The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  “Running rich,” she explained, “is when a vehicle starts burning excessive gasoline. It leads to that godawful stinky pungent gas smell you sometimes encounter on the highways, usually when people aren’t keeping their vehicles properly maintained.”

  “Ohhh,” Roland answered. “Interesting. You learn something new every day. Do you think this thing might be doing that right now? I thought I smelled something a minute ago.”

  She drew breath sharply over her teeth. “Not this lifted pickup truck, city boy. You’re gonna pay for even insinuating that.”

  As he laughed, though, she wondered if he might be correct. She had been driving the Tundra awfully hard lately and hadn’t had much time to check the engine.

  Something tapped the rear window. It was Lauren, who seemed to have assumed leadership of the girls, knocking on it to get their attention.

  Bailey locked eyes with her via the mirror. “Yes, honey?”

  “Are we okay?” the girl asked. “Is it over?”

  “Yes,” Roland said. “For now.”

  Bailey nodded and repeated, “For now. You girls are safe, and we’re headed home.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He’s dead,” Shannon stated in a tone that might have frozen the sloshing puddles around them. “He’s fucking dead. He is a fucking homicide victim walking, and he doesn’t even realize it. So is his little whore of an alleged girlfriend.”

  She wiped her skin with a tissue, moaning in misery as she imagined having to talk to some mouth-breathing cop with her face streaked into oblivion and her hair a damp, tangled mess.

  Aida frowned, her mouth looking like it was ready to drop off her face as she coiled her black hair and squeezed the water from it.

  “He should at least be a sweetheart,” she intoned, “and pay our expenses. I am sure we can convince him.”

  Callie tore off her jacket, which was now wrinkled with moisture in addition to being stained with blood and grime. She whipped it furiously against a small tree.

  “Fuck that!” she snarled. “That son of a bitch. When we catch him, we’re going to cut off his balls and eat them!”

  Awkward silence set in.

  “Um,” Shannon riposted after a moment, planting a hand on her hip, “Caldoria, that was excessively gross and stupid. Way to try too hard. Besides, we need his balls. They have to remain intact, so we’ll be nice and assume you’re, like, speaking figuratively.”

  Callie pouted and looked away, making a “humph!” sound and crossing her arms.

  “And,” Aida added, “we will not murder him. It would be so much nicer to have him alive, only better—persuaded to give us the powerful children we want. But someone must pay for this.”

  Shannon glowered. The sirens were getting closer, but she could hide their tracks with a simple spell. They could abandon the vehicle and flee on foot. Despite the horrifying prospect that someone might mistake them for hookers, it would get them clear of the authorities. Then they could use a charm spell to ensnare a male motorist who stopped to help them since male motorists always stopped to help them.

  “Yes,” she confirmed, her voice low and hard. “Someone must pay, and she will. In addition to everything she did, we should also punish her for everything Roland has done while degrading himself in her presence.”

  Callie turned back, and her and Aida’s eyes brightened.

  “In fact,” Shannon continued, her mood already improving, “we might be able to convince Roland to watch.”

  * * *

  At long last, Agents Townsend and Spall were nearing the end of the trail of devastation that had been wrought throughout northern and eastern Portland in the last two hours—the very visible and obvious devastation far too many people had witnessed.

  Townsend straightened his tie. “Only three normies saw anything here. Nice simple operation, for once.”

  Spall adjusted his sunglasses. “Yes. Only mundane property damage, although it sounds like one of them might have seen the werewolves.”

  Both men frowned as they strode forth to do their duty.

  They were almost indistinguishable from one another, and relatively average, nondescript men besides. Each was about six feet tall, medium build, white, stone-faced, clean-shaven, and with short hair of a dull brown. They wore matching dark gray-green suits that were almost black, but not quite.

  Even after speaking to them for ten minutes, most people had difficulty recalling what they looked like.

  One of the three “normies,” an overweight guy with a red and flustered face, called to them. “Hey. Uh, officers? Christ, you guys are the feds, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you what I saw. Might as well get it over with.”

