The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  She did, noting that Roland was more agitated than usual. Somehow, everything they’d been through together had made him downright hostile to the idea of the last SUV getting away—not that she minded his enthusiasm.

  Cutting across side streets, vaulting over ramps, veering through intersections when they should have stopped and pre-honking to announce the stupid shit they were about to do, they burned up the southern suburbs beneath their tires, barely able to believe they were getting away with this.

  The drivers of the SUV could not be allowed to get away with what they were doing, though.

  “There,” Roland shouted, pointing across a median. “That’s them. The green dot on the map is moving the same way they are. Oh ho, they’re gonna get it now. I might even bust out some of the magic I normally try not to use in public.”

  “Roger,” said Bailey. Gritting her teeth, she drove over the top of the median, terrifying half the drivers on the other side, although she managed to jet through a gap in traffic before any of them were in danger of striking her.

  Then she pulled through a gas station parking lot and onto a side street, suddenly finding herself only a hundred feet or so behind a black SUV just like the one they’d recently overtaken.

  Unsurprisingly, the driver noticed them, sped up, and started weaving in and out of traffic, not to mention ducking down side streets.

  Bailey stayed right on his ass. “Basic shit.” She scoffed. “They haven’t learned any new tricks. Unless they got some ace in the hole, it’s a question of when, not if, we run those bastards off the road.”

  “Good,” Roland affirmed. “But don’t forget about the girls in there. Damn, this really would be easier if we could just, you know, force their vehicle into the path of an oncoming train or something fun like that.”

  “True,” conceded Bailey.

  Their opponents started to pull ahead, but Roland, using the map, was able to keep track of them, often anticipating their moves, and the SUV never was far from Bailey’s sight.

  After some minutes of trying to lose them, the driver gave up.

  “Ha!” the girl exclaimed. “The son of a bitch must know we’re tracking him and now he’s basically quit. What’s he gonna do, hope we run out of gas before he does?”

  Saying that, she glanced at her fuel gauge. They’d expended a fair amount, but the tank running dry wasn’t something their foes could look forward to anytime soon.

  Roland fidgeted. “They’re leaving the Seattle metro area,” he complained, and there was a whiny edge to his voice. “Once they’re past the edge of this map, we’re screwed if we lose them in traffic. We need to stop them, like, now.”

  “Fine,” Bailey grunted. She slammed the gas pedal down.

  The wizard half-fell back in his seat as the car rocketed forward, the back of the SUV growing rapidly larger in their windshield.

  She reassured her passenger, “This will work as long as they don’t brake-check us. Gunney would see us on the evening news, face-planted on the dashboard all bloody, with the front end of his prize Pontiac crunched all to hell.”

  The black vehicle was only twenty feet away now.

  Roland clenched his jaw. “Oh. Fantastic.”

  * * *

  The farmhouse was, interestingly, almost exactly as he’d pictured it. It had a subtle character to it, a unique quality that was difficult to put a finger on. At the same time, in most respects, it was just like any other farmhouse on the fringe of any other small town anywhere in the rural United States.

  Marcus stood in the dirt and gravel driveway, looking over the dirt and gravel lot, glancing briefly at the neighbors’ houses, at the hill slopes beyond the backyard with their dense forest of pine, at the pole barn, and at the quaint old house.

  He made no effort to hide. If the house’s occupants came out to greet him, that was fine. If he had to go to the door and knock, that, too, would be a simple matter.

  Less simple, though, would be dealing with Bailey’s three brothers. They were almost like local celebrities. Mostly among the female population, but in general, it seemed that everyone knew them. Most people liked the Nordin boys. A few obviously hated them but wouldn’t say so outright.

  There was one thing, however, that everyone Marcus had spoken to agreed on. Jacob, Russell, and Kurt were extremely loyal to and protective of their big sister.

  But loyalty and protectiveness were also things that might provide him with…opportunities. They could be turned to his advantage. It might take more work than the minimal effort he’d expended on Sheriff Browne, but he was willing to expend that effort.

