by Renée Jaggér
After they’d cleaned up their plates and cups and utensils, Russell and Kurt flipped a coin to determine who would end up with dishwashing duty. The logic went that Kurt deserved it for his “monthly cycles” comment, but Russell also deserved it for cursing the Pacific Northwest’s only NFL team, even if they were based in Washington rather than Oregon.
Kurt won the honor and complained all the way to the sink.
Then Roland made good on his vow to stumble out back and pass out, while Bailey decided that she needed to get out of the house. Maybe head to the auto body shop.
“Okay,” Jacob said. “Just be careful. You got your phone? Call us if anything happens.”
“The hell?” Bailey teased him. “You’re my younger brother. Besides, I’m the one with the superhuman powers and shit. But thanks. I’ll be in touch if anything gets weird.”
They hugged, then the girl hopped into her truck and drove off to see Gunney.
His shop lay up a hill near the edge of town, a little way off the main highway that went through the center of Greenhearth. It was now about five o’clock, meaning that the place was still open for business, although if things were slow, the employees might have gone home. Gunney was almost guaranteed to still be there, though.
As the girl pulled her black Tundra into the parking lot, she saw that a light was still on within the rightmost of the three bays, confirming her suspicions. She hopped out of the truck and strolled over.
The older man’s voice wafted from somewhere within. “Hi, Bailey. Good to see you again. It’d be nice to see you during business hours for once, but I know you got things going on.”
She frowned at that. Technically, she worked here. Until fairly recently, she’d been on the fuller side of part-time, picking up twenty-five to thirty hours a week. Ever since Roland had appeared in her life and all the other stuff had happened, she’d been more like a temp.
“Hi,” she replied. “Well, you know I’m willing to help outside of proper hours, at least.”
“That’s true.” He wandered out from behind the car sitting on the lift, a Camaro. “Come on in. Help yourself to one of the orange sodas in the office fridge. You weren’t gone long enough for the fuckers to switch from glass to plastic bottles, so don’t worry about that.”
She smiled and heeded his suggestion. Oddly, she didn’t drink orange soda (in glass bottles) anywhere else, but the shop wouldn’t be the same without it.
Having drunk half the bottle, she ambled back into the work area. “Okay,” she began, “what we up to tonight?”
The Camaro was a ’72 and pretty much beat to hell. Bailey felt her mouth drooping along with her spirits at the sight of such a beautiful classic car in ravaged condition. It was mostly a dull burgundy color, with white stripes up the front. She’d have chosen a different hue, but it was still a nice model. The front quarter panels were wrecked from what looked like a combination of collision damage on top of years of rust, and the grill was warped and partially broken.
If the old thing was going to have a second chance at life, it was in pretty much the best possible place.
Gunney wiped his big, callused hands on a dirty rag. “I bought it from the wrecker’s,” he stated. “Business is a tad slow these last couple days, so I’m working on this one for the hell of it. One day, it might be another gem in my collection, almost on par with the Trans Am.”
He smiled, staring lovingly at the vehicle. Knowing him, he was probably looking forward to all the labor that would go into rescuing it.
“Nice,” said Bailey. “I’ll help. But to be honest, I kinda wanted advice. Things ain’t getting any easier with F…with Marcus. I know training isn’t supposed to be easy, but it’s been weird, not just difficult.”
Gunney threw her a brief glance. Then he removed his battered old baseball cap to let his scalp breathe, and his shaggy hair spilled across his face.
“You’re alive, aren’t you? That right there means you must be doing something right. You can talk about it, but before you do, one piece of advice I’ll give is that tinkering with a car might be the best thing you could do right now. Takes your mind off things.”
She smiled, and they set to work replacing the panels.
Getting them off didn’t take long, and the mechanic had spares ready to go. As they affixed them, Bailey summarized what had happened, leaving out the juiciest and most implausible details. She didn’t mention Baldur. Gunney had seen a lot of things in his time and could be open-minded, but even he might have trouble with the notion of a Norse god showing up.
She did, however, make it clear that the training on top of all the pack drama was on the verge of overwhelming her.
The older man listened. He mostly kept his eyes on the car and didn’t say much, but they’d known each other long enough that it wasn’t necessary for him to keep reminding her of his attention.
“I see,” he commented when she’d reached the end of her spiel. He’d begun sanding the paint off the vehicle by hand. “Here, help me with this.”
He passed her a sander and they passed the simple tools over the vehicle, scraping away the old paint. Using repetitive motions was mildly tiring but soothing as well.
“So,” she asked, “is this some kind of wax-on, wax-off thing? Sorry, lame joke.”
Gunney chuckled. “Not what I had in mind, but close enough. This damn paint does need to come off, that’s for sure. And getting it off is a simpler matter than the rest of the crap you just told me about.”
“No shit,” she muttered, conscious of her gloomy tone of voice.
The conversation drifted to mundane things—local gossip, TV shows, and the ever-popular weather, which had been relatively nice lately by PNW standards.
