Taming the Hunter

by Michele Hauf

  He pulled down the velvet coat sleeve in hopes the smudge would not be noticeable. He needed to make a good impression, or he would go mad with the pent-up desire that had been brewing ever since he’d laid eyes on her. The woman from the art gallery who had stood transfixed before John Byam Liston Shaw’s painting Now Is Pilgrim Fair Autumn’s Charge. It was such an evocative piece. Witchcraft entered his mind just looking at it, though it was deemed an allegory to the fall harvest.

  He’d walked up behind the woman, transfixed by her porcelain skin, her plump mouth barely open. The scent of roses filled the air about her. He’d wanted to sniff at her hair, draw her into his senses. So he had, and she’d turned around, and just when he’d expected her to renounce him as a scoundrel, she had smiled brightly and laughed.

  Ah, the night smelled fresh and devoid of the usual distasteful scents. But he picked up roses. So close. He felt warm hands cover his eyes and the rose leaned in to whisper, “I’m here.”

  He turned and drew her into his arms and kissed her.

  * * *

  A snap nearby startled Dane out of the vision, and he felt like he’d been suddenly dropped back into his body. The rush of blood heating his veins made him lift his arms and stare at his hands. And then he noticed Eryss smiling at him, the bright illumination gleaming in through the windows falling over her as if she were an angel glowing. Was the moon full? No, it just looked like it, all orange and hanging low in the sky.

  Did he smell...roses?

  He sat upright and slid his feet to the floor. Grass. A cursory glance didn’t produce any roses. Before his bare feet sat the mandala Eryss had created earlier with various crystals, from rose quartz and carnelian, to the covellite and violet-and-green labradorite. Tiny Herkimer diamonds were set around the circumference to “heighten the experience,” as she had explained. At the center, a yellow candle released red smoke. The same smoke she’d used to induce him into the trance with but a whisper of her witchy words.

  The room’s humid warmth made him smile, and he was thankful to be back in the present. And yet, had he really just looked into a past life? Felt the warmth of that woman’s kiss, and smelled her rose perfume? Impossible.

  “So?” Eryss asked eagerly.

  Dane rubbed his palms together. He looked harder at the surrounding plants and flowers. Nope, no roses.

  “You saw something,” she prompted. “It’s been five minutes.”

  “Eryss, now listen. I know you don’t have a television, but I do. And I have a penchant for watching historical dramas. I enjoy them. So I’m quite sure that what I saw was a memorized conglomeration of things I’ve seen in movies and television shows. In fact, there have been times I’ve had occasion to wonder what it would have been like to live in the late nineteenth century—the bohemian age. There’s a scientific term for this wondering. Something like dream incorporation.”

  “Sure, whatever. So you flashed back to bohemian times? What did you see?”

  He stood to pace toward the window. Surprised at how unsettled he was over it all, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. The beeswax candle wisped tendrils of sweet smoke, and entangled with the foliage; the perfume was heady. But it wasn’t roses. Could a witch bewitch him to see things? Had he really been hypnotized or in some kind of trance? The images he’d seen had felt weirdly...familiar, no matter how he tried to account for it with reason.

  Perhaps any rational explanation was simply beyond reason and he should accept that. It wasn’t as though the experiences connected to his job were normal to begin with.

  He glanced at Eryss. Such hope in her eyes. She was always so bright and hopeful. He adored that about her. No matter how many times he’d laughed at her truths, she’d simply smiled and kissed him.

  “Fine,” he said. “If what I experienced in the dream, or whatever it was, was true—and I won’t commit to saying it was—then I was in the nineteenth century. Or I assume it was my idea of me. I didn’t see a face, because, well, obviously I was embodied, and one cannot see one’s own face in a dream, yes?” He didn’t look to her for reassurance. Such a confession felt weak and as if he were acting against everything his scientific education had led him to believe. “I was wearing a velvet coat and waiting for someone.”

  “A woman?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Isn’t there always a woman in the dramatic romances?”