  “Yes,” said Townsend.

  Spall motioned to the other two civilians, an old woman and a college-aged girl, whom the local police had already corralled and instructed to remain on the scene.

  The three bystanders related their choppy, halting, half-assed account of what they’d seen, or thought they’d seen.

  Someone throwing rocks out the back of a black truck. A white SUV with a tacky paint job and a travesty of a lift kit chasing them, then getting blasted off its wheels. Three party girls in a silver convertible of some sort picking up the chase and trying to force the truck off the road. The tubby guy claimed he saw something that looked like a giant dog or a panther or maybe a gorilla running alongside the road.

  “Yes,” said Spall.

  Townsend held up a hand for the three witnesses to remain where they were, then turned to confer with his partner.

  They mumbled nonsense words in slurred tones to one another, incomprehensible to anyone but them and a handful of their closest colleagues.

  “Pretty standard,” Townsend related. “The difficulty is a matter of quantity over quality. No one got a good look at anything.”

  “Affirmative,” Spall responded. “But there are far too many people who got any look, even a brief, shitty one.”

  They turned back to the three witnesses in unison.

  Townsend spoke first. “Thank you, good citizens, for your cooperation. The current investigation is sensitive and we can’t talk about it, but we can tell you the matters we’re dealing with should not be of any further concern to you.”

  Spall added, “It is unlikely you will be called upon to testify or anything like that. We and the local police have the situation well in hand.”

  The fat guy started to protest. “Okay, great,” he huffed, “but how do you explain—”

  Both agents whipped small sprayers out of their jackets, aimed, and fired. A mist of white gas shot into the faces of the three, causing them to stumble back, coughing. Then it was gone.

  The gas had been designed for instant but short-term potency. A direct hit caused pronounced effects, but it dissipated within two seconds. That greatly reduced the danger to the agents.

  As the citizens stood blinking in slack-jawed confusion, the agents repeated what they’d said a moment ago.

  “What you saw here,” Townsend added to the repeated information, “was the result of a gang war that spilled over into the streets. Normally such activities are confined to out-of-the-way places.”

  “Exactly,” Spall affirmed. “This was a freak incident of professional criminals growing sloppy after a drug deal went awry. The principal offenders have either been apprehended or fled the state. You may return to your homes and rest well, knowing anything you saw here today was of no real concern.”

  The heavyset guy, the old lady, and the college girl nodded vaguely, their expressions blank. Then, stumbling as if in a dream, they departed.

  After watching them leave, the nondescript but smartly-dressed duo turned in near-perfect synchrony and marched toward their car, which was parked a ways up the street where the Portland fuzz could watch it.

  “Fuck,” Townsend spat. “Goddamn idiot normies. It’s always a shitshow cleaning up after the supernatural. Every asshole in America thinks he’s an expert on somethin
g he half-saw once.”

  Spall snorted. “Yep. And the fucktard police vacillate between acting like they know what’s going on and asking for bribes, or behaving exactly the same as the civvies, only they’re better-armed and better-connected. What a bunch of dicks.”

  A kid playing with a half-deflated basketball watched them walk past, then shook his head. Lots of strange people in this neighborhood.

  Townsend sighed. “Well, when it comes to conspiracy theories, at least a lot of people are dumb enough to believe in aliens.”

  * * *

  As they came down the highway through the pass, the little town in the valley spread before them. At the edge of the built-up area, a bunch of cars had parked, and a crowd of people was standing around.

  Roland put his feet up on the dashboard. “Oh, a festival. This ought to be fun.”

  Bailey squinted and leaned forward over the steering wheel. “The hell? There isn’t a damn festival going on. More likely, it’s…”

  Her voice trailed off. She’d been about to say, “a lynch mob,” but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. She could not accept that Greenhearth would allow it. Even if a gang of Weres had kidnapped children, the rest of the community here knew most werewolves did not do shit like that.

