Too Much Magic (WereWitch Book 3)

by Renée Jaggér

  Ignoring her question, the old man straightened. He carried a tall wooden walking staff and had been leaning on it. “Why have you taken to pursuing the study of magic without sending word to the Were community in the region or me? Some say you’re a loose cannon, which concerns us.” His bushy brows lowered over his eyes.

  Something flared up within the girl, and she planted her fists on her hips, sticking out her jaw. “Who the hell wants to know? What business it is of yours, anyway? I haven’t done anything to your pack. Getting pretty damn tired of people thinking all my business is their business.”

  Roland winced. He’d probably been hoping she’d handle this more diplomatically.

  The elderly man frowned, and the younger Weres behind him—all tough-guy sorts in furs and leather and camo—bristled with tension and hostility.

  “My name,” said the leader, “is Estus. Shaman to the Junipers. I felt a disturbance not long ago, and word has spread that you’re the cause of it. You also beat up two boys from my pack recently. Granted, they were wayward delinquent sorts and should not have been in your town to begin with.”

  Bailey’s gut clenched. He was referring to two amongst the large gang that had ambushed her and Roland when they’d come back from Seattle.

  “But still, as part of a larger picture, it disturbs me,” Estus went on. “And there’s word that you, having burned all bridges in your hometown, now seek to move farther afield and set yourself up as both alpha and shaman over some other pack.” He did not specify which pack he meant.

  “What?” Bailey scoffed. “That’s total bullshit. Where do you hear that crap?”

  Even as she said it, she flashed back to her vision beside the pool. She tried not to shudder.

  One of the young bucks stepped up. “From a reliable source.” He glared at her from under a heavy brow.

  “Yeah, well,” she snapped, “maybe they ain’t so reliable after all. The only thing I’m doing is trying to learn to control my goddamn magic so there isn’t trouble with anyone else and I don’t hurt my damn self. Then I just want to live quietly at home. That’s all.”

  The force and conviction of her words must have had some effect since some of the Weres now looked uncertain, and Estus at least was considering what she’d said.

  “Does this mean,” the old man inquired, “that you’ve committed to the path of the shaman?”

  Bailey hadn’t expected that. “Not exactly, but that’s, uh, on the table. Right now, like I said, I’m just trying to make sure I know what the hell I’m doing.”

  Estus pointed his staff at Roland. “Why is he here? What business does he have with you, or us?”

  The wizard brushed his hair back. “Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I—”

  The old man cut him off. “The training of a shaman amongst the Were people is a private affair, and only those who are of the Were should participate in it. There is no reason for his kind to be here.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Bailey threw up her hands. “His kind? He’s a magic-user just like you and me.”

  The shaman shook his head. “No. Wizards and witches are humans who have the gift. They are not Weres, and their understanding of magic is far different than ours. They don’t use it the same way we do.”

  Mentally, Bailey had to admit the second part was true, although she said nothing aloud to acknowledge it. Instead, she remained defiant.

  “Well, too bad,” she snapped. “Roland’s with me. Neither of us is out gunning for your position, if that’s what you’re afraid of. We’re just trying to figure out how to use our own powers so we don’t accidentally kill ourselves or someone we care about. And he and I are in it together, so get used to it.”

  Estus was grim. “We will see. If you’re going to be this bold, you ought to be able to back it up.”

  Before Bailey could demand to know what that meant, the shaman turned to his pack.

  “Jim, Carlos, Robert, and Shaun.” He indicated the four with his chin.

  The four young Weres sprang into action, growling with rage, two of them half-shifted into their wolf forms. Their dark shapes lunged from multiple directions, surrounding the two interlopers.

  Roland sighed. “Crap.”

  He raised a hand, summoning a concussive wave of force that intercepted the first Were, knocking the young man out of the air in the middle of a high leap during his transformation. There was a yelp, followed by a low grunt and a heavy thud as he struck the damp earth and rolled toward the pack.