  Someone moved behind one of the windows. Marcus took a few slow, casual steps closer to the house. Then the front door creaked, and a second later, the screen door opened onto the porch.

  Out stepped a young Were, a bit over six feet, broadly and strongly built, with dark hair and a chiseled, stubble-covered jaw. He stood there for a second, looking at the stranger before he spoke.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” the man inquired.

  Marcus raised a hand. “Hello. And yes, you can. My name is Marcus. I’m a Were from a couple towns over in the mountains. I wanted to talk to you about your sister, Bailey.”

  The young man wasn’t afraid, but he was tense, and his eyes narrowed. “Never heard of you. No offense, but I can’t think of any reason why someone I’ve never heard of would need to talk to her. Besides, she’s not around. And I don’t know where the hell she is, before you ask.”

  His tone wasn’t actively hostile, but it was noticeably chilly. Brusque. Convincing him and his two brothers would not be a walk in the park.

  But it could be done.

  “I understand,” Marcus went on before the boy could walk back inside and shut the door. “I’m actually here because I think I can help her. Word gets around. No point in denying I’ve heard the gossip. But I’m not here to gawk, or to give her shit, or to try to flirt or court her as a mate or anything like that. Will you at least hear me out?”

  A muscle in the young man’s face pulled his mouth to the side as he thought it over. “Okay, fine, but only if my brothers are good with it.” He crossed his brawny arms over his chest and turned his head toward the house. “Kurt! Russell! Get out here. Some guy wants to talk to us.”

  Footsteps came from within and two other men emerged, both a bit younger than the first. One was about the same height but thinner and rounder-faced; the other was positively towering, even taller than Marcus, and had a dark, brooding air about him.

  “Right,” the first said. “I’m Jacob, and here we have Kurt and Russell. If you know who Bailey is, you already know our family name and our pack, I’m sure.”

  Marcus conceded the point as the other two brothers nodded. They looked skeptical and on edge, but none of the three was treating him as a threat so far. Kurt and Russell seemed to trust and defer to Jacob’s judgment.

  The newcomer repeated his pitch, explaining that his goal was to help Bailey with her current strange circumstances—and that he, Marcus, probably knew more about them than anyone else in the valley.

  The Nordin boys listened with obvious interest, but they didn’t let their guard down.

  Jacob gestured toward the stranger. “That makes sense, but could you do us a favor? Take the hood off. If you’re here to talk to us as one Were to another, we ought to at least know what you look like.”

  “Fair enough,” Marcus said. He reached up and threw back the hood.

  None of them seemed surprised by his appearance. He was tall, strong, and craggy even by lycanthropic standards, his middle-aged face weathered, with high, sharp cheekbones and a powerful squared-off jaw. Gray streaks ran through his dark hair at his temples and near the crown of his head.

  In fact, the three boys standing on the porch would probably resemble him a great deal in another twenty or thirty years.

  Kurt tapped his lips with his index finger. “Why should we believe you? I mean, yeah, you kinda got the whole st
ereotypical Were look—big guy, strong facial bone structure, nice residual beard, and probably lots of body hair—not that I want to see it or anything. But sometimes a guy looks like that and he’ll be about as human as, uh, a human person. Other times you’ll see someone who looks like if they could shapeshift, it’d be into a little fluffy pink bunny, and suddenly, oh, shit, werewolf. Your scent isn’t telling me anything. Curious, that, but we’ve run into it before.”

  Marcus allowed his apparently stereotypical face to settle into a relaxed smile. “I understand. You never can tell. If you want a demonstration, I can give you one. It’ll involve a lot more body hair, though.”

  Jacob’s façade cracked at that as he let out a low chuckle. “Yes, please, and thank you. People in this town know how things work. It’s mostly people who’ve been around long enough that they just accept that some people can turn into wolves, and others can’t. But we do get strangers passing through every once in a while, so if you really can change, then do us a favor and do it out back.”

