Witch Hunter

by Shannon Curtis

  Cheryl Conners, the waitress, was hiding her hurt that Sheriff Clinton was absorbed in his phone and not her. Sheriff Clinton was worried—but that seemed to be his default setting. Harold’s gout was troubling him, Graham, the cook, was tired and his feet hurt, Mrs. Peterson was fighting off a strong cold, and Lucy—

  Sully halted at the diner counter. Lucy wasn’t happy. No, she was...heartbroken. She couldn’t see the woman, but she could feel her pain—and that was with her shields up.

  She placed the box on the counter and looked over at Cheryl as the waitress walked over to her.

  “I’m here to see Lucy,” Sully said softly. She glanced toward the swing door that led to the kitchen and the office beyond. “Is she okay?”

  Cheryl shook her head. “She got some bad news.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the sheriff. “They found Gary’s body last night.”

  Sully gasped, then lifted her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.”

  Gary Adler was the coach over at the null comprehensive school, and Lucy’s longtime boyfriend. No wonder the woman emitted the feel of devastation.

  Sully patted the box on the counter. “Look, I’ll leave these here, we can talk about sorting stuff out later. She’s got enough on her plate, tell her not to worry about this. We can talk when she’s ready, but don’t stress over it.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “When is the funeral?”

  “Won’t be for a few days, yet,” Sheriff Clinton said, glancing up from his phone. “We’ve got to wait for the autopsy.”

  Sully nodded. Gary had watched what he ate, exercised regularly, and apart from that one Christmas festival, didn’t drink much. She wasn’t aware of him suffering from any illness. They’d have to do an autopsy to find out what had made a relatively healthy man drop dead.

  “Any ideas what the cause was?” she asked the sheriff.

  He grimaced. “We’re guessing it was the stab wound to the heart that did it.”

  Cheryl’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  Sully’s eyes widened. “Are you saying he was murdered?”

  “Well, it didn’t look like he fell on the knife, or stabbed himself,” the sheriff commented dryly.

  “Oh, no, poor Lucy,” Sully murmured. “I’ll go home and put together a tea for her.” She nodded to herself. “I should go visit with Gary’s mother, too.” Gary’s mother lived in a tiny cottage on the northern tip of the seaside town, along with the bulk of the null community. “She’ll be devastated.”

  Sheriff Clinton nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure Mary Anne would appreciate a visit, but I don’t think a tea will help her.”

  Sully smiled sadly. “Not in the usual way, but herbs can still affect a Null, just like any other person, and there’s always a little comfort to be found in a shared brew.”

  She waved briefly to the sheriff and Cheryl, and was nearly at the door when she snapped her fingers. She walked back over to Mrs. Peterson, and gently placed her hand over the older woman’s.

  “How are you, Mrs. Peterson?” she asked loudly so the woman could hear.

  “What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Peterson leaned forward.

  “I said, how are you?” Sully said as loud as she could without shouting at the woman.

  She opened her shield a crack and pulled in some of the pain she could sense in the swollen knuckles, and fed some warmth through in return, laced with a little calm.

  The older woman’s face creased like a scrunched-up piece of paper when she smiled up at Sully.

  “I’m doing well, Sully,” she said in her wavery voice.

  “You’re looking nice today. I like your dress,” Sully said, gently patting the back of the woman’s hand. She could already sense the easing of tension in the old woman as her arthritic pain subsided.

  “What mess?” Mrs. Peterson glanced down in confusion at the table.

  “Your dress,” Sully repeated. “I like your dress.” Pity she couldn’t do anything about the woman’s hearing—but she was an empath witch, not a god.

  “Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said, and her face scrunched up even further as her smile broadened.

  Sully nodded and winked, then turned in the direction of the door, cradling her hand on the top of her satchel. She closed her mental walls, ensuring nothing else leaked in she wasn’t ready for. She walked on toward the door and waved at Harold when he signaled her. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you something back later, too, Harold.” She wagged a finger at him. “But you really do need to lay off the shellfish.”

