Her expression softened into one of sadness, a weariness that was a stark contrast to the young, vibrant woman she’d seemed just a short while ago as she’d tried to kick his ass.
“I’m ready.”
He hesitated. He didn’t often come across a target resigned and accepting of their fate. This particular hit was proving a first on many fronts. He nodded. “Okay, then.” His frown deepened. After holding a blade to his balls, this witch was proving to be quite civil.
He moved back, just a little bit, one hand still grasping both of her wrists as he pulled his other hand back, almost as though to strike. “May the Ancestors have mercy upon your soul.”
He summoned his inherited powers and sparks flickered at his fingertips.
Heat blazed across his chest. He cried out in pain and grasped his left pec as he rolled off her. He blinked furiously, trying to catch his breath.
What was happening? What the hell was—?
“Argh,” he growled as the name branded on his chest flared to life. He shook his head. No. No, this can’t be happening. She’s here, he was about—
He winced as the wound blistered anew, and pulled at his T-shirt, tearing the fabric from neck to hem. He grunted when the cloth pulled away from the burn.
The witch on the ground next to him rolled, grabbing one of the blades in the sand before she scrambled to his side. She clasped the dagger in both hands and raised it above her head, poised to bring it down on him.
The pain was blinding, all-consuming, and he couldn’t do anything to defend himself. When the ancestral fire was branded into his skin, he was powerless. He stared up at the woman above him, confused. She was here, and yet her name was being rebranded into his flesh.
Another innocent had been killed.
But not by this witch.
The woman started to bring the blade down, but she gasped when she looked down at his body.
* * *
Sully dropped the knife, her gaze locked on the Witch Hunter’s chest. His T-shirt hung in tatters at his side. His chest was broadly muscled, his skin a light golden tan, his toned torso lined with dark tattoos that looked both beautiful and dangerous, but it was the glowing mark that drew her gaze, and made the sweat break out on her brow as she tried resurrect her shields.
Sullivan Timmerman.
It was written in the Old Language, but she couldn’t mistake it.
Her name radiated on his chest, searing through his skin as though borne from a fire within, and the cords of his neck stuck out in stark relief as he tilted his head, growling in pain.
Holy capital H.C. Crap. She was too late.
She sucked in a breath at the hot wave that flashed through her, over her. It was everywhere. Pain. Tormented heat. Searing agony. Guilt. Self-loathing. Confusion. Loyalty. So many more emotions, too fast, too ferocious to name, bombarded her. The sensations were excruciating.
The Witch Hunter writhed on the ground, his teeth gritted, until she felt the pain drop from excruciating agony to aggravating throb. He gasped as he rolled over and onto his knees, wheezing slightly.
Sully looked away, mustering all the strength she could from within to shakily layer up some protections, although they were weak and tattered. Holy f—
“Sullivan Timmerman,” the man at her side gasped, turning away from her as he removed his sunglasses to stare at the sea.
She eyed him warily. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t quite get past the lump in her throat. Her arms hung limply by her side and she trembled all over. It didn’t seem to matter, though. The Witch Hunter didn’t look like he was talking to her, though. He was on his knees, hands fisted in the sand, and she stared at the back of his head as his chest rose and fell with deep, shuddering breaths. How the hell could the man still be conscious after that experience? Her gut twisted, and she felt shaky and nauseous, and quite frankly wanted to curl up on the sand and pass out.
After a moment he dipped his head, then he slid his sunglasses on. Sully rose to her feet, stumbled on her shaky knees and almost face-planted in the sand when she bent over to scoop up her blades. If he was coming for her again, she was going to fight. He’d obliterated her shields, and it would take her some time to rebuild them, but she could still hit.
Right now, though, all she could feel was him. His pain, his shock, his confusion.
He glanced over his shoulder to her, his brows drawn. “Sullivan Timmerman...?”
This time, his tone was uncertain, and she raised her arms in front of her in a defensive block, blades ready. She didn’t bother to answer him. She’d almost gotten herself killed the last time she’d responded.
He shook his head as he rose to his feet. “You’re not the right one.” Even if she couldn’t hear it in his tone, or see it in his face, she could feel the shock reverberating through him, the dismay. The guilt.
Her eyes widened, and she gaped at him. “Are you—? What the—? Holy—.” She blinked at him. He’d just attacked her. Nearly killed her. And she wasn’t the right one? She’d almost died. For the briefest of moments, she’d wanted to die. She squished that thought down deep, buried it under a fragile barrier.
He drew himself up to his full height, and she could see his wound was already beginning to heal, the lettering darkening to a semblance of what she’d assume would become a tattoo that matched the rest of the markings on his body.
He touched his abdomen and dipped his head. “I have made a grave mistake. My duty is not with you. Please forgive me, Sullivan Timmerman.”
His apology was sincere, his gestures faintly noble. Courtly. His earnestness was almost tangible, along with a profound sense of guilt, of sadness and of dismayed shock. And pain.
“For—forgive you?” she responded, her mouth slack.
She’d practically begged him to kill her.
Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed. “Screw you, Witch Hunter.”
