by Renée Jaggér
Dante spoke up. “It’s the same with witches who want the Venatori stopped.” He sounded excited. “Part of the reason some of them don’t want to get involved is because of the risk of reprisals against their families. But if the Venatori have practically all their available members fighting the main battle against Bailey, it would be easier to persuade them to join in.”
Everyone concurred.
“Okay,” Velasquez said, “but how do we make this brilliant plan happen?”
Fenris slowly raised his arms, and something in his eyes kept the others quiet as his thoughts seemed to coalesce. “Bait,” he proclaimed. “Bailey, obviously, is the target they most want, and we have done much to draw them toward her. But it would help if I joined in the process.”
“Uh,” Roland pointed out, “didn’t you say before that you weren’t allowed to–”
The deity cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “Not openly, as Fenris. I shall pose as Bailey’s right-hand shaman, her aide-de-camp and public face. I need only change my appearance, which is not difficult. And if I then proceed to make a great deal of magical noise, Aradia will notice.”
Dante stiffened at the mention of the witch-goddess. The magnitude of the situation was dawning on him.
Fenris went on. “It may prove too tempting a prospect for Aradia to pass up. True, deities are not supposed to intervene in mortal conflicts, but she is already pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable. If our luck holds, she might slip into the Other since it’s not considered part of the mortal world and attempt to quietly dispose of both Bailey and me together.”
Velasquez’s mouth twisted downward. “I hate to be the guy who asks the questions no one wants to hear, but what if she succeeds?”
“There’s always a risk of that.” The tall man shrugged. “But it would also be our opportunity to eliminate a dangerous rival god without enraging the rest of the divine pantheons. Not to mention wiping out the Venatori’s military capabilities for two generations, leaving them broken and demoralized. Their leaders would lick their wounds and take time to contemplate the unwisdom of declaring war on my people.”
Heavy silence settled over the dim alley.
Roland broke it with a clap of his hands. “Great! I love this idea. It’s not like anyone has a better one. Let’s fucking do this. But first, I could use a trip to the bathroom if that’s okay.”
Bailey pounced, a wedge-shaped arcane shield before her like the head of a battering ram. It divided and dispersed the blast of magical fire the grimacing witch before her threw toward her face.
Then the shield struck the woman, driving her into a tree, and Bailey dismissed it to leave the space before her jaws opened. She clamped them around the witch’s throat and ripped it clear of the neckbone. A scream died in the ravaged windpipe, and the sorceress slumped to the earth.
The girl bounded up and took in the rest of the scene. Her wolves were winning, but one had been struck down with a plasma blade through the head, and others were taking light to moderate wounds. This time, the twelve witches had stuck together, and with the Weres’ numbers reduced, they could not steamroll their opponents with the same ease as they had before.
Her heart briefly ached for the wolf who’d died. I am all of you, she thought, and that reminded her of the tactic she’d used against Madame Pataky in Greenhearth.
Leaping back into the fray, she jumped with magically-augmented speed, cloaked herself with invisibility so she winked in and out of sight, and never stayed in the same place for more than a split second. It created the illusion of an extra five or six werewolves joining the battle, and the witches’ eyes flashed around madly, trying to take account of what was happening. Their morale was cracking, and the Weres swarmed over them.
Bailey shifted back into human form and caught one of the Venatori who tried to flee, tossing her into the air and then spearing her with a conjured icicle that pinned her to a thick silver trunk. The ice melted a moment later, and the corpse toppled back to the ground.
The noise ended and lungs heaved, desperate to refill themselves.
With the last of their enemies having fallen, Bailey shouted for her people to regroup and to bring the cadavers of the witches with them.
“Drag them this way,” she instructed, “into the clearing between those two runestones. And don’t mess them up any more than it took to kill them. We’re gonna send a message, and being respectful with the bodies will send it all the clearer.”
She supposed it was also her way of salving her conscience. She’d given into intense bloodlust during the engagement, eager to fight and kill, and a pang of guilt sounded somewhere beneath the surface sounds of her thoughts.
There were a few low growls at her command, and slight resentment simmered among the wolves. They all knew these women were trying to destroy them and Bailey most of all, yet they obeyed their shaman. Those who’d shifted back into human form carried the dead sorceresses over their shoulders. Those who were still in the shapes of beasts dragged them with their jaws over the grassy earth.
With the task done, one of the alphas turned to Bailey. “What do we do with them? Leave them here?”
The werewitch put her hands on her hips and looked at the grisly pile. “We’ll bury them. I know it’s our holy ground, but maybe that means that their spirits will mingle with the Were spirits around here and come to an understanding. But before we do that, everyone back off from this glade for a minute. I have an idea.”
The wolves receded into the woods. Bailey stood in the middle of the laid-out corpses and recalled a spell Fenris had taught her perhaps a month ago. She’d had no cause to remember it until now.
It involved fixing a picture of a certain area in one’s mind, then being aware of all the details and solidifying them into something like a magical snapshot. The image could then be sent to other people who were tapped into the arcane.
