War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Witch

by Gail Roughton

  "No, I'm fine. Go on. I'll call you tomorrow."

  "When you get up, remember to lock the deadbolt."

  "I will."

  The minute the door clicked I clunked the mug of soup down on the coffee table so hard it sloshed and pulled my cell out of my pocket.

  "Hello, baby girl."

  Well, at least he was alive. And he didn't sound shook up, but there was something different about his voice.

  "What in the hell was that?" I demanded.

  "What was what?"

  "Don't get cute with me! Something just happened, I know it did, there was this—this blast—that hit me out of nowhere—"

  "I'm fine. Real gully-washer coming down, wasn't paying enough attention. I hydroplaned a little, that's all. Got my attention, though."

  "It got a hell of a lot more than your attention! The muscles in the back of your neck went rigid and you damn near hyperventilated, so don't tell me it was nothing!" I shouted furiously. "Not to mention that echo shouting 'Not now!'"

  "I believe it was 'Not now, damn it,'" he said calmly. "Made me mad as hell, I can't get killed now, of all times. I just found you."

  "And why the hell weren't you paying attention if it's raining all that hard? And why the hell are you talking on the damn phone if it's raining that hard?!"

  "Because you called me. And I was—well, really, I'm about wiped out, precious. Didn't tell you because I figured Miss Responsible would insist we reschedule today, but I was up most of last night running down a military man who thought he was immune because he was on base, like I don't have passes to all the military bases."

  "You what? You trailed after me around a mall for four freakin' hours in Christmas crowds which exhausted me when you've been up for how many straight hours?!"

  "For a hell of a long time now, but it took me a lifetime to find you and almost a month to get you to commit to a definite day and there was no way in hell you were getting out of it."

  "You—you—man, you! You're a stupid asshole!"

  "Hah! See? You do care. And you're coming along really fast, too, picking all that up, my precious half-witch, half-bitch, baby girl. Don't worry, nothing's going to happen me. I'm a warlock guarded by an angel. Who's a witch."

  I didn't say anything for a moment. "Asshole," I repeated. And hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don't remember much of the next few days. I think I was in automated, self-defense shut down mode. Stacy didn't ask any questions and I knew she wouldn't until I indicated I was ready to talk. We were sisters. We knew each other inside and out, even with the five years age difference. I'd always taken it for granted all sisters did and for the first time, courtesy of Magic Man, I wondered if she and I might take the sisterhood thing to a level past that of other sisters.

  But it wasn't fair to keep her in total suspense and I wasn't ready to explore any possibilities that we communicated on a deeper level than most sisters. So on our first smoke break of the next morning post Chad Garrett a/k/a warlock, I merely volunteered the information that I was still monogamous. Her reply was succinct and to the point.

  "Shit. Not for too much longer, I hope."

  "I'm—processing some things," I said.

  He pretty much left me alone to process on that Friday, last work day before Christmas on the following Monday, other than a few humorous emails. I sent a few humorous emails in return, but that was all, until I forwarded him my personal email address right before leaving. Saturday and Sunday passed in the blur of holiday visits and family and friend get-togethers that preceded Christmas Day itself.

  And during the course of Saturday's pre-holiday revelry, I became aware that I was beginning to become aware of—what? I wasn't sure. A subliminal hum running through the air and under the ground? An increasingly bright luminescence that began to glow around everything and everyone I saw? Not exactly. Not yet. But it was—forming. Wasn't it?

  I sent a text Saturday night, hoping that he was engaged in Christmas business rather than stake-out business, but there was no reply. I reminded myself again that he had family and friends and holiday events too, and Saturday became Sunday.

  The subliminal hum seemed louder that day, the luminescence shone more brightly and nowhere did it shine more brightly than in my baby sister's face as she sat by our parents' fireplace on Christmas Eve during my family's traditional festivities. Unless she was looking at Scott, that is. How, I wondered, had I missed that? The intensity of her dislike for him. I sent another innocuous text that night, but again, there was no reply.

