The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  “Yeah, yeah,” the girl shot back, then her face broke into a grin. “That’s what they all say.”

  Marcus just beckoned for her to follow him. They trudged down the hill and through a brambly, swampy patch of woods. Wraiths made of material darkness hovered in the shadows between the trees, watching them but hesitant to act. The creatures must have sensed the massive power of the two visitors and known they would fail to claim a victim if they attacked.

  Time did not pass in the Other as it did in the mortal world. Still, it seemed like only a few minutes had gone by when the pair reached the edge of a murky lake with mist hovering around its shores.

  Bailey sighed with relief. For a second, she’d worried it was the Pool of Dark Reflections, where she’d beheld two nightmare visions and seen four witches die. But it was another lake, just an ordinary body of water.

  To the extent that anything here was “ordinary.”

  She sat down on a raised bank of sand and silt the color of graphite, and Marcus piled up a mass of sticks and branches he gathered from the tangled forest. Then, with a couple of quick motions, he coaxed a campfire into existence.

  It burned steadily and with less smoke than Bailey would have guessed, given the dampness of the place. She rubbed her arms and closed her eyes in satisfaction, glad for the relief it brought from the realm’s clammy chill.

  The shaman lowered himself to ground on the other side of the blaze.

  “Let us talk,” he began, “about how you’ve been doing. And about the further course of your training. Now that you know who I am, I’m sure you can appreciate that I have good reasons for putting you through all this.”

  A slight tingle worked its way along the young woman’s back. She still could scarcely believe that the man she’d thought was an obscure shaman from somewhere in the wilds of the Cascade Mountains was in truth Fenris, god of wolves, father of all Weres.

  But she’d seen his true form, and so had the Eastmoor Pack, who even now were probably spreading the word all throughout Oregon, if not the entire western half of North America.

  “Yeah,” she replied, unable to keep the obvious fatigue out of her voice. “It’s rough, but I understand. Mostly, anyway.”

  The shaman nodded. “You’ve progressed a great deal in terms of power and control. You wouldn’t have been able to defeat those Venatori witches if you hadn’t, but there’s still more to learn. Now we need to focus on building your stamina.”

  She gave a slow nod; that was about what she’d guessed. And, she had to admit, what she’d been afraid to hear. It was hard to go much beyond the point to which she’d already been pushed.

  Marcus went on, “That is why we’ve been at this for so long—almost two days back in your world—with so little rest, and in the taxing environment of the Other. This will train you to deal with even the most difficult of all circumstances so that lesser challenges will not be so intimidating.”

  Some days ago, he’d said something that had stuck with her. Practicing magic in the Other, where expulsions of arcane power were suppressed and weakened, was like doing aerobic training with an oxygen deprivation mask. It forced you to become more efficient.

  She thought she’d broken through the barriers the place imposed, but being in here for this long, she was feeling the old strain again.

  “The Other,” he continued, “is also a safe place to train. Not so much for us, but for other people, as well as the land and woods. Your responsibility as a shaman is to protect and guide your pack, and to be a good steward to the integrity of the land. That means no wanton destruction unless absolutely necessary, and measured responses rather than reckless ones.”

  He stared at her for a moment after making that last comment.

  She grimaced. It was no secret that she was impetuous. She sometimes overreacted to threats and challenges, and that she didn’t think too hard about safety or collateral damage when the shit hit the fan.

  That tendency had been with her long before she’d known she had magic. Everyone in town knew that Bailey Nordin wouldn’t shy away from a fight, a dare, or an opportunity to drive like crazy over rough roads and worse terrain.

  “I understand,” she stated.

  “Good.” The man looked into the hazy distance of the deep-violet sky. “The shaman and the werewitch are unlike the common lycanthrope in more ways than one. Being able to channel the arcane gives you the ability to go farther and longer in fights, mustering higher levels of force for prolonged periods. It’s a kind of endurance that goes beyond what even the strongest of the regular shifters can achieve.”