  “Dane!”

  He flung up his hands in defeat. “It was a foolish exercise. I’m sorry. I think we’re finished with this topic. I’m going to head into town for the night. Harold is due back on a flight this evening, so I expect he’ll be in first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes, of course. You don’t want to stay here tonight?”

  “I, uh...”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She bent to pick up a few of the crystals. “I have a lot to clean up here in the conservatory. You go. Give things a good think.”

  She always suggested he do that when she wanted to exert her beliefs on him. Reincarnation? Was he ready to believe in that? Obviously not, since all he desired right now was to put himself as far from Eryss as he could.

  “I’ll give you a call,” he said.

  And it tore at his heart to walk away from her, pull on his coat and gloves, and leave the house. He knew he had hurt her with his abrupt departure. Again. He’d hurt himself, too. But it had gone beyond what he was able to deal with. He accepted she was a witch. The truth had been shown to him.

  The reincarnation thing? Not on his life.

  His one life.

  Perhaps it was best if he stayed away from Eryss Norling until after he’d gotten what he’d come to town for. To really know what it had meant when he’d held the dagger as a child. Was it the same dagger he now sought?

  If magic was involved, his world was going to grow only more unstable, and his beliefs would be cracked wide open.

  Oh man, what had the witch done to him?

  * * *

  Eryss had been watching the antiques shop across the street for half an hour. Harold always tended to go in to work around eight in the morning, and today should be his first day back, if Dane had understood correctly that he was on a flight back last night. Of course, he could take the day off, but Eryss hoped the old man would want to go in, knowing that Dane had been waiting for him for a week.

  She must get to Harold first. Why? Because she sensed there was something about the dagger Dane sought. And if it had been handed down through generations?

  “He could be the witch hunter,” she murmured, elbows resting on the bar and her cheek to her palm, so she had a good view across the street. “Is that possible? Without knowing?”

  It seemed as impossible to her as witches must have once seemed to Dane. But she had a feeling, and feelings must never be ignored.

  She only wished that Dane would have a feeling about trusting his instincts regarding reincarnation. He had obviously seen a past life, and that had freaked him out. Stepping back and giving him breathing room had seemed the best option. But she’d missed him terribly last night. Her bed had never felt so empty.

  And what was that about?

  Well, she knew what it was about. She’d fallen for the guy.

  Eryss straightened abruptly at the sight of the tall, slender gentleman, scarf across his face to reveal only his eyes, headed toward the antiques store, one arm loaded with a brown paper bag full of stuff sticking out the open top.

  “Harold!” She dashed out the door and across the street in only a skirt and sweater, no outerwear. “Hey, Harold!”

  He entered the shop, then turned to glare at her as she came in right behind him. He had never made it a secret that he didn’t like her type. He assumed she was a witch, though Eryss couldn’t ever recall giving him good reason to believe such. Gladiola must have said something to him. “Miss Norling.”

  “How was your trip?” she asked.

  “It was fine, just fine. I do enjoy the Hawaiian tropics. But te
rrible circumstances for our visit.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. How’s your wife?”

  “Lovely. She’s taking the day off, but I suspect Gladiola has already beat me in today, as she usually does. Uh, you’re here rather early. You know we don’t open for two hours?”

  “Right, and I hate to barge in on you like this. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do. But I’ve become friends with Dane Winthur, the man who I presume your sister told you has been waiting for your return?”

  “Yes.” He set the bag on the counter and pulled away the scarf to reveal a thick white beard. It was the only hair he had, because he was bald up top. “I have an item for Mr. Winthur.”

  “I know. As I understand, it may be a family heirloom. I thought I’d pick it up for him. Surprise him with it.”

  “Hmm...” Harold eyed her suspiciously. While he was always courteous toward her, there had been the incident two Halloweens earlier when he’d come right out and accused her of being a witch. With great gusto. “No, sorry. I can only hand it to Mr. Winthur. It’s a valuable item, you understand.”