She backed away from him, then turned and headed toward the cliff stairs. He’d tried to kill her, and normally she wouldn’t be turning her back on a man who’d just tried to kill her, but she’d felt his remorse, his guilt. His exhaustion. He wouldn’t come after her again.
“I’m so sorry,” he called after her. She didn’t look back as she flipped him the bird, then realized she still carried her blades. She slid them into the slim-line sheath that formed part of her belt, and it wasn’t until she put her foot on the bottom step that she realized she’d left her flip-flops behind.
She glanced back at the beach in frustration, just in time to see the Witch Hunter drop to his knees, then collapse on the sand, his unconscious body an inert dark form on the sand.
Chapter 4
Dave’s eyes fluttered open. He frowned. Stars? He blinked. Yep. Stars. A cool breeze—not unpleasant—brushed across him, and he could hear the rhythmic roar of waves. He shifted and groaned. His neck was supported by a mound of sand, but it felt like he’d been lying there for hours. He moved his arms and realized a light cloth covered him. He glanced down. Despite it being sometime in the night, the stars and a glimmer of the moon gave enough light to see a little. He picked at the cloth. A towel?
He sat up, hissing at the pull of skin on his chest. He flicked off the towel. A white patch was taped to his chest. What the—? He peeled back a corner of the bandage and caught a whiff of something disgusting. He scrunched his nose up. Ew. He could smell marigold, aloe vera, maybe jasmine and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but whatever it was, it smelled gross. He patted the tape back down. Someone had made him an herbal poultice to help heal his wound and limit infection and inflammation. He could think of only one person in the area that would have the plant knowledge for it, yet he couldn’t quite believe she’d do that for him, not after what he’d attempted to do to her. Where was she? He glanced around. He was alone on the beach, with just the waves to keep him company.
His tattered T-shirt fluttered in the breeze, and he shrugged out of his jacket so he could discard the ruined garment. His mouth tightened. Damn. He’d almost killed her.
He dragged his thumb across his forehead. What the hell happened? He’d struggled to comprehend when his chest had started to burn again. He’d had Sullivan Timmerman right where he wanted her, and had been about to send her across the veil, but then...
It was still so hard to accept, to make sense of. Another innocent had died at the hands of Sullivan Timmerman, yet the woman had been right in front of him at the time, ready to accept her fate. When he’d uttered the name and channeled the killer’s vision, he’d seen the latest victim. An older woman, tears running down her face as she’d stared up at him with confusion, horror and pain, and then with shock as the blade had pierced her heart. Once again, the killer had carved that mark on her wrist and used that same horn to capture the woman’s blood. And once again, Dave had been booted out of the vision when the killer had consumed the blood and uttered his spell—whatever that damn spell was.
He placed his hand over the dressing. He’d had the wrong person. His stomach clenched, and he had to suck in some deep breaths to stop from throwing up. He’d almost killed an innocent—a crime that would send him across the veil to the Ancestors. How could that be?
Sullivan Timmerman wasn’t a common name. How could he have gotten it so damn wrong? Guilt, hot and sickening, wrung his gut. The woman had answered his call, and had confirmed her identity—she’d even mentioned something about coins, as though she knew she was guilty of some wrongdoing... He looked down as the towel fluttered in the breeze, then rolled a little along the sand. He reached down and picked it up.
Death isn’t all bad.
What the hell did she mean? She was so young, so full of life, so full of power when she’d fought him—the first witch to be able to maintain a defense against him...ever. She was also the first witch to halt him in his tracks, midhit. What the hell was that all about? And yet, when he’d had her down on the sand, it was as if all her fight had left her, and she was ready to cross the veil. He’d nearly killed an innocent witch. How...? What...?
He started to walk across the beach toward the trail at the edge of the dunes that would lead him to where he’d parked his bike. He ducked his head as he trudged through the sand. He’d fought with a woman, for God’s sake. He—the guy who inked up women with protective spells against their abusers, who was committed to never hurting an innocent, who believed the women in his life, however fiery and frustrating they could be—and his mother and sister could be plenty of both—should be safeguarded, whatever the cost.
He stumbled. Hell. He’d tackled the woman. He’d threatened her, dominated her. He was no better than the monsters he hunted.
His toe hit something, and he glanced down. A white flip-flop lay half-buried in the sand.
Hers.
He scooped it up, turning it over to look at it. It was well worn, with dents in the rubber from her heel and the ball of her foot. He sighed as he continued along the beach. He’d have to make it up to her. Somehow. He didn’t apologize very often, but words couldn’t make up for his transgressions against her. Part of his job as the Witch Hunter was to redress the balance, wherever possible—especially by counteracting the misdeeds of the malefactors. What he’d done today with this Sullivan Timmerman—well, he had some counteracting to do.
After he caught the real Sullivan Timmerman and put an end to these murders.
He crested the last rise and walked over to his bike. He slipped the flip-flop and towel into one of his panniers. He wasn’t quite sure where to start. All he’d managed to see was the female victim, an older woman, and what looked like a wooden floor beneath her, and the claw foot of a threadbare sofa.
