The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Days ago, Greenhearth had been transformed into a war zone, and that was after weeks of buildup and increasingly strange occurrences. She’d decided she needed a short vacation, and her mentor had agreed.

  “Yes,” said Marcus. “I discovered this cabin in my wanderings over the mountains, and then I found it was for rent.”

  Bailey didn’t ask how he’d managed to produce the money for that. Much of the time, she still thought of him as Marcus the local shaman, a tall, gruff, mysterious man who had befriended her when she most needed a teacher.

  More and more, she found herself remembering who he really was—Fenris, a Norse god, the mythological father of the entire lycanthrope race. And he had chosen her as his apprentice.

  “I’m glad,” she affirmed. “As well as people seem to like me now, and even though I’m already kinda missing Roland, things were getting so crazy that there would be no way to focus on my training. Though I guess if the witches attack again, I won’t have much choice.

  The shaman nodded. “I’m proud of you. You’ve done well despite the short time we’ve had and all the pressure you’ve been under. But it’s not over yet.”

  That was exactly what she’d expected him to say.

  “You know,” he went on, “that I can’t intervene directly in the affairs that are unfolding in your town. Despite my non-interference, your growing power—and display of that power—has been attracting the notice of the other deities. Not only of my pantheon but of others. The gods are watching you.”

  The girl slowly sipped her tea as she ruminated, conflicted. She wasn’t shocked; two of Fenris’ extended family among the Aesir and Vanir had already made a pair of appearances. Specifically, Freya and Baldur had both shown up at unexpected times.

  She set down her cup. “I’ve been training under you for a while, and I feel like I’m starting to get to know you. But still, there are times when you talk in a way where I can’t tell what you mean. ‘The gods are watching me.’ Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  It came out snappier and more insolent-sounding than she’d intended.

  The tall shaman’s inscrutable face shifted into a slight frown. “Both. It will depend on how they react, and what else happens on earth. It is a serious thing, no matter what else. We must be cautious.”

  She grimaced and looked out the window at the rolling slopes of the mountain below her, the topography gradually working its way down to Greenhearth.

  Marcus continued, “Power attracts attention, and the greater the power, the more attention. It was inevitable that the higher powers would start taking notice. In the meantime, there’s a more pressing concern. I don’t think our feud with the Venatori is over yet.”

  “Neither do I,” she admitted. “You’d imagine they would’ve learned their lesson. But at least we proved that we can beat ‘em. I don’t think they’ll stop coming after me or werewolves, though, since they seem to hate both.”

  “Yes.” The shaman gathered her cup close to him, as though preparing to take away the dishes, but he didn’t get up yet. “Even if you don’t press your advantage and take the fight to them, they will resent the bloody nose you gave them. They’re in too deep. They’ve committed so much to trying to wipe you out that revenge is now an imperative for them to save face with their low-ranking members and affiliates if nothing else. They can’t be seen as weak in front of global witchdom. A wound to their pride must be redressed. And they’ve always wanted to wipe out the werewolves. They’ve hated us from the time they formed, and werewitches in particular. I can understand them hating magic-users as a challenge to their dominance, but I don’t know why they so loathe werewolves. Maybe they’re trying to wipe out the race so we can’t produce more werewitches.”

  Bailey swiped a hand through the air, annoyed with the thought of having to deal with them again. “Well, they’re the ones who started the whole mess. They didn’t have to invade my country and start killing my people. We never did a goddamn thing to them. Anyway, in the meantime, we’ve become stronger and more united.”

  It was true. Since the order of sorceresses had begun their elimination campaign against the Weres of the Pacific Northwest, more packs had declared allegiance to the prospective new High Shaman, Bailey. Those who hadn’t come in person had sent word, or in some cases, donated a warrior or two to the defense of the Hearth Valley, understandably keeping the rest to protect their own communities.

  “We’re ready for them this time,” the girl said, allowing a note of grim satisfaction into her voice. “They’re not gonna ambush a helpless settlement and burn it to the ground before anyone has the chance to fight back. Not now, or ever again.”

  Marcus stacked their plates and put the empty mugs and dirtied utensils on top of them. “It’s good that the werewolves are now more vigilant, but do not get cocky or complacent. The Venatori have powers at their disposal beyond what you’re aware of. They were able to teleport directly into town, bypassing the sentries around the rim of the valley.”

  “They won’t get away with that shit again,” Bailey snapped. She was tired of talking about witches. She’d rather focus on her training, the path to a future as a respected shaman. It freed her from the traditional obligation to marry before her twenty-fifth birthday.

  Which wasn’t far off. The reminder that she’d barely escaped that fate almost overwhelmed her with joy and relief.

  Sensing her need to focus on her studies and progress further, Fenris did not push her. Instead, he picked up the pile of dishes and carried it over to the sink. “Relax,” he told her, “and in the morning, we’ll begin your training again—free from outside influences, at least for these few days.”

  “Sounds good to me.” She beamed. Not having anything to do bored the shit out of her, but lately, there’d been too damn much.

  * * *

  Women converged on a beautiful centuries-old house that was cleverly hidden within the sprawling expanse of Lyon, France. It was one of two major edifices on the property owned by the Venatori.

