the market to pay in advance for the gas. He went out and started the pump, then went back in. Lenore wasn’t eating much these days, but he needed constant replenishment. He picked through pastries and beef jerky, considered a microwave burrito but decided against it when his stomach rebelled at the thought. A pint of milk, cigarettes. He poured himself a cup of black coffee and swigged; it was scorched and bitter, and he could feel the grounds swirling between his teeth. The old man at the register took his money without looking, too busy watching a small TV set on the counter—a morning program, traffic and weather and fragments of news. Michael was scooping up his change and tucking the paper sack into the crook of his arm when he heard the announcer mention ritual murder.

He couldn’t see the screen from where he stood, and the sound wasn’t up very loud. He worked his way around the counter past the slush machines and the magazine rack, until he could see the screen. A fuzzy, blurry video image, attributable not to poor camerawork but to lousy reception. A scrubby vacant lot with candles and broken glass and a body covered with a bloody sheet; and on the brick wall above, a large dark circular pattern that made his pulse quicken—then the picture was gone. Fucking media tidbits—never a fully developed thought, or even an image. Everything was subliminal these days. Was it a mandala, or wasn’t it? He couldn’t hear the talking head, and could barely read his title of “Occult Crime Expert.” Then came another picture, painted in wavering, washed-out video tones. He almost dropped his coffee. As the image wavered in and out, he recognized their house. Tucker’s house. A woman in a bright red coat stood in the driveway, next to Lenore’s Cutlass, holding a microphone.

“No,” he whispered. The man looked over at him, and Michael snatched up a copy of Guns and Ammo.

“I’ll take this too,” he said, holding it up. The man looked suspiciously at him now, as if he were waving an actual gun. As he rang up the sale, he blocked Michael’s view of the TV. Michael gave him the money, trying for another clear shot of the screen. But the story was over, and now there was nothing on but advertisements. He looked down at the rack, but there was nothing on the cover of any newspapers he could see, nothing about occult murders.

He rushed out with his purchases, trying to see if the North Carolina plates were visible from the market. He hooked the pump back into the machine, dripping gasoline over his shoes, twisting the cap into place with his other hand. He drove away in a panic, nearly taking the wrong off ramp, which would have carried them east again.

Are they looking for us now? he wondered. Could they possibly know we’ve gotten this far? Do they have a description of our car? Wouldn’t every highway patrolman who’s passed us, all the way across the country, remember this Beetle in an instant?

Are we suspects?

How could we not be?

Michael’s temple room, directly under the murder scene, was full of ceremonial knives, everything the North Carolina cops knew a black magician needed for his sacrificial killings. And on his altar, Jesus, Derek Crowe’s Mandala Rites lay open wide, probably to the very mandala that was splattered on Tucker’s wall.

Should he ditch the car somewhere out here in the desert? Find a dirt road and drive it over the edge of some ravine? They could hitchhike into the next town, catch a Greyhound going to San Francisco. But how long would all that take? Maybe he could get some spray-paint, paint the car black.

Ridiculous.

The only thing to do was to get to San Francisco as swiftly as possible and hope the cops were still treating this as a local thing, checking North Carolina and the immediate states. People got away with murder all the time—actual murderers. They turned up weeks or months or years later, far from the crime scenes, having lived anonymously and without being recognized until their story was featured on Unsolved Mysteries or America’s Most Wanted.

That’s us, he thought. We’ll be on both shows. Our faces will be everywhere eventually.

But in the meantime, they had a chance to get to San Francisco. Certainly the mandalas would be doing their part to keep the way open, keep the cops off their backs.

The main thing was to get to Derek Crowe. To get help for Lenore from the one man who might understand her condition. Once she had been cared for, then they could worry about the law—figure out whether to run or turn themselves in with some story that sounded less than utterly insane.

The car whined as it climbed toward the sinister serrations of a coal-black range. He decided to tell Lenore nothing. Headlights appeared behind him, pulling out of the sun; approaching quickly, then passing in a rush that rocked the car. It was a trooper, bent on other business. He could hardly have passed the Beetle without recognizing it, if he was looking for such an unlikely vehicle. But the taillights turned to tiny beads and vanished up ahead.

It didn’t help. He couldn’t relax. They still had the length of the state to travel. Anything could happen.

PART 6

In us all is shattered and twisted. And never forget that we hold you in our jaws.

—from The Mandala Rites of Elias Mooney

In us all is rapture and bliss. And never forget that we hold you in our hearts.

—from The Mandala Rites of Derek Crowe

29

The first time the buzzer rang, Derek ignored it. He had just switched on the ten o’clock news and was expecting no visitors. Bums on the street were always pressing buttons just to irritate those with homes. Usually they didn’t bother any one apartment more than a time or two.

This time, however, the buzzer persisted. The only possible unannounced visitor he could think of was Lilith. He jumped up and pressed the intercom switch in the hall.

“Who’s there?” he said.

He heard nothing but traffic.

Once more: “Who is it?”

This time a voice, blurred and unintelligible. Some drunk or crackhead. If he started insulting them over the intercom, they might well come back to the buzzer all night. He knew of people who’d been killed for smaller offenses.

He went back to the sofa, but the buzzer sounded before he could sit. Now it rang continuously.

He stormed down the hall and out the door, convinced that by the time he got to the street the pesterer would be long gone. He rushed down two flights of spiraling stairs to the lobby, followed by the buzzing from his apartment. Reaching the glass doors, he saw two shapes silhouetted in the entryway, one of them fingering the button. He threw open the inner door, but not the cage that kept them out. “What do you want?”

Michael Renzler stepped back into streetlight, translated from shadows.

“Jesus…” Derek clung to the door, only shock preventing him from slamming it in their faces. They looked as if they’d hitchhiked all the way from North Carolina; exhaustion had carved the flesh from the boy’s already bony face. His wife’s eyes were sleepy and seductive, looking him up and down. She gave him a soft, worn-out smile. He twisted the latch on the iron gate and let her in—she drew Michael with her.

“What are you doing here?”

“You got my card?” Michael said in a low voice as he passed Derek. They trudged up the stairs as invited. Derek fell in behind them. “I didn’t have your number, uh, so we had to just come. When I wrote it I didn’t really have any idea how bad it could get.”

“Your card? What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t get it? Well… I didn’t have much room to write anyway. We’d still have to explain everything.”

“Do you mean you—you flew out here just to see me?”

“Flew?” Michael said. “No, man. We drove.”

“My God, that fast?”

“I don’t know for sure what day it is. I haven’t had much sleep since we saw you.”

“Well… here’s my apartment. Door’s open.”

Lenore stopped at the threshold, and he looked her over as he beckoned her in. Her hair was greasy, falling over her smudged face and forehead, into her eyes. She pushed it back with grimy fingers, and he saw with dismay the mandala reproduced on her forehead. He didn’t say anything, hoped his face hadn’t betrayed him, but his thought was: Oh, God, another fanatic.

Could her life really have been so empty that she’d embraced the mandala cult after one hour’s mediocre lecture?

“Why don’t you come in?” he said, since she seemed to be waiting for an invitation. She smiled back at Michael, then went inside.

Derek locked the door after them. Michael surveyed the living room with plain disappointment, as if he had expected to find a museum of occult artifacts, tribal masks, ancient ritual implements. There were no visible clues to Derek’s occupation.

Lenore’s eyes drifted about, finally coming to rest on Elias’s box, which had been sitting out near the sofa; he’d been unable to bring himself to haul it away, to make a decision about the thing one way or the other.

“Let me clear some room,” he said hastily, stooping for the box. He carried it into the bedroom and shoved it back into the closet, feeling vaguely embarrassed. He came back to find Lenore stretched out on the sofa watching TV, her eyes borrowing vigor from the reflected glare of advertisements.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

No answer from Lenore. Michael followed him into the kitchen.

“I know this is really unexpected,” Michael said, “I mean, really unforgivable. I wouldn’t have done it if things hadn’t gotten so serious. I was pretty scared, on my own. It seemed like you’re the only person who can help us, the only one who knows what’s going on. And Lenore really wanted to come.”

“She did? But why?”

“It was the Rites, ” Michael said. “The night we met you. We did a ritual and… and they came through. Through Lenore, I mean. They didn’t talk through her, not at first—except she recited parts of the keys she couldn’t have known. But we had a very intense ceremony, and they sort of got in and got out of control. Then Lenore started getting weird. She must have some sort of natural, you know, psychic talent. She’s been channeling them. Speaking their language, seeing things I can’t explain, doing things… well, I’ve seen some pretty strange stuff in the last few days myself.”

“Have you?” Derek said. It didn’t surprise him that the boy was delirious; but was it true that Lenore too was cracking up? Or was the kid projecting his own occult fantasies on his wife, using her as a way of getting closer to Crowe? Queasily, Derek wondered if Michael were using his wife as some sort of offering to him.

“What did you want me to do?” he asked.

“Well, you’re the mandala master. There’s nothing in the Rites about this.”

Derek found himself checking to make sure Lenore couldn’t hear them. The TV held her hypnotized. He kicked out the plastic wedge that kept the door from swinging shut and went to the refrigerator to busy himself with milk and coffee, anything to give himself time.

I have attracted not one but two lunatics, he thought. I did this to myself, by pretending to be an authority on something that does not even exist except in the minds of the mentally ill (including Elias Mooney and Etienne and all the rest—even down to that stone-age tribe in Cambodia). And now he expects me to enter his madness on a rescue mission. By accepting his story, and acting on it, he supposes that I will verify the complete reality of his delusions.

I can’t have these people in my house, he thought.

“I don’t know quite how to approach this,” Derek said after a few moments, choosing his words carefully. Preparing coffee was a ritual, and he took his time about it, setting up the filter, grinding the beans, measuring scoops into the cone. “I thought I was clear in the Rites that the mandalas don’t come at my beck and call. In fact, they didn’t really come to me at all. They came to—well, Ms. A. I just happened to be there. Neither of us could summon them unless they felt like coming; and once they’d said what they’d come to say, they went away, and that was that. Basically, Michael, everything I know about them is in my book. If we were going to find out anything else—I mean, some way of dealing with your wife’s condition—we’d have to get them back again, wouldn’t we? And there’s no reason to think they’d come. It’s not like Ms. A and I haven’t tried calling them back to tie up some of the loose ends. In fact, my publisher recently begged for a sequel, more of the mandalas’ philosophy, but I doubt they’ll ever oblige us.”

Michael began to gnaw on his thumb as the gravity of Derek’s disclaimers began to make clear the futility of his cross-country trip. “But… but, Mr. Crowe, they are here. Lenore’s channeling them now. You can—you can ask her.”

“And you think they’d tell us how to banish them? Why would they do that?”

He heard the door creak. Lenore stood in the entry. “Michael, can we go to bed soon?”

“Lenore, we’ve got—” Michael turned desperately to Derek. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowe, we’ve just totally barged in on you. We’ve got to find a place to stay. We’re completely wiped. Even if you can help us, it’s not going to happen tonight. I saw a motel just up the street; we’ll see if they’ve got rooms and… and maybe we can talk to you tomorrow, when we’ve had some rest.”

Lenore looked disappointed; her eyes fixed on Derek, and he found himself saying “Look, why don’t you two stay here for the night?”

“What? Seriously?”

“That’s a sofa bed in there. I’ve got extra blankets. You just—you’ve come all this way to see me, I’m not going to send you out so soon. Tomorrow I’ll take you somewhere you might be able to meet people who can help you. Friends of mine, whose advice I’d trust. As I say, I really can’t tell you more about the mandalas than I’ve already written—but maybe that’s not the only possible solution.”

“Wow,” Michael said. “That’s incredibly kind of you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Derek said, with a little nod to Lenore. She rewarded him with a slight smile.

“I’ve got to get our stuff out of the car—there’s not much, but I don’t want it to get stolen.”

“Do you need help?” Derek asked.

“No, it’s not much. I’ll be okay.”

When Michael was gone, Lenore came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. The coffee was brewed; he poured her a cup and she sat warming her hands on it, inhaling the steam.

“I guess Michael told you what’s been happening to me,” she said. “It must sound pretty insane.”

“Well… no…” he said weakly. His eyes caught on the mandala tattooed in the middle of her forehead. She went crosseyed trying to see it herself, and smirked.

“I can explain that,” she said, rising and walking slowly toward him.

‘I’m sure you can.” Relief…

“The mandates gave it to me. And they brought me to you.”

She brushed past him, into the living room, as he stood dumbfounded. “Where’s the bathroom? Wait, I see it.” She walked out of sight.

Derek groped for his own cup, sloshed coffee into it, and drank it down. He had scalded his mouth so much recently that he hardly felt a thing. The caffeine hit his nerves in a concentrated burst. He paced around the kitchen, listening to the water running, thinking of her in there. Jesus. This was trouble, all right. And he had just asked it to spend the night.

Obviously she was the one behind their jaunt. What had drawn her to him?

What if she saw my photo on one of my books and started fantasizing? It’s common enough. Unhappy people are constantly forming attachments to people of reputation, stalking them. I’m an occult celebrity. She could have heard I was coming to town. Long before the lecture night she could have memorized some of the Rites, planning her possession, scheming to convince Michael that only I could help her.

But, my God. If she would really go to all that trouble, she must be even more unstable than her husband. Yet… how focused, how elaborate her plans, and how successful she had been.

She had come to see him.

This is crazy, Derek thought, suppressing a thrill. I can’t be so hard up that I would dream of getting involved with a neurotic, manipulative fan. Not to mention a married one.

And you hypnotized her, he thought. You’ve already planted yourself deep inside her mind, you idiot.

He realized he could hear the shower running, then a steady toneless murmur that sounded like Lenore gargling. The sound grew louder, droning on and on, rhythmic and monotonous, familiar.

She’s reciting the Rites, he realized.

And for a terrifying moment, he believed everything Michael had told him, every word of Elias’s story, every syllable scrawled in the ledgers. He believed in the power of a dead skin and the existence of every demon haunting the old books he’d studied to concoct his own volumes.

He clenched his eyes and held his breath and waited for the moment to pass.

The belief went away, but the fear—not quite.

30

“You know what drives me crazy?” Michael said, striking his fist into the palm of his other hand. He sat in Derek’s kitchen, slurping coffee, while Lenore slept in the darkened living room. Michael looked as if he should have gone to bed days ago; but apparently he had been awake so long that it was habitual. Soon Derek would beg exhaustion and crawl away.

“What’s that?” he asked, as politely as he could manage.

“I get jealous that… that they used Lenore instead of me. I spent years preparing myself, learning rituals, purifying myself in body and spirit—and nothing real, nothing definite has ever happened to me, nothing I couldn’t explain away, until Lenore invoked that mandala. I’d never seen any phenomenon I couldn’t interpret as coincidence or a stray draft, you know? But Lenore… Lenore, who couldn’t give a shit about the occult, who does drugs, all those things that are supposed to make you unclean—they come right through her. The preparation, the discipline, those things don’t even matter. They’re a crutch for people who don’t have the aptitude and never will. You can take piano lessons from day one and you’ll never be a Mozart, you know, unless you’re born Mozart. The mandalas ignored me. They went straight to Lenore. All I am now is, like, her fucking chauffeur.”

“Maybe you have some kind of inner strength or stability she lacks,” Derek said, humoring him.

“So? I mean, I know that—but is that so great? Isn’t the direct experience worth more? I mean, she’s seeing things, living things I can only imagine. Why her?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Derek said, “you’re not the first to ask. It’s been this way through history.”

“What do you mean?”

Derek felt himself warming to the subject, which drew on research he’d never been able to find a use for in writing The Mandala Rites. He’d never had a moment’s conversation with anyone who might have appreciated all the invisible work he’d done; he hadn’t felt able to discuss it with Lilith, because it would have made him appear too sincere in his work, and then she would have ridiculed him further for his hypocrisy.

“Well, apart from my own case—and remember, I got the complete mandala texts secondhand, rather than by direct revelation—you must be familiar with John Dee.”

“Sure. One of the great wizards of all time. Queen Elizabeth’s astrologer.”

“He was also an accomplished mathematician and cryptographer. An intellect, I mean.”

“Well, magic was an intellectual field back then—natural law. Plenty of great thinkers were involved in the occult.”

“Plenty were burned for it too,” Derek said. “But what I’m saying is that Dee could never put aside his intellect and simply experience the mysteries. He was obsessed with divination, but he lacked the talent for it. He had to hire someone else to use his ‘shew-stone.’”

“Edward Kelly!” Michael’s eyes brightened. Derek saw that Michael was equally proud of his arcane research. “Aleister Crowley thought he was Kelly’s reincarnation!”

“Yes, and Kelly did all John Dee’s scrying for him. He was the channeler, like Lenore and my friend Ms. A. All Dee did, like me, was write down what Kelly saw. Kelly had the visions, but he didn’t have any understanding of them. To Dee, it was a miracle; to Kelly, it was a job.”

“That’s what I’m saying. It’s unfair!”

“Then there’s William Butler Yeats.”

“The poet? Yeah, wasn’t he an initiate in the Golden Dawn?”

“And a great enemy of Crowley’s. He once changed the locks on the temple headquarters to keep Crowley out.”

Michael broke out laughing. “Really? I didn’t know they knew each other.”

“Yeats got himself into a situation similar to our own. Have you read A Vision? He and his wife were experimenting with automatic writing, when suddenly the spirits began writing to Yeats through her. They gave him an entire cosmology for his poetry, a whole set of symbols linking the personality of man to the phases of the moon.”

“Really? So you’re saying he was like too intellectual, so they had to go through her to get to him? Like, he was too hard to reach directly….”

Sure, Derek thought. You’re so intellectual ….

