Succubus Takes Manhattan (15 page)

“And I thought the Dutch were so liberal.”

Marten laughed. Really laughed with his eyes crinkled up and his face red, a laughter that pierced the tension and fear that I’d wrapped around myself. So I laughed with him and we laughed until we couldn’t breathe, even though I didn’t know what was so funny.

“Yes, we are liberal,” Marten said when he finally caught his breath. “We are like New Yorkers, really. We are very liberal with what we believe people ought to have permission to do. That does not mean that we will do it, though. There is a very big difference. And so we are famous for the red-light district and the smoking cafés in Amsterdam, but most of the people there would not go to them themselves. It is all good for tourists who bring in money, and we go about our business.”

“That does sound like New Yorkers,” I muttered.

Marten grinned at that, a disconcertingly innocent grin. “You all forget that of all the places in the New World, New York was Dutch for a hundred years. It’s here, in the culture. Sometimes I can feel it, see a little shadow or trace of something I recognize.”

Just then our server arrived with our food. I wasn’t starving anymore, I’d forgotten in the moment of release that I had been hungry. But the food smelled good and my body remembered that I never had bothered with lunch. So I left the subject to attack my plate and I was glad to see Marten do the same.

After the first wave of hunger had been overcome, Marten lay his fork on the table and leaned toward me. “Lily, I know very little about you, but what I know I like very much. I was surprised that Meph invited you to our meeting on Sunday, but it was a good thing for me. It meant that I could relax, that you knew what I was the way I know what you are, and we could go on without pretending. I will tell you something. Yes, you are right, I do not have long or serious relationships with women. Not because I would not like to have a real girlfriend, not because I cannot care for someone, but because I am afraid of my secrets. What if I date a nice woman and she discovers what I am? Will she leave me? Will I always have to hide? How can a person have an honest relationship if they have to hide something so important? It is easier not to have a relationship at all than to take that risk.”

Did I dare trust him?

I wanted to trust him. What he said made sense, and having been rejected so recently for the same thing, I knew the issue was real. If Nathan was going to love me, then I wanted him to love me, who I really was. I didn’t want to hide all the time. I could understand why Marten didn’t want to hide either.

“So tell me about your secret. I’ve never met a ceremonial magician before, at least not socially,” I said as I reconsidered. Could I actually become interested in Marten as more than just a holiday fling?

“I discovered ceremonial magic when I was fourteen years old,” he began. “There was something in a newspaper about Aleister Crowley, describing him as the most evil man who had ever lived, and what fourteen-year-old boy can resist that? So I went to the public library and I found books. Crowley, Dion Fortune, Mathers, and the Golden Dawn. Yeats. I read them voraciously. I wanted to be a magician. There was a group of the OTO, Crowley’s order, in Rotterdam. It was just a small group who met twice a month in someone’s living room in a suburb. We recited passages from the
Book of the Law
and I learned a few basic rituals.

“It should have been wonderful, but it was not. I learned a little, but the older members of the lodge were more obsessed with the politics of the OTO than with actually doing any ritual. You must understand, the politics of the modern magicians are more arcane than what we wish to learn. We spent more time talking about why we were the real heirs of Crowley’s order than we spent talking about magic.”

I rolled my eyes. “That sounds like a waste of time.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But we often have to put up with unpleasantness to actually get to the root of the things we seek. There are so many false trails, so many tricks, so many ways the real truth is hidden. It is like that for you as well, I think.”

It seemed silly to me. “Why don’t you just make a pact with Satan?” I asked innocently. “I did. And here I am with everything a magician could want.” I eyed him coldly. “Is that why you flirted with me and seduced me in Aruba?”

Maybe Marten was going to answer, but the waiter showed up with the dessert menus and preempted him. I wondered whether that was an act of magic in itself.

We considered the desserts, pondered the eternal question of crème brûlée or molten chocolate cake and decided to order both.

Marten was more animated, more directed, more sincere than I had ever seen him before. His eyes were shining and he wanted to tell me more, wanted to talk on and on about his strange obsession.

