The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  “Like you stood,” Bailey remarked, throwing her voice so it ricocheted around the street, “behind all the people you tricked into fighting for you?”

  Snarling with wrath, the Hungarian drew a bead on one of the flashing lupine shapes and launched another accelerator-beam at it like the one she’d used on Roland, but Bailey had left a shield in front of her and swept around to the witch’s side.

  Pataky turned to face her just in time to take the wolf’s claws clear down her chest. She fell black, bleeding and waving her hands.

  “Bailey! Get back!” a man’s voice shouted. The werewitch jumped as three arcanoplasm beams struck the Hungarian, two scissoring across her face while a third pierced her midsection. She exploded into a mass of cinders and pale dust, which the breeze scattered across the pavement.

  The werewitch turned, breathless, seeking the next foe. None appeared.

  The fighting was over. Her werewolves, the Agency, and the people of Greenhearth had been a match for the Venatori, and the remaining witches they’d duped had reconsidered their priorities.

  Bailey rushed back in the direction she’d come before she’d confronted Madame Pataky. She could think of only one thing.

  A cluster of plainclothes casters, six or seven women and two men, moved in around her. Lycanthropes watching the scene tensed in case they tried anything.

  “We’re sorry,” they pleaded. “We were misled. If we’d known the truth...”

  “Yeah,” Bailey said in a hurry, pushing past them, “you’re forgiven. Just don’t do it again.” She was sincere, but Roland still lay in the street. One of the Agency’s medics had appeared to tend to him, at least.

  She reached the wizard’s side and knelt by his hip. “Roland. Are you okay? Is he going to make it?”

  Roland seemed to alternate between terrifying periods of stillness and sudden writhing spasms of pain. His mouth was bloody, and his eyes foggy and distant. Bailey bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

  The medic grimaced. “It’s...hard to say. Honestly, he’s not looking good.”

  “No!” Bailey yelled. “Goddammit, no!” She couldn’t help herself any longer. She put her face against his leg and sobbed, not caring who saw or what they thought.

  Someone stepped up behind her and laid a powerful hand on her shoulder. “Bailey. I’m so sorry.” It was Fenris.

  She looked up at him, teary-eyed. “Is there anything we can do? I don’t know much about, uh, healing.” She sniffed.

  Before the were-god could answer, a green bolt of lightning struck an empty patch of street fifty yards from where the wizard lay. Gasps and shouts of alarm went around, and everyone turned to see what had happened.

  Standing in the midst of silvery-green radiance was the goddess Freya. She’d manifested in her divine form in front of a crowd of hundreds, including normal humans.

  “You,” she stated, gazing straight at her relative. Her voice rolled like thunder.

  Fenris looked back at her, stood up, and removed his hood, revealing thick, shaggy hair the color of tempered iron. “Yes, Freya. Me. Were you watching this whole time? If so, you would have seen that my protégé went out of her way to spare as many of your children as possible.”

  Half the witches present fell to their knees. It had taken them a moment to register who stood before them.

  The goddess strode toward him, people melting away to let her pass, and she and Fenris faced off ten feet apart with the crouching Bailey and the fallen Roland between them. The Agency medic backed slowly away.

  “Yes,” said Freya, “I saw.” She looked upward, her shining eyes going distant, and when she leveled her gaze again, her face had softened.

  She glanced around the town. “This battle has ended without our intervention. Our followers took care of things themselves. Therefore, it is permissible that we intervene in a small way.”

  Fenris nodded. He knelt and returned his hand to Bailey’s shoulder. “Do as she says,” he instructed. “Everything will be all right.”

  Hope flared in the werewitch’s chest, and she clamped down on leaping to any conclusions, lest she be horribly disappointed. Still...

  Freya crouched beside Roland’s shoulder and put her hands on his head. He’d almost stopped moving, although his chest still rose and fell. “My poor child,” she whispered. She flashed her eyes toward the werewitch.