He said, “Perhaps it’s the same with you and me. We’re too—too much in control, too controlling. Maybe it’s in the male ego, the way we’re wired.”

“That reminds me of another theory of mine,” Michael said suddenly, rising from his sulk. “Sometimes I think we’re like the left and right hemispheres of brains. We’re incomplete on our own. Say I’m the logical left-hand sort, and Lenore is the intuitive right-hand type. She experiences everything directly, then I analyze it. They possess her and fill her with energy, but I have to work out their instructions. Maybe we’re supposed to form bonds with other people, a single consciousness made up from two. We’re like separate cells, but we can’t exist without each other. Maybe that’s the lesson of the mandalas—that’s what they’re trying to tell us. We have to all come together. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid of what’s been happening. But when Lenore goes away and they come around, I can’t help being frightened. This is the sort of thing I always dreamed would happen, but somehow I never imagined it would be so… well, dark.”

“Are you afraid of them, Michael?”

Michael stared at him, red-eyed, embarrassed. “I hate to use the word evil; I never believed in it, really. But I’ve started to think I know what it means. Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Crowe, that the mandalas might have lied?”

“What do you mean?”

“They say they’re all sweetness and light, working for the good of humanity, but what if that was just meant to sucker us in? Build a big cult and then—and then turn on us. I mean, how would we know? There’s no way to check on them. But I’ll tell you, what I’ve seen of them so far—it’s sort of at odds with everything they told you to write.”

Derek was beginning to grow uncomfortable. “I don’t know if we need to suspect them of outright lying. Maybe we just don’t understand them.”

Michael considered this, and Derek began to scream internally. Tell him, went the scream. Tell him the truth.

But once he confessed, there would be no way to contain or control the truth. He was not prepared to sacrifice his reputation. Not yet.

He nodded toward the living room.

“She seems quiet enough now,” he said. “I don’t know her, but there’s nothing unusual in the behavior I’ve seen.”

Michael nodded. “They’re taking it easy. I haven’t really sensed much activity since we got to California. Maybe they’re afraid of you, and they’re lying low; maybe they know you’re going to help Lenore.” Michael surely saw that this statement made Derek uncomfortable, for he quickly added, “Or maybe they know she needs rest. They don’t want to burn her out.” He sighed, looked around. “Speaking of which, I think I’d better get to bed.”

Derek rose to take his cup and rinse it in the sink. “Sleep in as late as you like. If you need anything, just knock on my door.”

He left Michael undressing in the dark living room. He stumbled into his bedroom and sank down on his bed, feeling absurdly like a prisoner in his own home. He desired Lenore, he realized, but also feared desiring her. It wasn’t her husband that frightened him. If something happened between them, and Michael were to discover, it would be merely pathetic. What he feared was any dramatic change, anything that might catalyze a crisis. Fear had entered his home in the form of two obsessed fans who had tracked him all the way across the country, coming to haunt him with his own incantations.

What did they really want from him?

31

Michael woke unhappily, uncertain of the hour, wishing he could sleep at least as long as he had driven. It was novel not to wake up cramped and stiff in the front seat with the sound of other cars rushing past. For days his first act upon waking had been to twist the key in the ignition. Now that he found himself with no immediate purpose, he felt aimless and hollow. And last night’s conversation with Derek Crowe had not heartened him or given him much hope either.

The blinds were pulled to keep the living room dim, but judging from the sounds on the street outside it was already late in the day. The bedsheets were rumpled where Lenore had lain, but she was gone. He rolled out of bed and went into the kitchen, and found her heating last night’s coffee. She gave him a sleepy smile.

“Good morning. Can you believe we’re here?”

“Believe it? I remember every inch of that fucking road.” He put his arms around her, absorbing some of her warmth, putting his face against her neck though she turned away as if his breath were wretched. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m good,” she said. “I really slept last night. I feel almost human.”

“You don’t… you’re not having trouble, then?”

She looked around, at the air above them, and shrugged. “I don’t feel anything this morning. It’s almost as if it never happened.”

“Why?” Michael said. “Why would they force us out here and then just leave?”

“I don’t know, Michael, but I’m not going looking for trouble, if that’s what you mean. I feel normal this morning—do you know what that’s like? Do you want me to start getting crazy again?”

“No,” he said hurriedly, but it was with a pang of embarrassment. He realized he had been selfishly wanting her to have another powerful fit, so that Derek Crowe would believe their story. Crowe obviously thought they were nuts; last night he’d had the sense that Derek could scarcely tolerate him, and had asked them to stay only out of pity. He had begun to suspect there was less to Crowe than he’d believed; he seemed genuinely at a loss when faced with Lenore’s condition. Michael couldn’t bear to face the fact that he might not be their salvation after all but merely another dead-end. If one of the trances came on right now, Crowe might prove as helpless as any of them.

Maybe San Francisco itself had calmed Lenore. It was supposed to be that kind of place. They had been bogged down in Cinderton—not in the same kind of deadly ruts they’d carved for themselves in New York, but in a tedium just as suicidal in the long run. San Francisco was supposed to be a haven for people with divergent and eclectic beliefs—people like them. Maybe they’d end up staying here, if luck was with them and they fell in with the right people. Maybe a change was what they had really needed, and the mandalas had spurred their cross-country flight to spare them some worse fate back in Cinderton.

At that thought, he suddenly remembered Tucker and Scarlet, and the TV image of their house….

Crowe hadn’t heard about the deaths, obviously; but it was only a matter of time. If he didn’t pick up a paper and see one of his mandalas implicated in a ritual killing, then the police themselves were bound to come to him, asking his opinion. He was the mandala expert, after all. Someone might remember him leaving with the Renzlers after his lecture. The cops would work all that together, weaving a trap that Michael and Lenore and maybe even Crowe himself might never escape. Their alibis—the truth itself—sounded like sheer madness.

No, it wouldn’t do to stay around Crowe much longer. If he couldn’t help them, then he would only harm them. And they’d be bringing trouble on his head if the cops found out they’d stayed here even one night.

He left Lenore in the kitchen and started packing their bags. They could check out the motel a few blocks up the street, or—better yet—move on to someplace farther from Crowe. But they had to move quickly. It had cost more to cross the country than he’d expected, but the remaining cash would last a few weeks if they found the right place. Best of all would be a temporary living situation, with some roommates; and then he had to think about getting a job. All that would take time. And it hinged on Lenore’s stability. The mandalas could return at any moment; this was just a lull, he felt, a moment of peace before they returned. He hated to mention that possibility to Lenore. She’d had plenty of lucid moments in the last few days, but none of them had lasted. The mandalas weren’t going to give her up so easily.

The door of Crowe’s bedroom clicked open, and the man made a dash for the bathroom, blinking over at Michael as if startled to see him. Michael peeked into the kitchen.

“Crowe’s up,” he said. “I’m just going to run this stuff up to the car. Why don’t you get ready?”

“What’s the rush?” she said.

“Lenore… just do it, all right?”

She gave him a blank look. He realized her eyes were not on him at all, but fixed in the air above his head.

Here it comes… he thought, and headed for the door.

It was a windy day, fog blowing over the tops of the tall apartment buildings, setting the signs of Chinese restaurants swinging, shaking the little plastic pennants strung outside corner stores. To Michael it felt warm by comparison to the climates they’d left behind. He walked slowly up the street, under the weight of their bags, in no mood to enjoy the atmosphere of San Francisco. Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge. How could he care about any of these things? Besides, none of them were visible from here. Derek Crowe lived in a seedy neighborhood. Half the people coming down the street toward him looked like junkies or bums, their faces scabbed and sunburned, hair all matted, their ragged clothes dark with grime. The others on the sidewalk wore business suits, moving briskly through the slower-moving pedestrians as if they occupied two different worlds. He didn’t trust either group, didn’t fit in here.

He rounded the corner where he’d parked the car and came to a sudden stop.

A meter maid stood by the Beetle, writing a ticket.

He crossed the street as fast as he could, heading for the motel.

That’s it, he thought. That’s how it starts. They’ll run a check on the car. Maybe they’ll stake it out, wait to see who comes for it. Even if it doesn’t happen yet, it will.

We’ve got to dump the car. Smartest of all would be to just ditch it here. There’s nothing in it that we can’t live without. But it’s too close to Crowe, and I don’t want to drag the guy into this. We’re just going to have to hurry.

He was panting by the time he reached the motel. It was an old motor court, looking weirdly out of place among the tenements and office buildings. It had been refurbished, repainted, given a trendy face-lift—Route 66 nostalgia. The no light was off in the vacancy sign. He dragged his bags into the office and soon had a key.

All the units were built facing a courtyard with a kidney-shaped swimming pool. There were palm trees in big cement planters, leaves skritching in the fog, and country music coming from a bar across the patio. He climbed the steps to the balcony and found the door to their room. Just then the sun came peering through the gray swirls of mist—white and watery, but still the sun.

“Fuckin’ A,” he said, suddenly elated, a big grin breaking out of nowhere, like the sun through the fog. “California!”

32

Derek Crowe wandered into the kitchen, combing his wet thinning hair, looking awkward in a bathrobe. Lenore couldn’t help but think of the picture on his book, Crowe wrapped in a gimmicky cape. This was the real Crowe. Still, the mandala

presence was strong around him. There was a solid core to the man, a presence that transcended his crowded kitchen and the cramped apartment. He was, like her, being looked after. It was with a feeling of wordless solidarity that she poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him. He looked surprised and pleased.

“Thank you,” he said. “I imagine you’re hungry. I don’t have much in the house, but you’re welcome to it.”

“I’m fine,” she said, sitting at the table. He smiled nervously, then sat down across from her.

“Did you sleep well?”

There wasn’t time for small talk. It was essential that they not waste a single moment together. “Mr. Crowe, I’m worried about Michael.”

He looked hesitant. “He—I’d say he’s worried about you.”

Lenore snorted. “I’m a strong person. I’ve been through a lot, enough to toughen me. I can take almost anything. But Michael—it’s not only that he’s weaker… it’s that… have you seen his mandala?”

Derek smiled uncomfortably. “Now, Lenore, I don’t have that—ah, ability.”

“Have they told you anything lately?”

“We haven’t been in touch.”

“Well, I can see them,” she said, convinced that he should know everything she knew. Perhaps that was part of her role here, to put him in touch again with the mandalas; maybe his work was not yet done. “And Michael’s looks sick.”

“Sick? Is that possible?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“You two are both under the misapprehension that I know more about the mandalas than is in my book.”

“I haven’t read your book,” she said flatly. “I know them from direct experience. From moving among them, and with them, and trying to figure out what they want. I know they’re not exactly alive like you and me. You wouldn’t think they could die—but what if they can? What if they have a life cycle of their own? Something so slow they’re practically immortal?”

“A fascinating idea,” he said. “You’re really in communication with the mandalas all the time?”

“Mostly. And it’s hard to tell sometimes, I’ve gotten so used to it. At first it all seemed strange and different, but it’s starting to seem normal now.”

“I’d like to… to ask you about all this sometime,” he said. “Sometime when I can take notes. If you’re going to be around for a while, I mean. Maybe if I put questions to you, you could put them out to—to the mandalas, and they’d give us both the answers. It’s occurred to me, you know, that maybe they’d like me to put out another book.”

“Mr. Crowe—”

“Derek, please.”

“Derek, I think Michael is in some kind of crisis. His mandala is breaking up. I’ve seen others attack it, and it’s weak—maybe too weak to defend itself much longer. If they can kill it, if it can die, then what happens to Michael? I’m afraid for him.”

“Well, I understand that. But the mandalas, almost everything about them, is a mystery, isn’t it? How can we hope to know them so soon, when they’ve only just revealed themselves? You sound as if you’ve been very close to them for a few days, but all that’s done is raised more questions in your mind than I ever thought to ask.”

Lenore tried to suppress her growing frustration, to keep it from turning to anger. “Michael thought you were the expert. He thought you’d have the answers for us.”

“I’m very sorry, Lenore. I tried to explain to your husband my part in all this. And… I had the impression that you had your own reasons for coming here.” He gave her a sly look, one with a variety of possible interpretations. She did not like most of them.

“I was drawn to you,” she said. “Coming here was part of the solution to a puzzle I’ve been working out. Now I’ve done that part and I don’t see where it fits in. It’s not finished yet.”

At that moment the buzzer sounded.

“There he is now,” he said, and jumped up with obvious relief. A minute later Michael came into the kitchen, breathing heavily. He looked worse than ever, as if by admitting her fears she had brought them into sharper focus. If only he could see the things that slashed the air just behind him, spiny mouths opening, poison tongues, all of them pricking and stabbing his mandala. The thing shivered and recoiled and clung to Michael with pitiful desperation; no more coherent than a cloud, it could scarcely hold itself together, let alone shield Michael from attack.

Michael’s face had grown silvery and transparent, so that she could see the veins beneath his skin and the tumbling of mercurial corpuscles; the squelchy sound of his bones sliding and sloshing in lymph-soaked tissue sounded loud as a radio turned up full blast. She sickened to think of her own bones trapped and smothered in flesh, except for teeth standing like outcrops of rock, small peaks protruding from a thick red sea. The hairs on his skin were like seared trees clinging to a wasteland, their bark and foliage like hardened excrement. He metamorphosed further before her eyes, evolving into something ratlike and sickly, timid and malnourished. He looked… used up. His usefulness just about exhausted. His head seemed wrapped in a clotted, crumbling fog, a dry yellowing brittle mass like a tide-pool creature left too long in the hot sun—a fragile pod about to burst.

She flinched when he touched her but instantly regretted it. She still loved him, didn’t she?

“Got us a room at the place up the street,” he said. “We won’t have to bother you again tonight, Mr. Crowe.”

“You’ve been very little bother,” Derek said. “But I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable with some privacy and a place to spread out.”

“We should get out of your hair right away. You ready, Lenore?”

“I guess so,” she said. “But what are we going to do all day, Michael? We can’t just sit in a room.”

“Mr. Crowe said he knew a place where we might meet some people who could help us.”

“That’s right,” Derek said. “It’s a big occult shop, Hecate’s Haven. They have a bulletin board and roommate listings; a lot of people just come in and hang out. You might find someone who can help you. And a place you can stay. If you like, I’ll come along. I can introduce you to my friends, and we’ll see what they can do for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Michael said.

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Lenore. She was trying to figure out some way to stay near Crowe, despite his pretense that he knew less of the mandalas than she did. At least he already believed in the mandalas and knew something of their power. If something started happening to Michael’s mandala, he wouldn’t automatically think they were crazy.

“I think we’ve been enough trouble. Mr. Crowe probably has plenty of work to do on his books.”

“I’m between books right now,” Derek said. “And I—I owe an old friend a visit over there. If you’re anxious, we could leave any time.”

“I’m just… I’m worried that the car might not make it. It’s on its last legs.”

“The bus runs right to the place,” Derek said. “Or we could take a cab.”

“Come on, Michael,” Lenore said, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“All right then,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Lenore scurried to make sure she had all her things, but there really wasn’t much. Michael stood in the hallway, urging her to hurry. He rushed down the stairs ahead of them. Lenore lingered with Derek as he locked the front door’s deadbolts.

“You see what I mean?” she said. “He’s not himself. Something’s getting to him.”

“Probably exhaustion. Well, I’ll take your word for it. I imagine his mandala can look after him. Even if it is sickly, how long could something that ancient take to die? How many human lifetimes?”

The thought made Lenore shudder. What if the deterioration was only beginning for Michael? What if it went on and on, worsening gradually; what if it had been well under way since long before she’d been able to see his mandala… before she’d even met him… before he’d been born?

“Michael!” she called out suddenly, wanting the reassurance of his presence. She chased him down the stairs, catching hold of his hand on the street in front of the building. Michael paused at the corner, holding her back for a moment as he peered around at their car.

“Okay,” he said, “hurry up.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Come on.”

Michael drove nervously in the city’s frantic traffic. She could see his nerves were as brittle as his mandala. “I’m used to the highway,” he said after nearly colliding with a city bus. “Everything happens slower there.”

Last night, as they emerged from the Treasure Island tunnel and began to climb between the light-strung girders of the westernmost span of the Bay Bridge, Lenore’s eyes had gone from the glittering lights of the San Francisco skyline to a huge wheel of cloud that had gathered in the midst of the stars like a black whirlpool. The only reason she could see it was because the city lights cast a bluish pall on the belly of the low cloud, illuminating strands of vapor dangling down like tendrils, swaying in the high wind as if groping through the tops of the jeweled pylons, reaching toward the car.

Michael hadn’t seen it. To him, it was just another cloud. He hadn’t seen how it whirled and clenched; how the swaths of enfolding vapor slowly sloughed away, revealing the hard black tegument beneath; how the irising teeth, gleaming in the city-glow, snicked open and shut as it wheeled above the towers like a whirling crown.

It’s like the city’s guardian, she had thought. Presiding over everything. This is what called me here—this is what’s drawn us all this way. My own mandala, a smaller version of this….

Beneath it, she could see myriad other mandalas soaring and flitting about, smaller but brighter, swirling in as if drawn by the mass of the greater. They spun between the skyscrapers, spiraling in like satellites gently drawn to earth.

And closing her eyes, she had known herself as one of them. One of many drawn in on the spiral path to some gathering she could not quite imagine.

Why? What were they all doing here?

Derek Crowe guided them to Market Street, which was a straightaway. The sky this morning was gray, low and oppressive, as if they were living just beneath a lid of fog. Pedestrians hurried about with heads bowed into the wind, holding their coats closed at their throats. After traveling a mile or so, Lenore saw specks of blue above. The fog thinned as they went on, until she saw twin peaks ahead of them, two mounds like pale-brown breasts, one of them topped with a skeletal red and white tower that seemed to sway in and out of the mist. Nearer, looming up suddenly, was the crest of a hill with loose reddish rock piled atop it like a tumbled Stonehenge. Derek pointed out a parking space near an ornate building with curved oriental eaves, like an Asian temple.

