by Renée Jaggér
“Good,” MacLachlan replied at once. “The last thing we need is an all-out bloody war with the shifters and the Men in Black or whatever they call themselves at the same time. We’ll need someone competent to lead the expedition, obviously.”
Gregorovia smiled. “Obviously. Hence, you were our first choice, Madame MacLachlan, and still are. Handpick your assistants from among our lower ranks. You are first to assess the situation, using your best judgment as to whether it is wise to act, and how to act, and when. Move against her only when you can do so without making things even more of a mess than they already are. Surely you’re up to the task? I would hope you are since you will be departing in two days’ time.”
The Scotswoman’s face momentarily lost its confidence. Then she inhaled, and her swagger was back.
“Of course,” she agreed. “Best decision you could have made. I’ll deal with the little bitch-pup in record time.”
Agent Townsend sat at his desk and rubbed his eyes. The dark glasses he wore at almost all times were lying on the surface, next to four thick sheaves of paperwork.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned.
The reports just kept coming in. All kinds of crap, really, but the worst—and therefore the most important—was coming from Europe, where the Agency’s contacts and spies were keeping a close eye on the Venatori.
They were on the move. Still, or possibly again. It didn’t matter which. Given what had transpired just under two weeks ago, anything they did had to be treated with the utmost suspicion.
Notably, a few of their members from the peripheral parts of Europe had been seen in France. The Agency had not yet managed to figure out where their headquarters was—the place was almost certainly cloaked with layers upon layers of top-level magic—but they were pretty sure it was somewhere in the vicinity of Lyon.
And with the girl having killed a couple members of their little US task force, it seemed pretty safe to assume that the witches were pissed.
“Just like we predicted,” he muttered under his breath. “Here comes the aftermath of Hurricane Bailey, the ultimate fuckstorm of paperwork.”
Then a pang of anguish hit him, and his gut tightened. He’d said, “we,” referring to him and his partner Spall. Who was now dead, the Venatori having reduced him to ash after he’d flipped out and done the same to a couple of them. They’d worked together so long, the man had been like a brother.
Hands trembling with carefully disciplined rage, he turned to his computer, firing up the analysis programs that would allow him to collate the incoming data and narrow the possibilities to a handful of scenarios, ranked in order of likelihood.
Of course, he already had a fairly good idea of what to expect. And if—no, when—the shit hit the fan, he would deal with it. Take care of it. Make it go away.
Not to mention, it would be an excellent opportunity to squeeze a little payback out of the witches’ hides. He’d been too busy to make the trip, but he’d insisted on calling Spall’s family to inform them that the man had died in the line of duty.
Granted, fighting hostile entities was slightly outside the Agency’s purview. It wasn’t their mandate, and it wasn’t his job. Then again, most of his job consisted of operating out of the shadows, working in the gray areas of legality and morality.
And since it sent a strong message about the consequences of fucking with America, he was pretty damn sure that revenge fell within that gray area.
Townsend took a deep breath. The computers would need a couple of minutes to run all the necessary programs, so he could relax for the time being.
To make himself feel better, he went to the room’s safe, opened it, and pulled out an alien-looking weapon, clearly a firearm of some sort. It was largely composed of a silver cylinder with multiple tubes coming out of it. Spall had used one just like it in his last moments on Earth.
The agent sat down and polished the gun, just breathing in and out. He watched another screen, the one showing a handful of confirmed Venatori members walking through the front doors of one of the international terminals at Lyon–Saint Exupéry Airport, just east of the city. He saw a relatively young woman from Scotland and a couple others native to other parts of Europe.
He chuckled, although it was a grim, mirthless sound.
“If that is what they want,” he remarked, patting the weapon, “then it’s what they’ll get.”
Chapter Three
Bailey and Roland had sat together by Marcus’ fire, which never seemed to burn out, until both felt rested and refreshed. Time in the Other did not pass like time on Earth, and the needs of the body were also altered. They never seemed to need food or water or sleep, nor did they need to urinate or defecate. Simply waiting long enough relieved most of their exhaustion.
