Too Much Magic (WereWitch Book 3)

by Renée Jaggér

  Beside Bailey, Estus had finished subduing the other witch. Bailey was confident he could complete the job by himself, so she lunged for the leader. A moment later, the shaman followed her. Both somehow knew that neutralizing the coven’s head would remove the worst of the threat.

  The Venatori leader disappeared. She simply winked out of existence.

  Bailey let out a snarl of shock and frustration that turned into a howl. She heard Estus shifting his position, spinning back to face the way they’d come. Bailey did likewise.

  The woman had deceived them. She was back at the point they’d just departed. She seized her two fallen assistants by the arms, hoisted them to their feet, and opened a large, ragged portal like the purple doorways Marcus had conjured. She heaved herself and her subordinates through.

  Bailey pounced, but the portal closed as she reached it. The Venatori were gone.

  She let out another cry of rage. Her paws stomped the soft, damp earth, clawing it up in irregular clumps. Once the initial force of her fury was expended, she tried to relax and felt herself standing on two legs, her skeleton returning to its original conformation and the fur receding from her body.

  Thankfully she had clothes this time, due to her foresight before the first fight. After she dressed, she checked on Roland, finding him mostly okay, aside from near-exhaustion and a couple of minor burns and abrasions. Meanwhile, Estus checked on his Weres. The ones who still lived had formed a cluster around their shaman and the bodies of the fallen.

  Estus spoke to everyone at once. “We drove them off,” he proclaimed, his wheezing voice labored with both physical and emotional pain, “but at great cost. We’ve lost several of our people, and there are far more of them than just those three. I know not how many they have in America right now, but a trio is an unusually small band by their standards.”

  The younger Weres watched intently as he spoke. The eyes of some of them grew moist with tears. It occurred to Bailey that they might blame her for the witches having attacked them.

  Estus went on, “When they decide someone or something is a problem, they adopt a scorched-earth policy. I’ve heard the stories. Many of us have.” He glanced at Roland. “Soon they will return with greater numbers, more firepower, and a level of ruthlessness beyond what we saw here today. Bailey, Roland—you must leave.”

  They perked up, and Roland was about to admit he wasn’t sure he was capable of opening a portal, but to his surprise, the shaman reached out and opened one himself, chanting only briefly before the glowing oblong mass of watery purple energy appeared.

  “Go,” said Estus. “I will remain here. We must see to our dead and wounded. It’s you they’re after. We have no desire to tangle with them again, but we’d also advise you to prepare yourselves. And we wish you luck. Go!”

  Nodding solemnly, almost sheepishly, the werewitch and the wizard stepped through the amethyst doorway and back into their own world.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bailey and Roland had insisted on paying a visit to Juniper, Oregon for the funerary services. It was a hamlet so small that it did not appear on most maps, and Bailey was pretty sure it was located on state or federal land, besides. It was little more than a cluster of houses and a tiny store within a scrubby high-elevation valley, surrounded on all sides by snowy peaks.

  They’d helped bury the bodies and stood solemnly during the rites. None of the Juniper pack spoke to them, save Estus. Bailey suspected that he had told everyone the story of what had happened—and why. That meant he’d discouraged them from thinking of her as an enemy, but also that they knew she was indirectly responsible for the deaths of five of their young men.

  In such a small settlement, five deaths were too many.

  It was easy to tell who had been the mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers of the deceased. They were either the most emotional, openly weeping, or the most stony-faced. The rest of the community also was somber, or in some cases, seething with barely concealed anger.

  Estus presided over the funeral. They were reaching the final part of the ceremony, where the shaman invoked the wolf-god Fenris to protect and guide all lycanthropes and the other gods to be at peace, and Weres in general to be brave and strong and true.

  The girl’s ruminations turned inward. Is this what it means to be a werewitch? Having so much power it draws trouble, and leads to people dying for no real reason? On some level, this happened because of me.

  The young wolves who’d perished fighting the Venatori hadn’t been doing anything wrong. They weren’t criminals, like the human trafficking ring she’d confronted before. They were just a normal Were pack.

  Granted, the Junipers had attacked her out of nowhere, but they hadn’t been out for blood. They were only testing her. And the five who’d perished had lain down their lives defending her from the foreign witch cult, recognizing its agents as a threat to their kind.

  And for all her supposed power and apparent progress, she hadn’t been able to protect them.

  But she did have power. Not as much as people thought, or maybe more, but she had some. All she needed to do was learn to use it better.

  A shiver went through her, a mixture of rage, sadness, and solemn determination. She made a vow.

  I will become a full and proper werewitch or shaman or whatever I need to become to stop things like this in advance. I will become a protector of my people.

  Roland, still standing beside her, saw that something was amiss. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she grated. “I just… I feel like I failed. This shouldn’t have happened, Roland, and I’m never going to let it happen again. I can’t make up for these poor guys getting killed on my behalf, but I can save other people from ending up the same way.”

  “Well,” he replied, giving her a wan smile, “I’ve got your back. As always.”

