Witch Hunter

by Shannon Curtis

  “Man, you guys are good.” He moved from stunned amazement to full acceptance and realization in the blink of an eye.

  He rose, picked up the grimoire and gently but hurriedly placed on the shelf. “What the hell? You can’t just whip something like this out whenever you like,” he whispered furiously.

  “Dave, this book is so protected—”

  “You brought this book into a null area,” he whispered harshly. “You bring a null into the house, and all of your protections don’t mean diddly.”

  “No, this is different,” she whispered, then frowned. “Why are we whispering?”

  “Because you have Gabriel’s grimoire in your living room,” he whispered back as he turned to face her.

  “Dave, relax.”

  “You can’t tell me to relax,” he exclaimed softly. “You have a mammoth book of ancient spells, Sully. Do you know how many people would kill for this?”

  She frowned at him, then straightened her shoulders as she glared at him. “I am a member of the Alder Coven. I have sworn to protect this book with my life. Of course I know how many people would kill for this,” she said, her voice low and fierce.

  “Then why show me this?” he asked, gesturing at the shelves. Now he would have to keep this secret to his dying day, and if his sister ever found out he knew and hadn’t told her, well, she’d make sure his death was slow and painful. Hell, his mother—God, she’d have a field day with this. And then would plot until she held the tome in her own hands. Every witch he knew would want to get their hands on this, and every shadow breed in existence would want to destroy it.

  This book was the source of modern-day spells, but covens only worked from bits of it. Nobody had the full resource.

  Until now.

  “How can you just pull this out, like it’s so damn ordinary and mundane?” he asked, and had to shove his hands in his jacket, otherwise he’d act exactly like his coven elder mother on a rant at his rebellious sister, and gesture wildly.

  “Because I trust you, Dave,” Sully said.

  He thought a blood vessel popped in his brain. “You trust me?” Okay, he hadn’t meant to yell that at her, or make her flinch, but her words had surprised him. Stunned him. “You can’t trust me. I tried to kill you, remember?”

  “You apologized for that.”

  He clutched his temples. “You have to stop defending that,” he told her. “You—you’re so—so—” his brain scrambled for the right word.

  Sully lifted her chin. “So what, Dave?” She arched an eyebrow.

  He flung his arms out. “I’m trying to think up the right word, but all I’m getting is gullible.”

  Her blue eyes widened in surprise, then darkened with anger. “Gullible? You think I’m gullible?”

  “No, but I can’t think of the right—ah!” he snapped his fingers. “Naive. You’re naive.”

  Sully blinked, as though trying to marshal her thoughts into a logical sequence. Good, because he’d hate to think he was the only one losing his mind over this.

  “You trust too easily. I came up to you on the sand—a stranger, and you stopped and talked to me,” he said, his thumbs pressing against his chest. “You were going to let me kill you, you’ve invited me into your home and you barely know me—” his eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. “What would have happened to the grimoire if I’d killed you?” he breathed, as the slow chill of horror crept over him.

  “The grimoire would have gone to its new owner,” she stated calmly. “There is a built-in hereditary spell.”

  For a moment he was distracted by all the protections and wards this book must have on it, but then brought his gaze back to the woman in front of him—the woman who could get herself into serious trouble for trusting too easily.

  “You have to protect yourself better,” he told her. God, the more he learned about this woman, the more he wanted to shield her. And that totally wasn’t what he was used to. He was used to annihilating witches, not protecting them.

  “Dave, you’re the Witch Hunter. Our own version of law enforcement. Why shouldn’t I trust you?”

  “I kill people, Sully,” he rasped, pain burning his throat. “I kill witches. Like you.”

  She shook her head. “No, not like me. You kill the evil among us, Dave.”

  He shook his head at the blind faith, the respect in her voice. He deserved neither. And that hurt. It hurt how much he wanted it to be true, and how far away from the truth it was.

  “You don’t get it. The Ancestors picked me because I can kill my kin and walk way,” he told her. “I’ve had to, in the past.” He shrugged out of his jacket, and then pulled his black T-shirt over his head. “Look at me, Sully.”