As they walked up to the front of the pagoda-roofed building, Lenore was astonished to see that the windows were full of occult paraphernalia: Goat skulls and the frayed leathery shapes of desiccated bats were the first things to catch her eyes. Derek threw open the doors as if he owned the place.

“Welcome to Hecate’s Haven,” he said.

The shop was busy. Lenore looked around at the slowly prowling customers, picking through spinning racks of pamphlets and paperbacks, pulling jars from shelves. There was a man in a black cape, as if it were Halloween. A green-haired girl was buying a cinnamon-red candle shaped like a penis and a black wax vulva with a wick. Every day was Halloween in here. The place smelled of incense and paraffin soot and dried, musty herbs—exactly like the stores in New York where Michael had often dragged her on his occult shopping sprees. The long glass cases were full of jars, and the jars afloat with eyeballs, frogs, white snakes pickled in formaldehyde. Candles burned along the far wall; the incense she smelled was smoking in a brazier near the cash register.

Derek held them at the door for a moment, studying the crowd. “That’s my friend Lilith over there. Let me see if she’s got a moment. It looks busier than I expected.”

Lenore slid her hand through Michael’s arm and looked up at his mandala. The thing was throbbing; she could almost hear it gasp. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m all right. How about you?”

They were interrupted by a growing murmur from the crowd. Derek, picking his way toward the counter, had become the center of attention. Half a dozen customers had closed in and were bent to him, asking eager questions or simply staring, drinking in the sight of him, their faces bright and eyes wide. Crowe’s discomfort was plain, but it had no effect on his fans. Their mandalas bobbed and hovered near the ceiling like whirring balloons, fighting for position, urging them closer to Crowe. For the first time she had a sharp picture of his mandala, gray and damp-looking, sticky as flypaper, covered with roaming mouths that gaped at the room. The other mandalas darted closer to that one, arranging themselves around it, sometimes flicking out their tentacles like coiling tongues, dipping the tips into the mouths of Crowe’s mandala as if feeding it or indulging in deep kisses. But sometimes the teeth of his mandala snapped; the mouths champed shut, cutting off the tendril-tips, and the injured mandalas skittered away, dragging their puppets with them, the humans dazed and frightened-looking. Crowe’s mandala was gray as a fungus, like something long dead, but it looked like the strongest one in the gathering. The others were eager to pay it obeisance.

“What’s going on?” Michael said.

“Whoa!” said a voice to one side. Lenore turned to see a blond boy standing there, a kid with long hair and a downy mustache, gazing enrapt at Derek Crowe. “You know who that is?”

“Derek Crowe,” she said.

“Yeah! He looks just like his picture, doesn’t he? Man, I was waiting—I thought he’d never come around again! They say he’s supposed to be at Club Mandala tonight, for the grand opening! But this is even better—I mean, it’s intimate!”

His eyes fixed on her forehead. “Awesome!” His finger darted out, as if to touch the mandala, but she jerked away. “You—you’re really into it, aren’t you?”

Lenore gazed at him, saying nothing. She could feel her mandala moving over the kid, suppressing him, turning down his excited light. He dimmed visibly. His grin shrank a little, and he ducked his head slightly, lowering his voice. “Sorry. Hey, you know who else is here? You see that lady over there? You know who that is?”

She followed the kid’s finger. He was pointing at a woman behind the counter, tall and slender, rather severe-looking. She looked angry about the disruption Crowe was causing.

“That’s Ms. A!” the kid said.

“Ms. A?” Michael said. “Really?”

“It’s gotta be her. She’s like Crowe’s best friend, and her name is Lilith Allure. With an A!”

Michael leaned to whisper in Lenore’s ear. “This is insane. Look at Crowe. We can’t go through that.”

Lilith marched out from behind the counter, firmly seized Crowe by an arm, and strode to the rear of the shop, clearing a way through the crowd with sharp commands. She took him through a door and slammed it shut behind them.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Michael said.

The crowd had begun to whirl about, angrily circling the absence at its center where Derek Crowe at been. Lenore knew it was only a matter of time until they spotted the mandala on her forehead and realized she had come with Crowe. She was about to receive for herself the attention Derek had escaped.

“You hear about those rituals down south?” the kid was saying. “It’s really starting now—”

Michael put his arm around Lenore, rushing her out the door before the boy had finished speaking. It pained her to leave Crowe behind, but she knew it was the wisest thing for now.

“Do you mind?” he said when they were outside. “We can come back later. We can look up Crowe when it’s not so crazy here. We… I don’t know, Lenore. We have to put our heads together. We have to figure out what we’re doing. We have to talk about some stuff.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Because there’s some things I have to tell you. I’ve been keeping from you. I’m not sure why. You really should know.”

“Things like what?” she said, suddenly afraid. She didn’t like the edge in his voice. What could he possibly know that she didn’t? Didn’t she see everything—so much more than Michael?

He opened the car door for her. The rocks on the peak above the shop looked black instead of red now, as the afternoon sun sank toward them. An ice-crystal halo blinked into existence around the sun, and she looked for a mandala to fill the outline of that rainbow wheel. It was empty white air, though, an optical effect and nothing more. No shimmering pale sun guardian watched over the city.

Michael took a moment to look at the map, then shoved it into the glove box and started the car. She didn’t ask where he was going, but after a while it became obvious that he didn’t have any particular route in mind: He just kept heading west. They had been traveling west for days. Apparently he wanted to go until he could go no farther.

More than anything else, Michael worried her. She had seen him as ratlike before, a diseased animal, but now he was not even that. When she reached out for the reassurance of touch, she felt not flesh and bone beneath her hand, but cold machinery. Holes yawned in his skin, festering places where the life had been burned away. Down inside him, gears and pistons worked brokenly like malfunctioning extensions of the car, giving off a scent of sweat and machine oil. She raged silently at his mandala: What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you help him?

But that might have been a mistake. It seemed to bring the sickly mandala to the attention of her own. Hers made a few teasing strikes at Michael’s faltering guardian, stinging lashes of the black whips. It darted at the ill one like a wheel of razors, slicing deeply into it, dancing back. Lenore pleaded with her mandala to leave him alone, but to no effect. She could not join in the torture; she herself must do something to protect Michael. But what?

They passed out of the crowded streets, leaving behind the clashing walls and screams of traffic. They entered avenues of soothing geometry, tall white blocks with stucco faces and roofs of Spanish tile. They drove past squat windowless hutches, speckled green and brown, which quivered like amphibian eggs about to hatch. Michael had started talking, quite intent, but nothing he said made sense; it was all in a language she had forgotten. Once the words might have meant something—tucker, scarlet, murder, police—but she had left that entire world of signifiers behind.

Suddenly the sea appeared before them, fog pouring in through the mouth of a channel. It was magnificent in any world, but to Lenore’s eyes the fusion of dimensions rendered it almost unbearably beautiful. They drove along a narrow road, crawling past violet lawns, through trees of thorn and ivory. Layers of distant hills rose on the far side of a channel; the terrestrial sun glared through momentarily, scorching the fog. Then, taking the star’s place, a stark orange orb like a blind eye peered through, dripping a tainted manna, striking at the stunted trees and blighting the foliage, turning the landscape into a desert where only things of scale and metal could possibly survive.

Creaking, he turned to face her. His eyes were gone. When he moved his jaws, she hardly heard a thing. She shrank from the warring mandalas that writhed and gnashed the air above their heads. She had to stop it somehow, before Michael was hurt. She felt no fear for herself, but he was weak.

Suddenly something in the car gave way. There was a raw clanking somewhere underneath them.

“Fucking Crowe’s fucking paper clip!” said the Michael-thing. He pulled the car off the road, driving through brush. He yanked his door open and stumbled out, gesticulating at the car with emotions she couldn’t grasp. She joined him in a small glade of broken glass and rubbish, just out of sight of the road.

How close they were to the sea! Here the cliffs came up abruptly. She lost herself in the sight of the horizon smothered in coppery mist. In the mouth of the bay, she saw the coiling struggles of huge metallic creatures spouting bloody foam. Great bells rang, deep voices echoing between the cliffs of the channel. A bridge ran over the water, a frail piece of orange metal stretched out to an implausible thinness, with specks of life crawling over it. Cars or insects, or a fusion of both.

The Michael-thing moved first toward the car, then toward her, then back to the car. It leaned into the car and began pushing the vehicle across a stretch of din. The car rolled, gathering speed, crashing through branches, juddering past her. She watched in joyous release as it flew from the edge of the cliff and toppled out of sight. The sound of its crash was ecstacy.

The Michael-thing stood watching where the car had gone. It swayed like a heap of metal about to topple. She didn’t want to touch the thing but it twitched toward her, lifting splintered fingers in supplication or farewell. She realized that it was about to grasp her in a mockery of affection, sinking its corroded grips into her flesh. The thought was more than she could bear. She spun aside, barely eluding it. Her mandala dipped between them, and she felt a moment’s human sadness, for the husband-thing could not last much longer. It had served its purpose in bringing her to Derek Crowe. Nothing it did from now on had any meaning whatsoever. Its life was over. It had passed from significance. Nothing of Michael was left in it now; she could hardly remember the affection she might have felt.

Her mandala flew in furious motion, blurring like a black wheel of razors. It sliced into the amorphous mass of the husband-thing’s guardian, cutting it open like a seed pod full of tiny rose-colored beads. The specks of life went flying, scattered like jewels from a broken necklace, spraying down the cliffs toward the sea, some floating aimlessly into the sky.

And then the Michael-thing, the husband-thing, disappeared. It didn’t run away or cast itself over the cliff; it simply ceased to be. Lenore forgot it had ever existed. She didn’t question how she had come to this place, for that was irrelevant now. She had somewhere to go, and her mandala would get her there.

33

“So,” Lilith said, latching the door, turning to face Derek in the narrow hall lined with boxes. “You had to come in here today of all days. You know half the people out there are getting ready for that Club Mandala bash tonight? You’re their dream come true, walking in here like that.”

“Lilith, I—” Derek was breathless, practically in shock. He had never been mobbed before. “I only came to ask you a favor—”

“I don’t hear from you for days, and then you show up like this? You’re starting a riot.”

“I didn’t know this would happen. How could I?”

“If you wanted to talk to me, you should have called me at home. In private. This isn’t the place for a discussion. You’re making everything worse, as if it weren’t bad enough already. And what about this thing in North Carolina?”

“What thing?” he said.

“This ritual sacrifice. Which of your fans is responsible for that?”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked at him in cool disbelief. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard. It’s not exactly in the headlines, but they’re all buzzing about it.” She pointed down the hall. The store was loud with whistling and disappointed cries. “Weren’t you just out in North Carolina?”

“Of course,” he said.

“There was a murder there—a double murder actually. I’m surprised you haven’t been questioned about it. Someone painted a nice big mandala on the wall in the victims’ blood.”

Derek went cold, thinking of Chhith/Huon, the ritual murders around Phnom Penh. But Chhith wasn’t in North Carolina; and the Renzlers had just come from there, crossed the country so quickly that they might have been in flight.

“Do they know who did it?” he said.

“Some crazed couple, supposedly. But they can’t find them.”

“A couple,” he murmured.

“Now what?” she said. “Derek, where are you going?”

He didn’t know himself. He couldn’t go out the front door, and what good would it do to escape out the back? The Renzlers already knew where he lived. What he ought to do was find out exactly what the story was with this sacrifice, and then—what? Call the police? If he didn’t turn them in, he’d come off looking like another Charles Manson. He’d stopped into Cinderton for one night’s lecture, accepted a ride to the airport, and somehow brainwashed his fans into murder. He’d spent a good deal of time with them, time unaccounted for on that dark road. They’d be painted as zombies, his witless slaves, and he the mandala master. Of course, he’d have an alibi, wouldn’t he? Their friend had come to fix the broken car….

He mustn’t let it get to that point. This was time for extreme damage control.

“I need your help,” he said.

“I told you before, I can’t get sucked into this. I’ve tried telling those people out there I’m not Ms. A, that we didn’t meet till after you wrote your book. But it’s futile. They want to believe in me.”

“Lilith, please, I know this is all fucked up, but I need help! I may be in trouble. Real trouble.”

“You just figured that out?”

“Would you take a look out there? There are two people, they came in with me, a young guy and a girl, a girl with hair that’s sort of henna black and red. They’re both in black leather, punk types.”

“They came in with you? I don’t believe it.”

“Just look, all right?”

She went to the door, opened it a bit, and peered out. It had greatly quieted in the shop. “I don’t see anyone like that,” she said after a minute.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

They’ve run off again, Derek thought. They must have thought I was on to them. Or else they just panicked in the crowd, like I did.

Lilith shut the door again. “Who are they?”

“Just…” Should he tell her, the way things stood between them? No. Not yet. “Just some people who’ve been following me around.”

“Congratulations, Derek. You’ve finally got yourself a cult!”

“You know,” he said, feigning slowly dawning comprehension, “they’re from somewhere in the South. I think that’s a North Carolina license plate on their car. You know, I… I might have seen them at the lecture I gave in Cinderton.”

“Are you serious?”

“My God…” he said quietly. “Lilith, what if it’s them?”

“Then I suggest you call the police. You should call them anyway, and volunteer your services. Say you heard about the murder, offer to tell them everything you know about the mandalas. Convince them you don’t believe a word of the stuff you’re pushing, that you made it all up, and you’ll be off to a good start. Tell the truth for once!”

That, undoubtedly, was exactly what he should do. But Derek hesitated.

“Of course,” Lilith added, “you’ll have to live with the fact that this cult you invented, on the spur of the moment, has been responsible for at least two deaths so far. I say ‘at least’ because there are other stories going around.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped himself.

“Didn’t what?”

Didn’t invent it, he’d almost said, but that was the one thing he could never say.

“I didn’t tell anyone to kill,” he said. “Nothing in the book says anything about sacrifice or murder.”

“How do you know what it says, Derek? Half of it is gibberish. When people do invocations like that, the words mean what they want them to mean; they conjure whatever’s inside them.”

“Can you call me a cab?”

“Call it yourself,” she said sharply. “I have to get back to work. You need to make a plan, Derek. If I can help you, in some reasonable way, let me know; I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you, Lilith. You’re a good friend.”

“Too good for you, I know.”

“Well…”

“I’m pissed at you, Derek, for bringing this down on me—on all of us. The world doesn’t need this right now. If you’d only held your tongue, stayed in advertising. I’d have respected you then. But what you’ve been doing, it’s just wrong. I don’t know why I humored you for so long. I guess love blinded me a little.”

“Love?” he said.

She scowled and rolled her eyes. “It’s too late for that. For us. Maybe you’ll get yourself together. Find someone else. I hope so.” He stood with his mouth open, hands hanging. Lilith turned into the kitchen where the phone was. He heard her dialing.

I deserve this, he thought.

He had been waiting all his life for the bad thing to happen. For the cosmic vengeance. For what he deserved. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that it ever would come, since on a rational level Derek didn’t believe in the sort of universe that would stoop to notice the transgressions of a pathetic little grub like himself—as if the morals of a grub would overlap with the morals of the universe, which after all was nothing but particles and waves, infinite cold prickled by radiation, space-time warped and puckered by forces he would never understand, but which he took on faith to be completely devoid of moral character, completely lacking in interest in him as an individual, grown man or young man or small boy.

And yet… and yet…

The unreasoning part of him still cringed and cowered, still waited for judgment, still waited to pay (with interest) for the death he had caused as a young man and for the horrible manner of that death, whose worst aspects were a secret he had carried in him forever, since the only other person privy to those moments of shame was herself the one he had killed.

So, yes, he had always expected trouble, vast and unbearable trouble, trouble on a scale beyond reason and centered exclusively on himself. He had gone looking for it, you might say. And now it was on its way, winging—no, whirling—swiftly toward him. It knew where he lived. It was his and no other’s; he had made it his own.

He was almost relieved to know it was finally here, and he was in the middle of it, sink or swim. At last, he was going to pay.

34

Pushing the car over the cliff was easier than Michael expected, but as soon as it began to roll away from him he doubted the wisdom of it. He’d have been better off ditching it in a bad neighborhood where it would get stripped or stolen. Sending it over a cliff in broad daylight was bound to attract attention. At the very least he should have removed the license plates. But the car was gone, even as doubts came up with the sounds of the crash. The same inner voices that had made the decision now hung around mocking him. You fucked up big time!

He turned to Lenore, but something stopped him. It was like a different person standing there—someone he didn’t know. A stranger stared out from Lenore’s eyes.

He said her name, but she didn’t seem to hear it. She looked around as if she didn’t see him, then turned and moved off through the shrubs. He watched her go, unable to move. “Lenore!” he called. She was gone. He took a few steps toward the springing branches into which she had plunged, and then the world lurched out from under him.

Even on all fours, crawling, he felt unstable, as if he were about to go spinning away. He threw himself flat, dug his fingers into the earth, and held on; but pressed flat like that, with his eyes closed, the sensation of whirling was even stronger. He could not lie there for long. He must rise. He should follow Lenore, hard as it seemed. She shouldn’t be alone, in her condition.

A storm ripped at him with invisible fingers; it felt like a maelstrom tugging him into its center. He looked up, wondering how to regain his feet, and saw that somehow he had slid or crawled closer to the cliff’s edge, in the very tracks of the Beetle. He was close enough to see how the weeds and brush had been crushed and snapped by tires; how the sandstone edge had crumbled under the car’s weight. He could see the ocean, gray as the fog, ruffled up by the wind—but it was not the wind he felt dragging him toward the edge, hauling him over.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, though it made his dizziness worse. Blind, he could no longer tell which way he was facing, or where he was being pulled. In a way it was better not to know.

