Were War (WereWitch Book 4)

by Renée Jaggér

  Alfred frowned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. Only so much we can share without breaking the bonds of friendship we have. Different packs, different people. You know how it is. Different shamans we’ve got mutual loyalty to. We’re not from your town, and we don’t owe you any counter-information that might lead to reprisals against our cousins.”

  He said that in a somber, borderline-apologetic way, softening the impact of his words, although she suspected he wouldn’t budge if she pressed him on it.

  Before she could respond, he continued. “But I will say I no longer believe what I’d heard. You’re tough and have an attitude, but your heart seems to be in the right place. You refrained from killing any of us, even when you probably could have, and now here we are, talking things out. That tells me you’re honest about trying to be a good shaman. You care about the welfare of wolves in general, not just your pack, your town, or your base of knowledge.”

  Roland fidgeted, confused by the man’s direct way of speaking. On some level, he still didn’t understand the rules of werewolf society.

  Alfred smiled. “So, if you ever swing by our neck of the woods, I owe you a drink.”

  He turned around and motioned for the younger men to follow him. They all trudged toward the portal they’d come through, which still stood open.

  “See ya,” one of the bucks called as though they were old friends. Then the ten of them filed through the gateway. Seconds later, it vanished.

  Roland shook his head slowly. “Well, that was an adventure. I think. What just happened?”

  Bailey scowled. “Dumbass. You heard him. Some dickhead lied to them, so here they came. At least they were smart enough to believe me once I had the opportunity to talk to them. End of story, aside from the matter of who this guy is who sent them after me.”

  “Yeah,” the wizard agreed. “That part bothers me. Their neighbor pack’s apprentice shaman? And these are people you don’t even know?”

  The girl stared into the distance. “It doesn’t make any sense, but we’ve got to figure it out. And I know just the man to ask—if he ever shows back up.”

  Chapter Five

  Fortunately, it wasn’t much longer when Marcus, at long last, reappeared.

  He didn’t step out of a portal; rather, he emerged from the nearby forest and then walked, slowly and casually, up the hillock toward them. Whatever business he’d been on, it must have been something within the Other, rather than back on Earth.

  “You know,” Roland commented to Bailey, although he was sure Marcus could hear him, “the other ones tend to be a little more dramatic with their entrances.”

  Bailey flicked his ear. “Yeah, and also more likely to ‘test’ us with random acts of combat twenty seconds after they show up. At least Marcus had the decency to ask if we wanted his help first.”

  The tall man, still wearing his bulky hooded coat, crested the rise and stood before them. “What are you talking about?”

  Roland laughed and rubbed his forehead. “Hoo, boy. Have we got a story for you! Two of them, in fact.”

  Marcus looked at Bailey. “Tell me.”

  The delayed emotional impact of all that had transpired hit the girl all at once, and as soon as she opened her mouth, the words rushed out. “Yeah, we’ll tell you, and then we’ve got a shit-ton of questions for you as well. Goddamn, Marcus, how does this stuff even keep happening? And where the heck were you? Don’t leave us alone in here again! Weres, witches, and now even gods are all coming after us.”

  “Yup!” Roland chirped, a wild gleam in his eye. “Gods. Ha-ha. Crazy, right? Armies of ghosts. The divine sort, not the native rabble. Things just keep getting more interesting.”

  The shaman held up his hands, blinking within his hood. “Slow down. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You’re safe now, so just take a deep breath and start from the beginning. I can’t help you if you don’t explain things clearly.”

  Somehow, the man’s demeanor helped them calm down. Even despite their confusion and suspicions, the simple fact that he was willing to listen while they talked it out made it easier to discuss.

  They told him how they’d reconvened by the campfire, only to encounter Baldur shortly after they’d left. How the god wanted to know what they were doing and saw fit to test them in battle against a host of warrior spirits. Hearing this, Marcus’ face was grave, but he only nodded and waited for them to go on.