“See,” the mechanic went on, “there’s always something going on, and it does sound like you’re going through a rough spot. You’ve dealt with everything so far, though. You always do. This too will pass. Just take it one step at a time and let yourself get absorbed and in the, uh, zone or flow state or whatever those motivational types are talking about these days, and it’ll happen. Before you know it, you’ll be on the upside of half the bullshit, and the other half won’t seem so bad.”
In fact, they were almost done with the first stage of the paint removal. Time had flown.
“See?” he pointed out. He squinted at the vehicle. “Not a deep sand, but it’s a damn good start. We made progress, and the rest will sort itself out.”
They whiled away the evening, touching up the Camaro and talking about random stuff. They’d done that for years, long before any witches had shown up, and long before Bailey had even the slightest thought of becoming a were-shaman.
A bit before nine o’clock, they realized they were both famished. Bailey’d had dinner a few hours ago but was hungry again, and Gunney hadn’t eaten since lunch.
So they hopped in the mechanic’s truck and drove to the Bristling Elk, the town’s combined country-western bar and diner. Neither had been there in a long time, and the kitchen was open until ten-thirty on weekdays.
As they stepped through the front doors, they almost bumped into Tomi, the full-time evening waitress. She was a blonde of about thirty-three who’d been consistently flirting with Bailey’s brothers since they were in their mid-teens.
“Bailey!” she exclaimed. “I ain’t seen you around in a while. And Gunney, hi. You getting something to eat or just a drink?”
The older man smiled. “Late supper. I forgot to eat earlier, and we got to talking and working on cars. That’ll chew up anyone’s time if they’re not careful.”
No one else was eating at this hour. Probably just as well, Bailey thought, since the two of us smell like a couple of vagrants who went to sleep in a horse trough filled with old motor oil. Not like Gunney cares what anyone thinks of him. They all know he’s a damn mechanic.
Tomi was along to take their orders a minute or two after they’d sat down. They each requested a beer and a steak sandwich cooked medium
for the mechanic, medium-rare for Bailey.
As the waitress headed toward the kitchen, Bailey let out a sigh. “You know, Roland tells me you shouldn’t eat meat more than once a day. It can lead to colon cancer down the road, supposedly.”
Gunney laughed. “That could be. You’re a little young to be worried about that, though. Maybe in another ten or fifteen years. I’m the one who oughta be watching my diet. You eat what you want for now.”
He leaned back, and his face took on a philosophical cast. “Besides,” he added, “I never heard of a wolf being a vegetarian.”
Chapter Eight
“Fine work,” she told her followers. “Again, only one minor casualty on our side.” The witch who’d been hurt had been on a mission of this sort before and was old enough to know better.
The Venatori had moved southeast. MacLachlan had augured the concentrated presence of lycanthropes somewhere in the wooded hills north of Lake Merwin and not too far southwest of the famous Mt. St. Helens. The pack hadn’t taken long to find.
They had been dispersed throughout the area, but half belonged to the large family who owned the farm. Most of the rest had convened here for a full moon celebration. MacLachlan had to admit that was a stroke of luck, even if the rest of their victory was purely due to skill, talent, and the generally higher level of intelligence of witches as compared to Weres. The second training mission had gone well. Her team was shaping up nicely.
The whole pack was dead. As Madame convened her assistants to depart, though, she sensed the presence of other magic moving closer. A moment later, three figures, almost certainly female, appeared out of the forest and crossed the dirt road on foot.
MacLachlan made two swift gestures, indicating that her subordinates should gather behind her but should hold off on attacking.
The women stopped just past the edge of the farm’s property. Front and center and presumably speaking for them was a short lady of about forty, probably of mixed heritage, with curly dark hair.
“Peace, sisters,” she said. “We know who you are. Our coven is based in this area. Did those stupid lycans attack you?”
MacLachlan sensed that the local witches were excited to see them and more curious than anything. Still, she considered for a few seconds before she answered.
“Yes,” she stated. “The werewolves of the Pacific Northwest killed some of our Order and turned the rest over to the authorities. We’ve come to teach them a lesson and neutralize the threat.”
The trio did not exchange glances, but something flowed between them—a subtle shared thought, part of a coven-mind.
The leader smiled. “My name is Janith Ritter. These are my friends and coven sisters, Tamara and Melissa. We would like to offer you our aid and cooperation.”
Madame MacLachlan returned the woman’s pleasant expression. “Good. You can start by telling us everything you know about Bailey Nordin. You have heard of her, haven’t you?”
Another barely perceptible ripple streaked through the air between the three.
“We have,” Janith admitted. “She’s not local to our area, but not too far either. She lives somewhere in the mountains beyond Portland if I’m not mistaken. The world of the supernatural has been afire with rumors about her and the meaning of everything she’s been getting up to.”
The witch to the left, Tamara, chimed in, “She’s been through southern Washington a couple times. She and her boyfriend, a wizard named Roland from Seattle who we’d heard of long before anyone mentioned her.”
Melissa, the third witch, added her own commentary. “They caused enough trouble in Portland and Seattle that some of it made its way onto the evening news, in addition to all the gossip coming over the grapevine in our circles. And of course, the Weres are all riled up over this nonsense about her being a shaman.”
