The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Hanging her head, Bailey’s reply was, “Yes.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” he said. “How far back does this taboo go? Have werewolves always killed their magical adepts, or is this something that only started a few measly centuries ago?”

  The girl shrugged. “I dunno. That’s what people have always said. If a Were is born with magic, they have to die. That’s just the way it is.”

  The wizard shook his head. He seemed only vaguely aware of how distressed she was. He was focused on the intellectual problem of what to do about it. She knew he cared; she just kind of wished he’d give her a hug and tell her it would be all right. They could figure things out later.

  “I can’t accept that such a stupid tradition is the only way it’s ever been done. Or that it wouldn’t have died out in modern times. I think we need to start looking for more coded messages—online, I mean. Like I said, there are forums where the digital equivalent of invisible ink might be able to point us in the right direction.”

  He turned on the computer in the corner and pulled out the chair. As the machine booted up, he turned his head toward her. “Hey. Are you okay?”

  “Eh,” she mumbled. “About as okay as anyone would be if they found out they’re, you know, something their people think is an abomination.”

  Her gut seized as all the feelings of non-belonging and rejection, all the hints that she was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole, came back and clawed at her.

  The wizard’s eyes softened. “You’re not an abomination, and none of the people who love you back home would think that, either. Do you think Gunney would? Your brothers, or your father? Maybe a few of the Oberlin-type shitheads, but that’s it. And even in a place like Greenhearth, I don’t think anyone can get away with burning someone at the stake. Don’t leap to conclusions. We’re going to figure this out.”

  She wasn’t sure if his words were enough, but he was trying, and he was at least right about Gunney and her brothers. That made her feel a little better.

  “There must—must,” he continued, “be others like you. And if that’s the case, they’ve probably tried to reach out to help people in the same situation.” He knew there were because he’d found mentions of them on the magicians’ web. “All we have to do is look for the signs they’ve left.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged. “Let’s view some invisible messages.”

  * * *

  Julius Alba stood in front of the window of his cottage, looking north across the rolling, rugged landscape toward the snowcapped peak of Mount Adams. As far as he was concerned, he had the best view in all of southern Washington state. Maybe the best in the entire Pacific Northwest. He smiled.

  He was getting old, and the chillier weather was growing more difficult to tolerate, although he was made of hardy stuff. And of course, he wore layers of flannel and a thick woolen cap, as most people around here did when the cold winds blew down off the Cascades or across the plains to the north or east.

  “Somewhere,” he said to himself. “Somewhere in that direction. Just coming into their own, they are. A new talent. Impressive strength. Tough to know the details just yet, but I’m sure they’ll come to see me soon. We’ll get things worked out.”

  The training and initiation of new shamans was sometimes an arduous and lengthy process, but he took great pride in it, and he was bored and lonely besides. He would welcome the opportunity to help a young person come to grips with the responsibilities bestowed by their powers.

  He drew his gaze back across the still-wild fields of his ten-acre property, his rutted dirt driveway, and his rusted forest-green ’95 Chevy Blazer. Neither the vehicle nor the house was much to look at.

  But they were his, and they were all he needed. The mountains, the forests, the plains, the sun, and the wind supplied the rest.

  Julius turned and trudged slowly into his small kitchen, which was getting a bit grimy but retained its homey feel. Or so he liked to think.

  He took down a black ceramic mug, its color masking the deep stains on the interior, and set it aside. Then he filled his teakettle from the tap and placed it on the old range, cranking up the heat. He added a bag of black tea to the cup while he waited for the water to boil.

  “I wonder,” he mused, “if he—or she—will know how to find me. I’ll give it, say, two weeks. Then I’ll go looking for them.”

  He frowned, wondering how much the cities might have changed. It had been a few years since he was in Seattle or Portland, or even one of the mid-sized cities like Yakima or Eugene or Bend. With any luck, he’d find the new shaman in a nice small town.

  The kettle whistled and he turned off the burner, waiting for a moment before he poured the steaming water over the teabag and let it steep. “It always takes longer than you think,” he mumbled, looking at the beverage. “But the wait is worth it.”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Julius perked up, alert. He was momentarily as sharp and ready as a hunting animal, no longer an aging man on the verge of decrepitude. He’d neither seen nor heard nor smelled anyone approach the cottage. Certainly not in a vehicle.

  Breathing in through his nose, he went to the window, from which he could see nothing of interest, then opened the door.

  A man was standing there. “Shaman,” he said in a deep voice. It was a declarative statement rather than a question.

  Julius looked the visitor over. He was tall and broad-shouldered and gave the impression of tremendous physical power, although he wore dark, bulky, nondescript clothes that concealed his body and a hood that left most of his face in shadow. Only his stubbly jaw was visible.

  “I don’t receive visitors very often these days,” the old man replied, allowing a hard edge to creep into his voice. “Who are you, and what do you want, friend?”

  The newcomer did not react. He neither tensed up nor relaxed. He only spoke. “My name is Marcus.”