  He gestured at the corner of the house.

  Nodding, Marcus slowly walked around the side of the wooden edifice and through the grass and mud to the open space between the home and the pole barn.

  He sensed something there, something that had seeped into the earth—magical residue. It was faded, the spell having taken place at least a couple of days ago, but it was definitely present. He’d been right to come here.

  The three brothers followed him, and they spread out in a way that blocked him from the house. The building blocked him from the sight from the street. Perfect for a demonstration of his abilities.

  “Okay,” Marcus intoned. “This will only take a moment.”

  He shrugged out of his coat, gently dropping it to the grass beside him, then turned his back on the Nordins as he took off his shirt and unbuckled his pants.

  Kurt, unsurprisingly, piped up. “Ugh, I was right. It’s like a carpet or something.”

  Jacob gave him a gentle shove. “Yeah, like you’re any different. Oh, wait, you’re the youngest. You probably don’t even have your pubes yet.”

  “Bullshit,” Kurt shot back. “This guy’s back might be a carpet, but my groin is a freakin’ jungle.”

  Russell pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Let’s just get this over with,” he rumbled.

  Then the stranger changed.

  “Whoa!” Jacob and Kurt exclaimed in unison, and Russell took a half-step back in surprise.

  In little more than the blink of an eye, the large man had become an enormous wolf—possibly the biggest they’d ever seen. His ears were long enough to be mistaken for horns, his eyes bright yellow, and his fur dark brown, almost black, streaked with jagged strips of ashen gray. His jaws looked big enough to swallow a mid-sized dog whole.

  The fearsome creature reared up on his hind legs, taller even than Russell now, but then he was already shifting back into human form—shrinking, reshaping, his thick hair receding. One of his paws reached down, and a man’s hand gripped the discarded coat, holding it in front of him.

  Kurt stammered and waved his hands vaguely. “Uh, well, you’re bigger than we expected.” He stopped and blinked. “Wait, that sounded… Fuck. Never mind.”

  His brothers ignored him as Marcus pulled his clothes back on. Jacob took a step forward.

  “Okay,” said the eldest of the three, “obviously, you’re a Were. So that much of your story is true, and I imagine you do have some idea of what Bailey’s going through right now. How did you change so fast, though? And like Kurt said, well, your wolf form is freakin’ massive.”

  The stranger had just finished pulling his shirt back over his head, having already put on his pants and boots. He looked Jacob in the eye, his expression intense but calm.

  “I’m a shaman,” he stated. “From what I’ve heard, you don’t have any of them in this town, but we exist. Part of a very, very old tradition, stretching all the way back to the beginnings of lycanthropy. There are a few of us scattered across the Pacific Northwest, and we sometimes have powers that would be considered unusual in other Weres.”

  Jacob, and behind him, Kurt and Russell, nodded slowly as their minds began to connect the dots.

  Marcus went on, “We learn to control those powers and bring them to their full potential, but without attracting too much attention or causing too much harm. Traditionally, when a young Were displays uncommon abilities, it’s our responsibility to train them. To help mentor them through the transition. You see?”

  No one spoke for almost a minute, until Russell asked, “Transition to what?”

  Marcus met the tallest brother’s gaze. “Becoming a shaman. It might be the best path for her.”

  “Oh?” Russell inquired, his voice flat. He wasn’t going to ask questions that would let this stranger think they didn’t know important things about their own sister.

  Jacob intervened. “Hey, okay, we get it. She’s not a one-of-a-kind weirdo after all, and maybe you can help her. But we’re not going to leap to any conclusions here. And she’s not the type who lets other people make decisions for her.”

  The stranger nodded. “I understand. When I talked to your sheriff, I told him the same thing I’m going to tell you. There’s no pressure. Bailey doesn’t have to do anything if she doesn’t want to. But her reputation is spreading—the good stuff and the bad stuff both—and I have some idea of what it’s like to be different. When she comes back, could you at least pass on the message? Tell her what I have to offer and let her make up her own mind.”