  They then described how they had been attacked by the Whitcomb Creek Pack, in much the same fashion as the Junipers and Eastmoors had come after them previously. They relayed how disturbed they were that this mysterious apprentice shaman was spreading rumors that they needed to be taken out.

  Through it all, Bailey was mostly curious and hurt by the implication that she was doing something bad, despite her just wanting to grow into her responsibilities and stand up for her people.

  Roland, on the other hand, seemed borderline paranoid about the entire situation. He also didn’t miss the opportunity to wonder why Baldur was so curious about the doings of his Asgardian kin.

  Fenris, wearing his imposing yet unremarkable human form, gave a final nod as they concluded their story. “I see,” he rumbled.

  “Good,” Roland said curtly.

  Bailey just gazed at her teacher. First of all, she had to know about Baldur and what it meant for their relationship as master and student.

  Marcus seemed to sense that and addressed it immediately. “First, I understand your concern about my cousin’s visit. It stems from a long and complicated history of what you might call ‘family business.’ There’s almost no way for me to explain it to mortals, but I can reassure you it won’t happen again. Freya and Baldur have both conducted their tests, and the results have been in your favor.”

  “Okay,” Bailey replied, although his words didn’t make her feel better. “It worried me because it almost sounded like he, Baldur, thought you were doing something wrong.”

  Marcus shook his head, frowning into the shadows. “I have never been on very good terms with my family, thanks to my connection with werewolves. The Norsemen of old fought them at times, regarding them as sources of strife and chaos, and people they banished from their societies were treated as ‘lone wolves’ whom anyone might slay. Taking the Were people as my children has made me the…black sheep, you might say, in Asgard.”

  A smile of sardonic, almost vicious amusement spread across his face at that.

  “Pardon me,” he added. “The irony of it! The god of wolves, comparing himself to a sheep.”

  “Oh, ha,” Bailey commented. “Right, right. I guess that clarifies things somewhat, but I still feel like we’re in more danger than we already were.”

  The shaman waved a hand. “I will take care of it. It’s not your concern anymore. My family will, if necessary, hear me out and learn to leave us to our own affairs.”

  Roland piped up. “What about the pack that jumped us? Bailey said she’s never even met those guys. Why would they still be gunning for her when we already demonstrated to those previous groups that Bailey isn’t trying to take over their leadership?”

  Marcus gave a shrug of his wide shoulders. “It’s hard to say, but the overall situation concerned me from the beginning. Revealing yourself and your powers would naturally draw attention. And now that I’ve revealed myself? Well, that has lent you legitimacy, but in other ways, it might have made it worse. The lofty invariably attract the jealous and the envious.”

  The wizard’s eyes rolled. Not in sarcastic skepticism, Bailey noticed, but in thoughtfulness. What Marcus had just said was a near-perfect description of what Roland had gone through as a kid.

  The shaman went on. “Someone ambitious, who perhaps feels threatened by your rise—this other shaman’s apprentice, perhaps—might have decided that he can make a name for himself by targeting you. Maybe he thinks that with you out of the way, Bailey, he can take your place, and have the honor of training under me. Or he might legit
imately believe the paranoid gossip that you plan to depose all other shamans and alphas, despite what’s happened recently.”

  Bailey nodded. “That makes sense. Oh, also, the Whitcomb alpha Alfred mentioned something about them worrying that I’m attracting the attention of the Venatori.” Her face fell. “I guess he was right about that, but the cat’s out of the bag. I never meant to let it out, and I don’t know how to put it back in.”

  Marcus laid a hand on her shoulder, and some of her stress melted away. “I will do more to shield you and hide you while you’re in the Other. In that much at least, I admit fault. Otherwise, don’t trouble yourself with these things.”

  “So,” Roland asked, “what should we do?”

  The god of wolves smiled grimly. “Keep training.”

  Thirteen women stood on a low ridge lined with mossy pine trees and looked down on the little settlement. They made no effort to hide since they knew they were well-concealed.