  “We cannot act too directly in your world, but we can channel our power through a mortal. Place your hands over his wound, Bailey.” The goddess put her hand on the girl’s other shoulder.

  Bailey did as she was told. Then light blazed around her, the deep purple from Fenris combining with the bright green from Freya to form a nimbus of pure white as warm, revitalizing energy flowed through her body and into the man she wanted to be with forever.

  Bystanders gasped again as Roland’s eyes flew open. He sat up, groaning.

  “What the hell? I, uh, I feel better. What happened. Freya? Oh, man!”

  “Lie back down, you fool,” the goddess intoned. “You will still need a normal complement of mortal healing arts to fully recover. But we, through Bailey, have pulled you back from the brink.”

  Fenris smiled. “A one-time occurrence.”

  The light winked out. Bailey leaned over Roland, frantically clutching his head and shoulders and planting a long, deep kiss on his lips. She separated her mouth from his and leaned her forehead against his brow.

  “Yes,” he reaffirmed, “I feel much better.”

  Bailey sprang to her feet, ecstatic and grinning openly, as the medic came back to help him onto a stretcher.

  “So,” the wizard remarked, “it’s been nice visiting the outside world for a day, but I really must be getting back to my usual place at the hospital. Feel free to visit me at home any time.”

  “I will,” Bailey promised.

  Fenris took her hand. “But first, know this. You are fit to be a full shaman. There are no more hurdles for you to clear. Nothing more you need to prove before you assume the role, which I knew you could handle.”

  Freya watched them with a cool expression. “I have no objections. She showed compassion for those of my daughters and sons who’d been led astray by the Venatori’s wayward motivations. Let today be a lesson to all witchkind—and werekind.”

  Then she vanished, the emerald bolt ascending once again into the heavens, and was gone.

  * * *

  The Agency debriefed the volunteer witches and processed the ones who’d spurred them on. Townsend smiled in a grim way as his subordinates led a half-dozen Venatori prisoners toward the back of an open truck.

  “We captured their second-in-command,” he reported. “Madame Chauvin, who presided over a major slaughter of Weres in West Virginia. Much as we’d like to summarily execute her for crimes against humanity—or lycanthropes, close enough—she’s more useful to us alive.”

  He turned to the short, scowling Frenchwoman as she was dragged past. “That’s right, Madame, we’ll be having a nice long talk soon. Since we’re better people than you are, we won’t be torturing you, but you’ll talk all the same.”

  Bailey stood doing nothing and rested in place as a semblance of peace and order returned to the town. Her brothers, Gunney, and the sheriff all found and greeted her, proving they were alive. Russell had been involved in some of the fiercest fighting and had taken a couple of nasty burns and bruises to his legs and torso.

  “I’ll be fine,” he rumbled.

  If anyone will, it would be him, Bailey mused.

  * * *

  Townsend raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Bring in the refrigerated truck,” he ordered.

  The vehicle, not a full semi but approximately the size of a large van, rolled into the town center and down the main street, and as it ground to a halt, agents opened the back to pull out half a dozen cases of champagne.

  Townsend turned to Bailey, Sheriff Browne, Gunney, Will, and the rest of her posse. “I had the truck on standby. If the Venat
ori had won, they’d have been able to claim it as the spoils of war. But letting them win wasn’t on the agenda. Good job.”

  “Thanks,” Bailey quipped as the townsfolk laughed and cheered, joining the agents in popping corks and spraying foam on the street.

  The sheriff’s mouth tightened beneath his heavy mustache. “Let’s not get carried away with the public intoxication,” he cautioned. “Though we’ll have a slight relaxation of enforcement for, say, the next two hours.”

  Gunney smiled. “Sounds like a plan. Fruity wine-type stuff ain’t usually my thing, but I’ll make an exception in this case.” He advanced to accept a bottle. People were passing them around and swigging from directly, even though Townsend had also brought flutes in padded crates.

  Bailey took a drink, and then Townsend pulled her aside.

