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When I removed my fingers from inside, Laura gasped and whimpered, wanting to stay connected a little longer.

“Don’t worry. I can go back there soon,” I said as I blanketed Laura with my body. I covered her face with kisses ending with a deep, moist kiss on her mouth. The fragrance of her juices sent another swell of frenzy through both of us.

I pressed my swollen sex on her thigh and glided over her. I was so wet. Her leg was slick in seconds. Laura’s broken wrist rested on the bed, but her good hand searched between our drenched bodies looking to possess me. Once she touched my engorged clit, it took only a few strokes. I tumbled into my own abyss of pleasure, moaning from deep within.

We lay silent, shuddering together for several minutes before Laura could speak.

“How…what happened? I’ve never been so wild, so out of control. Who are you, Dev?” More tears gathered, and Laura fought sobbing.

“Shh. Please don’t. I won’t go anywhere. We’ll get through everything. Together. This was meant to be. We are
bashert.
” I nuzzled my head on Laura’s shoulder.

“What does that mean?” Before I could explain, exhaustion overwhelmed her. The stress, pain medication, and rocking orgasm took their inevitable toll. “Oh, Dev, I’m so so tired. I think I need to sleep now.”

“Of course. You should sleep. I’ll hold you until you drift off. Then I’ll make some calls downstairs. Okay?”

Laura couldn’t muster a reply. We worked ourselves under the covers. I adjusted myself to Laura’s side and pulled her close. After that, she was lost to sleep. I didn’t get to explain that
bashert
meant
destiny
.

*

I detested tearing myself away from Laura after our lovemaking. The silken texture of her hair in my fingers, her gentle sleep breath, and the intoxicating smell of sex fought to override the call of my responsibilities. But I had to talk to Fitch. When Laura was completely asleep, I extricated myself from her exquisite body. I found my robe and went down to my study. I’d left my cell phone in the bedroom, so I used my landline to make the call.

Fitch answered her phone after one ring.

“Damn, Rosten, where have you been? I’ve got information that isn’t meant to ferment in a barrel until it’s ready to drink.”

“Sorry, I was, uh, distracted.”

“I’ll bet. I’ve traced Laura Bishop’s spending habits to every high-end lingerie outfit on the Internet.”

“You didn’t.” Fitch remained silent. “Okay, you did.”

“From the smoky sound of your voice, you are the beneficiary of Bishop’s wanton spending. Was she wearing any vinyl?”

“Don’t start, Fitch. She’s my fantasy, not yours.” I updated Fitch on the Tom Dwight incident on the ferry. Then I asked what she had learned in her research.

I heard the clicking of a keyboard and pictured Fitch in her technology room that looked like the lair of a mad scientist. All it lacked were bubbling beakers connected by tubes. Then I remembered that Fitch really was a mad scientist.

“Who do you want me to start with? The Stratton cabal is pretty disturbing. I’ve got little on Stratton, of course, but there’s a bit on Jerry Greenfield and Tom Dwight.”

“What about Laura? Did you find anything else about her besides her spending habits?” I was annoyed with Fitch for prying into Laura’s life, but I had asked her to do it.

“I think Bishop is pretty clean. She just slept with the wrong person. That was the story of my life until I took full control, if you catch my drift.”

“I do and let’s move on. Tell me about Tom Dwight.”

“He is one scary dude. Grew up in Bumfuck, Texas, and managed to get in all kinds of juvie trouble. His parents dumped him on his uncle, Allen Dwight, who raised him in a white supremacist environment. The kid was burning crosses before we learned to shave our legs. Even Texas authorities were appalled and took little Tommy away from his uncle by age fifteen. Foster homes until eighteen, then Dwight disappears from public record for a while.

“It took a bit of digging on my part, but he finally resurfaced as a mercenary soldier. He did dirty work for a few nasty governments in Central and South America. Then he landed a job as a squad leader for Mohawk Security. That was about fifteen years ago. During that time he started writing religious tracts for a fundamental Christian outfit sponsored by Jerry Greenfield. Apparently, Tom Dwight found God, and Jerry Greenfield found Dwight. From then until now, he’s been Greenfield’s lackey and probably hatchet man. He’s dangerous, Dev. He thinks Jesus is on his side because Greenfield is on his side.”