He made a conscious effort to calm himself, to clear his mind. It was obvious that if things went on this way, he was going to die very soon. He must be sure he understood that and kept his thoughts calm, so he could meet his death face-on, fully conscious, bringing to it everything he knew, everything he had learned, everything he could possibly manage to hold onto.

Michael believed in no particular god. He didn’t expect any divinities to come running if he put out a psychic SOS. Prayer was calming but too complicated. And desperate prayer would only add to his anguish and terror and confusion. He didn’t have salt or water; no athame, bells, or chalices. He could chant mantras or visualize the Clear Light or rack his brain trying to remember some Sufi songs. But none of those things came naturally to him.

Instead, he cast a circle.

He had only to think of it and it was there, surrounding him. A circle of white fire, like the ones he had drawn in his temple room. Those had failed to keep the mandalas out, but then, keeping things out was not the true purpose of a circle. Magic circles were meant to keep things in, to concentrate and focus whatever energy was summoned. And right now Michael was concerned with keeping himself together, in one psychic piece, so that if the worst happened he wouldn’t be scattered all over the place at the moment of transition.

He felt remarkably calm. He felt, in fact, like a compass needle: bobbing, floating, weightless. The circle spun around him, a thin white wire, severing him from whatever force was trying to murder him. He felt detached from everything, as if sitting on a high rock in the midst of a raging current.

I don’t have to go anywhere, he thought. I’m at the center of this circle, and this circle is at the center of the universe, because every point is equally the center.

The vertigo passed. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see the line of white fire burning and sizzling around him in the damp weeds. He was several feet from the cliff, lying in the drag marks his body had made between the tire tracks. Merely raising his head seemed to call up the astral wind again. It tried to catch him by the jaw and pry him up and pull him all the way over….

He concentrated on the circle, concentrated on hanging in suspension like a compass needle—or like a weather vane, pivoting to keep aligned with the wind but unmoved. Gradually he got to his knees, and then to his feet, crouching, hunching, rising upright. Nothing else seemed to be affected by the wind. The branches of the shrubs and trees bobbed gently in a normal coastal breeze. The “wind” he felt would have torn the needles from the pines had it been real. The thing to do now was to move straight into it. He bowed his head, thinking of the circle, and pushed forward. In this manner he came to the asphalt road and crossed that; then climbed an embankment leading up into parkland, the cat-piss smell of eucalyptus enveloping him. It got easier as he went on, and he began to mistrust his navigation. The wind might read his intention and still steer him into disaster.

He veered off at a shallow angle, as an experiment, and found that he could deviate slightly from directly opposing the force. He lurched a few yards and clung to a tree; from there he dashed to the next, and then to the next. Eventually he crossed another road, staggering. Several cyclists whirred past, politely averting their eyes. But by the time he reached the edge of the park, the worst had passed. He could walk steadily whichever way he chose. It was easy to find the way he was not supposed to go, for that remained the most difficult. But by zigzagging across the streets and sidewalks like a meandering drunk, he managed to tack against the resistance; and in this manner he passed among apartment buildings and shops, down a long avenue that brought him once more to parkland. He feared he had circled around on himself somehow, but this place was different, full of people.

He came across a party in a grassy grove, a ring of people dancing to music played on a bone marimba. Michael’s path, the safest path, led right through them, and he followed it in a trance. They parted for him, spiraling around to close him in again, unwinding to release him on the far side of the grove. He went on through matted ivy clotted with trash, a man sleeping in a blanket caked with dried mud, and came out of the trees to see buildings again, and above them a distant row of hills. Atop those hills stood a strange geometrical skeleton, all in fine red and white, straddling the city, shredding the mists. He remembered it from earlier that day, rising above the occult store. He realized then where he must go.

Michael headed down the street, with the cold sea wind at his back and the not-wind at his cheek. He felt cut loose, floating free as a piece of debris blown skipping down the avenue. He moved in wide arcs, spiraling in on his destination. He advanced while appearing to avoid. Thus he slid down the sidewalk until he finally glanced up to discover he was on Haight Street.

Punks and hippies and grungers and bikers and beggars crowded the street like guests at a great masquerade party. Faces drifted toward him, mouths muttering, wild eyes watching, and then past. At first he only stared at these apparitions as if they were weird balloons blowing by; but gradually he realized that they were speaking to him: “Greenbud-acid-crystal-meth-crack.” All run together, like the faces themselves. He grabbed a bearded kid by the sleeve, searching the air above his head for something he didn’t really expect to see, although he knew by now that to see nothing meant nothing. He didn’t have the eyes for that kind of sight… not always.

“Hey,” the guy said, “what, you want meth? Best on the street, right here.”

“I’m looking for some rocks,” Michael said.

“Oh, sure.” The kid looked around briefly, then nodded toward a doorway. “I can get you rock. Show me your cash.”

“No, rocks. I saw them on a hill, a bunch of big rocks.”

The kid looked at him in surprise. “What? You mean, like, rocks? Rock rocks?”

“Yeah, red rocks. Sort of like Stonehenge.”

“You must mean Corona Heights. Indian Rocks, sure. You going up there tonight? Watch out for poison oak. You want acid? I got a few tabs of Hello Kitty.”

“I want to get to the bottom of that hill, under those rocks.”

“Yeah, okay. Take Haight down to Divizz—take a right. Go a few blocks and you’ll see ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Michael said, moving on.

“Sure you don’t want anything? Even a joint?”

“I have to stay pure,” he said, and he was flying again, through the street party, through the violet dark, everything luminous and laughing. Despite his fear and his dread of what might have become of Lenore, he felt a strange exuberance. He descended a dark grade to a street called Divisadero, turned right and followed it along a tall cement wall. He stopped dead as the headlights picked out an enormous mandala stenciled in spray-paint above the street, with two smaller circles flanking it like sundogs. Under them, someone had painted an elaborate, stylized “37.”

He nearly stepped back into traffic. Horns sent him running.

When he looked up again, he saw the dark bulk of the hill above him and the jumbled shadow of its rocky crown. He looked downhill toward a distant crossroads, and there he saw the corner beam of a Thai pagoda.

He realized he couldn’t feel a breath of wind.

35

In a still moment, as he lay on his bed drinking (not having called the police, the answering machine shut off in case anyone should call, such as Bob Maltzman, expressing concern over this latest threat to the popularity of the mandalas), Derek could hear himself crying: May….

I love you, May….

But that really meant nothing now. Soon he would get to stop crying. If trouble wanted him, he would give himself up to it completely. If he didn’t survive the reckoning, then at least the pitiful voice inside him would be silenced. The whimpering thing that had made others suffer would itself be put out of its misery.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Come on!” Staggering upright, going to the closet, and kicking hard at the box inside. “Come and get me!”

His foot tore through cardboard. The old carton burst along its seams, and the black and red notebooks spilled out on the floor; but the skin still hid within. It was shy and had to be coaxed.

“Come out, you ugly bastard,” he said, reaching down into the box. Picking it up and shaking it, literally, by the scruff of the neck. “It’s just you and me now. This is between us.”

And then… and then… he was standing before the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, listing slightly in the poor light, wondering how it had gotten so dark, how long he’d been drinking, why he was so fucking cold….

Oh, yeah… he was naked. He had stripped off everything except his black stockings. Notebooks lay scattered all over the room, but there was no sign of the skin. He was swimming in murk; ugly gray things stirred the air near the ceiling. He’d drunk enough to destroy his vision. Drunk so much that the spots danced before his eyes, whirling and spinning and having a wonderful time. When he moved, spots came down and clung to his skin.

He put a hand to his arm and felt the flesh crackle. Another to his chest—felt it all crackly-rubber and repellent.

The skin…

…clung to him stickily. He had drawn it on, and now it felt affixed by sweat and suction, as if it were melting into him. He couldn’t writhe out of it. It must have stretched to accommodate him. It had always looked like such a small skin, but it was sufficient. It lay upon his shoulders like a mantle; the seam ran up his belly, between his nipples, and otherwise it was as seamless as Derek himself. He wondered why he didn’t feel more surprised, more horrified.

Probably, he thought, because you did it to yourself. If you did it to yourself, you can’t possibly find the thing too unattractive.

But notice, you had to be good and drunk before you really found the wherewithal to do such a thing. You had to get yourself to black out before it was really possible.

And now that you’re here… what?

What…?

The answer came slowly, but it came. He smirked at himself in the mirror, dancing sideways, twisting around to watch the mandalas spinning on his back. He was still very drunk. He pulled on his underwear, careful not to wrinkle the skin; the elastic band snapped tight on his waist, sealing the hide to him further. Then a clean shirt, crisp and slightly stiff, though he couldn’t much feel it. There was a layer between him and the rest of the world now, a comforting protective barrier. He tucked the tail of his shirt into a pair of pressed slacks he’d picked up from the cleaners only yesterday, in preparation for the grand opening.

That’s why you didn’t call the police, he said, as if it had ever been an issue. You had to get ready for the Mandala Ball. And now you’re ready. You’re dressed to the teeth. You even have your long Johns on. Although Etienne’s father surely wasn’t named John. Maybe they were long Jeans.

He was not the sort to laugh at his own jokes. It required grim determination to get his shoes on, to tie the laces. His hair was in very bad shape, but he felt convinced that no one would care. And a good thing too, because now the buzzer was buzzing. There had been just enough time to accomplish what he had. So, yes, it had been a very busy day after all, even though most of the time was occupied in lying here getting drunk enough to do what needed to be done.

The buzzer buzzed and buzzed. Imitating the sound in his throat, Derek went into the hall. He was halfway down the stairs when he thought about his door and how much time it would have taken to lock the deadbolts. It really was not possible to go back up and do all that when he was right in the middle of his grand descent.

He flew out the front gate and onto the street, and there was Etienne standing by the rear door of the limousine, holding it open for him. Inside, Nina was patting the seat beside her, so he knew just where to go. And here came Lenore Renzler, rushing up between Derek and the car, coming so fast out of nowhere that he plunged right into her and the two of them tumbled forward into the compartment, falling onto the soft red leather, their arms and legs tangled, everyone breathless and laughing.

Etienne bent to look inside the car, and Nina gazed at Lenore with fascination. They both stared at the mandala in the middle of her forehead; they seemed quite enchanted with it.

“Well!” Etienne said happily. “It looks like you belong with us!’ “How wonderful!” said Nina. “Mr. Crowe is bringing a date!’

36

Michael was relieved to see Crowe’s friend, Lilith Allure, still at the register, stuffing parcels into a bag. She glanced up as he closed the door behind him and called out, “We’re closing in five minutes, so make it snappy. Actually, could you flip that sign behind you?”

He turned the sign on the door so that open/abierto faced into the room. He wandered forward, ready to collapse. With no struggle to sustain him, he did not know which way to turn. He put his palms on a display case and leaned there, looking down upon rows of carved crystals, glass eyes, amulets etched in metal and inscribed on scraps of parchment, rolled into tiny scrolls. Aleister Crowley’s Thoth deck was fanned out across the lower shelf, the huge cards alive with grotesque, exaggerated figures in lurid colors. He stared at the Death card, the skeletal king with a reaper’s blade, and thought of the one comment every modern reader felt obliged to make when that card came up: “The Death card doesn’t mean death.” No, of course not. It signified change, the end of a cycle, transformation, making way for something new; it could refer to a relationship, a way of life, an attitude—to almost anything other than the end of a life span, the demise of a corporeal body.

But sometimes, Michael thought, Death meant death.

He wheeled around, choking on the incense that drifted through the shop—wheeled and saw posters of Kundalini serpents forming helixes inside a meditator’s body; an enormous lotus with an OM syllable at its center; John Dee’s elaborate Sigil of Aemeth; and a Tibetan mandala whose rings of concentric colors were a frightening reminder of his present situation. The Vajrayana Buddhists said the entire cosmos was a mandala, a sacred circle. Of course, they were not referring to the mandalas that had recently destroyed his life. But there was something in the night, in the oblique path he had described across the city, that reminded him the mandalas were not everything. They were circles inside of greater circles.

He could hear an old black woman talking to Lilith, just down the counter: “… and this demon, see, it bite me. Every time I move a way it don’t like, every time I think a thought I not s’posed t’have, you know, I feel it bitin’ my shoulder. It on there all the time, ridin’ me. You see it? That aura reader, she tell me she see it, but she want too much money get rid of it. So I tell her I comin’ to you. You see it, don’t you?”

“Look,” Lilith said, “I’m already late for closing.”

He imagined how his own story would sound to her, no matter how carefully he framed it. She, who listened to the litanies of the mad all day long, would treat him just like any other, sending him on his way with candles and amulets. That’s ten dollars. Blessed Be, and come again.

But then, she was Ms. A. She had spoken to the mandalas. Spoken for them. She would understand the situation.

When he caught her eye, she stiffened a little. Michael smiled.

Finally she ushered her last customer out and turned to Michael, who was waiting near the door.

“Make it fast,” she said. “I’ve got a ritual to get to.”

“Are you… is it true that you’re Ms. A?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she said, moving quickly back. “Just get out, all right?”

“Please, I—I’m a friend of Derek Crowe’s.”

“I’m not Ms. A. Can’t you people get that through your heads? I don’t hang out with Derek Crowe, I didn’t know him when he wrote his book, and he sure as hell never hypnotized me.”

Michael sagged with disappointment, all his fear and fatigue welling up in him in that instant. He could feel his eyes tearing; suddenly his hopes, his optimism, seemed worthless.

“Someone said…”

“If you’re really Derek’s friend, ask him to introduce you to Ms. A. And please give her my regards.” She opened the door to him, holding her keys in the lock. He didn’t move. “What? What’s the matter?”

He found he couldn’t move. The wind again—the tugging. He grabbed onto the doorframe, knowing he must move properly to avoid it; he must strike like a jeweler’s chisel cutting into diamond, finding the one and only path that would extricate him from this moment.

“Why are you crying?” she said, her voice carrying to him as if through a roaring wind. He swabbed his eyes with his sleeve.

“I just… I came so far,” he found himself saying. “Can I please—can I get some water?”

She stared at him, rigid, then rolled her eyes and swirled her tongue in her cheek. “Come on,” she said. “Back here.”

He lurched gratefully after her, into a hall leading off the shop. She led him to a small kitchen cluttered with boxes and packing materials. She filled a paper cup from a rusty faucet, and watched while he drank.

“Uh… have you got a bathroom?” he asked.

“Here.”

She pointed out a door off the hall. “I’ll be up front. You do your business then come on, get out of here. How far did you come, anyway?”

He opened the door into a dark room, fumbling inside for a lightswitch. “My wife and I,” he said, “we drove from North Carolina.” He shut the door before she could reply.

He peed then washed his face, wiping it dry on his shirt because there were no towels. He went quietly into the hall, hearing voices. A voice. Lilith was talking to someone, but he heard no reply. As he stepped into the front of the store, she hung up the phone. Smiling now.

“Was—did you call Mr. Crowe?” he asked. “To check on me?”

“No, I had to call my coven and explain why I’m running late.”

“That’s all right, I’ll—I’ll leave you. I’m sorry I bothered you. I thought maybe I could talk to the mandalas directly, through you.”

She regarded him quizzically, still smiling. “You know, I don’t ordinarily do this, especially not after hours, and with someone I don’t even know… but I have a feeling about you. I feel that I—I’m supposed to help you. Does that sound crazy?”

“No,” Michael said gratefully. “Not at all.”

“Would you, maybe, like a Tarot reading? Would you have time for that?”

“Yes!”

But here came the “wind” again. The room was beginning to spin. He steadied himself on the counter, convinced he was on the right track. That’s why the opposition had begun to intensify. He must bear up under it.

“My cards are in my car. It’s up the street a block or so—away from the parking meters, you know? I’ve got my special deck in there. You just… you stay here and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back and then I’ll give you a special reading. I can see you really need it.”

“Sure,” Michael said. “Go ahead. I’ll wait right here.”

“Good.”

She put her keys in the door, twisted the deadbolt, and rushed out, casting him a nervous backward glance. As she started down the steps into the dark, he realized she had left her keys hanging in the door. She would need them to get into her car. He pulled out the jangling mass of metal and opened the door, heading after her.

He almost collided with Lilith at the bottom of the steps. She was standing stock still, face to face with a man he couldn’t quite see.

“Sorry,” he said. “I—”

Then he saw the gun in the man’s hand, held on Lilith but turning to cover him as well. He realized that in his hurry he had given in to the steady insistent pressure. He had allowed himself to be flung out from the center.

“Who is he?” the man asked Lilith. “Another friend of Mr. Crowe?”

“Fuck you,” she said. “If you’re looking for Derek you can find him yourself.”

The man made a little jab with his gun, and Lilith stumbled into Michael. The man urged them away from the store, into the dark, goading them on. To Michael it felt like plunging down a long dark slope, into the whirlpool’s mouth.

For one instant, before he turned, the man’s face was just bright enough to see. There was plenty to absorb in that instant: deep scarring, a twisted expression, and a rubbery knot where the man’s left ear had been raggedly torn away.

PART 7

We cannot take responsibility for every natural disaster visited upon humanity, no matter how we sate ourselves on the misery thus unleashed. Even we must bow before the blind mastery of nature. The parent torments the child; the child torments a puppy. This is the law. It may satisfy your crueler souls to know the tiny doses of suffering we pass along are nothing compared to the infinitely expanding circles of agony in which nature has immured us.

