She’d spent so much energy shielding herself, the constant effort to mute the emotions of others on a daily basis was tiring. At that moment, when the veil parted, and time stood still for her, offering her a glimpse of what could be, she’d realized how alone she was, and how tired she was of playing at being someone else for those who thought they were closest to her, yet knew her not.
For that briefest of moments, she was ready to step through the veil into the Other Realm, and accept the solace it offered.
And then he’d received that bodyline text from the Ancestors, and she’d snapped out of it, thank goodness.
She was such a sucker. The guy had passed out on her after expending all that cosmic energy fighting her, and then enduring some epic pain, and what had she done? Checked on him. What a sap. She’d gone and made him a darn poultice for his wound. She’d even packed the sand into a pillow for him. She told herself it was to get back on the good side of the Ancestors, by looking after their Witch Hunter.
But she was an empath witch, and she didn’t have the luxury of being able to walk away from a person in pain without making some effort to help. That, and he was the Witch Hunter, for crying out loud. She couldn’t begin to imagine how pissed off the Ancestors would be if she turned her back on their warrior.
She sighed as she rounded a bend in the road. He certainly looked the part. Hard muscles, skin that was warm and smooth, and strong, handsome facial features. She was surprised the Ancestors had chosen such a hunk for their most difficult job. She’d always expected the Witch Hunter to be some twisted, not-so-attractive guy who looked on the outside as mean and harsh as she thought he’d have to be on the inside.
Only he hadn’t been mean and harsh on the inside. He’d been determined, yes, and ruthless to boot, but she’d sensed a surprising hint of fairness in him, and a heavy dose of honor. Surprising as she hadn’t expected to find either in the Ancestors’ assassin.
She turned off the highway, and after a short drive turned onto the street where Mary Anne Adler lived. She frowned at the flashing red-and-blue lights, and slowed to a stop when a county deputy held up his hand.
A man emerged from Mary Anne’s house, his hat in his hands, and the sheriff nodded when he saw Sully’s car. He trotted down the stairs and over to her car, and she propped her elbow on the window frame. She leaned her head out slightly to look up at him.
“Evening, Tyler.”
“Sully. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move on,” he said, resting his hand on the roof of her car.
She frowned, and picked up the boxes that sat on the passenger seat. “I’m here with some tea for Lucy and Mary Anne.” She knew Lucy and Gary had moved in with Mary Anne for a little while, to help her get her house ready for sale so that the older woman could downsize and move to a place closer to town.
The sheriff grimaced. “Well, Lucy’s in the back of an ambulance on her way to St. Michael’s Hospital,” he told her.
“Is she all right?” Sully asked, concerned, then realized what a stupid question that was. Of course the woman wasn’t all right. She was on her way to the hospital.
Tyler nodded. “She will be.”
“Uh, well, do you want me to stay with Mary Anne until she gets back home?” Sully offered. The poor woman had to be devastated by her son’s murder, and probably just a little anxious with her daughter-in-law being rushed to hospital.
Tyler’s face grew grim. “Mary Anne isn’t going to be needing your tea anymore, Sully. She died earlier tonight.”
Sully gaped, and sorrow pierced her from within. Mary Anne was a sweet lady. “Oh, no. That’s so sad. Gary’s death was too much for her, huh?”
Tyler shrugged. “We’ll never know. She was murdered.”
Sully blanched, stunned. “No.”
“Well, we’re still investigating, obviously, but from what I saw, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a suicide or an accident.”
Sully tilted her head against the backrest. “How—how did it...?” she couldn’t quite finish the sentence. How did Mary Anne die?
Tyler glanced back at the house. “I can’t say. Not yet.” He looked down at Sully. “But I will say this—go home and lock your doors. Stay safe.”
He tapped the roof of her car, then turned back to the Adler house. A deputy was unravelling yellow tape along the front veranda railing, and Sully’s blood cooled in her veins at the sight, and what it meant.
The Adler house was a crime scene. Sweet little Mary Anne had been murdered in her home. That woman was so lovely, Sully couldn’t imagine anyone having enough animosity, enough rage, to want to kill the older woman. And so soon after her son’s murder. Were they connected? She couldn’t quite believe that one murder had been committed in their sleepy little cove, let alone two. What were the odds that they were two separate, random acts? What were the odds they were connected? Poor Mary Anne. Sully shifted gears and reversed down the street until she could do a U-turn. It wasn’t until she was pulling into her darkened yard, with only the moonlight and the stars to illuminate her garden, that Tyler’s words really sank in.
Lock the doors. Stay safe.
What the hell kind of danger was out there? And why did he think it could visit her?
Chapter 5
Dave frowned at the Closed sign on the shop door. There was a lot of that going around Serenity Cove, today. He’d just tried to get some breakfast at the diner in town, only to find it was temporarily closed for business. He’d managed to find a burger joint down near Crescent Beach. He’d also found a bar, but it was too early to open.
He had not found a certain witch, though. He’d checked the beach he’d first seen her on, and then had taken the walk up the stairs to the top of the cliff. He’d found a cleared area at the top, and then a little road that led back to the highway. He’d found her home—her garden was very impressive, along with a little shed out the back. He hadn’t been able to find her, though.