  “You did good,” he stated. “You’ve got your wolves under better control, and the rest of the town is getting with the program. That stunt you pulled, hopping around the country to defuse potential shit-bombs, might have made all the difference. We’d have fought more witches here this morning otherwise.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, Agent. Glad you guys could make it also, though half an hour sooner would’ve been better. Still, I know you've been busy as hell all over the nation trying to stop the war.”

  “That we have,” the agent acceded, and the tiredness showed on his face. “Anyway, I want to increase our level of cooperation going forward. We have no desire to see the Were community destroyed. But once the Agency rescinds these emergency measures, for fuck’s sake, tone the level of weekly catastrophes back down to normal, okay?”

  The girl’s eyes rotated skyward. “Yeah, yeah, like I had anything to do with the current bout of catastrophes. We told them we didn’t want to fight, but they just had to push it.”

  Townsend continued talking, perhaps more to himself than to her. “Covering all this up after the fact is going to be an apocalypse of paperwork. Untold levels of form-filling, to the point that the sun will turn black, the moon will turn red, and wine will turn back to water. How do we erase the memories of a quarter of the country? What white lies do we tell, either to the public or to the answer boxes on all those official sheets, that can apply to a pair of gods manifesting, an invasion of witches masterminded by a cult in Europe, and a local defense militia consisting of a bunch of werewolves and their redneck buddies in a Podunk town in Oregon? It’s the ultimate fustercluck of fuckassery.” He shook his head and stared far off into space.

  Bailey laughed and put a hand on his shoulder. “You have my sympathy, Townsend. I can barely stand to do my taxes, simple as they are every year. I wish you luck.”

  “Thanks,” the agent muttered.

  The celebration proceeded past nightfall, although as darkness came over the town, the werewolves gradually separated from the humans. Fenris had gone around, beckoning them off. He had something special in mind, that was clear to them all.

  “Bailey,” he announced, “is to become a shaman.”

  Nods of approval went through the crowd, and many clapped or cheered softly. Almost all the wolves in the northern Oregon Cascades region seemed to be present.

  “I shall perform the ceremony to induct her tonight. Only the pack alphas or other shamans are to see it in full. Those of you who are, come with us. The rest, wait here for our return.”

  Their deity led Bailey, Will, and the other leaders through the forest to a clearing upon a high ridge, where trees surrounded them on all sides but the moon and stars were fully visible. Fenris stood on a boulder, draped in shadows, while he motioned for the werewitch to stand in the center of the glade under the silver light.

  The tall man raised his arms toward the moon. “Bailey Nordin, called Nova,” he chanted, “you, along with your pack-followers, have passed the trials within the temple of your ancestors. You have shown great courage, wisdom, initiative, ingenuity, and compassion in your dealings, having defended not only your town and valley but also your people from one ocean to the other. You embody the very best that a shaman, a werewitch, and a lycanthrope can be.”

  She thought it would be inappropriate to bow her head, although she wanted to blush.

  “The path before you,” Fenris went on, “will not be easy. Already you’ve suffered much, and times of great trouble are upon us. But thus far, you’ve shown yourself worthy of whatever challenge might come.”

  The alphas and elder shamans raised their fists in salute.

  Their god continued, “You are not yet High Shaman,” he pointed out, “but I continue to believe you will attain that vaunted position. For now, accept from me the rank of Shaman of Greenhearth and all the packs who dwell in the Hearth Valley. You are confirmed, you are endorsed, you are respected. And...”

  Here he paused, and the flicker of a mischievous smirk played about his lips, “...you are free from the traditional obligation to marry before your twenty-fifth birthday.”

  As the spectators moved forward in a circle to clap hands to hers and offer their welcome and congratulations, she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, accompanied by a nod so deep it was practically a bow.

  I’m off the hook, she thought. Although that doesn’t mean I have zero interest in ever getting married.

  * * *

  Every available high-ranking member of the Venatori Order was present in the ritual hall. Grandmistress Gregorovia, to her chagrin, was not at the head of the column of sorceresses. Instead, she stood off to the side.