  Monday, Christmas Day, I stared out the car window as it ate up the interstate miles on the way up to Scott's parents, that ever-present hum and luminescence still haunting me. About half-way there, the quality of sound and light changed. A giant "POP" sounded in my brain and all at once, I wasn't just hearing the subliminal hum or just seeing the underlying luminescence.

  I was part of it and it was part of me and I knew, knew with absolute certainty that there was an underlying power, a grand magic and music of the universe. Everything and everyone was connected, intertwined. And in that connection was the ancient, universal truth, lost and twisted and forgotten through the ages. Before there had ever been a "Bless you, my child", there had been a "Blessed be." The religion of the old ones. And I knew why modern conventional religion had never been enough to fulfill me and bring me, for lack of a better description, inner peace though I had no doubt it did for others and though I'd always been more than slightly envious of those for whom it did. I was a witch. I was one of the ancients.

  In the next breath I backslid. Oh, my God! I was going to die and go to Hell!

  It only took a moment for the serenity to return. No, I wasn't. I wasn't abandoning anything, I was expanding it. God was the power and the music and the magic of the universe. I'd just found It. Or Him. Or Her. I was pretty sure the power was gender neutral. Life itself was magic. All you had to do was open your mind and let it find you.

  I looked over at Scott. It was Christmas. I owed him a normal Christmas Day with his parents. In one sense, I hated this happening at Christmas, though it was undoubtedly the best Christmas present I'd ever had in my life. I didn't want to leave him a bad memory associated with the Christmas season, though I had no illusions this was going to scar him for life. He wanted to marry me because I was suitable, sensible by his standards, at least most of the time anyway, and low maintenance. The world was full of suitable, sensible girls. I supposed from here on out, I wasn't going to be considered sensible by anybody's standards, other than the standards of a certain Magic Man by the name of Chad Garrett. And Stacy.

  I pulled out my phone and slid the keyboard free.

  "Who you texting, honey?"

  Why had I never noticed that he always wanted to know who I was calling, who I was texting, who I was emailing? And in that moment of oneness with the world, I knew it wasn't his fault and that it wasn't fair to expect him to be something he wasn't and never would be.

  "A friend," I said and a text reading "Merry Christmas! Love u." went flying out over the cell towers of Georgia.

  The response took all of two minutes. "Thank God as that's the first time uve said love to me…Merry Christmas to u baby girl…should I come? Love u more than u know n almost deserve."

  I smiled. I'd known that 'Love u' was going to get his attention. "Not yet" I sent back. "Still processing… but soon"

  I didn't bother to close the screen.

  "Glory Hallelujah!"

  I gave Scott his normal Christmas Day with his parents. It was easier than I'd thought it'd be. I seemed to have a new gentleness, a new understanding that didn't carry with it resentment of what people weren't, just acceptance of what they'd never be. And on the ride home, I gazed up out of the window and watched the stars dance in an intricate ballet of shimmering light against the black canopy. I'd never fully appreciated that dance before.

  I didn't intend to return his ring that night but he forced the issue when it
became apparent that he didn't intend to leave.

  He stared at my outstretched hand extending it back to him.

  "You're joking, right? Not funny, Ariel, not today."

  "No joke. I'm sorry, but this just isn't going to work, Scott. And I wouldn't have done it today if it hadn't been obvious you didn't intend to go home."

  "Just who doesn't it work for? Works for me."

  "Not for me."

  "And you don't care about anybody or anything but yourself, is that it?"

  I closed my eyes. The question used by every individual I'd ever known my entire life any time responsible, intelligent, sensible, self-sacrificing Ariel didn't do exactly what was expected of her. But this time it wasn't going to work.

  "Oh, I care," I said. "Just not enough."