  “Cute,” remarked Madame MacLachlan as she surveyed the premises.

  It was a werewolf community disguised as a mobile home village in the middle of the rustic area near the Capitol State Forest, south of Washington’s capital of Olympia. The strawberry-blonde witch had to admit it was clever. By concentrating all their people in the area within a single trailer park, the Were pack was able to hide in plain sight, separate from nearby human towns, without needing many people who could be trusted to maintain silence.

  Of course, it was also a cheap, low-class place, exactly what she would expect of American lycanthropes.

  One of the apprentice-level witches she’d brought turned to her. “When do we strike, Madame?”

  MacLachlan didn’t look at her. “In a minute or two. Just need to check for traffic.”

  She sent her mind out to scry for oncoming cars who might witness what was about to happen. There didn’t seem to be any since the trailer park was located on a back road that few people would have cause to take unless they lived there.

  Another young sorceress fidgeted. “Just give the word, Madame. We are ready.”

  MacLachlan ignored her. It was mildly annoying to have the grunts pressuring her, but at least it meant they were enthusiastic.

  She’d picked them out of the Venatori’s lower ranks on the basis of obedience, motivation, and destructive skill. Any who’d expressed hesitation, she passed over and chose someone else instead. All twelve of them wanted to be here.

  MacLachlan didn’t particularly, but she wasn’t about to disobey the Grandmistress. At least, not in the grand scheme of things. She had rather different ideas than Madames Gregorovia and Dorleac seemed to about how the situation should be handled. MacLachlan felt now was the time to send a message.

  They’d used a powerful but convenient teleportation spell to send themselves to a small coastal town in British Columbia, a location the Venatori had used before when they had business in the region, then stowed away on a cargo ship bound for Tacoma, near Seattle. From there, it was a simple matter to slip past the authorities and secure transportation that would take them south into Oregon.

  In fact, since they’d made such good time, MacLachlan saw no reason why they shouldn’t make a few stops along the way. They could use a nice training exercise for the new recruits.

  MacLachlan pointed at the trailer park and ordered, her tone casually amused, “Attack.”

  The young witches dashed forward, spreading out in a crescent formation, a skirmish line that would quickly wrap around the settlement and then engulf it. Once they were beyond the danger of friendly fire, they started tossing lightning bolts at the metal siding of the mobile homes.

  MacLachlan watched from a hundred meters back, encasing the little community in a soundproof magical dome as small thunderclaps rang out. The first of the frightened werewolves burst out of their homes, confused and panicked. Many had half-shifted into their hideous lupine forms, some with burnt fur from the havoc the electrical blasts had wrought.

  The primitive beasts attempted to fight back, and MacLachlan supposed it qualified as a brave attempt. But even with the Weres’ superior numbers, it was a massacre. The Venatori had the element of surprise, combined with powerful magic that far exceeded mere shapeshifting. It was an unfortunate but necessary exercise.

  There was one casualty. The apprentice who’d asked when they were going to attack had taken a nasty bite on the leg and now writhed and moaned in pain on the ground. Healing the wound wouldn’t be too difficult.

  A single survivor slipped past the twelve—a middle-aged woman, still in human form, her eyes rolling wildly as she stumbled across the sward toward MacLachlan. She didn’t even see the Venatori woman.

  The sorceress stepped forward. “Can’t allow that, I’m afraid.” She gestured at the woman, who folded to the ground and didn’t move again.

  The leader strode up to her followers. “Fine work,” she said, momentarily ignoring the screams of the injured young witch. “Just like I said—dead easy. They didn’t even know what hit them, but the rest of them will know that they cannot strike at us and fail to pay the price.”

  The witches nodded grimly. A couple of them, who hadn’t seen real violence before, looked a bit sick, but they’d get over it. It was all for the cause, after all.

  “And,” MacLachlan added, holding up a finger, “we’re thinning out their ranks. Fewer of the bastards to deal with later when the shite hits the fan.”