  The shaman waited for a family name, but the stranger didn’t offer one. After a few seconds of silence, he reciprocated the introduction. “My name is Julius Alba. And again, I’d like to know what you’re doing here, and how you managed to approach my home without my noticing.”

  He was almost positive the man was a Were, which would explain it, but he wanted Marcus to say so.

  “I’ve been tracking one of ours,” the man explained, his voice guttural and devoid of any emotional tone. “A potential shaman. Definite abilities with magic. I have suspected as much for some time now, and after today, there’s no doubt. Have you felt it?”

  The shrouded head tilted an inch or two to the side as Marcus waited for his answer.

  Julius chewed on the man’s words. “I have, yes. But that still doesn’t answer my question. What brings you here? Speak or leave.”

  Marcus’s demeanor softened. It seemed he realized, finally, that he’d been too stealthy in his approach and too brusque in his greeting, arousing the old shaman’s suspicion.

  “Forgive me,” the newcomer apologized. “I wanted to get straight to business. I’m here to reach out to a respected elder of the Were community. With this new Werewitch on our hands, we might have to make important decisions soon. I wanted to ask your opinion on what should be done so that we can form a consensus. The sooner, the better, before our new young talent has time to make too many mistakes.”

  Julius nodded. “Ah. That makes some sense. You’re an enforcer type. And your story makes sense. Of course, I’d like to know more about the details, but I grasp your intent. And yes, we should all agree on how to deal with the situation. Come inside, please, and let’s discuss this over tea.”

  “Tea,” Marcus rumbled. “Very well.”

  He stepped over the threshold, and Julius closed the door against the chill air outside. Before the old man could speak, the visitor continued, “I’ve come on behalf of a consortium of pack elders in Oregon. We’re pretty sure that’s where our new magical talent comes from.”

  Julius nodded as he made his wa
y toward the simple kitchen. “I see.”

  “We want to establish,” Marcus continued, “who should train them, and how to track them down and approach them. Have they visited you yet?”

  The shaman examined his cup of tea and decided it was cool enough to drink. He raised it to his lips, his back turned to the tall man. “They’ve not been here, no. And I’m guessing this consortium wants me to be the one to train them?”

  “No.”

  Julius turned around.

  A wolf the size of his Blazer was airborne. It knocked him over, snarling and drooling on his face even as its fanged jaws closed around his head. His last thought was a pang of regret that he’d lowered his guard and a sense that he’d failed.

  Marcus changed partway back. Alba had been almost the last shaman left in the Northwest, he recalled. There was one more, maybe two but they would be taken care of as well. He had already killed all the others. That narrowed the girl’s options.

  With Julius eliminated, he could relax for a little while. Oh, he would meet with the other shamans, but Alba had been the closest one to where she was now. The girl would find him once she went home; of that, he was quite confident, since he would be in her town, humbly offering to help her. And if by some chance she didn’t come to him, he wouldn’t have much trouble finding her. Again.

  He breathed, in and out through his still-jagged teeth, his yellowish eyes admiring the fearsome silhouette his intermediate form made on the wall. He might have been a beast, but he was no fool. Things were going just as he’d planned.

  Now to get rid of the body.

  * * *

  It took almost three hours and every ounce of Roland’s wizardly skill and knowledge, but they’d finally produced a decent list of promising leads.

  “Three,” Bailey proclaimed, examining the names they’d written down for the fifth time in as many minutes. “I mean, it’s not many, but it’s a start.”

  Her companion leaned back in the computer chair, cracking his neck and stretching his limbs. “It’s a hell of a start, really. There aren’t all that many werewolves to begin with, and the ones who’ve demonstrated magical ability and become shamans are much rarer still. Three living, practicing ones within the Northwest isn’t bad at all.”

  She made a vague grunt in her throat. None of the candidates lived as close as she would have liked.

  There was one down in southern Oregon near Klamath Falls, almost on the border with California. Another lived way up by Flathead Lake in northwestern Montana, not far from the border with Canada.

  That just left the other guy, Julius Alba, who lived in southern Washington near Mount Adams.

  “So,” Roland asked, “which one do you think we should seek out first?”

  She snorted. “It’s a good eight-hour drive to Klamath or Kalispell. Trout Lake is only about four hours or so from here, and only around two and a half from Greenhearth. I’d say that makes it pretty damn obvious.”

  He nodded, his eyes closed for the moment. “Sensible answer. Of course, it’s already getting late. In fact, I’m surprised the damn library is still open, unless they just closed to normal people and are making an exception for us. I propose we look for someplace to spend the night and resume the search in the morning.”

  Bailey hugged her arms tighter around her chest. He was right; they couldn’t realistically expect to barge in on a stranger well past dark and expect to find him accommodating. She just wasn’t sure how she felt about sleeping in the same room with Roland again.

  But she had told everyone they’d probably be gone overnight.

  Waving a hand to symbolically clear her head, she concurred. “I second that proposal. Let’s get some food first, too.”

  As if on cue, three knocks sounded on the door to the vault, followed by a fourth, which opened it automatically. The pair turned in unison.

