by Renée Jaggér
The witches shoved their way through the crowd, which melted away as panicked revelers flattened themselves against the walls or fled in vain toward the exit.
Bertolio saw a young local witch recording the spectacle with her phone. Good, she thought, and broadcast it among the coven. That way, none of her followers would try to aggressively stop the girl from taking video footage.
A final cluster of panicking forms scrambled away, then Jim stood before them alone. He’d tried the rear exit and found it blocked. He had a barstool in his hands, and given his size and strength, it might have been intimidating to a mere human.
“You!” he growled. “When are you bitches going to give it up? We don’t want any trouble from you. Fuck off!”
He swung the stool. Madame Bertolio threw a lance of concentrated heat and electricity that sheared through it, scattering burnt wood and melting steel in a shower of fragments. Then the lance pierced his torso.
More people screamed.
It is done, Bertolio said to her coven. Prepare to move out.
The rear guard dismissed the shield with which she’d held the door shut and the seven went out the back. The front and rear guards joined them and they wove a cloaking spell over themselves, then separated to run, fly, or hide as needed, giving the authorities too many targets to track at once. They would be out of Seattle before the police or even the Agency knew what had happened.
Before she left, Bertolio sent a small psionic urge back into the club—a magically empowered suggestion that anyone who witnessed tonight’s spectacle feel free to talk about it loudly with anyone who would listen.
To send the message that it was open season on shifters.
* * *
The Agency had one major regional office for each of the four main Census Bureau designations of the United States. The one that oversaw the West was located in Reno, Nevada, a location deemed reasonably convenient for dispatching agents to any part of an extremely large land area, whether in California, the Southwest, the Rockies, or the Pacific Northwest.
Of course, most of Agent Townsend’s business lately had been in the PNW. He’d submitted a request to move their headquarters to Portland or Seattle. He strongly doubted it would happen, but asking made him feel better.
“Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath as he strode through the halls. Junior agents and various support personnel, recognizing the sour look on his nondescript face and the purpose in his gait, moved aside to let him through.
He’d been having breakfast in the cafeteria when the report came in. He could have viewed it on his phone, but the picture was too small, and their reception was garbage anyway. He’d headed back to watch the video on a proper screen.
Unlocking the door with his keycard, he stepped into his office and shut the door behind him. His dinosaur of a computer was still spitting out reams of paper filled with tedious numerical analyses of probable scenarios, correlational data, and other such stuff that he was required to process in order to fill out the metric tons of paperwork the higher-ups demanded.
There was also his laptop. He opened it, brought it to life, and went at once to his inbox.
The email consisted mainly of restating what he’d heard and adding detail. A group of witches had stormed a paranormal-friendly nightclub in Seattle and systematically murdered all twelve of the lycanthropes who’d been present. Then they’d vanished into oblivion. Their identities were unknown.
Townsend snorted. “Unknown. That’s downright fatuous, even by HQ standards. Who the fuck else would it be if not our friends from Lyon?”
He opened the attached video link. One of the spectators had recorded the whole incident on their phone and posted the wretched thing to a private forum frequented by members of the supernatural community, especially casters.
The picture was dark, and the person who’d recorded it did not have a steady hand, but the essentials were clear enough. It showed a group of seven women killing their way through a panicking crowd using short-range plasma blades, which were the preferred homicide instruments of the Venatori. They were not as attention-grabbing or hard to control as big, scary projectiles. They could also be conjured out of thin air, meaning the witches didn’t need to carry around weapons.
There was one problem, though. The killers were dressed in normal civilian clothes.
“Ugh,” Townsend groaned. “Either they finally wised up and stopped wearing those distinctive leather getups, or we’re dealing with their patsies. Or possibly copycats, which would amount to the same thing as patsies. Shit. Haven’t they learned their lesson by now?”
If it was the Venatori, then they had obviously not since what the video depicted was their most brazen attack yet. It was on a far smaller scale than their two assaults on Greenhearth, yet in those cases, they’d been dealing with a small, isolated town that was used to keeping its secrets from the outside world.
A nightclub in Seattle was different. There would be almost no way to contain the damage or stop the rumors from spreading.
He could contact Bailey Nordin and let her deal with it. She, under the guidance of her shamans, was setting herself up as the savior and leader of American Weres. Yet for that same reason, involving her would necessarily involve the entire shifter community of the Northwest. It’d be another step toward all-out war between shifters and casters.
Normal people, civilians unaware of the supernatural, would be roped in. Some would get hurt or killed, which was what the Agency least wanted to happen.
“So.” He sighed, feeling alone and overburdened, “Looks like it’s up to us again. Scratch that—up to me. I get to step in and mitigate this crap from the front lines, so that by the time it does reach Bailey, it’s been halfway resolved. Fuck.”
The Nordin girl was the last resort, the insurance policy. What the Agency couldn’t deal with today, she and her friends could tomorrow.
