The Were Witch Complete Series Omnibus

by Renée Jaggér

  Meanwhile, Carl had put the guy closest to him in a headlock and successfully used him as a human shield, so his stomach absorbed a punch from the fifth man. He tossed his captive aside and grappled with the other attacker, the two struggling over the lumber of the fallen table.

  In another minute, it was over. Three of the gang lay incapacitated, and the remaining two were in a stalemate with Bailey and Carl. All four of those still on their feet had bruises, black eyes, bloody lips, and lightly twisted limbs. No one was badly injured, but they knew they’d been in a fight.

  Bailey laughed all of a sudden, and the men looked at her oddly. “You know,” she quipped, “I’m used to fighting mortals, humans mainly. I forgot you guys are better qualified to put up a proper tussle. Let’s just say I’m sorry I shot my mouth off and have another drink. I think we all needed to blow off some steam.”

  Carl laughed too, hearing that, and grudgingly, the two men opposite them nodded. They shook hands, helped their friends up, and righted the table as well.

  Bailey spied the leader’s mohawked girlfriend staring at her. “Sorry,” she called.

  One of the trainers, not Malkeg but another whose name the werewitch didn’t know, ducked under the heavy hangings that passed for walls and glared around. “What happened?” he demanded.

  Carl shrugged. “Someone tripped over the table leg and spilled the food. We cleaned it up, though. May we have a second helping?”

  * * *

  “Fenris.”

  The wolf-god looked up. He’d been sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace and gazing into the flames as though meditating. “Yes?”

  Bailey walked over and sat down on the bearskin rug next to him. “Rough day,” she began. “Got into the closest thing we have here to a bar brawl. Nothing serious, though. What happened earlier was...” She swallowed spit as her voice trailed off.

  Fenris waited for her to find her tongue. When she did, rather than tell him about Ragnar’s manslaughter incident, she asked, “Did they find out anything more about the murders?”

  The deity shook his head. “Not really, no. A few tracks, subtle and slight, leading away from where the bodies were found, but whoever is responsible is skilled enough that they couldn’t uncover much. I heard there were further deaths on the obstacle course.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  Inhaling, she told him the whole story, ending with how despondent Ragnar had been over it at the end of the day.

  Fenris paused to digest her words before he replied, “First of all, the accident was highly unfortunate. It sounds like Ragnar is sincere in his repentance, but to have made such an error suggests that he might not possess the self-control for full godhood. But his blunder is not the biggest issue here; the murders are.”

  “I’ll second that,” Bailey murmured.

  “I had wondered how long it would take,” the tall shaman went on, “before someone resorted to this.”

  The girl was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  Fenris grimaced. “It is not uncommon for interested parties and higher powers to take out other proto-gods and pseudo-gods during training. It represents a period of volatility and vulnerability when ‘accidents’ can happen. It’s a prime opportunity for those who don’t wish to be challenged to remove potential competition before they have to deal with it openly.”

  The fire seemed darker. “I see,” Bailey said.

  “It is frowned upon, but in a way, it is expected in much the same way that, say, steroid use among professional athletes is expected. No matter how much noise the trainers make about wanting control of the situation they preside over, or how much the families grieve and complain, there are often assassinations. Even the gods take cheap shots at one another when they can, you see.”

  There was an underlying bitterness in his tone, and Bailey thought back to the frigid and uncomfortable discussion with the other deities in the conclave.

  Fenris turned his head and looked into the werewitch’s eyes. “Trust no one, Bailey. Be vigilant, and don’t give too much of yourself away or leave yourself open. Watch your back. If things get out of hand and you are in serious danger, I will pull you out of this place, conventions be damned.”

  “Can you do that? Or is there a covenant against it, too?” She wasn’t being sarcastic; she was curious to know how the intricate politics of the divine realms affected her fate, and by extension, the fates of all mortals.

  Her mentor didn’t answer directly. “This is a legitimate form of training,” he explained, “but it’s also a formality to placate and pacify the other deities. At the end of the day, you have the power of a goddess, yet you are my apprentice. You’ve achieved full shamanhood and more, but you still operate under my proverbial wing. That means I’m responsible for you. For all your progress, you are yet a neophyte. I will complete your instruction myself, teaching you to be a goddess alone if I must.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you. Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

  “We shall see,” he rumbled. “There is one thing, however, that we ought to do tonight. I’d been debating whether to teach it to you yet, but I think the time has come.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “You’ve always been a good teacher, and I feel more alert than I would have guessed for being tired as hell and a little drunk.”

  He smiled. “You have been a good student. What we will learn now is how you can gain greater control over your new, divine powers. Part of that will be done via opening a channel between us.”

  Hearing that, the werewitch thought back to the titanic battle against Aradia, whom she had destroyed in part by using herself as a conduit through which the evil goddess’ essence and might had bled out.

  Fenris went on, “Some of this will be a review of things you already know but which are important enough that you’ll benefit from having them fresh in mind. Other lessons will be refinements. You’ve learned the foundations but could stand further lessons on the details and specifics. And some will be entirely new to you, but it’s all necessary and helpful. Once more, you must adapt or fail.”