He straddled his bike, started it and flicked up the kickstand with his heel.
Kill one Sullivan Timmerman, then make it up to the other Sullivan Timmerman. He’d better get busy.
* * *
Sully boxed up the teas she’d cut for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler. She realized her hands were trembling, and she curled her fingers over. Tears formed in her eyes. She’d been ready to die.
She blinked, sniffing, as she gathered the boxes and grabbed her satchel. She wasn’t going to think about it. Nope. She was going to be a good little witch and completely ignore the ramifications of this afternoon’s incident. She wasn’t going to think about that moment when his body lay across hers. She should have felt threatened, frightened, but she felt—nope. Not going there.
She hesitated at the front door, gazing out at the sea that reflected the light of the moon and stars. From this point she couldn’t see directly down to the beach. She’d have to walk to the edge of the headland to be able to do that.
She wasn’t going to walk anywhere near the headland at the moment. What if he was still there?
Well, it would serve him right. She slammed the door closed behind her and stalked over to her car. The guy had tried to kill her.
He was just doing his duty.
Screw duty. The man was the Witch Hunter. She climbed into her car and started the engine, reversing out of the drive. All coven children were taught about the Witch Hunter. Much like the bogeyman, the Witch Hunter was someone to fear, someone who would come after you if you did something wrong. You never knew what the Witch Hunter looked like—only that he was out there, and ready to hunt you down if you so much as hinted at violating the universal laws of the covens. Witchery lore claimed there were Witch Hunters in every generation, chosen by the Ancestors, and assigned with the duty of preserving nature’s balance. Only a hunted witch could recognize the Witch Hunter for who he—or she—was.
No wonder he’d seemed “familiar”.
She drove down the dark road. Her cottage was the last one in a street of four, with a considerable distance between neighbors. They had no streetlights, and the real estate agent who’d handled the sale had told her to be thankful she had indoor plumbing, a landline and electricity. Cell phone reception kind of sucked, though. With the expanse of the ocean on three sides, the nearest cell tower was quite a distance away. She had to go into town to her shop to get access to the internet, and even there connectivity was a little spotty.
She still couldn’t believe it. The Witch Hunter had come after her. She shook her head as she turned left onto the coast road. The only crime she committed was a pesky little Reform one, and not one against an individual, a coven, or nature. Why the hell were the Ancestors upset by a little coin-making? Sure, counterfeiting was slightly illegal, but it was all to help others, so really they should be proud of her, right? Witches blurred the legal lines often, with the making of potions and toxins, and spells designed to reveal or conceal...but she’d never used nature’s power to provoke another to an unlawful act, nor had she sought power through the suffering of others, or personal or financial gain at the risk of another. Those were pretty much the deal breakers with the Ancestors, and as far as she was concerned, she’d done neither.
You’re not the right one.
She frowned. The Ancestors had gotten it wrong...she grimaced at the memory of the lettering blazing across the man’s chest. That had looked painful. Oh, not the chest. No, the chest had looked damn fine, actually. All those glorious muscles... She shook her head. She was lusting after a guy who’d tried to kill her. She thought she was better than that, now. That she’d grown some insight, maybe even some self-respect and dignity. She needed her head examined. Or to get laid. She preferred...neither. She hadn’t had a companion since she’d left the West Coast and arrived in Serenity Cove four years ago. If she thought the Witch Hunter was a long
drink of sex on the beach, it was either too long between lovers, or she really hadn’t experienced the personal growth she’d fooled herself into thinking she had.
No, damn it. She’d learned her lesson, and wasn’t prepared to make those same disastrous mistakes again. Ever.
She wound down the driver’s window, trying to get some fresh air, some snap to reality. Her car was so old it didn’t have air-conditioning. She lifted her chin as the wind ruffled her hair. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt and brine, and almost as though he had a homing device in her brain, her thoughts returned to the man on the beach.
She’d been shocked to see him collapse, and had reluctantly, cautiously approached him. She’d lightly kicked him, but he hadn’t stirred. She’d tentatively relaxed her shields and discovered he truly was unconscious. She couldn’t blame him. That branding—damn, that had stung like the bejeebus.
She should have left him there for the crabs, or for the tide. Her mouth tightened. When he’d been poised above her, ready to deliver the death strike, she’d sensed him.
He’d been fighting his own reluctance to kill her. She’d felt the burden of his duty, his responsibility to the Ancestors, to the covens. She’d sensed—of all things—his honor that gave him a core of steel. She’d felt his pain, too, over the killing, and his absolute commitment to delivering her to the Ancestors for her crimes, and his determination to save the vulnerable from her actions. Having all these emotions, the true metal of his character, she’d glimpsed something she wasn’t expecting. She’d seen beyond his actions, beyond his awareness, and she’d seen through the veil. She’d sensed the nothingness. No dark, no light, no pain...no emotion. She’d seen a glimpse of...peace. No emotions to dodge or defend herself from. No effort required to constantly shore up her defenses, to protect her own heart and mind from the pain of others. And for the briefest of moments, that oblivion seemed heaven-sent.
Witch Hunter Page 4