  She pushed through the door, her smile tightening as the pain in her hand throbbed. Poor Mrs. Peterson. That really was a painful condition.

  She skipped down the steps and dusted her hands as she walked to her car. To anyone else it looked like she was shaking black pepper off her hands as she discarded the pain she’d drawn in from Mrs. Peterson.

  She considered the teas she’d make for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler as she climbed into her car. Lemon balm, linden and motherwort, she decided. They each had a calming effect, and the motherwort would be especially helpful with the heartache and grief. She waited for a motorcycle to turn across the intersection in front of her, and then pulled out. She sighed. Poor Gary. Murdered. Who would do such a thing?

  Chapter 2

  Dave pulled his motorbike into a spot on Main Street, and slid his helmet off his head. He looked around. So this was Serenity Cove, huh? The town was picture-postcard quaint. Victorian cottages, cute little boutiques and stores, and lots of white picket fences and ornate trim. Lots and lots. This place looked so damned sweet, he could feel a toothache coming on.

  There were a few people wandering around. Admittedly, he thought there’d be more. It was summer and Serenity Cove had a fishing marina, nice little beaches—if his online searches could be trusted—but for some reason there wasn’t the usual vacationers drifting around with beet-red sunburns and sarongs. A local bar also seemed to be missing from the scene. He eyed the diner across the street. In lieu of a bar to visit and source information, this place would have to do. Maybe someone in there could tell him where the bar was—after he got some intel on Sullivan Timmerman.

  He swung his leg over the bike and placed his helmet over the dash and ignition, uttering a simple security spell. It never paid to mess with a witch’s stuff.

  It had been surprisingly easy to track down the witch. The guy had a website, for crying out loud. It was obviously a front, though. A cutler? He’d never heard of the trade. Most people just went to the store and bought their cutlery. Who would have a set made?

  He crossed the street and entered the diner, the tinkling of the bell over the door causing the patrons to look up. He didn’t remove his sunglasses, but then he didn’t have a problem seeing inside. An older man, an even older lady and—oh, good. A sheriff. Dave sighed. He wasn’t sure if it was the bike leathers, or the tattoos, but the law always seemed to want to chat with him.

  He strolled down to the opposite end of the diner counter and slid onto a stool. The solitary waitress bustled over to him, a smile on her face. Dave smiled back. He read her name tag. Cheryl.

  “Hey, stranger, can I get you something?” She leaned a hand on the counter and gave him a wink.

  He grinned as he removed his gloves. “That depends, Cheryl.” Her smile broadened at his use of her name. “What can you recommend?” He kept his tone light and flirtatious, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the sheriff lift his gaze from his phone.

  She folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward. “Well,” she said, drawing the word out slowly. “I’ve just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so I haven’t had a chance to burn it, yet, and the peach pie is pretty good.”

  He nodded. “I’ll take that. For starters,” He winked back at her. She was pretty, she was nice and liked to flirt. Serenity Cove might be all right, after all.

&n
bsp; “What brings you to Serenity Cove?” The sheriff put his phone away and directed his full attention to him. His tone was casual, conversational, but the look in the man’s eyes was anything but.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Dave replied as Cheryl placed a plate in front of him. She reached for the coffee carafe and poured him a cup, and he took care not to touch anything until she was finished. He waved away the cream and sugar she offered.

  “Who?” the sheriff asked. This time his tone wasn’t so casual or conversational.

  “Tyler,” Cheryl chided. “Be nice to our visitor.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Dave said. If there had been a murder, this officer would know about it—had to, in a place as small as Serenity Cove. He needed information from the man, and he didn’t want to seem threatening or dangerous, because that would lead to an entirely different conversation.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” Dave said, flashing a smile at the sheriff in an effort to appear friendly. “I was in the area, so I thought I’d catch up.”

  “You have a friend?” the older man sitting at a booth near the door piped up. “Here?”

  Dave kept his face impassive. Was the guy surprised at the idea of him having a friend in Serenity Cove or having a friend at all? “Yeah.”