“Okay,” Roland said at length. “I think that’s long enough. Let’s get up and wander around. Maybe, if we’re especially lucky, we’ll bump into good old Marcus before some other group of assholes randomly pops in to challenge us to yet another fight.”
Bailey chortled at that. “Sounds good to me. I dunno who else would be after us, though. Those asshole Weres who were doing all the kidnapping have mostly been taken out, and I doubt they’d have the ability to come into this place. And we beat the Venatori badly enough that I think it’ll be a while before they try anything else.”
The wizard rubbed his eyes. “I hope you’re right, Bailey. I really do.”
They stood up, stretched, and yawned, almost as though rising from slumber. Bailey used magic to lift a gallon or so of water from the nearby lake and dump it on the fire to extinguish it, then she kicked apart the coals for good measure.
“Only you,” Roland said, “can prevent forest fires. Good job.”
“Shut up,” she responded. “If the damn thicket went up in flames, I’d have to dump the entire lake onto it, and I don’t feel like doing that right now.”
The wizard considered that and nodded, pursing his lips to acknowledge she had a point there.
Not sure where to go, they wandered down a vague path through the woods located about halfway between where each of them had been training.
Bailey was fairly confident they weren’t far from the Pool of Dark Reflections, where much of their “inner” instruction had taken place. In fact, she suspected that was where Roland had been, although she didn’t bother to ask.
Around them, the trees closed in, growing denser as they moved deeper into the forest. Beneath their feet, muddy but solid earth gave way to spongy peat that retained water-filled footprints as they passed. Black shadows pooled between the trunks around them, and Bailey thought she saw movement.
Probably more wraiths, like the ones Roland had joked about summoning. The pair’s abilities were advanced enough that they could fight the creatures off without too much difficulty, but they’d rather not. They kept walking at a brisk pace, trying not to show fear or pay much attention since the eerie beings were drawn to magic and seemed to somehow feed on human emotions.
A couple of the wraiths—indistinct humanoids, looking as though they were made of darkness given material form—started to drift out from between the roots and brambles just ahead of them.
Barely slowing her pace, Bailey swiped a hand at the phantasmal creatures, engulfing them in a flashing sheet of yellow fire. Howling in awful hollow voices, they stumbled back, half-melted by the heat and light.
No more of the things bothered them.
As they emerged from the trees onto an open, boggy plain, something happened that neither of them would have expected.
A portal opened, one that was completely different from the magical gateways they’d seen before. Those were like doorways of glowing amethyst-colored water, subtle and mysterious.
This one was at least the size of the door of a good-sized garage, and it seemed like it was somehow thrown open from within on hinges of blinding sunlight, disclosing a shining expanse in which a single silhouette stood.
“Whoa!” Roland excla
imed. “Who the hell is that? Don’t tell me it’s another—”
The figure stepped through into the Other, and its footfalls were like the ringing of giant golden bells. The light behind the portal was so bright that it made the visitor’s features impossible to distinguish at first. Once the door closed, the glare dimmed, and slowly the werewitch and the wizard were able to make out the personage before them.
It was a man, or a being shaped like a man. He stood at least seven feet tall, and his lean, muscular body was so perfectly proportioned that it almost reminded Bailey of an illustration advertising a fitness program. His beauteous, symmetrical face looked like it had been carved from crystal, and incredibly saturated blue eyes sparkled above his high cheekbones. Hair the color of polished gold swept back from his brow to spill across his shoulders.
“Uh,” Bailey began, “hi.”
The man took another step forward, although this time the ringing-bell sound was less pronounced.
“Greetings,” he opened in a smooth voice about halfway between baritone and tenor that reminded the girl of a trumpet. His demeanor was not threatening, even though, as she now grasped, he was dressed for battle.