And he needed to find her. He needed to...seek forgiveness. Redemption, maybe. His gut tightened inside him, like a corkscrew twisting into a cork. What he did, killing witches, it was a crap job that someone had to do. He was there to stop witches from abusing power, abusing the vulnerable. It was an ordained vocation, and he was supposed to be doing good. He had a witch to hunt, but he’d found he couldn’t concentrate until he made it right with the witch he’d wronged. His shoulders tensed. He didn’t want to think about what he’d nearly done, but he didn’t usually shy away from the difficult—that’s why the Ancestors had picked him in the first place. Still, he felt like a heel for what he’d done, how close he’d come to really hurting her.
He glanced down at the flip-flop he gripped. He’d used it to perform a locator spell, and even now it was tugging away from him, toward the door that was closed to customers. He glanced about. Sullivan Timmerman’s shop was on the edge of town. It was set back a little from the road, with a parking area in front. Just like the rest of the stores in the area, it had a sweet facade of Victorian wood trim, painted white, and a soft pastel blue on the clapboards. It gave an impression of welcome and charm, the kind of thing he’d associate with a sweet little grandmother—only the witch inside was no grandma, and after seeing her defense against him, he’d say sweet wasn’t his first descriptor for her. Fiery, maybe. Sweet, not so much.
He was trying to ignore the towel, the sand pillow and the dressing that had soothed the pain in his chest.
He knocked on the door, then peered through the glass pane. For a moment all he could see was his reflection, his sunglasses glinting in the sunshine. He had to cup his hands around his eyes and press up against the window to see inside. The shop interior was dark. A little on the small side, and devoid of anyone, including the witch he sought. She was in here, somewhere, damn it. The flip-flop told him. He glanced carefully about in the gloom and finally noticed the flickering light through a tra
nsom window above a door that led from the shop room into an area behind.
He knew it. She was here. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped carefully, silently, over the glass-topped counter display. The garment was great on a bike, lousy in the summer, and creaky when he wanted to be quiet.
He muttered a quick yield spell, and the door unlocked, swinging inward. He shook his head. She hadn’t bespelled her property at all, from the looks of it. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He hesitated, then flicked the lock. He had to apologize, and he’d prefer no interruptions, and no witnesses.
He stepped up to the door that led out back, and tested the doorknob. He shook his head when it twisted at his touch. Security was not a priority for this witch. He opened the door a little and peered through it. It opened into some sort of workshop. There was large machinery, grinding wheels, anvils and sharpening blocks. There was an artist’s desk, with a number of sketches pinned to the corkboard above it. His eyes widened when he saw the wicked-looking blades lined up on a magnetic knife rack on one wall. Different lengths—hell, was that a sword?
He could hear a regular thump, thump, thump, accompanied with a faint grinding sound. It took a moment, but he finally narrowed down the source of the sounds. She sat at a machine, and every time she pressed her foot on the pedal, a weight would descend, making the thump, thump noise he could hear. He realized it was a press of some sort. She’d place a metal prong into the press, and the weight would descend, and then she’d remove and slide into another chute, and thump again. When she removed the prong, he could see tines had been cut into the metal end.
Forks. She was making...forks? He watched her for a moment. Her blond hair was tied back into a thick braid, and she wore a loose-fitting blouse over a long patterned skirt. She was so intent on her work, her head and shoulders dipped each time she set the prongs in the chutes. At one point she arched her back, and his gaze was drawn to the long line of her body as she tilted her head back and rubbed her neck. The flowing clothes made her look willowy and lithe, but he could see the strength in her arms as she placed the newly formed forks onto a tray next to her. Then she returned to her task, inserting the metal prongs into the chutes and cutting tines in the ends.
He stepped inside the room, and the floorboard creaked beneath his feet. She whirled, and he ducked, hearing the thud as the fork hit the timber door behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The fork had impaled in the wood, quivering, at roughly the same position his head had been mere seconds before. Yeah, he guessed he deserved that reaction—and a whole lot more.
He turned, and she’d already picked up another fork and held it poised to throw again.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, hands up as he straightened. “I come in peace.”
“Then go in peace—or pieces. Your choice.”
Okay, so he could understand her...resistance to meeting with him. Fair enough. “Please,” he said. He tried to send her some calming waves, only he could sense the block between them. Damn, she was good.
“Why are you here?” she asked, slowly rising from her stool to face him properly, her movement fluid and graceful. She’d lowered her hand, but he noticed she still retained her throwing grip on the fork. She had dark circles beneath her eyes, as though she was tired. He couldn’t blame her.
He held up her flip-flop. “I’ve come to return this. And to say thank you...” He took a cautious step toward her, offering her the footwear. He cleared his throat. “I also came to apologize,” he said in a quiet voice.
She tilted her head, as though assessing him, then stepped forward, accepting her flip-flop. “That’s okay.” She dropped the fork into the tray.
Dave frowned. That’s...okay? It was that easy? He was expecting shouting, ranting, at least a remonstrative finger waggle. “You’re not—you’re not angry?”
