by Renée Jaggér
On the downside, that put them far across town from Doug. Roland could barely see the unfortunate lycanthrope hanging in midair over a side road leading into the hills to the west.
Roland figured he was the leader of the group if anyone was. He turned to address them.
“Okay, let’s head into that shop, being quiet and inconspicuous about it. The guy who runs the place is the one who asked me to come help, so it’s not like he’ll object, but we don’t want to make a lot of noise. We don’t know where the Venatori are yet.”
With that, he crept toward the rear office door. His seven companions followed. The repair bays were all closed. Gunney must have shuttered the shop once the Venatori rolled into town.
Roland knocked on the glass. Within was Gunney, who looked surprised and nervous for a second. He got over it once he recognized the wizard. The stubby old man cleared the floor in three long strides and pulled it open.
“Nice to see you, Roland,” he greeted him. “Too bad about the circumstances. Who are these folks?”
Roland quickly introduced them. “Seattle’s finest. A nice mixture of Weres and witches. All people who know what they’re doing in a fight, too.”
“Well, good,” the mechanic grumbled, flipping his cap off his greasy mop of hair before pulling it back down. “I worry that you might not have enough to take them all on at once, but that’s where the good news comes in. There’s only seven of them, and they’ve split into two groups to cover more of the town at speed, not counting the one who’s hanging around and beating up poor Doug. That means two groups of three. Each one consists of one of the black-suited ones and two in regular uniform. Not very many, but those ladies in black are freakishly powerful. Like nothing I’ve seen before.”
Murmurs of concern went around the group.
Roland spoke to everyone at once. “Trickery and the element of surprise have a way of neutralizing raw power,” he pointed out. “So we’ve got a chance. Gunney, what are they doing right now? And where are they?”
The mechanic explained that the witches were going door-to-door, demanding to know where Bailey’s family was. One group had started at the Nordin house, but the brothers must have vacated it or were simply somewhere else in the valley since the witches were still searching.
“They’ve been at it for a good hour,” Gunney explained. “Probably been through half the town. Either they’ll find the Nordin boys and do God-knows-what to them, or they’ll find nothing and then probably retaliate against the whole damn town. They wiped out the outer patrols in the west. Not sure what they did with the other guard-Weres or Sheriff Browne and his deputies, but it can’t be good. Trapped them in buildings at best, imprisoned with magic. At worst...”
His voice trailed off into silence.
Roland’s jaw muscles tightened. “We need to stop them before they finish their sweep. First thing is, we need to stick together. Eight of us versus three of them, freakishly strong or no, is decent odds, but against all six or seven at once, not so much.”
Everyone agreed to that. Then Dante chimed in with another idea.
“They’re from Europe, right?” he began. “They haven’t met any of us besides Roland and Bailey and maybe a few people in town if any of them are the same witches who attacked before. Those of us from Seattle are unknowns. It’s not like we were major players in the witchcraft sphere anyway.”
Gunney squinted. “So, you’re saying to sneak up on them?”
“No,” the young wizard clarified, “I’m saying go up and talk to them. We can pretend to be locals since they won’t know the difference. Say we’ve lived here alongside the Weres the whole time, and are getting sick of how lycanthropic problems are threatening everyone else, and we’ve decided to rat them out and be done with it.”
“Ah,” Roland murmured. “And lure them into a snare. Nice.”
Dante smiled. “Yeah, basically. Bring one of the two groups of three back here so we can jump them and halve their numbers before they have the chance to sound the alarm.”
Charlene interrupted. “Wait. What if they insist on gathering the other group before they come back?”
“Shit.” Dante hung his head.
Roland shook his head. “Unless anyone else has a brighter idea, I say we go with Dante’s. It’ll probably work if we can catch one of the groups when they’re close to the shop. They might get overexcited and not think of regrouping before they move in for the kill.”
Some of the faces before him looked hesitant, but no one objected or came up with anything else they could do instead.