  She reflected with grim amusement on Madame Gregorovia’s nonsensical statement about avoiding an escalation of hostilities. Might as well hit hard and hit first, and win the war before they had a chance to lose it.

  The new girl, the one who’d said, “Just give the word,” smirked. Her name was Rhona if MacLachlan recalled.

  “Is this the best werewolves can do?” she mused.

  MacLachlan glared at her. “Don’t get overconfident. This was just a warm-up for those of you who don’t have much experience. Our main target is Bailey Nordin, who’s a far cry from these oafs. She killed at least two of ours, and they were witches of decent caliber. That’s the whole reason we’re here.”

  The younger women nodded and saluted, even Rhona.

  “And,” their leader went on, “she’s no ordinary lycanthrope. She’s a werewitch, a rare combination with access to magic on par with our own, even if she’s too green and stupid to use it with the same level of finesse that we do. But the plot thickens…”

  Most of them had already been briefed on the situation, but a few were last-minute replacements. It would benefit them all to hear a clear assessment as a group and help forge the coven-mind toward their ultimate goal.

  “She’s got a male witch with her, probably her lover, who’s also quite powerful. For a man, anyway. He might be training her in the proper use of the arcane. Plus, there’s this mysterious shaman she’s made contact with. I have no doubt that we will win in the end, but we must take this chore seriously. Those of you who don’t, risk ending up like Madame Lavonne.”

  That was clear enough. By handing them an easy victory, she had allowed them to apply their skills in a “real” situation, but now it was important to ensure that they didn’t get cocky.

  She didn’t want to terrify them, though, so she refrained from mentioning that the so-called shaman might be a god. Possibly.

  “Come, then,” MacLachlan ordered. “Burn all the houses. The authorities will assume someone left their coffee pot plugged in for too long or something, but the conspicuous pile of bodies will make people nervous all the same. Just what we want. And at our next stop, we’ll give the Weres a little advance warning before we eliminate them. You’ll have the opportunity to confront their kind in something more like a fair fight.”

  The witches went about their task, and soon the entire trailer park was blazing. There was no way to hide a conflagration of that size, and sirens approached.

  As the Venatori took their leave, MacLachlan reflected on how lopsided the whole conflict was likely to b
e. Her group was only the advance force, the shock troops. Madame Gregorovia had promised to send reinforcements soon.

  Once the Scotswoman informed her of how things had “accidentally” gotten out of control, the council would have no choice but to send even more. Soon MacLachlan would lead half the Order’s army to victory.

  A lone man stood and watched the fires grow. He noted the direction the thirteen women went—southeast, of course—but his attention was mainly focused on the carnage they’d left behind and the small bleeping device in his hands.

  “Damn,” Agent Townsend muttered. “That’s about all there is to say, isn’t it? Just…damn.”

  He’d gotten there too late to intervene in any meaningful way. Besides, he’d had no idea they’d planned to do this. Even by the Venatori’s standards, what had just happened was beyond the pale.

  He could have grabbed a gun, leapt in, and played the hero. He might have been able to toast one or two of them before they reduced him to a splotch on the ground—just like the late Agent Spall.

  The witches would move on with their mission anyway, and the whole trailer park would still be dead and in flames. Then there wouldn’t be anyone to report on their movements or coordinate an effort to stop them.

  Townsend took a deep breath. Watching the Weres get slaughtered hadn’t been fun. However, he knew that, under the circumstances, he’d done the right thing by keeping himself alive to fight another day.

  The gadget he held before him sort of resembled an old Game Boy Color from the 90s. He remembered when the damn things had first come out. Of course, the Agency device bore no resemblance to a Game Boy in function, only in form.

  Specifically, it noted concentrations of magic in carbon-based material. Arcane expulsions tended to react with blood, hence the many magical traditions, especially the blacker sort, that employed blood as the main component of their rituals. There were significant concentrations of witchcraft in the stains that now littered the destroyed trailer park, and he’d managed to document most of them before the whole place went up in flames.