  She’d had the dream visions, just as the others had. With the evidence of their Order’s new leader in front of her, what could she do?

  Facing them all, floating above the altar at the back of the chamber, was a woman whose garb differed from theirs and whose skin gave off a subtle magenta-purple glow. She was beautiful in a subtly eerie way, as though she’d been formed according to an idea of perfection that had forgotten to include the warmth of humanity.

  “Mistress…Lady,” Gregorovia intoned, unsure how to address the being, “we have assembled here in response to your summons. Tell us why you’ve come, and we shall listen.”

  The coldly gorgeous face smiled. Her lips were a deep purple, hair and eyes black, and she wore flowing black robes that seemed ancient, as though they would have been old when the Etruscan civilization first arose. She was bedecked in all manner of sparkling gold jewelry.

  “Sisters, daughter,” the entity spoke, “welcome. I am your goddess. Your true deity, for Freya has weakened and fallen astray. There are more powers in this universe than the families of the Aesir and Vanir.”

  The voice chilled them all. It sounded somehow like a whisper bubbling up from underwater, yet it was magnified to the point of echoing through the hall, with each word being clearly enunciated.

  Gregorovia balked. What was happening here was unprecedented, almost unbelievable, yet she sensed incredible power emanating from the figure above the altar. Power that dwarfed her own.

  “My name is Aradia, and I am the primordial lady of witchcraft. Since your younger patron of the Norse gods is blinded by her relation to her brother, Fenris, I shall lead you to war. For it is to total war you must go. The lycanthropes cannot rise above us, and we must crush this woman-child, Bailey Nordin, and foil the schemes of her patron deity. Witchkind must not be perverted nor surpassed.”

  Although she didn’t like being usurped, Gregorovia found herself warming to the idea of following a goddess whose views coincided closely with hers.

  “Indeed,” Aradia went on, “that is why I created your Order thousands of years ago. You have forgotten me, but I shall forgive you if you will but obey me. What say you, rightful rulers of Earth?”

  The Grandmistress swallowed and spoke for them all after only a second’s hesitation.

  “We will obey.”

  * * *

  “Here,” said Bailey, waving toward a bar that gave off distinct honky-tonk vibes. “Unless you’re gonna insist we go somewhere swanky and hipster-ish.
”

  “Nah.” Roland shrugged. Although he’d still need to take it easy for another week, he was out of the hospital—again—and had regained his usual understated swagger. “I’ve been in Greenhearth long enough to know I’d fit in there better than you’d fit in at a hipster bar.”

  The werewitch led him through the doors. Within, the place was much as she’d expected, with a wooden dance floor, a mounted elk’s head, and neon beer signs.

  “Nice place.” She nodded approvingly, and they sat on stools at the bar. “My brothers have never been this far, but I might have to bring them sometime.”

  With a temporary cessation of hostilities in Greenhearth and the town able to get back on its feet without her, she and Roland were finally taking a short vacation. Today was their first day out, and the bar lay on the outskirts of Bend, where they’d be spending their first night. After that, it was onward to either Boise or Reno; they hadn’t decided yet.

  They sipped beer in relaxed silence for five or six minutes before a trio of good ol’ boys approached them.

  “Hey,” one said to Bailey, ignoring her partner. “Wanna dance? Looks like you could use a man who can show you how.”

  “Thanks,” she replied in a flat tone, “but I got a man already.”

  Roland said nothing. Although more than capable of handling the situation even while recovering from his injuries, he respected Bailey’s independence—not to mention her abilities.

  “Um,” the guy replied, squinting at the wizard, “you sure? He looks like he weighs less than you do.”

  The girl turned her face toward him. “Did you just call me fat?” Her tone was sharp enough to contain an implied warning but not quite a threat. It was his chance to laugh it off and wander away. No harm, no foul.

  He squandered it. “No. Why the fuck would you think that? Does this asshole call you fat, and that’s why you’re so insecure?”

  His friend shrugged. “Give it up, Ron. That bitch is crazy.”