No
lightning bolt streaked from the sky the day my life as I knew it began to end.
There was no warning at all. Nothing. There I was, sitting at my desk, minding
my own business, doing my job. My official job title is “legal assistant.” The
more exotic sounding title is paralegal. In the old days when folks called jobs
what they actually were, the title was “legal secretary.” Me? I answer to any
of the above. Or just to Ariel. That's my name. Ariel Anson. And that’s all I
was doing, I swear. Minding my own
business in the course of my humdrum day. Doing my job at the century-old, prestigious
central Georgia law firm of Baker, Lawson, Abercrombie & Hunter, where the
partners walked around in blissful ignorance of the fact the firm is referred
to in legal circles as BLAH. All us legal assistants think that's a hoot.
Yeah, that’s me. Ariel Anson.
Ariel Anson Garrett nowadays.
See, sometimes the practice of law requires special expertise of the
“field” variety, expertise few of the attorneys or staff members have. Like tracking down folks who don’t much care
to be found, serving suits and notices and subpoenas on folks who don’t much
care to be served, things like that.
When that happens, we call in the services of the guys—or gals—who do
have that expertise. Usually they’re
known as “private investigators” and good ones have a multitude of skills. On that day when no lightning bolt streaked
from the sky, I found myself in need of a good one. And I was in need of a good
one down in the southern part of the state in a geographical area outside our
usual area of practice, so I didn’t know a name off the top of my head to
call. Like any good little legal
secretary, I knew how to find one, though. I placed a few calls to some firms
in the area we’d worked with for recommendations.
And if I’d known then what I know
now—namely that War-N-Wit, Inc. stood for “Warlock and Witch”, that Chad
Garrett, sole owner, proprietor and employee of War-N-Wit, Inc. was the “War”
of that outfit on the hunt for his “Wit”, the soul-mate he’d reincarnated with
many times over the centuries, and that he’d immediately peg me as said “Wit”
when I uttered my first syllable to him over the phone—well, if I’d known all
that then, I’d have still done the same damn thing. I’m not even going to lie about it.
Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck
yesterday. I didn’t just throw up my
hands and say “Okay! I’m The Witch
.”
But in the end, there’s just no denying the
truth.
Not when you realize down deep in
your soul that something
is the
truth.
Thus it was that I traded in my
secretarial chair in the hallowed halls of BLAH for on the job training as the
“Wit” of War-n-Wit, Inc. Yeah, I married the man.
On a motorcycle in the Tunnel of Love
Drive-Thru at the Little White Wedding Chapel in Vegas, if you must know. Now
I’m learning all about skip-tracing, process serving, investigating, and
bounty-hunting. Among other things.
What other things? Well, as you might
imagine, with a name like War-n-Wit, Inc., we’re magnets for clients who need
investigative services of a more—well, magical—nature
than the general population. Like Oliver
Hedgepath of Resurrection.
The Resurrection Society, based in Savannah, Georgia, to be precise.
Hedgepath was a prissy little twerp of a man.
Chad and I disliked him just from talking with him on the phone. And
since we’re both what you call telepaths—meaning we don’t read minds, per se,
we read people, who they are
underneath the masks we all wear for the world—well, that alone made Chad
decline his case. He was persistent,
though, actually showed up on our doorstep.
And meeting him set off alarm bells so loud Chad called in outside
sources for consultation.
That’s the first time I met Gabriel Smith,
affectionately known as “G”. G’s the
head hauncho for an organization Chad referred to simply as “The
Guardians”. They keep an eye on the
magic world. Magic’s very powerful, you
see. And a misuse of magic is a misuse
of power. Anyone who abuses magic risks
losing it, any witch or warlock can tell you that. G thought old Ollie Hedgepath bore watching. So off we went to Savannah, to check out the
Resurrection Society. That was a blast
from the past, for certain sure. Once we
figured out whose past it was a blast from, of course. And that’s when I first began to wonder about
that black cat. The one I named
Micah. The one who seemed to show up no
matter where we were. Oh, I know, I
know. There’re lots of black cats in the
world. Chad kept telling me the same
thing. But not like Micah.
We took a break after that case. Well, it was supposed to be a break,
anyway. A trip to Daytona Bike Week. Did
I mention Chad was an avid biker? Chad’s an avid biker. Did I mention that
magic aside, Chad is very, very good at what he does, the private investigation
thing? Well, there’s a reason for
that. He’s spent his entire adult life
in some aspect of law enforcement.
Ex-Miami-Dade PD, ex-Florida Bureau of Investigation. And a few other “ex-es” not mentioned on his
resume. Including the five years he
spent undercover with an outlaw biker gang.
So naturally, a call came in from that “ex” right before we left. Since
we were going to be down there anyway, could Chad possibly check around
concerning a current undercover operative who’d gone missing in action? Good thing we brought The Coven
with
us. Because if Chad’s best friend Spike
and my little sister Stacy hadn’t been with us, things could have turned out
pretty darn badly. I don’t think Micah
and I could have managed that one without them.
Oh, yeah. Micah was there,
too. We didn’t bring him with us. Like always, he was just—there!
Something really great happened on that
trip, though. Well, beside all of us surviving it, I mean. Spike and Stacy fell head-over-heels in
love. So very shortly thereafter, Chad
and I were winging it back to Vegas, Spike’s home base, for their wedding. To be held in the Tunnel of Love Drive-Thru
at the Little White Wedding Chapel. It’s
sort of a family tradition by now. And
when I say family, I mean family. My Mom
and Dad were there, too. Mom missed my
wedding and okay, that was my fault. She didn’t intend to miss Stacy’s, too.
Which was out of this world. In more
ways than one. Because that’s when I
discovered the Guardian’s Council was actually “The Galatic Guardians Council”.
Very convoluted organization. Gabriel
Smith heads the MeanStreet, LLC,
Division. Michael Smith heads the FlyingLow,
LLC Division. Raphael Smith heads the SassyWings, LLC Division. C’mon, with names like that I don’t need to
draw you a roadmap, do I? And Micah? I wasn’t kidding when I told you there was
something strange about that cat. Or
when I told you my sister’s wedding was out of this world.
So what’s next? I’ve got no idea. I don’t go looking for
trouble.
Because it always finds
us. Always.
* *
* *
Gail Roughton's spent
almost forty years in a law office as a legal secretary/paralegal. During those
years, she's raised three children and quite a few attorneys. She kept herself
sane by writing books, tossing each completed novel in her closet. She's been
cleaning out the closet for the last few years, as well as producing new works
never stored there. A multi-genre writer, her books span the spectrum from
humor to paranormal to romance to horror. Sometimes even in the same book. None
of that's planned, it's just what happens when the characters start talking.
Even she doesn't know what to expect next!
Check out her Author’s
Page at
And Coming Soon:
Sisters of Prophecy – Ursula (co-authored with Jude Pittman)
Black Turkey Walk (A Country Justice Novel)