  Chapter Twelve

  The next work morning, I sent my sister our private signal of the need to go indulge our filthy habit. "Right now, right now?" went speeding through the BLAH email system. The level of urgency in any such request was indicated by the number of question marks and exclamation points that followed the last "right now". Sometimes, depending on the level of stress being experienced at the moment by one or the other of us, they stretched out for a whole line. This one indicated an ordinary smoke break. I didn't want her to think I was having a panic attack.

  "On my way," she responded, and I got up and headed for the parking garage.

  She was already in the front seat, already lit up, and turned to face me as I got in.

  "Ready to tell me about it?" she asked.

  "I am, but not on a smoke break. Whatcha' doin' tonight? How 'bout pizza? My place or yours?"

  "Mine. Yours has Scott vibes. Homemade?"

  "Joint sister homemade pizza."

  "What're you going to do with Scott?"

  I held out my left hand for inspection.

  "Glory Hallelujah!" she almost shouted.

  "Yeah, I got that reaction from somebody else recently, too."

  "Wonder who? You're really going to make me wait till tonight?"

  "For that? Oh, yeah. But I do want to ask you something now."

  "Okay. What?"

  "What if—" I hesitated.

  "What if what?"

  I took a deep breath. "What if I told you I'd recently discovered I might be a half-ass, half-practicing witch and that I've been one my whole life?"

  "I'd tell you I believe you, of course. That's what sisters do."

  "Yeah, but what if I told you I was deadly serious? Would you try to get me in the nearest insane asylum as soon as possible?"

  She took a long draw off her cigarette and smiled. "No. I'd just tell you that I can talk to dead people and I don't even have to be related to them."

  "You should talk to your sister," I heard again in the back of my mind. And he'd known that from a picture.

  "For—for real?" I asked.

  "Yeah. You want to haul me off to the nearest asylum? Mom almost did."

  "Mom what?"

  "Oh, yeah. You don't remember? 'Course, you were fourteen and all intent on being a teenager and I was only nine and a pain in the ass. But you don't remember when she hauled me off to a child psychiatrist for six months?"

  "Of course I do," I said slowly. "But that was because of school, because you were having problems fitting in with the other kids—"

  Stacy laughed. "Yeah. She wishes. First she took me to one who told her it was a lot more common than most people thought, and then she took me to one who told her I was schizophrenic. So I smartened up and shut up and told everybody I was just making it up and they decided I just had the ordinary imaginary friends. And I never told anybody else. Anything."

  I sat and stared at her, my heart breaking at the thought of a nine year old walking around with that. And carrying it alone all this time. "And you never told me? You didn't think I'd believe you?"

  She shrugged. "I told Mom, Ari. Who loudly proclaims to love us more than anybody else in the world ever will. As long as I'm normal. As long as you're normal. Don't tell me you don't know that and it's not one of the reasons you never opened up. You always knew that. I almost did tell you a few times, I've always wondered—did you see anything? But you don't, do you? You just—you just know things. Well, that's not right, either, it's not like you know what's going to happen or anything, not like a fortune teller. You know people. You know who and what they really are and sometimes you know what they're thinking. I think that depends on how hard they're thinking it and how much you like them."

  "I've never told you I know what people are thinking sometimes."

  "Oh, no, you've always been real careful about that. Without even knowing or meaning to, I think. You're real good at passing it off as ordinary observation and educated guess."

  I sat in stunned silence and let it soak in. "And all these years we've never told each other?"

  She smiled. "But we knew. We always knew. You know we did."

  "Sister hug!" I proclaimed. We reached for each other over the console and squeezed each other breathless.

  "So. What earth-shattering revelation by the name of bounty hunter Chad Garrett brought this on?"

  "Am I broadcasting? What else do you do besides talk to dead people?"

  "Is that what he calls it? Broadcasting?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, yeah, you are, but you're the only live person I can read. Visitations and funerals are a bitch, though, I tell you what. And sometimes I know what's wrong with people. Like when Amy Buford was trying to get pregnant last year? And finally went to the doctor and she's a diabetic and that was the problem? Well, I didn't know what the problem was, but I knew there was something wrong with her. And back to Chad Garrett—"

  "No," I said firmly and opening the car door. "Tonight. Still want your place? Scott's no longer a factor at mine."