Mr. Holmquist shrugged his broad shoulders. “Let’s do it. I’ll be out in front when we ambush them. I don’t want to go home until I’ve killed at least one of them. My boy never did a single damn thing to them. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
One of his late son’s friends put a hand on his arm, and Roland gave them a moment before he spurred them on. “Okay, good. We’re committed now. Quick huddle on the specifics, then we make it happen.”
Five minutes later, Dante led his trio of female volunteers out of the body shop after Gunney opened the central repair bay door. The Seattle witches tried to keep out of sight at first, but once on the main street, marched boldly down its center. The town was deathly quiet around them.
Roland watched them go. There was no telling how long they’d be gone, so he took the opportunity to get better acquainted with his new companions.
“It’s strange,” the wizard mused. “I grew up in Seattle, but I never interacted with Weres aside from once in a great while, and then it was only polite interaction at parties or businesses or whatever. But here I am living in a town full of shifters, and I know them better than I ever got to know you guys. Maybe we can make up for lost time.”
Mr. Holmquist was still tense from thinking about his son, but he grasped that Roland was trying to make conversation. “Yes, we always kept to ourselves as well. Too many misunderstandings can turn up between different species, especially when both of us have to pretend to be human half the time. That’s one thing we have in common.”
“No shit,” Jon added. “I always figured Weres and witches were on the opposite sides of humanity, though. Like, we’re off to their left toward the woods at night, and you guys are off to their right toward the crystal spires and civilized intellectual stuff.”
Roland’s eyes went distant as he contemplated the analogy. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. I think it’s more complicated than that, but not bad.”
Trevor added his two cents. “Well, this whole mess is teaching me that we’ve got more in common than different. I think.”
Gunney asked them, “You guys want something to eat or drink? There’s stuff in the shop fridge over there in the corner. That’s one thing we all got in common, for sure.”
Roland had eaten two meals within two hours previously, so he declined, but the three wolves raided the fridge, coming back with a nice deli tray and bottles of soda. The wizard noted with relief that they’d all gone for cola or lemon-lime, meaning there'd still be orange waiting for Bailey when she got back.
The mechanic weighed in as his guests tried to relax. “Shit,” he grumbled. “Normally I’m not one to worry too much—Lord knows I’ve advised Bailey to lighten up enough times—but I gotta confess, things are looking worse than ever. This shit today is downright scary. Last couple times the Venatori came here, there were big battles, which was bad enough in a way, but today? Nothing. What are they doing out there? Do they have so much magical talent that six of them can pacify the whole town while they probe through every goddamn house?”
His anxiety was contagious. Roland decided to cure it immediately.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “They’re probably being stealthy and careful, is all. The last two times were military invasions, after all. This is more like a black op. There are spells that will put people to sleep, hold them in place, make it impossible for them to scream, or use
a phone—stuff like that. But there’s no reason to believe that they’ve killed everyone who might resist them if that’s what you’re thinking. Now we’re going to be the ones ambushing them.”
Saying that, he felt better at once, and half the misgivings melted away from the three Weres, too.
Gunney shook his head. “I hope you’re right. You’re a smart kid, but I’d feel better if Bailey were here.”
“Me too,” Roland confessed. “She’s already dealt with stuff worse than this. But the reason she isn’t here is that she’s raising an army to deal with the problem at its source. All we have to do is get rid of half a dozen witches. We got this.”
Silence set in, but it was now less marred by nervousness.
Moments later, figures appeared at the mouth of the side road that led up from Main Street toward the shop. Glimpsing them through the front windows, Roland strained to see, hoping Jon’s and Trevor’s eyesight was better than his.
It appeared to be seven people total. If so, that meant Dante had succeeded thus far. He still had his three followers, and they’d pulled one of the Venatori trios away from the other. But he couldn’t make out their faces yet.
The wizard looked at the lycanthropes. “Can you guys see who it is?”