  The black Tundra, banged up after its ordeal, rolled forward at a steady if chugging pace. The sun was almost down by now, but the streetlamps were on to compensate. Bailey could identify the people milling around by the road.

  Half were people she knew from Greenhearth. The other half was a mixed crew, but a few looked familiar—folks from nearby towns in the next valley or two up or down the mountain range, mostly Weres.

  “Ohh.” Bailey sighed, realizing at last what was going on. “Word must have spread that we, well, we have a delivery to make.”

  The girl sitting between them perked up. She was the smallest and youngest of the group, which was why the sedative had wiped her out to such an extent.

  The five other girls sat up and looked around. Bailey pulled over and parked.

  Someone in the crowd, a woman, cried out, “Oh, my God! She’s safe!”

  Then they were surrounded, and for three or four minutes, it was nothing but hugs and tears all around.

  The parents embraced their daughters and checked to make sure they weren’t hurt, saying loving words. The girls mostly cried. They weren’t small children, but they’d been taken far, far out of their element, and now they were home.

  Bailey and Roland sat in the truck just off the highway, unable to leave since the mob hadn’t bothered to relocate yet. Somehow, their hands ended up entwined.

  She smiled. “Well, Mr. Big Seattle Wizard, I think we did it.”

  “Oh, I know we did it,” he replied, and something about the way he said the words made her blush. Fortunately, the interior of the truck was pretty dark. “We even survived. Not bad.”

  A short but solid figure wearing a baseball cap pushed through the mass of people. Bailey noticed him at once and waved him over.

  “Hi, Gunney,” she began. “This is Roland, by the way. How’d the new girl do?”

  He was carrying a rag and wiping engine grease from his hands. “Howdy, Roland. And fine, mostly. Spilled a bit more oil than we’d like, and she could stand to get faster, but that’s nothing experience won’t fix. She ain’t a fucking idiot, which always helps.”

  “Indeed.” Bailey nodded. “Sounds like she’s already better than Kevin.”

  He shrugged. “Time will tell. Anyhow, Sheriff Browne sends his regards and says thanks for the info. He’ll be back ASAP. Has to clean up some red tape with the city folk since the PD up there managed to collect Dan Oberlin and his boys. Saw the cages and the warehouse, like you told him. Processing them as we speak, probably. You know how it is. How’d you like Portland?”

  “Well, uh…” she began, searching for the right words.

  Roland leaped to her rescue. “Oh, she did fine, aside from a bit of trouble with all the traffic. But that’s to be expected.”

  Gunny nodded. “Fair enough. Anyway, looks like the welcoming committee wants to have words with you two, and they probably don’t want my old grease-monkey ass in the way. I have to close up the shop for the night. You’re working tomorrow, by the way, but we’ll say afternoon shift. You probably need a good night’s sleep.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bailey riposted. “You know I’ll be there.”

  He tilted his hat toward her and gave Roland a knowing glance, then turned and ambled off.

  Bailey stepped out of the truck, suddenly wanting to stretch her legs and stand in the open air before the crowd pressed in. Roland did the same.

  Then a bunch of parents, twelve in particular, formed a circle around them.

  “Bailey,” said Mr. Heuerman, “by all the gods! We can’t thank you enough. You too, young man, whoever you are.”

  He smiled gently. Bailey thought he was doing rather well, faced as he was with twelve strange werewolves. “Roland, from Seattle.”

  The fathers each shook his hand, and everyone gave Bailey a hug.

  Another man, one of the fellows from either the south side or one of the neighboring towns, remarked to Bailey, “So, I guess the rumors aren’t true after all. About what sort of person you are—difficult and cantankerous and disrespectful and all that. Seems like your qualities haven’t been fully recognized for almost, gosh, twenty-five years now.”

  Bailey smiled politely. “Thank you, sir. Rumors usually distort the facts one way or another.”

  Her muscles tensed when she realized what he’d meant—that she was good marriage material, someone they’d all want to introduce their sons to.

