The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  There was also the matter of the prisoners they’d taken after the battle. Most had found ways to commit suicide before they could be properly questioned, much to Townsend’s chagrin. The two who still survived were currently being held in tubes on life support, subject to another week of sensory deprivation. That ought to soften them up for interrogation.

  Townsend knew the Order would be back, no matter what. Guaranteed.

  Far more troubling was the revelation that the American shifters were growing more agitated. Much of this had to do with the Goddess of Shitstorms, Bailey Nordin. News and gossip pertaining to her rise and all the crap she’d been involved with were sending ripples throughout the proverbial pond. Some werewolves seemed less happy about it than others.

  Most supported her, of course, and thought she was a hero. But the Agency’s little birds had picked up a smattering of hostile chatter, too.

  Some alphas thought she was aiming to become the Attila the Hun of Weres and weren’t about to give up any part of their authority to her. Other packs were scared of retaliation (whether by the Venatori, the government, or society in general) and felt she was an uppity troublemaker.

  And of course, Townsend and the Agency would have to deal with all of it, one way or another.

  He prodded his monitor. “Don’t hurry or anything. It’s not like I have better things to do, like getting back into the fray and kicking witch ass. For fuck’s sake!”

  The computer responded by continuing to flash numbers at imperceptible speeds. At least the “Analysis Complete” progress bar grew a little longer.

  Sighing, the agent turned back to his paperwork. All ten pounds of it.

  Chapter Two

  Bailey had spent two days at the cabin. She and Marcus had been through a number of exercises, mostly meditation, breathing, and channeling activities that would help her manage her magic more efficiently. She felt It was useful stuff to practice, but somehow she’d expected to be learning or doing things that were on a whole new level relative to her current knowledge.

  Otherwise, they passed their time relaxing in the forest and feeling its pulse, shifting to run along the crests of the mountains, and performing basic household tasks, all of which served to relax and energize her.

  But she knew something was coming.

  On the third day, after they’d had their morning tea and breakfast, Fenris instructed Bailey to go outside and wait for him on the ridge above the cabin while he cleaned up. She obeyed without a word.

  Minutes later, the tall hooded figure strode out of the little house and moved up toward her. A hypnotic gravity of intent emanated off his powerful frame.

  This is it, she realized. Today is the day when my training as a full apprentice begins.

  Her mentor towered over her, silhouetted against the rising sun.

  “Bailey,” he began, “it is time for you to come to a full understanding of the burden of shamanhood. You’ve learned how to control your magic, how to fight, and how to be seen as a leader among your people. But there is more than that. You must also understand the tradition into which you’re entering. You need to see that you’ll be following in footsteps that reach back into history, long, long years beyond mortal counting.”

  She gave a tentative nod. “Okay. I’m ready for anything. And to be honest, I always wondered how old some of this stuff is. Weres have been around forever, it seems, but most people I know just have this vague idea that things have ‘always been done’ that way. No one seems to know how long ‘always’ means.”

  Fenris responded with a smile that was almost rueful. “It’s easy for people to forget the depth of their customs when they feel they can take them for granted. But after what I’m about to put you through, that will no longer be the case. We’re going to return to the Other and go someplace you haven’t been before. A location that is sacred to our people.”

  Her curiosity flared from a twinkle to a roaring flame. No one had ever mentioned anything like that to her before. When people did talk about the ancient traditions of werewolves, it was usually in the context of their marriage laws, which, until mere weeks ago, had always left a sour taste in her mouth.

  Now, at least, she was free of the obligation to be mated to a random alpha or one of his henchmen. With that burden off her shoulders, she was allowed to feel at home among her own kind.

  Marcus plowed ahead, priming her for what she could expect. “This place is unique, a sort of otherworld nexus of residual memories, mental and emotional images, and what modern people might call ‘team spirit’ or ‘group identity.’ Where we’re going, the past and the present blend in a timeless and interconnected pattern.”

  She furrowed her brow. “That makes sense, kinda.”

  “At least one pack of Weres must accompany you,” he continued. “Once you’re there, you will be required to lead them through a series of trials and challenges. It will not be easy, but you can do it. Upon completion, you’ll be able to commune with the spirits of other shamans from the past. They will provide you with guidance, as I do in the present.”

  The god in human form had grown larger and darker than usual, yet his demeanor was not threatening.

  “You’ll learn who they were, where they came from, and what feats and deeds they accomplished, as well as the prosaic, day-to-day tasks they performed—a full account of their profession. They will instruct you in what they believe, and their feelings as to what a proper shaman’s duties are. You’ll find out how they died, and if their death was violent or otherwise unnatural.”

  She steeled herself. The visions she’d confronted in the Other before, whether they came from the black pool or courtesy of the hallucinogenic drink that transported her consciousness to the spirit world, had been terrible enough that she knew she could handle whatever came her way.

  Fenris tilted his head so his gleaming eyes were visible beneath the hood. “You’ll have access to all the advice that can be given and all the history that can be taught. Not only of werewolves, but also of witches, and the relations between our two peoples. And other wars, conflicts, relationships, and times of peace and plenty. The knowledge of all these things will serve you well on your journey.”