Namely, he wore a gold-hued suit of armor consisting of a sparkling chainmail tunic complemented by metal shoulder pauldrons, forearm bracers, and greaves. A long blue cloak flowed behind him. He also had a round shield on his back, and a single-handed sword with a short guard and a broad blade hung at his side in a scabbard of gilded leather.
Roland waved at the man, blinking, still stunned. “Greetings back. May we ask who you are?”
“I,” the man replied, a calm smile on his handsome visage, “am Baldur, Norse god of light, purity, and beauty, and son of the All-father Odin.”
The wizard exchanged a quick glance with Bailey. “Figures,” he whispered to her, then looked back at the newcomer. “Hello, Baldur. I am technically a servant of your aunt Freya.”
The deity nodded. “Yes, Roland, I know of you. And you too, Bailey. You are Fenris’ vassal.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I, uh, didn’t know who he was until recently. I thought he was just a werewolf shaman. Well, I guess he still is. It’s like he’s the shaman-of-shamans. He’s teaching Roland and me how to use our powers more responsibly.”
Putting it that way, she figured, would make it sound more pleasing to the god. Phrasing along the lines of “helping us grow our powers” might come across as threatening. And right now, she didn’t feel like having a being of Baldur’s power regarding her as a potential enemy. The Venatori had given her enough trouble, and they were just mortals, albeit highly dangerous ones.
“Oh,” Baldur stated. His demeanor was oddly bemused—almost simple or innocent—yet the whole encounter seemed pregnant with subtle threats. “I had wondered why he was interested in you. That is why I have come—to find out your reasons for training under him and to test your worth. Anyone who draws the eyes of the Aesir and Vanir must prove their mettle.”
Roland let out a long sigh. “Oh, crap.”
“Hold on,” Bailey interjected. “Freya and Fenris have both tested us. It’s not like we are infringing on your business, is it?”
Baldur seemed not to hear her words. He spoke again, still in a gentle, distant way, but now there was a colder, harder edge to his voice. “All the kin of Odin have our reasons. To command the attention of one of us is to spark the interest of the entire Norse pantheon. And perhaps some other entities, but they are beyond our purview. And here you are, a witch and a wolf. That makes you the children of my kin Freya, patron of witchcraft and Fenris, lord of wolves.”
The girl put her hands on her hips. “What kind of ‘test’ do you have in mind?”
Roland winced. “Don’t encourage him, Bailey.”
Ignoring the wizard, the god said, “Trial by combat, of course. Let us see how you fare against my father’s host of fallen heroes.”
Roland slapped a hand over his eyes, tilting back his head and groaning.
Baldur snapped his fingers and the holy spirits of the courageous dead appeared around them, summoned from Valhalla. Their forms coalesced out of the wisps of fog, translucent men clad in Dark Age armor, although some were clad only in hide pants or loincloths, and a few wore more modern accoutrements.
All had weapons, and they raised them, letting out war cries that collectively sounded like the howling wind of a gale.
Bailey fell into a fighting stance instantly out of habit. “All right, then,” she growled.
Their foes, being ghosts, couldn’t be confronted using physical force. Bailey first tried raising a magical shield on both her and Roland’s flanks. Transparent sheets of reddish light appeared, and the apparitions, on coming into contact with them, were slowed as though trying to wade through molasses.
That gave Roland enough time to launch an attack.
“Haaaaaa!” He spread his fingers, and multiple bolts of lightning raged toward the new wraiths. They were not huge and powerful, but threatening enough, and the warrior spirits who took them full in the face were frozen in place, crackling with static, before winking out of sight. Returned, perhaps, to the sacred dimension from which they’d been called.
Bailey figured Viking ghosts couldn’t be too much different from either the shadow wraiths or the mist demons they’d fought before, both of which were susceptible to fire. She conjured a giant blaze and then sent it rolling toward where her adversaries were thickest, watching with satisfaction as it left only wisps of smoke.