  “Pardon me,” said the head librarian. “Just checking to see if you’re about ready to finish up. We’re technically closed, but I had to linger to finish up some bureaucratic nonsense, so I saw no point in kicking you out just yet. Afraid I can’t let you spend the night here, however.”

  Bailey laughed; for some reason, the idea of bunking in a library amused her. “We’re done. Just talking about what to get for dinner, in fact.”

  Roland nodded. “Thanks again for letting us use your facilities. Oh, and let me disassemble that device.” He stood and hustled over to the table where the blood-testing contraption still lay.

  With Bailey’s help, they reduced the machine to a collection of strange parts and returned them to random places on the shelves.

  The librarian watched them. When they were done, Bailey gathered their papers and Roland shut down the computer.

  “Oh,” the wizard piped up, “would it be possible to borrow this book? I know that—”

  “Sorry,” the tall man cut him off. “It’s a reference. Can’t leave the building. Strict policy, you understand.”

  Frowning, Roland agreed and put it back on the shelf where he’d found it.

  The black-haired librarian led them out of the vault, through the illusory wall, and past the stacks in the small, silent building to the front porch.

  “Thank you,” he said, “and come again if you need any further aid with your, ah, research. Good evening.”

  Bailey half-expected him to wink as he closed the door.

  “That guy,” she remarked, “thinks pretty highly of himself, wouldn’t you say?”

  Roland just shrugged as they strolled back toward their car, which fortunately was safe and sound after sitting in the lot for hours.

  “He clearly is ‘in on it,’ you might say,” the wizard pointed out. “And probably gets a kick out of going through the motions of the masquerade. He’s definitely a little weird, though.”

  As they climbed into the Trans Am, Bailey, her head still spinning from what they’d discovered, had a sudden fit of adventurousness.

  “Hey,” she said. “For dinner, why don’t you take me someplace really different? Like Asian food or something I’ve never had before. Sushi, maybe? Never tried it.”

  He grinned almost evilly. “Wolves eat raw meat, right? So I’m sure it won’t shock you to learn that some humans like raw fish.”

  * * *

  Neither of them felt like retiring for the night just yet. Their meal of sushi and tea had reenergized them without being so filling as to make them groggy, and Bailey’s mind was still burning with questions.

  She turned to Roland as she drove. “If I have to wait ‘til tomorrow to get any answers from this shaman guy, could you at least, I dunno, show me a thing or two about magic tonight?”

  Roland clearly wanted to put his feet up on the dashboard, but, scowling, restrained himself out of respect for Gunney’s prized car.

  “The short answer is yes,” he responded, “but that’s pretty vague, so let’s narrow it down a bit.”

  After a couple of minutes of an awkward question and answer session and some general haggling, they decided to pull over somewhere inconspicuous and see if the wizard could give the werewolf a basic impromptu lesson in the channeling of arcane power.

  He waved his hand but transformed the gesture into a pointing motion. “Over here. This area,” he indicated, “is not very well-traveled, so it should give us some privacy. There, a nice big abandoned parking lot. Pull over, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bailey replied. “Would’ve been my first choice, anyway.” She turned the wheel and piloted the Trans Am into the far corner of the lot, parking out of sight and killing the engine.

  The lot lay against open street—no fences—on its west side but was enclosed on the other three sides by small buildings, most of which looked to be disused, or at least closed for the night. Very few cars drove by on the road they’d just been on.

  Both climbed out of the car at the same time.

  Roland stretched his arms, intertwined his fingers, and flexed his hands against each other. “Okay. Pro
perly speaking, I should give you a lengthy course in understanding the whole theory and philosophy of magic, but that crap is kinda boring. You won’t have a frame of reference for most of it anyway, so I’ll just go with a quick summary and then plunge right into teaching you a minor spell or two.”

  “That’s a relief,” countered the girl. “Can’t know how to fix a car without putting your hands on the damn parts.”

  “I suppose not,” the wizard conceded as he strolled to a more open area a good twenty feet from the Trans Am. “But it’s useful to know what the parts are called first and hear a basic description of what they do.”

  Bailey walked alongside him, and after they stopped, faced him from about six feet away, curious as to what he’d come up with to introduce her to a whole new world.

  Roland cleared his throat. “What magic is, mostly, is tapping into the various energies and essences of the universe with your mind, and then using your body to manipulate them or ask them to do your bidding. Occasionally, asking them to do you favors, but let’s not get into that stuff yet. Ceremonial magic is serious business. We’ll stick to the elemental stuff for now.”

  “Uh, okay,” Bailey shrugged.

  The wizard paused as he decided where to proceed from here. “Hmm. We’ll go with some simple telekinesis. Pushing stuff from afar. That’s surprisingly easy if you have the gift. That trash can over there.”

  He waved his hand toward a battered plastic garbage bin leaning against the rear wall of one of the encircling buildings. “Stand about ten or twelve feet from it, arms extended and hands open, and just sort of look at it and think about it for a minute.”

  Bailey did so. She felt foolish, wondering how it would look if someone saw here gazing intently at a trash receptacle and meditating on the mysteries of its plastic construction or its past malodorous contents.