  She closed her eyes and gave a single slow nod. “I accept. I have to ask, though, what will happen with everyone else while I’m gone? It sounds like it could take a while, even with the time-distortion in the Other. And what about Roland? Can I take him along?”

  Her mentor waggled a hand in an oddly irritable and undignified way. “You can bring him into the Other, but not into the trials. The place is dedicated to werekind. Intrusion by a member of witchkind would violate a number of primeval ordinances, and it’s far better not to have to deal with those.”

  “All right,” she agreed, shifting mental gears toward the fortitude she was certain she’d need. “We leaving right now, or can I have lunch first? Seems like my vacation is just about done at this point anyway.”

  He almost smiled. “Meet me back here at dusk with a complement of braves. Choose them or accept volunteers if they’re willing. And Roland.”

  * * *

  Roland stood in a small natural grove in the forest east of Greenhearth. It was in a flatter area, not quite into the foothills, and about a half-hour’s walk from the center of town. The woods were dense enough to hide him from easy sight, and the location was a ways from the areas that had been devastated by the fights with the Venatori.

  “Easy,” he breathed, slowly moving his hands and repositioning his chest and hips. His eyes were closed. “Nice and easy. Flow and continuity. Communion and interconnection. All that good stuff.”

  He might have blushed if anyone could see or hear him, but what he did scarcely differed from a martial arts kata or certain religious practices. Its effects overlapped with both of those activities.

  Basically, he was working out. Flexing his arcane muscles.

  In time with a deep, slow, relaxed breath, he conjured a magical shield, one that
flowed like water rather than remaining immovable and was virtually invisible. Its only visual cue was a shimmering ripple in the air, a distortion like that made by heat or vapor.

  Usually, his shields glowed a faint emerald hue. One that was colorless might be more useful since attackers might not even know he was protecting himself.

  The fluid barrier wrapped around him and spiraled upward as though he were at the center of an unseen tornado or whirlpool. Still inhaling and exhaling, and sensing the dimensions of the forest around him rather than looking at them, he maintained the spell as long as he could while gradually diverting some of his energy toward other pursuits.

  The shield held as he charged the air around it with electromagnetic suffusions. Within the cyclonic barrier, a wind picked up and blew his blond hair away from his face in a spiky yellowish mass like a crown above his slender frame. Outside the shield, lightning bolts appeared in horizontal or curving patterns. The transparent whirlwind was both defensive and offensive.

  After almost ten minutes, he dismissed the spell. The winds calmed, and the crackling electricity faded.

  He leaned back against a tree, resting. Any good workout required a recovery period. In another ten minutes or so, it would be back to channeling in creative ways and summoning new effects. Exercising his magical will would increase his potential and limber up his range of abilities.

  More and more, he was beginning to suspect that Bailey’s potential exceeded his. She didn’t have the years of experience he did, but while he was an abnormally gifted wizard, she seemed capable of truly astounding levels of raw power.

  Roland coughed. “In any event, let’s get back to it.” He stood up straight, raised his arms, and opened his mind.

  As he swept his consciousness over the hillside, seeking currents of subtle magic that he could weave into a sorcerous pattern, he detected a dead spot—a muffled location, barren of any magic whatsoever. That was both unusual and unnatural, not to mention familiar. It meant someone was cloaking.

  He looked straight at the spot. The people under the arcane cloak must have known they’d been discovered since they cast it off. Revealed were three women in distinctive leather outfits somewhat like stylish, albeit odd, women’s clothes mated with armor.

  Roland’s eyes flew all the way open and he raised his hands, prepared to shield himself while hammering the witches with offensive magic.

  “Wait,” the one at the lead said, holding up an opened palm in the universal gesture of non-aggression. “We are not here to harm you or fight. We only wish to talk. The Order does not know we are doing this.”

  Her accent was Spanish or perhaps Portuguese, Roland guessed, and his intuition said she was telling the truth. Clearly the woman was the leader of the trio, so the other two likely agreed.

  “Talk, eh?” he quipped. “I’d say we have a lot to talk about after what happened.”

  The woman frowned; one might say pouted. “Yes, and we wish to apologize. That should never have happened. We were very sorry to hear about it.”

  The wizard was flabbergasted. Of everything they could have said, an apology was among the things he’d least expected.

  It took a second or so for his mind to recover, then he returned to scanning the surrounding area, in case this was a devious trap. The witches might be trying to distract him while friends of theirs hidden nearby stabbed him in the back.

  But there didn’t seem to be any other magical presence in the woods.

  “Uh, well,” he drawled, “I’m glad to hear that, I suppose. I, too, am sorry that all this has happened.”

  It was a good neutral response. It indicated he was willing to parlay with them, but he wasn’t admitting any fault or groveling.

  “Yes,” the Spaniard riposted, “this has all been most terrible. I am Madame Villalobos, and I offer my forgiveness for the altercations of the past. That includes the one in which Madame Lavonne was killed. She was very respected. We apologize, nonetheless.”

  Roland tried not to frown. The woman’s apology was taking on a rather odd note.