But it would be better if it never came to that. Bailey was like a goddamn Horseman of the Apocalypse. The new fifth one, the Horseman of Cover-Up Paperwork and Bureaucratic Fuckery.
Townsend removed his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Spall,” he breathed, “you got out at a good time. Enjoy your vacation in heaven. Or hell even, which is probably still better than half the horseshit the Venatori have in mind. Feel free to come back and lend a hand any time, though.”
With that, the agent rose to his feet, left his office, and headed for the armory, pausing only briefly to send a text that would be relayed to the other field operatives in the building. A response team was already being put together, so seizing command of them would be a simple matter.
He arrived at the arsenal to find four other agents equipping themselves. He gave them a grunt and a tilt of the head.
“I’ll wait,” he said, “‘til everyone’s here before we move on to briefing. Suffice it to say this is not a PR errand or an open battle. It’s a hunt.”
The other men acknowledged his words with solemn nods.
Townsend stripped down to his underclothes and grabbed a protective vest. It looked much like medieval scale armor, which in turn resembled the body of a fish with its many rounded interlocking plates. It was silver, although the material had an iridescent sheen that resembled no metal known to the average person.
He put his suit back on over the armor and then combed through the available weapons, passing over the larger arcanoplasm rifles in favor of handguns that were weaker but easier to conceal and control. There was another prototype sidearm he might bring, but he’d have to check with the boys in Research & Development first.
He chuckled as he holstered an arcane pistol. “At least this means the Nordin girl will get a little extra time to live a normal civilian life. Temporarily.”
Chapter Three
Bailey sighed. “It seems like a shame, getting to drive this thing but only using it to go thirty-fucking-five through the middle of town and so forth. Still, far be it from me to risk Gunney’s baby on the freeway again.
”
Roland concurred. “And you are getting to drive it again, in general. That’s better than nothing, right?”
Before them, gleaming in the sun, was the mechanic’s personal crown jewel, a ‘79 Trans Am painted and outfitted exactly like the one in Smokey and the Bandit. They’d taken it to Seattle weeks ago and barely managed to keep it from being damaged then. Bailey was pretty sure she could replicate the feat while simply taking it out for a few late-morning errands. She’d walked to work, so Gunney was letting her use the car for the errands.
They climbed in, and Bailey fired up the engine. “If I have to go thirty-five, I’ll drive it in style.”
“That’s the spirit.” Roland wasn’t much of a car person, but he appreciated the vehicle’s distinctiveness and beauty, not to mention the cultural pedigree it carried in certain corners of America.
They drove down to Main Street and cruised along it, drinking in the appreciative looks they got from passing townsfolk. Their destination was the hardware store, where Bailey picked up some toilet bowl cleaner and a box of nails as per her brother’s request. Then they headed to one of the side streets near the west rim of the valley. As long as they had the wheels, Bailey figured, it made sense to do a quick security patrol of the town.
Clusters of Weres recognized them and waved or nodded. In addition to the town’s own, an honor guard of wolves from other packs and locales rotated in and out of Greenhearth, helping keep an eye on things in the event of another witch attack.
“Well,” Bailey commented, “seems like things are okay. I wonder if–”
Roland’s phone went off. He pulled it from his pocket and swiped the screen to view the incoming text. He didn’t get many messages these days.
His brow furrowed as he gazed at the screen. “What the hell?”
Bailey disliked the undertone of fear in his voice. He tapped something, and a video or audio file started playing—noise, chaos, and screams. “What is it?” she asked.
He waved a hand. “Pull over, please. I need to watch this again and focus on it. It’s the kind of thing where it’s better to form your own opinion based on what you see, rather than jumping to the same conclusions as the person who sent it.”
Now she was worried. She moved the Trans Am off the road, carefully parking it on a grassy shoulder near a low cliff. Then she leaned over to watch as Roland replayed the video.
It was shaky, and dark aside from flashes of colored light, but the essence was clear. A group of witches was storming through a nightclub or rave or party, killing people as they went. Two or three of the victims looked familiar. And at the end...
“Holy shit, it’s Jim. Roger’s lieutenant from the Silver Stars. He was with us during the temple trials. And I think one of those women who got killed was the girlfriend of another pack alpha in Washington who showed up to pledge loyalty.”
Roland frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. The perpetrators are wearing normal clothes, but their method seems awfully familiar.”
Bailey put her hands to her face, suddenly feeling as though the accumulated tiredness of months was weighing down on her despite how well she’d slept last night. “Not this shit again. What’s the matter with them? Didn’t they get the message that we don’t want anything to do with them? Didn’t we kick their asses hard enough last time?”
The wizard put his phone away. “It was a club in Seattle. I know the place, and I’ve been there a few times. I wonder if we should go up and check on things, but it might be a trap. Makes me wonder if they’re going to move against my family. Then again, they lost a lot of support last time for attacking a fellow witch, so unless they’re even stupider than we thought, I doubt it.”