Janith cast a brief glance at the burning barn. “They were even more obnoxious than usual.”
Behind her, MacLachlan could feel her women growing restless, impatient to move on with the mission. She allowed irritation to creep into her voice when she responded to the local coven.
“We know most if not all of that. Still, we appreciate your offer of aid. Are you really willing to help us, though? If so, then join us as apprentices. That means I’m giving you the chance to enlist in the Venatori Order. The mission is simple—kill werewolves. Lots of them. Show them they can’t treat our sisters as they did.”
Tamara, who appeared to be the youngest of the three, giggled. Then all three nodded, and Janith said, “We accept.”
“Glad to have you,” MacLachlan replied. “Make ready to leave right away. I’ve got a spell over this farm cloaking the flames from sight and muffling the noise we’ve made, but it’ll not last much more than an hour without me here to maintain it. We need to be on our way before the human authorities arrive.”
Melissa looked a tad dismayed at that but quickly resigned herself, her opinion having been overpowered by the coven-mind. She must have assumed they’d have a day or two to prepare.
As the group of sorceresses departed the ravaged property, MacLachlan reflected on her good luck in running into the three.
Her girls needed more experience in combat, but she didn’t want to put their lives at too much risk. The more troops she retained, the easier her task would be. Having a few locals on hand to act as cannon fodder would make things better.
It was in line with the Order’s overall philosophy, as well. Their ultimate mission was the preservation, advancement, and supremacy of witchkind. The Venatori were the cream of the crop, and as such, individuals from outside the Order could be sacrificed if need be in order to protect them, those more suited to the broader goal.
In just under three and a half hours, the Venatori task force with its three new guides and allies in tow had crossed the state line, passed through Portland, and arrived at the edge of a tiny village just off the highway leading to Mt. Hood.
They probably could have gone all the way to Greenhearth, but there were at least two more packs that MacLachlan wanted to deal with. Those were the one here, near the mountain, and another that would require a slight detour east of the Cascades. They’d still have plenty of time for Bailey. In fact, the delay might draw even more lycanthropes to the girl’s side.
That way, MacLachlan could kill all of them at once.
The sorceresses piled out of their vehicles and stood before the little settlement, which slept under the still-full moon. Janith, Tamara, and Melissa were out in front.
“Right,” Madame began. “This is a test. Surely you expected that, right? See how far you can get toward wiping them out before you need our help. We’ll step in when the time is right.”
The trio swallowed the lumps in their throats. Just as MacLachlan had suspected, they weren’t very powerful.
Sighing, she taught them a few extra tricks before she turned them loose.
Nick stared, his face slowly going slack with a dismay that far exceeded anything he’d felt before.
“I can’t believe this,” he hissed. “I cannot fucking believe it. How could she have done something like this? This is the kind of shit the Nazis did. Why would she herd a bunch of her own people into a barn and burn it? Gods!”
They stood on the wet grass of the farm in southern Washington, gazing at the still-smoldering pile of ruins that contained the charred skeletons of the pack. Sirens were approaching, so they’d have to leave soon.
Marcus put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder to comfort him. “I’m at a loss too. Things are far worse than I had suspected. Granted, we can’t be positive about who’s responsible for this, but there aren’t many other convincing options.”
“No,” Nick protested. “It has to be her. No matter what crap comes out of her mouth, it all fits. She is trying to take over the Were community in this part of the country and killing anyone who opposes her. She’s sending a message that she’s going to take the role of High Shaman by force, and she has the power to make the
rest of us accept it.”
He swallowed and trembled with a mixture of nausea and fury.
Marcus scrunched his face, eyes distant as though he were contemplating something. “We might be able to stop her by turning everyone against her, but that would require catching her in the act and taking a phone video or some such. But that would mean allowing her to strike again.”
The apprentice shaman snorted. “Fuck that. She’s not going to get the chance. We ought to stop her by stopping her. I don’t care what the Whitcombs say, she’s out of control. I’ll take my own goddamn pack this time and do the job right. We’ll hunt her down in her own hometown.”
Inwardly, Fenris smiled. Things were working out just as he’d hoped.
Outwardly, Marcus offered a grave nod. “I’m afraid that might be the best thing to do at this point. Something must be done, and soon. Make sure you take enough men. If we’re lucky, further violence can be avoided. She might stand down if you catch her unawares and with superior numbers.”
Nick slipped his shoulder out from under the older man’s hand and the two began walking toward the woods, aiming to disappear into the shadows now that the authorities were almost here.
“Yeah,” the young man murmured, “I intend to. She’s not taking me out the way she took those poor bastards out. She’s not cutting anyone else off one by one. She’s going to face up to this shit.”
“If you need help,” Marcus added, “I’ll be watching. I will back you up. It’s sad that it’s come to this, but we need to do what must be done.”
The apprentice cast a final glance at the immolated corpses in the ruins of the barn.
“No shit.”
Something about having a late supper at the Elk with Gunney last night had made Bailey almost feel like things were back to normal. As if it were old times again, when her biggest concerns were fending off dickheads like Dan Oberlin once in a while and cleaning the mud out of the undercarriage of her truck.