  “And also,” Villalobos went on, “we will forgive you for your involvement with Bailey Nordin and the lycanthropes.”

  At that, the wizard’s teeth clamped together. He almost wished the sorceresses had attacked him just so he could kick their asses. He restrained himself, though, by prolonging the conversation. He might be able to learn more about their current plans.

  The witch to the left of the leader spoke in a French or Belgian accent. “You are one of us. We don’t wish to kill you. Please accept our offer of clemency.”

  Villalobos smiled. “You have our word about this. You have great power and potential, Roland, and we hate to see that wasted. Stand down and back out of the way before the Venatori come in full force. There is no avoiding conflict between our kind and Bailey and the shifters. You must choose a side. Not only for your sake, but for witchkind.”

  Roland folded his hands behind his back to hide their furious trembling.

  “Because,” the witch continued, “there is always the possibility that you will be corrupted by her power. Or that she, maddened with anger and hubris, will seek to strike back at all witches, making no distinction. Do you think she would choose you instead of her family and friends? And what about your family and your friends, back in Seattle? Do you think they will not be harmed by vengeful wolves?”

  The wizard gave them the fakest, smarmiest smile his face was capable of.

  “Gosh, sorry,” he shot back, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you three ladies to fuck off.”

  Their faces fell in perfect unison. Then all six of their eyes blazed with indignation and loathing.

  Madame Villalobos’ upper lip curled away from her teeth. “That is not how you talk to us when we have come in peace. We are making you a reasonable offer and giving you a chance to survive what is coming. How could you—”

  “I will not leave Bailey’s side,” he interrupted her. “I appreciate you not trying to kill me. Really, I do. There’s been far too much of that variety of bullshit in the last several weeks. But if you think I’m going to abandon the woman I love just because you issued a threat disguised as a peace offering, you’re gravely mistaken.”

  Stiffening their postures and raising their noses in the air, the witches made ready to leave. “Have it your way,” Villalobos sneered. She led her two minions away, their forms vanishing into the shadows of the forest.

  Roland watched them go. He also tried to track them magically, but of course, they cloaked themselves, which made it impossible. He got the vague impression that they had transported somewhere far to the north.

  Canada? he wondered. That would make sense. Not terribly far, but out of the range of all the pissed-off Weres in Washington, not to mention outside the jurisdiction of the Agency. I’ll have to mention this to Fenris and see what he says.

  He no longer felt like training. He started to wander back toward his new home away from home—the Nordins’ pole barn.

  It had been weeks since he’d seen his family in Seattle. He’d called his mother and texted a couple of his old friends, assuring them he was all right, but that was it.

  The words of the lead sorceress lingered in his mind. She had threatened his family. Oh, not directly. She might have just been trying to scare him with the half-assed possibility of the war spilling over and causing collateral damage, although that was scary enough.

  If the Venatori sent a reprisal force against his kindred, though?

  “I will not abandon Bailey,” he told himself. If things settled down in Oregon, he might be able to slip north for a few days to check on them, but there was no way he would ditch her altogether. Not after all they’d done for each other, and everything they’d been through together.

  Sighing and rubbing his face, he trudged through the woods. It was tough to say if he ought to keep walking to give himself more time to think or fly back so he could get a cup of coffee down his throat
as soon as possible.

  * * *

  All four of the Nordin siblings had crowded into a booth in the rear corner of the Bristling Elk’s diner wing. It had been far too long since Bailey had eaten out with her family.

  Kurt was in a talkative mood. “So yeah, I think all the hubbub is affecting the track team’s focus. We lost to those jerks from Estacada. How the goddamn hell does that happen?”

  “Priorities.” Russell grunted.

  Jacob pursed his lips. “I guess so. You’d think getting pumped up for battle would make our guys, especially the Weres, faster, but I dunno. Track wasn’t my thing.”

  Kurt poked him. “Little too much temptation around, am I right?”

  “Shut up.”

  Bailey watched them talk and laughed here and there but didn’t participate. She knew she was being borderline aloof. Her mind both drifted into the recent past and tried to charge ahead into the near future.

  “Not gonna lie,” she prefaced once there was a lull in the conversation, “I can’t stop going over what might happen next with the Venatori and all. Gunney told me to take one thing at a time, and I suppose he’s right.”

  Jacob shrugged. “He usually is. Anyway, the whole town is doing more than enough worrying, so it’s not like you’re obliged to do all of it yourself.”

  “True,” she acceded and managed a half-smile.

  Her eldest brother went on, “Besides, there’s one particular noose that isn’t looped around your neck anymore. Or your ass, I guess. Now that you’re an official shaman’s apprentice, it’s a ‘Do Not Touch’ warning for all the eligible young gentlemen. The same old traditions that let them pressure you to mate mean they have to back off now.”

  All four of them smirked, savoring the irony.

  “Yup.” She sighed. “Damn. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”

  Ever since she’d hit puberty a good twelve years ago, the marriage requirement had hung over her head like the dangling sword in that old Greek legend. Then, a week ago, when Fenris proclaimed her his apprentice, it was simply gone.