  “Who?” Cheryl asked as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t bother to hide her curiosity.

  “Sullivan Timmerman.”

  Cheryl’s eyes widened. “You know Sully?” her expression was incredulous as she looked him up and down.

  “How do you know Sully?” the sheriff asked, his brow dipping.

  Sully, huh? Dave took a moment to slip a bit of the peach pie into his mouth as he thought about his response. He always had an explanation ready for barflies, but talking with law enforcement required finesse and strategy. He swallowed the mouthful of pie—and Cheryl was right, it was pretty good.

  “Are you an old boyfriend?” the older guy in the booth asked.

  Dave coughed into the coffee mug he held to his lips. Boyfriend? Sullivan Timmerman had boyfriends?

  “We went to school together,” he responded cautiously once he’d cleared his throat. He hoped to hell Timmerman hadn’t gone to school around here, although the information he’d found online suggested probably not. Timmerman had set up his business four years ago, but he hadn’t been able to find any mention of the guy in the local schools’ hall of fame lists for athletics or other clubs.

  “Did you date?” Cheryl asked, waggling her eyebrows.

  “Uh...” He ate some more pie as he thought of an appropriate response.

  “What’s that about Sully?” the old lady called out, cupping her hand to her ear.

  “This guy used to date Sully,” the guy in the booth yelled back.

  “Why do you hate Sully?” the woman asked, horrified.

  Dave blinked as Cheryl leaned over the counter. “Date, Mrs. Peterson. Date.”

  “Oh.” The old woman looked him up and down, then raised her eyebrows. “You don’t say.”

  “You just missed her,” Cheryl told him, then waved toward the door. “She left about five minutes ago.”

  Her. Her. He dipped his head for a moment. Phew. Then he frowned. He’d somehow felt a masculine energy in his vision and had assumed he was looking for a man. In his line of work, he couldn’t rest on assumptions. The radio on the sheriff’s hip squawked, and the man sighed as he levered himself off the chair.

  “Gotta go.” He grabbed his hat off the seat next to him and put it on his head. “How long are you intending to stay in Serenity Cove?” he asked Dave.

  Dave waved a hand. “Oh, I’m only passing through.” This kind of job never took long.

  The sheriff nodded, satisfied, then turned to walk out the door.

  “Bye, Tyler,” Cheryl called. The sheriff didn’t turn back, but lifted his hand in a casual wave of farewell. Dave caught the fleeting look of disappointment on her face before she masked it with a smile. “So, you used to date Sully, huh?”

  Wow. These people were good. He bet that by the time he got back to his bike, he and this Sully would be in a serious, angst-ridden relationship. Which could work for him, really.

  “Yeah,” he said, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward conspiratorially. “I want to surprise her, though. Uh, do you know where I can find her?” He sent a compulsion spell in Cheryl’s direction.

  “She lives out at Crescent Head, north end, overlooking Driftwood Beach,” Cheryl responded automatically, then blinked.

  “Thanks.” Dave scooped up the last of his pie, and nodded farewell as he rose from his seat. He donned his gloves and waved politely to the older patrons as he passed them.

  He halted outside the diner. Two youths were checking out his bike. One of them even had the audacity to reach for the handlebars and pretend to steer. He frowned. His security spell should have knocked the kid off his feet. He flicked his fingers at him, but encountered...nothing. He frowned and tried to again.

  Nothing.

  He grimaced. Great. Nulls. He glanced about. Where there was one—or in this case, two—there were always more. Hopefully, though, it wouldn’t interfere with what he had to do.

  He sauntered across the street, and the teens took off as soon as they noticed him. He might not be able to cast a spell on them, but at least he could still look fierce.

  Good. Because he had a witch to hunt.

  * * *

  Sully ignored the sparks as she ground the steel against the wheel. She turned the arrowhead slowly, shifting now and then to avoid smoothing the sharp angles she’d hammered into the steel. She pulled back, lifting the arrowhead to the light. Just a little more off there...