Jon sprang up. “It’s Dante, all right. And there are three women behind him in weird leather catsuits. One in black, two in kind of a reddish-brown or dark purple, I think.”
Roland nodded and took a deep breath. “That’s them. Everyone, get in position. Gunney, in your case, that means getting the hell out of the way and staying somewhere safe. Maybe behind the dumpster out back.”
The mechanic waffled. “Just behind the building for now, we’ll say. Good luck!”
Roland stood in the repair bay, not too obviously in plain sight but making no effort to hide, either. Mr. Holmquist stood nearby, and they pretended to talk. Jon and Trevor had taken up positions in the dark corners to either side.
Dante stormed toward the shop. “They’re here!” he cried, pointing. “That’s her boyfriend, and that guy is her dad! Hurry before they run away!”
The young wizard stepped off to the side, then, and his three female companions hung back, staying in the rear as the Venatori advanced.
Roland looked toward the lot and pretended to be frozen in shock. Holmquist threw up his arms in despairing rage. He probably had plenty of that particular emotion to draw upon for his act.
“Dante!” he roared. “How could you! We’ve been neighbors for twenty-five years, man. I trusted you!”
The Venatori came closer. Their sable-clad leader, a slim witch with short auburn hair, said, “Dante has done what he should have. He will be rewarded with a place among us where he belongs if he chooses, and some of our members may reward him in other ways, too. Nothing is too good for him who turns against the werewitch.”
To her sides, the assistant sorceresses smirked, and one flashed Dante a wicked eye-batting glance. The boy swallowed.
“And,” the Inquisitor added as she stepped over the threshold of the shop, “we have found the traitor wizard. Our work here will be done very soon.”
“Exactly right, bitch!” one of Dante’s recruits screamed. Then all hell broke loose.
Lightning and fire blazed through the air, shields crackled into existence and then dissipated, winds howled, and Weres shifted and pounced. Roland focused on trying to neutralize the Venatori’s magic, surrounding the Inquisitor with layers of shields and waves of psionic force. Anything to occupy her while the others picked off her assistants.
For all the black-clad leader’s power, the ambush had been too well-executed. Holmquist and Jon ripped the left-hand assistant to shreds while Dante, Charlene, and the others blasted the right-hand one with flame and then tossed her head-first into the metal door rack.
The Inquisitor’s eyes burned with hateful rage, but she kept her composure, and in the seconds that stretched across the battle, she began to inexorably quash Roland’s magical efforts. But she was surrounded, and after her henchwomen fell, five other casters and three Weres assailed her at once.
Jon and one of the Seattle girls toppled back with sudden burns on their limbs, and everyone reeled under the rising wind, but it wasn’t enough. Holmquist bit the woman’s leg, and Roland tossed a plasma lance through her face that came out the back of her skull before it dissolved in a wisp of smoke. She fell, landing on the pavement with a thud.
Quiet set in as Roland dashed over to check on the wounded. They’d taken nasty scorches and would at the very least need them bandaged and anesthetized, but they’d live. Still, he debated calling an ambulance.
Gunney came back in from the rear.
“God-fucking-dammit,” he cussed, smacking a rag against the wall. “How the hell am I supposed to clean this mess up? We’re lucky there wasn’t a customer’s car in the middle of all that blood. This place is set up to handle oil spills, gas leaks, and service fluids, not fuckin’ bodily fluids.”
Agent Velasquez cheered in his mind as the video call finally patched through, though he kept his face stony and imposing behind his black sunglasses. Behind him was only a black wall.
The picture flickered into clarity, showing a middle-aged woman frowning at him severely. The nondescript decor around her looked like something out of a normal, modern office building. Velasquez was disappointed. He’d hoped the witches would have addressed him from a decaying castle.
“Who are you?” she demanded in a French accent. “How were you able to contact us?”