  “Well,” she remarked, “I was never a fan of failing. Adaptation it is.”

  “Good.” The wolf-father raised a hand. “As with your confrontation with the Venatori’s patron, I want you to open a channel between you and me, but this will be different. You won’t be using me as an anchor or reservoir as you did then, nor will you be spilling my powers out as you did to Aradia. It will be more like that time when you and Roland and I established a circuit and passed a bolt of electricity around.”

  She nodded. “Makes sense, I think.” She touched the palm of her hand to his, closed her eyes, and concentrated on his vast store of magic, as well as the almost-as-vast supply within herself, dormant though most of it was.

  Fenris continued his explanation. “This will help you with trading energy between beings of immense power. You will gain a better understanding of the subtler sorts of magic that might be enacted with your new abilities despite the sheer brute force you possess. And choice control, the same lucid-mindedness and emotional self-discipline that any mere human can and ought to learn, which you must cultivate while channeling and partaking of essences that no mortal ever has to deal with.”

  Bailey imagined a rope or tube extending from her forehead and linking to Fenris’s chest. Then she pictured herself opening a door or cabinet and set water, fire, electricity flowing between them.

  Thus the conduit was established. As during the final struggle against the Venatori, she felt his essence, coldly imposing and yet wise and sturdy and patient.

  This time she also sensed a simmering rage in him, but it was far beneath the surface of his consciousness, and she tried not to focus on it. He must have still been mad at his sister and the other deities of the council.

  She knew Fenris felt her, and the residual power stolen from Aradia. “Good,” he stated. “You are off to a smooth start. Now we will begi
n basic exercises in trading spells in the sub-universes that are contained within our bodies. As these grow in intensity, you will be confronted by scenarios where you must quickly make difficult choices without blind emotion interfering in your judgment.”

  “I understand,” she assured him.

  “The training here,” he went on, waving his hand to indicate he meant the castle and its grounds, “is more about stress response. The acolytes are shuffled between situations of combat, physical strain, and circumstances meant to induce panic. The idea is to test their endurance in ways that teach them not to respond to any difficulty with massive explosions of destructive power or take slights personally, or do anything rash or stupid. Choice control, as it’s called. That is a type of control that can ultimately come only from within you, Bailey.”

  Her nostrils flared as she breathed in, and they began what promised to be a long night.

  Chapter Eight

  Two more people were murdered overnight.

  Once again the trainers and valets had stormed through the halls, shouting and blowing trumpets, commanding everyone to rise and assemble at once in the front yard before the manor.

  They’d all done so, and Malkeg presented himself before the lines of the trainees, looking more enraged than usual. “Right,” he growled. “You know what’s going on. The killer among us has claimed another pair of victims despite our best efforts to root him or her out, not to mention how much we’ve beefed up security. If anyone knows anything that might point us in the direction of this son of a bitch, now is the time to tell us.”

  Bailey knew nothing except what she’d told them yesterday. No one else spoke either; the moods of the trainees were hushed, fearful, angry, and disgusted.

  “Right,” the Ironfist barked. “If you can’t help, stay out of the way. Here’s how things are going to work. You will all be permitted to eat breakfast in the mess hall, then you will be put in quarantine in your rooms. You are to remain there until given permission to emerge. That will be far safer than throwing you into situations where we can’t watch you constantly. If the murderer tries anything, they’ll run afoul of us very quickly. Everyone got that?”

  They all yelled back that they did. A few made half-assed moping sounds at the notion of being confined to their quarters, but given the seriousness of the situation, nobody openly protested.

  Malkeg grunted, “So be it, then. March to the mess hall. Eat. Don’t waste time!”

  They turned in unison and, keeping roughly in a formation of two long lines, moved out to take their meals.

  Bailey collected a heaping plate of eggs, potato hash, and mixed fruit, combined with a cup of good strong tea with honey. She carried it back to the same end of the same table she’d used thus far, and Carl and Ragnar joined her a moment later.

  “Morning,” Carl greeted them. “Not sure if it’s ‘good,’ though.”

  Ragnar grunted. “Could be worse. We are all alive, and they prepared a fine and proper meal for us.”

  Bailey smiled. “That’s the truth. I haven’t had a breakfast this size in quite some time.”

  She noticed that Ragnar seemed to be in better spirits than he’d been last night. There was still a gloomy gruffness to his demeanor, but he’d slept off all the mead he’d drunk, and the worst of his angst appeared to have dissipated along with the alcohol.

  Carl noticed, too. “You’re feeling better?”

  “Somewhat,” the Norseman replied. “My failure still...disturbs me, but the skein of Fate, once woven, cannot be unwoven. What’s done is done. I will make amends as well as I can and otherwise forge ahead.”

  Bailey patted his shoulder. “Good man. That’s the best way to approach it, I’d say. We’ll all have time to reflect on shit if they’re locking us in our damn rooms. At least it means they ought to be able to catch the bastard.”

  Ragnar glowered, and violence simmered beneath the surface of his mind. “Would that I could be the one to catch him,” he growled.