  “See,” the guy went on, “my boy, Derek…he’s about your age, quite a bit older than Emma here,” he ruffled his young daughter’s hair, “he’s getting to the point where he needs to think about, you know, settling down.”

  More men and women pressed in then, eager to join the conversation and offer their own suggestions about who Bailey should be talking to and associating with. A sinking feeling almost overwhelmed her, souring the good mood she’d been in just minutes ago.

  Roland, standing a few feet off away, recognized her plight and stepped up to her side.

  “Excuse me,” he said, directing the comment mainly at Emma’s father since he was still doing the bulk of the talking, “Mr.…”

  “Nimberger,” he stated.

  “Right, Mr. Nimberger,” the wizard went on. “It’s nice to talk to you all, but it’s been a long day. So if I could just grab my girlfriend, we’ll be on our way. I’ll escort her home. I’m sure you can understand that I’m concerned about her getting some rest and privacy after everything that’s happened.”

  The older man gaped wordlessly for a second as he stared at the couple, then he nodded. Everyone else shut up.

  Bailey put her arm around Roland’s waist, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Thanks, dear,” she told him.

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied.

  Together, they strolled away from the crowd toward the higher ground to the northwest, where three tall figures—the Nordin brothers—stood and waved and waited. They’d come back for the truck. Then they were gone, vanishing from the sight of the group as dusk faded fully into night.

  The cluster of parents milled closer together. All of them were Weres, members of the Nordins’ pack or of neighboring packs so closely aligned as to make little difference. They talked amongst themselves for a few minutes before they started to disperse for the evening. The sheriff’s deputies had arrived to shoo them off anyway.

  Three local moms had arranged themselves around a lamppost.

  “Well,” said one, “he’s certainly handsome. And being from the big city and all, he’s probably interesting and experienced.”

  “And sophisticated-like,” another added. “Not used to people like us, and especially not Bailey.”

  The women tittered.


  The third added her two cents in a lower voice than the other two. “He might be here today, but he’ll be gone tomorrow. She’ll drive him away, just like she does with every other outsider. And then, ladies? Well, it’ll be time to introduce her to my boy Tommy.”

  Epilogue

  They finally got settled at the Nordins’ house, and everyone was asleep except Roland, tired as he was. He grabbed his phone from the recharger and brought up the arcane web, which was a corner of the dark web only available to magic users.

  The whole WereWitch thing was bugging him because he’d noted several times when Bailey had reacted to his magic that couldn’t be explained by her werewolf senses. He wasn’t going to say anything since that could get her in trouble, but he wanted to know more.

  Was she just a wolf who could sense magic, or was she one of the ruthlessly hunted WereWitches?

  Note from Renée

  You made it! Thank you so much for reading all the way to the end of this, my first book!

  I grew up in Los Angeles and now live in a small town much like Bailey’s in Oregon. It’s only me, my cat Snowstorm, and my dog Josephine, who is a Labradoodle. Or something. I’m really not sure since she’s a rescue, but that’s as close as I can come. Did you ever wonder who rules the world? It’s her (no, not the cat, thereby upending the myth that pervades the entire universe that felines are the superior life form). And from Oregon? Who knew?

  The other day, Jo decided Storm was the devil’s minion, and she must be eliminated. (Of course, it’s entirely possible she’s correct. We don’t have sufficient evidence yet).

  Me, I’m trying to write Werewitch02, so I only gradually become aware of the battle raging around me. It comes to a head when they simultaneously hit the LaZyBoy loveseat I write in and knock over my coffee. (Did I mention I live in a small town? No Starbucks, despite the law in the Pacific Northwest that there be one on every street corner. I almost died before I got the Keurig with the Starbucks pods, and even now, it’s not the same.) Coffee on my clean white t-shirt, coffee on Storm, and coffee on the navy-and-aqua blanket my Omi knitted me. Not a happy Writer! Who would have thought that a little of the manna from the gods could go such a long way?