Witch Hunter

by Shannon Curtis

  Sully Timmerman just got a whole lot more interesting.

  Chapter 9

  “A toast to Gary.”

  Sully sipped from the cup of ale she’d been handed. She was leaning against the wall near the living room door inside Jenny’s parents’ home, and the house was packed. People were still arriving, mainly men who’d just come in off the boats, and had done a quick shower and change before heading over. Food was set out on the kitchen table, and people were helping themselves, piling up plates before they sat or leaned against any available surface.

  Sully peered around the doorjamb. Dave was just outside the back door, talking to some of the younger fishermen as they smoked cigarettes outside. They’d been wary of him, at first, but she could see they were beginning to relax around him. Even if he still wore his sunglasses at night.

  She turned back to those gathered in the living room. Sully was content to listen to the stories the gathered folks wanted to share. Some were funny, some were poignant, but all showed the deep respect and love this community had for the murdered victims.

  “So, you have a boyfriend, huh?”

  The deep voice whispering in her ear made her jump, and she turned.

  “Jacob,” she said, half laughing in relief when she recognized Jenny’s older brother.

  He grinned. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He stepped back into the hallway, and she followed him, so that they could talk without intruding on the memories being shared within the room.

  “How are you, Sully?” The tall fisherman tilted his head to the side as he looked down at her. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the funeral.”

  She waved a casual hand. “I think it was something I ate, combined with being in the hot sun. I’m fine now.” And she was. She’d tried to bolster her shields before coming, but the null effect made her work unnecessary. Surrounded by nulls, none of her empath powers worked, and she didn’t have to worry too much about shielding herself, even if she could. “How are you?”

  “Dealing with the fact you’ve got a boyfriend,” Jacob teased, although there was a slightly serious light to his eyes.

  “It was quite the surprise to see him,” she said truthfully, although she felt a little discomfort at perpetrating an untruth. “How’s the fish?” she asked in an effort to distract.

  Jacob shrugged, his blond hair glinting in the light. “Biting, but not busy.”

  Sully winced. The community were doing it tough, and were hoping the fishing loads would increase. They’d implemented a sustainable fishing program, but that didn’t seem to be paying off just yet. “Sorry to hear that.”

  Jacob glanced around, then leaned down toward her. “Hey, I hear Leo Campi is doing it tough. Dislocated his shoulder in a netting accident and can’t work for several weeks. We’re passing the boot around tonight,” he said, pointing to the leather boot that Jacob’s father, Jack, just passed to the person next to him, after stuffing some paper money into it.

  Sully nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said quietly. She had some silver that had been delivered the day before at the shop, and had some cheaper metals she could melt and press into coins. “They’ll have to travel into Irondell to spend it, though. Too many coins circulating here will draw attention.”

  Jacob nodded, patting her on the shoulder. “Thanks, Sully. You’re all right, you know?”

  “She is, isn’t she?”

  Sully turned at the sound of Dave’s voice. He stood just behind them in the hallway. The Witch Hunter smiled at her friend, and stuck his hand out. He hadn’t removed his leather gloves. Sully’s brow dipped. Huh. Funny, she’d only just noticed that. This man always wore his sunglasses, and with the exception of eating, he pretty much always wore his gloves.

  “Hey, I’m Dave, the ex.”

  Jacob eyed the gloved hand for a moment, then shook it. He smiled grimly. “I’m Jacob, the current...friend.”

  Sully looked at both men who seemed to be engaged in some sort of staring contest. Both men were tall, with broad shoulders and an impressive physical presence, yet they looked as different as night and day. Dave, with his neat beard and dusty blond hair, and Jacob with his dark hair and hazel brown eyes. And both looked like they were sizing each other up.

  “Hey, Jacob, I wanted to ask you—this is the first time I’ve been invited to this sort of thing,” she said, trying to distract them both. “It’s really powerful. Is this how you normally handle someone’s passing?”

  Jacob finally relinquished Dave’s hand. “No, but Gary and Mary Anne were PBs, so it’s a special night. For both of them to go...” He shook his head, his expression a mixture of sadness and concern. Then he frowned. “Jenny mentioned you two were wanting to help, somehow...?”

  “Uh, Dave has some experience with this sort of thing,” Sully explained.

  Jacob’s eyebrow rose. “With null murders?”

  Dave shrugged. “Murder is blind,” he said. “Shouldn’t matter what breed, it should just matter.”

  Laughter rose from inside the living room. Another story had been shared about the Adlers. Sully could hear the clink of glasses and mugs as people toasted their departed.

  Jacob looked at him thoughtfully, then folded his arms. He dipped his chin in the direction of Dave’s sunglasses. “Do you have a vision problem?”

  Dave smiled. “I think I see pretty good. Hey, you said the Adlers were PBs—what does that mean?”

  Jacob glanced at Sully, and she shrugged. She hadn’t heard of the term, either.

  “PBs are purebloods,” Jacob informed them. “They can trace their lineage back to before The Troubles.” The man shrugged. “Shape-shifters have their alphas, vampires have their primes, covens have their regents and everyone has elders—we have our purebloods. Their lineage hasn’t been tainted with shadow breed blood, or diluted by ordinary humans.”