  The dark-faced scion gave the Viking a concerned frown. “Understandable sentiment, but don’t do anything hasty for your own sake.”

  Ragnar muttered to himself and tore into his food.

  Moments later, five guys strode up to their table. At first, Bailey thought they were the same quintet she and Carl had tangled with last night, but she didn’t recognize them.

  “Morning,” she said. “Can we help you, gentlemen?”

  They ignored her. One of them planted a hard shove on Ragnar’s shoulder, causing him to spill a forkful of eggs and potatoes on the table. The Norseman turned around slowly, his eyes blazing.

  “You,” said one of the men, a lean, olive-hued individual with a black ponytail. “The man you killed yesterday, supposedly by accident? His name was Nikos, and he was our friend.”

  Bailey and Carl watched, tense and alert, but allowed Ragnar to speak for himself.

  “It was an accident,” the Viking growled. “My remorse is great, and I’ll pay weregild to his family. I shall also help find the real murderer.”

  The leader of the hostile group snorted. “Pay? Oh, and wasn’t there a dead woman found at your feet? Seems pretty fucking suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  Ragnar stood up with enough speed and force to knock over the bench he’d been sitting on and spun to face the group. “You would destroy this fine dining hall?” he asked. “Or should we take this outside?”

  The olive-skinned man replied, “No magic. Fists and muscle only. Seems fair, right?”

  Bailey and Carl stood up. “Just to be clear,” the werewitch interjected, “we think five against three is a lot fairer than five against one. Right?”

  One of the group threw a piece of wood at Carl’s head, probably to take him out of the fight before it began, but it missed. Then pandemonium erupted. The trio piled into the quintet, and the first three of the dead man’s friends hit the floor as Bailey, Carl, and Ragnar moved in to thrash the remaining two.

  Light filtered into the hall and boots stomped. Malkeg and two other trainers had appeared.

  “Hey!” the plate-armored man bellowed, “Knock it off! I said, break it up, fuckheads!”

  The scuffle ended as the three trainers interposed themselves and restrained Ragnar and the ponytailed leader of the gang, who were still trying to hurl themselves against one another. The others relaxed and stepped back.

  Malkeg said to the two belligerents, “You two, go back to your rooms at once. The rest of you can finish your breakfasts, but no more bullshit! We have enough problems as it is.”

  Ragnar stooped to retrieve his mug and took a long swig of tea before he departed. “I’ve made a mess of things again,” he admitted, and his face showed his regret. He set the empty cup down and ambled toward the manor a few paces behind his recent foe.

  The other four guys went back to their table, scowling, and Bailey and Carl sat down to eat the rest of their food.

  The scion shook his head. “This needs to end. If they don’t catch the murderer soon, the boiling tensions here are going to rip everyone apart.”

  Bailey sighed. “Unfortunately, I think you’re right about that.”

  * * *

  Back in her room, Bailey found that the very idea of being commanded to just sit around, hiding and waiting for the situation to end, rankled her, but she obeyed. Fenris offered no criticism of the trainers’ decisions, and once the girl had digested her breakfast, he started to run her through further instruction.

  “You did well last night,” he congratulated her. “It may not have felt significant, but I sensed calm and stability growing within you, a solid core that remained unaffected despite the vast flows of power between us. Possessing such a core is vital.”

  She bowed her head at his praise and began her next lesson.

  Time passed—hours, probably, or what would have been hours according to Earth’s time. Bailey and Fenris opened another conduit, and thoughts, emotions, and interior blasts of force circulated within them both
. She applied all she’d learned and maintained her composure and good judgment even as the Were-god ramped up the intensity of the arcane currents.

  During a lull in the lesson, someone knocked on the door. Bailey was violently jerked out of her divine reverie by the interruption, but the core of dispassionate reason stabilized her mood almost instantly.

  Fenris nodded. The girl rose to her feet, went to the door, and flung it open.

  Her eyes bulged. On his knees, leaning against the doorframe, was Malkeg Ironfist. He was still armored, but someone had removed his helmet and split his head from scalp to jaw, and blood poured down his face and body. As the door moved inwards, he slumped and then toppled to the floor at her feet, dead.

  Her eyes darted up and down the hall. No one was there, and she couldn’t see any sign of someone having been there recently. Then again, she’d been consumed by the reverie induced by Fenris’s magical seminar.

  Bailey dragged the body into her room and shut the door, then looked toward the wolf-god.

  He stood up, frowning deeply but oddly calm, she felt. If she had not been practicing lucidity only a moment ago, she might have panicked or rushed down the halls in a rage, seeking the killer.

  Fenris shook his head. “Alas,” he commented, “though it was bound to happen. The attacker, whoever he is, has taken matters into his own hands. He’s removing not only his targets but those who were hunting him and protecting those targets. Leaving the body here was probably an attempt to intimidate the trainees as a whole.”

  Bailey struggled to find the right thing to say or do. Part of her cynically wondered if this was another test she was being put through.

  To her surprise, Fenris helped her decide. He locked his dark eyes with hers.

  “You have two options. Perhaps more if you consider the obviously foolish ones, but let us say two good options.”