In this case, the Venatori leadership. Especially Aradia.
Bailey did the necessary mental work, checking the details around her, making the image as accurate as possible, and placing herself at its center, looking straight ahead with an expression of relaxed defiance.
The witch-goddess would see it, she knew, as she sent it toward the city of Lyon, France. The Order’s ruling members would know that Bailey was right here, out in the open, standing before the bodies of twenty-four of their best, vanquished in their attempt to crush her.
And they would come.
Chapter Eight
Four men walked out of an alley and down the streets of Seattle. They moved with swift purpose but not to the point of outright haste. The tallest of them, who wore a bulky hooded coat despite the warmer weather, was the first to speak, although his words were drowned out by the noise of the city from more than a few feet away.
“I have surveyed the magical presences at work both in this region of our own world,” he informed the group, “and in the Other. The Venatori are on the move, but it will be some time yet before the bulk of their forces are able to converge on Bailey. And they seem to be hesitating to strike at well-defended wolf packs.”
Roland sighed with relief. “Finally, good news.”
“As such,” Fenris went on, “we should have time to implement our plans and refresh ourselves for the trials to come.”
Agent Velasquez made a sharp grunting sound. “Good. We should probably part ways soon. I have another idea that I think could be highly effective.”
Roland pursed his lips. “Do tell.”
Velasquez turned his face toward Dante. “No offense, but I think you should get going. You’ve got other witches to recruit, don’t you? And I don’t know who the hell you are.”
Dante blinked, obviously offended.
Fenris put a hand on the agent’s shoulder. “He seems to be sincere. Still, Dante, it’s true that you’d best get to work. And the fewer people who hear about a plan, the less likely it is that our foes will learn about it.”
“Fine.” The youn
g wizard sighed. He waved goodbye and trudged off to the north, while the other three crossed the street to the west.
Once Dante was out of earshot, Velasquez resumed his spiel.
“As I was saying, I might be able to convince more of the Venatori to shuffle off into the Other after our girl. And I think they’d listen to me.”
Roland gave him a cock-eyed look as though he’d spouted total gibberish. “You mean you’re planning to, like, talk to them? Negotiate? Those are the people who went around from settlement to settlement, burning them down because they don’t think Weres should be allowed to have magic.”
“I know that,” Velasquez snapped. “Hear me out. The Agency has had multiple violent encounters with the Venatori, enough to say we’re officially at war with them. But sides fighting each other in a war do negotiate terms, especially when there’s a change in personnel.”
Roland suddenly felt a bit stupid, but he clamped down on his tongue to keep himself from saying anything and waited for the agent to continue.
“Every altercation we’ve had with them,” the man explained, “has ended with zero Venatori going back home. Not counting our double agent, of course. We either killed them all or took a handful of prisoners, all of whom we still have in custody. This means that they don’t know what we’re up to. Our facilities are well-protected against scrying and infiltration, so if there’s reasonable cause to believe we’re making a gesture toward them, they might well believe it.”
Fenris rubbed his chin. “Yes, that makes sense. Go on.”
“With Agent Townsend, who was pretty much supervising the whole conflict, being out for a long time and me filling his shoes, they might be receptive to the notion that we’re adopting a change in policy. Therefore...”
Velasquez glanced around to ensure no one was too close or doing anything suspicious. There weren’t many people on the street, and most who passed by took one look at the trio and walked faster to get clear of them.
“Therefore, I’m going to contact the Venatori and tell them where Bailey is.”
Roland almost exploded with disbelief at that, but logical thought penetrated his emotions and kept him silent. The Venatori have to go after her for our plans to work, he reminded himself.
Fenris interjected, “They might suspect you’re luring them into a trap.”
“Maybe,” Velasquez admitted. “But they know the Agency’s prime directive is to keep things peaceful and quiet. Maintain the masquerade, you might say. That’s been impossible lately. There’s too much noise, violence, and chaos. I’ll tell them I plan to stay out of the way and let them eliminate Bailey and her allies, provided they withdraw immediately thereafter and don’t cause collateral damage. They’ll believe me when I say that the shifters have gotten too powerful and are out of control. That’s what they think anyway, so making it sound like I just want the dumb animals put back in their cages is playing into their presumptions and prejudices. We don’t want the Agency’s image tarnished. Witches blend in with the general population easier than Weres do. There’s no reason to think they won’t at least strongly consider the proposition.”
“Hmm,” Roland mumbled. “I don’t like it, but you might be on to something there.”
Velasquez adjusted his glasses. “No one likes the current situation. That’s why we’re trying to deal with it.”
“Fair enough.” Roland realized that Velasquez, who combined intelligence with a brusque demeanor, would probably do an excellent job of filling the void left by the unfortunate Townsend, at least in the short term.
Fenris gave a broad wave of his hand. “So be it, Agent. Implement your plan. It might contribute to their growing hubris and increase the likelihood that Aradia will get involved. But for the moment, we have a little extra time. I suggest we catch an hour’s rest and perhaps a meal. It’s difficult to say when we’ll get another chance.”