  Bailey had already jumped forward, readying another cone of electricity and feeling as though she might shift into her lupine form at any moment.

  “Leave him alone! This is between you and me!” she shouted at the Weres. To Roland, she added, “Stay out of this! It’s my fight.”

  The wizard took a step back, looking concerned and skeptical, but he did nothing else. For now. Bailey knew that if she were in serious danger, he’d help her.

  The nearest of the four Weres blundered straight into the expanding, short-range field of weak red lightning that Bailey created. He stopped in place, still in human form, but bristling with extra hair as his muscles spasmed. Bailey ended the spell, releasing him to topple to the ground. She quickly stripped off her pants and shirt and toed off her boots before she lost more clothes to another transformation, since she knew it was coming. It would be very embarrassing to be naked in the Other after this was over.

  The other two who were still on their feet, wolves now, piled into her from both sides. Without even thinking about it, she glided easily into her alternate form.

  There was the change of perspective as she switched from two legs to four, the weird sensation of sprouting fur, and the incredible increase in her powers of sensory perception. Then the two other werewolves were on her, and there was no room in her mind for anything but combat.

  Sleek, hairy forms struck at one another. Fanged jaws gnashed, and claws swiped out and down. It did not seem like the Juniper warriors were trying to kill or seriously maim her, only humble her.

  She responded in kind, shouldering them aside, tossing them into trees with her mouth by the scruffs of their necks, scratching them across the hide but not deep enough to threaten serious injury. She left bruises and the occasional cracked rib, but that was all.

  In what seemed like seconds, it was over. Jim, Carlos, Robert, and Shaun lay gasping and battered on the surface of the bog, and Bailey, breathing deeply in and out, still stood. Her body shifted back into human form.

  It’s easier here and now, she realized. Somehow the progress I made controlling my magic helped me with changing form, too.

  Estus stood back, gazing at her with a mixture of wariness and, she was pretty sure, admiration.

  “Impressive,” the old man stated. “But this test is not through. Let the wizard join you, then the two of you will fight all the soldiers of my pack.”

  Fatigued though she was, Bailey grinned as an extra wave of battle-lust swelled within her. “Bring it on.”

  Roland stepped up beside her, his face pale but his jaw set, as all ten of Estus’ followers charged them. “This ought to be interesting,” he commented. “I’m assuming we’re still in nonlethal mode, so—whoa!”

  Two Weres, already in beast form, changed direction abruptly, and suddenly their jaws slashed toward his legs. He hopped back, stumbling, and with swiping motions of his hands directed kinetic blasts at them from multiple directions, knocking them around like toys.

  Bailey plunged into the rest of them. She’d shifted by the time she was airborne, and she could feel her greater size and strength—she recalled her brothers telling her when she’d changed during her confrontation with Freya that she was the biggest wolf they’d ever seen.

  Conscious thought fled the battlefield. There remained only the brute instinct of pure animal combat, yet she tried not to lose control. Her jaws clamped, her claws thrashed, and she shouldered aside some Weres while stomping on others. Bruises and cuts we
re dealt to her, and she gave the same in return, throwing her foes around and smashing them as needed.

  But somehow, she restrained herself from tearing off limbs, pulling out guts, or ripping out throats.

  Her pain and fatigue started to show through the frenzy created by adrenaline and bestial rage, but by then, one by one, or sometimes two at a time, the other wolves collapsed. Soon, she and Roland stood alone.

  Estus watched all this with a dark expression, though not without grudging respect. “You have good control of your powers, both sorcery and shapeshifting. And you did not hurt my boys more than needed. That, at least, is somewhat encouraging. Your reputation as out-of-control rogues may not be deserved after all.”

  Bailey was already shifting back to human form and she huffed. “Thanks.”

  Roland just gave the old man a thumbs-up. His brow dripped sweat.

  The shaman leaned on his stout wooden staff as the fighters of his pack climbed back to their feet around him. “Let’s now discuss how to—”

  He stopped, his face snapping toward the crest of the hillock beyond them. Bailey looked at the same time, as did the Weres who hadn’t been pummeled badly enough to impair their senses.

