Were War (WereWitch Book 4)

by Renée Jaggér

  The pack leaders—some alphas, some shamans, some warrior-lieutenants acting on behalf of their alphas back home—agreed and reaffirmed their allegiance, then offered to take Bailey out to meet the rest of their people and learn how all the sentries were positioned.

  She agreed, overjoyed even as their loyalty humbled her.

  The gaunt-faced man from the southeast looked at Roland and placed a massive hand on his shoulder. The wizard, absorbed in sipping coffee, raised his eyebrows and waited for him to speak.

  “And you,” the Were rumbled. “We’ve heard of you also, Roland. You’re not our kind, but you’ve helped through all of this. If Bailey trusts you, then so do we.”

  “Thanks,” Roland quipped. “I try.”

  Bailey rubbed her foot against his lower leg under the table. She wondered if she ought to make some sort of announcement about them being in a relationship at last, but there was someone she wanted to talk to first.

  The Tundra pulled in at the auto shop, where life and the business of fixing cars went on as usual, even with a small army of werewolves patrolling the town in case of a witch invasion. People needed to drive, after all.

  Bailey and Roland hopped down from the truck and strode toward the repair bays, where Gunney and the rest of his crew were hard at work on a rusted white minivan and a red Dodge Charger LX. The crusty old head mechanic noted their approach with a short glance, then returned to writing something on a clipboard, waiting for them to come to him.

  “Hi, Gunney.” Bailey waved. “Obviously we’re okay, and so are you.”

  Roland fidgeted. “I think I drank a bit too much coffee, though.”

  The older man looked at her, ignoring the wizard for the moment. “That we are. Lot of newcomers around town, but they’re your people, near as I can tell. Look like real hardasses in some cases too, which has some of the locals a little jumpy, but hardasses are just what we need these days. Assuming they’re on our side.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, that’s the idea. And they…well, they pledged loyalty to me.” For a second she grinned, but it turned into a lengthy sigh. “I gotta make sure I don’t disappoint them or screw up.”

  Gunney flipped his cap off his head, airing out his scalp and letting his hair spill out for a moment before returning the hat to its usual place.

  “Hey, now, remember what I told you. One thing at a time and you’ll do fine. Besides, you’re probably the best woman for the job of keeping us all from being turned into toads or stuck in some fuckin’ cauldron or whatever. Christ, I thought I’d seen some shit, but things just keep getting crazier around here.”

  Roland nodded. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Yeah, well,” Bailey added, “we just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’d stay and help, but I have to make sure everyone’s on their shit. This whole valley is a target. No sugarcoating it.”

  The aging mechanic grimaced but wasn’t about to argue.

  “Anyhow, come along out back. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Bailey raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really?” She had a suspicion as to what it might be but kept her mouth shut so he could surprise her.

  “Um,” Roland interjected, “I really need to use the bathroom, so I’ll leave you guys to it.”

  Gunney waved a hand. “Yeah, help yourself. You know where it’s at.”

  He and Bailey tramped through the dirt lot behind the shop toward the yard where the old man kept his spare cars, spare parts, and personal projects. It was the home of his beloved Trans Am, among other less illustrious things.

  Bailey waited just outside the yard as Gunney went in, fired up an engine, and drove out the Camaro she’d helped him work on recently. He parked it right in front of her and stepped out.

  He inhaled and looked at the car. “It isn’t fully restored yet, just matte gray with primer, but that can be amended when there’s time. It’s drivable, though. And,” he turned to look at her, “more importantly, it’s yours. Permanently, I mean.”

  Her jaw dropped. She’d figured that he wanted to show her the Camaro, but she hadn’t expected this. “Damn, Gunney. I…don’t know what to say. Except thanks, obviously.”

  Grinning openly, he tossed her the keys. “Consider it a gift after all your years of helping me out, including times you stayed late and worked for free just for the hell of it. I’d say you more than earned it.”

  She caught the keys in midair, and he folded his arms over his chest and took on a contemplative expression.

