The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Besides, confronting the witch goddess alone would increase her chance of success.

  The pack waited where they were as Fenris led Bailey deeper into the woods, stopping in a small hollow where tall pines upon the surrounding ridges blocked them off from sight and covered most of the sky above, to boot.

  Fenris motioned for her to stand facing him on the opposite side of the hollow. “Now,” he elaborated, “raise your arms and face skyward, and spread your feet past the width of your shoulders. Yes, like that. I will begin channeling the necessary essences, but you must sustain them. You must repeat what I say, loudly and with great emotional conviction, as though you were trying to shout into Asgard. Think only of Roland. Let us begin.”

  The tall man stood in much the same posture as the younger woman, though his legs were close together, like a sturdy column. A faint purplish shimmer appeared in the air as the summoning got underway.

  Bailey felt incredible power surging into her from front and back, sides and bottom, and she sensed that it needed to be directed upward. She threw it over her head into the heavens, imagining what might be happening to Roland right now, and how badly he must need help.

  Fenris spoke the incantation. “Oh, Freya, Lady of Love and Death, first teacher of witchcraft and the arts of wisdom, I beseech you to come forth! Manifest! My need is great. My cause is pure, for one of your children struggles and suffers but for your aid.”

  Bailey repeated each phrase, holding nothing back. Though more eloquent than the way she would have elucidated it, Fenris’ words were exactly how she felt.

  And with each verse of the plea resounding in the air, the flow of power toward the divine realm grew in strength.

  Then Fenris intoned a series of syllables that meant nothing to Bailey; she suspected they were secret words of power unique to the witch species, or perhaps the ancient language of the Norse gods. She could hardly pronounce them, but she managed.

  The shaman concluded with, “Freya! Appear and proffer aid unto me!”

  At Bailey’s echoing of the final phrase, a silver flash lit the sky and a green bolt of lightning struck the earth in the center of the hollow. The girl fell back a step, shielding her eyes. When she looked up again, Fenris was gone. She didn’t know if he’d fled on foot or stepped through a portal.

  But standing before her was an awe-inspiring if familiar figure, a tall, slender woman with Nordic features and coloring. She was beautiful in a severe and aristocratic fashion, wearing a green and silver robe and crowned with a ring of leaves and ivy. Her flashing eyes turned to the werewitch.

  “Bailey Nordin,” she stated in her mellifluous yet echoing voice. Her pale face was contorted with a cold, subdued rage. “How dare you, a were-shifter, summon me to Earth? What hubris!”

  Well, this is off to a bad start, the girl thought and swallowed.

  “Freya. With all due admiration and respect, you’re the only one who can help me. I–”

  “Silence!” the goddess boomed. “I do not answer the calls of your kind, only those of my own children. Why should I not reduce you to ash at once? Can you tell me one good reason?”

  Bailey puffed out her chest. “Yeah, I can. It’s one of your children who’s in danger. Roland. You came to see him not too long ago because you thought he was special. You told me to protect him. I’ve been doing that as best I can ever since, but I need you to help me. You’re the mother of witches, so you’d be the one.”

  “Do not tell me who I am,” Freya snapped. Though her demeanor was still cold and hard, she no longer thundered with fury. “And do not imply that you have the right to use my own words against me, or inform me of the obvious. Our ways are beyond your comprehension. I know that Roland has been taken by the Venatori.”

  The girl itched with the frustrated need to do something, to get past all the negotiating and skip ahead to the act of rescuing him. “Then help me find him!”

  “He has been taken by other witches,” the deity observed as though this explained everything.

  Must be about not meddling with internal conflicts, Bailey grumbled internally. But rather than complain, she hastily sought to convince Freya of her reasoning.

  “But the Venatori are zealots. They don’t represent what all witches are like, do they? They’re deliberately trying to set off a war that will cause tons of unnecessary bloodshed, including witchkind’s. How can that be in the best interests of the species?”

