by Renée Jaggér
The werewolf caught herself on the side of a tree and pounced again, sacrificing almost no momentum, driving toward a weak point in the shield, one not enforced with spikes. The magical red spear pierced the glimmering mass and cracked it.
“No!” Lavonne gasped.
Her disciples, panicking, threw crude blasts of plasma at Bailey. In her lupine form, she was fast enough to dodge them, and she did. And she hadn’t lost her new weapon, the glowing point of which now hovered in front of her face.
Lavonne gathered all she had for one last apocalyptic strike, but Bailey accelerated her speed—the opposite of what Marcus had taught her about resisting gravity to fall more slowly. She accepted gravity’s pull and descended like a bolt of lightning.
The Venatori leader never got to try whatever arcane defense she was preparing. Bailey’s magical spear split her head open in a shower of blood and sent her body flying as the werewolf crashed to the ground. The collision kicked up walls of dirt and rock and sent out a tremor that knocked the other witches off-balance.
Bailey rolled and tumbled, struggling not to succumb to pain or confusion. She’d forced enough earth out of her way to avoid killing or seriously injuring herself on impact, but the whole world was chaos for a second or two. She flung herself onto undamaged land, shifting back into human form at the same time.
Roland still lay unconscious. He and Gunney were alive—and the Venatori commander was dead.
The other four witches tried to fight on, but they were badly demoralized. Bailey plunged into them, changing back and forth from wolf to woman, deflecting magic attacks and responding in kind. She moved too fast and hit too hard for them to resist. The seconds stretched out like minutes, and yet all too soon, every one of them had fallen.
One, whom Bailey bit almost in two with her powerful jaws, would never get back up. The others might live.
But it was over. The invaders had lost.
The girl morphed back into her humanoid form, and for a moment she stood, heaving and throwing her head about, half-expecting more foes to emerge, but none did. Almost wanting to cry with relief, she instead ran to Roland.
He groaned and heaved himself into a half-sitting position. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, face contorting with pain. “I hate being shocked, and I think they managed to undo most of Marcus’s healing job on my side. I might need human medical attention again.”
Bailey hugged his head to her chest. Strangely, she was unconcerned about being naked anymore. “We’ll get you whatever you need. Just don’t die on me, okay? You made it this far, and we beat them.”
He made a sighing, sputtering sound. “We did, didn’t we? Well, mostly you. Good job.”
The girl left him there for a moment and dashed over to Gunney.
“I’m okay,” he said at once. “It’d be nice if you could untie my damn hands, but they weren’t able to do much besides muss my hair.”
While she was in the midst of freeing him, a glowing portal of deep amethyst opened about halfway between her and Roland. Out stepped Marcus.
“What happened?” he demanded at once. “Are you all right? I’m shocked they were able to ambush us like that. I did what I could.”
Bailey let out a long, slow breath. “Yeah. Roland’s torn up again—same wound. He’s gonna need some treatment ASAP, but I’m mostly okay, and so’s Gunney. I…” she swallowed, “I killed two of them. Their leader, and one other. And the three who are left aren’t in any condition to fight.”
“So be it,” Marcus murmured. He went into the house and got her a blanket to wrap herself in.
Soon, emergency vehicles were driving up the faint dirt road; what little civilization the town could provide had come to Marcus’s obscure forest clearing. Sheriff Browne’s cruiser was there, its red and blue lights flashing, along with an ambulance and a fire truck. A crowd of civilians had also formed, watching the bizarre spectacle from behind hastily-placed orange and white barriers.
Additionally, there was a group of Weres, mostly young bucks, plus a handful of their mates, hanging around on the east side of the street and watching the proceedings. Bailey didn’t recognize them, but thought she might have seen one or two of them once before. Probably some pack from elsewhere in the region who’d come to town.
And amidst them all, Bailey caught a glimpse of the other agent—the surviving partner of the two Men in Black, or whoever they were.
