Witch Hunter

by Shannon Curtis

  He was glad he was wearing his sunglasses, and could hide is surprise as she made the tea. He hadn’t told anyone about that before, and it was difficult to broach such a personal subject. He’d never expected to feel sympathy directed toward him over it, but she was right. It was hard. There were some things you just couldn’t unsee. Some crimes—especially the kids, damn it. He swallowed as he shut down that line of memory. He’d seen his own kind do terrible, horrible, heinous things. He’d seen them do great things, too, but when dealing with the dregs, you started to feel like you were covered in the muck, and it was all you generally got to see.

  He cleared his throat. “I see the crimes, so I know what they’ve done, and generally where I can find them.”

  Her hands halted, and she slowly turned to face him, her face showing her confusion, and perhaps a hint of nervousness. “What did you see me do?”

  He reached for one of the mugs—he couldn’t quite believe the woman he’d tried to kill the day before was calmly making him tea in her kitchen.

  His lips quirked. Sully Timmerman was proving to be an unexpected intrigue, on so many levels. “I didn’t see you.”

  She frowned, confused. “Then why come after me?”

  He sighed. “Usually, I see the crime through the killer’s eyes, and can be with them for as long as it takes to identify them, or their whereabouts. This time I got neither.”

  Her frown deepened as her confusion did, and he leaned against the doorjamb. “I saw what Sullivan Timmerman did. Not you, this...monster. I saw—” he hesitated. It was one thing for him to witness these horrendous acts, he didn’t need to spread that taint to this woman.

  Her brow eased. “It’s okay. You can’t surprise me.”

  His mouth tightened. “Oh, I think I can.”

  “I think I have a right to know what I was accused of, don’t you?” Her tone was gentle, yet with a core of steel-like implacability. She wasn’t about to be fobbed off with half-truths and generalizations. She wanted—and deserved—the facts.

  “I see through the witch’s eyes,” he explained. “So I see what they do. I saw someone get stabbed, and some ritualistic markings, the drinking of blood...”

  She shuddered. “Yeah, well, I didn’t do any of that. What did this witch look like?”

  Dave grimaced, then sipped his tea. “That’s the problem. Usually I can stay with the witch until he or she looks in the mirror, or passes a window, and I can see their reflection. Usually I get to see the neighborhood, some more of the crime scene, enough to establish their location... This time I got bumped.”

  “Bumped?”

  He took another sip, nodding. Once the dam broke, it felt easier to talk, easier to explain. There was something surprisingly relaxing about Sully Timmerman. “Bumped. He—or she—drank the blood, said a spell and bam, I was out of there.”

  “So you didn’t get to see this witch’s face, or where they were?”

  “I saw an alley, I saw a sign on a building—Mack’s Gym, by the way—and I had the name.”

  Sully’s mouth pouted as she mulled over his words. “Mack’s Gym is in the next town...” Then she shook her head. “But I don’t understand. My name?”

  He nodded. “Yep. Sullivan Timmerman.” He frowned, then glanced down at the tea. “What’s in this?” He was finding it too easy to talk.

  “Oh, it’s just a little lavender, lemon balm, a tidge of nutmeg...”

  His eyes narrowed. “Antianxiety?” Most of those ingredients were relaxants.

  She shrugged. “A calmative. I thought you could use it.”

  He had to admit, it worked. He’d come here with his gut roiling, concerned about how she’d receive him, whether she’d hear him out...whether she’d forgive him. But...how did she know? Realization dawned, and he put the mug down.

  “You’re an empath.” It wasn’t a question. Everything added up. She’d made him a poultice to ease his pain and help him heal, had made him as comfortable as possible on his bed of sand and had displayed an unexpected insight to his turmoil—accepting he had a job to do.

  She stepped back, her skirt moving around her legs as she did so, her movement was so sudden. “What—what makes you say that?” she asked cautiously. Warily.

  He eyed the increased distance that now separated them. He’d spooked her, somehow. He shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “Oh, just putting the pieces together. I don’t know how many witches would patch me up, hear me out and make me tea after I’ve tried to kill them.” She was a sweetheart. She’d tried to ease his pain, and ease his guilt.

  She frowned as she crossed to the sink—putting even more distance between them. “That’s quite a stretch. Maybe I’m just a sucker for a bad boy.”

  His lips quirked. As tempting as the suggestion was, he doubted it. He edged a little closer, and put his own mug in the sink, managing to hem her in at the same time. Sully paused, her gaze on the mug he still clasped. “Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong, Sully,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward. “I can be very, very good.”

  * * *

  Sully lifted her gaze from the large hand that made her mug look like a kid’s tea party toy, up the corded forearm, over the bulging bicep, the edge of the dark tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his fresh black T-shirt, and across the broad shoulder and torso to the strong column of his throat. She swallowed, hesitating, before lifting it farther. The man had a great jaw. Strong, defined, with just the right dusting of hair that made you want to reach and stroke it. Was he—was the Witch Hunter flirting with her? His lips curled up at one end, a sexy little smile that made heat bloom tight and low in her stomach. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, couldn’t see whether he was flirting, teasing, or just making an observation. And she desperately wanted to see his eyes.