  The goddess held up a hand, and green sparks of enormous power crackled around her fingers. “The species must see to its own problems except in extreme cases. We may be approaching one of those, but do not presume to advise me.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Bailey muttered. “Guess I just wanted to understand.”

  “I would prefer to avoid a war,” Freya admitted. “I have no wish to see my people wading through seas of blood, their own or others’. But such a clash might be inevitable—especially if you and your kind continue to escalate the hostilities. Again and again, you’ve responded to violence with violence instead of suing for peace.”

  Bailey clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from spewing profanity. How the goddamn fucking hell are we supposed to sue for peace from people who want us all dead? her brain screamed. You mean to tell me you think we shouldn’t be allowed to fight back?

  Once the initial swell of rage had dissipated, the girl made ready to try a subtler way of phrasing things, but it seemed that Freya had been thinking it over. The goddess crossed her arms in a gesture that was strangely dignified and regal, and the angry flash of her eyes had lessened.

  “Yet it is true, Bailey, that the Venatori are equally to blame for the burgeoning conflict, as are the werewolves who continue to retaliate against them. They view all things as a contest with only one winner, and fail to grasp that the best of witchkind may be found in those of my children who live humbler, more peaceful lives, using their powers judiciously and for good.”

  “Like Roland,” Bailey quipped.

  “Yes.” Her attitude had grown softer still. “And you are sincere in your desire to help him—that much is obvious. You also have restricted your acts of violence to self-defense rather than pursuing vengeance. I saw when you took mercy upon Holopainen, the young sorceress who foolishly went into the were-temple after you with the others. For that, I shall aid you in one small respect.”

  The werewitch almost wept with relief.

  Freya went on, “I will tell you where they’ve taken Roland. He’s being held in a crumbling old barn on an abandoned farmstead due east from your hometown’s center, and thus slightly north of the highway as it bears southeast. Beyond that piece of information, however, I can give you nothing else.”

  “That’s enough,” Bailey breathed. “Thank you, Freya. You might not know how much this means to me.”

  The deity held up a hand. “Don’t be so sure. I know much.”

  * * *

  Roland had not been cooperative, so after shocking and beating him extensively, Madame Pataky had proceeded to the next phase of the plan.

  She put her shock rod back in its holster and smirked down at the ravaged young wizard. “You may think that we did this to you,” she elucidated, “but in truth, it is Bailey and her wolves who are to blame. That is how everyone will see it.”

  Roland was battered, bloody, and exhausted by now. His head hung, and his consciousness came and went. As such, it took him a minute to fully grasp what the sorceress had said.

  “What?” he gasped. “What the hell do you mean?”

  Pataky accepted a new torture device from one of her subordinates. It consisted of a wooden handle about two feet long that spread into four evenly spaced protrusions, each of which was tipped with a curved barb like a claw or fang. He was not looking forward to getting acquainted with it.

  As his vision cleared, he also saw that two more witches had arrived to reinforce the four who were interrogating him. They probably expected Bailey to mount a rescue attempt at any time. />
  “Soon,” Pataky gloated as though she’d read his mind, “your dog-girl will arrive to save you. Don’t you think? We certainly do.”

  “Who knows?” he remarked, spitting out bloody saliva. “Women are unpredictable. Keeps things interesting.”

  The witches chortled nastily at this, and Madame Pataky continued, “It would be funny if she left you to your fate. That seems like a rare possibility. But if it does occur, then you will come back with us to our headquarters. We can always use a new witch in our ranks. Even a male can make for a good auxiliary member. Like a guard dog.”

  Her minions laughed again.

  Roland was finding it hard to remain defiant and feign indifference, but his will wasn’t broken yet, so he gave it a further shot.

  “Not interested, sorry. French isn’t my language, and I’m assuming everyone who works there has to learn it. Besides, I was thinking about taking up shooting as a hobby. That would be much easier if I stayed an American.”

  One of the assistant witches snapped, “Be silent! You will not have a choice.”

