by Renée Jaggér
Gregorovia swallowed and reflected on what her goddess had just demanded.
The Inquisitors were the cream of the crop, the last word in witchcraft. Taken as young children from among the most powerful casters of their generations, the Order groomed them as its ultimate enforcers. Indoctrinated from an impressionable age in the Venatori’s ideology. Purged of pity and doubt. Taught all the ways of magic, of combat, of torture and interrogation, of spycraft—everything.
They served the senior council as a last line of defense and were also responsible for hunting down rogues and defectors from within the Order, not to mention unaffiliated witches who grossly offended their ideals. More than anyone else, the Inquisitors were the ones who gave the Venatori such a fearsome reputation in America and elsewhere.
Aradia had also insisted on sending Madame MacLachlan. She’d previously been a member of the senior council—the youngest in many decades, owing to her prodigious talent in battle—but Gregorovia had been forced to demote her to house guard after her failure to take Greenhearth.
“Yes,” the former Grandmistress replied. “Of course. It shall be done at once.”
Dispatching MacLachlan and the Inquisitors would leave the senior council and the Lyon headquarters virtually defenseless, aside from a small token contingent of middling troops.
“Good,” Aradia echoed, and a deadly smile played on her lips. “Your very best fighters should suffice, should they not? I hope so for your sake. If they fail, I will hold both you and them responsible, for the Order itself will have failed. I will decimate this great institution that I raised myself in ancient times and rebuild it from the ground up.”
Gregorovia went cold inside.
“But,” the goddess added, “that shall be only my second order of business. If the Inquisitors fail, I shall first win the war. Myself. Regardless of any ‘rules’ that other beings have foolishly set.”
Now the former Grandmistress felt sick to her stomach. Nauseous terror spread throughout the residual coven-mind of the councilwomen. If Aradia broke the covenant against divine intervention, the wrath of the other gods would destroy them all as surely as she would.
“That won’t be necessary,” Gregorovia insisted. “Our best troops will succeed. We will do whatever it takes. Preexisting information will allow us to hunt down Bailey Nordin and kill her at last, and if that proves difficult, the Inquisitors can easily apply pressure to the girl’s family, friends, neighbors, even her lover.”
Aradia raised her hands and the room darkened around them. “Do it. Do it all.”
* * *
“Hah!” Madame MacLachlan grinned at her new companions. “I knew they’d rue the day they downgraded my status. If they’d done things the way I tried to do them to begin with, just wiping out all of the bloody brutes, we wouldn’t be in this pickle, would we?”
The Inquisitors did not seem to share her enthusiasm, but it didn’t bother her since they were taking their orders seriously. They took everything seriously.
MacLachlan could have been an Inquisitor, but she’d joined the Order two years too late. It had been enough time to grow a sense of humor, which had disqualified her from the position. She’d worked her way up to senior councilwoman in near-record time instead.
There were twenty-eight of them in the Chamber of Portals, nine Inquisitors, along with their eighteen assistants and the Scotswoman.
“I’m to be in charge of the Pacific Northwest expedition. Again,” she reminded the others. “I know the lay of the land, having assaulted it last time I was there. Of course, since that’s where Bailey and her dog pack are located, the bulk of you should come with me. Our mission is the most important of all.”
One of the Inquisitors stepped forth. “Yes,” she said in an icy monotone, “but you are to heed our advice in certain matters. That is an order from the Grandmistress. Understood?”
MacLachlan looked at the woman. Her name was Jarvis, and she had a long braid of black hair but was otherwise nondescript. Like the other members of her elite group, she wore leather the color of fresh charcoal, in contrast to the deep reddish hues favored by the regular Venatori.
“Fine,” said the Scotswoman. “Try to make it good advice, then. Now, hop to it.”
MacLachlan, Madame Jarvis, another junior Inquisitor who hadn’t divulged her name yet, and four assistant witches stepped through the portal that would take them to British Columbia.
