The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Chapter Five

  Since Roland had spent the night in Portland and it had only been a ninety-minute drive to the northwest of town, he agreed to meet Dante in Leverich Park in Vancouver, Washington, to spare him the final twenty minutes of obnoxious urban driving. Besides, they’d be rambling all over town soon anyway.

  “Well,” Roland greeted the other wizard as they approached each other across the vibrant emerald grass of the park, “you’re looking...about the same, but nothing wrong with that. How goes it?”

  Dante snorted and ran the fingers of his right hand through his long blond forelock. “Thanks, I guess. I’m fine. Charlene and I are more or less together now, so that’s good. Things in Seattle have been peaceful. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Portland, so this ought to be interesting.”

  Roland nodded. “Congratulations to the two of you. I thought I saw you guys exchanging an awful lot of ‘meaningful glances’ before you rambled back to the Puget Sound, so I’m not shocked. Bailey and I are well. We’ve gotten to spend time together recently. Not as much as I’d like, but enough.”

  “Good,” Dante acceded. “I think we all deserved a break after...you know, that stuff.”

  “Aye.”

  They bullshitted about other things they’d been up to, with Roland bragging about his beautiful new car and claiming that he’d let Bailey defeat him in their informal race since she had, after all, helped him get the Audi nice and cheap. Dante laughed and talked about his and Charlene’s experiences with bumping into more and more Weres around town, most of whom wanted to shake their hands.

  Neither wizard was an expert on Portland, but they were sufficiently familiar with the local scene to pick out a handful of clubs and daytime hangout spots where they detected the presence of other witches. Walking or taking the bus to get around the city and employing a mixture of casual conversation and the leverage of their growing reputations, they soon picked up the sort of rumors they were looking for.

  “Yeah,” said a witch named Shana as the three of them lounged in the corner of a combined cafe and bookshop, “last I heard, they were heading out to this shop near Beaverton to pick up spellcraft stuff. That was, like, a week ago. I figured they were busy with other shit, but...” Her voice trailed off, and she looked uncomfortable.

  Roland sipped his coffee while Dante did the talking.

  “Got it,” the younger wizard said. “The person who runs the shop probably would have seen them, right? I’m getting kinda low on a couple things anyway. Do you know where the place is?”

  She did, and once they finished their coffee and light lunch, the pair thanked Shana and departed.

  Since the shop was located in the western suburbs, they would have to pass Roland’s motel room anyway. They stopped there and piled into his Audi, driving themselves rather than bothering with public transportation.

  “This way,” Roland pointed out, “if something fuckish happens, we can drive away at a nice clipping speed rather than having to run and hope we find a taxi or a bus before someone shoots us in the back.”

  Dante frowned. “Good point. Do you, uh, think it will come to that?”

  “Hopefully not,” said the older wizard, “but you never know. After some of the crap that’s happened this past half-year, I’d say it’s better to be prepared for, well, anything.”

  They found the establishment in an aged brick building, sort of an early strip mall. The shop only occupied the lower east corner. The rest of the structure appeared to be vacant, which was no surprise to Roland. Supernatural folk liked to have extra space adjacent to their businesses in case they needed elbow room for activities they didn’t want the general public to know about.

  Leaving the Audi parked across the street in the vast lot of a plaza centered around a department store, the two wizards climbed out and strode toward their destination.

  Dante looked at the sign out front. “Silver Horizons New Age Shoppe. Sounds unassuming.”

  Roland smiled. “The proprietor must be the type who hides in plain sight. In any event, just act like a customer. It’s not like there’s no reason for us to be there. We’re witches. We need occult supplies, dammit.”

  Within, the place was about what they’d expected, with shelves offering a mixture of useless knick-knacks, semi-useful but basic magical paraphernalia, books mostly written by muggles, and the occasional impressive wand. Roland figured that the best stuff was kept in back to protect it from normal people.

  After determining that the shop had plenty of white and black candles, Roland approached the counter, with Dante trailing close behind.

  The woman there smiled. “Hello. Can I help you find anything?” She was about thirty, with light brown skin paired with light brown hair and green eyes. Roland detected at least one layer of deceptive suggestiveness in her speech. Maybe more.

  “Yes,” he told her, “I’m looking for red candles, the kind made with authentic red-ochre. They seem to be hard to come by lately, don’t they? Do you have any in the back?”

  The woman explained she didn’t have any on hand but might be able to special-order some after asking around.

  “Huh,” Roland quipped, furrowing his brow. “A friend of mine was here not too long ago, and I could have sworn she said you carried red-ochre candles.”

  He gave a name—the name of one of the witches who’d disappeared.

  The woman behind the counter betrayed surprise or discomfort, but only slight. Roland had to allow that it might have been because she was miffed that he didn’t seem to believe her about the status of her inventory, but it might also have been fear.

  “I’m sorry,” the proprietor responded. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  Roland and Dante described her and mentioned that the girl had posted a photo of herself to social media just before entering the shop, with its storefront in the background.

  When the woman decided that yes, she had seen her, Dante asked, “Did she leave any contact information? We want to get in touch with her. To share candles, obviously.”

  “It would make life easier,” Roland agreed.