  Roland’s face grew grim and serious. “I’ll never join you, especially after what you’ve been doing lately. You’d have to kill me first.”

  “No,” said Pataky, “that will not be necessary. We have methods for the conversion of those who are too stupid to accept our offers. Others have been turned to our cause before. You will be no different.”

  Something about the absolute confidence of the old witch as she said it, the easy, smirking assurance, threatened to freeze the blood in Roland’s veins. He didn’t think she was bluffing. There had been whispered rumors that the Venatori Order possessed psionic devices that allowed them to recondition the minds of people they selected for special attention.

  As his captors amused themselves with his helplessness, he allowed his head to hang back down, not caring that it made him look weak and broken. He couldn’t look them in the eyes right now.

  Oh, Bailey, he thought, I wouldn’t particularly mind a nice heroic rescue, although it is a bit embarrassing for a dude to be saved by his girlfriend. But they’ve got to be planning a trap for you. Don’t get overly emotional and blunder into it. If you’re going to come after me, do it right. Be smart. For your own sake.

  Once more, Madame Pataky seemed to sense the gist of his thoughts. She spoke slowly, relishing each word like a morsel of delicious meat.

  “Of course, we will only turn you as our second plan. The first is to use you as bait. Look around you at this farm, at the earth and grass. It looks harmless, no? Your Bailey will not be able to see the magic we have set here. Whatever we see, the rest of our Order also sees, and from there, any other witches who may be scrying or meditating will be able to watch the show.”

  Roland squinted, thinking. His first notion was that they meant to give confidence to casters who supported their cause by broadcasting Bailey’s death, which would have been more than bad enough. But then he looked again at the claw-shaped torture instrument in Pataky’s hand and decided their intent must be more devious than that.

  “Yes,” she went on, “you understand, don’t you? Anyone who is keeping an eye on the supernatural world will see Bailey and her shifters storm an isolated barn full of witches, where they have left you. A powerful male witch, beaten and wounded, used as a lure. They will think we came to rescue you, and that it was the wolves who ambushed us. Then the real war will begin, as it must.”

  The wizard balked, close to nausea from his growing horror at the plan. If things went as the Venatori intended, casters all over the world would see Bailey’s Weres as dangerous maniacs. Beyond the Order’s private campaign against lycanthropes, fighting would break out between neighbors within the same communities. Wolves and witches everywhere would be drawn into the carnage.

  He raised his chin. “You’re going to pay for this. I’m not kidding.”

  The Hungarian sorceress raised the device. “We shall see, Roland.” Then she slashed his chest with the fake claws.

  * * *

  Peering through her binoculars, Bailey reported, “No sign of the ladies. Only Roland. He’s torn up, but he’ll be okay.”

  Inside, her heart broke at the sight of all the damage the witches had done to him. It appeared to be superficial stuff, mostly, but they’d made him suffer. Her first instinct was to jump up and run to him, cradling him against her chest, but she wasn’t that stupid.

  Will Waldsbach and his usual three buddies had insisted on accompanying her, and a fifth man, a member of the Juniper Pack who’d been helping guard the town, had volunteered as well.

  “It’s gotta be a trap,” Will offered.

  Bailey sighed. “Yeah. Probably. But we came here to rescue him, and that’s what we’re gonna do. We just need to be smart about it.”

  After Freya had disclosed the wizard’s location, she’d gathered her posse and set off eastward in her truck, with most of the guys riding in the bed. She’d driven as fast as she dared to with unsecured passengers, and they’d made good time.

  Well outside the farm, they’d hidden the truck in a small ravine where rocks and pines hid it from the road, and then Bailey had placed a cloaking spell over it for good measure. Then they’d crept closer to the barn, wasting no time, but moving slowly enough to keep sharp eyes out for any sign of their nemeses.

  Once the barn’s interior lay within their field of vision, they’d dropped behind a slight rise in the earth and pulled out Will’s binoculars. The structure’s door hung open, and the wizard was tied to a post within.