Soon she found herself briefly in conversation with the sheriff, who was on the verge of a full tantrum over the amount of batshit craziness engulfing his town lately, only for the agent to appear.
“At ease, Sheriff,” the man said, his nondescript face placid behind his dark glasses. “I’m Agent Townsend, and I’m in charge of the current situation.” He flashed a badge. “My superiors will contact you shortly with everything you need to know. For now, I need to talk to Miss Nordin.”
Browne was a large man and not used to being pushed around. “This is my town, Agent. You better have a damn good reason to be taking control of its affairs, and I better hear that reason post-haste.”
“You will,” Townsend stated.
Casting a final bug-eyed glance at the girl, Browne left to supervise his deputies in managing the growing crowd.
Townsend took Bailey aside. She was glad to see him, for once since she knew he’d keep the regular authorities off her back, but before she acknowledged him, she checked on Roland again. Marcus had done something to stop the bleeding, and the paramedics were doing the rest.
She turned to Townsend. “Okay, Agent. First of all, I’m sorry about your partner. He was a brave man, no way to deny that.”
Townsend grimaced and looked aside for a couple of seconds. “Yes, he was. Maybe too brave.” He turned back to the young woman. “I have to say thank you for wiping those bitches out. I’ve talked to my superiors, and they’re in agreement that the Venatori have to pay for this. We’re going to retaliate, and we’re going to make sure they can’t get away with crap like this on American soil ever again.”
Bailey crossed her arms and nodded. “I like the sound of that. I only killed two of the five—unless some of the others died of their wounds—so you can probably question them.”
“I intend to,” Townsend said grimly. He glanced around. “Oh, good. My party wagon just arrived.”
A black van had pulled up. Out of it stepped two men dressed much as he was. They looked different, but with the dark-green suits and black glasses and identical haircuts, it was hard to tell.
After a moment’s discussion, the three men each took a pair of handcuffs that Bailey saw as one passed through a headlight’s beam were engraved with strange runes.
Townsend glanced at her. “Anti-magic cuffs. A little something we whipped up recently, just in case. Separated from their leader and beat to hell like this, none of the witches ought to be able to stop us from rendering them just about totally harmless.”
“Good deal,” Bailey remarked.
The agent dangled his pair in front of her face. “Behave yourself like I warned you before, or there might be a pair of these things in your future. Rules are rules.”
His tone was almost teasing, but she knew that on some level he meant it. She just stared as he walked past and joined his newly arrived teammates in cuffing the barely-conscious trio of surviving Venatori.
Gunney walked up, but before he could say anything, Roland reached toward Bailey from his stretcher. “You know,” the wizard quipped, “we might get some interesting use out of a pair of those handcuffs.”
The mechanic groaned and looked heavenward. Bailey blushed, thankful it was dark.
Before she came up with a response to what Roland had just said, Marcus rescued her by walking up and interposing himself.
“Bailey,” he opened, “please accept my congratulations. You—and Roland—have done well. Extraordinarily so. You’ve defeated a large contingent of Venatori and saved the town. You’ve come into your powers in an unusually short span of
time. Even with all the pressure you’ve been under, you made it.”
She bowed her head, embarrassed by the lavish praise. “Thanks, Marcus. I mean, obviously, I couldn’t have done it without you. You’ve been a godsend.”
He smiled in a mischievous way. She’d never seen that expression on his face.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, “but I’m afraid there’s more.”
Roland rubbed his temples. “Here we go. Back into the Other for yet another excursion into the far reaches of arcane clusterfuckery?”
“No,” said Marcus, looking briefly at the wizard before returning his gaze to the werewitch.
Gunney interrupted them. “Now hold on a second. You—Marcus. When I first told you I’d ask Bailey if she wanted to train under you, you never said anything about bringing this kind of shitstorm down on our town. Those witches, or whoever the hell they were, damn near killed all of us. Whatever you’re about to propose, it sure as fuck better not make things any worse around here.”