  The fact that she couldn’t was frustrating, and just a little unnerving. She could relax her shields, get a sense of what he was feeling, but that method was fraught with risks. Risks she’d learned long ago weren’t worth it, and she should have the sense to know better.

  She stepped back, clearing her throat. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said softly.

  He tilted his head, and she tried to keep her expression impassive. Aloof. That’s what she was going for, here. Distant. Cool. He was the Witch Hunter, tracking down a murderous wi—she frowned.

  “I want to help,” she blurted.

  His eyebrows rose over his sunglasses. “What?”

  “There is a witch out there murdering in my name. I want to help you catch him. Her. Whatever.”

  He shook his head, backing up a little. “Sorry, sweetness. No can do.”

  Funny. He didn’t sound apologetic at all. She put her hands on her hips. “I insist. You said Mack’s Gym. That’s local. You’ll need someone with local knowledge to help you. I can do that.”

  He shook his head. “I work alone.”

  “And look where it got you,” she said, gesturing to herself.

  “Hey, that was an honest mistake,” he said in faint protest.

  “One that you should avoid making again,” she said primly. “Let me help.”

  “Not happening.”

  She stepped closer. “Someone is using my name—”

  “It could be just as much his as it is yours,” he pointed out.

  “I can tell you now, there is no other person in the county with my name,” she informed him. “But this person even has the Ancestors confused,” she told him, her tone serious.

  This time Dave stepped closer toward her, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze through his sunglasses. “The term is Witch Hunter—not hunters,” he told her roughly. “We don’t buddy up on a job. This is something I’ve got to do on my own, Sully. You haven’t seen what this person is capable of. I have. I don’t want you anywhere near him.�
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  “But this is my name, Dave,” she protested.

  “And I will get him,” he assured her, “and you will stay far away from this matter, and be safe.”

  She opened her mouth to protest further, then halted when he stepped closer and cupped her cheek. Sensation. Heat. Desire. Protectiveness. Everything bombarded her, leaving her trying to catch her balance. Her shields. It was like he could pierce her shields with just a touch, invading both her personal and mental spaces. She tried to shore them up, but no matter how many times she tried erecting them, his presence kept swamping her.

  “I owe you one, Sully,” he told her seriously, his voice low. “What I did, I have to make it up to you. I’m granting you a favor.”

  A flare of forthrightness, a heavy dose of resolve, washed over her. “A favor,” she repeated.

  He nodded. “I happen to take debts very seriously. I owe you.”

  Well, she didn’t think he owed her anything, but if this was important to him, she wasn’t above using it. Warm promise. Integrity.

  “Great. Let me—”

  He placed a finger on her lips, and again, sensations rolled through her, her senses awakening to him, overriding her personal shields. She could feel his determination, his dedication—and his resistance. And something else. Something... Oh. Desire. She trembled, feeling a reciprocal flare of attraction.

  “I have to find this witch,” he murmured, “and I will not endanger you. This favor I grant you is for your use, at a time of your choosing, but I will never let you use it to put yourself in danger. Do you understand?”

  His voice was so deep, so low. His expression was grim, intent. She stared up at his sunglasses, stunned by the sincerity, the commitment behind his words. “Uh, yes.” She whispered the words against his finger.

  “You need anything, you call for me.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I’ll come for you. This is my promise to you.” He said the words like a vow, conveying a determination that was...well, knee-weakening.

  He dipped his head once in acknowledgment. His finger trailed across her lips. It was as though every cell in her body awakened and paused in anticipation. He brushed his finger first over her top lip, then across the bottom, pressing it down gently. Her mouth parted, and he lowered his head, removing his finger as his lips pressed against hers.

  Chapter 6

  Oh. My. God. She closed her eyes as he kissed her. His kiss was sweet, tender, capturing her lips in a firm yet delicate kiss. She sighed against his mouth, and then his other hand rose until both of his hands cupped her cheeks, and he deepened the kiss.

  Warmth, slow and seductive, curled inside her. She could taste him. Coffee and male, a sweet and savory concoction that had her tilting her head back, wanting more. He smelled magnificent, all woodsy—sage, juniper and neroli. His lips were soft, yet firm. Supple. His mouth moved over hers, dancing almost, with a grace and skill that stole her breath along with her caution.

  He slowly raised his head, and he was so close she could see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. It was too dark to see any detail, but his gaze swept across her face, and then he stepped back.

  “Uh, I’d best be going,” he rasped, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door.

  She nodded. She would have said something—anything, only her brain forgot to kick-start again from the sensory overload.

  He backed toward the door. “I’ll keep in touch,” he said, his voice husky.

  She nodded. Yep. She would have said it, too, but she got only as far as opening her mouth.

  He walked back through her workroom, then paused at the door that led to her shop floor. He gestured beyond to the front door, his brow dipping. “You should beef up your security,” he told her. “Maybe a perimeter spell.”

  She blinked. Uh, maybe...? Only it wouldn’t be much use. Nulls. She half nodded, then shook her head as he departed. What?