  “Oh. I can pay you for it. Dane will pay me back. I really wanted to surprise him. He’s been muddling about Anoka for a week, trying to get used to our winter. He needs a pick-me-up.”

  “I’ll be here when he gets here. I texted him. He should arrive soon.”

  Shoot. Eryss sucked in the corner of her lip. She wanted to get her hands on the thing before Dane did. So...a touch of magic would be necessary.

  Crossing her forefingers, she leaned forward and whispered—

  “That’ll be enough from you then, Miss Norling.” Gladiola Stuart marched right up to the counter and startled Eryss out of the spell. “You run along. You heard Harold. He’s waiting to hand the valuable item over to its rightful owner. Good morning.”

  The woman knew she was a witch, and would not brook any shenanigans. So Eryss nodded and turned to grasp the door handle. “Cinder falls,” she muttered as she left. A curse for misfortune concerning finances, especially in retail. It wasn’t strong and would dissipate in a week.

  Feeling not a bit of guilt, Eryss crossed the street.

  * * *

  Harold Stuart followed the witch’s retreat across the street and into the brewery. Those women brewed spells into their beers. He’d once purchased a growler and had taken it home to test the ingredients. He knew how to reverse-engineer spells.

  But he couldn’t kill a witch. He hadn’t the stomach for it. Murder wasn’t his thing. And besides, he’d promised his wife he wouldn’t kill again after that incident twenty years ago involving the demon. What a mess.

  Anyway, those witches across the street would finally meet their end. The witch hunter was in town.

  “Our savior has arrived in the Winthur man,” he said as he turned to head to the office.

  “Mr. Winthur? He’s no witch hunter.”

  “He is.” Harold punched in the digital code for his office door. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Chapter 15

  Dane was ready to leave town. And yet, he was not.

  If he and Eryss worked out their differences, what kind of relationship could they possibly have long distance? He wasn’t about to move to Minnesota. And she had a business to run here. She wouldn’t move for him. After knowing one another only a week? That would be illogical.

  So he had to mark this off as an affair he would never forget, and move on. But maybe the occasional visit and some sexting? He could get behind that. On the other hand, Eryss deserved a man’s full attention, not a few heart and kiss emojis on a cell phone.

  Eryss’s dreams of him being her long-lost love and of being stabbed by a witch hunter had seemed like nonsense to him. Yet he did believe in witches, and perhaps they could portend the future.

  But he wasn’t the man she thought he was, though he couldn’t deny his inexplicable pull toward her. But her long-lost lover? Nope. No way.

  That didn’t mean, however, that he wouldn’t pursue the chance of being her current lover for as long as possible.

  He sighed and pulled on the tweed vest that reminded him of his father. As a boy, Dane had been obsessed with that single photograph of Edison, who had worn a tweed vest over a crisp white shirt that had sported rolled-up sleeves. When Dane had asked his mom about him, she’d tugged the photo from him and stuffed it away. Why had she hated Edison so? And after only three years of marriage? She had to have learned something about him that went against all she believed in.

  Dane touched his cell phone. If he called her with questions, she’d divert him away from the truth, and he had played that game too often. It was time to get his own answers.

  He would pick up the dagger, and then maybe a few extra days in this icebox of a tundra would be well worth it to his heart.

  * * *

  Dane strolled into the antiques shop, got a whiff of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and veered toward the counter, where Gladiola sat smiling up at him.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Stuart.”

  “Same to you, Mr. Winthur. How are you enjoying our weather?” She pushed the laden plate toward him.

  Dane picked up a still-warm cookie. Bless the woman. “I’m acclimating. Four degrees below zero? Bring it on!”

  “It’s going to be twenty below tonight,” she said eagerly. Then she lowered her gaze suspiciously to the leather loafers he wore over thin socks. “You ready for that?”

  He almost choked on the cookie in his mouth. He grinned and forced a nod, because he couldn’t speak—and felt it best he not do so, anyway.