  She felt like she was already at that point but didn’t voice her protest for now. She just let him speak.

  “A truly adept shaman,” he elaborated, “is of only limited use if their abilities come forth in short spurts, like a puff of smoke that looks impressive but dissipates soon after. Power, control, and endurance. The third is what we’re now focused on. It’s one of several things you still require.”

  She squinted at him through the tongues of fire. “What are the others?”

  Waving a hand, he said, “We’ll come to those in time.”

  Bailey sighed and looked down at the wood, where red coals were forming. It seemed just then that the campfire separated her from her teacher by a distance of far more than a few feet. The expanse of the Other around here seemed to cut her off from everyone else as well. For the first time in a long time, she felt alone.

  Marcus must have noticed. “You miss Roland,” he declared. “He’s been by your side through most of this.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “I guess it’s kind of stupid since he’s around. He still is, right?”

  The shaman nodded. “He has tasks of his own to work on. They will make him a more effective companion for you.”

  The implications of the word “companion” made her face flush but also brought a warm tingling sensation she wasn’t prepared to deal with right now.

  Instead, she asked a question. “What’s his problem, anyway? I mean, what do you think the big hurdle he’s trying to clear with his training right now is?”

  Marcus rubbed his whiskered chin. “An inner conflict of sorts. He already has power and control, although as a wizard, the style of magic he learned was limited by his people’s traditions. I’d say his big challenge is coming to terms with his ancestry, his role as a powerful male witch, and the ways in which his very existence seemed to disrupt the usual order of things in his community. In that regard, the two of you are similar.”

  She gave a low, snorting chuckle. “You got that right. Hell, I never asked to be special or whatever. Speaking of which, what should I work on? Endurance, yeah, but more specifically, what kinds of exercises are we gonna do next?”

  The man paused. To her chagrin, he didn’t give her a direct answer.

  “You are not even an apprentice shaman yet, more of a trainee. Right now, you are passing the trials to determine your eligibility for beginning your apprenticeship. There are sophisticated physical and spiritual trials to go through. At this point, you have fulfilled the prerequisite of proving that you’re not going to kill yourself with your magic.”

  Her gut clenched. She’d somehow thought she was already well into the process of becoming a shaman.

  Why wasn’t he clearer with me about that? Is that part of the trials, too? Seeing how well I take disappointment?

  Marcus continued, “As a natural werewitch, you have the potential. But with that much raw power…well, those who train you or interact with you don’t want to be blown apart, nor do they particularly want you to blow yourself to kingdom come. That danger is passing as you gain control. What comes next, though, will be even harder.”

  Suddenly she was annoyed with all the ominous crap. She recalled that she’d already done stuff that was truly incredible.

  “Okay,” she said, her voice a little stronger, “bring it on. What’s next?”

  The shaman tossed a stick into the fire. “
The spiritual quests you’ll have to undergo will tax you in ways you might not expect. They will make you question who and what you are, and the questions you find yourself asking will not always be the kind that you want to hear the answers to. They will strip away your illusions—the layers of psychological defense mechanisms and self-justifications we often employ—leaving only the raw and naked core of your personality. It’s a process that not everyone comes back from with their mind still intact. Some have gone mad.”

  She sat holding his gaze and digesting his words but did not respond since what he’d just said was only half of what awaited her.

  Marcus proceeded to the second half. “The physical trials, on the other hand, are designed to threaten your life, abusing your body in ways such that it has no choice but to regrow stronger than it’s ever been. It will prove how much you’re willing to go through—strain, deprivation, exhaustion, and pain—all of which are a preview for the challenges posed to shamans.”

  Something crazy deep within the girl’s brain, primitive and ferocious, took over and she grinned, showing her teeth.

  “You line ‘em up,” she stated, “and I’ll knock ‘em down. I’ve kicked the ass of everything else that’s come my way so far. No reason to think it won’t be the same way with the rest.”