The shaman didn’t seem perturbed by the comment. “No,” he stated. “I’m proposing something that will ensure your town is protected from things like this for many years to come.”
Chapter Seventeen
After they’d placated Gunney—Bailey knew he was just worried about her—Marcus had taken her into the woods to talk, away from the noise of the crowd and the vehicles. Roland had been bundled off in an ambulance, and based on prior experience, Bailey knew he’d be out of the hospital soon.
The shaman sighed, the sound of it deep like wind over a field, and looked at the moon. “Bailey, I’m sorry you’ve had to go through so much, but there’s a purpose behind it all. Everything up ‘til now has been a test to see if you’re fit for a certain role.”
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “Let me guess: you want me to become a shaman.”
He smiled and nodded. “Yes. You have everything it takes to become a spiritual leader to your people—our people—and more. It’s a hard path to walk. You’ll have many more challenges and many responsibilities, but it also offers perks. Salvation, even. You will be above the traditional laws of mating.”
Bailey drew a sharp breath. She was afraid to ask for details and hoped he would offer them of his own accord.
He did. “A shaman can marry who he or she wishes, or not at all. The rules don’t apply. It’s the ancient way, and few if any Weres would question it. Rather than being pressured to marry, you could be the alpha if you wished, but that offers a whole new set of trials. You have shown that you’re worthy. Can and will you live up to your potential? You will, of course, walk a narrow path, with the things you feared to each side. With your powers, the second nightmare vision beside the pool could become a reality if you’re not careful.
“Not every pack has a shaman, of course. Your own pack does not. If a shaman is not born to a pack, it often looks to an affiliated pack’s or a regional shaman for spiritual leadership.
“And given the old ways, many will not accept a female shaman, no matter how deserving she is of her position and how strong she is, even though in history, werewitches have been stronger than any of the male shamans. That was why they were burned at the stake, although you are better positioned in this day and age to lead your people because females as leaders are more accepted worldwide. It will be up to you to find your place.”
She stood, saying nothing, her mouth hanging open. “I-I’m not sure what to say. I mean, I’ll probably end up saying yes. But for now, I think I need some time to—”
Then she and Marcus turned fast and sharp toward the bushes down the slope. They’d heard movement; they were not alone.
Nine or ten humanoid figures stood up. In the faint moonlight, Bailey quickly pegged them as the out-of-town Weres she’d seen in the crowd earlier. They must have snuck away from the emergency scene, through dense woods and over jagged cliffs, to spy on Bailey and Marcus.
One of them, a large young man near the front, spoke. “Hey!” he shouted. “We heard all that!”
“Well,” Bailey retorted, “you’d be deaf if you didn’t. Who are you guys again? And why are you in Greenhearth?”
One of the others spoke up. “Eastmoor Pack! And we’ve heard about you.”
Her jaw clenched.
The apparent leader took a couple of steps forward. “You can’t pull this shit on us,” he declared. “We already got a pack alpha. Some weird hybrid werewitch isn’t gonna preside over us. When the hell was the last female shaman, anyway, the fuckin’ Dark Ages?”
Admittedly, Bailey didn’t know the answer to that last question.
The Were continued, gesturing sharply at Marcus. “And who is this guy? I never seen you or heard of you, and suddenly your ass has the goddamn authority to appoint shamans and tell them they’re gonna be the fuckin’ Empress of Weredom? What does her pack say about this shit?”
On some level, Bailey understood where the loudmouthed Eastmoor guy was coming from. However, he was being an aggressive asshole about it, and she was sick of assholes.
Marcus, staring at the young man, only said, “Be silent and go away.”
The Were pounced, but he had a few yards to cover with his sudden attack, and Bailey was faster. She caught him, half-shifted into wolf form, and pivoted him in midair to send him crashing into a tree. Its trunk cracked, and the young man slumped and rolled a few feet to collide with a boulder. He wasn’t dead, but his attempt to challenge them was over.