  Jacob looked at his brothers. Kurt shrugged, and Russell made an almost imperceptible motion of his head that may have been a nod. That seemed to satisfy the eldest, and he turned back to Marcus.

  “Okay,” he began, “that much we can do, yeah. But it would help to know more about you and where you’re from. Stuff like that, and don’t go trying to look for her yourself. There are people who don’t like her. She might react badly to some weird guy trying to approach her, you know?”

  Kurt broke out laughing. “Yeah, ‘badly’ is one way of putting it. If you try that, I hope you have good health insurance, my friend.”

  Marcus allowed himself a sardonic smile. “Understood. I’ll be around town. As a shaman, I can sense rare powers, so to be honest, I’ll probably know when she comes back, but I won’t burst out of a dark alley at her. I’ll wait for you to talk to her first. Then I’ll check in.”

  “All right,” Jacob replied. He and the others were still somewhat guarded but warming up. They had seemingly eliminated the possibility from their minds that Marcus wished their sister direct harm at least.

  The newcomer shrugged into his long coat. “Oh, there’s something else I just thought of.”

  He paused for effect, clearing his throat as the brothers waited to hear the postscript.

  “Shamans, traditionally, are not under the same social obligations as other Weres,” he reported. “They have always been allowed to remain unmarried, for example.”

  Jacob cocked an eyebrow at that, and Kurt looked like he was about to say something but held it back. Russell didn’t react, but Marcus knew he’d heard just as well as the others.

  “Okay,” said Jacob. “We’ll include that when we deliver the rest of the message. Want a cup of coffee and a sandwich for the road?”

  Marcus was already starting toward the side of the house and the front yard and street beyond. “I appreciate the offer, but no thanks. I’ll track down my own dinner. Again, I’ll be around—in town, or at least somewhere in the Hearth Valley. Thank you for hearing my proposition. Hope Bailey gets back safe.”

  He waved goodbye and left the trio behind, trudging back out onto the residential street and then vanishing up the hill into the forest.

  Alone again in the shadows of trees, he grinned openly. Gunney, the sheriff, and her brothers—he’d broken the ice with them all, guaranteeing the girl would hear about him and his offer.

  Sure, they�
��d advise her to be cautious. They’d probably express mild to moderate suspicion of him. But none of them, he was confident, would flat-out tell her to avoid him at all costs. And he got the impression she was a bold, adventurous type, not easily discouraged once an idea got into her head.

  Soon she would be standing before him, burning with curiosity. Just as planned.

  Marcus scrambled up the trunk of a tall and sturdy pine almost as easily as a squirrel would climb, and from his high perch, looked out over the woods, the surrounding peaks of the Cascade Mountains, and the unobtrusive little town.

  He almost howled but decided against it. Maybe later.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They were almost on top of the SUV.

  Bailey, talking to herself more than Roland, spoke in a low voice, her focus totally on the road, the vehicle, and their opponent.

  “Just…about…now.”

  It worked. The SUV’s driver, operating on some obscure, almost reflexive aspect of psychology that Bailey seemed to understand intuitively, hit his brake exactly when she guessed he would.

  “Jesus fuck!” Roland screamed.

  But Bailey had veered into the left lane at precisely the same instant. The Trans Am shot ahead of the SUV.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” she cackled. “He fell for the oldest trick in the book. Or whatever. I just made that up, really.”

  As she moved to block the other vehicle, he again did just what she anticipated—turned right onto the nearest perpendicular street. Traffic behind them was light enough that Bailey pulled a semi-U-turn and followed him.

  The road ended a half-mile from the turn at a T-intersection, and the SUV hesitated as it approached it, unsure of which way to go. Bailey seized the initiative and pulled ahead of him, again cutting him off.

  The black vehicle came to a stop by the side of the road.

  “Just in time,” Roland gasped. “We’re deep into Tacoma now, not far from the Narrows Bridge over the Sound. Now, let’s do this.”