  She nodded and clasped his hand.

  Estus came up to them, his face grave but not unkind. “Thank you for your help,” he wheezed. “You fought alongside us against the common foe, and I think your coming here today was the right thing to do, even if part of my community is not happy to see you.”

  That was no surprise. “I understand,” she said. “And I’m gonna have to get going. Roland too. We need to get back home. But if you guys need anything, let me know. And if I hear about any trouble coming your way, I’ll warn you.”

  “Yes,” the shaman agreed. “I will do the same. At least we are rid of the notion that you meant to take over our pack. Goodbye.”

  Bowing his head, he trudged off.

  Bailey and Roland went in the opposite direction, away from the plateau where the village lay and toward the winding mountain road where the black Tundra was parked amidst a thick stand of trees. Bailey pulled her keys out of her pocket a few steps before the vehicle and sensed someone was watching her.

  Her eyes snapped up, almost immediately locking on a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a baggy hooded coat standing amidst the pines on the slope.

  “Oh,” Roland quipped, “there he is. He must have had to spend a long time looking for a bathroom, and then needed a nice nap.”

  Marcus strolled down. Bailey knew he’d heard the wizard’s comment, but the older man did not react to it. She was just happy to see him again.

  “Bailey,” he opened. “I’ve gleaned some of what happened. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to help, but I had something very important come up. Please tell me the rest. Spare no detail.”

  She traded glances with Roland, who, frowning, nodded. Then she turned back to Marcus.

  “Okay,” she began, and took a deep breath.

  She told him everything. Every event, every blow, every thought she’d had from the moment he’d left them until now, to the best of her recollection. Some things had already grown hazy, but most of it she remembered vividly.

  The tall shaman did not speak, except to ask the occasional brief question to clarify something when Bailey was having trouble describing it. Oth
erwise, all he did was listen.

  When it was over, he surprised her by smiling, albeit in a bittersweet way.

  “Bailey, you have done well,” he stated. “Based on what you’ve said, you’re growing in terms of your power, control, and tactical intelligence. You did all you could, and you stood up for another pack, fighting alongside them after they approached you with hostile intent. That is what a good werewitch is supposed to do.”

  The girl blinked. She hadn’t expected him to say that. She’d figured he would chastise her for screwing everything up.

  “Thanks.” She let her breath out. “I still feel terrible, but hearing you say that helps a little.”

  Nodding, the shaman told Roland to wait by the car a moment. He took Bailey by the shoulder and guided her deeper into the woods to speak to her privately.

  “Tell me,” he began, “about your second vision by the pool. If you want me to help you interpret it, I must know everything about it. Hold nothing back.”

  She winced. Describing the physical ordeal was bad enough. Having to go into detail about the mental torment she’d suffered was even worse. Nonetheless, she explained to him all that she’d seen, thought, and felt.

  Reaching the conclusion, she wrung her hands. “I just… I want to do the right thing, but I’m not sure what that is. I’m being pulled in different directions. Is this normal?”

  Marcus looked deeply into her eyes, his face placid, tough, and wise. “Yes,” he answered her. “It is.”

  She exhaled sharply and allowed her shoulders to slump, too relieved to worry about looking weak or emotional.

  “Normal for a werewitch, anyway,” the shaman went on. “We aren’t considered ‘normal’ by most other standards, but you know what I mean. Unfortunately, things may well get worse before they get better. You’re doing a good job of coping, but there’s more to come. And at this level of magic, the mental aspect is just as important as the physical.”

  That made sense. “What do I do now?”

  “Take some time off. Go home, see your family, and try to relax. It’s true that we don’t have much time, but we have enough for you to recover so you’re at your best next time. The Venatori will be back, but they’ll likely need some time to re-strategize. I will keep an eye out for them in the meantime.”

  Bailey put her arms around his shoulders, and he embraced her back. “Thanks, Marcus.”

  This time, Gunney came out of the shop to meet her halfway. He must have been worried.

  “Bailey,” he called, “where the hell you been? I heard about some Weres from down south getting killed. No official information yet, but…” He seemed uncomfortable. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought you might know something about it. Mainly I was concerned about you, of course.”

  She intercepted him in the middle of the lot, and they continued back toward the auto shop. She wished he had opened with something more casual, more friendly, but at least he cared about her safety.

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “That was me. I mean…” Her gut clenched. “I wasn’t the one who killed them, but it happened because of me. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve been tearing myself up ever since it happened.”

  Suddenly she wanted to cry, but something fierce within her clamped down on the urge. She swallowed the lump in her throat with only a slight moistening of the eyes.

  “Aw, hell,” the mechanic lamented. “That’s what I was afraid of, even if it’s good to see that you’re safe. Well, it probably wasn’t your fault, but when someone dies, it can bring a whole world of shit down on everyone involved. Come on in and let’s talk about it. I could use some help with this goddamn old El Camino, anyway.”

  It was early evening and the employees had gone home, leaving only Gunney to keep tinkering with the vehicle. And Bailey, of course.