  They had visitors. Three figures dressed in leather—women, all of them—had strolled over the promontory and now stood looking down at the group.

  Bailey nudged the wizard, who was just noticing them.

  “Roland,” she whispered, “do you recognize them.”

  He’d gone pale and was cringing. “Yes, I do. I’ve never seen them before, but yeah. And they’re exactly who you think they are.”

  She frowned. “Shit."

  Estus faced the trio. “Who are you? Something about your aspect seems familiar, and I sense hostile intent. Our business is none of yours.”

  The woman in the lead, who wore her hair in a tight bun, smiled in a mirthless way that raised the fine hairs on Bailey’s neck and arms.

  “That,” she began, “should be our line, not yours. We are here for Bailey Nordin. Step aside.” The voice was laced with a European accent—French, or perhaps Belgian or some such. She took two steps down the slope, and her assistants followed at her elbows, half a step behind.

  The old shaman straightened his aged body and puffed out his chest. “I know who you are. The Venatori. You are not welcome here. You’re not Weres. You have no right to extend your authority over any of our people. Go back to managing the affairs of human witches on your own continent.”

  The lead witch tittered. “We are not on your continent, either. The Other is open to any being of sufficient strength and knowledge who can find it, and we far exceed you in that regard, old man. Stand aside or pay the price!”

  By now, most of the Juniper bucks had regained their feet, and perhaps half of them looked ready to fight again if need be, taxed as they were. The other half looked like they might collapse to the ground again at the first sign of serious resistance.

  Bailey had to do something. “Hey,” she called. “There’s no reason to fight here unless you make us. Nobody needs that. I was just discussing with the shaman how I’m not interested in taking anyone else’s crown. I’m just trying to learn to control my powers so I don’t hurt anyone I care about. That’s all. If you ladies are worried about me, don’t be. I’m no threat to you. Go home, and don’t worry about it.”

  The lead witch seemed to be considering her proposal. She raised a finger to her nose as if to scratch it.

  Roland suddenly leaped toward the girl. “Bailey!” he cried.

  A purple bolt of lightning had descended from the sky at the same time as a gout of flame erupted from the earth beneath the werewitch’s feet, trying to trap her between two forms of blazing death. Roland had encased her in a field of green light that blocked the worst of it.

  Bailey reeled in shock. A tremor went through her body from the residual electricity, and the intense heat was like climbing into an oven two-thirds of the way to baking temperature.

  But it dissipated, leaving her with the realization that the sorceress had summoned magic of incredible power almost instantly—even here in the Other, where magic was dampened.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  “Get them!” the lead witch shrieked.

  Simultaneously, Estus barked “Stop them!” to his pack warriors, and Weres and witches clashed. Roland rushed forward, a desperate look on his face, trying to counter the staggering might of the Venatori’s spells.

  Bailey broke free as the lead witch’s fire and lightning spells died, and Roland’s shield dispersed a fraction of a second later. By the time she reached the fray, the battle was already going badly, even with thirteen of them against only a dozen of the Venatori.

  A surging cloud of magenta plasma crackling with sparks and weird acidic bubbles surged from one of the side witches’ hands and Roland intercepted it, trying to collect it within a sphere of green light to turn it back on its caster. His face strained with the effort; opposing just one of them seemed to take up everything he had.

  This left the other auxiliary sorceress and the more powerful leader to the Weres.

  Bailey hurled a cluster of icicles at the leader. She easily swatted them aside, but in the brief moment it took her to do that, Estus and his warriors got closer to their opponents. Four of the less-battered ones closed around the assistant to the left.

  Then Bailey’s sight was obscured, but it seemed the quartet of lycanthropes stopped in place, somehow magically prevented from moving in for the kill.

  The Venatori leader, suddenly cackling with contempt, threw an arm over her head in a powerful arcing motion aimed toward Bailey, Estus, and the rest.