  Sully blinked. It was interesting. The shadow breeds took a similar view of null blood tainting their bloodline, and muting their supernatural abilities...but there were many mixed-bloods throughout all communities. Still, this was a surprise. What else did she not know about these people she’d just spent the last four years with? “Huh. I never knew there was a hierarchy within the null community.”

  Jacob grimaced. “Meh. We respect them, and the purebloods definitely get a voice at the council, but we like to think it’s your actions that define you as a person, not your ancestors.”

  “Interesting,” Dave said grimly. Sully realized he was thinking about his own actions, and how closely linked it was to the Ancestors. For Dave, it really was a case of ancestors defining him as a Witch Hunter.

  “Are there a lot of purebloods around?” Sully asked, curious about this new facet of the community she’d adopted.

  “Some. There’s more over on Stoke Island—it has the highest population of purebloods in the country.”

  “How is it that the rest of the breeds don’t know about this?” Dave asked.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the rest of the breeds don’t give two hoots about us,” Jacob said. “Besides, it doesn’t really mean much. PBs are still normal like the rest of us. There’s no added strength or ability. Just inherited blood.”

  Sully met Dave’s gaze. “Interesting,” they said in unison.

  * * *

  Dave followed Sully into her home. He’d driven his bike out to the null area, and Sully had taken her car, so they hadn’t had a chance to talk on the way home. Now her expression was thoughtful as she turned on the lights in her living room. He glanced inside the room. There was an impressive bookcase on one wall with—he squinted—gardening books? Mathematical theory? Reform politics? Yeesh. He definitely wouldn’t be borrowing a book from her. He looked away from the bookcase. She’d already pulled out the sofa and covered it in sheets and a blanket. She must have done it in the after
noon when he’d been out at the library, looking up any stories he could find that mentioned the Adlers. All the articles he’d located had been complimentary. His lips quirked as he stared at the made-up sofa. There was even a neatly folded towel on the pillow.

  He looked over at Sully. “So, are you and Jacob an item?”

  He could see his question surprised her. He didn’t know why it did—he’d seen the way Forsyth looked at Sully, and the almost protective, possessive glare he’d sent in Dave’s direction. You didn’t need any magical powers to see the guy had feelings for her.

  “No, just friends,” she told him. She scratched her temple. “Did you think Gary’s and Mary Anne’s murders have something to do with the fact they’re PBs?”

  He looked away as he set his backpack down on the floor. Her answer had pleased him, and he didn’t want to think too much on the why. He focused on what they’d learned. “I don’t know. Why would a witch want pure null blood? It’s not like they can do anything with it.” Ugh. He’d just spent the last two hours with a bunch of nulls, and the knowing, the awareness, the darkness that surrounded his natural ability like a cloak... Well, it was enough to give a witch the heebie-jeebies.

  Except for Sully. She seemed to enjoy it. Go figure.

  “But it could explain why you get bumped out of your visions...?”

  He thought about it for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Possibly.” He frowned. “But it’s null blood. Why consume it? What possible benefit would that have for a witch?” Just the thought made him want to gag.

  Sully crossed over to the small end table that held her phone and a notepad and pen. “Can you remember what the witch drew on their wrists?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, watching as she brought the notepad and pen over to him. “Why?”

  “Can you draw it?”

  He nodded. In two strokes of the pen he’d drawn the symbol he’d seen carved into Gary’s and Mary Anne Adler’s wrists. X. He showed it to Sully, who frowned when she glanced down at it.

  “It’s from the Old Language?”

  Dave’s eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed. You’re familiar with the Old Language.”

  Sully gestured toward his chest, her cheeks heating. “I saw my name...”

  “And you were able to translate it?” Okay, he was more than impressed. For all intents and purposes, the original language of the witches was dead. Learning it, deciphering it, was usually down to Witch Hunters and bored scholars wanting to challenge themselves. But the language was one thing. Learning the symbols, the ancient runes—that was another thing entirely. “How did you learn it?”

  Her shrug was noncommittal. “Oh, it was just something I was interested in at one time.”

  A general interest didn’t explain being able to decipher without a key, or instantly recognizing a rune for what it was. His sweet little cutler seemed to hide some pretty big secrets.

  “Do you know what this rune means?” he asked her. She frowned, her attention caught by the symbol on the notepad.

  “No, I don’t. I might be able to look it up, though.”

  Dave’s eyes rounded. “Look it up? How?” There were no computer databases for this sort of thing. No text books to consult. No dial-a-friend service. She would have to have—

  Sully walked over to the bookcase, arms out. She closed her eyes, murmuring something so softly he couldn’t hear it. The books on the shelves began to glow and shimmer, the defined edges blurring as they transformed into an entirely different library. Damn, she’d hidden it behind a camouflage spell—a damn good one if it fooled another witch. He’d had no intention of going anywhere near her books.