  Normally, meetings of the ruling council were held on the top floor of the Order’s office building, but today they had extra guests. The ancient laws of hospitality therefore demanded they move the event to the mansion a half-kilometer south of the modern structure, which was far more comfortable and traditional.

  From all over Europe, and even from America, witches had come to eastern France. Not only high-ranking members of the Venatori but also the leading lights of allied and affiliate organizations and hedge covens whom the Grandmistress felt might be sympathetic to their causes. There had not been any no-shows.

  Once everyone was seated, the mansion’s attendants took their drink orders, hastily bringing them silver goblets filled with excellent French wine. The Order had an entire cellar’s worth, and the guests were allowed to pick their poison from among a selection of seven bottles. Not the very best, but good enough for a major occasion.

  The servants bowed and excused themselves as the women finished their first draughts. Then the Grandmistress, Madame Daria Gregorovia, opened the day’s discussion.

  “Welcome,” she intoned, “members, friends, and concerned parties all. Most of you have been here before. Those who have not, we hope you find our accommodations to your liking.”

  The private dining room within the mansion was half the size of a modern corporate conference chamber, with a vaulted ceiling rising seven meters over their heads. The stone walls were hung with tapestries of burgundy velvet embroidered with silver thread. A massive fireplace lay at the rear of the hall behind the Grandmistress, though given the relative warmth of the late-spring weather, no blaze had been lit.

  “The affairs we discuss today,” Gregorovia extrapolated, “are a matter of concern to all sorceresses in Europe, in America, and indeed throughout the world. That is why we have invited so many of you from a variety of different places. As you may know, our ruling council has representatives from France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Ireland, th
e United Kingdom, Italy, Croatia, and Russia.”

  The council members raised their hands in greeting toward the others.

  The Grandmistress resumed her speech. “Therefore, let us welcome those of you who are new here, having come on behalf of your countries. We particularly welcome Ms. Spages from the United States, even if her hometown in—is it New Jersey?—is far from that of Nordin in Oregon.”

  Spages frowned. “Yes, Madame. New Jersey.”

  “Good.” Gregorovia paused for a sip of wine, exerting petty dominance over the assembled witches by forcing them to wait for her.

  Unfortunately, Spages took the opportunity to speak up.

  “I take it this has something to do with the psychopathic behavior of the witch who led your expedition in the Pacific Northwest? Even that obscure government agency of ours, who usually keep a lid on these sorts of things, couldn’t keep that disaster out of the news. Discussion of the incident was all over social media. Of course, most people thought it was a gang war, terrorist attack, or false flag operation of some sort, but still, it attracted far too much attention. It certainly gave the werewolves a cause to rally around.”

  Her face indicated that she expected an apology.

  Gregorovia waved a long-nailed hand. “It is true, yes, that MacLachlan acted in a hasty, foolish, and excessive manner. That is why, as you look around this chamber, you will not see her here today. She has been removed from the ruling council and is ineligible for reentry for two years. As we speak, she performs penance duties. Due to her great skill at combat, we will retain her as a member, but she will not have any decision-making capability to speak of until she proves herself capable of restraint.”

  Spages shut up, and a round of gentle nods passed among the witches. Some clearly felt that more punishment was in order, but they seemed appeased by the knowledge that MacLachlan had at least been removed from command of the American expedition.

  As a replacement duty, she’d been instructed to prepare and bolster the Order’s defenses here in Lyon, getting the home guard in proper condition to resist a possible intercontinental attack by the American wolves. It was fitting, Gregorovia felt, for the Scotswoman to be placed in charge of dealing with the potential consequences of her actions.

  “However,” the Grandmistress went on, “Madame MacLachlan was correct in one important way. She foresaw that conflict with the lycanthropes was inevitable. We have all been resisting this obvious truth, but true it is. We have centuries of proof to show us that.”

  Half the witches shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Madame Dorleac, the council’s second in command, looked ready to speak out in protest. The lone sorceress from the United States was also on the verge of argument. Perhaps, the Grandmistress thought, she feared an expansion of the violence on her home soil.

  She preempted them by quickly resuming her spiel. “The female werewitch is an abomination. It has been so long since one was born that we had forgotten the danger they posed, but Bailey Nordin has proven that a dormant threat is not the same as an extinct one. As long as the lycanthropic bloodlines are capable of producing such people, they are our natural rivals, and rivals must always eventually clash.”

  The malcontents appeared to think her words over. She’d reframed the issue such that the discussion would turn to the power of werewitches rather than the judgment of MacLachlan—or, for that matter, the judgment of Gregorovia in sending her.

  “The Nordin girl,” the Grandmistress explained, “continues to grow in power, showing a potential comparable to the greatest among us. She is young, ignorant, and inexperienced, but her raw strength is staggering. We have been unable to confirm for certain that she is being mentored by the god Fenris, but that possibility is not off the table. The best-case scenario has her under the instruction of a highly talented shaman.”

  Their guests, those who weren’t members of the council, looked appropriately shocked at the suggestion of a deity intervening to guide and empower a mortal. They were ready for the last phase of Gregorovia’s spiel.