  “My brother got home last night. He’s been waiting for you. You can go into the back room.” She pointed down a long, narrow aisle lined with assorted antiques and artifacts. “Walk all the way back and give a knock on the door to the right. Take another cookie with you, too.”

  He palmed a cookie and nodded more thanks. Twenty below? He might have to fill his pockets with cookies to keep his body temperature regulated. Ha! Now there was an enterprising idea. A cookie-fueled body warmer?

  Passing a wooden sled outfitted with rusty metal runners, he cringed to imagine sledding in this weather, or the proverbial wet-tongue-to-icy-metal scenario.

  At the back of the shop he turned to the right and stopped before a brushed-steel door with a digital entry keypad. Oddly James Bond–like. A thief would have a hard time breaching that one. Did the old man and his family make such a bundle selling dusty old crap from bygone eras that they needed the highest security?

  He knocked, but before he could get the second rap in, the door opened and the man inside welcomed him across the threshold. Feeling a bit like a vampire—and in the Halloween Capital of the World, why not?—Dane stepped into the cramped office, about twenty feet long by eight feet wide. It was as cluttered as the store, but had a narrow aisle from door to desk. Harold offered a firm grip and vigorous handshake. The man was about six feet tall, thin as a rapier, and wore a green-and-blue vest over his white shirt. Smart dresser.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winthur. When your office told me the coincidence in your relationship to Edison Winthur, I must admit I wasn’t too startled.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well! The history behind this dagger. Do you know it?”

  “Only that it is rumored to have once belonged to a witch hunter. But I can assure you, while I never knew my father, I am quite certain he was not a witch hunter.”

  And Dane would again assume the role of nonbeliever. He had no reason to take this man into his confidence. This was just another deunking job, as far as he was concerned.

  “No, I don’t believe he was. The dagger tends to find its way into the right hands, though. Have a seat!” Harold pointed out a chair that Dane had not noticed, tucked as it was among ephemera. “I’ll get it out of the safe.”

  Choosing to stand, Dane watched as the man pushed aside a stack of accountant’s boxes to reveal the cinder block wall, and set into that, a
digital panel. Harold leaned forward, opening his eyes wide. A green light beam swept the scan and something clicked. The safe door popped open, and Harold withdrew a long, darkly stained box from within.

  “Biometric,” Dane commented. “You get your hands on a lot of valuable antiques in this little shop?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised the things that touch my palms, young man. But I must say this is the most intriguing. And beneficial.”

  “Beneficial? How is a sword beneficial?”

  “It’s not a sword in the official medieval sense. It’s more a dagger. A baselard, I believe. It was a common weapon in the thirteenth century.” Harold handed the box to Dane. “It’s rosewood, the case. Very pretty, yes?”

  “It is.” It had a good weight to it, and was carved elaborately with ivy, arabesques and berries over the entire surface, save the smooth bottom.

  “Haven’t opened it,” Harold said. “And you should not, either. Not here, at least.”

  “Why not? Are you sure there’s a dagger in here?” He sat now, studying the cover by running his thumbs along the seamed edge until he found the front of the box.

  “Oh, it’s in there. I acquired it some twenty-eight years ago and handled it then. But don’t open it! Just...can’t you feel it?”

  Dane looked up into the old man’s steel-gray eyes. He was waiting for something. And that was almost as disturbing as the sudden vibrations that seemed to hum from the box itself. Dane pulled his palms away from the wood.

  “That’s it! You’re the one. I was wrong about Edison, but you—you! I knew it!” Harold clapped his hands together. “You’re him. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Him?” Now unsure if he wanted to open the box, Dane tugged it against his lap. Something weird was up. Then again, had anything not weird occurred since he’d set foot in this town?

  “Mr. Stuart, can you tell me how you came to have this dagger? And how do you know my father once owned it? I’m sure you are aware of what I do, but what is more intriguing to me than a dagger that may have once been used to slay witches is that my father touched it. I never knew him.”