The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Listening to him, Bailey realized that she had the same questions about him and also about herself. Werewitches were a rare occurrence in recent history.

  “And if it is some sort of legacy that’s coming out of the dim shadows of history or something, is it the source of all my goddamn problems? Would I still have had Shannon and her lackeys after me, not to mention the Venatori now, and possibly the Agency as well?”

  After a second, he turned to look at her and noticed the slightly curdled and uncomfortable expression on her face.

  “Of course,” he added, “the fact that all this stuff has happened means I met you, also. So that’s the upside.”

  She smiled. “Nice save.”

  “But,” he went on, “at first I thought, I’m dragging you into all this. You put yourself in harm’s way partially to help me, and therefore I had a responsibility to protect you from the witches or whoever else might try to retaliate against us. But now, with you as this big, badass werewitch-shaman and the pupil of a frickin’ god, it’s like you don’t really need me to protect you. I’m glad to be here—I practically live with your family now, after all—but sometimes I wonder why I am here. Like, is there still some purpose I’m supposed to serve, a role I have to play?”

  Bailey didn’t have any easy answers to the existential aspects of the questions he’d posed. She was burdened enough by answering similar ones about her own situation.

  Still, there was one thing she could tell him.

  “Well, even with all my new powers,” she observed, “I woulda got my ass kicked by the Venatori without your help. Even with two of us, both strong channelers now, it was a damn close fight. I’d say we’re about equal. And we’re in it together.”

  The wizard relaxed; his vibe and demeanor grew warmer. “Yes, that’s true,” he conceded. “And thanks for saying so.”

  She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “No problem.”

  He exhaled. “Still, I feel like Marcus intends for me to make some kind of breakthrough almost as big as the ones you’ve made, rather than simply honing the skills I already have. Is it vain of me to want that? To want to get better to, I don’t know, grow into my identity? Or should I just take things as they come?”

  Bailey shrugged. “Not saying I blame you for wondering, but try not to worry about it too much. Whatever happens, I’m just glad you’re with me through it. Well, most of it.”

  “Fair enough.” The warmth coming off of him ratcheted up a notch. Clearly, he was feeling better just for having got all that off his chest.

  It was making her think, though. “For my part? I’m not gonna lie, I’m…worried, I guess, about all these trials that Marcus—Fenris—has in mind. When I was with him, I acted all cocky about it—no big deal, I’ll kick ass and so on. But deep down, I dunno. I think I can do it. It’s just killing me that I don’t know what’s coming. Or what’s expected of me.”

  “Makes sense.” The wizard nodded.

  She continued, “I’d rather be doing something. Like, if there’s a job to get done, I want to hear about it so I can get to work. If there’s something I have to face, then bring it on so I can deal with it. All these ominous warnings about vague stuff that might happen? Ugh. Not my favorite thing.”

  Roland tapped his lips. “Hmm. Well, if you want something to face, we could always summon some of those awful shadow-wraith things from one of the pools. The Other just loves to spit those bastards out at inopportune times. And you’d get more practice in! Just what we both need.”

  She groaned, but the sound transformed into a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, shut up.” She elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Ow.”

  * * *

  In the ancient city of Lyon in east-central France, there lay a small plaza that was closed off from the rest of the metropolis and the general public, even though the location and design were sufficiently inconspicuous that it didn’t attract much attention. It fronted a nondescript office building thirteen stories tall that was linked to an old mansion by stone walls and covered walkways and separated by gardens and courtyards.

  The mansion was used for ceremonial or festive occasions, but today, various women were gathering there for business. Therefore, they convened on the top floor of the modern building.

  There were thirteen of them, many from France and the Low Countries, and some from elsewhere in Europe. They comprised the ruling council of the Venatori Order.

  Twelve sat at the sides of the long table, six each to the left and right. The room was state of the art and lacked no convenience they might need, yet was somehow sparse and austere. The one concession to lushness was the reddish-purple lighting.

  Most of them preferred the quainter environs of the mansion. Meeting here, in this stark and almost masculine environment, only emphasized the importance of their affairs.

  Madame Daria Gregorovia, a woman of sixty-four from Ajaccio in Corsica, was the current Grandmistress of the Order. Even for a meeting of this type, she wore the traditional dark burgundy robes, with the hood pulled over her tightly-coiffed silver hair. Rings glittered on her long fingers, and she seldom blinked. The other chairs were modern black leather, but hers, at the head of the table, was of antique rosewood.

  “Ladies,” she began in French, “all of you by now have heard the news from America. While enough of a concern to merit the dispatch of a squad of operatives, it is now clear that this matter requires our full and undivided attention.”

  Slow nods went around the table.

  “My thanks,” the Grandmistress went on, “to those of you who had to travel here on short notice from as far away as Dublin, Inverness, Palermo, Dubrovnik, and St. Petersburg.” She gestured in turn to the sorceress from each of the cities she’d mentioned, and the witches bowed their heads in response.

  When first the Order had formally incorporated, France had been the agreed-upon country in which to headquarter. However, it had taken some time before they’d settled upon Lyon.