“Huh. It just goes to show ‘You can educate a fool but you can’t make him think.’”

“Isn’t that the truth? Is that one of your Talmud sayings?”

“Why should I think of something original when I’ve got Talmud to quote? Anything more about Elizabeth Stratton?”

“Stratton? No. I can’t find a human interest word on her, except what’s in an approved bio. Her life remains an outline on a clean white slate.”

“Tell me about Greenfield.”

“It’s kind of the same story as Stratton: bland. Greenfield grew up in San Diego. Played soccer in high school. Decent grades got him into Pepperdine. He did well enough. Joined a fraternity and a few academic clubs. He earned a bachelor’s in religious something or other, graduated, and went to a Baptist seminary in Oklahoma. That’s where he apparently learned his phony Southern accent. But it’s strange. In fact, it’s strange about both characters, Stratton and Greenfield.”

“At this point, nothing will surprise me about those two. Keep going,” I said.

“Both the bios check out. School grades are perfectly submitted by all their teachers. Records show their sports scores. But there’s no color.”

“No color?”

“These are pretty controversial folks. You’d think there would be some people from their early years who remembered them and were itching to be interviewed. The press loves to dig into the flotsam of people’s lives and print it for more prurient humans like me. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, of human interest about these two. Even a look on the Internet maps for their childhood homes comes up with vacant lots. The houses were demolished within the last twenty years.

“Everything I’ve learned is public record: school reports, newspapers, interviews that took place during their professional careers. But it’s all bland, no red meat. What I’m trying to say is I think Stratton and Greenfield were groomed or…manufactured.”

“What about love affairs? Didn’t they have a boyfriend or girlfriend along the way? These are two attractive people. Surely there is someone willing to kiss and tell.”

“Afraid not. The only romantic interlude either of them has had, besides with each other, is Stratton’s affair with Laura Bishop. And there is no evidence to support even that, just Laura Bishop’s word. And it looks to me like they’re doing their best to erase that.”

“Speaking of, are you going to Colorado?”

“At this very moment, I’m speaking to you from one of Denver’s finest hotels. I plan to drive east in the morning, which is not all that long from now. I have a lead on some fundamentalist activity in the countryside that could be related to Greenfield. I won’t bother you with details unless I find something worth sharing.”

“You, Miss Leather Fetish, are going to one of the most conservative areas of the country. Try to be a little, uh, discreet. Okay?”

“Worry not, Devy. I’m going to dress like Little Miss Vanilla who is out for a sightseeing tour of ranches and cows.”

“Stop with the Devy, will you?”

“Before I go to eastern Colorado, I have one other question. What about your business deal with Stratton? Having an affair with your and Stratton’s target is not a good idea.”

“Hey, I’m not having an affair with Laura Bishop.” Getting a lecture from Fitch, of all people, annoyed me. Besides, I was no longer planning an affair with Laura. I wanted more than that.

“Excuse me, but you are not a sleep around kind of gal. Is this more than an affair?” Fitch said.

“Yes, probably. But I can satisfy Stratton. I’ll keep Bishop here at Tranquility until things blow over.”

“And you’ll call the press when? Stratton needs taking down, Dev. I don’t care about your business ethics.”

“Ethics be damned. I agree. Now I need to go and carry on this misbegotten mission.”

Disturbed, I said good-bye to Fitch and remained at my desk pondering what I had just learned.

Fitch’s conjecture about Stratton and Greenfield jarred me. “Manufactured” was the same word I used to describe the Theater and its characters. Could Stratton and Greenfield be some sort of product of the Malignity?

“Holy hell. ‘As above, so below,’” I said aloud. The Magician’s traditional symbolism. One arm pointing up, the other pointing down. What occurs in the heavens is mirrored on earth. I looked at my fingernails. At least they were intact on my customary plane of existence, and so were Stratton’s and Greenfield’s.

I barely completed the thought when I was thrown to the floor. My body was squeezed and elongated like it was being blown through a straw. The wracking sensation ended, and I looked up at the face of the High Priestess. She was baring her teeth. At least that’s what I think she was doing until I understood she was smiling. Her teeth looked like they had been carved out of soap, a facsimile of teeth. She would always revolt me, no matter what her intentions were.

