by Renée Jaggér
“For fuck’s sake,” Townsend growled. “We know where they’re going. Can’t they just get there?”
Spall breathed out and slowly shook his head. “The goddamn sun’s going to be up before these chicks find their way into that goddamn valley. I’m not even positive they’re still in the same order. The Venatori might have gotten ahead of the Seattle stalkers by now. Christ!”
There had been detours and wrong turns. It was impossible for the agents to determine if it was the result of the witches screwing up and getting lost or some kind of bizarre cat and mouse game to throw the other group off.
They were reasonably confident, though, that neither batch of sorceresses knew Townsend and Spall were trailing them.
Of course, part of the reason their pursuit had (probably) remained undetected was because the two agents had kept far, far behind the women’s vehicles. That made it harder to track them in a timely manner.
Townsend resumed his complaining as they turned onto another winding pseudo-highway that seemed to have been haphazardly slapped between hills and trees. This had all gone on much too long, and now the Venatori were in the mix?
“God. With all this increased activity, we’re going to be looking at an exponential increase in bullshit paperwork. We could have been in Greenhearth, waiting to ambush them instead of trying to ride their coattails if it hadn’t been for all the goddamn forms we had to fill out last week. Just imagine what next week is going to be like.”
“Why?” Spall snorted. He was half-focused on his mobile device as he sought to keep track of the witches’ movements. They were using some kind of magical cloaking that made the task more difficult, though not impossible. “Why should we torture ourselves by imagining something like that? Let’s not bother thinking about it until it comes. Which, of course, it will.”
“Yes.” Townsend sighed. “Unless we finally get some other sort of supernatural activity in the form of say, divine fucking intervention. Like, another trade war with China magically starts, and the cost of paper goes through the roof, so the office decides it no longer has the budget for paper, and of course, their computer systems will be backed up or will crash the instant they get two percent more traffic than usual. Thus, lo and behold, we don’t have to fill out the fucking forms.”
Spall grunted. “Not likely, but we can dream. This Bailey girl has had a shitstorm of bad luck. Every time she adjusts her position in her seat, scratches her head, or sneezes, fifty people end up in jail or the hospital. Then the paperwork angels of wrath and destruction descend from on high. It never fails. Remember I said something about taking a vacation? It’s still a very good idea. Maybe we could leave before this all blows up.”
His partner piloted the car up a slope that wound around the edge of some river whose name he didn’t know, nor did he care.
“Vacation’s not gonna happen. Let it go. And that was an accurate summation. Good job there,” he remarked, his voice deadpan. “Perhaps we’re bouncing off the bottom in terms of luck. Maybe one of these stupid ruckuses will accidentally knock a plane out of the sky. The plane would be carrying a shipment of paper, which would ideally then plummet straight into the caldera of one of these volcanoes, which would reactivate just long enough for the lava to consume every last particle of office supplies.”
Spall sighed, allowing himself the fantasy of such a wondrous thing happening. “That would be almost as good as a vacation—the office apocalypse. Yes. More likely, though, knocking a plane out of the sky would mean all the fucking paper rained down on us, and it would be our duty to collect every single piece by hand and then keep having to write the exact same goddamn information on every one.”
“Of course,” Townsend agreed. “You’d think that with our budget, they could switch to e-forms that autofill all the mundane crap, for God’s sake.”
The other agent was quiet for a minute as he concentrated on his device. “Looks like the first vehicle—our three runaways—is almost to Greenhearth. That is definitely where they’re going. They probably think they can deflect suspicion by saying they were just taking a shortcut back to Interstate 5 on the western side of the Cascades.”
Townsend burst out laughing. “Shortcut!” He snorted. “We have firsthand experience with how untrue that is. Anyway, if the three stalker sluts are going to the town, it’s safe to assume the Venatori ballbusters are as well. The more witches who end up in that little craphole, the worse it gets. Especially for us.”
Grimacing sadly, Spall concurred. “Yes. This is going to be seriously bad.”
Townsend sighed and drove on into the night.
It was dark in the woods when they stepped out of the Other and back into Oregon.
“Marcus,” Bailey inquired, “how long were we gone? Time seemed distorted in there.”
The shaman was unfazed by the question. “About half the night, a few hours. In a way, time passes in the Other no differently than it does here. It’s just that it doesn’t mean anything in that place. There’s no frame of reference for it.”
She didn’t understand what he meant by that, but Roland nodded vaguely, so she decided to let it go. The important thing was that they’d accomplished what they set out to do and hadn’t lost too much Earth-time while they were at it.
“Okay,” she replied. “I’m just glad we weren’t in there for a year or something. My dad would kill me.”
Roland sighed. “The Other would be a convenient place to hide from Shannon, though, wouldn’t it? I bet she doesn’t even know the place exists. It doesn’t have clothing stores, after all, so there’s no need for her to pay attention to it.”
“Shut up, Roland.” Bailey kneed him in the side, though not too hard. He pretended to cringe in pain, but by now she knew when he was faking it.
Ignoring their little exchange, Marcus turned to face them, dismissing the portal from existence with a wave of his hand before he spoke.
