by Renée Jaggér
The wizards shook hands.
“At the club, you say?” Roland quipped. “Well, then unless you’re a psychopath who’s preparing to knife me in the back, I probably don’t need to convince you that the Venatori suck.”
“No,” Dante muttered, “you don’t. My friend Liam was one of the guys they murdered. I, uh, I’ve heard of you and Bailey. Things are so tense and crazy right now that I’ve been keeping things on the down-low, but...”
The young man, who seemed on the shy and awkward side, steeled himself. “I want to join up. They have to pay for that shit. I don’t care what any of those people said.” He waved a hand toward the hotel.
The other wizard nodded, impressed. “And here was me, thinking I’d have better luck recruiting from among the old farts. They don’t want to be involved in the situation at all. The whole thing isn’t respectable.” He sneered the word. “Anyway, I’m sorry about your friend, but I’m glad you’re on board.”
“Yeah.” Dante looked around. “I have an idea for how we might be able to rally more witches to our side. Want to get a drink?”
“Sure, as long as it’s alcoholic.”
* * *
Agent Velasquez checked the time and waited for his man to report back. If he didn’t hear back from him within one minute, they’d have to move in, despite the risks.
The condominium building rose unobtrusively from a cluster of palms in Northeast Los Angeles, and little about it was different from the other residential properties in the neighborhood. Pedestrians strolled by now and again, and cars zipped along and honked on the nearby major street, but the agents were well-hidden from view.
He took a deep breath. This was his first time commanding a squad. Though still only a Junior Agent, manpower shortages combined with his good track record under Townsend had propelled him into a leadership role in the man’s absence. Townsend’s recommendation that he take over hadn’t hurt either.
“All right,” he began, “we–”
“Sir.” The voice had come through their headsets. It was Agent Glover.
Velasquez motioned for everyone to keep silent. “We were two seconds away from continuing without you. What’s the report?”
“About what we expected, sir,” the voice replied. “Seven of them in the penthouse on top. Otherwise, the building is damn near empty. Basic support staff and that’s about it. Currently, there’s only the maintenance guy in the northeast corner of the first floor.”
Velasquez exhaled through his nose, relieved that the force was no larger than they’d anticipated. “Roger. We’ll meet you on the way in. Over and out.”
The squad fired up their noise inhibitors, cocooning themselves in a transparent shell of sound-proof arcane energy, and entered the condo through its rear entrance. Glover had disabled both the building’s regular alarms and the warning glyphs the witches had planted. Velasquez suspected that the Venatori would grow more clever in how they protected themselves soon since the Agency had thus far managed to break through most of the tricks they used.
Once inside, Agent Glover rejoined them from under the stairwell. They tramped upward, moving fast and only hesitating long enough to check above them with mirrors and portable sonar devices. The noise inhibitors masked the racket of their boots on the steps, so that was one thing they needn’t worry about.
They double-checked the exact positions of the sorceresses before they burst through the door, arcanoplasm rifles held ready to kill.
Glowing magenta-white beams streaked across the penthouse as agents dashed in, their movements disciplined and merciless. Two of the three witches in the main living area screamed as the blazing projectiles vaporized them. The third they left alone.
Then they moved on to the rest. Since the other three had had a second or two’s notice, they were able to counterattack, and two men took light to moderate wounds from elemental spells. But their shields and knives neutralized most of the magic, and in seconds, the remaining Venatori joined their comrades in hell.
The last of the ashes settled as half of the agents fanned out through the penthouse to check for any stragglers. Velasquez was among those who remained in the main room.
Along with the one survivor.
She was a fortyish woman, attractive but for her sullen face, and she stood among the remains of her fellows with a tightly-wound, nervous placidity.
Velasquez caught her eyes. “Madame Dormois. You’re not hurt, are you? Thanks again for all your help.”
“No,” she said, “I am fine. And you are welcome.” Her tone was too monotone to be sincere, but thus far, she’d given them no reason to suspect insubordination. It would have been extremely unwise for her to turn triple-agent.
“Good.” Velasquez took her to the far corner, away from the other men as well as the windows. “Tell me everything I need to know about what your Order has been up to since you went back to France. We received your message about Aradia and have been preparing accordingly. Now, we want to know about troop movements, step-by-step plans, and all that juicy stuff.”
The woman inhaled and moved her shoulders to gather her thoughts and prepare to translate them into English.
Before she could speak, Velasquez added, “And remember, if anything you say turns out to be a lie...” He raised a hand and flicked his fingers outwards in all directions while mouthing the word Boom.
The witch narrowed her eyes. “I know that!” she snapped.
Then, forcing herself to calm down, she delivered her report. “War-witches of the Venatori have infiltrated every major American city, along with some of the smaller ones in strategic locations. Most of the groups are small, ten or fewer, the better for them to blend in and flee to disappear if they are discovered. But others are larger if there are more wolves in an area. Groups of up to three dozen. They are making very precise strikes against lycanthropes, especially those who have pledged loyalty to Bailey Nordin.”