That fascinated me. He had been all polish and style in Aruba, at the party, even in the meeting with Meph. Even in bed. But here talking about his quest for magic, his passion showed through the camouflage of uberhip Eurotrash.

“I cannot tell you, Lily, how great a pleasure it is to talk about such things. In Rotterdam I could not talk at all outside of my circle, and they . . . they disappointed me. They were not the magicians I had dreamed of. They taught me, that is true, and I learned the basics of ritual, of astrology and gematria, of the uses of Tarot. But they were limited. Even their faith was limited. They did some magic just to prove to themselves that magic worked.”

Excited by his love for magic and his pleasure that he could share it with me, Marten became more engaging and amusing than I had thought possible. His eyes sparkled the way Nathan’s had when he talked about the ancient world.

“But you see, Lily, there are no women I have dated who I can talk about this with. Never. So I had given up, so many times given up.”

“Aren’t there women magicians?” I asked. After all, I had been trained to be a High Priestess and had been as adept as any of the men I’d known in the Temples of Babylon.

He sighed and shook his head. “There are, but few. In the old days, the Golden Dawn was the great innovator because they counted women the equal of men. In many of the orders, women are seen as the passive vessel for a man. The feminine power is important, but too many magicians think that women are to be used, not to be treated as partners in the working.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said flatly. If I had been able to take that stupidity seriously I would have been furious, but as it was all I could think was that no wonder almost no magicians ever achieved anything.

“I agree it is ridiculous,” Marten said, and something in his face made me think that he was telling the truth. “And I had always hoped to find a Sister in one of the orders who would be my partner in a great working. But there were too few women, and most of those who would be worthy partners were too suspicious of men. And I cannot blame them, not after what I have seen.”

“That’s so sad.” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. “But why did you move to Aruba? I would think that you’d be even more isolated there.”

“If I am alone and cannot talk about those things that move me the most, at least in Aruba I’m in the sun and it is always warm and I can go to the beach every day. And, there are some learned people on the island. One rabbi, who holds a study luncheon at the bagel shop in Orangestad, has helped me with my Hebrew, and there is a priest who has taught me much Latin and even some Greek. And there is a community, a very small community but not such a contentious one. That, too, is worth something.”

“This community, how much do they know about you?” I asked. I was pretty sure that he was far ahead of them, if he had managed to get demon services and a fortune from Satan. To say nothing of lifelong youth. Again I wondered how old he actually was.

Marten shrugged. “They are well meaning and they have respect for me. And do not question too closely.”

We had been so involved in the conversation that I had barely noticed when the desserts arrived. Dessert! And I hadn’t even paid attention.

But Marten appeared glad of the distraction and plunged his fork into his chocolate cake as if it would yield buried treasure. Which, being molten cake with a chocolate syrup center, it did.

“So why were you telling me all this?” I asked as I licked crème brûlée off the tines of my fork.

He laid down his fork, as if this were to be an important revelation. “In part, I think, because I can. Because you are a succubus, you know about magic and power, and you already knew what I was.” Then he took another bite of cake and thought for a moment while he savored the richness of the molten filling. “I think, also, I have told you because I wanted you to know, Lily. I like you. Not just because you are beautiful. I only date beautiful women. But you are intelligent and interesting and know about the unseen. And you make jokes and love good food—you are Lily, you are just you. And it is all of you I like. And, I want you to like me. Not just the clothes and the tan, but that I am a person too.”

Something changed inside me. Something twisted and knotted up and the world was a different place. Oh, we were still in Pastis, but my crème brûlée was only half finished and I didn’t even care.

I looked at Marten, really looked. Yes, his fashion sense was impeccable, yes, his body should be up for
Cosmo
’s men-without-their-shirts page, and yes, his accent was charming. But inside the cutout of the “perfect cute guy” there was something deeper, something more interesting. He had a passion and fulfillment in life, he had chosen a difficult path and had become a master. To wrest the concessions he had won from Satan he had to be a master.