  She held it back to the wheel and evened out the side, sliding the steel across the spinning wheel. When she was satisfied, she took her foot off the pedal and switched off the grinder.

  She crossed over to the forge she’d made out of a soup can, sand and plaster. She’d turned the torch on a little while ago, so it was now ready for her. Using pliers, she carefully placed the arrowhead inside the forge, and then waited for it to glow. She stepped back and lifted her mask to take a sip of water from the glass on the shed sill. It was hot in the shed, and she was sweating profusely.

  It didn’t take too long before the arrowhead was glowing. She reached in with the pliers, and carefully dunked it into her bucket of oil, pausing for a long moment before withdrawing it.

  Sully smiled. The arrowhead was in the square-headed bodkin style. Sure, the broadhead arrows were sharper and caused more damage, but every now and then it was a nice change to go for a classic shape. Besides, it had worked for the Vikings, so it wasn’t completely useless. And it was exactly what Trey Mackie wanted—he wanted to try hunting just like his computer game avatar did. When the set of arrows were completed, she’d have to have a word with him about aiming at folks. She didn’t make weapons for “fun”. Weapons weren’t toys. She’d bespell them, but she also wanted to make sure the youth used them responsibly.

  She placed the arrowhead on the bench next to the other four she’d made that day. Damn, she must reek. She’d go for a quick dip before heading out to see Mary Anne. She shut down the torch on the forge and cleaned up, then quickly strode across her back garden to her cottage. Within minutes she’d donned a bikini, then threw on a peasant-style top and her long, flowing skirt. She didn’t bother to fasten the belt that already twined through the loops on her skirt. The loose clothes were her stock standard wardrobe, especially for summer. She grabbed a ratty old towel, slipped her feet into her flip-flops and trotted to the end of her street. A path led from there to the stairs at the top of the cliff, and then down to the beach below. She paused at the grassy verge at the top of the stairs and took a moment to tilt her head back and let the sun shine down on her. This was one of her favorite spots, offering a one
-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the ocean. She could feel the kiss of a breeze against her skin, the heat of the sun as it beat down on her. The smell of salt and grass and the summer blossoms in her garden... The waves crashing on the beach below. This was one of her recharge places, where she could give herself up to elements of nature and restore her own energy. She gazed out at the vista. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. Whether a storm was coming, or about to pass, she couldn’t tell. She sighed and then headed for the stairs.

  Driftwood Beach was pretty much deserted. She saw a man walking his dog down the other end, but it looked like he was at the end of his walk, rather than the start. She was the only other person to walk across the sands. Most folks preferred the more sheltered Crescent Beach for a swim, just on the other side of the headland. Occasionally surfers would venture this far north out of town, but the surf at Caves’ Beach was much better. She hadn’t necessarily been looking for a private beach when she settled here at Crescent Head, it had just worked out that way. And she loved it. The less people she had to deal with, the better.

  The surf was crisp and cool, exactly what she needed. The water embraced her, shielded her. She couldn’t feel when she was fully immersed in the water. It was just her and the deep void, the occasional sea creature and strands of seaweed that always startled her into thinking it was a shark. For some reason, though, she was never bothered by the predators of the sea. No matter how far she swam out, it was like the sea provided a shelter for her. Buoyant, enveloping...peaceful. She let herself go, relaxed her mental shields and surrendered to utter unguarded enjoyment. This was as good as being surrounded by nulls, and the void their presence created.

  After diving beneath a couple of waves she strode out of the water, lifting her knees so she could walk faster. Within minutes she’d patted herself dry, pulled her clothes on over the top of her swimsuit and fastened her belt. She stood on the beach, looking out over the water. By now it was late afternoon. She’d like to stay a little longer, maybe watch the sunset, but she’d promised teas for Lucy and Mrs. Peterson, and Harold something for his gout. She decided she’d take a double-prong attack with Harold. Something to rub on his toe for instant comfort and a tea to start working from the inside.