  “But,” he added, “I don’t think even you racked up enough goodwill to get the Trans Am. That thing’s still mine. No way in hell anyone else is getting it.”

  Bailey laughed and threw her arms around his neck, almost causing him to lose his balance.

  “I wouldn’t take your Trans Am away from you. I was damn near sick, trying to keep it from getting wrecked in Seattle. And a Camaro is more than enough for me right now. Shit!”

  “Just don’t let your brothers pressure you about what color to get it done,” he advised. “That’s up to you.”

  “Right,” she agreed. “Kurt would probably want puce or lime green striped with hot pink or some crap like that ‘cause he thinks it’d be funny. I’m thinking either the classic red or something more subdued, like black or dark blue. I dunno. I’ll ask Roland.”

  The girl glanced back and saw that the wizard had emerged from the restroom and was standing by the pit with his hands in his pockets, probably talking to the disembodied voice of Kevin. She turned back to Gunney.

  “Oh,” she added in a lower voice and tried not to blush. She’d been doing too much of that just lately. “Um, I wanted to tell you, not that it’s gonna come as much of a shock, I’m sure, but Roland and I are, you know, official now.”

  He didn’t react for a second or two. Then his face, so tough and yet so kindly at the same time, slowly split into a smile that was deeply warm and affectionate, yet somehow sad. His eyes seemed to crinkle.

  “Well, I’m happy for you,” he said in a soft voice. “He’s a good young man. A little…I dunno, slick for my taste, but it’s not his fault he’s from fuckin’ Seattle. You two clearly get along, and he’s been with you through all this shit. Stayed by your side and watched your back the whole time, even with the world blowing up. Not a lot of guys would’ve done that. Bailey…”

  He reached out a leathery hand and placed it on her soft cheek. “I want you to be happy. You’re the daughter I never had. No offense to your father, of course, but well, you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” she shot back quickly, swallowing past a sudden lump in her throat. She grabbed him and hugged him for a second time.

  After a moment, Roland started to wander over, and Bailey released the old man. She spun the keys around her forefinger.

  “Okay, then,” she proclaimed, “time for a test drive. Is it okay if I leave the Tundra here?”

  He nodded. “Sure, just bring it around back if you’re gonna be gone for more than a few minutes so you’re not blocking anyone out front.”

  “Deal.”

  A local construction company had given the sheriff a discount on repairs to the building, and volunteers from the church had also lent a hand. When Bailey and Roland pulled up in her new car, the ravaged back wall was mostly replaced, although they weren’t putting a window in this time. The rest of the station still had burn scars and other minor or cosmetic damage, but it was structurally sound.

  Browne came out to greet them as they got out. He was still walking with a cane. His Magnum was holstered at his side, and he had a loaded hunting rifle slung over his back.

  Bailey wondered if he could shoot straight from a standing position with his side and leg injured like that, but he was as tough as anyone else in Greenhearth.

  She waved. “Morning, Sheriff. Thought we’d check and see how things are going. So far, it’s been quiet in town.”

  He gave a curt nod. “Yes, it has. Almost too quiet. The main repa
irs are just about done. Smolinski’s fine. I’m trying to get the new deputies up to speed, although they’re men with decent heads on their shoulders who at least know how to shoot straight. Jurgensen’s funeral is in two days.”

  Bailey bowed her head. The sheriff had relayed the last bit of information in the same even-toned, no-nonsense way as the other tidbits. That was how he was, but she knew he was even more torn up inside than she was. Jurgensen had served the town for almost twenty years.

  “I’ll attend,” she stated. “Is it okay if I come in?”

  Again he nodded, more by thrusting out his chin than anything else. “Sure. Just watch your step.”

  Roland came along as she followed Browne into the lobby. The front doors had been replaced as well. The crude metal looked like hell, but at least it would function and offer halfway decent protection.

  Within, the building had the typical look, feel, and smell of a structure undergoing renovations. Tarps, raw plaster, dust, and cans of sealant were everywhere.