Passion and mastery in a man are sexier than broad shoulders and soulful eyes.

Dinner was done and the check arrived just quickly enough to prove there were people waiting, but just past the point when we would feel rushed. Marten withdrew his credit card and raised a hand when I took out my wallet. “No, you are my guest,” he said.

And, being a woman of the world and an earlier time, I returned my wallet to my purse.

“Shall we walk?” he asked. So walk we did, chatting. For about twelve blocks with the wind frigid off the river full in our faces.

“It is cool out here,” he noted, and blew into his ungloved hands. “Would you like a coffee?”

While I wasn’t interested in coffee, I understood that he would welcome the opportunity to warm up. So I nodded with what passed for enthusiasm as he led me to the nearest Starbucks. Luck held and there were two armchairs available.

For a while we just sipped our lattes in companionable silence.

“You’re a magician,” I said softly. “Isn’t there anything you can do to find out who’s attacking Meph? Can’t you do some spell or something?”

Marten winced. “I thought you would know better. Spells are for gamers and fantasy books. In the kind of magic I do there are no spells. There are rituals that may create an environment to make something happen, but there is no recipe like so much eye of newt and stir three times and voilà!: a reliable result. This is not chemistry, not cooking.”

“Don’t be angry because I don’t know anything about it,” I protested. The incipient deeper feelings I thought I might have for Marten made me uncomfortable. “I’m a succubus; I don’t do magic.”

He shook his head. “You do it all the time. We all do. Crowley defined magic as a deliberate act of will to change the objective environment to conform with subjective desires.”

I sighed and drained the last of my latte. “That would include turning on a light.”

“Precisely,” he agreed.

“So I don’t understand what isn’t a spell and what it is you do,” I complained. He wasn’t being at all clear, and while I knew ceremonialists had a reputation for being cryptic, this was ridiculous.

He leaned back into the wing chair. “I cannot make a charm or a spell, do this and that will happen. That is a fantasy. There are two ways to work with this particular kind of magic. The first is the old tradition, to force a demon to do it for you. You, my dear Lily, are magic. The right demon can accomplish whatever a magician desires.”

“Hmmm,” I said, but I could see it quite clearly. I’d avoided those traps for aeons, but I knew demons who hadn’t. “And the other way?”

“The other way is to manipulate energy,” Marten went on. “We live in a sea of energy all the time,” he continued. “And we are part of it, we interact with it. We manipulate it without thinking. What we think, what we imagine, what we focus upon, is and becomes more real. The focus, the image is like a mold. And if we pour enough energy into it we can fill this mold and bake it and what comes out will conform to the mold we have created. We are always making these molds and pressing energy into them. What is different for the magician is that we are trained to make better molds.”

“Doesn’t sound so different from scientists.” I tried to needle him. But he grinned. “Precisely. We were the first scientists of the world.”

“Science isn’t magic now,” I noted.

“It is very much still magic,” he said, smiling. “It is magic that everyone can do. Once upon a time it was great magic and power to be able to read and write, to add and subtract. Today we have general literacy, but that does not make the skill less powerful. It only means there is far more power in the world.”

Partly I wanted to tell him that he was crazy, but I knew the magic of literacy. When I first learned to read and write as a young royal Priestess three thousand years ago, it was truly a magical power. To have such access to memories, to the knowledge of those who were dead, to communicate over time and distance, that had been great power. Nor was it less because it was no longer secret.

“So you’re saying that you can’t do anything for Meph? For me? You know that I was injured recently? Satan healed me, but they tried to destroy me and my friends.”

His eyes widened and he took my hand. “I did not know you had been injured. What happened?”

So I told him about the witch hunters who had sent holy water–infused letters through the mail to me and my friends. About how it looked like a wedding invitation and so I opened it and it had burst into flames in my hands and the fire clung like napalm. How Vincent had come up and called Satan, and how She had sent word to the rest of Her Chosen. And then how She Herself had healed my hands. How She had taken my blackened, charred hands between Her own and how I had become whole again.