“What the fuck?” the other Weres raged. Someone bellowed, “Get them!”
Half of them changed into wolves. The others remained in human form, the better to assault the pair with a mixed force.
But they never got the opportunity. Even Bailey was stunned into outright stupefaction by what happened next.
The man who called himself Marcus threw off his disguise—not merely the baggy, hooded coat he’d worn, but his mortal form. It fell away from him like a veil of silk, and where a craggy middle-aged man had stood was a wolf-human hybrid at least twelve feet tall, surrounded by a radiant aura of dark purple and bright silver, with eyes like miniature full moons.
“Oh,” Bailey gasped. “Oh my.”
“I,” the creature boomed, “am your god. I am Fenris, son of the witch-king Loki and father to all werewolves. Every prayer you’ve uttered or oath you’ve made was sworn to me since you first suckled at your mother’s breasts. You would challenge and attack me?”
He pivoted, lashing out with a clawed hand at the warrior who’d just tried to pounce on him. The injured, half-conscious Were exploded. Not into large pieces, or even into fragments, but into fine red mist. The vapor that had once been his body wafted on moonlit air and then settled amidst the forest.
Bailey clapped a hand to her mouth and the Eastmoor Weres stumbled back, visibly shaking. Wolves, normal ones, howled somewhere in the distance, and dogs and coyotes joined the chorus.
Fenris spoke again. “If anyone has the authority to select the next High Shaman,” he rumbled, his voice seeming composed of a dozen mighty werewolves speaking at once, “it is I. Clearly, I have been away too long since your respect is lacking. Bow down! Bow to your deity, and bow before Bailey Nordin, whom I have personally trained to lead you.”
Flabbergasted, Bailey watched as the Eastmoors slowly fell to their knees and inclined their heads and torsos toward her. She could feel their terror, mingled with resentful anger, confusion, and awe.
And then a rush of triumphalist ecstasy hit her. She had won. As of this moment, she was above and beyond all the stupid fucking bullshit that the lycanthropic community had tried to foist on her throughout her life. The god had given her permission to live free of their idea of what she “had” to do.
She could be what she was obviously meant to be—a shaman—and no one would ever again harass her by mentioning her impending twenty-fifth birthday. She could remain single until she was forty, sixty, or a hundred.
Or she could marry Roland. If she wanted to.<
br />
Breathing deep, she turned back to Fenris but saw Marcus standing there, his grizzled face calm and almost amused.
“I, ah,” she began, “I accept. How could I do otherwise? And, hell, what am I supposed to call you now?”
He chuckled, much to her surprise. “’Marcus’ will do, but remember my true name.”
“I don’t think it would be possible to forget.” She shook her head. Encountering Freya was one thing, but Fenris was their god. Her mind hadn’t accepted it yet.
The tall man came closer and put a hand on her shoulder, his wrathful demeanor gone again. He looked at the Eastmoors.
“You may go,” he told them. “And feel free to spread the word.”
Someone near the front replied in a shuddering breath, “Yes, Lord.” They ducked back into the bushes and scampered back down the mountainside toward their distant home in the dry hill country east of the Cascades.
Marcus turned back to Bailey. “I’m glad you’ve accepted my offer. But remember, things will only get harder from here.”
Her nostrils flared at that. “Seems like they’ve been hard enough already.”
His voice held a surprising undertone of kindness and warmth. “Yes, it’s been trying. Even for me. I think, though, that we’ve purchased a respite. The witches are defeated; we won’t have any more trouble from them right away. Your friends still live, while the Venatori have suffered a major loss. Take this time and go home to your family. Tell them what’s come to pass and recover. Go.”
He gave her a gentle push. She stumbled down the slope in the direction the Eastmoors had gone, though she’d need to double back to the south to get home. Somehow, taking the long route through the wilderness seemed like the best way to go tonight.
The girl looked over her shoulder once briefly. Marcus still stood there and watched her. She turned away, dropped the blanket, shifted form, and bounded into the forest.