—from The Mandala Rites of Elias Mooney

We cannot take responsibility for every blessing bestowed upon humanity; even we can never fully comprehend the miraculous workings of nature. But the child teaches the parent how to love, and the parent’s heart consequently opens that much wider. As above, so below. It should please your noblest nature to know that all your acts of goodness and compassion expand in infinite circles, and touch us deeply, and increase our power to help you.

—from The Mandala Rites of Derek Crowe

37

Inside the limo, the four of them sealed off from the driver in a padded compartment, Etienne and Nina stared expectantly at Lenore for several moments, then looked to Derek for explanations.

“Why—where’s Michael?” he asked.

Lenore had fallen against him as they entered the car. She remained that way, with her thigh pressed up against his, as she turned watery, distant eyes toward him.

“We… broke up,” she said.

Derek swallowed, uncertain whether to tender sympathies or press for details he didn’t wish to learn. He wanted to close his eyes and try to orientate himself—everything kept reeling as the streets crawled by—but he was in company now. He must pretend some degree of sobriety, and in fact he was beginning to feel a bit more stable.

Nina took from him the burden of responding, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Your boyfriend?” she asked comfortingly.

“My husband.”

“I’m so sorry!” Nina put a finger lightly to the mandala tattoo on Lenore’s forehead and looked at Etienne. He nodded, smiling and smug. “He didn’t understand about this?” She tapped the mandala.

“No, he… he thought he did, but I guess he didn’t.”

“What a shame. He didn’t know what he had! Etienne, maybe she would like some… you know.”

“Of course, excuse me, I’m being rude!” Etienne held out a handful of clear gelatin capsules, tamped full of white powder.

“I don’t want it,” Derek said. “What is it?”

Lenore didn’t ask. She took two, and tossed them down her throat without water.

“Well, well,” Etienne said approvingly. “It’s a designer drug, but that is an insufficient word. My friend, the one who created it, is an artist, an absolute artist with chemicals. He made it especially for patrons of the club. Can you guess what it’s called?”

“Mandala,” Derek said dully.

“Thirty-Seven! Do you like it, Lenore?”

She nodded, still swallowing, her jaws working to pump saliva.

“It has many interesting properties, I’ve been told.”

“You haven’t tried it yourself?” Derek’s momentary promise of sobriety was passing, like a sea rock disappearing under waves. He felt awash himself.

“We’ve been waiting. For tonight. Come along now. Do try it. It’s a synthetic, but it mimics a naturally occurring substance. You know which one I mean.”

Derek shook his head.

“The compound found in the sak!” Etienne touched his chest, meaning his hidden tattoo, and Derek felt his skin start to crawl and writhe beneath his clothes, as if the mandala-brands had begun turning, thirty-seven hands seizing and twisting his flesh in thirty-seven places all at once.

“I’ve had enough already, thanks.”

“I’ll bet you have.” Etienne meant something other than alcohol, judging from his grin.

“Maybe you’d like to go somewhere else, Lenore,” he said. “We’re headed to a rather large party. If you’re not in the mood…”

She looked at him, faintly puzzled. “I’m fine,” she said. “I wanted to be with you. That’s why I came back.”

Derek blushed, wondering what Etienne and Nina would make of this declaration. Wondering, himself, how to take it. “Of course you’re welcome, I just thought…” He wasn’t sure what he thought. She fit in naturally here, as if she had known Nina and Etienne, as if she knew where they were going, as if all this had been planned and arranged.

“I’ll stay with you,” she repeated.

She came to me, he thought. She wanted to be with me.

“All right,” he said, putting an arm around her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’re among friends now,” Nina said.

“That’s right,” Etienne joined in. “A great many friends. And we all know just what you’re going through.”

Do we? Derek thought.

“Now… just relax and have fun. Here we are!”

He looked up through his window then and saw great bright wheels of light spinning overhead, tendrils reaching for him. He took it for a vivid hallucination, then the legs of the freeway stepped into the limo’s headlights. Higher in the dark, where Derek didn’t need to look to see it, the overpass arched above the car like a massive black smirk.

Michael had never worn handcuffs before, but he feared that if he struggled they would tighten up and cut off his circulation. These were already gouging his wrist. It didn’t help that Lilith kept thrashing about, threatening the one-eared man and his thin, sad-eyed driver, in spite of Michael’s pleas to calm her down.

One-Ear sat up front, twisted half around so he could keep his eye—and his gun—fixed on them. Otherwise, he had a distant look, as if he were daydreaming in the midst of his vigil.

“If you don’t quiet down,” he told Lilith, “I will forget about ransoming you to Mr. Crowe. I will just give you to him dead, once he’s given me what I want. Do you know how easy it would be for me to kill you? It’s not hard at all. What’s hard is not killing, once you’re used to it. A dirty habit, maybe; but very hard to break.”

“You might as well. If you don’t kill me, this one will,” she said, jerking so hard on the chain that Michael cried out.

“What do you mean?” he said, hurt and confused. “Why would I hurt you?”

“I heard what you did to that couple back in North Carolina. Were they your friends too?” She glared at One-Ear. “You two should be sitting up front together. You have a lot in common.”

Jesus, Michael thought. She’s talking about Tucker and Scarlet.

“You—you don’t think I did that?” he said.

“Derek told me about you.”

“But he… we…. It wasn’t us. It wasn’t anyone. It was the mandalas!”

That word drew the gun’s exclusive attention. “What about them?” One-Ear asked.

“They killed my landlord and his girlfriend, and left a big bloody mandala on the wall. We had to run from Cinderton because my wife was having problems, and we thought Derek Crowe could help us. I knew we’d be suspects, but I couldn’t help it. We had to run but we didn’t kill anyone. The mandalas would have killed us too, if we hadn’t run.”

“How do you know about… them? The mandalas?”

“From Crowe’s book. That’s where they came from. Well, first from Ms. A—” He glanced nervously at Lilith, who was watching him guardedly.”—whoever she is, and then from the book.”

“But there is no Ms. A,” Lilith said. Michael and One-Ear both stared. “Derek told me. There was no Ms. A. No hypnotic trances. No channeling. He made it all up. It’s time somebody blew this thing out of the water—it’s too far out of control. He invented this whole fucking cult that’s suckered you both.”

One-Ear gave her a sickly grin. “I’m afraid he can’t take credit for that. I’m not sure exactly where he came across it, but I know it existed long before Derek Crowe. I have independent confirmation.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “These things are old. They’re not— they’re nothing he made up, believe me. I’ve seen what they can do.”

“He is involved in this with some other people,” One-Ear said. “You know of Club Mandala?”

“What about it?” Lilith said.

“Mr. Crowe is friends with them?”

“He hates them.”

“Hates? Then he’s had dealings with them.”

“He says he doesn’t know them.”

“He also says he created the mandalas. Can we really trust what Mr. Crowe says?”

“What is it to you, anyway?” Lilith said.

“I have a long-standing interest in these matters. Mr. Crowe or maybe his friends have something I desire. I wish to trade this thing for your safety.”

“Then for my sake I hope he does have it,” Lilith said. “But I’ve never seen anything. He made up the mandalas out of whole cloth. And if he lied about that, then he’s a sadder case than I realized.”

She fell silent then, and Michael watched her, wondered what she was grappling with. She had suspected him of being a murderer, a psycho. On the phone, back in Hecate’s Haven, she must have been calling the police. When she’d ostensibly gone out for her Tarot cards, she must have been planning to run and leave him there for the cops to find.

The car began to slow, pulling to the sidewalk. How long had they been circling around? Michael looked out the window and recognized the battered iron grate of Crowe’s apartment building.

“Now,” said One-Ear, “my driver has a gun, and he is very good with it. I will return shortly. I might have Mr. Crowe along. Or I might have something else.” He allowed himself a smile that looked like an additional scar in his ruined face. Then he opened the door and climbed out.

He waited by the gate for several minutes until a tenant went in. He caught the gate before it closed, and then rushed and caught the inner door as well. He was gone.

The driver sat impassively, facing forward with a mournful look.

“So,” Lilith said after a minute. “You thought Derek was going to help you?”

“I thought he was the mandala expert,” Michael said.

“Lenore was… is possessed. I’d tried everything I knew. Cast a circle. That was a mistake though. You—you’re in a coven, right? Wiccan?”

Lilith nodded. “Among other things. Yeah?”

“So, we cast a circle but the mandalas broke through it. The usual protection is nothing to them. They don’t recognize the old pagan symbols. I thought the mandalas were just symbols themselves, till I saw them.”

“Not part of your basic neo-pagan training,” Lilith said with an edge of sarcasm in her voice that made him realize she was starting to accept his story.

“Tell me about it! I didn’t know where to turn. I couldn’t reach Crowe. The only real grandmaster I ever knew, this old guy named Elias Mooney, was dead—though I tried to call him up, contact whatever matrix of energy he’d left behind.”

Lilith said, “You knew Elias Mooney?”

“Yeah! Did you? I know he lived out here. I never met him, but he sent me tapes. He helped me through some really bad times.”

“I don’t believe this,” Lilith said, and it was as if the handcuffs that connected them had turned to brilliant glowing gold, an intense bond that cut through all suspicion. “You could be telling my story.”

“Yours…?”

“I grew up in L.A. I was a teenager, just totally lost and fucked up. Drugs, drugs, nothing but drugs. Well, that and sex. I mean… dangerous sex, you know? I was into Magick— with a ‘K.’”

“‘An’ it harm none, do what you will.’” Repeating the old Crowley maxim, Michael laughed.

“Exactly. But I was killing myself.”

“Me too!”

“And someone gave me this phone number. I thought it was a suicide hot line or a Coke-Ender thing, and one night I was so miserable and depressed that I just called it. I was out of my mind. I just wanted to hear a voice. And I found myself talking to this old man. This cool old guy who had the most amazing stories and seemed to know exactly what I was going to say before I said it. I figured out later that he wasn’t exactly as gentle as all that—I mean, he had an edge. He cut right through my sickness and insanity. When I came up here a few years ago, I was going to throw myself at his feet and beg to be his student. But he died before I met him, and all I have left is memories of those conversations we used to have.”

“He could tell you right where you were sitting, what was going on around you….”

“I can’t believe this,” she said. “Elias was like a secret national treasure or something. I’ve never met anyone else who knew him.”

“Me neither.”

He was staring into Lilith’s eyes, and she into his. He felt as if he had just dropped a tab of acid and it was coming on, making the edges of all things electric. He had the strong sense that Elias was with them right then. He could almost hear the old man’s voice.

“Lilith,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

“If Elias were here, he’d tell us, wouldn’t he?”

“I think… I think he is here. I think maybe he brought us together. Maybe there’s a reason for all this.”

“Even this?” she said, raising their cuffed hands between them.

Michael’s throat went dry.

“Even magic can’t open Smith and Wesson handcuffs,” she said loudly. Suddenly she broke into tears, slumping against him. Startled, Michael put his free arm around her. The driver’s sad eyes floated in the rearview mirror, suspicious. Michael whispered comfortingly, feeling worse than useless.

Then, between sobs, he heard Lilith whisper. He realized that her face was dry against his neck, and her voice unchoked.

“The thing is,” she whispered, “Smith and Wessons all use the same key.”

“It’s okay,” he said loudly. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I have one in my purse.”

Suddenly they heard the gate crash. They jumped apart. Lilith dragged her hands across her face, knuckling her eyes, smearing her makeup and dragging spit down her cheeks. One-Ear’s face was far from reassuring as he strode toward the car. Under his arm he carried a bundle of red and black notebooks and stapled sheafs of paper. He wrenched open his door and ducked into the car, hurling the notebooks over the seat at them.

“It’s all here,” he said. “So he can’t pretend he doesn’t know. He won’t lie to me again.”

Michael looked down at the papers in his lap. Light fell in from the street, enough to make the manuscript readable:

Elias’s Story — Tape Transcript

Evangeline had no interest in magic when I met her. She was a cook…

One-Ear gave instructions to the driver and the car lurched forward, causing the pages to slide to the floor, uncovering one of the notebooks that lay open in his lap.

At the sight of the handwriting, Michael felt certain that Elias truly had come to them tonight. Here, in the little journal, was the old man’s formal script, stronger and clearer than he had seen it on the envelopes addressed to him and the notes Elias had tucked in with his tape cassettes.

He reached up and switched on the canopy light, to no objection from One-Ear, who was bent on navigating the street ahead of them. The text seemed familiar—vaguely, maddeningly so. As if he had read it in a dream he couldn’t quite remember.

How had One-Ear come across Elias Mooney’s journals in Derek Crowe’s apartment?

That question passed from his mind when he came to the next sheaf, clipped together with a big black spring clip. These were photocopies of Elias’s journals, slightly enlarged, and annotated in another hand, in green ink. Hardly a line of Elias’s remained unchanged. As he struggled to read the interlineations, the cramped scribbles and substitutions, he realized where he had seen all this before. Elias’s words were vaguely familiar, but he recognized the alterations instantly.

He went cold as he read it. Lilith, leaning over his shoulder, whispered, “Oh, my God.”

“‘We instill your souls with the diamond nectar of wisdom,’” Michael read from the green ink; and Lilith, finding his place, deciphered the black script of the original text: “‘We distill from your sick souls a potent brew of misery.’”

“‘We tap the fermented juices of insight when you’ve meditated sufficiently to yield the choicest draft.’”

“‘We tap the fermented juices of despair when you’ve suffered sufficiently to yield the choicest draft.’”

“‘It was we who mixed the joyous brew from the first.’”

“‘It was we who mixed the bitter brew from the first.’”

“It’s The Mandala Rites,” Michael said. “Elias wrote it. But who changed it? Whose writing is this?”

Lilith said one word, as if it were the foulest she had ever spoken—as if it were corrosive, a flavor to rot her tongue, to poison her soul: “Crowe.”

Of course, he thought. It came from Derek Crowe’s apartment.

The car slowed. There were no streetlights here. Michael heard a deep thrumming somewhere, like an engine that kept running even after the driver had shut off the car. He looked out the window and saw brick walls, concrete abutments, a parking lot with a Dumpster bin in a corner where a man or woman sat huddled in rags, shrinking from the headlights’ glare. On the sidewalk, not far away, a steady stream of people were heading in one direction.

One-Ear said, “I’ll take those papers, please. They may be useful in bargaining with Mr. Crowe.”

Michael gathered what had fallen and shoved it over the seat back.

“Now,” One-Ear said, “we are going in together.”

“In where?” Michael said. Lilith seemed to be in shock much greater than his own. She bent over slowly, dragging her purse from the floor, and then he remembered what she had in it. One-Ear had checked it for weapons, but why would he notice a small key amid the clutter?

“We’re visiting a very busy nightspot. Let’s not become separated. I will have a gun in your back, Ms. A.”

“Call me anything but that, ” Lilith said.

One-Ear handed the pile of papers to the driver, then climbed out and opened Michael’s door. Michael slid out, pulling Lilith with him.

“You should hold hands, like very good friends, like lovers,” said One-Ear. “Be discreet about the handcuffs.”

“Like this?” Lilith said, pressing close to Michael. She put her hand over the cuff on his wrist.

“That’s very good. Now we will join the crowd.”

They walked around the edge of the building, out of the lot where they had parked, merging with the stream of people. Neon dazzled the night somewhere ahead, but the sky above was black with mist, holding solid slabs of shadow overhead.

In the car, Michael had felt the inexorable tugging as something irrelevant; he was not in control of his motions, so he let the whirlpool force tug him without resisting. But suddenly, here, it hit him again, nearly snatching him away through the crowd. This time it was too strong to fight. He tried to cast a white circle around himself, but there was no room for it in his mind; it was all he could do to stay upright, to keep from bending forward like a reed in the wind, to stop himself from rolling like a tumbleweed. He could no longer fight the flow, for One-Ear was urging them in that direction.

One-Ear and the driver were right behind them, but Lilith’s fingers were working deftly. Michael felt the key turning in the handcuffs. The band loosened at his wrist; he had to catch it with his fingers to keep it from falling.

He clutched Lilith’s arm as if she could hold him in place; the pull had hold of her too, though she didn’t seem to notice it.

They rounded a corner, coming to the club’s entrance. Michael held back for a moment, amazed. A pair of immense neon mandalas hung above the black entryway. Coiled colored tubing, all dark-inflected, in deep violets and bloody reds, oranges like burning flesh, greens that suggested lightless depths… and black tubes, black but glowing. All twisted into spirals and deceptive paths, with radiating sunburst arms. Every inch flickering, pulsing outward in consecutive waves of color and darkness, seeming to writhe against the bricks, melting into the old mortar, throwing wriggling tendrils of neon out against the freeway overpass. One mandala sparkled and whirled around an aperture full of brilliant white and red-tipped daggers like gnashing teeth; the other was covered all over with toothy mouths that champed and noiselessly chattered. These wheels of color spun on either side of the pale and rather subdued lettering of the place’s name: Club Mandala.

Lilith leaned close, kissed him on the cheek. “When we get inside, split up and run.”

“Young lovers,” One-Ear said lightly, “that’s enough of that.”

She parted, giving Michael a crooked smile.

“Go on,” One-Ear said, goading Michael forward none too gently. He jumped to obey but went too abruptly, losing Lilith’s hand.

Their little scheme with the handcuffs was revealed.

Michael didn’t wait to see what Lilith did without him. He expected the bullet at any moment. Maybe it had already come, but his shock was so great he felt nothing. He plunged toward the doors, giving in to the force that reeled him in—flying past the bouncers who were shouting and gesturing, trying to stop him, until they saw One-Ear coming with his gun. Michael dived into the crowd, pushing himself toward its dense heart. The force was stronger than it had been at the cliffside, and giving into it now was exactly like throwing himself over that edge—but this abyss was invisible and, he sensed, bottomless.