  He held his arms out, and then slowly turned around. “Every single one of these names belongs to a witch I’ve killed.” His back was covered in the black tattoos. His biceps. And now the spot over his heart. It was getting so that he barely recognized himself in the mirror anymore. He sometimes had to force himself to stare at his reflection. Those names...each kill was burned into his memory. Those who had begged for mercy...those who had resisted and fought to live, or tried to kill him instead. He lifted his gaze to hers, and it was one of the hardest things he’d had to do. “You can’t trust a monster like me, Sully,” he rasped.

  Her eyes were bright and luminous, as though she was fighting back tears. She took a tentative step forward, her hand out. She paused, then laid her hand on his chest.

  There it was again, that clash of energy, that tidal wave of sensation, and then there was her touch. He closed his eyes at the contact, so light, so gentle and warm. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved a woman’s touch—her touch. It was soothing, it was arousing, it was the very essence of a complex and complicated woman, and he wanted more—and hated himself for it.

  “You may be a Witch Hunter,” she whispered, and took a deep breath. “But I know you’re not all bad.”

  He slowly opened his eyes. She stood so close, her honey-blond hair loose and luxurious around her shoulders, her blue eyes so full of sympathy, of tenderness. He felt like a brute next to her.

  “I’m not all good, either.”

  She bit her lip, then moved her hand to cup his cheek. “You’re good enough.”

  Her gaze dropped down to his lips, and his breath froze in his chest for a moment. She nodded. “You’re good enough,” she whispered. She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips against his.

  He stood there for a moment, stunned.

  Hell, if he wasn’t a monster, he sure as hell wasn’t a saint. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and slanted his lips across hers.

  Chapter 10

  She slid her arms around his neck as he gathered her close. So many messages, it made her dizzy trying to make sense of them all. Desire, so hot, so sharp, it took her breath away. Frustration. Loneliness. Self-recrimination. Arousal.

  She’d meant to comfort him. She’d sensed his guilt and remorse, so heavy it was nearly suffocating. His gaze was hidden behind his sunglasses, but those lips, the set of his jaw... She’d wanted to reach out.

  Now, though, there was no thought for comfort, for reassurance. Sully opened her lips to him, her breath hitching as his tongue slid against hers. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her against him, and she could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her stomach.

  Her hands trailed over his shoulders, his arms—oh, heavens, his arms. The man was magnificent. So strong and broad, so warm, so—

  Dave flexed his hips against hers, and Sully thought she was going to combust. She slanted her head first one way, then the other, their tongues dueling, their breaths coming in shared, staccato pants.

  His large hands slid beneath her loose top, and goose bumps rose on her ribs. She arched her back as his hands trailed up her back. She moaned. Heat, so much heat.
Her heart thudded in her ears, and she could feel herself getting damp between her thighs. Her breasts swelled, and she pressed herself against him firmly. God, his chest was amazing. She ran her hands over the defined musculature of his torso. His skin was smooth, so sleek, so not what she expected. She could see some marks that weren’t tattoos. Scars. But, astonishingly, the evidence of his strength, of his skill, just felt sexy against her fingertips as she caressed him.

  Dave made a surprised sound against her lips when his fingers encountered the clasp of her strapless bra. She raised her eyebrows as she drew back, and he gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve been fantasizing about your underwear,” he murmured, then took her lips again as his clever fingers undid the clasp.

  He drew the garment away from her, and she shivered in his arms at the caress against her skin.

  And then his hands covered her breasts beneath her top. She moaned, tearing her lips from his, her head tilting back as she surrendered to the sensation. He cupped the weight of her breasts in his hands, his thumbs strumming over her nipples.

  So hot. Liquid heat slicked her thighs, and she pulled his head down, capturing his lips in a kiss that conveyed her own hunger. For him. For the Witch Hunter.