The two mortals readily agreed, although Velasquez seemed itchy to get to work. All three of them filed into the nearest greasy spoon, where they ordered strong coffee and Roland debated whether or not to get food.
“Dante and I just ate, like, an hour or two ago,” he observed, “but as the big guy said, who knows what the future will bring? Might as well stock up on calories. I’m thinking nice, fattening comfort food, like mac n’ cheese or a very large burrito.”
“Knock yourself out,” said Velasquez, “but not literally. Eating too much junk makes a person sluggish and inattentive. We don’t want that.”
The wizard frowned. “Okay, fine. I’ll have, uh, chicken noodle soup then.”
They drank their coffee and ate their early dinners. Fenris partook of the food, although he seemed somewhat ill at ease with it. Roland again found himself wondering if the humanoid deity took his regular meals in beast-form after hunting it himself in the woods.
The conversation turned to Bailey.
“She,” Fenris stated, “is my biggest project in a long, long time. I have been waiting for many decades, if not centuries, for a werewolf of her caliber. She may be the leader our people have needed all this time, and she is the key to ensuring that our future is safeguarded.”
Roland slurped his soup. “She’s certainly a handful in more ways than one, and mostly good ways. It does seem like our lives completely revolve around her at any given millisecond, though. Most Weres, most women, most people can affect the course of events if they try, or not if they don’t. With her, every movement she makes sends ripples across the proverbial pond.”
Velasquez chuckled into his coffee cup, and his expression formed a sardonic grimace that was obvious despite the dark glasses covering part of his face.
“Townsend used to say that she was, uh, ‘the Fifth Horseman of the Paperwork Apocalypse’ or something like that. A walking shitstorm of fuckery he’d have to deal with.”
“Well,” Roland remarked, “that was nice of him.” He frowned. “Still, it’s too bad that he won’t see the end of the conflict. He did a lot to help us, and now we—and Bailey—are going to win this war for him. If anyone can, it’s her. With our help.”
The agent nodded. “For all the disasters she causes, she’s been even more of a disaster to the Venatori. Let’s hope that trend continues.”
“Oh,” Fenris added, “I believe it will.”
Former Grandmistress Gregorovia, together with Madame Dorleac and the other available members of the senior council, hustled into the ritual hall. Their goddess had called the meeting suddenly, and it was clear she expected no delay. There had been no time to make a formal and leisurely occasion of it.
The witches pushed through the doors and made for the throne before the altar at the rear, where Aradia sat. She was still and silent, yet powerful vibes of anger and prideful determination emanated off her earthly form like radiation from a warhead.
Gregorovia stopped before the throne, still standing, and caught her breath. “O great goddess,” she inquired, “what do you desire of us?”
A gold-bedecked hand lifted into the air. “Look,” Aradia commanded, her voice deceptive in its softness.
In the air before them, an image winked into sight. Like a hologram or strange airborne photograph, it showed Bailey Nordin standing over the corpses of Venatori operatives. Two dozen of them, including several prominent and talented witches, up-and-comers who’d been eager to hunt the werewitch down and blot her out at last.
“No!” Gregorovia cried. “How has she done this? Is she being aided by her god, as has been rumored? What tricks has she used to lay low so many of our brethren?”
Similar wrathful comments came from the other councilwomen, and their rage was genuine. They looked forward to the day Bailey’s carcass would lie at their feet, yet they all made sure to display their antipathy as obviously as possible, so Aradia would see it and suspect no hesitancy or disloyalty on their part.
The goddess dismissed the image and looked at her followers. Her eyes blazed with fire.
“This,” she hissed
, the sound reverberating through the hall, “is your last chance to deal with the werewitch using your own limited powers. You may hold nothing further back.”
The former Grandmistress swallowed, wondering if the goddess meant that even they should go after her.
“Aradia,” she asked, “tell us how–”
“Your personal guards,” the deity explained. “Your elite troops. The witches you have hoarded around your persons for the protection of your miserable lives. Are they not the best of your warriors? Send them. Send them at once! The woman you put in charge of the defense of this building and your Inquisitors. If they cannot destroy the girl, then our Order has failed, and truly extreme measures will be required.”
Gregorovia swallowed and reflected on what her goddess had just demanded.
The Inquisitors were the cream of the crop, the last word in witchcraft. Taken as young children from among the most powerful casters of their generations, the Order groomed them as its ultimate enforcers. Indoctrinated from an impressionable age in the Venatori’s ideology. Purged of pity and doubt. Taught all the ways of magic, of combat, of torture and interrogation, of spycraft—everything.
They served the senior council as a last line of defense and were also responsible for hunting down rogues and defectors from within the Order, not to mention unaffiliated witches who grossly offended their ideals. More than anyone else, the Inquisitors were the ones who gave the Venatori such a fearsome reputation in America and elsewhere.
Aradia had also insisted on sending Madame MacLachlan. She’d previously been a member of the senior council—the youngest in many decades, owing to her prodigious talent in battle—but Gregorovia had been forced to demote her to house guard after her failure to take Greenhearth.