He hesitated, trying to find his bearings. Entering that place of raging noise and chaos, he found himself paradoxically at a point of utter stillness, as if he were in free fall.

This was it. The center. The hub.

A stranger with a tattoo on each cheek shoved a drink into one hand and a white gel capsule into the other, and shouted just loud enough to be heard over the rhythmic mechanical thrumming that filled the air: “Welcome to Club Mandala!”

As Lenore entered the club, her mind, which had been whirling, came to a sudden stop. Everything on the edges of her consciousness, every bit of parasitic chatter clinging to her thoughts and distorting her perceptions, was abruptly flung beyond the reach of her mind, vanishing over some horizon she could hardly perceive. She had been only dimly aware of her whereabouts for some time; surrendering to her mandala, she had followed it without question, without resistance. The day, everything leading up to this moment, was a blur. Everything she had said and done, everything that had brought her here, she remembered as if through a filter. And this despite her determination to see and remember everything, to take responsibility—to be a witness. It made her furious.

The cloud had descended when Michael took her away from Hecate’s Haven, as if the separation from Crowe had itself caused her illness. Maybe that was why she felt so lucid now: Crowe stood in Michael’s place at her right hand.

Something had happened to Michael—something she couldn’t recall. She looked around for him, as if he might be entering behind her, as if he might appear at her elbow. She saw no one but strangers.

Strangers and their mandalas….

Her eyes lifted. The air was a riot of seething shapes, mirroring the crowd below. The mandalas fed and groped each other with the barbed tips of whiplike tendrils, in chittering exchanges that must have been some type of communication. They surged together as the human bodies below them fought for position on the dance floor. Sometimes the suction was so great that as they separated, one or the other would evert, exposing bright raw innards, rotating through several dimensions, appearing now as a coil of self-swallowing tubes, now as an array of overlapping rings, flashing with inner lights where she seemed to see stairs leading down into violet caverns, knife-edged mushrooms, oily winged things rising up from motionless black lakes.

The one named Etienne saved her from the visions, leading her by the hand around the periphery of the room, shouting to her all the while, though it sounded like a hoarse whisper in the thunderous murmur of music. The floor was mobbed and chaotic, but periodically the crowd surged in unison, patterned ripples spreading through the mass, and the bodies of the dancers fell into curving lines like the spokes of a wheel, as if they might at any moment join in a carefully choreographed performance. Above them, meanwhile, the mandalas seemed to strive for a similar order, though they found it no easier. Their relations were both violent and tender at once; they struggled blindly, despite perceptions and senses so much finer than Lenore’s that she could not understand a fraction of what they knew. She felt as sorry for them as for herself.

“Later, you’ll see,” Etienne said, “they’ll find it. Don’t worry.”

As if this could have worried her. She had no doubt that all they desired would come about tonight. Somewhere, somehow, the great one was spinning, drawing them all in. Old enmities were suspended for one night. She could sense an immense presence in the room, could almost see it.

And then, between the dancers’ feet, she did see it.

It covered the dance floor, filling the room, black and glistening, glimpsed in bits as the bodies moved past. At the sight, she felt herself tugged up into her own mandala. And then, looking down, she saw the shape of the great one underlying everything; she saw all of them caught in the tightening whorled hollow of a vortex, a tornado’s throat, a single tapering moment into which all were sliding in unison. The substance of the night—of the room itself—was warping, falling inward on that point.

As Derek drifted along behind her, Nina leaned and whispered in his ear. When he saw Lenore’s eyes on him, he gave a slight smile and nod, not realizing that she was watching from somewhere above them all, as she slid toward the center, drawing Derek with her. His mandala hovered close, gray and with its mouths agape, its haste so insistent as to seem desperate. But Lenore—or her mandala—was not yet ready.

They wandered past couples in close conversation, through white rooms with framed black mandalas on the walls, through dark rooms like cubes of smoke where ultraviolet mandalas glowed. Eyes locked onto her forehead and conversations stopped. Many wore tattoos, but they were powerless—tattoos injected with needles and ink. Few, apart from hers, had been administered by a mandala. Etienne wore one such; she could feel it glowing against his skin, beneath his clothes. And Derek’s entire body seemed afire with them, churning just out of reach, crying out to her with something like lust. Later would be the time to reciprocate. She passed others in the crowd, here and there, who carried the true mandala sak (as Etienne called them). She felt the location of each true bearer; she could have closed her eyes and pointed them out. Some were still coming in from outside the club, from all over the city, though most were already here. Almost thirty-six now.

Thirty-six….

For tonight, in this brief interval, this turning point of eons, there was no thirty-seventh mandala.

Her own guardian, the black-fanged mandala, had slain it, and that was what she had forgotten until now:

—Her mandala, slashing down.

—His mandala, dying.

But did mandalas die?

The answer came from deep within, from that part of her which had been among the mandalas for so long that it shared their properties.

They died, but rarely—when they had weakened to such a point that they could be killed. And each passing marked the end of an age, the beginning of a new one. The thirty-seven, constantly fighting for position, always at odds, always struggling for their own ends, found it difficult to come together even for occasions such as this.

Etienne kept talking, as if to boost her spirits, as if he didn’t realize that cheer was irrelevant. He guided her through the upstairs galleries where numerous mandalas were hung. These weren’t the real Thirty-seven, but impressions executed by different hands.

“These are new,” Derek said as they strolled along.

“Yes, our commissions. Not part of the canon, but still… amazing aren’t they? Here’s an original Mavrides.” Pointing to a wicked mandala painted on black velvet, radiating poisonously under ultraviolet lights, each of its tendrils gripping some awful or banal object: electric appliances, a screaming nun, a smoking pipe. “A Harry S. Robins.” This a sinister wheel of intricate evil perfection, rising from the waters of an underground sea where primordial shadows swam through the ruins of a drowned city of weirdly angled towers. “A Dan Clowes.” Here an incongruous cartoon mandala, in lurid colors and Zip-A-Tone shading, the great one manifesting in a rundown room that could have been a motel or a sparely furnished apartment, with a circle of worshippers bowed down before it, buck-toothed and slobbering in berets and jazz beards, ragged flannels, sagging knit caps. Lenore saw much the same faces hovering around her in the club. “A Krystine Kryttre.” This one so fierce that it seemed to stab her eyes with bolts of black lightning, a woman crucified upon a geared wheel, its spokes tearing through her flesh, lighting her up like an X ray, ripping her open as she laughed insanely.

Lenore tore away from Etienne, away from Derek, and found herself on a balcony, looking down on the crowded dance floor, trying to discern the shape of the great mandala painted there.

A hand on her shoulder. Etienne leaned close: “You’re feeling the Thirty-seven. I wouldn’t recommend eating now. Would you like some wine?”

She nodded, then remembered why she shouldn’t. She must remain clear-headed. She had lost too much to unconsciousness. She felt as if she were still voyaging inward, twisting on an ever tighter downward path into her soul, while external events wound higher and higher on their own corkscrew trail.

“Water,” she said, and Etienne moved off. Derek and Nina remained in the gallery, laughing and talking. Nina was introducing Derek to an artist.

She froze, clutching the rail, her eyes caught by one small fleck of color down in the sea of faces. For an instant she saw Michael, and then he was gone. She started after him instantly, rushing along the balcony, pushing through the crowded rooms to find the stairs, in a panic.

If she closed her eyes and calmed herself, she should be able to pick him out of the crowd.

She tried it, holding to a stair rail, letting people swarm past her. She sent herself floating upward, willing her mandala to enlighten her, knowing that it could lead her right to Michael.

All she had to do was reach out for his mandala.

But no… he no longer had a mandala.

Michael had vanished. Utterly. As if he had ceased to exist, ceased to have any significance, at the moment his own mandala was destroyed. She could find no trace of him, not a memory, in her black guardian. It had not seen him enter. He and he alone moved invisibly among the mandalas. His was the only body in the room lacking a guardian, unattended.

What part of her, then, perceived him still?

Lenore had thought that she was entirely under her mandala’s power, but apparently something else remained. Something clumsy and feeble and pathetically limited… something that was forced to open its eyes and push its body down the stairs, searching for him the hard way—the human way.

Michael was quickly lost in the club, but he thought it was the best thing for now. One-Ear wouldn’t shoot him in this chaos. If he tried, it would be easy to elude him in the crowd.

He moved as far from the door as possible, hoping Lilith had made it in. She would have been wiser to run for help, but there must be a phone in here somewhere. Outside—who knew? It had looked dark and industrial on the street: no bars, no shops—nothing for miles, maybe. So the chaos inside might work to his advantage. Maybe One-Ear would forget him completely, since what he really wanted was something Crowe had. Something, Michael suspected, that Crowe had stolen from Elias. Something besides the notebooks.

He found himself in a corridor too empty for comfort. He rushed to a doorway that opened onto the dance floor. Looking up, he saw a balcony running along the second level. That’s where I’d go if I were One-Ear, he thought. Behind him was a flight of stairs running down into a basement. At the top of the stairs stood a big man, a bouncer, checking invitations. Michael waited until he was wrapped up in a dispute with someone, then leapt the first few steps, skipped around the landing, and slowed as he reached the bottom. He didn’t hear anyone coming after him.

It was quieter down here, the music a vibration he felt with his body and not with his ears. Knots of people moved quietly between rooms. The hall turned and bent, mazelike. After several minutes he was not sure exactly where he stood in relation to the stairs. He heard laughter and turned into a small room, coming upon a dozen or so people watching some sort of video performance on a TV screen.

An image painted on the wall above the monitor caught and held his eyes, restoring in an instant all the faded terror he had first felt days ago, when this nightmare was only beginning.

The mandala on the wall was done in bloodred paint; it appeared glossy and still fresh, dripping. And it was not merely any mandala from The Rites. It was the pattern he had seen on Tucker’s wall—the same one etched on Lenore’s forehead. The mandala had followed him across the country like his personal nemesis.

He didn’t move forward to get a better look, but the crowd shifted anyway, giving him a perfect view. The monitor sat on a pedestal against the painted wall, giving off its cold colors, everything tinted toward blue. There he saw a soundless image, glaring and jerky—a handheld video version of a scene he had relived countless times in his memory since witnessing it in life.

Tucker’s room. The same mandala sprayed in gore across the posters and pictures. The camera roved over it lovingly, tracing the wheel’s perimeter, its inner weave, then pulling back and dropping down to drink in the sight of the bed, substantially drier and blacker than when Michael had seen it last, and with flies a significant presence now. This must be some kind of police video. How had the club gotten hold of it?

The pictures tore at Michael, weakened and dazed him; but after all, he had seen all this before, and the image was no more shocking a second time.

What unnerved him now was the audience.

They were laughing. Watching the screen with enrapt, blue-lit eyes where tiny TV monitors swam. Little mirrored mandalas twirled in their pupils like advertisements.

Blackness gnawed his vision. He backed out of the room and clawed his way along a wall, stumbling up against a cold metal folding chair. He lowered himself into it slowly, hanging his head between his knees until vision returned.

As his eyes cleared, he saw a pair of hard black shoes standing before him.

One-Ear said, “I thought I’d find you down here.”

“What do you want with me?” Michael groaned. “I don’t have anything you want. If Derek Crowe’s in here somewhere, fucking go to him.”

“Assuming Mr. Crowe cares anything about you, or human life in general, I would like to have something more to offer him. Now get up and come with me. I think I know where to find him.”

Michael lowered his head.

“I said get up.”

“I’m sick, you asshole.”

One of the hard black shoes gave him a sharp kick in the shin. Michael gasped and grabbed his leg, but forced himself to stand. No one looked his way. It was as if the scene meant less to them than the art on the walls or the video displays. As if Michael didn’t exist in their eyes. Remembering what had amused them, he realized it would be unrealistic to expect help from such people.

One-Ear trailed him through the maze, nudging him with the gun. Michael turned into a room where several people stood around a woman. She wore a black plastic helmet that covered her face completely. She was engaged in pantomime, touching something only she could see.

“Now, reach in,” a man was saying. “Grab the fucker’s heart. That’s it—twist it! Pull!”

She was murdering someone invisible. Doing it with her bare hands.

Michael stepped back, right into the gun.

“Which way?” One-Ear said, growing shrill and irritable now.

“How the hell should I know? It’s a maze down here.”

“You’re not saying you’re lost?”

“Of course I’m lost.”

At that moment, Michael heard a voice he had not expected hear.

“Michael?”

He turned. Lenore was coming down the hall.

“Michael, how did you—what’s happening? Who is he?”

She had seen the gun. One-Ear, indecisively, turned it on her as he fastened his fingers on Michael’s arm.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“Who are you?” She looked up at the air above One-Ear’s head. “What are you doing?”

“Lead us out,” One-Ear barked. “Take us to Derek Crowe.”

“What do you want with him?” she asked.

“Lenore,” Michael said. “Crowe was lying.”

“No,” she said. “He’s playing his part.”

“Shut up!” One-Ear said. “Take me to Mr. Crowe! Now!”

Voices in the hall came up quickly behind them. Michael twisted his head around. One-Ear jumped uncertainly, wondering how to keep his gun on Michael and Lenore and still face this new threat. Around the corner came a young couple, a man and a woman.

“Etienne!” One-Ear said. “Don’t move.”

“What nonsense,” said the young man, Etienne. Without hesitation, he clutched One-Ear by the throat, shoving him against the wall. “Nina, would you please?”

The woman took his gun. “You must be Chhith,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Michael moved closer to Lenore, taking her hand. Her fingers were ice.

“Now, Chhith, you’re not playing the game at all correctly,” Etienne said. “We must straighten you out.”

Chhith spat some words in a language Michael didn’t recognize, but Etienne merely smiled at Lenore. “Will you excuse us for a bit? We’ve put Mr. Crowe to work signing autographs upstairs.”

Nina gestured with the gun, and the man called Chhith stepped away from the wall. They urged him down the corridor, around the corner, out of sight.

“Jesus,” Michael said, sagging with relief. He turned to Lenore. “What happened to you?”

She was looking at the air above his head again; it drove him crazy when she did that. She was as bad as ever. And this place, full of the mandalas and their sick energy, was making her worse.

“What,” he said. “What is it?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “You shouldn’t even… exist.”

“What do you mean? I was worried about you. Now I’m terrified.”

“Don’t worry, Michael. Just go.”

“Go where?”

“Out. Away from here. Take your chance. They can’t see you, so they can’t stop you. Don’t get caught in the middle.”

“Of what? What’s happening, Lenore? What is all this?”

She looked around the hall as if she owned the place. “It’s the end for some,” she said. “But for you it’s already over.”

“Come on. Let’s both get out of here.”

“I have to stay.”

“Lenore, come on. Derek Crowe is a fake—a charlatan—a thief. You have to get away from him.”

“I came all this way to find him, Michael. It’s not just the mandalas, I think. I’m doing this for me. Now please, leave me to it. You can’t do anything here.”

“I won’t leave you,” he said.

“You have to. You can’t make me do anything anymore, Michael. I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s all over for us. I don’t want you here, understand? I don’t need you, I don’t love you anymore, I don’t want you. You have no part in this.”

Her words tore into him with surgical, cold precision. He stood there as Lenore moved away. He put out a hand, then let it drop.

“Don’t try to follow me,” she said. “Don’t interfere.”

“With what?” he said, but she didn’t answer. She went off down the hall.

After a while, he stumbled in the other direction, looking for a dark, quiet place to sit down, somewhere to rest and gather himself. He knew only one thing: He was not leaving.

He circled around in the underground maze, avoiding people wherever he came upon them, finally passing a door behind which he heard nothing. He opened it and saw a silvery glimmer of mirrors. It was a vast round room, empty except for an oxblood couch and a red velvet chair in the very center of the floor.

He crept in, closing the door behind him. He avoided the couch and chair. They looked too much like props in the center of a stage. Instead he sank down against one of the mirrored walls and put his head on his arms.

I have to find Lilith, he thought. But she could take care of herself, he realized with relief. She had proven that already.

For now, he wanted nothing but to be alone.

Finally, Derek Crowe thought, a group of fans I’m not embarrassed to he seen with.

Club Mandala had stacks of The Mandala Rites at an upstairs table in one of the gallery rooms, and they were selling faster than he could sign them. It seemed for a time as if everyone in the club were lining up to buy a copy. The woman handling sales stopped periodically to slice open another cardboard box full of copies and stack them on the table before going back to making change and taking cash. Derek, meanwhile, had wearied of writing inscriptions. For a time he had signed his name and made a small circle beneath it, filling it in with dots and wavery lines, crude hieroglyphic mandalas; but that looked so awful, compared to the elaborate designs in the book, that he finally resorted to an unadorned signature. The customers seemed satisfied with this, though few made conversation.

Of course, it was possible to think that despite their fashionable clothes, their lack of any overt affiliation with medieval systems of belief and quackery, these customers were really no different from the ones who flocked into Hecate’s Haven hoping to become Cosmic Masters. His book was the equalizer, after all; if they bought into it, they were every bit as foolish as the neo-pagans and theosophists. On the other hand, maybe they were buying the book as a novelty, a bit of trendy kitsch to go with their mandala tattoos. Copies would circulate as freely as capsules of 37. It was a badge of hipness, as temporary as any, but during the course of the trend’s popularity, there was an opportunity for Derek to climb to greater things. “Mandala Madness!” blared the cover of the Bayrometer, also available in stacks around the room. Once the mandalas faded from favor, his name would hang in the public’s mind and his next project would benefit from his fame or notoriety. The mandalas were a stepping-stone to other and better things, not an end in themselves.

