The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Roland sighed. Maybe this time they could rescue the girls without ending up in a car chase.

  He sighed again. Nah.

  * * *

  Gunney had already been working on the Beamer when he’d called Bailey, but as long as she’d mentioned it, he figured he’d burn the midnight oil and finish the damn thing before he went home and passed out. It was late, but he could get away with sleeping in an extra hour tomorrow as long as his employees showed up and didn’t fuck things up too badly.

  The BMW was on the lift, already stripped of its doors and bumpers, and the old man was just about to check the suspension when a shadow moved across the lighted space within the shop.

  He glanced aside. A tall figure wearing a bulky coat was standing there. The man’s face was obscured in the shadows of a big hood.

  “We’re closed,” Gunney stated. “I’m just finishing something up and getting ready to shut things down. We’ll be open again tomorrow morning at seven.”

  There was a pause, then a deep voice rumbled out of the hood. “Oh. I see. I wanted to make an appointment.”

  The mechanic turned to glare at the man. “Most people don’t come to a business this late. And I’ve never seen you around here. You gonna just stand there, or you gonna go home and call in the morning?”

  Realizing that he was possibly being overly harsh with a person who hadn’t done anything wrong yet, he tried to soften things while still getting the point across.

  “I hear there’s this new thing called email the kids are into. We have one, even, so you could try that, too.”

  No response from the stranger. Gunney took one step forward, trying to get a better look at him. The man had a strong jaw covered with beard stubble, but that was all he could make out.

  Then the imposing voice came again. “I’m not here to get my car looked at,” the man clarified. “It’s about Bailey.”

  Inside Gunney’s head, an alarm went off. He maintained his cool, nodded, and strolled toward his pile of tools, selecting a breaker bar with a 1-inch socket—a foot and a half of solid, heavy steel. Turning to the stranger, he hefted it, bouncing it twice off his palm.

  “You know her, friend?”

  The man was still. “I’ve heard about her.”

  Somehow, that set the mechanic off. He stomped a few steps closer, now standing only six or seven paces from the hooded figure, who had remained just outside the bay doors at the edge of the light.

  “Now, listen here,” he almost snarled. “I might not be a young man anymore, but I ain’t old enough to be afraid of kicking your ass for skulking around at night, asking after Bailey. You think I don’t know what—”

  The man raised a hand, palm outward in an expression of truce. “No,” he interrupted. “I’m not here to threaten her or hurt her. I’m trying to help.” He was clearly not intimidated by the smaller, older man’s threats, but he wasn’t becoming aggressive, either.

  Gunney paused, nostrils flaring as he inhaled. He still regarded the hooded stranger with a suspicious squint but figured he might as well at least hear him out. “Explain to me just what that means, then, and if you can’t give me an explanation, get the hell out of here and don’t come back.”

  “I can explain,” he said. “First, I’m a Were. I know you know what that means. It also means I understand some of what Bailey is going through right now. I’m a shaman, and as such, one of the few werewolves who might be able to help her through this.”

  The mechanic listened intently as the man relayed his story and his intent.

  Through the grapevine, the underground network of contacts in the Were community throughout the region, he’d heard about Bailey Nordin, the heroic she-Were who’d rescued a bunch of young girls, and who was supposedly demonstrating traces of magical potential.

  This last bit surprised Gunney, but he kept listening.

  “Bailey’s special,” the stranger emphasized. “I think you of all people have known that all along. It’s only now, though, that her full abilities have come to the surface. She was a late bloomer, wasn’t she? That’s because she has potential far beyond most. And there’s no one in this town who has the first-hand experience to guide her through the next steps.”

  The mechanic kept nodding, his face serious but less hostile as he took in the shaman’s words.

  “When you see her or hear from her,” the man said, “please let me know. I’ll be around. I’m planning to help her, or at least to talk to her and see what she thinks. How open she’d be to guidance.”

  Pursing his lips and crossing his arms over his chest, Gunney thought it over for a few seconds. “Okay, I will pass on the message. But do not go stalking her yourself. She’s got enemies, and she’d probably kick the shit out of you more thoroughly than I could if you startle her. If you’re planning to help, though, we’ll see.”

  The man nodded. “I understand. Goodnight.”

  He turned and left the square of yellowish light from the garage, receding into the deep blue shade of the night. He quickly vanished between the shadows.

  As he worked his way toward the wooded hills encircling the little town, he reflected on all he’d said to the shop owner.

  It was partially true. He did have plans for Bailey.

  Chapter Nine

  Bailey awoke, yawning and stretching, feeling warm and comfortable and safe and rested. A shaft of soft golden sunlight was streaming in under the blinds, a little bright to her eyes as they just emerged from sleep, but not unwelcome. It looked like a beautiful morning.

  She kicked off the covers, sat on the edge of the bed, and then stood, rubbing her eyes.

  Once again, Roland had slept on the couch. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but she appreciated the gesture on his part. He was still snoring, but would probably wake up while she was in the shower or something.

  He did, and she darted out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel to let him use the toilet.

  “Thanks,” he drawled, noticing her near-nudity but not dwelling on it. “You might as well get dressed out there while I’m in here.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the plan,” she shot back.