After a moment of dizzying coldness, they emerged deep in the cellars of a shipping facility in Vancouver. From there, it was child’s play to stow away on a boat and ensure it rapidly moved to Portland. Any officials who inspected the ship too closely were enchanted and mindwiped.
Mere hours after they’d left the hall in Lyon, the seven sorceresses had persuaded a car dealer to let them have a large-capacity van for free and without needing to do the necessary paperwork. They conjured a false license plate and drove it without delay toward the little town of Greenhearth.
“Do recall,” MacLachlan told the others as they neared their destination, “that the lycanthropes have surrounded the entire bloody valley with volunteer patrols of their kind. Possibly some humans, too. We’d best stop well outside the town and have a look before we move in. Then again, the former Grandmistress did say that this was to be a terror mission, not a stealth one.”
Madame Jarvis’ mouth tightened. “We know this. Stop,” she told her younger partner, who brought the van to a halt by a well-forested shoulder of the winding road.
They could all sense the presence of Weres nearby, the faint aura and the smell. Their mission would begin minutes after they stepped out of the vehicle.
All seven exited, alert and combative. MacLachlan was on the cusp of joy. She’d wanted a rematch with the wretched hamlet ever since she’d been kicked out of it. The Inquisitorial personnel merely seemed focused on getting the job done.
They walked downhill on the side of the road, making no special effort to conceal themselves, and soon they heard the rustlings of rapid movement.
Dark, furry shapes burst out of the forest on either side of them. It was nothing they hadn’t expected.
There were eight, maybe ten. MacLachlan, grinning fiercely, seized three of the human-sized wolves via telekinesis and hurled them hundreds of feet into the air, allowing them to arc naturally over a crevasse between wooded mountain peaks and then fall to their deaths within it.
Jarvis glared at the Scotswoman as she drove a Were back with a blast of icy wind. “At least one must live,” she barked. “They must answer questions.”
Though the lycanthropes fought to the limit of their abilities, the fight was over quickly. MacLachlan had to admit that Jarvis was her equal, maybe even her superior, in the field of arcane battle, with a particular talent for the manipulation of air and water. The wolves floundered, dead or unconscious, under the powerful assault, and soon only one remained.
“Hah!” MacLachlan scoffed. “Clearly your whole strategy was to hold the line until the Agency could ride to the rescue, was it? Your kind never were as hard as you thought you were.”
Jarvis raised a hand, indicating the nominal leader should be silent, and stared into the wolf’s eyes.
“Where is Bailey?” the witch asked.
The young man, for he had shifted back into human form, his clothes half-torn near the armpits and knees, only growled at her.
Jarvis stepped in. Her hand shot out with blinding speed and dug into the man’s armpit, making him spasm with pain as she forced him to his knees with inhuman strength. “Where is Bailey? Where is her family?”
MacLachlan snorted. “He’s not going to talk, you know. We should just flatten the whole town and then pick the bodies of the Nordins out of the wreckage.”
And indeed, the prisoner didn’t. Jarvis encased his head in a sphere of water, pushing him to the brink of drowning before dismissing it, but still he said nothing. He was prepared to die in defense of his loyalty oath.
Jarvis�
�� eyes narrowed. “Very well. We shall make an example of you.”
Four more Weres ran up the street toward the group, from the town proper, snarling, and half-shifting as they moved. With an offhand motion Jarvis cast a lateral blade of wind at them, cutting all four in half at the waist or chest. Then she looked back at the captive.
“I have an idea,” MacLachlan proposed. “Let’s leave him here. For a long, long time.”
She twisted her fingers, and the werewolf levitated into the air. He could barely flail his limbs, as though underwater, but he did not move to the side, only straight upward. His ascent stopped about seventy meters from the ground. At the present altitude, he’d stand out in the sky, readily visible to anyone in town who looked.
MacLachlan wove long-lasting strings of basic magic to tie the wolf in place.