Velasquez nodded. Most of what she’d said was redundant, but the Agency was uncertain of how widespread the Order’s presence was. If indeed there were that many of them spread throughout all the big cities...
Dormois went on, “The largest concentrations, as well as the ancillary troops, are located in the Northwest. This is due to the presence of Nordin and her forces. The strategy is to eliminate her allies all over the continent while keeping her pinned down in Oregon and Washington. Soon there will be enough witches in that region to overpower any uprising or counterattack by the lycanthropes. Or so my superiors believe. They seemed very confident that we cannot be overcome this time. They have drawn upon almost all available personnel to destroy the shifters.”
The agent felt his eyes going out of focus as his attention momentarily drifted to the magnitude of what their spy had said. His bosses had believed that the Venatori were on the verge of exhaustion after the last battle. In fact, they’d only begun.
And the Agency wasn’t prepared to resist an invasion of that magnitude. They needed to do more ASAP.
One of Velasquez’ men appeared beside him. “The penthouse is clear. Rest of the building’s secure, too. Awaiting further instructions.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the man. “Make ready to leave. We’ll be taking Madame Dormois with us. Ensure that no one is watching or waiting for us outside.”
“Yes, sir.” The team set to bustling.
Velasquez lingered. He took out his cell phone and called Bailey. No signal. He walked a few yards away, tried again, and got the same result.
“Dammit,” he muttered. “She has to know about this. By now, we might be screwed without the Weres bolstering our numbers. Shit, we might even have to bring regular law enforcement or the goddamn National Guard into the situation.”
They were having trouble keeping things quiet as it was. The Internet was abuzz with rumors being spread by the more paranoid—or observant—of the normies.
Velasquez called the agent in charge of the four-man team that was keeping an eye o
n Greenhearth. If necessary, they could dispatch all their operatives in Portland, although it would take about an hour to get them all to the Hearth Valley.
The call went through. “Friedman.”
Velasquez stated his name, then asked, “What’s the word on Bailey? Where is she?”
Friedman cleared his throat. “She’s not here. We don’t know where she is, but definitely not in any of her usual places around town. I already ordered an information sweep and will send you the results as soon as I get them.”
“Good,” responded the other agent. “Thanks. Over and out.”
He turned and saw one of his men on the verge of asking if he was coming. Waving a hand, Velasquez trailed the man down to the street and climbed into one of their cars.
“Airport,” he said to the driver. “Not sure where we’re going yet, but we’ll find out soon.”
They’d commandeered a small private airfield in the lower San Gabriel Mountains. Minutes before they arrived, Friedman’s message came in.
Velasquez checked his device. It seemed that a quick analysis of Internet chatter among Were-friendly sites and forums had turned up some promising info. There was mention of the Other, and a reference to keeping all shifters together in large groups for safety.
“Well, that’s good,” he nodded, realizing at once that the Were community was doing part of his job for him by getting ready to defend against further witch attacks. But still… His brow furrowed.
He’d heard of the Other, and the Agency had unofficially confirmed that it existed, but it was poorly understood. All they knew so far was that it was a kind of parallel universe accessible to supernatural types. If Bailey had gone there, he had no way of getting in touch with her.
The report also mentioned that Roland had been sighted in Seattle.
As the agents stepped onto the airfield, Velasquez wasted no time in preparing a flight plan to Washington State, complete with a private chopper waiting for him once he got there. No point in fighting traffic.
* * *
Bailey looked at Fenris. “Is this going to work? I mean, I’m sure it’s worth a try.”
“It should,” the shaman stated. “You’re more than talented enough to manage it.”
In a circle, spread out at a safe distance, her various alphas and their lieutenants stood and watched. There were more than had been with her when they’d first come into the Other, for some had trickled in. She insisted on keeping many of them with their packs back on Earth for safety, but there were enough here to make a formidable force.
Bailey raised her hands, closed her eyes, and channeled power from the universe through her own mind.
Fenris had come up with the idea for the spell, helped somewhat by the werewitch’s input, and after a period of minor testing and theorizing, they’d decided to give it a try. If it worked, they’d have a significant edge and be able to fast-track their plans, forcing the Venatori’s collective hand.
She located her aura, her signature within the world of magic, and drew free-floating sources of power to it. Then she magnified it, swelling it as if adding fuel and heat to a fire.
Fenris stood by her side. “Now, concentrate,” he urged. “Imagine it flowing outward from you, breaking off into separate pieces, as many as possible. And keep channeling more magic into it as it diminishes, the better to make even more copies of your astral signature.”
His voice, soothing and authoritative, helped rather than distracted her. She could feel her essence expanding, and the “flares” it sent out becoming fireballs unto themselves.
“Good,” Fenris complimented her. “Concentrate. Make as many as you can. And then for your alphas, too.”
More magical flares erupted from her, coalescing into what her mind’s eye saw as human figures of pure light and sorcery. Then she sent the arcane force out, linked it with the smaller auras of the wolves encircling her, and created similar pseudo-clones of them, as well.