“Aw,” Velasquez shot back, “it’s cute that you thought I couldn’t contact you. Well, I did. We have our ways. And even if you don’t know who I am, individually, I think you know who I’m speaking on behalf of.”
The witch’s frown deepened. “Yes. What do you want?”
“There’s something you ladies need to be aware of,” the agent stated. “Let me speak to whoever is in charge. The higher their rank, the better. It’s extremely important.”
The woman looked aside, presumably seeking feedback from another person who was out of visual range, then visibly snorted at the camera. “No. We have nothing to discuss with you.”
“Hold on,” Velasquez barked, his voice loud and sharp, and he raised a fist beside his face. “It’s about the growing shifter problem. You know that the Agency is responsible for keeping all supernatural beings in line in America. And lately, the biggest problem is the goddamn werewolves.”
The witch seemed to consider his words. Again she glanced to her right, and an unspoken message passed between her and whoever else was present. Over a minute went by, and Velasquez assumed that an entire conversation must have been occurring via psychic methods.
At last, the scowling woman turned her eyes back toward him. “You have fought us just as fiercely as the lycanthropes have, and suddenly, you are our friends? Hah!”
Velasquez pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger and sighed with what he hoped was exactly the right mixture of tiredness, exasperation, and cynical opportunism. “Yeah, sorry. I was too low-ranking to have any effect on the decision-making process until recently. After Townsend got injured, I took over his position until he gets back—if he ever does. Looks pretty bad for him. And now that I do have authority, I’m telling you that I intend to drop Townsend’s personal vendetta against the Order and focus on fulfilling our Agency’s primary mission. Keeping the peace.”
Once more, the silent conference between two or more witches. Then the one in front of the camera said, “We are listening. But do not assume we have forgotten your recent actions.”
“Right, right,” he drawled, trying to convey the sense that he’d been merely doing his job and was tired of it. “The Agency’s foremost concern is preventing conflicts between paranormal entities from affecting the outside world of normal humans. That has become impossible, and a major part of that is the growing power and militancy of werewolves, see? Bailey and her closest followers can no longer be con
trolled, and we want something done about that. We don’t want an all-out war, so it has to be done quietly. But the Agency is willing to turn a blind eye to any actions taken against the Nordin girl at this point.”
The witch’s face scrunched with annoyance. “What do you think we are trying to do?”
Velasquez let a sly smile creep across his face. “I can tell you exactly where she is,” he offered. “But only if you will let me speak to the leader of the Order. I want to deal with her directly.”
The woman turned and left the picture. There were a couple of minutes of silence interspersed with faint shuffling, then a handsome elderly woman with a deep burgundy hood drawn over her silver hair came into the picture.
“Good day,” she opened with a curious accent, possibly a blend of French and Italian. “I am Grandmistress Gregorovia, the head of the Order. My assistants have relayed all you said to them. Please tell me where we can find the girl, and we will agree to your terms.”
Velasquez inclined his head. “Good day back to you, Madame. With all due respect, though, I said the leader. We are aware that you’re no longer the one in direct control.”
The woman’s eyes flashed with indignation, but she calmed down quickly enough, then said, “So be it. But I am not responsible for how much you enjoy speaking to her. Wait, please.”
Well, Velasquez thought, this ought to be interesting. I get to meet my second deity in two days!
The screen went dark. The image crackled and shifted, like an old TV set that needed its antenna adjusted, and the device’s internal cooling fan went into overdrive. Velasquez hovered his hand over it, suddenly afraid the damn thing was going to overheat.
Then it ended and the picture returned, brightening by gradual measures back to normal lighting. In the center of the screen, surrounded by walls of ancient stone, was a tall, stunning woman with well-coiffed black hair and flowing robes of the same color, bedecked with golden finery. Her shining eyes seemed to stare through the screen, and Velasquez felt cold, nearly sick, from looking into them. For all that the figure was beautiful, she radiated an aura of watchful primordial menace.