  At first, some witches, particularly those native to southern France, had suggested Albi, from whence originated the Cathar movement, or Avignon, the seat of the “second Pope” during that controversy within the Catholic Church. Many had appreciated the symbolic value of either place, but ultimately those locations were deemed too hard to access. Thus, something farther north and east was chosen for the benefit of their members from elsewhere on the continent.

  “Grandmistress,” inquired Madame Natalie MacLachlan, a strawberry-blonde from the aforementioned Inverness who was the youngest witch on the council, “I heard that the entire squad we sent to the United States was wiped out. Is this true?”

  The older woman at the head of the table grimaced. “All were either captured by the American authorities or killed. I would prefer to disguise the truth of such a catastrophe, but there would be no use in doing so. Not even I could have predicted the opposition they would face. Madame Lavonne was skilled enough, but she clearly underestimated her target. Hence, the urgency of this meeting.”

  Brief comments of assent and acknowledgment went around the chamber. Madame Gregorovia could sense which of them were subtly hostile and perhaps questioned the quality of her leadership, but she had little doubt she would win them over soon. Certainly after the mission was complete, and perhaps even by the end of today’s conference.

  “In response to our initial failure,” she continued, “I have authorized swift and decisive action to contain the threat and neutralize the so-called werewitch, Bailey Nordin.”

  A few of them looked skeptical, probably because neutralizing Nordin had been the goal of the first expedition. Most nodded their enthusiasm.

  Before bothering to proceed with the discussion, Gregorovia pressed a button before her to summon drinks. A moment later, the door opened, and a pair of male servants clad like traditional butlers came in with bottles of excellent local wine, along with fine crystal glasses. They poured swiftly, then excused themselves without a word.

  The ladies all
drank. It was customary to complete a full draught, followed by a moment’s appreciation, before resuming business.

  Gregorovia was the one to break the silence, of course. “The task ahead is challenging, but we have dealt with greater threats in the past. Our great Order has persisted throughout the centuries, despite unending hostility from innumerable foes.”

  “Exactly,” quipped MacLachlan, her tone a little too arrogant for the elder witches’ liking. “And this Nordin person is just one rustic girl. I’m surprised she hasn’t already been neutralized.”

  Madame Dorleac, second in seniority to the Grandmistress, spread a hand before her and added a comment on the one issue no one really wanted to discuss.

  “There are also the rumors that the Nordin girl is now being mentored by a god,” she stated. She deliberately allowed the words to weigh heavily in the air, oppressing them all with the implications.

  MacLachlan jeered. “That’s blithering nonsense. That gossip came from the lycanthrope community, did it not? They’re a backward, ignorant people, especially in the Americas, combining the worst elements of peasants from the medieval period with the barbaric frontier settlers who first invaded that particular landmass.”

  Gregorovia leveled her eyes at the other witch in an expression that wasn’t quite a glare but nevertheless shut her up.

  “There is a disturbance in the astral plane and beyond, young Madame, and it seems to have been following that girl around of late. Great powers are converging on her. The truth of what has transpired remains to be seen, but a magical intelligence of lower or middle deity strength is not impossible. To rule out the notion altogether would be to make the same mistake Lavonne made—underestimating what we face.”

  Grim silence set in. MacLachlan’s face was stony. Her inner thoughts were undoubtedly rebellious, at least for the moment, but she gave no protest.

  Dorleac spoke again. “That annoyingly opaque American institution, the one that calls itself simply ‘the Agency,’ is now involved as well. Their personnel were the ones who captured the witches who survived the fight. They will likely use their clout with the American government to try to seal the country against further meddling by us. Butting heads with them could lead to an international incident. Much scrutiny of us and our activities—”

  “Agreed,” Gregorovia interrupted, talking swiftly to head off any lapse in confidence among her followers. “And we are already accounting for that. The force we send next will be large and powerful. But it will also enter the country via a long detour, rather than the more direct route we used last time. And we shall take great care to ensure that their presence and their movements are in the open. There are, of course, ways to effect this.”

  “Good,” MacLachlan replied at once. “The last thing we need is an all-out bloody war with the shifters and the Men in Black or whatever they call themselves at the same time. We’ll need someone competent to lead the expedition, obviously.”

  Gregorovia smiled. “Obviously. Hence, you were our first choice, Madame MacLachlan, and still are. Handpick your assistants from among our lower ranks. You are first to assess the situation, using your best judgment as to whether it is wise to act, and how to act, and when. Move against her only when you can do so without making things even more of a mess than they already are. Surely you’re up to the task? I would hope you are since you will be departing in two days’ time.”

  The Scotswoman’s face momentarily lost its confidence. Then she inhaled, and her swagger was back.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “Best decision you could have made. I’ll deal with the little bitch-pup in record time.”

  * * *

  Agent Townsend sat at his desk and rubbed his eyes. The dark glasses he wore at almost all times were lying on the surface, next to four thick sheaves of paperwork.

  “Fucking hell,” he groaned.

