78 Keys by Kristin Marra Read Free Book Online Page A

more like pulverized packing material. In fact, little bits of it were sticking to my cross trainers, just like bits of Styrofoam do when they have a slight electrical charge. I didn’t like it.
    Pento must have seen my distaste. “Is the soil not to your liking? We have limits on what we can use to construct battle arenas. We have constructed a tarot world that will look somewhat like your world but does not bear close inspection if you are looking for accurate duplication. But we have had to do this before, construct Theaters for battle.”
    “Who usually wins the battles?”
    Pento took a deep sigh. “Sometimes we win, and sometimes they win.”
    “Will you be explaining who ‘we’ and ‘they’ are? And what does winning look like?”
    Pento opened his mouth to answer when a deafening crash made me wince and duck my head. When I looked up, Pento and the plowed field had been replaced by Fitch standing in my library bending over a toppled reading lamp.
    “Damn, I hope this lamp wasn’t valuable. I just tripped over the cord.”
    “Fitch, your timing sucks.”

    *

    Exhausted from my trip to the Theater, I told Fitch we could take a break and get something to eat. She was full of questions, but I couldn’t talk about what happened. How could I tell anyone, even an aficionado of the twisted like Fitch, that I was either having outrageous psychic experiences or needed commitment to a psych ward?
    I asked Fitch to make a few copies of me “in trance” so that I’d have ample record of my corporeal body during the experience. I intended to study the recording to find the trigger, but I wanted to do it alone. I would have to wait a few days, however, because Fitch actually seemed worried about me and showed a rarely seen solicitous side of her personality. Since I wasn’t her slave, I guessed she could afford to drop her dominatrix demeanor and show some caring for a friend. She even took off the exorbitantly priced leather pants, donned some well-worn jeans, and combed the spikes out of her black hair.
She looked positively cute. For a few minutes, I considered inviting her to my bed, but after tracing the possible outcomes of such a folly, I discarded the idea.
    “‘Sin is sweet in the beginning but bitter in the end,’” I said half to myself.
    “What?”
    “Oh, nothing, just a little Talmudic wisdom. It keeps me above water.”
    “Okay, Dev, whatever it takes.”
    “You don’t have to stay, you know, Fitch. I have the recording I need and am paying you handsomely for.”
    “Hell, you know money isn’t my motivation. You’re kinda my friend. I think I’ll just hang out for a day or two and keep an eye on things. Can we get take-out somewhere around here?”
    I was about to answer when an unfamiliar tinkling sound interrupted us. It was my doorbell.
    “Wow, I hardly ever hear that. Wait in the kitchen, Fitch, just in case it’s one of my clients. Though finding me out here…”
    Another tinkle and Fitch swore she would stay in the kitchen while I went to the front door, another thing I rarely used since I always came through the garage. The door was stuck, warped from being rain soaked and not opened often. I gave it several sharp jerks, and finally wrenched it open, flinging it back against the wall.
    “Sorry about that. The builder warned me a wooden door would stick, but I had to ignore him and—”
    The figure in front of me was hooded in a coat of pricey lamb’s wool. When she pulled the hood off, I first saw how severely her hair was pulled into a bun. Her glasses reflected the porch light, disguising her eyes. She had a regal bearing but was trying to disguise herself, if not from me, from people on the road or passersby. Since the road was fifty yards away, obscured by trees, I knew her manner of caution was habit born of necessity.
    “Are you Devorah Rosten?”
    “Definitely. How did you find this place? I try to keep it from general knowledge.”
    “I’m sure I don’t have to