  Bailey looked around again and sent out her consciousness, seeking any sign of the trap. There was a vague tingling, a sensation of residual, low-level magic, but it was hard to distinguish if that meant a currently extant spell or the aftereffects of one cast a little while ago.

  And there were no obvious signs of the witches.

  “Shit,” the girl murmured. “They must have gone somewhere. If that’s the case, now’s our chance to grab him and go. But if there is a trap, we need to be ready to respond.”

  One of the South Cliffs suggested, “We should spread out, maybe in two groups, so we can jump up from different places at once if anything goes wrong.”

  Bailey agreed. Then she told them to stay and wait while she made a mad dash for the barn.

  Sucking in air, the girl jumped over the grassy mound and bolted straight for the door.

  I’m coming, Roland. I’m almost there. Sit tight.

  Then she saw that his eyes were open. When she’d viewed him with the binoculars a moment ago, he’d appeared to be unconscious. A gag was in his mouth, but his face was drawn in alarm, and he kept shaking his head furiously from side to side—the universal body language meaning no.

  She had no time to guess what he meant. On every side, encircling her, witches stepped out of thin air, rushing toward Roland. It was as though their movements were in a video set on fast-forward, having augmented their speed with magic.

  How the fuck did they do that? Bailey’s mind cried out. She focused her will on increasing her pace, but half of the Venatori had already reached the post within the barn.

  Much stranger, though, was what the witches were saying as they moved in.

  “No!” one of them wailed in English. “Look what they’ve done to him! That poor wizard...”

  “Save him!” another cried. “The wolves are closing in to finish him off!”

  Others shouted sentences in different languages, probably the same type of thing.

  It all happened too fast for the werewitch to reevaluate the situation. For all her quickness of mind, the nature of the ambush was too far beyond anything she’d expected to adapt to it immediately.

  Nor could she tell her Weres to hold off. They’d seen the witches appear and bounded up from their hiding places, hesitating briefly at the bizarre exclamations. But they didn’t delay. Lycanthropes pounced, shifting to wolf form midair or mid-stride.

  A tall, thin witch just in front o
f Bailey turned with jerky speed as if surprised by the girl’s presence, and her eyes widened. Bailey tossed a blazing mass of lightning, plasma, and telekinetic force that closed the short distance in a flash. The blast erupted before the woman’s body and she fell back, thrashing and rolling, then lay still.

  But as Bailey pounded closer, she saw something odd. The sorceress was unblemished, as though she hadn’t been touched at all. Hovering around her was the faint sheen of an arcane shield.

  What the hell? She’s playing dead!

  Then the other witches arrived within killing distance, and pandemonium erupted as limbs and bodies thrashed, crackling streams of arcane power moved across the field, and the snarling and howling of wolves mingled with the grunts and screams of women.

  Bailey conjured two cup-shaped shields, one on each side of her, that caught and partially reflected the plasma blasts the Venatori hurled. She willed them to remain in place as she launched into the air, landing briefly on the roof of the barn before hopping to the forest’s edge, all the while summoning bursts of lightning and fire right over the witches’ heads or beneath their feet. One took a nasty shock but still lived, and the others were slowed enough for Will and his fighters to engage.

  The girl landed amidst the trees. Her Weres were wrestling with a pair of sorceresses, taking a portion of the heat off hers, but the other witches would retaliate at any second. She dashed back out into the field, summoning a powerful wind that threw the remaining Venatori off-balance and gave the lycanthropes a moment to dodge, so they could resume a hit-and-run strategy.

  One of the witches, a stout older woman, was shouting at the others in what seemed to be accented French.

  Take out the leader first, she decided. Always a good idea.

  Bailey covered herself with a shield and, calling upon her increasing knowledge of the natural world, tried to camouflage it against the background. She had no time to test if it worked, but the lead sorceress didn’t see her at first as she sprinted forward.