“Mr. Crowe?” said a fellow about his age or slightly younger, either prematurely bald or with shaven pate. He held a small packet in his hands. He wore odd, square little glasses and spoke with a slight lisp. “Bob Maltzman said I should introduce myself. I’m Neil Vasquez, your illustrator? I’ve been working on the concept for your mandala deck.”

“Well, yes!” Derek said. “Come over here, I’d like to talk to you!”

Vasquez smiled nervously, dark eyebrows bobbing. He stepped around the table as the next person in line slapped down their copy for signing.

“Great to meet you! You did a fantastic job on the book, and this Tarot idea sounds terrific!” Derek was giddy, beside himself with tonight’s success.

“I—I brought a prototype deck for you. These are probably smaller than what we’d end up using, but the quality’s pretty good.”

He laid the packet on the table, a deck of glossy cards not much bigger than standard playing cards. Crowe shuffled through them quickly. These mandalas were incredible, three-dimensional and lifelike, floating in a shimmering ether. They looked like photographs, with quicksilver shadings, colored in dark iridescence.

“You did these yourself?”

“They’re computer generated. I’ve worked out a fractal program that does it, based on thirty-seven iterations of the same equation. I—it worked out so well, I started thinking, what if this is how the mandalas are generated? Like, if you see the universe as a vast processor crunching away until these things evolve. Of course, they’d do it in a dimension parallel to time, so they could sort of pop in and out of our dimension and do their stuff without really having to get stuck in it.”

Derek said, “I had the impression they’re more along the line of ancestral spirits, Ascended Masters, or something like that. But mine certainly isn’t the last word on the subject.”

“You see? You have real insight. I’d love to hear your suggestions.”

“We should really ask the mandalas what they think.” At that thought, he looked for Lenore. He hadn’t seen her for a while. “I never got to tell you how much I admired your illustrations.”

“Well, thanks, I’m glad. But these, I think, are light-years beyond the black and whites.”

Derek spoke to the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the artist of The Mandala Rites! Neil Vasquez! Don’t neglect to add his signature to your copy!” He turned to Vasquez, who looked flustered, smiling nervously, his entire skull flushed and mottled. “Put yourself right here next to me, Neil. We’ll get an assembly line going.”

“Wow,” a girl said, leaning over the table. “Are these like Tarot cards?”

“That’s right. We’ll be putting them out shortly.”

“Cool!” She started flipping through them, and soon others were craning to see over her shoulders.

Derek glanced over at Neil, who was blushing proudly.

“I think they’re a hit,” he said.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Nina appeared at his elbow, placing a glass of wine at his side. “Are you ready for a break?” she asked.

His hand was cramping, so he gave a short nod and stood up. “Neil, why don’t you stay?” he said. “Give them something extra for their money.”

“We have another surprise,” she said. “Etienne’s waiting downstairs.”

On the ground floor, there was scarcely room to move. People had begun to circle around on the dance floor more or less in unison. It was either that or not move at all, apparently. The lock-step pounding of their feet merged with the thrumming music. He found himself thinking of fan blades swinging around and around, slicing heavily at the air: monotonous, hypnotic, a droning rhythmic whir.

While he hesitated at the edge of the dance floor, someone took him by the arm. He turned, expecting another fan, another request for an autograph.

“If it isn’t Derek Crowe, famous author,” said Lilith. “Or should I say plagiarist?”

He couldn’t quite hear her in the noise. “Lilith—I didn’t expect you here.”

“Did he find you?”

“What?”

“Your friend with one ear.”

“One… ear?” Derek went cold.

“Oh, Chhith!” Nina said. “Don’t worry, Derek. Everything’s taken care of.”

“What—how did you know about him?” he asked Lilith.

“He gave me a lift tonight. He says you have something that belongs to him, which I don’t doubt. You seem to have a lot of people’s things. I didn’t realize you had so many secrets, Derek. You were wise to hide them from me.”

He was completely baffled. She couldn’t possibly be referring to all the things he feared she meant.

“Could you excuse us?” Nina said firmly. “Mr. Crowe has to be somewhere else right now.”

“Be my guest,” she said.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he called as Nina tugged him along.

“Don’t bother,” she replied. And he couldn’t be sure of the words she added, the club was so noisy. Surely it was nothing to do with “Elias Mooney.” He’d misheard her, out of guilt or paranoia. No one knew a thing about Elias. Not even Etienne and Nina.

He was growing intensely aware of the second skin he wore. It fit more comfortably than he would have believed. Was it insane to wear such a thing so close to his skin? No one suspected. It was utterly perverse! The way it rustled against him, tickling and tingling, tightening in places, was very strange, very pleasurable. A comforting, all-enveloping pressure that was more than slightly erotic, as if his entire body were an enlarging sex organ, blood-pumped, sensitive.

He found himself laughing as Nina led him downstairs past what had to be a guard or bouncer. He hadn’t realized there was a basement until now. But this, clearly, was where it was all happening. The party within the party. The coolest of the cool were here, standing and kneeling before small displays of technology and multimedia art pieces, as if worshipping at the very latest altars.

His eyes were hooked briefly by one particularly incongruous sight among the blur of fashion: a pinch-faced, sad-eyed, clearly puzzled man dressed as if for a business meeting, in a shiny Hong Kong suit. He moved haltingly down the halls, peering into rooms. It was not so much the man who interested Derek, as the stack of papers he carried—typescripts, photocopies, even a few red and black notebooks of the sort Eli Mooney had filled with his rant. Derek’s first and craziest thought was that these were his secret mandala files, stolen from his closet. Impossible! The man sidled on, vanishing around a corner, but not before Derek caught a glimpse of his own handwriting.

With a muttered excuse to Nina, he followed the man. His horror knew no bounds. They couldn’t be his papers; how could they? How could some stranger have acquired them?

Chhith, he thought.

Derek looked around the corner and saw an alcove with a door in it. He pushed his way into a dark, purple-lit space. At first he saw ultraviolet patterns glowing and writhing under a black light—mandalas and creepers, vines and skeletons, dragons and carnivores with poisonous diamond eyes. As his pupils adjusted to the low light, he saw that the shapes were imprinted on the skins of two naked figures who coupled vigorously before a small but appreciative audience.

Just then, the sad-eyed man with the bundle of papers opened a door at the far end of the room. Derek saw his silhouette briefly, the bundle of papers clutched to his chest, then the door closed. He stepped in, averting his eyes from the couple who were working their way across the floor of the room. One hurled the other hard against the wall—nearly in his path—and they continued to fuck in a vertical position. Derek sidestepped them and continued on. It was a bad North Beach sex show, redone for the culture vultures. As he reached the far door, it opened under his hand. Etienne smiled in.

“There you are!” Etienne stepped in and closed the door. “I see everyone’s warming up!”

Derek looked back and saw that the crowd he’d moved through, as if wearing blinders, was beginning to imitate the actors—if they were actors. The audience members had begun groping each other and seemed to be shedding their clothes, although given the dim light and the pounding of Derek’s head, it was difficult to be sure of anything he saw.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Etienne said.

“We think heterosexuality is very quaint,” said Nina, emerging from behind Derek, sliding an arm around Etienne.

Derek felt as if some similarly jaunty response were mandatory. “Quaint but effective,” he said. They all laughed together as they steered him out of the room.

“Yes,” said Etienne, “sex still has its uses.”

He must not appear to be terrified, but he was reluctant to let them lead him along anymore. Overhead, the din of pounding feet had settled into a softer, more rhythmic shuffle.

“You—you mentioned a surprise,” he said uncertainly.

“Any guest of honor has certain duties,” said Etienne.

“You are the master of ceremonies!” said Nina gaily.

“And it is time to fulfill yours. Everything is ready, even you must sense that.”

Even I? Derek thought. Was Etienne implying that he was obtuse?

“Of course,” he answered.

They rushed him toward another door where two burly men stood guard. The bouncers opened the door and ushered them through.

Derek found himself in a large round room, lit only by a spotlight at the center. Mirrored walls curved around. At the center of the room sat a couch of oxblood leather, like a psychiatrist’s sofa; and beside it was a padded armchair. It resembled a psychiatrist’s setup.

Lenore Renzler lay on the couch. The chair was empty.

Derek took a few steps forward. “Lenore?” Her eyes were open; she lay there unblinking, without even glancing at him.

“She’s in a trance,” said Etienne. “Forgive me, I know you’re quiet proficient, but I took the liberty of preparing her. To spare you the trouble.”

Derek started to retreat, but Nina and Etienne each held an arm. “This really isn’t my kind of thing.”

“I realize it’s not the therapeutic situation you’re used to.”

“I’m not a party hypnotist. I need privacy for my work. This goes against every professional ethic. I can’t… can’t possibly.”

“But you must, Mr. Crowe. It’s not entirely up to you, you know. They asked to speak to you.”

“They?”

Lenore’s head rolled toward him then, her eyes still gazing upward. “Hello, Derek.”

“Hello, Lenore,” he said softly. Nina and Etienne gently forced him into the chair.

“We are not Lenore,” she said. “She will not speak tonight. It is we who have words for you now.”

He ran his hands nervously up and down his sides, causing the skin beneath to crackle and prick. “I—I should have something to write with.” He started to rise, as if he could flee under pretense of looking for a pen.

“No,” said Etienne. “We speak not for the ages tonight—we speak for you alone. Your time has come.” His voice was almost identical to Lenore’s—distant, grainy, but growing closer and louder. Dozens of people ringed him in. Everywhere he looked, the mandala signs were glowing, sak so powerful they cast their light through clothing.

“My time,” he repeated. The tramping overhead had grown indistinguishable from the music. He glanced at the ceiling and saw something bobbing there, something gray and glistening, acrawl with dark blotches moving crablike upon it, hissing and gaping and drooling down on him.

He did not quite register—or believe—what he saw. Not until he realized that someone must have slipped a dose of 37 into his drink. The hallucination was vivid as any he could imagine; and realizing it was only a vision freed him to watch it with remote fascination. A product of his mind and nothing more.

It was then, in the air above Lenore, that he saw the second shape swimming. Black arms; speckled eyes at the tips of radiant tendrils; a central mouth of lamprey fangs. It was bright as black crystal, as if an actual being had unfolded itself from nowhere and now dominated the room. He must congratulate his hosts on the spectacular special effects.

But when he turned to look for Etienne and Nina, he saw nothing of them—or of the crowd. A horde of mandalas filled the room like a jostling crowd, blotting out the pale human shadows; their tendrils dangled from the ceiling like the stinging arms of a multiform man-o-war, like poisonous party streamers strung from evil balloons.

“No,” Lenore choked suddenly. “Go back. You cannot speak. Don’t interfere.”

She was fighting, somewhere deep inside herself. He saw something familiar—an expression both naive and wise—flash across her features. She sat upright, swinging off the couch, and threw herself at Derek, catching his arms, pulling him out of the chair. He tried to free himself, but the guards could not aid him now; their bodies were tangled between the conflicting struggles of the mandalas. She drew herself to him, gazing into his face with a sad expression, and whispered.

“I remember you now,” she said. ‘I’ve come a long way to find you, Derek. They scared me, but they couldn’t stop me. I had to talk to you.”

Her voice was small and pathetic, and it stirred memories he couldn’t bear—didn’t dare—to have released. He tried to push away, but she clung too tenaciously. He would rather strangle her than hear another word, but he couldn’t move his arms; small as she was, she held him immobilized. With the pressure of the surrounding mandalas, the hallucinations squeezing them in, there was nowhere to flee.

“Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.”

“I have to,” she said. “I’ve waited a lifetime. Longer….”

Even before Nina found her wandering the corridors, Lenore sensed that something more would be required of her. The richness and clarity of her vision had turned into total acceptance of whatever happened—everything. She gave Nina a knowing nod, falling in alongside her.

“Etienne’s almost ready. This way.”

They found him in a bare room with a drain in the center of the cement floor. A janitor’s cart sat in one corner, propped full of mops, buckets dangling. The floor was wet, freshly sluiced.

“There you are. I’ll be right with you.”

On the wall were two large Polaroids mounted side by side. Lenore gazed at them while Etienne stripped out of a plastic smock and rubber gloves. The first showed the man they had called Chhith. The second was less recognizable. It seemed to document a war atrocity, something wet and red and horribly chewed. It was so fresh that it still smelled of the instant developing chemicals.

“Before and after!” Etienne sang.

“Our own little Tuol Sleng!” said Nina. “Now the curator’s on display!”

“Well, he just wouldn’t compromise. We didn’t go to all this trouble for one man!” Etienne stuffed the smock and gloves down into the trash barrel on the cart; a larger man wheeled it away. Etienne bent to retrieve a ballpoint pen from the floor near the drain. He clicked it several times, then stuck it in his shirt pocket. Nina laughed and clapped her hands.

“That’s that,” he said, taking Lenore’s elbow. “Our gallery is complete. Now as for you, my dear….”

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Yes, you are, aren’t you?” He took something from his pocket, a mirrored disk, round and shiny and incised with a design she knew instantly. It was her black guardian. He held it to her eyes, so she could see herself reflected in the disk. The pattern on her forehead was superimposed on its etched counterpart in the mirror. At the sight, she began to jet forward into darkness, shedding her body, the room rushing away with a quiet hum.

I want to see everything, she insisted. It had become habit by now. She had seen so much. There was nothing left to shy from, nothing to fear.

But tonight Lenore found herself against a definite wall. The limitless blackness refused to recede. The clarity of her thought processes made the psychic blindness even harder to bear, since now she was able to experience her helplessness to an infinitesimal degree.

I haven’t come all this way to be abandoned here, she thought. You can’t do this to me!

For the first time in what seemed like ages, she felt herself as something separate from her mandala. The black guardian had used up all its excuses for bringing her here, all the lies it had told to make her feel an integral part of its plan. Now, spinning idly in the dark, she realized that she had been nothing more than a vehicle.

Well… she had kept secrets—told lies—of her own.

Her attraction to Derek Crowe had been largely the mandalas’ doing, but at her core she had her own reasons for coming. There was an urge deep inside her, an instinct that had kept her streaking toward him through the darkness like a comet. She had skated through the outer darkness before, orbiting away from him; but now, returning on the inward plunge, feeling his gravity’s pull, her inner light blazed brighter than ever, as if reflecting his cold inglorious fire.

She dived deeper into herself, sensing that inward was the only way out. This tiny, secret part of herself was her true navigator. It had guided her through life when she had been of no worth to the mandalas. Before life, before birth, before she had been of any use to them; since she had been nothing more than a cinder tumbling through the void, flung far out, then falling back to earth—back to Derek Crowe, over the course of her life. She had felt a shock of recognition when she saw him in the auditorium in Cinderton; but she had not recognized it then—had thought it stemmed from seeing his picture on a book jacket. But ever since, the feeling had grown that she was destined for him, that she must drag herself back to Derek no matter what the cost. She had thought it was only the mandalas’ need for him, but that was only also true. There was something more to it.

She held fast to the charred coal at her soul’s core. She pulled herself into it and felt the new fire rising, the light leaking in. Yes, the light. Her entire voyage at the mandala’s behest had been an outward one, across landscapes and cities, carrying her guardian out into the world. But the real journey—Lenore’s journey—had always been an inward one. She covered its final stretch in a single leap.

Light dawned brutally, in a round room of mirrors.

Derek Crowe clung to her, stumbling to free himself, unable to tear away. Their mandalas held them together, for mandala-reasons; but Lenore clung to Derek for a frail human reason of her own. She had come so far for this, farther than she could conceive. For the moment, the mandalas and their mysterious purposes were irrelevant. It was as if she had used them for her ends, taken advantage of their power to fling herself hard and fast toward Crowe. She could never have gotten to him so quickly on her own.

Not in time for this night of changes, as the New Age dawned.

And now words tumbled out of her, unrehearsed; and as they came she knew them for truth. They were both a discovery and a memory, flowing from a deeper place than the mind of her one short life could encompass. They came with memories of a prior life—and a much shorter one.

Lenore’s voice altered in pitch as she spoke, softening until it was small and breathy and infinitely sad. Squeezing his eyes shut, Derek could see who spoke to him now. Lenore’s face was no longer before him; Lenore’s hands no longer clutched him with a mixture of pity and vengeance. He saw instead a small and lovely face; felt small, gentle, very cold hands.

“No, ” he said. “Please.”

“Derek….”

“No!”

“I’ve come back to you. I know you’ve changed, but I haven’t. I had to speak to you.”

“Don’t do this!” He fought, but something held him to her, some horrid magnetism induced by the 37. This was all a terrible dream, a guilt-dream, his private shame playing out in public before an audience of alien shapes who pretended to humanity.

“I forgive you. That’s all I had to say.”

“No, May, please—”

He collapsed inwardly as he blurted her name, abandoning further denial. He could feel tears coming, but something held them back—disuse, perhaps.

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know what happened, or why, but I forgive you. It doesn’t mean much, Derek. I know it won’t be enough to change you, and I’m sorry for that. But I had to tell you, for myself, that I’m all right. I’m strong and alive and I came back; and now I can move on because you know. But you… but you….”

“What about me?” he said desperately, believing everything now, believing anything to be possible: believing in mandalas and demons and every god and saint; in lost cities and lost continents, Atlantis, Mu, and Lemuria; in levitation and telekinesis and reincarnation; in Heaven and Hell; in black and white magics; in Kundalini and karma; in love spells and curses; in sin and redemption and Yahweh and Allah; in Christ and Sakyamuni and Ahura Mazda and Lucifer; in everything indiscriminately, as if it were all equally probable, even necessary. Believing, as if she could foretell his future, his fate, this oracle from the outer dark, from the inner hell of his past, this innocent soul that had found him at last, still a child and not a fire-eyed Fury.