She nodded. “Oh, I’m angry, but I know you had good reasons, and you’re already beating yourself up about it way more than I could.”
He gaped for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. This didn’t make sense. He’d expected her to react explosively—okay, and maybe the fork still buried in the door behind him went a little in that direction, but... “You’re awfully Zen about this.”
She stepped closer to him, her eyes dark with emotions he couldn’t name. “It’s not every day the Witch Hunter comes after me,” she admitted. “And it’s not every day the Witch Hunter admits to making a mistake.”
He winced, then nodded. “It was a mistake. A big mistake. A mistake of epic proportions. What happened...shouldn’t have.”
She tilted her head, and her honey-blond braid slid over her shoulder. She gazed at him in open curiosity. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“No, I know you’re the Witch Hunter. What’s your name, though?”
“Ah, that’s right. We haven’t been formally introduced.” He inclined his head. “My name is Dave Carter.”
Her brow dipped. “Oh.”
“Oh?” She sounded...disappointed.
“I just thought your name would be more...exotic.”
His eyebrows rose. “More exotic?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Not so plain.”
“Plain.”
“Uh, normal,” she tried to clarify. Dave pursed his lips. Normal. His name was probably the only normal thing about him.
She looked at him carefully. “So, how does it work?”
He shifted. He’d never talked about it. He wasn’t supposed to. The Witch Hunter was the blind justice of the Ancestors of witchcraft. His mother knew—he’d had to tell her. She’d been his elder, and needed to know why he wasn’t going through the Degrees for their coven. He should have guessed his sister, Melissa, was eavesdropping at the time—or maybe he did and he’d still wanted her to overhear so that she would understand, and there was at least one person he could talk to. Some of the other covens in Irondell knew—the witch community wasn’t as big as the werewolf or vampire tribes, so news got around. People were wary of him, though, and his occupation didn’t inspire shared confidences. Most witches avoided him like the plague. But other than that, he mentioned it only when he was performing a hit, as he recited the ritualistic words that would send the witch beyond the veil.
“It’s...complicated.”
She arched an eyebrow. Well, he guess she at least deserved a little bit of an explanation.
“I receive the name when a crime is committed, and I go hunt.” Simple, really.
She frowned as she glanced at his chest. “I saw...how.” Her voice was soft, confused. “I haven’t committed any of those crimes, though.”
His eyes narrowed at her word selection. Those crimes. Did that mean there were other crimes she had committed? He was getting curious about those coins she’d mentioned on the beach.
“It’s never happened before,” he admitted.
She frowned. “How can you be certain?”
Cold horror washed over him at the prospect. “Because I wouldn’t be able to continue,” he said roughly. The thought he could have killed other innocents...it would crush him. Cripple him. He shook his head. No. If that had been the case, the Ancestors would have yanked his ass into the Other Realm. The punishment for a Witch Hunter to break the laws they’ve sworn to uphold would be extreme, to say the least.
She folded her arms and strolled over toward another door he only just noticed. “Soooo,” she said slowly, “when a witch breaks one of the Three, they...brand you with that witch’s name, and you go hunt? Like a guard dog? Sic ‘em, Rex?”
He tilted his head. “Kind of...” he said slowly, hating the analogy, no matter how apt it seemed. She opened the door and entered what was a small kitchen, with a door leading to the backyard, and another that led to a small bathroom, and a door that led to what looked like an addition to the back of the house. Shop. Factory. Whatever the
hell this place was. She crossed over to the stove and lit the stove, then placed a kettle on it.
“But how do you know you’re going after a witch for something serious? I mean, what if the Ancestors want you to just warn someone?” She reached up to a cupboard, and Dave’s gaze flicked down to where her loose blouse rose above the belt of her skirt. He wanted to focus on the gold skin of her back and side, but his eyes widened when he saw the decorative panel at the back of her belt, with two metal prongs that looked suspiciously like the hilts of the blades she’d used on him. How about that.
He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation, and he narrowed his eyes at her words. “Do you feel like you’ve needed to be warned about something, Sullivan?” What was this chick into?
“Sully,” she corrected him, then shook her head, her expression forced into something that almost looked innocent. “Uh, no. Not really. I just—I guess I never thought I’d ever have the opportunity to talk with the Witch Hunter, and I want to understand...how do you know you’re doing the right thing?”
Wow. She cut straight to the heart of his current doubts. He wanted to shrug it off with some sort of general comment, but Sullivan—no, Sully—deserved at least the truth from him, in all its unadorned, vicious glory.
“When a witch breaks one of the Three,” he said, referring to the Three Immutable Laws of Witchcraft—never draw on nature’s power to provoke another to an unlawful act—never seek power through the suffering of others, and never draw on nature’s power for personal gain at the expense of another’s well-being, “I am delivered their name, and I see their crime.”
She frowned. “You see the crime?” Her face relaxed into something he could only call sympathy. “That’s got to be hard.” She turned as the kettle whistled, and lifted it off the stove. She pulled down a tin and spooned tea into two strainers and popped them into the ceramic mugs she’d pulled from the cupboard.
Witch Hunter Page 5