  Thirty or forty minutes later, they were pretty much ready for the day. It was just after nine in the morning.

  “Breakfast?” Roland suggested. “If we’d stayed in Seattle, I’d know where to go, but I’m not familiar with Olympia. Of course, there’s always the good old Internet.”

  Bailey fluffed her hair. “Well, I’ll leave it up to you. Just as long as they know how to make a proper omelet.”

  The wizard spent a few minutes on his phone and quickly selected a nearby restaurant that was specifically geared toward breakfast and brunch. “It’ll probably be busy at this hour since it’s primetime for what they serve, but it sounds like it’s worth it.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “It’ll give us more time to talk about what to do next, anyway.”

  She hadn’t reached any firm conclusions, and somehow she suspected Roland hadn’t, either.

  They checked out and departed, heading back northeast toward the eatery. As they drove, an idea popped into Bailey’s head, but she sat on it for now. It was something they could discuss over coffee once they were fully awake.

  The place wasn’t quite as packed as Roland had feared, which was just as well. Too few patrons and their conversation would be easier to overhear; too many, and people would be crammed right next to them. Moderately busy was best for privacy.

  Their waiter was an energetic young man, clearly the early-riser type. He joked around ineptly but with enough good nature that they laughed anyway, and quickly brought them coffee before taking their breakfast requests. Bailey ordered a bacon omelet, Roland, pancakes with strawberries.

  “Awesome,” the waiter quipped. “I’ll get that right in for ya, and be back to check if you need refills. That’s what they pay me for, right?”

  “Damn right,” said Roland, raising his coffee mug as if making a toast.


  The young man hustled off and the pair relaxed.

  “Roland,” Bailey began, feeling now was the time. “I was thinking…maybe we could delay going to see this shaman guy. He’s a few hours away, but at the same time, he’s not going anywhere, right? And there might be more we can do in Seattle, especially after what Gunney said last night.”

  The wizard caught her eyes, waiting to hear her out.

  “This is gonna sound crazy as hell,” she continued, steeling herself for his reaction, “but I think maybe we need to get back into the hero business and look for those girls. Not only because it’s the right thing to do, but also because, well, I think it will help us unravel what’s going on with me.”

  Roland narrowed his eyes, more in concentration than anything else. He clearly wanted to know her reasoning before he offered a response. “Hmm. What do you mean?”

  “I’m starting to suspect,” she explained, “that my powers—the shape-changing and the magic stuff both—are tied into, I dunno, some kind of survival instinct. Like, I can’t just make myself do it whenever I want to, but if I have to, it kicks in. Does that make sense?”

  He took a long swig of coffee. “In a way, yes. But what does that have to do with…” He waved his hand vaguely.

  “Well,” she turned her head and coughed, “hunting down a few more kidnapping victims will put me back in the line of fire, you know? The action, the stress, the danger. Interacting with more Weres, especially hostile ones who want to fucking kill us, and all the emotions that come as part of that package. Can’t ask for a better way to make me need to do extraordinary things. Right?”

  She flashed him a crooked smile and waited to be told she was insane.

  Roland stared at her, his eyes bugging out a little now. “You’re insane!”

  She flapped a hand and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. Past experience says I’m right, though. Think about it.”

  Exhaling slowly, and leaning back to rub his eyes, the wizard muttered, “That, uh, does have a certain logic to it. The only problem is that we barely survived our first foray into rescue duty, and you’re still not sure if your powers will activate when we need them most. If we put them to the test in a situation where the outcome is either ‘everything goes perfectly according to plan’ or ‘get ripped open from ear to asshole,’ we might find out we can’t rely on your powers. And, you know, not live to appreciate the fact.”

  “True,” she conceded.

  Their waiter rematerialized. “Hey, don’t drink so fast! You might be in the bathroom next time I come around! Ha, sorry. There you go.” He filled their cups. “I’ll be back in a few more minutes.”

  Bailey thanked him, and he vanished again.

  Roland was already draining his second cup. Apparently, Bailey’s idea had stimulated his brain’s need for caffeine.

  “Well,” he grumbled, “maybe we could pursue situations where there’s just enough danger to put you into the right frame of mind, but, you know, be smart about it, as opposed to acting like Viking berserkers trying to get into Valhalla. Or Folkvangr, which is Freyja’s place.”

  “Yeah, whichever,” Bailey agreed. “Hmm. Is there a way you could use magic to point us in the right direction? Of the other kidnapped girls, I mean.”

  He thought it over for what felt like five full minutes, though it was probably closer to two.

  “Perhaps,” he responded finally. “There is a spell that might be of some use. An old-fashioned, crude one, the sort that kinda gives witches and wizards a bad name. But nothing too terrible, and it’s worth a shot.”

  “Deal,” Bailey stated.

  Roland looked at her askance. “You didn’t even hear what it was or what it involved. Ye gods, woman, don’t tell me you’re the type who signs a contract before reading it?”

  “I trust you,” was all she said. She smiled at him.

  He leaned back, relaxed, and let his face mirror hers. “Oh. Well, then, thank you.”