  She heard a motorbike start up outside, then sagged against her kitchen bench as she heard it roar away. She lifted her right hand and gently pressed her fingers against her lips.

  The Witch Hunter had kissed her.

  * * *

  He’d kissed her.

  Dave shifted on his bike as he rode through town. He was sitting just a mite uncomfortably. What the hell had possessed him to kiss her?

  Well, she was attractive, in a fresh, girl-next-door kind of way. Sexy girl-next-door, though. And she was sweet. Too sweet for her own good, really. He shook his head. Tea. She’d given him a calmative tea because she’d sensed his turmoil at what he’d done to her. Who does that?

  She was such a fascinating mix, though. Back on the beach, she’d given as good as she’d got. She’d matched him with her powers, and had fought him with a skilled strength that was impressive. And she was armed. He’d seen her belt. She seemed so sweet, so trusting, yet she carried twin blades, and had made him concerned for his ability to bear children. Sweet, but spicy. A contradiction of lethal innocence.

  And he’d granted her a favor. He never granted favors. He was the collector of debts, and had a bank of favors owed to him from a number of members of Reform society, from vampire or werewolf primes—to light warriors. And he’d granted this witch a debt.

  Maybe it was because every time he touched her, he lost time, lost awareness of everything save her. The scent of her, all floral and summery, her warmth, her gentleness—when she wasn’t trying to unman him—her...care. She’d minimized his effect on her, because she could see, feel, sense—however it worked with an empath—the effect of his job on him, and sympathized, putting his needs above her own.

  That humbled him. He sensed her shields, though. They were impressive, almost tangible blocks to getting to know the woman inside—and he really wanted to get to know that woman. He could usually get a sense of people when he touched them...good, bad, past, present and future—he saw some of each. He was selective with his clients for that very reason. He didn’t ink up anyone with one of his spells unless they deserved it, or desperately needed it, needed his special brand of protection. Sully, though, well she consumed his senses at a touch, but those messages, those visions he normally received about a person were missing with her. The protective walls she’d erected within herself were stunningly effective, and it made him wonder why she felt the need to close herself off so thoroughly from those around her. It had to be exhausting, maintaining those protections.

  He glanced about the town square as he rode around it. The diner still hadn’t opened, but there was a cluster of people at the bottom of the steps. Even when the place wasn’t open, it seemed to be the hub for the town people to gather and gossip. He recognized the waitress, Cheryl, who lifted her hand at him as he rode by. He gave her a brief salute in return, then turned at the end of the block. There was a bar at the far end of the marina, he’d discovered. He glanced at the docks. Most of the boats were out. He’d learned Serenity Cove wasn’t so much a vacation spot for cruisers, but a working fishing port. The salt and brine was distinctive, and he drove around the weighing station and the fishermen’s co-op, to the small parking lot of the bar at the end.

  He parked his bike and set his helmet on the dash, uttering his security spell as he did so. That was one more thing he didn’t understand about Sully. Her store was poorly secured. One flimsy lock on the front door that a teenager with a penknife could pass. When he’d visited her home, he hadn’t sensed any blocks or shields there, either. As though she couldn’t be bothered. He didn’t know a witch who didn’t layer their security with any number of spells. Some were innocuous, some had painful elements invoked for trespassers. Personally, he preferred the painful variety. He didn’t have any patience for those who tried to steal or damage his property.

  He walked into the bar, pausing when he stepped into the dim interior. At this time of day a couple of patrons sat in a booth, a c
ouple more at the bar. A game of college baseball was playing on the television above the bar, and the thickset, middle-aged bartender leaned his palm on the bar, watching it.

  Dave walked up to the bar and sat on a stool two down from another patron. The bartender looked over at him, an eyebrow raised in query.

  “Beer, please,” Dave said.

  The bartender lumbered over to the under-the-counter fridge and pulled out the first beer his hand grasped. He grabbed a bottle opener from the counter, then slapped a coaster down and thunked the beer onto it.

  “Thanks,” Dave muttered.

  “Well, if it isn’t Sully’s friend,” a tired voice muttered from the stool two down from his.

  Dave turned, then frowned at the familiar man until he recognized him. The sheriff, out of uniform. No wonder he hadn’t recognized him immediately. It was like seeing your elementary school principal sitting at your dinner table. Out of place and damn uncomfortable.

  “Tyler, right?” That was what Cheryl, the waitress, had called him, wasn’t it? He purposely didn’t address him by his title. The man was out of uniform, and Dave hoped this was an opportunity to get the man to open up about the murders he’d seen.

  He gestured to the sheriff’s nearly empty bottle. “Another one for my friend,” he told the bartender.

  Tyler’s eyebrows rose, but Dave noticed he didn’t decline the beer.

  “How’d it go with Sully?” Tyler asked idly, although Dave suspected the man wasn’t as nonchalant as he appeared to be.

  The bartender clunked the new bottle down on the bar. “You know Sully?” he asked, and Dave almost saw curiosity flare, but then the crowd roared on the TV, and he turned his attention back to the game.

  “Didn’t quite go the way I expected,” Dave admitted to the sheriff.