“You have what you’ve made for yourself,” she said. “So this won’t matter to you, no matter how much it means to me.”

Crowe’s internal collapse continued, crinkling him down; he felt as if his body were deflating beneath the skin, condensing with a horrible crunching of tissue and bone into a dense, solid mass.

“Good-bye, Derek.”

“May! No, May, please! I—I want to ask you, I want to—”

“Good-bye.”

“I’m sorry, May! I love you, May! I’m sorry!”

But he never knew if she heard him. Her face had already gone rigid as the mandalas, winning the struggle, shut her away forever.

Derek choked on his tears. As the destruction in his heart continued, Derek began to scream.

Every girder that had been holding him together, every piece of feeble emotional scaffolding, now fell away. He had always figured that a hollowness sat enthroned at the center of his being. He discovered now that he could not have been more wrong.

Quivering, gulping like a diver surfacing, the mandala within him groped for the outer world. It began to breach. The preserved hide lying against his own pale flesh rippled and parted like a gateway about to open, preparing the way for this latest and freshest of horrors. He threw his eyes to the ceiling, cursing the ones that surged and struggled overhead, knowing it was they who had brought this moment on, catalyzing the quickening, overseeing every step of the process.

He could believe in them now. It was exactly the same as believing in himself.

And Lenore, flung away, falling through the dark again, knew what was coming, what would step in to fill the gulf she had left behind. She saw it with the full awareness of one who had dwelt among the mandalas as consciously as was possible for a human mind to bear.

What she saw coming was worse than she could have imagined. It was Derek Crowe, yes—but a Crowe exaggerated and concentrated, a Crowe intensified to a degree that beggared mere horror. The thing he was about to become, the bursting into full flower of the seed at his soul’s center, was unbearable to contemplate.

She tried to slow her free-fall. She had negotiated these realms long enough to have mastered a measure of control. She clung to the hard comet-kernel at her center, herding it about, urging it back to the scene of imminent devastation.

As she drew near, she saw the crowd on the dance floor whirling above the black guardian whose outlines even now shimmered and throbbed with actual life, soaking in the blood-force of those who crowded Club Mandala. She merged with the rhythmic encircling thrum of the dancers’ feet and the sourceless music, foreseeing the abattoir this place would become when the thirty-seventh mandala broke through, drawing upon all of them for its power, much as her own guardian had drawn upon Tucker and Scarlet for its first manifestation. The floors would burst, the walls would split, every soul would spurt like a burst blood sac, drawn in on the lines of radiant evil that formed the astral core of the new, the incipient mandala….

And when that one took its place among the other thirty-six, it would compel them to new acts of terror and cruelty. It would usher in a new age of violence on the helpless physical plane, giving shape and direction to the selfish battling of the mandalas, uniting them in a continuation of the process that had brought them spiraling in from outside of time to this point tonight.

Lenore saw only one way to place her own mark on events, to steer them on a less horrific course. It meant giving up everything; but then, she was on her way into the endless dark. This sacrifice might mean another chance at the light. It might mean rebirth, and real power, and who knew what else?

She collapsed into herself, embracing the center of the storm, crushing herself inward until she reached critical mass. And felt at last the inner bloom, the explosion just beginning.

She reappeared as if out of nowhere among the mandalas which had discarded her. She drank up their shock and rage, mixing it with the frenzied glee of the crowd above and the poisonous seepage of Derek Crowe. She made it all her own, subverting Crowe’s evil destiny in an attempt to make something new of it.

All of them were fighting her now, both the mandalas and their human slaves. They pushed her back, trying to tear her away from Derek Crowe, trying to suppress her emergence.

In the instant she regained her body, she called for help from the only one in the world who could move invisibly here—her only hope of rescue.

“Michael!”

She couldn’t see him. She had no idea if he still lived. But she prayed he was still close enough to hear her.

Michael had huddled against the dark mirror of the wall, ignored by all, in shock, unable to hear what passed between Crowe and Lenore, unable to comprehend any of it. The others, the audience, stood slack and unmoving, but the air above their heads was alive with an astral turmoil so intense that even he could see it.

Suddenly Lenore called his name, and that was enough to wake him. He leapt to his feet and pushed through the crowd; the others swung sideways like dangling puppets, their hands reaching out limply, as if moved only by currents of disturbed air.

He seized Lenore and tried to pull her away from Derek Crowe, but this was not what she wanted. “No,” she murmured, with her eyes rolling up in her head. “Take me—to him.”

He couldn’t believe she meant it, but Lenore was insistent. Crowe fell backward on the couch and lay ripping at his clothes, screaming as if his flesh were on fire. Lenore began pulling at her shirt, baring her breasts.

“Get these off,” she insisted; and numbly he helped her strip naked before the staring crowd, which was too preoccupied with events above their heads to pay attention to this minor conjunction of physical bodies.

Crowe had undressed himself. He lay thrashing but beginning to slow, as if injected with a tranquilizer.

“To him,” she repeated. And when Michael hesitated, because the thought was so gruesome, she insisted: “Now! I can’t make it alone! I can hardly walk!”

He guided her to the couch. And stood while her hands reached out to touch Crowe’s naked chest. He was covered all over with a withered, membranous garment, mandala-scarred, flapping as if in a strong wind. Michael swallowed his revulsion as Lenore straddled Crowe, gripping his penis and squeezing till her knuckles went white.

“No,” she said sternly. “Not you. You’re not coming out.”

Crowe wailed and growled, thrashing as if to throw her; but Lenore held on.

“Lenore,” Michael said.

“Leave,” she said brusquely. “Leave now.”

She gave him a look, and then her eyes filmed over.

Crowe began screaming. Michael staggered and fell. He lay staring at two scenes: Events on the couch were amplified and mirrored in the air overhead, played out in a dimension that kept rotating through this one. He could hardly see Lenore as human now; she was something larger, a strange presence overwhelming the small pale form and filling the room, reaching up into the rhythmic thunder overhead, pulling all that power down here….

Lenore had stopped Crowe’s imminent collapse. He had felt as if he were about to burst, in a moment of orgasm beyond compare, but she had checked all that. The power continued to build toward some climax, but it had nowhere to go. She clutched him so hard that he could find no release. A shrieking laugh bubbled out of her as she held him down.

The second skin felt sticky on the inside; scraps of vestigial tissue clung to him, meshing with his own skin as sweat moistened the hide like mucilage. It writhed against him as if trying to crawl free.

The dark air was full of motion, vibrating clots like congealed grease and hair, like the specks of dead tissue that swarm across an eyeball when it stares into infinity. But these shapes continued to gain definition. They didn’t move off when he stared at them directly; they hung where they were like dark suns or lightless moons. The round room was laced with impossibly thin, nearly invisible silver threads that stretched from wall to wall, spun like liquid silk from the clots. He could almost feel the threads humming through his body, power lines snagging him, except they were too fine for his nerves to perceive. Lenore put her mouth against his ear, distracting him from all he couldn’t understand; he allowed his consciousness to shrink down to the limits of her voice, her touch. The things she said made no sense, nor were they exactly endearments, but that didn’t trouble him now. They were in the language of The Mandala Rites, but improvised; she was composing, not reciting, this incantation. The silver wires thrummed, sending their signals through the room. Electric currents curled through the second skin, warming him. When he glanced down at himself, he saw all the symbols beginning to glow. Wheels of light, turning slowly, dazzling him until he had to shut his eyes. Even through his closed lids, he saw the mandalas revolving against his flesh. They had become three-dimensional, swelling upward out of the wrinkled plane of preserved skin, spilling into the room, leaving holes seared in the hide as if to destroy the gate through which they had entered the world. His own skin felt fried where they had lain. He knew he had been freshly tattooed in thirty-seven places, like Etienne’s father.

The brightest of the mandalas shone like a fixed star directly above, but when he slit his eyes to peek out, he saw it was the mark on Lenore’s forehead, rotating like water in a drain… but swirling outward, merging with the others. They arrayed themselves in constellations on the shining silver wires. The room grew taut and dense with unbreathable fluid; the walls bowed outward; mirrors shattered, flinging shards across the room; plaster flaked down from the ceiling in an ever steadier drizzle. The room quaked like a cell struggling to replicate, making way for new material, arranging all its elements in accord with the empty heavens and the density of stars and the dictates of biology… although this was a subtler process, rarely witnessed, requiring not a microscope for viewing but simply the eyes of the chosen. Derek stopped fighting. He searched her face for clues, but her eyes were rolled up. Following her gaze, he saw what she must have been watching. Easy to mistake it for a dance or the hypnotic swaying motion of seaweeds in a deep current, for it was both a random process, at the mercy of nature, and an act of great deliberation.

Two awesome shapes were wrapped together in the middle of the air. One was the thing of moist gray pores and glistening mouths he had seen before, repulsive to Derek, who hated anemones and slugs and things of the sea. The other was far more appealing, being all nervous glossy black sinew and piercing eyes and polished teeth. The two tumbled slowly end over end, their flailing arms tangled with the all-penetrating silver threads. The creatures pulsed like the chambers of a single heart; the whole room shook to their beating. Lenore reached up with her eyes closed, reached until her fingers were immersed in the core of the coupling organisms. Derek would not have believed such penetration possible, for to him they looked as solid as the walls and the ceiling. He could not see her hands, however mistily, inside them. Then she drew her arms down again, crossing them over her breast, bringing the joined mandalas into her. She spasmed as they sank into her flesh. Her arms flew wide with silver tendrils wrapped from wrist to shoulder, fingers spread and straining, the wires tugging until her muscles grew corded and twisted. The whole room seemed bent on tearing her in two. And Derek, at the sight, knew then that his own part in this was over; it was as nothing. She had let go of him, and now he felt his seed gush uselessly over his belly with a burning twinge. There was nothing else left for him, nothing greater that Derek Crowe would ever produce. The grand evil promise of his inner mandala had been usurped and there was no place for it now. No room in this configuration for a thirty-eighth.

Lenore had spared his life; spared him from immortality. He would live a brief while longer among the ruins of everything he had erected.

The fine silver threads snapped completely taut. The air sang. And Lenore, without screaming, without a sound other than the viscous friction accompanying the shucking of her flesh, split wide open. The halves of her yawned until he heard the ribs crack along her spine. For a moment she hung suspended in air on gleaming silver threads as her guts slithered onto him in a warm, steaming pile. Derek had never been closer to anyone.

But she wasn’t just anyone now.

As her husk toppled, something slipped out of her. It shook off the residue of blood and viscera, spread itself across the silver threads to dry in a warm astral wind. It trembled like a fresh-hatched butterfly and looked down upon Derek with a single liquid eye like an unearthly orange gem in the heart of a violet flower.

It was not Lenore, of course—no more than attar of roses is a rose. Yet it was she in essence, much stronger now than she had ever been. She was whole, a circle, a world unto herself.

It was that awareness which started him weeping. She was whole, and he lay here in fragments. The unhatched thing within him was cracked and seeping with a foul odor that would fill the rest of his days. Broken, but a believer now, he had a premonition of the only possible life that could follow from this night, at least until he ended it himself.

He was, after all, the mandala master. He had inspired a dark mad cult for whose atrocities he must accept the blame.

Etienne and Nina and the others were already melting back into the obscurity from which they had come. His was the name on the cover of The Mandala Rites. His would be the name splashed all over the world, bringing him notoriety beyond his imagining.

When he opened his eyes at last, the silver threads had snapped and reeled back into the ether, and she was gone.

Gone, except for the gutted, cast-off body that remained to incriminate him. After tonight, he would deny nothing. All explanations seemed equally likely, and Derek was determined to confess to anything—to everything. Who was he to judge what was possible, or to attempt to discriminate among the infinite shades of truth?

And anyway, in the largest possible sense, he was guilty.

And Michael, fleeing the carnage, his mind blank because he had seen too much to ever understand, melted away with the rest of the crowd. He saw Etienne and Nina in the hall, speaking urgently and in low voices, looking only slightly bemused. Etienne flashed him a smile and gave a quick wave of his hand, as if they were passing casually on the street. Michael turned and ran the other way.

He stumbled on the stairs and nearly crashed into someone coming down.

“Michael!”

It was Lilith, grabbing at him, pulling him the rest of the way to the ground floor. He had a glimpse of the dance floor, the crowd milling aimlessly, the music stilled.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “Let’s get out. I called the police a few minutes ago. Something is going on here….”

“Yes,” he said. “Out.”

They pushed through the aimless mob, who were on the verge of a disappointment so immense they would never comprehend it. They had been spurned by a god. They might turn angry, he thought, which was fine with him. Let them tear the place apart.

They found the entrance and forced their way onto the street, fighting against the tide of people who were still streaming in with hopeful expressions. Beyond the latecomers, the night was filling with the sound of sirens, but Michael and Lilith ran under the freeway, hiding in the shadow of a huge cement column as the first of the squad cars came tearing past, flashing and howling.

“I should tell them,” he said, starting forward. “They have to look in the basement.”

Lilith held him back. “They’ll look. They’ll find whatever there is to find. What… what’s down there?” Then she saw his face. “No, don’t tell me. Try not to think about it either. Are you okay?”

He shook his head. There was no sense in lying.

“Can you walk? Do you want to wait here awhile?”

He stood dazed, unsure of what he wanted. He felt as if he had been cut off from everything, from his past and any possible future.

“Michael?”

Suddenly he sensed a stirring in the dark air above them. Lilith, sensing it too, looked up. “What is that?”

A luminous wheel was appearing gradually in the starless dark beneath the overpass, taking on shape and solidity. It was a violet mandala, and a bright orange globe sat at its center, an omniscient eye. It was what had become of Lenore. He could feel something of her in it, beaming at him, questioning….

“They’re real, then,” Lilith said.

“Oh, yeah,” Michael answered.

He put out his hands, gently, as if he could touch the fresh new thing. His fingers trembled. It was asking something—but he couldn’t tell what. He only knew he wanted to be close to it; he welcomed its presence. It was offering guidance when he had never felt so lost.

Violet light flared, the orange eye flashed, and he felt her come over him, into him. For one incredible moment she let him share her awareness….

The mandala that had been Lenore floated like an angel over Michael, over streets of quaking red flesh, under stars that seemed black holes piercing night’s whiteness. At first she had felt fragile and alone, as if any breeze might destroy her; but she had begun to realize that she was invulnerable now, and her loneliness would pass. All human emotions had been released in her evisceration. She had shed care as daintily as she’d stepped free of marrow and muscle and bone. In place of these things, in the stead of passing sadness or flitting joy, she sensed the growth of a quiet majesty and the promise of stranger, more ancient concerns. Human passions were to be her toys now, and then her tools, but never again her masters. What she truly had to master, to harness, was the blind reckless hunger of the other mandalas. She had willed herself free of blindness; she must share this knowledge with them. She must bring them to a new and greater understanding of their nature, their potential.

Only one so young and naive could have possessed the ambition to change the thirty-seven, but she felt calm and resolved. She had launched herself among them for a purpose; she already had prevented one far blinder than herself from taking form. It would be awful to waste the opportunity she had seized, and she did not intend to do so. But it would take time, human ages, to understand the things of which she was capable and begin to work toward her goal.

In the meantime, she needed allies. She needed to keep touch with the physical world, to understand and remember it as she had when she was human.

Michael was the one familiar point among the tugging of a thousand needs, a million empty stomachs. She needed him— although not nearly as much as he needed her.

As she hovered there indecisively, the guardian of the woman standing next to Michael began to stir, finally noticing the vulnerable target so nearby. Now that the configuration had been restored, Michael was becoming visible to them once again. Lilith’s mandala was a wheel of gnarled, knotted blossoms peeling back to show poison barbs secreted inside. It began to spin toward Michael with ferocious possessiveness and a threat of violent lashing, as if to scare off the newborn mandala while she hesitated.

That threat quickened her decision. Better her than another. This was as good a place as any to take a stand against their reflexive evil.

She pulled herself over Michael protectively and felt herself swell as she absorbed him. She learned, then, that there were to be no clear rules and that human intentions were meaningless now. For as she took hold of Michael, she felt a fierce, miserly greed well up in her. Delicate violet edges hardened into curving razors.

He’s mine.

The thirty-seventh mandala prepared to fight for its catch.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marc Laidlaw lives in San Francisco. He is the author of four previous novels and numerous short stories. He will turn thirty-seven in the coming year.

Marc Laidlaw published his first short stories while still a teenager, and he has gone on to write four acclaimed novels: Kalifornia, The Orchid Eater, Dad’s Nuke, and Neon Lotus. He lives with his family in San Francisco.

Jacket design by Alan Dingman

Jacket painting by Ron Walotsky

ST. MARTIN’S PRESS

175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010

Distributed by McClelland & Stewart Inc. in Canada

ALSO BY MARC LAIDLAW

Dad’s Nuke

Neo Lotus

Kalifornia

The Orchid Eater

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE 37th MANDALA. Copyright © 1996 by Marc Laidlaw. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Interior art by Harry S. Robins.

Copyright © 1996 by Harry S. Robins.

Edited by Gordon Van Gelder

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Laidlaw, Marc.

The 37th Mandala / Marc Laidlaw.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-312-13021-X (hardcover)

1. Title.

PS3562.A333A615 1995

813’.54—dc20

95-15720

CIP

First edition: February 1996

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Content

Marc Laidlaw
THE 37th MANDALA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ON 37

PROLOGUE

PART 1

1

2

3

4

5

6

PART 2

7

8

9

10

PART 3

11

12

13

14

15

PART 4

16

17

18

19

20

21

PART 5

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

PART 6

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

PART 7

37

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY MARC LAIDLAW

Copyright