“I thought you’d improved my transition process,” I croaked.

“When it suits us. But sometimes meddlers need to be reminded who controls them.” That spectral grimace of hers was lifeless. The teeth were dust dry. That’s what made me shiver. “You don’t like my visage, meddler? It’s not human enough for you? I am not human, thankfully, so I don’t aspire to look exactly like one.”

“Who are you, really?”

“Using your words, let us say I’m another client. You have a task that needs completion. You are on the path of failure, I’m afraid. You have not been careful.” Her thin eyebrows jerked woodenly together in a rehearsed gesture of disapproval. “Was it not clear when you were conscripted?”

“You haven’t given me word one about what you expect of me.” I stood and faced her. This time I wouldn’t cower.

“Then go,” she said. “Go to your Theater and learn what needs to be done. It may already be too late to save your Laura Bishop. The Malignity is marching, marching fast.” Again, without moving, she smashed my body into the pillar behind her throne. I felt my forehead clonk against the marble.

There was no sensation of the transition to Pento’s Theater. Instead, I heard him say, “Are you bleeding, damsel?”

I was lying on my back with my hands covering my agonizing forehead. Venomous darts of pain ripped across my scalp. My throat emitted a pathetic sound between a moan and a scream. My hands felt sticky. I pulled them away to find my tapered, nail-less fingers covered with blood. At least the blood was the right color, but on closer inspection, there was a melting red gelatin quality to it. I rolled on my side and spewed partially digested flank steak into Pento’s faux dirt. The vomit had a rubbery bounce to it that made me even more revolted, and I finished with dry heaves.

Depleted finally, I rocked myself several times to collect my damaged self so that I could, just barely, rise to my knees. I worked the gloppy blood between the tips of my fingers. “Can you stop this…this blood? It’s all wrong, Pento.”

I looked up at Pento and saw him twist his head so far around, he was looking back over his shoulder blades. It was horrific, like a demon possession, but it lasted only a second then his head snapped forward again. My bleeding stopped, literally dried up, leaving a tacky residue.

“My apologies, damsel. Most humans do not like to see me work. For some reason, the twisting of my head annoys them. However, I cannot help it. It is what happens when I create within the Theater.” He reached his gloved hand to me, which I grasped and felt him effortlessly pull me to my feet. “Please tell me. A few times when you have come to the Theater you acted as if you had been struck in the head. Why is that? I cannot seem to make the transition pleasant for you. It has never been like that.”

“Never? Your ‘lady’ never slams people against marble surfaces before she ships them off to you? Maybe you figure that abuse will make us more docile, more amenable to your wishes. Well, guess what, Pento, that doesn’t work. At least, it doesn’t work with me.” I was squeezing my appallingly deformed fingers into the palms of my hands.

“Abuse? Whatever do you mean? The Lady gives me strict directions never to abuse anyone in the meddler line.”

“What do you think the Lady does when I make my little appearances before her throne? She sure isn’t serving me tea and crumpets.” I was stepping closer to him in my anger. He backed away.

“Tea and crumpets? Appearances?”

“Quit parroting me. Tell me exactly what’s going on here. And what is a ‘line’ anyway?”

“A line is you, damsel. You are a line, the bloodline. Why do you not know that?”

“Pento, just who is ‘the Lady’ that you are talking about? We need some definitions of terms so that we are clear with each other.” He appeared as bewildered as I.

“The goddess Isis, the High Priestess, Persephone. The keeper of wisdom. She can be cold, but not brutal. Unless she is worried.” He hesitated. “Oh dear, she is worried.”

“Well, she doesn’t seem to get that I break. She keeps tossing me around like a discarded rag doll.”

“Then things are worse than I knew. She must be troubled. She wants you to resolve the situation with the Malignity without delay.”

“You need to tell her to back off, Pento. I will try to do as I’ve been directed, but I can’t if I’m wounded or my skull is cracked. Are you sure she’s on our side?”

“Of that we can be certain. Despite her cruelty to you, she does not align herself with He-Who-Comes-Before. They are competitors. She does not usually get so demanding.” Pento was shaking his head in a jerky rendition of bewilderment.

“The Magician, the number one of tarot major arcane, or whatever else he could be called. He is Jerry Greenfield, and Jerry is the Malignity. Is that right?”