  The car was a nice pearly white, and surprisingly unblemished, given its presumed age.

  Bailey squinted at it. “That an ’83?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gunney affirmed. “Seems like I’m getting a reputation. People from farther and farther afield have been bringing their rare old cars into Greenhearth. Keeps us busy, at least.”

  Smiling, the girl teased, “And I’m sure you hate having to work on all these antique pieces of shit. Such drudgery.”

  He chuckled and didn’t respond as he gathered his tools.

  But if more outsiders are coming into town, Bailey thought, that’s more people who might see what’s going on here lately. Or even people who might end up in the line of fire…

  She tried not to dwell on that.

  Instead, she helped the man who was her mentor, her employer, and effectively her second father. They worked and talked.

  “And then, I had this vision,” she relayed. She’d glossed over most of the details of the Other and its magical properties, but somehow she felt Gunney would be amenable to her second experience with the black pool. She’d heard what Marcus had said about it, yet something in her yearned to hear the opinion of a normal human.

  “Oh?” the old man remarked, as he raised the El Camino on the lift. Bailey had already grabbed some tools out of habit.

  She described the rush of words and images, holding nothing back. Coming into this situation, she’d intended to censor some of it, to stop herself from telling him the worst or strangest aspects of the horrible waking dream. She felt so familiar and comfortable with him—not to mention worried over what it could mean—that she simply poured out the whole thing, pure and unadulterated.

  Gunney worked as she spoke, not looking at her, but she knew he was listening all the same.

  “It’s like,” she went on, trying not to get too emotional, “I have all this power and potential, at least according to all these shamans and witches, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to use it right. It’s a goddamn struggle to figure out the right choice, because if I make the right choice, then I have the power to make everything fuckin’ great, but the wrong choice would be a catastrophe. I don’t know if I’m cut out for that kind of responsibility. I didn’t even know I had this power when I was younger, so I wasn’t trained for it. I don’t know if I’m smart enough or strong enough to use it wisely.”

  Her voice trailed off. She felt as though she ought to say more, but she was unsure what words should come next. She waited.

  Gunney had begun the process of taking the cylinder heads off the engine. “Well,” he began, “in my experience, responsibility is mainly a matter of choices. And choices come down the pipeline at you one or two at a time, so that’s what you deal with—the one choice you have to make right now. Nobody expects you to make every choice you’re ever gonna have to make in advance.”

  Bailey nodded. She wanted him to say more, but so far, his response made sense. He handed her a cylinder head for cleaning.

  “It’s just trying to the best of your ability to do the right thing with each situation as it comes. Step by step, one small thing at a time. Kinda like working on a car, in fact.”

  She smiled. Of course, that would be the analogy he defaulted to. Then again, she might have done the same if she’d been mentally approaching the subject the way he was.

  They replaced the fan and started working on the carburetor, talking only briefly in small bursts, but when Gunney spoke, it usually counted for something. His words favored quality over quantity.

  “As you get older,” he continued, “you start to see that everything isn’t necessarily riding on one big event that’s coming up soon. Doing this job, for example; it’s not like my business is going to succeed or fail based on doing a perfect job on the President’s limo. It’s the day-to-day stuff—doing a good job on one car after another, trusting that I know what I’m doing but still keep having to make the decision every day to show up and get it done right.”

  “Yeah,” Bailey replied. “Maybe you’re right. Like, even if something big is coming, there are still going to be all those smaller things, and those are what make a
difference in the long run.”

  He nodded. “Something like that. Just keep trying your best. And every once in a while, step back and do an honest assessment of what’s going on. That way, if it seems like you’re having trouble making the small decisions, maybe it’s time for a big decision that will change the types of small decisions you have to make. Knowing when to do that is a type of responsibility, too.”

  She ruminated on the implications. “I guess. Gonna need some time to think that one over, though.”

  “Do what you have to do,” he stated and extended his hand. She placed a wrench in it without having to be asked. “It’s no different with cars than it is with people, Were packs, or all this magical shit, from the sound of it. Just do what you can now and you’ll be fine.”

  Soon they were done, and it was well past time for supper. Bailey figured Roland and her brothers were waiting for her.

  “Thanks, Gunney,” she told the mechanic. “You gonna let that thing go and get yourself a good meal finally?”

  He sighed. “There’s a decision I’m gonna have to make .”

  The Nordin boys had collaborated on the current feast. None of them by himself was a great chef, but between them, they’d hit the proverbial home run.

  There was roasted chicken—a bit under-seasoned, but the barbecue sauce more than made up for it. There were mashed potatoes, rich and creamy, with decent chicken gravy and a healthy dose of black pepper. There was green bean casserole, savory and heavy with French fried onions and fresh diced mushrooms.

  And while none of them had been brave enough to try baking a dessert, they’d bought a pretty good apple pie to cap things off. All of it was served with Jacob’s coffee, which was probably the best of anyone’s in the household. He didn’t make it quite as strong as Russell did, but except on the dreariest of mornings, that was likely a good thing.