Their deity did his part by opening multiple portals in sequence to allow the astral projections to step out of the Other and drift back into the mortal world.
Anyone scrying them or trying to track their magical activity would see or sense just enough to be baited by the ruse. To the witches, it would appear—if all went according to plan—that magically-empowered alphas were reinforcing their local pack communities.
And more importantly, as Bailey drew her astral clones back through the same portals to her, it would look as though she were teleporting around before fleeing back into the Other. Alone.
The tall shaman put a hand to his temple. “It’s working. Yes, I can tell. I can feel their attention, their malevolent will. They are reconsidering their strikes against the packs, thinking them too large and heavily guarded. And at the same time, they’ve noticed you running away into this realm. The opportunity is too much to resist. They all know they would be richly rewarded for destroying the werewitch.”
Bailey drew the astral doubles back toward herself, holding them near her original aura at her current physical location.
“And,” Fenris added, “they’re here. About two dozen of them have filtered into the forest not far from us. Perhaps two miles on Earth.”
The girl ended the spell, but when she opened her eyes and stood normally, she felt energized, as though manipulating that much power had increased her abilities and her readiness. Her alphas looked at her with eyes blazing with anticipation.
She turned to them with a bestial grin. “All right, guys,” she said, “it’s time to go on the hunt.”
Chapter Six
Dante had led Roland to a bar he’d never drunk in before. It was a newer place, and he’d been away from home for months now. Not to mention, he’d mostly stopped paying attention to the local scene even before he’d wandered off to Greenhearth.
It was furnished in a dark, swanky, garish, faintly “hip” fashion, somewhat crass and pretentious by Roland’s tastes, but nice enough. The style was popular with the younger witches, and it seemed most of the clientele were part of the caster community.
Roland raised his glass. “I must say,” he began, “they make a damn good mimosa. I haven’t drunk many fruity mixed drinks recently, mostly beer and the occasional whiskey and Coke. Similarly,” he cast his eyes down at the plate before him, “my lady friend is an enthusiast of steak sandwiches, so having a club sandwich with a nice sprig of parsley and all is a treat. Thanks again.”
He bit into his food, relishing the taste. Since club sandwiches weren’t rare or fancy, he saw no reason why the Bristling Elk couldn’t introduce them to its menu. He’d suggest it once he was back in Oregon.
Dante sipped his martini. “You’re welcome. So, yeah, I know who you are and what you’ve been up to, and you’ve more than earned the cost of a decent lunch. If you’re serious about rallying witches, I think we need to hit up the club scene. You’d be amazed by how many people will listen to someone who can back up his claims.”
The younger wizard shrugged, then added, “By myself, no one would believe me or follow me. It’s not like I’m unpopular exactly, but you have real clout.”
“I do?” Roland marveled. “Earlier I was at DeMornay’s place, and the couple hanging out there acted like I had crawled out of a tipped-over garbage can.”
“Well, in certain circles,” Dante clarified. “Like, among those who are paying attention to what’s going on. There’s a lot of suppressed anger against the Venatori. They’re riling things up in a bad way and crashing everyone’s party. Most people are too scared to do anything about it, though, what with their reputation.”
The Order was a persistent source of boogeyman stories to American witches, as Roland well knew. Don’t draw too much negative attention to yourself, their elders had implied, or the Venatori will crawl out from under your bed and eat you.
“But,” Dante continued, “knowing that the whole werewolf population is rallying to fight them and having confirmation that the rumors are true might be enou
gh to tip the scales. I think a lot of us would join up if we knew we wouldn’t have to do it alone and had a real chance of winning.”
Roland took another bite of turkey and bacon, chewed, and swallowed. “I see. How have relations between casters and shifters developed these last couple of months? I get the impression things are still frosty at best.”
“Well, debatable,” the other wizard extrapolated. “If anything, people are more pissed off at the Venatori. They’re the ones who’ve broken the peace and fucked everything up. We haven’t been legitimate enemies with the Weres for a while. There’s the vague hostility of being different tribes, that sort of thing, but it hasn’t gone beyond like when the fans of two rival sports teams see each other on the street or whatnot. Now, thanks to the Venatori, people—including witches—are getting killed. Then they have the cojones to try to militarize us and recruit us for their cause.”
Roland nodded. It was making sense, and he could see the potential. He called for a drink refill, and his new friend ordered another too.
“So,” Dante went on as they found themselves deep into their second beverage, “your relationship with Bailey is also kinda famous, and I have to ask.” His eyes grew mischievous, and it was plain he was trying not to laugh. “Is it like banging a witch, or is it more like, um, a furry thing? Or would it qualify as bestiality?”
He broke off in snorting giggles at his own wit, then added, “Sorry, I joke.”
“Silence,” Roland replied in a theatrical voice, “and fuck off immediately.” He wasn’t being serious either, but if Bailey were present, he’d have had to advise the kid to watch it. “I have no idea how much action you get, even with all the raves and shit you seem to go to, but let’s just say that most of the time, Bailey is a hell of a lot of woman. And I mean that in a good way.”