  The reports just kept coming in. All kinds of crap, really, but the worst—and therefore the most important—was coming from Europe, where the Agency’s contacts and spies were keeping a close eye on the Venatori.

  They were on the move. Still, or possibly again. It didn’t matter which. Given what had transpired just under two weeks ago, anything they did had to be treated with the utmost suspicion.

  Notably, a few of their members from the peripheral parts of Europe had been seen in France. The Agency had not yet managed to figure out where their headquarters was—the place was almost certainly cloaked with layers upon layers of top-level magic—but they were pretty sure it was somewhere in the vicinity of Lyon.

  And with the girl having killed a couple members of their little US task force, it seemed pretty safe to assume that the witches were pissed.

  “Just like we predicted,” he muttered under his breath. “Here comes the aftermath of Hurricane Bailey, the ultimate fuckstorm of paperwork.”

  Then a pang of anguish hit him, and his gut tightened. He’d said, “we,” referring to him and his partner Spall. Who was now dead, the Venatori having reduced him to ash after he’d flipped out and done the same to a couple of them. They’d worked together so long, the man had been like a brother.

  Hands trembling with carefully disciplined rage, he turned to his computer, firing up the analysis programs that would allow him to collate the incoming data and narrow the possibilities to a handful of scenarios, ranked in order of likelihood.

  Of course, he already had a fairly good idea of what to expect. And if—no, when—the shit hit the fan, he would deal with it. Take care of it. Make it go away.

  Not to mention, it would be an excellent opportunity to squeeze a little payback out of the witches’ hides. He’d been too busy to make the trip, but he’d insisted on calling Spall’s family to inform them that the man had died in the line of duty.

  Granted, fighting hostile entities was slightly outside the Agency’s purview. It wasn’t their mandate, and it wasn’t his job. Then again, most of his job consisted of operating out of the shadows, working in the gray areas of legality and morality.

  And since it sent a strong message about the consequences of fucking with America, he was pretty damn sure that revenge fell within that gray area.

  Townsend took a deep breath. The computers would need a couple of minutes to run all the necessary programs, so he could relax for the time being.

  To make himself feel better, he went to the room’s safe, opened it, and pulled out an alien-looking weapon, clearly a firearm of some sort. It was largely composed of a silver cylinder with multiple tubes coming out of it. Spall had used one just like it in his last moments on Earth.

  The agent sat down and polished the gun, just breathing in and out. He watched another screen, the one showing a handful of confirmed Venatori members walking through the front doors of one of the international terminals at Lyon–Saint Exupéry Airport, just east of the city. He saw a relatively young woman from Scotland and a couple others native to other parts of Europe.

  He chuckled, although it was a grim, mirthless sound.

  “If that is what they want,” he remarked, patting the weapon, “then it’s what they’ll get.”

  Chapter Three

  Bailey and Roland had sat together by Marcus’ fire, which never seemed to burn out, until both felt rested and refreshed. Time in the Other did not pass like time on Earth, and the needs of the body were also altered. They never seemed to need food or water or sleep, nor did they need to urinate or defecate. Simply waiting long enough relieved most of their exhaustion.

  “Okay,” Roland said at length. “I think that’s long enough. Let’s get up and wander around. Maybe, if we’re especially lucky, we’ll bump into good old Marcus before some other group of assholes randomly pops in to challenge us to yet another fight.”

  Bailey chortled at that. “Sounds good to me. I dunno who else would be after us, though. Those asshole Weres who were doing all the kidnapping have mostly been taken out, and I doubt they’d have the ability to come into this place. And we beat the Ven
atori badly enough that I think it’ll be a while before they try anything else.”

  The wizard rubbed his eyes. “I hope you’re right, Bailey. I really do.”

  They stood up, stretched, and yawned, almost as though rising from slumber. Bailey used magic to lift a gallon or so of water from the nearby lake and dump it on the fire to extinguish it, then she kicked apart the coals for good measure.

  “Only you,” Roland said, “can prevent forest fires. Good job.”

  “Shut up,” she responded. “If the damn thicket went up in flames, I’d have to dump the entire lake onto it, and I don’t feel like doing that right now.”

  The wizard considered that and nodded, pursing his lips to acknowledge she had a point there.

  Not sure where to go, they wandered down a vague path through the woods located about halfway between where each of them had been training.

  Bailey was fairly confident they weren’t far from the Pool of Dark Reflections, where much of their “inner” instruction had taken place. In fact, she suspected that was where Roland had been, although she didn’t bother to ask.

  Around them, the trees closed in, growing denser as they moved deeper into the forest. Beneath their feet, muddy but solid earth gave way to spongy peat that retained water-filled footprints as they passed. Black shadows pooled between the trunks around them, and Bailey thought she saw movement.

  Probably more wraiths, like the ones Roland had joked about summoning. The pair’s abilities were advanced enough that they could fight the creatures off without too much difficulty, but they’d rather not. They kept walking at a brisk pace, trying not to show fear or pay much attention since the eerie beings were drawn to magic and seemed to somehow feed on human emotions.