  He growled softly into her mouth, then his hands glided down to her butt. He caressed her there, clasping the fabric of her skirt and inching it up her legs. She slid her tongue against his, her breath coming in pants. She could feel the heat of his body, the cool against her legs, her nipples tight with want. Dave bent his knees. His grip tightened, and he lifted her up. Sully swung her legs around his hips as he walked her back to rest her butt on a shelf of the bookcase. She ignored the clatter, the tumble of magical texts falling to the floor.

  She lifted her head to take a quick breath, then closed her eyes as she tilted her head back. He was hard against her. Everywhere. Hard. Hot. His hips rolled against hers, and she shuddered. Her thighs tightened around his hips, and he moaned, low and sexy, as he trailed his lips down the line of her neck.

  So much heat. She heard him hiss in her ear, felt him shudder. Heat. Like, burning. She pulled back, and his neck arched, the veins in stark relief against his skin. He leaned back, his hips holding her in place on the shelf.

  The mark on his chest glowed. Her name.

  Realization hit. Oh, God, no.

  “Dave,” she gasped.

  The mark brightened, and Dave clasped the shelf on either side of her, gritting his teeth as he sucked in a breath. His biceps bulged, his knuckles whitened and his thighs tensed beneath hers.

  He was in pain. She could feel it. Intense, burning. Consuming.

  “Sullivan Timmerman,” Dave gasped, tugging off his sunglasses.

  Sully gaped as his light gray eyes turned silver, and his expression went slack as he stared sightlessly at the shelves above her head, entranced.

  Instinctively, she reached out to give him comfort, to offer him support.

  Red. Fire. Scalding. Darkness. Running. Panting. Determination. A woman, scrambling down the side drive of a house. She pauses at the chain-link fence, fumbling with the gate’s latch. Satisfaction. Gotcha. The woman turns to face her, her eyes wide with terror.

  “No! Please, no!” She holds up her arms to ward off blows, but the knife strikes fast. Not to kill, just to stop her from running. Triumph. The woman clutches her stomach, her face twists in pain. She gasps as she falls to her knees, and she collapses, cradling her stomach as the stain blooms across her blouse. Cold intent. End it. The knife flashes again, plunging into her chest. The confusion, the shock, the terror, gently wanes as the light leaves her eyes.

  Dave lowered her to the floor and stumbled back, breaking their contact. Sully’s vision snapped into focus once more. She was back in her living room, leaning back against her bookshelf, her skirt gently draping down to her calves as Dave grimaced. He shook his head once, still caught in the violence of his vision.

  His lips tightened. Then his lips turned down, and for a brief moment sadness crossed his features, before it was removed by determination and that same ruthlessness she’d seen on the beach. He blinked, and the light in his eyes flickered down to a light silver.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. His chest didn’t glow anymore, and she could see him in his eyes again, not some vacant glaze.

  His chest, though, looked painful. The mark that had healed a little was now rebranded onto his skin. Her name.

  Sullivan Timmerman had killed again.

  “I have to go,” Dave muttered, wincing as he reached for his T-shirt.

  Sully raised a shaky hand to her lips, trying to fight back the tears.

  “Aman—Amanda Sinclair,” she said, then clutched her stomach. Oh, God. Her family...

  “What?”

  “Amanda Sinclair. The woman he just killed. That’s her name,” she said, then covered her mouth. Deep breaths.

  Dave frowned. “You—you saw?” he asked, his tone baffled as he took a step toward her.

  She nodded. “Touch, we were touching. Oh, my God, Amanda,” The tears fell, hot on her cheeks. Her gut clenched, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat.

  Dave’s eyes widened in shock, then his features showed his dismay. “Oh, Sully. I didn’t know—I’d never want you to see—”

  “He hunted her,” she cried, her hands twisting in the cotton of her blouse.

  Dave stilled. “What?”

  “He—he was hunting her. I could—I could feel it.”

  Dave looked from her to the door, and back to her. He reached for her arm, gently pulling her away from the bookshelf, and then turned and guided her to sit on the foldout sofa.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go, I have to find him—we’ll talk later,” he promised, his face filled with regret. “Where does Amanda live?”