Still, Baldur’s army was enormous. The pair fought well, but the numbers they faced never seemed to dwindle.
“Hey!” Roland shouted, “Didn’t I just vaporize that asshole a minute ago?”
Bailey was busy pushing back a crowd of berserkers with a wave of concussive force and had no time to examine the asshole in question.
“Shit,” the wizard went on. “I did! Goddammit. I just remembered…”
Bailey cringed inwardly. Uh-oh. Kinda doubt this is going to be good news, she thought.
Roland’s voice remained audible even over the racket of combat, so he might have been amplifying its volume via a spell. “Those who are taken into Odin’s hall are blessed by being able to fight endlessly, resurrected each time they’re killed. That means that when we toast these guys, they’re just popping back to Valhalla. At that point, our shiny friend up there,” he gestured toward Baldur, “can summon them right back here.”
Bailey suddenly felt cold. For a second, her next attack, a lightning bolt that dissipated the ax-wielding revenant in front of her, almost faltered.
If what the wizard said was true, the battle was unwinnable—not that she intended to go out without a damn good fight.
“Give ‘em hell!” she screamed. “We’ll make them sick of jumping back and forth till they stage a fuckin’ mutiny!”
Roland trapped a few warriors inside a dome of green plasma. “I don’t think it works that way, babe.”
Bailey watched him for a second. The ghosts he’d just ensorcelled couldn’t move and seemed reluctant to just plow into the deadly energy around them. That gave her an idea.
“Well, they can’t get cycled back if they’re still here,” she pointed out.
She summoned air to surge toward the raging host, air from which she’d sucked every iota of heat. The freezing wind washed over them and frost formed around their ectoplasmic bodies, which soon stopped fighting, encased as they were in ice.
“Hah!”
Roland saw what she’d done. “Good idea.” He turned toward a column of Vikings advancing toward him with swords and shields and conjured a torrential downpour of liquid nitrogen. The effects were the same as Bailey’s freezing wind.
Then, a few of the phantasms emerged from their icy coffins. They moved slowly but were undeterred, much as they’d gradually pushed through the arcane shields moments ago.
“Damn,” Bailey panted, cursing her overconfidence. Their foes didn’t have material bodies,
so they couldn’t be converted into immobile solids.
Baldur flourished his arms and even more ghosts appeared around them, as though he’d emptied half of Valhalla to swell the ranks of the undead legion.
There was no way Bailey and Roland could win, and they knew it. It was a battle of attrition they were doomed to lose.
Grimly, trying not to succumb to despair, they backed away, slowing the specters with ice or arcane essence or vaporizing them with fire or lightning.
Soon they had a cluster of trees at their backs, so densely grown that they formed a veritable wall. It might stop, or at least slow, any attempt by the specters to attack them from the rear, but it also meant they were trapped.
Bailey thought of something. “He said he wanted to test us, not kill us.”
Roland formed a long sword out of green plasma and swung it at two fighters in front of him, cleaving them in half and reducing their temporary bodies to steam.
“Given how Valhalla seems to operate,” he responded, bitter sarcasm in his voice, “it could be that this is Baldur’s way of inducting us. In other words, the whole idea is for us to die in combat. Get it?”
She did. Before her, the host of the risen slain swelled like an oncoming tidal wave.
Moments later, still fighting no matter how hopeless, both the wizard and the werewitch found themselves depleted and surrounded. Any move they made would invite the stroke of some arcane weapon, which they somehow knew would be just as deadly as a real one.
But no such blow came. The dead heroes stopped, poised to kill but seeming to wait for something.
Baldur raised a hand over his head. “Halt,” he called, his voice echoing across the bogs like an entire marching band’s worth of golden trumpets.
Bailey and Roland stood heaving, eyes wide and hair wild and stringy, trying to gear themselves down from the mad rush of combat. The warrior spirits, having neglected to press the attack, now fell back, their swords and spears and axes resting on the damp ground.
