Free The Firefly Witch by Alex Bledsoe Page A

Lady Firefly.

~I~
    THE CHILL IN THE AIR
    WAKES THE GHOSTS OFF THE GROUND
     
    I met my wife in the fall. When the ghosts come out.
    This all happened a while ago, in a time when cell phones only existed in California, tablet computers were found only in science fiction movies, and Bret Easton Ellis was considered literature. The neo-Pagan movement had not yet become so prominent that reality shows could be based around it; hell, there were no reality shows at all. Our TV series were fiction, and we liked it that way.
    We’d both just finished our four-year degrees, her in Atlanta and me right there in Weakleyville. She’d come to town to get a master’s degree in psychology, and from there on to a doctorate in parapsychology. I’d given up on the academic life: I wanted to be a journalist, not study about it. We had nothing at all in common.
    The day I met her, a note on my desk summoned me to my editor’s office. He looked up from his keyboard and handed me a piece of paper. “Read this.”
    It was a typical West Tennessee University press release, the kind we ran as filler. It told of Tanita Woicistikoviski, 25, the newest psychology department graduate assistant. It mentioned she’d been published in numerous journals already, but otherwise said nothing special. There was no photograph.
    “Relative?” I asked. We were always running articles about employees’ relatives.
    “Nope,” he said. “Witch.”
    “You know her, then?”
    “No, Tully, I mean, she’s a witch. A real one.”
    I looked at the release again. I saw nothing about a witch. “How do you know?”
    “Read this,” he said.
    This time he handed me an article from Psychology World . It was about Tanita Woicistikoviski and her apparently phenomenal psychic powers. The article was titled, “Meet the Firefly Witch.”
    I scanned it quickly. It outlined her belief in the Wicca religion, and how it helped her deal with her psychic abilities. It also said she was blind, but had some other kind of “sight.” No photos.
    “Sounds like a weird chick,” I said.
    “Glad you like her. You’re interviewing her today at four.”
    “I am.”
    “Yep.”
    “I don’t think I can even pronounce her name. Why me?”
    “Because that’s your assignment. Unless you’d rather cover the Greenville City Council meeting tonight--?”
    “No, no,” I said quickly. “That’s fine.” The Greenville City Council met with no agenda, no time limit and a transplanted Cajun mayor with an indecipherable accent. Last time I was there until 2 a.m. for a three-paragraph story.
    I drove to West Tennessee University (“WesTN” for short) and thought about witches. I vaguely knew they had a religion, that a lot of hippie chicks were into it, and that none of them had much of a sense of humor about it. I figured Tanita Woy-whatever was an overweight granola girl with hairy legs and a dislike for men.
    Dr. Lawrence Wellman, chairman of WesTN’s psychology department, remembered me from his freshman psych series. It was his idea to have an article on Tanita Woicistikoviski in the local paper, for reasons beyond her inherent news value. Since she’d spent most of her life trying to have no news value, she wasn’t real thrilled. Which, of course, no one told me.
    Tanita Woicistikoviski wore a sleeveless black jersey dress that came down to her calves, accenting her slim and, surprisingly for a redhead, tanned body. Long red curls cascaded down her shoulders, and round sunglasses covered her eyes. A shaft of afternoon sun struck her like a spotlight, bathing her in amber. I stood in the open doorway, hand in mid-knock, momentarily breathless. She had a presence that could stop a waterfall.
    Dr. Wellman waved me inside. “Hello, Ry. Good to see you again. This is Tanita Woicistikoviski. Tanna, this is the gentleman from the local paper.”
    I stupidly offered my hand, but of course she couldn’t see it. So I settled for an friendly grin (yeah, yeah, I know).
    Tanna