  “And,” she concluded, “the girl has rallied wolves from all over the region, with word spreading across the entire American continent. Combine that with the allies she’s made among humans, and soon she will have an army.”

  The unease that spread among the assembled channelers was like the change in the electrical charge of the air just before a thunderstorm.

  Madame Iveta Smetanová, head of the Venatori’s chapter in Prague, Czechia, clapped both of her hands to the table and looked around with wide, intense eyes. “The lycanthropes will not forget what we did on their home soil, and they have the Agency helping them. What happens if they decide to strike back at us in our homelands?”

  Murmurs went around the table.

  Madame Dorleac raised a hand. “We may be able to de-escalate yet, but it would be foolish to count upon it. Werewolves are not reasonable creatures. At a minimum, we should marshal our forces for defensive purposes and deploy reconnaissance units to America.”

  The Grandmistress agreed at once. “Yes, that is the plan I had in mind, though I wish to know that everyone supports our decision.”

  Some few of the assembled witches still seemed uneasy with the situation, but none outright objected.

  “Ms. Spages,” Gregorovia added, “is this plan agreeable to you?”

  Spages was not a member of the Order, but rather the leader of a coven that claimed descent from the Old World witchcraft traditions and had been in friendly communication with the Venatori for the last three decades.

  “It is,” she began, “provided I have your assurance that we won’t be dragged into a war of annihilation when a simple rebuke for any aggressive behavior on the lycanthropes’ part would probably suffice. It’s encouraging that MacLachlan is out of the picture, but if my coven is to cooperate, we must feel that we can trust the witches in charge of any further expeditions.”

  The Grandmistress promised the American that everything would be handled prudently.

  The conference proceeded for another hour as the various enchantresses discussed the details. It then trailed off into more pleasant conversation, gossip, and casual talk of the practice of magic. The male attendants reappeared to refill their wine goblets.

  Finally the guests were dismissed to their quarters, everyone in firm agreement that the Venatori and their allies must prepare for war and dispatch scouts to the United States, but should also avoid provocation.

  At length, the only two women remaining in the great dining hall were Gregorovia and Dorleac.

  “Grandmistress,” the latter enquired, “was it your plan all along that MacLachlan would accelerate things so quickly?”

  The other woman frowned. “No, not quite. I suspected we might be drawn into battle against those brutes, but not before we’d had more time to plan our strategy. But what’s done is done. We are at war already, and I intend to win. Pay no heed to the hesitancy of our so-called friends. Our agents will strike swiftly and mercilessly, but in ways that will foment conflict between the wolves. With stealth and deception, we shall weaken their ties to one another—and the American governmental forces—before our witches sweep in to finish them off.”

  Dorleac smiled. “How…devious.”

  “Such is the way of things,” the Order’s leader stated. “For all our power, the raw physical strength of the lycanthropes, combined with the Agency’s technology, paints a grim picture for us unless we can gain some advantage. And I have other plans in mind, Madame, which I will not tell even to you. Not yet.”

  Her second-in-command settled back in her seat, her smile fading to an expression of mixed curiosity and jaded cynicism. “Well, then. I look forward to seeing the results.”

  * * *

  Agent Townsend let out a deep, rattling sigh as he stared blankly at the screen of his monitor through the dark lenses of his glasses. Things had been far more interesting lately, insofar as he and his fellow agents had been able to strike back against t
he enemy.

  But one thing still held true, regardless of how much the circumstances had changed—the more shit happened, the more shit had to be punched into his computer for analysis. And then, horror of horrors, the more shit had to be documented on reams upon reams of fucking paperwork.

  “Bailey, Bailey, Bailey,” he muttered, his chin resting on his chest. “Where is this going to lead? It’s not your fault, but damn!”

  The Agency still did not know the exact location of the Venatori’s headquarters, nor had they been able to hack into their computer systems. Both were protected by extremely powerful magic. But they knew the Order was based in Lyon, and they had enough eyes and ears there to track increases in supernatural activity.

  Especially when facial recognition software turned up individuals who were previously known to Townsend and his superiors paying mysterious visits to east-central France.

  “Our lovely ladies are up to something,” he grumbled. “Oh, Spall, where the hell are you, man? You’re supposed to be here, offering your crusty-ass commentary on the whole situation. Well, at least you got your vacation.”

  Spall had been his partner for over a decade. All that was left of him now was a tiny pile of ash, courtesy of the European sorceresses. Spall’s own recklessness had played a part, though. There was no denying it.

  “You’d probably just say we know they’re up to no good and that we should kick the shit out of them, blah blah blah,” Townsend went on. “We did that. Last week. Got some payback on your behalf, my friend. Rest easy, wherever you are.”

  The computer still wasn’t done crunching the numbers on all the data they’d collated. It might be another miserable half-hour.

  The Agency already knew the Order was on the warpath. They’d helped repel the recent attack on Greenhearth, losing half a dozen men in the process, but killing more witches and sending their genocidal task force fleeing, tails between legs. It was hardly shocking to learn that the Venatori were plotting their next move.