Free 78 Keys by Kristin Marra Page B

chair previous to my claiming it usually gacked me.
    Though my body was exhausted, my mind continued its incessant churn. Eyes closed, I pondered my ethical dilemma, an unusual and uncomfortable task for me.
    I had taken Stratton’s money and assured her that I could derail whatever path Laura Bishop was on. Normally, that would take a few strategic phone calls, or text messages, or vague threats couched in phony solicitors’ letters. Sometimes I would use Fitch’s hacker skills and cause just enough cyber havoc to waylay a target. That usually entailed some fiddling with social media or posting damaging altered photos or videos. Nothing seriously harmful, unless my targets ignored the message. They never did.
    In the case of Laura Bishop, could this be the mission the High Priestess had conscripted me to execute? What was Pento’s role in my current circumstances? Was Elizabeth Stratton connected to Malignity or was Laura Bishop?
    “Maybe,” I murmured to myself, “but probably not.”
    Then I remembered Laura’s eyes when she looked at me over the heads of the reporters. She was afraid, desperate even. She had looked to me for help, yet we had only met once. A chaos of emotions: desire, compassion, even anger welled within me. I heard the scratchy laugh of the High Priestess, and my rage ignited when I felt the familiar impossible squeeze upon my skull. When the constriction eased, I opened my eyes and found myself on the cold marble floor before the High Priestess’s dais.
    I pushed myself to a sitting position and gave her the most disgusted look I could muster while groveling on the floor. I supposed it was fruitless and made no impression on her. It was then I realized what she reminded me of. Her face was like one of those silly movies where someone spies on people by peering through eyeholes cut into a walled painting. The face doesn’t move, but the eyes follow the quarry. Something was in her. The facade I was allowed to see was a shell, a grim costume. Something else inhabited the form.
    “And this is the most you’ll ever see, human half-wit. It is all you could tolerate.”
    “Then tell me,” I said as I hobbled to my feet, “is this place real? Am I really here, or is this a vision?”
    “Let’s just say it’s real enough for our purposes.” She scratched out another chuckle. “We can’t tell you how to respond, but we can send you in the proper directions. Offer signposts and maybe, miraculously, you’ll make the proper choices.”
    “First of all, if you keep treating me like a schmuck, I’ll respond like a schmuck. Secondly, why not just tell me what you want me to do and be done with it? I carry out whatever chore you want this dumb human to complete, and we can both be on our cheery way. I really hate that transition torture you make me go through every time I have to see you or Pento.”
    “Pento?” Her unwrinkled, nail-less fingers were twitching slightly, like a puppet someone was trying to learn to operate.
    I looked away from her perverted hand. “Yeah, the guy who smirks, makes useless comments, and shows me bizarre tableaus.”
    She stared at me for a long moment then her eyes, somehow, darkened or intensified. “Now, I have something to say to you, so clear the moldering cobwebs from between your ears and listen.”
    “My three cells of gray matter are at attention.”
    “I suppose that was human sarcasm. Typical. But since we need you, I won’t punish you for insolence. Hear this: the Malignity has advanced swiftly during this time. As usual, it wields the double-edged sword of dogma and fear. The areas of your world we thought the Malignity couldn’t assail are now under siege, and you bumbling humans have no idea. However, we have many warrior lines and a few meddler lines like you. The warriors are overt, but the meddlers, by necessity and nature, work alone and behind the world stage.”
    “Look, your, uh, Highness, I’m not really cut out for saving myself,