“There,” she stated. “The spell will last long enough for him to die of hunger, thirst, exposure, and the like. No one will be able to save him or bring him down. I’ll stand guard over him and do unpleasant things to him until further notice. Nothing fatal. Low-level electric shocks, shallow lacerations, perhaps telekinetic kicks and punches to the groin. We can relieve him when the townsfolk begin to cooperate. Which they will.”
Jarvis nodded. “Yes. Come, let us search the town and question those people.”
As they set off into Greenhearth, the Inquisitor reminded her subjects of the necessary procedure. “No resistance is to be tolerated. It must be dealt with immediately and harshly.”
Chapter Nine
With Agent Velasquez having left to implement his devious ploy, Roland got back in touch with Dante, composing a text message to him near the corner of an empty lot while Fenris watched over his shoulder.
Before the wizard could send the message, he was interrupted by an incoming call. His phone recognized it as the number from Gunney’s auto shop.
“What the heck?” he remarked. He swiped his finger across the screen. “Hello? Gunney?”
“Roland,” the mechanic’s voice sounded, and there was a harsh note of fear in it that made the wizard’s abdomen clench up. “We got major trouble back on the home front. Every damn Were in town is in danger, and probably most of the humans besides. The Venatori are back, but instead of an army, this time, it’s a small group of hell, super-witches. Two of them are in black leather instead of that usual maroon or whatever, and I’m pretty sure another is the bitch who commanded that big assault about a month ago. They killed at least a dozen wolves so far, and they’ve got one poor schmuck—Doug, I think—suspended in midair and being tortured.”
The wizard closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, hell. What do they want? Bailey?”
“Yeah,” Gunney responded. “They’ve been kicking down doors and brushing aside anyone who tries to fuck with ‘em. I’ve never seen witches as powerful as these ones. No one can lay a finger on them. They keep asking where Bailey is, but we don’t have the slightest idea! And they want to know where her brothers are, too. I’m not sure of that myself. I thought they knew where the Nordin house was, but they’ll find them soon, I’m sure. And for all that those three are tough bastards, I don’t think they can handle these ladies by themselves.”
Fenris, listening in, started to speak, but Roland was way ahead of him. “Tell them that Bailey’s in the Other,” he said, his words almost spilling over each other, “but she never said exactly where she was going. Which is the truth, anyway. We’re trying to get them to come after Bailey into the Other. No collateral damage that way. Find them and tell them.”
“It ain’t gonna be that simple,” Gunney sighed. “They’re trying to lure Bailey out so they can dogpile her on their own terms. Based on what they’re doing to Doug, I’d guess the idea is to force her hand by threatening her family. With your help, maybe they could overpower them. But then you’d be at risk too. These witches are nothing to fuck around with, Roland. No offense, but I’m not sure even you could deal with them.”
Inquisitors, Roland thought. I thought they were just an urban legend, or the Venatori had already sent them in normal uniforms. I guess not. We’re finally getting to deal with the creme de la creme.
Gunney went on. “I can’t get hold of Bailey if she’s in a damn alternate dimension. You and Fenris might be the only ones who can help. I could try that agent’s number, but you never know with those people.”
“We’re on it,” Roland replied. “If they question you, again, tell the truth. Try to stall them, but don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger. Them going through a portal into the Other is part of the plan, anyway, and at least it’ll mean Greenhearth is safe. But we’re coming. Hang tight.”
The older man’s voice came in a wheeze. “I hope you’re right. So long.”
Roland hung up. “You heard that, obviously,” he said, turning to Fenris. “What the goddamn hell do we do now? Me trying to fight that caliber of witchcraft would be a coin-flip at best, and I’m guessing you’re still not going to help out.”
The god’s face was stony, but subtle tremors of wrath were going through his body. “I cannot intervene directly. You know this. But I will help however I can. Message your friend and gather any volunteers you can—wolves, witches, or anyone willing to help. Then I can open a portal to take you to the Hearth Valley. From there, it will be up to you.”