  The sheriff informed them of a couple more things as they walked toward the back room where the witch Rhona had briefly been held.

  “Still no word from our mysterious friends in the federal government,” he said. “They probably have another thousand or so forms to fill out before they can set foot in town, just in case someone’s jurisdictional toes get stepped on.”

  Roland frowned. “Could be. Usually they can override other agencies and departments, from what I’ve heard, but the scale and scope of what’s going on might be what’s causing the delay.”

  Browne glanced at the wizard, then resumed his slow trek. “We’ll see. They ought to at least return my calls. I’m on the cusp of calling in help from other towns, even if it would be the kind of help that, shall we say, would be surprised to learn what we’ve got going on.”

  The wizard snapped his fingers. “You should tell that to the Agency. Their primary purpose is to contain all knowledge of the supernatural, so the threat of outsiders finding out there’s a gang war between shapeshifters and spellcasters might light a fire under their asses.”

  “I did,” said Browne, “but thanks for the advice.”

  They came to the rear chamber, where Smolinski was monitoring some kind of radar-type device while a workman outside painted the new wall. There was still a small hole in it near the top. They’d run out of material and would plug the gap later.

  The deputy sighed. “Nothing. I wonder if they’re trying to freak us out by making us wait as long as possible. Psychological warfare and all that.”

  Rather than responding to the comment, the sheriff turned to Bailey. “Where’s your friend Marcus? Haven’t seen him lately.”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “He comes and goes. It’d be good to have him around, though.” Then she remembered what he’d said at the memorial service—that he couldn’t directly intervene without drawing too much attention to them all. Images of Freya and Baldur popped into her head.

  Something changed in the air. It was subtle, like a shifting of electromagnetic current or a drop in air pressure when one drives up a steep mountainside, and the light overhead flickered.

  Roland tensed, blinking and looking around.

  Bailey felt her gut clench; something was wrong. “What is it?”

  “A spell,” he replied in a hurry. “It was latent in here the whole time, but they masked it well. A trigger that would go off like a silent alarm when we returned and weren’t on our guard. It’s tied to the consciousness of the witch who cast it—that Rhona chick—so she must still be alive. And she has to be able to see the vicinity of where the trigger is located.”

  Sheriff Browne’s eyes slowly widened. “They’re here.”

  Bailey bolted back down the hall toward the front entrance.

  “Bailey!” Roland cried out. “Get back here. It’s too dangerous! For fuck’s sake!” His feet pounded the floor behind her.

  She’d already reached the door and flung it open, her left hand prepared to cast a shield spell at an instant’s notice, her eyes and other senses searching everywhere at once.

  The streets were lined with female shapes, most clad in distinctive outfits of dark leather, although some were in normal civilian clothes, all of them facing toward the sheriff’s station. They were positioned in clusters at strategic vantage points throughout the town. Quite a few of them stood on the roofs of nearby buildings. It was as though all had winked into existence within the last minute or two.

  Bailey didn’t know how many might be behind the station, blocked from sight as they were, but judging by what she could see, there had to be at least fifty witches in total. Her jaw slowly fell open.

  Standing on the roof of the store across the street, gazing straight at her, were two who stood out. One was Rhona, grinning in a vicious, shark-like way. Her trap had worked, and she was looking forward to revenge.

  The other had to be the leader of the expedition—a tall woman with strawberry-blonde hair who radiated power.

  “Fuck,” Bailey muttered as Roland came up beside her.

  Wolves howled and the patrolling packs and sentries rushed toward their enemies, their shock giving way to rage.

  Rhona waved. “What is the matter? You look so surprised!”

  The redhead beside her flicked her fingers. “This might be a proper fight for once,” she said in what sounded like a Scottish accent, her voice magnified to echo throughout the valley. “Kill every last one of the werewolves. Flatten the whole bloody town if you have to.”