  Suddenly it was as though a giant invisible slab of concrete had been lowered onto them from on high. An irresistible force pressed them down, driving them to their knees or making them fall on their backs or faces.

  Then the witch twirled her hand one hundred and eighty degrees and twisted her fingers into a sort of claw or pincer shape with an unpleasant hiss.

  At once, they were all struck with a terrible wave of pure fear. Bailey panicked, her thoughts and senses eclipsed by a powerful sense of danger, a blind and unreasoning desire to flee to safety. As her head turned from side to side, seeking the easiest mode of escape, she saw that most of the young Weres were in the grip of sheer terror too. Only Estus, kneeling with his staff and gritting his teeth, seemed able to put up a resistance.

  Roland magically shoved the witch he’d been struggling against, incapacitating her for a second, and glanced at his comrades. “Oh, no you don’t,” he swore, and cast a speck of light into their midst.

  The speck landed between Bailey and the shaman, quickly growing to a miniature sun of greenish-white light. The werewitch felt soothing calm and a renewed sense of hope arise and struggle against the wave of fear.

  The lead sorceress glared at Roland. “Stay out of this!” she snapped, and with a quick gesture of her chin, exploded the earth beneath the wizard’s feet. He stumbled and rolled back down the slope amidst the lycanthropes.

  But by now, most of them had defeated the terror spell and resumed their charge. Of the four who’d surrounded the witch on the left, two had fallen, but the others left her hard-pressed to join her leader in countering the Weres’ attack.

  “Estus!” Bailey cried, seething with anger and the need for retribution, “Shift! We’re faster and can take more damage that way.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when she found herself on all fours again, her eyes turning red.

  Up ahead, Roland was tossing everything he had or could think of at the Venatori—an outright clusterfuck of elemental blasts and invisible debuffs that interfered with their ability to focus a full attack on the werewolves—but the wizard was losing ground fast. The witches’ leader had helped defeat the assaults on her aides, and the three were again combining forces.

  Roland threw a kind of green comet in a lateral arc. It twisted around and then
drove straight for the witch on the left, distracting her long enough for Bailey to move in. She bounded high in the air and drove down toward the woman, who was momentarily engaged in deflecting the comet.

  Below her, she saw a big shaggy wolf with white and gray fur leading others in a frontal assault on the Venatori leader.

  Bailey streaked through the air, feeling the damp wind against her fur as the ground rose up to meet her. For a second, it looked like she would smash into the witch before she could react. Violent exultation rose.

  But then the sorceress leaped backward, her movements sped up by magic. Bailey crashed into the ground where she’d stood an instant before, her claws tearing up the turf and scattering muck.

  In the split second before she pounced again, the werewitch saw with wonder that Estus was using magic while himself in wolf form. He’d created something like a battering ram made of shimmering silver light, protecting him and his Weres from the Venatori’s attacks as they charged. But some of the magic was penetrating the shield, and she saw a lance of plasma streak through the breast of a young wolf, raising a cloud of bloody steam and making the creature yelp in pain.

  She lunged at her target.

  The witch threw a lightning bolt but missed as Bailey changed directions with stunning speed. Then she piled into the woman, knocking her over and biting down on her shoulder and chest.

  The witch screamed. The sound mingled with the awful noise of combat occurring just to her right, and Bailey slammed the woman into the earth again and again, trying to knock her out and take her out of the fight.

  Beside her, more wolves had fallen, but their charge, combined with Roland’s cornucopia of sorcery, had finally broken the Venatori’s defenses. For all their power, they simply couldn’t defeat such a large group of beasts, especially combined with Roland’s and Estus’ magic. The assistant on the right toppled as well.

  Bailey, salivating from the salty, metallic taste of the left-hand witch’s blood on her lips and teeth and tongue, looked up.

  The last of the Venatori, the leader, was retreating. She apparently deemed the battle unwinnable or had judged the cost of victory too steep to be worth the risk. She fled with hurried half-jogging strides up the slope of the hillock.