  "Yeah, but his vibes still are. That's gonna take a while to clear out."

  Chapter Thirteen

  I told her all about it that night over the pizza recipe we'd created when I was eighteen and she was thirteen, the one that had our friends who lived five miles away calling in on Sunday afternoons proclaiming, "You're making pizza, aren't you? I can smell it!"

  "So, again I ask," I said, licking the remnants of pizza sauce off my fingers. "Do I need an insane asylum?"

  "I believe every word," she declared emphatically. "Every word. Why wouldn't I? So, now I ask—with all that, why am I sitting here eating pizza with you instead of him? Not that I think the two of you would be sitting here eating pizza."

  "Well, damn, get graphic, why don't you?" I laughed. "Because—I'm not ready. This is all so new, and so old at the same time, like when I hear—" I broke off. "Do you have any trace memories? Of ever being here before? Like déjà vu only not?"

  "Such as?"

  "Such as hearing a foreign language and feeling like you know it, you just can't remember it? I do that. With Italian and Russian. Russian, for God's sakes! Most people can't even pronounce a Russian name."

  "Never noticed, but I'll definitely start paying attention. He could help, you know. Sounds like he's already come to terms with all this magical stuff that's so new-old to you."

  "So have you. And I didn't even know it."

  "Not like he has, apparently. It's always been almost completely unconscious for you and actually, mostly for me. For him, it sounds like it's really super conscious."

  I shook my head. "No. I mean yes. I mean, I just need to sort it out on my own some more before I'm ready to see him again."

  "Well, don't take too damn long. Wit. War—N are waitin' on you, you know."

  * * *

  Just because I wasn't ready to see the master warlock yet didn't mean I was out of contact with him. Through the next two weeks the emails and texts flew and we burned up the cell towers between Macon, Georgia and wherever the hell he was at the time which ranged from various back roads in the Alabama boondocks to Tallahassee to Savannah. And God knows where else. And minute by minu
te, day by day, and phone call by phone call, I felt myself draw closer and closer to the time we'd call each other home.

  The end of the second week brought with it that announcement so dear to all working girls' hearts—we weren't going to make deadlines on a massively complicated, mind-boggling, drawers of filing cabinets full corporate litigation case unless we worked on Saturday and probably Sunday. "We" in this case included me, Mark McCray, the senior partner whose case it actually was, Jon Tennille, his secretary Amanda, one of the younger attorneys by the name of Nathan Armstrong, and the litigation paralegal Dana Marlow.

  It didn't happen that often, not to me, anyway, though Dana and Amanda pulled Saturdays fairly frequently and I wasn't really upset about it. Actually, I took it as sort of a confirming sign that I wasn't ready to text the words, "Come now," down to Quitman, Georgia—or wherever the roving PI was located at the moment. I was disappointed about that, too, but I was in the process of coming to believe that nothing that ever happens is accidental, and that when the time came—and it was drawing ever closer—I would know.

  It was about 12:15 that Saturday when I realized that I hadn't eaten anything that morning. I was bad about that and I was getting past peckish and was just about in danger of getting shaky. I wasn't the only hungry one, either. Nathan came down the hall and hollered into Mark's office.

  "Hey! I'm goin' down to Frick & Fries, you wanna come?"

  Frick & Fries was a Macon institution. It'd been in business since the 1920's on a diagonal stretch of

  Cotton Avenue. Downtown wasn't what it used to be with shopping having moved to the malls and out of downtowns everywhere in the 70's. Downtown now was nothing much but a few businesses, lots of law offices and the courthouse. Many new eateries tried and failed, but Frick's had never so much as blinked an eye from the time its doors opened. Nor had it ever changed the original diner counter and probably not the booths over on the side either.