Inhaling deeply, Bailey put her hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. “Instead of checking on things, I’d rather go up there and pound their heads into the pavement. But I’m the shaman of Greenhearth. If they trap us up there or even distract us for a while, we’d be abandoning this town. Shit.”
“Good point,” Roland acceded. “You’re not the shaman of the entire world. Not yet, anyway. I’d be shocked if this wasn’t partly an attempt to draw you into another conflict, but your first responsibility is to your home town and pack.”
The werewitch sat silent, turning it over in her mind. Before she could reach a decision, a hand knocked on the driver’s side window.
“Goddamn, what the fuck?” she sputtered, practically jumping out of her seat. Roland, too, was waving his hands and swearing. There was no reason why anyone should have been able to sneak up on them so easily.
It was Fenris. “I’m sorry,” he rumbled. “I was in a hurry.”
Bailey’s mentor and teacher, the god of all Weres, was in his usual human form: a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late forties, stubble-jawed and dressed in a bulky hooded coat. He’d called himself Marcus before he’d revealed his true identity. He motioned for them to step outside.
They obeyed. For an instant, the girl wondered if it might have been a Venatori agent disguised as Fenris, but she couldn’t detect the kind of magic such a ruse would require. There was only the typical oceanic concentration of power that followed the deity wherever he went.
“I have bad news,” Fenris reported. “I was able to discern your location easily and did not want to waste time, so I stepped through a portal straight to this spot. I apologize for startling you at a time when tensions are high.”
“It happens.” Roland shrugged. “And I’m pretty sure we just heard the news ourselves if you’re talking about the nightclub attack in my hometown.”
The tall man nodded. “Yes. And two other pack alphas in Washington have died under mysterious circumstances. It would seem the Venatori have moved on to the next phase in their plan.”
Bailey looked aside in a futile effort to hide her grief and rage. “Goddammit. I’m so tired of people dying for no good reason. When is there gonna be an end to this crap? Roland and I were discussing whether we should head up to Seattle to help, but well, my duties as shaman start in Greenhearth.”
Fenris took a step toward her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “That is correct. It’s good to help all our people whenever and wherever you can, but first you must see to your own community. Whatever the Venatori are up to, there’s certainly more to come, and this town might once again be in the crosshairs. I would expect their next move sooner rather than later. You are not responsible for every single life in North America, and Greenhearth needs you after all it’s been through lately.”
Roland begrudgingly folded down the passenger’s side seat of the Trans Am and allowed Fenris to slip into the back. “For such a nice car,” the wizard remarked, “you’d think they could have splurged on four doors rather than two.”
Ignoring him, Fenris told them to drive back into town. “We should hole up somewhere defensible. Probably not your home, so we don’t endanger your family again. I will need time to look into the current matter and see what I can discern.”
“Okay,” Bailey agreed. “I know exactly the place.”
* * *
Agent Townsend paused his team for a quick review before they stormed the basement. The place had originally been a packing plant in the industrial area of Tacoma, but these days, it was mostly rented out for raves. Especially the kind frequented by supernatural folk.
“Okay,” said Townsend, “everyone needs to remember the directive. We start using nonlethal hand-to-hand restraint techniques since we want prisoners rather than corpses. If they resist, which they probably will, we use the knives. Arcanoplasm pistols are a last resort. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the other agents replied.
Townsend gave them a short demonstration of how the prototype knives worked. He drew his own from its sheath. In profile, it was of a fairly typical military style, a drop-point blade about eight inches in length. The metal gleamed brighter than steel, however. It looked like chrome or even pearl.
When the agent flicked it, it gave off a
slight spark and seemed to be humming on an infrasonic level.
“These things,” he explained, “are charged with an arcano-electric current that will pass into the body of a witch at the slightest cut or puncture. It gets into their bloodstream and interferes with their biochemistry in a way that’s been shown to inhibit the use of magic. I don’t understand the nitty-gritty of it, but it’s proven effective in tests. Use the knives to wound or incapacitate if possible, but you are authorized to kill if necessary.”
With that, the squad, consisting of nine men and one woman, marched down the stairs to the basement, where lights flashed and music throbbed. There was only the one exit, in flagrant violation of the local fire code, and a handful of anti-magic devices had been hidden in the surrounding streets and lots to prevent any of the sorceresses from trying to teleport out of the immediate area. There remained the risk, though, that some of them might escape via longer-distance teleportation.
The agents were dressed in formal yet unofficial clothes and were not wearing their usual distinctive dark glasses. This was a different kind of mission, and it demanded a different approach, especially with the Venatori having made the shift to disguising their own presence.
The doorman waffled about letting them in, but he relented once Townsend slipped him a pair of twenty-dollar bills. The ten men stepped into the rave.
No one paid them any heed, aside from half a dozen or so near the entrance who spared them a single glance and then returned to their intoxicated revelries. Everyone was dancing in an ecstatic stupor, fixated on seducing one another or massively tripping on drugs. Townsend and his men could have crashed the party in full uniform and most of the clientele would not have cared or noticed.