“Yeah,” was Roland’s only comment. He finished composing his text and shot it off to Dante, resolving to call the kid if he didn’t reply post-haste.
Fortunately, it only took a minute or so. The response indicated Dante had had some luck convincing two witches to help out, and he might convince a third with more work. That was far fewer than Roland would have liked, but it sounded like they were powerful casters.
Fenris inhaled. “Tell him to keep working on the third witch, and bring any others he can. You, meanwhile, should see to your contacts, including the local Weres you spoke to earlier. We can spare perhaps one hour while the townspeople stall the Venatori. Then we must move.”
“Agreed.” Roland sent the next text, then asked the tall shaman if he could open a portal within Seattle to get him to the Holmquist residence.
Fenris grimaced. “I am pushing the limits of what is allowed,” he observed, “but then, so is Aradia. We have no choice but to respond to her aggression and manipulation in kind.” He raised his arms, uttered a chant, and opened the portal.
“Thanks,” Roland said and stepped through into the Other. From their usual transit-point in the arcane bog, Fenris opened another doorway that led straight to the Were family’s backyard. The wizard just hoped that no normies had seen him step out of a glowing gateway in midair.
The backdoor opened, and Mrs. Holmquist looked at him in dull shock.
“Hi!” He waved. “You remember me, right? Well, I meant to come to the door again, but I was in a slight hurry. So anyway, Bailey’s in trouble, and I was wondering if I could ask for your help with something.”
* * *
Nine figures stood amidst the fog that swirled around the boggy ground while the black claws of dead trees reached toward a clouded-over sky of deep purple. Facing the rest of the group was Fenris.
“Are you all in agreement?” he asked the other eight. “Are you prepared for what’s to come? If so, I will open the gateway to the auto shop, so that you can reconnoiter with Gunney before engaging the Venatori.”
Roland and Dante stood at the head of the octet. They looked back at their new allies to gauge their reactions.
Each wizard had drummed up three volunteers. The quantity might be lacking, but the quality was not.
Dante had succeeded in convincing the third witch he’d mentioned to join them. All three were women, which was a good sign, given the usual gender imbalance in magical talent among their species. Slender goth types mostly, although the one—Charlene, if Roland remembered right?—was wearing a blue shirt instead of black.
Meanwhile, Roland had gotten Mr. Holmquist and two of the late Gr
eg Holmquist’s friends to tag along for a little payback against the organization that had introduced them to tragedy. The older gentleman was at least fifty, and perhaps not as fast as he’d once been, but he was still powerful and claimed to have learned a few fighting tricks over the decades that more than made up for his decreased agility. The younger Weres were named Jon and Trevor. Jon had left the club where Greg had died only ten minutes prior to the arrival of the Venatori’s hit squad. He seemed consumed with survivor’s guilt.
“Well,” Roland had told him, “now’s your chance to vent some of that negativity on the people who most have it coming.”
The two trios mostly clustered among their own kind. They were willing to work together, but it appeared they expected Roland and Dante to lead them separately as sub-groups within the overall force.
But with all eight about to head back to Greenhearth, they would have to do whatever was necessary.
Roland spoke for them all. “We’re ready. We haven’t had a lot of time, but we discussed general tactics, and we all want to do this.”
Nods and grunts of assents went around the octet.
Fenris turned away from them. “So be it.” He chanted the words that would open the necessary portal.
To defuse the tension, Roland said to Dante’s recruits, “It’s nice to see some ladies in the party. That ought to maximize our firepower.”
“Thanks,” Charlene replied curtly.
Dante squinted in confusion and nudged at the other wizard. “I thought you were supposed to be, like, the exceptionally powerful one.”
Roland rubbed one of his eyes. “I am, for a male. Chicks are generally stronger than dudes when it comes to magic, which puts me in the upper-middle range of casters overall. I mean, I’m no slouch, but frankly, I’m not a match for the top-tier female witches.”
“Oh,” Dante muttered. “Right. Damn.”
“It is what it is.” Roland shrugged.