  Marcus smiled back, but his expression was far more subdued. “Good. You’re certainly not lacking in courage or determination.”

  He stood up with a nimbleness and speed that belied his age. Or would, if he were a man instead of a deity in human form.

  “Stay where you are,” he told her, “and rest. Think. Meditate. Roland might be back soon. How soon depends on him, of course. I have an errand or two to run. I’ll return for you, though.”

  She shrugged. “Okay.” It was customary by now for the shaman to excuse himself whenever he saw fit.

  The girl half-watched him through the flames as he strode off into the dark woods, making no more sound than a lean wolf on the hunt.

  * * *

  The young man was only twenty-six, but the hard lines of his face, along with his shaved head—he’d likely started balding prematurely—made him look ten or twelve years older. He was fit and powerful of build, though, and his small black chin-beard gave him a curiously regal or authoritative appearance that was in no way detracted from by his sleeveless shirt, tattooed arms, or ripped jeans. He seemed to be a kind of redneck statesman in the making.

  As well as a shaman in the making.

  “You must understand,” Marcus stated, his voice low but steely-firm, “that I wouldn’t have come all this way and gone under and around your master’s authority if it wasn’t important. The fact that I’m speaking to you now is evidence of the magnitude of the threat we’re facing.”

  Nicolas Jezak nodded with his chin. “Okay,” he replied in a voice almost as gravelly as Marcus’, though a half-octave higher. “What is it, then? I gotta get back to training shortly.”

  The two of them stood in a sunlit glade in the woods just outside the town of Shashka, Oregon, in the mountain foothills southeast of Salem. Like most Were towns in the region, it lay off the proverbial beaten path, located on a road seldom frequented by outsiders or long-distance travelers.

  It was about a two-hour drive from Bailey’s hometown of Greenhearth. Of course, Marcus had ways of getting there far more quickly.

  The older man paused for a few seconds for dramatic effect, as though trying to decide how to approach the subject or how much he should reveal. “Have you heard of a Were named Bailey Nordin?”

  There was a slight tensing of the muscles along Nick’s square jaw. “Yeah, I have. Pretty sure every Were in the Pacific Northwest has, if not the whole goddamn continent by now.”

  “Yes,” Marcus responded. “I see. Then you’ve likely heard that no one is quite sure what to make of her. Some think she’s a hero, others think she’s dangerous. No one knows what to believe. Do they?”

  The apprentice shaman considered the inquiry. “I guess not. I don’t like most of what I’ve heard, but I got my own shit to deal with in the meantime. I figured I’d wait and see how things pan out.”

  Marcus stood looking at Nick but deliberately held off on speaking for a moment, waiting just long enough to make the pause awkward. “I do not think that would be a good idea,” he intoned. His face was grave.

  “Why not?” Nick asked. He seemed suspicious, but probably not of the shaman.

  “Because,” said Marcus, “she’s a hurricane in the form of a young woman. Shitstorm-category, to put it crudely. She has a lot of power but little self-control or self-discipline. A loose cannon. It is my opinion, after observing her for a while now, that she’s a danger to the entire community. She has good publicity among some groups, yes, but she has been directly or indirectly responsible for multiple deaths and far too much needless destruction.”

  He shook his head while looking into the distance.

  Nick narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Well, thanks for the warning. Right now I’m focused on doing the stuff my teacher wants, but if she comes around here, I’ll—”

  “Have you considered,” Marcus interrupted, “taking the initiative? It’s expected of all young shamans at some point. Your teacher might be impressed if you were to, on your own time, deal with a threat to all Weres before that threat had time to gather too much momentum.”

  The younger man considered. A slight twitch of his eyebrow suggested that he was surprised, even mildly shocked by the idea, but it took root in his brain. Slowly, a hungry look of ambition spread across his face.

  “I hadn’t considered that,” he confessed, “but maybe I should.”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes. And the sooner you reach a decision, the better.”