  “Lived,” she corrected automatically, shock putting her into a numb autopilot. The woman was now dead. Oh, hell.

  He nodded. “Yes. Lived. Sully, where did Amanda Sinclair live?” he asked gently.

  “Two streets down from where we were tonight. Number 6.” Her response was automatic, the words falling from her lips as she replayed what she’d seen in her mind. Amanda had been so terrified. Another tear fell on her cheek. She’d never felt so helpless, so useless, watching the woman’s murder.

  He cupped her cheek, and tilted his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Sully.” Intense guilt. Remorse. Grief. He was full of it. For Amanda—and for her.

  “No, this isn’t on you,” she told him, blinking back her tears. “I’ll come with you,” she said, and braced herself to rise off the sofa. The Sinclairs...she had to go to them.

  Dave’s hand on her shoulder prevented her from moving. “No,” he told her firmly. “You’re staying right here.”

  “Dave, I know the family,” she told him urgently.

  He nodded. “I understand. But I’m going to the scene of a murder, Sully. This guy—he might still be there. I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I can take care of myself, Dave.” She’d spent the last four years making sure that was true.

  His lips firmed. “You’re strong, I’ll give you that. But this guy has now murdered three people. I’m not willing to take the chance that you could be the fourth.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, and he cut off her words with a quick kiss. “Please, Sully. I have to do this, and you being there—it will be a distraction. I’ll be wanting to make sure you’re safe, and not focusing on the job.” Dave straightened. “I have to go. But we’ll talk when I get back. I promise.”

  “Your chest,” she said in protest. Dave was pulling his T-shirt on over his as head as he walked toward the door.

  “I’ve got a first aid kit on my bike,” he said brusquely, and then left.

  Sully sagged back on the sofa, and stared around the room. Dave�
��s suggestion was definitely the safest course. His job was to hunt the null killer. The witch killing the people she knew and loved in her name.

  “Screw it,” she muttered. Dave expected her to sit quietly at home. She hadn’t let a man make her decisions for her for four years. She wasn’t about to let that happen again. Her friends needed her. She trotted out to the shed in the back garden to gather some supplies.

  * * *

  Dave drove up to the makeshift barricade on the street and surveyed the scene. A crowd had gathered along the designated perimeter, and deputies were out to direct traffic and enforce the boundary. Red-and-blue lights flashed down the street, casting colored flickers into the darkness. The sheriff stood near the driveway gate and was talking to a man who Dave could only guess was Amanda Sinclair’s husband, judging from his devastated, grief-stricken expression.

  Darn. With the sheriff and his deputies traipsing all over the area, he couldn’t get any closer to the scene. Couldn’t witch his way past, couldn’t bespell people to tell him what he needed to know, couldn’t become invisible or forgettable—not in null territory, anyway. This was a novel experience, not being able to use his powers to get what he wanted. Which was exactly what Sully had said before, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t date him because he was the kind of guy who did and said whatever was needed to get what he wanted.

  And yet, they’d kissed. So maybe dating was off the table, but other stuff wasn’t...? He frowned. The burn in his chest had subsided, but was still an aching reminder of what he was in Serenity Cove for—and it wasn’t to get up close and all kinds of personal with an empath witch who seemed to know him way too well for his liking.

  He kicked out the stand for his bike and swung his leg over. He removed his helmet, wincing at the pull on his chest. He’d slapped a nonstick dressing over the wound and used tape to hold it in place, but it ached, and his skin was pinched by the tape with each movement. He hung the strap of his helmet over the handlebars, then strode a little farther along the edge of the perimeter. He eyed the front of the house. The door was closed. His lips tightened. No sign of forced entry. He glanced over toward the gate. A sheet was draped over the figure on the ground. He backed up a little. The drive had a five-foot-high wooden fence down one side. She wouldn’t have been able to scale it, not with her killer right on her heels. House on one side, fence on the other, her only option would have been to run down the drive toward the street. He wondered if that had been the killer’s plan, or whether he’d just been lucky.