  Now the lady looked actively nervous. She denied having received any contact information from the vanished witch and seemed to be on the verge of asking the two wizards to leave her store.

  “Well,” Roland began, “we can always call in the—”

  Before he could finish, the woman thrust out her hand, and a thick yet soft arcane shield sprouted in Roland’s face, muffling him, pushing him back, and blocking both him and Dante off from pursuing her as she turned and fled.

  “Shit!” Dante exclaimed. “She’s heading upstairs. We can corner her up there.”

  Roland raised his hands and tore the shield apart with a pair of short plasma blades around his fingers. Then he plunged through the hole, with Dante at his heels.

  Behind the counter, a hallway bent toward a staircase. As the two wizards sprinted up it, they saw a door move on the second floor. Roland cleared the landing and yanked it open before it could fall shut, then cursed under his breath.

  A woman’s leg and foot vanished into a glowing purple gateway in the center of the dark room beyond the door.

  He motioned to Dante. “Come on! After her.” He ran toward the portal and hurled himself through it.

  The wizards emerged only a second before the magical doorway closed behind them. They were standing in a dark forest full of black trees barren of leaves. Overhead, a bone-white moon shone in the dark indigo sky. The witch from the shop was nowhere in sight, but her rustling footfalls sounded ahead and to the right.

  Roland set off after her.

  Maybe, he reflected, I’m being too optimistic here, but I ought to be able to catch up with someone who’s six inches shorter than I am. Unless of course she pulls out the magical stops to bolster her speed or jumps through another goddamn portal.

  The woman tried no such thing. Instead, as Roland and Dante started to close in, weaving through the tall black t
rees, she tossed a net of static electricity back over her shoulder.

  Roland almost ran into it, but he summoned a curtain of water that neutralized it with sparks and smoke. He threw the whole mass aside and hurtled forward.

  Beside him, Dante launched a lance-like blast of sonic percussive force, an attack intended not to kill but to knock the woman over and stun her, make her ripe for capture and questioning. She darted sideways and the projectile hit a tree, blowing half its trunk apart in a shower of wooden fragments.

  The running battle continued through the nocturnal forest, the witch trying to disable or confuse her pursuers as they attempted to incapacitate her. Finally, Roland conjured an illusory tree three feet in front of the woman’s face when she shot a glance over her shoulder, so that when she looked forward, she was about to run into it and stumbled in shock. Dante hit her with another concussive blast that sent her rolling head over feet in some weedy muck.

  The wizards closed in around her sides, Roland conjuring a sword blade of sorcerous plasma to hold at the woman’s throat. Dante put his knees on her arms and shoulders, pinning her down.

  “All right,” Roland grunted, “nice try, but now you need to tell us what the hell’s going on. We’re not going to kill you, but don’t piss us off further.”

  The witch broke down sobbing, her face turning red. “I’m sorry,” she bawled. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I’ll tell you. Please don’t...don’t...”

  Dante snapped, “Didn’t mean to what?”

  Roland drew the arcane blade back by about a foot to help the woman calm down, though he kept it active to be safe. After the witch got hold of herself, she began stammering that she knew they were looking for the missing girl and probably a couple of others as well, but that she wasn’t really responsible.

  The wizards frowned. Roland asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Megan,” the woman said. “Please, I’m being blackmailed. This woman, or creature—I don’t think she was human—made me do it. I was so scared. This horrible thing under heavy black robes with an insanely powerful magical aura told me to do what she said, or she’d kill me slowly. She made me cast sleeping spells on some of my customers, only real casters, and stand aside when she came to collect them. It wasn’t my fault!”

  Roland stared at her with a mixture of anger and disgust. “You could have gone to someone equally or more powerful, but instead, you collaborated to save your own hide. That’s super admirable. Good job. From the sound of it, this other person, or thing, whatever, is what we’re most concerned with.”

  He glanced at Dante, who nodded. Then he added, “So, cooperate with us, and perhaps we can work out a deal.”

  “Yes,” Megan gasped at once. “Whatever you want. Just protect me from her.”

  Dante rubbed his lips. “We’re customers of yours, kinda. We could pose as the next victims. When is this witch-creature coming back? Oh, and tell us everything you can remember about her.”

  The young woman stared into space for a moment before she could speak again. “She came into my shop not long ago,” she began, “and I thought she was, you know, an old woman with a health condition or something. She had this old, dry, raspy voice that gave me the chills the first time I heard it, and her limbs seemed extremely long compared to how short and small she was. Her arms were all withered, like a person in their nineties or hundreds, but she moved too fast to be that old.”

  Roland chewed a lip as he contemplated the shopkeeper’s words. The description didn’t match anyone or anything he knew or had heard of.

  “And,” Megan added, beginning to tremble, “her aura. My goddess, it was so strong and terrible. It reached out for me and smacked me around almost, but the woman only stood there looking at me from under her black hood. I couldn’t do anything. I was helpless. I don’t even know what she wants with the witches she took as captives. I’m so sorry!”

  “Yeah,” said Roland. “When will she be back next?”

  Megan swallowed. “Tomorrow night.”

  The wizards looked at each other once more and exchanged nods.