“You two,” he began, “will need rest and downtime before you venture back into that place. Rest from dealing with the Other, specifically. There can be no rest from your training in this world if you want to develop at the speed the situation requires.”
Bailey frowned but didn’t argue. She and Roland had been the ones to suggest they increase the tempo of their learning regimen, after all.
Marcus gestured to the girl. “You, in particular, Bailey. Roland likely has some new knowledge and difficult adjustments to make, but this is a whole new mode of existence for you. Our minds can only adapt to so much new material at once.”
“Correct,” said Roland. “In fact, I’d say we should get some sleep as soon as reasonably possible. We need time to process all we’ve learned. In the morning, we can—”
The shaman cut him off. “Not just yet. First, a quick review.”
He was about to protest, but Bailey put a hand on his arm. She looked at Marcus. “Okay. Review, how?”
“First,” the craggy man explained, “I will tell you what was truly happening in there, so you understand just what it was you did. Then we’ll try to do it again. Here.”
The girl folded her arms, and the wizard leaned against a tree.
Marcus spread his hands. “The Other naturally suppresses magic, or rather, it dissipates it. The place is thoroughly magical, so it absorbs the arcane, like trying to fire a squirt gun underwater.”
“Good analogy,” Roland complimented him.
The shaman went on, “You two were, in fact, using huge amounts of magic. It required more to have any effect whatsoever. But once you acclimated to the conditions there, you were able to make that tremendous effort without overthinking it. To use another analogy, it was like going through physical training with an oxygen deprivation mask on your face and heavy gear strapped to your body. You learn to use air more efficiently, and after the equipment is removed, you re-master the art of breathing without much trouble.”
Now, Bailey thought, it was starting to make sense. She’d somehow assumed the Other would
be a place where magic was augmented, but the reverse was true. Back here, magic was more potent via the power of contrast.
Then she furrowed her brow. “Wait, before you told me magic was a normal part of reality, not separate from it. How does that explain the Other being ‘made of magic’ or whatever?”
The shaman had to pause for a second. “What is found in the Other,” he said at length, “is not fundamentally different from the material from which our world is made. But the proportions and concentrations are different, and it is located in a corner of the universe that is not subject to what we call space-time. That’s the best answer I can give you.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugged. She could tell Roland wanted to discuss the subject more, but he shut up while Marcus finished his spiel.
“So,” the shaman declared, “your arcane muscles are now stronger, so to speak—but beware the dangers of not knowing your own strength. Try to use as little raw power as you can, and focus instead on control and duration.”
Roland spread his hands. “Okay. Use it to what, though? I get the impression you’re building up to having us demonstrate our newfound skills.”
Marcus smiled. “Destroy me if you can,” he stated. “Using only the bare minimum. Don’t level the hills and trees around us. I’ve taken a liking to this landscape, and repairing it will take a while for an old man who’s a long way from home.”
Bailey shot him a wry though sympathetic look. “You’re not that old, Marcus. It’s not like you have to apologize to us just because you’re not young and hip or something. Just try not to talk about music, and we should all be fine.”
He gave a low chortle, and it occurred to her that she didn’t know his age. He was certainly over forty, but she doubted he was any more than fifty-five. Gunney and her father were probably older.
“No,” said the shaman. “The music you listen to is terrible. Now try to kill me.”
Roland flexed his hands and assumed his persona of being too cool to be anything but bored with the situation. “Well, if you insist.”
Bailey just grinned and raised her fists.
“The hell?” Spall exclaimed as some alert beeped madly on his device.
Townsend glanced briefly at him. The road was too winding and erratic to risk taking his eyes off it for long. “What?”
His partner examined the screen for a few seconds. “Oh, crap. Real-time map of everyone’s favorite single-stoplight Nowheresville in rural Oregon. There are a bunch of goddamn flares going off in the woods just outside town, or something like that. So, you know, probably a bunch of magic.”
The driver’s teeth clenched almost without his knowledge or permission. “That’s System B-5, right?”
“Yeah,” Spall mumbled.
“Then it is magic. You should know that. That system tracks the electromagnetic discharges created by arcane disturbances. Anytime someone is throwing down with a bunch of curses, fireballs, attempts at enchanting a lottery ticket or a dating app profile, or trying to raise the dead, it makes a nice flare.”
Spall made a sour face. “Whoops. I forgot,” he retorted in a monotone. Then he grew a bit more lively. “But if that’s true, we are well into ‘metric fuck-ton’ territory in terms of the amount of magic being thrown around in Podunk there. It looks like the goddamn Fourth of July.”
Townsend raised his eyebrows. “Metric fuck-ton, you say? That much?”
To Spall’s surprise, his partner grabbed the device with his right hand and pressed the button on the side until the screen went dark.
“What,” Spall hissed, “do you think you’re doing?”
Townsend assumed an innocent expression. “I don’t see a metric fuck-ton. Now I see no magic.”
Spall slumped and rolled his head back, gazing toward the heavens. “For heaven’s sake, Townsend. Just because you turned the screen off doesn’t mean it isn’t still there. That Bailey girl is probably burning down half the town and two-thirds of the forest as we speak.”