  Although she knew they’d block it, Bailey hurled a beam of burning plasma toward the pair atop the store. Then she slammed the door shut as all hell broke loose. Roland had already covered the front of the station with a glowing green shield.

  “Well,” he remarked as screams and crashes and crackles of fire and electricity raged outside, “this is bad, don’t you think? Where’s a god when you need one?”

  Something exploded outside the door and the front windows shattered, smoking chunks of asphalt and concrete flying in to scatter across the floor.

  Bailey gritted her teeth. “We don’t need one! My Weres can take them out, and I’m personally gonna dismantle those bitches!”

  Outside, lupine howls transformed into screams of agony as things burned and shattered, and the handful of cops in the station readied their guns.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So much happened so quickly that Bailey, acting mostly on instinct and reflex, could barely keep her conscious mind up with it all. It seemed as though time had slowed down to accommodate the sheer volume of chaos and violence that had erupted.

  Bailey ran from one end of the station to the other more times than she could count in a couple of minutes. Out front, the windows were blown out, and she poked her head and arms through them just long enough to throw deadly spells at the witches outside, barely avoiding their counterattacks each time.

  In back, the sorceresses had found the weak point near the repaired wall and blasted it apart again, undoing the days of labor it had taken to fix it. Far worse, the poor construction guy who’d been finishing up the job lay dead outside, his body torn up and smoking from plasma spears or lightning.

  The cops were all firing through the door-sized hole in the wall. A single witch lay dead as well, out in the street where they huddled, but there were far more where she’d come from. Bailey sent a wave of ice-cold wind in that direction, hoping to slow or disorient the attackers enough for Browne and his men to fight back.

  Then she was out front again, helping to bolster Roland’s shield and aiding him in tossing arcane counteroffensive measures toward the women in the road or on the surrounding roofs.

  “This isn’t working,” Bailey protested. “We can’t defend this building with that many of them positioned above us. I’m going out. I’m the one they want anyway.”

  Outside, she could hear the bestial sounds of lycanthropic attacks hitting home—heavy bodies moving at speed, snarls, an
d thrashing. The Weres were doing their part, but they were having to break through the thick circle of witches, cut off from Bailey, Roland, and the officers.

  The station was a trap, and they’d sprung it.

  “Bullshit!” Roland frothed. “If you go out there, you’re going to be dead in, like, eight seconds.”

  “No,” she stated. “I’ll be past them in four seconds. Then I’ll lead a charge of Weres, and we’ll break their fuckin’ lines down the middle and regroup with you guys.”

  Not waiting for his response, she shifted into wolf form and jumped out the window.

  Unsurprisingly, ten or more blasts of magic converged on her the second she was outside, but she’d expected as much and had shielded herself. Through great force of will, she even made it colorless, so it took the witches a moment to realize she was shielded. Their attacks were deflected, stalled, or fizzled out before they touched her.

  With powerful leaps, she landed on top of the nearby bank, scattering a couple of the Venatori who’d taken positions there, then moved across other roofs, interrupting the activities of the witches on them, and in one case even knocking a sorceress off. She fell screaming and flailing onto a parking meter, breaking her spine and spilling blood on the sidewalk.

  Then she was past the skirmish line, and half a dozen wolves were converging on her position. It had taken six seconds rather than four, but close enough.

  Still in beast form, she growled at the lycanthropes who’d rallied to her and motioned for them to go back the way she’d come. Snarling with rising bloodlust, they followed, and together they smashed into the Venatori line from the rear.

  Elemental and arcane magic flew in all directions, Bailey blocking or redirecting it where she could. One of her Weres fell dead, but the others trampled or ravaged a cluster of witches before them, the bodies rolling through the streets. Then they loped toward the sheriff’s station.

  As Bailey passed, the apparent leader of the witches, with Rhona at her side, jumped down from their perch, drifting softly to the asphalt near the center of town and drawing their allies closer to them. The Scottish woman gestured, and two parked cars shot into the air and then rocketed toward the wolves.