  Their food arrived a moment later, the waiter advising them to find a way to burn all the calories later that day. They groaned but thanked him before tearing in.

  After they’d eaten breakfast, paid their bill, and left the young man a decent tip for both service and entertainment, they settled back into the Trans Am. Bailey was still waiting for Roland’s description of the coming spell.

  “Okay,” he said as they buckled themselves in. “Really, the divination procedure I have in mind isn’t as bad as I made it sound. Since you’re a female lycanthrope, I could, say, use part of your body in a spell that will allow me to zero in on other beings with similar characteristics.”

  The girl blinked. “Uh, so what? Like, we saw off my arm, or…”

  “Nah,” the wizard countered. “I mean, that would work, it would just be excessive. Hair, a nail clipping, saliva, blood—anything like that will suffice. Two or more things is better than one, though.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed. “Pretty sure I can manage that. Where we gonna do this?”

  He looked around. “Not here. Maybe back at that park from last night? It was a nice place, and that little nook between the trees would offer us some privacy. You know, as long as it’s not already occupied by some other young couple doing strange things involving body parts.”

  Bailey blushed. “Shut up. Foul-mouthed degenerate.” She punched his arm.

  “Ow,” he said.

  They set off for the park by the lake, stopping at a gas station along the way. While Bailey refueled the car, Roland went into the attached convenience store and purchased a pair of maps—one of the state of Washington, and another of Greater Seattle.

  “These,” he clarified, “will help, since it’s better to have physical components. As in, if the spell works, it will coalesce on the maps rather than trying to beam images straight into my mind, which can get tricky.”

  Bailey started the engine. “You’re the expert. You didn’t happen to buy nail clippers, did you?”

  He frowned. “Damn.”

  They arrived at the park, which was significantly busier than it had been late last night. Joggers, dog-walkers, fishermen, and parents with young kids were keeping the place lively. Fortunately, however, their makeshift sacred grove was empty.

  Bailey looked around at the enclosing trees. “This does seem like just the place to cast a creepy witch-spell involving unneeded body parts. Hell, maybe it’s still a little bit magicked-up from me conjuring the sparks last night.”

  “Maybe.” Roland shrugged. “Now, let’s have that hangnail.”

  In a small tin that had originally contained breath mints, Roland collected an annoying piece of nail from Bailey’s left ring finger. Then she spat on top of it and watched as the wizard jiggled the dish around, letting the saliva spread across the surface.

  Meanwhile, the girl spread the two maps out on the ground at their feet in a patch of dim sunlight that filtered through the trees.

  “Now,” Roland instructed, “don’t disturb me for a few minutes while I work the spell. This is a bit different from what I’m used to, but it should work. And don’t let anyone see us, either.”

  She scanned the perimeter. No one was around to bother them, for now.

  “Okay,” the wizard murmured, and closed his eyes, “here goes nothing.”

  * * *

  Marcus had slept well. The woods around Greenhearth were strangely inviting. Something to do with the presence of so many Weres, he decided. So many sheltered, innocent ones. They barely grasped what was going on in the wider world.

  Once he’d roused, he found a gas station and let himself into the restroom, giving himself a quick makeshift bath. A stupid formality in his opinion, but enough to keep from being too conspicuously offensive to humans and their refined, civilized sensibilities.

  Then he headed for the sheriff’s station. A few people on the street gave him hard looks—some disapproving, but most just curious. Everyone knew everyone else around here. One lady crossed the st
reet to avoid him.

  He arrived at the station and strolled casually through the front doors.

  A deputy behind the front desk looked up at him with a serious but bored expression. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to the sheriff,” Marcus rumbled.

  “He’s busy,” the man replied, picking up a pen, “but I can take down a report if there’s been a crime, or give him a note.”

  The tall man had expected this. “I have information about the situation involving Bailey Nordin,” he stated, keeping his voice mostly neutral but giving it enough of an edge to catch the deputy’s full attention.

  The cop raised an eyebrow, then turned his face away for a second, probably to give himself time to think. “Uh, ok sir, if you could just wait right here, I’ll let him know. It’s up to him if he wants to speak to you right away.”

  Unsurprisingly, when the deputy reappeared, the sheriff was with him.

  “I’m Sheriff Browne,” said the large, heavy, mustached man beside the other officer. “If you have something we need to know about Bailey, I want to hear it. But first—”

  He raised a finger, and his face was severe, “First, my friend, you need to take that hood down. I’m surprised you weren’t already asked to do that. You ought to know better than to hide your face in a police station, of all places.”

  The deputy blushed with embarrassment.

  Marcus made his mouth smile pleasantly. “Of course, sir,” he said. Slowly, he raised his hands and drew the hood back, allowing it to fall away from his head.

  Browne examined him for a couple of seconds, then nodded. “Okay, good. Now, I’d like to speak with you privately in my office, but of course, I’d also like you to take that coat off and let us do a quick frisk.”

  Marcus cooperated, offering no resistance, but not going out of his way to offer any help or information beyond what they specifically requested. They asked to see his ID as well and took down his contact information. It was fictitious but would pass muster until they had cause to dig into it more. For now, it was fine.