“Nonsense,” Townsend shot back. “Look at this dark, empty, peaceful road right here. We’re not far from Greenhearth now, and I don’t see a damn thing. Nothing happening that most people can perceive or would care about, which is our exact mission statement: ensure that no one knows anything weird happened. Because if weird things happen, there is paperwork.”
Spall said nothing. He didn’t compliment his partner for his brilliant thinking, but he didn’t turn the screen back on, either.
“Good,” Marcus said, jumping to the top of a tree to avoid the blast of electrified ore Bailey threw at him. “You got the metal out of the earth without having to strip-mine the hillside and charged it without having to summon a lightning bolt.”
Bailey figured she ought to get used to combining elements instead of relying on lightning all the time.
Roland, meanwhile, was using one hand to weave a latticework of magical shield material around Marcus’s position. It was almost like a net, but without the obvious pyrotechnics of a simple dome. With the other hand, he unleashed a thin and concentrated but powerful stream of water.
The shaman, from his perch in the tree, held up one hand as if casually deflecting a wadded-up piece of paper, and Roland’s aquatic attack dispersed against his palm as if it were nothing.
“Yes!” Marcus complimented him. “Excellent technique.” He then glanced around and made a curt slicing motion with his hand. An entire section of the lattice of pale green energy collapsed and the shaman jumped through it, momentarily disappearing into another part of the forest.
Roland and Bailey exchanged glances.
“He’s good,” the werewitch observed.
Roland looked irritated. “Smarmy, though. Is he being sincere with his compliments, or is this whole thing just an excuse for him to show off?”
Bailey used her Were senses to determine where Marcus had bounded off to. “I don’t think so. He probably can’t help being as powerful as he is, and legit wants us to know we’re making progress.”
The wizard bit off whatever he was about to say and followed Bailey as she dashed between the trees.
They found Marcus standing near the crest of a ridge, between two huge pines. He said nothing and stared at them, waiting.
“Okay,” Bailey whispered to her partner, “let’s see if we can, I don’t know, hit him from all sides at once with everything we can think of, but without making too much of a mess.”
“Easier said than done,” Roland opined, but then his hands shot out, and a veritable storm of energies and materials swirled around the tall shaman.
Bailey joined in, hurling a blast of lightning. She at first feared it was too large and powerful, but she quickly got it under control and split it into four arcing bolts that encircled Marcus, crackling even as Roland’s sphere of elemental chaos tightened around him.
“Good,” the shaman remarked again, his voice barely audible under the noise of the spells about to obliterate him. “Better than I was expecting.”
He shrugged and the magical storm exploded outwards, dissipating as it went, escaping the control of the pair below him.
“Shit!” Roland cursed as gravel, icy water, and flaming bits of sulfur and pitch rained down around him.
Bailey threw up her hands as what felt like a severe static shock locked her muscles, causing her to collapse in pain even though it was gone the instant it had started. Marcus had turned her lightning back on her in a weakened form.
The shaman jumped off the ridge and slowly floated down toward them.
“In all fairness,” he began as his feet touched the earth, “I did tell you to use minimal power. If you had pulled out all the stops, I would have had to work harder to defend myself. We wrought minimal damage to the forest here…” he paused to gesture toward a small burning patch of weeds, extinguishing the flames with a thought, “and you demonstrated fine control. Bailey, your improvement was especially noticeable. Against an average or sub-par magician, you would have easily been vi
ctorious.”
Roland brushed himself off. “I was already good against average casters,” he pointed out, “but thanks.”
Bailey, however, was overwhelmed with joy and satisfaction. Suddenly, the idea of mastering her powers no longer seemed impossible.
The shaman cleared his throat. “However, there is more work to be done. Bailey, again, you improved, but you weren’t perfect. That final lightning bolt was excessive, and you barely salvaged it into something controllable at the last second.”
She tried not to wince. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” Marcus told her, the tone of his gravelly voice neutral, “but there is a need to understand and grow past the mistake. Let’s break for the night. Go home, and say goodnight to your brothers for me if they’re still awake. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be even more trying than today has been.”
Bailey felt like today had been more than trying enough.
“Remember,” Marcus proclaimed, louder and more solemnly, “you have improved, but there’s more to be done. If we cannot get you where you need to be in short order, you will be killed by the mishandling of your own magic, by the witches who hate and fear you, or, it must be said, by the power of the Other. I would not send you there if I didn’t think you could handle it, but there are always dangers. You must learn to overcome them. It is literally do or die.”
Neither the werewitch nor the wizard knew how to respond to that, and the shaman laid a hand on each’s shoulder. Then he leaped off into the trees, vanishing amidst the forest’s shadows.
Roland turned to Bailey and in a low voice offered, “That almost sounds like ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t,’ doesn’t it?” Noticing the look on her face, he frowned sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m not in a good mood, I guess, and his ominous crap isn’t helping.”
“It’s okay,” she murmured, although she really wished he hadn’t said that. “I’ll forgive you some other time.”