  Chapter Two

  Bailey’s ears, ever sensitive, picked up the soft sound of footsteps approaching. She perked up—not afraid, but alert. It was likely her visitor would turn out to be either Marcus or Roland, but it would be foolish to leap to a conclusion.

  She had, after all, been attacked in the Other twice by hostile magical forces.

  First by the trio of Seattle witches who wanted Roland for themselves. Second, by a task force sent by the dreaded Venatori, the fanatical European order of sorceresses who viewed Bailey as a threat to their arcane hegemony.

  As the footfalls drew closer, though, they started to sound familiar, and soon she recognized the tall, slim person to which they belonged.

  “Hi, Roland,” she called. “Marcus made a good old-fashioned campfire. Not that you’d have much experience with those since you’re a city boy, but it’s never too late to appreciate one.”

  The wizard strolled up, his frame bowed by tiredness, his blond hair hanging lank and sweaty over the fine classical features of his face.

  “Sounds great,” he said. “Compared to the Pacific Northwest in the real world, this goddamn place is mind-numbingly consistent in being cold and damp and gloomy.”

  She smirked a bit. “Looks like you got a workout, though. You’re as sweaty as if we’d been doing this shit in Texas in the middle of July.”

  “Something like that.” He came into the glow cast by the small blaze and lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs in front of him. “Anyway, both of us are still alive, which I guess counts as evidence that we’ve been doing something right in our training. Of course, it’s still possible to die of exhaustion.”

  The girl frowned. “I don’t think Marcus plans to push us that hard. He’s trying to get the best out of us, so we have to go to our limits. I can’t see him being stupid enough to kill us with a training mistake. Especially considering, you know, who he really is.”

  She swallowed.

  Roland shook his head in an unhurried, deliberate way. He hadn’t been present when Marcus had revealed himself as a Norse deity made flesh.

  “If it wasn’t for Freya manifesting a few weeks back,” he remarked, “there’s no way in hell I would believe that. No offense. I trust you, but I
would have guessed he was just some especially powerful caster putting on a very convincing illusion. Freya was no illusion, though, so I suppose I’m required to believe that her nephew or second cousin or whatever he is could show up at some point, too.”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Hell, it took me a while to accept it too, but in his true form, he was no illusion.”

  They sat together quietly for a couple of minutes, and Roland took her hand. She didn’t object.

  “So,” he asked, “how did the fighting go?”

  She told him, discussing how she’d mostly learned to work around the Other’s limiting factors, but having to channel her power over such an extensive period of time was wearing her down.

  “I fought him to a draw, though,” she pointed out. “As a god, maybe he has powers I could never match no matter what, but on the level we were operating at? I held my own. Might have even been able to beat him.”

  The wizard smiled. He wasn’t overly fond of Marcus, and he seemed to be enjoying the thought of Bailey potentially defeating him. “Good shit. If you ever win, let me know, then tell me how you did it. That way, maybe I can have the same opportunity.”

  She gently punched him on the arm. “Come on, he’s not that bad. He’s helped us a lot. Anyway, what were you getting up to at, uh, wherever it was you went?”

  “Oh, you know.” He waved a hand. “Things and stuff.”

  She scowled at him, so he sighed and went on.

  “Much of what I did was less, uh, dramatic or pyrotechnic than what you were up to. More internal struggles, you might say. Visions and soul-searching and crap like that. I find that…”

  He hesitated, obviously a bit uncomfortable, so Bailey didn’t press him. She just looked at him, face free of judgment, and waited until he continued speaking. He’d done the same for her many times in the past.

  Finally, he managed it. “I keep wondering about my heritage, the true nature of it.” He gazed into the gloom beyond the fire’s glow. “I have greater magical potential than usual, especially for a male in a sub-species where women are usually the more talented casters. But where does it come from? Is it just an accident of heredity? Some random combination of genetic traits that was just right for me to end up the way I have? Or is it part of something that stretches way back? I don’t know. Nobody has ever talked about it.”