  She held out her palm, and again murmured something. This time, though, he recognized the ancient language. She was asking for information on runes. His brow quirked. Who was she asking? He could feel the crackle in the air, the weight of power in the room.

  A tome flew from a shelf, and she caught it, staggering back under the force. Her eyebrows rose. “Uh, thanks,” she muttered.

  “Who are you talking to?” He gazed around the room, then looked back at the bookcase.

  She glanced up at him as she walked over to the end table. “The books, of course.”

  He nodded. “Of course.” He looked down at the book she held in her arms. It looked remarkably like—his heart thudded in his chest.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked hoarsely, stepping closer.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked as she set the tome down on the table. He looked down at it. No. It couldn’t be.

  “A coven grimoire.”

  Sully glanced at him for a moment. “Yes, it is.” She tilted her head, her brows drawing together. “You act like you’ve never seen one before.”

  “I haven’t. I’m not allied with a coven.” Only those in the third level of a coven could even view their coven spellbooks. As a Witch Hunter, he had heard of them, but never seen one. Until now. Dave felt like his eyes were going to pop from his head.

  “You have your coven’s spellbook?” He had to ask again. It was incredible. These things were passed down from generation to generation, added to through the years... They were the living resource of a coven’s history, their power, their alliances and enemies, the spells they’d devised and recorded.

  “Not the current one. This is an old version,” she said. “We had to make a copy to allow for new spellwork.”

  “And you have your coven’s original? I thought these were protected, that a coven never let any of them go?”

  She frowned. “This is protected,” she told him. “It’s with me.”

  “This is your coven’s archive?” he asked in disbelief. A coven’s archive was sacrosanct. It held the history, the good and the bad, the strengths and weaknesses, of a coven. The coven protected those references, and they were always honored as deeply private and confidential material. If you accessed a coven’s archive, you could access and then exploit those weaknesses, or sabotage their strengths, or worse, steal from them. A coven protected their archive just like a werewolf pack or vampire colony protected their territory. Accessing a coven’s archive without permission or supervision was a serious crime among the witches.

  And only the most loyal and powerful witch within a coven was entrusted with the security and care of an archive.

  Mind. Blown.

  He looked down at the volume she held in her hands. “How old is it?”

  Sully blew her cheeks out. “Well, that’s a good question. This one’s been handed down for several generations, it’s hard to date it.”

  His jaw dropped. No. It—it couldn’t be. The pages were made of vellum and what looked like—Dave clutched his chest. Honest-to-God papyrus. He pulled his leather gloves off and reached for the codex. Halted. Then took a deep breath and touched it.

  Images swam through his mind, of a man painstakingly writing in the book, of passing it to his son, of a ritual within a ring of monolithic stones, of a woman clutching the tome to her chest as the howls of werewolves echoed through the forest, along with the screams of her coven. A young man stumbling along a riverbed, ducking and weaving as vampires chased him, while hundreds fought in the fields behind him. The Troubles.

  That same man handing it to a pregnant woman, his face twisted in pain and anguish, an arrow sticking out of his gut. The woman sobbing as she bent to kiss him. “Gabriel...” she cried as he died.

  Holy fu—. Dave whipped his hand away. He swallowed, then wagged his finger at the ancient book. “That—that’s not possible,” he said, despite the visions he’d seen that proved it was, indeed, possible. “That is not supposed to exist.” Gabriel. Gabriel, a legend of The Troubles, who’d saved so many lives with his magic, who’d unlocked many of the secrets of the shadow breeds during the wars, and had helped devise spells and weapons to fight against them. This—this was Gabriel’s
grimoire.

  “You’re right. It’s not supposed to exist.”

  Dave lifted his gaze to Sully. She looked remarkably calm for having the oldest book of witchcraft in modern times here in her living room. “Who are you?”

  She frowned at him, perplexed. “You know who I am. My name is branded onto your chest, for crying out loud.”

  He tried to think. He really did, but the ramifications of this, of the very existence of this book long thought destroyed before the dust had settled on a new world order...

  “Gabriel’s grimoire. It was believed to have died, along with his line, during The Troubles.”

  “He had a family.”

  Dave held up a hand as he subsided onto the sofa bed. “Whoa. Stop. My brain is exploding. Are you telling me that his wife managed to pass it on to someone?”

  Sully shook her head. “No, I’m saying that young woman passed it on down the line.”

  Dave took a deep breath. Okay. Settle. This will make sense. “What coven are you from?” he asked quietly.

  Sully hesitated, then dropped her gaze to the codex on the table. “I’m from the Alder Coven.” Her voice was so low, he barely heard the words.

  “The Alder—” Dave closed his mouth. The Alder Coven. Conspiracy theories abound about the infamous coven. It died out in the Roman invasion. They all perished with Atlantis. Pompeii. Or the Minoans, with the first reported shape-shifter. Hell, there was even the story of them being swallowed by flames in a city that burned after an earthquake. Then of course, came The Troubles. He didn’t think anyone had connected Gabriel to the Adler Coven, though. Wow. He would have thought she was crazy. Crazy beautiful, but definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Now, though, with the evidence right in front of him, he couldn’t deny it.