  “Then,” Roland stated, “we’ll be there, so she doesn’t leave empty-handed. Now let’s get back to your shop. And don’t try anything.”

  * * *

  Bailey jerked herself up into a sitting position and kicked the covers away from her feet, her arms raised and her hands balled into fists. She blinked until she could see, but the only person in her room was Fenris.

  A trumpet had blasted once, then twice, while boots stomped through the manor’s halls. Voices were shouting in loud, hoarse tones that suggested anger, fear, and serious business in general.

  Fenris was half-crouched at the foot of the bed, gazing at the door with narrowed eyes. He glanced at the girl.

  “It’s an alarm,” he explained before she could ask. “Though there does not seem to be any immediate danger. They want everyone to assemble in front of the building at once.”

  Bailey rolled to her feet, pulled her boots on, ran fingers through her hair, and splashed water on her face. She was ready.

  “All right,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”

  The werewitch and the wolf-deity exited the room, joining a procession of bleary-eyed yet concerned-looking trainees who trudged after the valet in his colorful clothes. He nearly deafened them with a further blast of his trumpet.

  They formed a mass in the front yard before the manor-barracks, sorting themselves into two long ranks, and whispers went up and down the lines.

  Bailey leaned toward a couple of young men talking to the side of her.

  “Someone was murdered!” one reported.

  The other made a scoffing sound of disbelief. “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet. Wait, two people. They found them just before they woke us up. This whole place is on lockdown. All the trainers and guards and servants are running around the perimeter of the castle to make sure no one gets out and looking for tracks.”

  Bailey swallowed acrid spit. She wondered who the hell would dare to murder half-divine beings at an academy run by the gods, and her gut clenched as she thought of who the victims might be. She searched the ranks with frantic glances, seeking out Carl and Ragnar.

  She saw both of them. Carl was in front of her and six or seven spaces to the left. Ragnar had joined her in the back row, about ten spaces to the right. She sighed in relief, though she hated the thought of anyone having been killed for no reason.

  Malkeg Ironfist appeared before them. Improbable as it seemed, the werewitch was not shocked to see him fully outfitted in plate armor, as he’d been yesterday. He carried his mace rested on his shoulder pauldron.

  “Listen up,” the man barked. “Since you’ve probably set to gossiping, yes, there’s been a pair of murders.” He stated the names of the deceased, but Bailey didn’t recognize them.

  As he spoke, the valets went down the lines, counting all the trainees to ensure that everyone was present who was supposed to be.

  Malkeg went on, “Before you ask, no, we don’t know who did it yet, or why. The level of power and skill you all have means that every last one of you is potentially a suspect. However, most of your kind lack subtlety and these were clean, silent kills. Throats cut, minimal sign of struggle, no fucking around. No magic appears to have been used, and no one claims to have heard a thing.”

  The werewitch’s mouth dropped open. She had no idea how such a thing was possible in a place like this. It made no sense.

  The trainer continued through teeth gritted in barely suppressed fury, “There’s nothing we can do about it yet, and we have a regimen to stick to, so don’t anyone get the idea that you’re going to be let off easy because of the morning’s events. We will take care of the murderer. You need to focus on what’s ahead.”

  One of the valets came up to Malkeg and informed him that, “Everyone is here except the unfortunate two.”

  Ironfist moved his head and grunted. “Good.”

  He
looked back at the crowd. “You’re all safe for the moment, except from me. If any of you want to try murdering someone, step up and try your hand against the Ironfist. And if, now that we know this is going on, you want to try killing someone else, go for it. See what happens.”

  No one moved or spoke. Bailey suspected that the murderer, whoever they might be, was a third party, not part of the ranks of trainees, but she had no way of being sure.

  Malkeg continued his spiel. “Today, I’m going to run you all through hell. You’ve allowed an assassin into your midst, and you haven’t provided any way of catching the culprit. If you can’t manage that, I’m forced to make proper heroes, gods, and goddesses out of you.”

  The guy next to Bailey muttered, “Great.”

  One of the valets snapped, “No talking!”

  Malkeg ignored the minor incident as though confident that the trainees would receive plenty of punishment soon. “You don’t get food today. Not yet. Instead, you’re running the gauntlet—a single-style obstacle course, no teaming up this time. Each of you is in it alone. We, the trainers, will attack you in addition to the other things you’ll have to deal with.”

  Bailey had to admit to a morbid curiosity as to what the trainers were capable of. She didn’t relish having to fight them on an empty stomach, though.

  The armored man before them grinned evilly. “Nothing is forbidden except killing. Fight back against us as best you can. Attacking one another is not only allowed but encouraged. Do whatever you must to win. Win. Make it to the end in one piece. You will be ranked according to placement, first to last, and the individual who places last forfeits all meals for the rest of the day.”

  Well, the werewitch mused, at least I only have to do better than the absolute worst schmuck here.

  She wanted to do better than that, though. Far better.

  “Oh,” Malkeg concluded, “and no weapons or armor. Your powers, your skills, and the clothes on your back are all you get. Now move out!” He waved his mace and marched into the inner bailey toward the keep, this time taking them toward another outbuilding where a different portal awaited.