Witch Hunter

by Shannon Curtis

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Dave turned as the deputy stepped around the roadblock, gesturing beyond him. Dave realized he was standing in the man’s way and stepped aside, giving a casual wave of apology as the deputy passed him.

  He turned back to the scene. Sully was right. Amanda Sinclair had been hunted down and killed. He glanced up at the night sky. The moon was a chunk of silver. A waxing gibbous moon. Enough light to stop you from tripping off the curb, but still kind of gloomy, especially in this neighborhood with no streetlights, he noticed, eyeing up and down the street.

  A warm breeze ruffled his hair. He would have liked to remove his jacket, but with the law already here, he didn’t think he’d be sticking around for long. A hand thudded down on his shoulder, and he turned, hiding the wince at the resulting pull of muscle and scorched skin.

  Jacob Forsyth. Sully’s wannabe-boyfriend nodded grimly at him. “I thought you left?”

  “I turned back when I saw all the police cars on the highway,” he lied. He couldn’t very well say he’d received a magical vision from the Ancestors. That wasn’t something folks readily understood or accepted—except for Sully, it seemed.

  Jacob nodded, accepting his excuse at face value. He looked over toward the cordoned-off house, his expression dark and grim. “This sucks. Ronald found her when he came home from the Adler farewell.”

  Dave looked over at him. “She wasn’t at the farewell?”

  Jacob shook his head. “Nope. She was home with the kids.”

  “Kids were in the house?” Dave looked back at the house in horror. He hadn’t seen the kids in the vision.

  Jacob nodded, his lips tight. “Yeah. They slept through the whole thing.” His answer was short. Abrupt. The man was visibly upset—no, maybe angry was a better word—at what had happened.

  “But they’re safe?” Dave’s gut clenched with apprehension at the risk to the kids.

  “Yeah, they’re safe.”

  “Thank God,” Dave muttered in relief. Jacob watched him closely for a moment, then glanced back up the street.

  “When did you say you arrived in Serenity?” Jacob’s tone was conversational, but the words cut like hot steel.

  Dave met his gaze. “I didn’t.” He should have expected this. “I arrived the morning of Mary Anne Adler’s death.” Which meant he wasn’t in the area for Gary Adler’s death, and he hoped that was enough to eliminate him from Jacob’s obvious suspicions.

  “Murder,” Jacob corrected.

  Dave inclined his head. “Murder.”

  “Where’s Sully?”

  “She’s back home,” Dave said.

  Jacob nodded. “Good. She doesn’t need to see this.”

  Dave turned back toward where the sheriff was talking quietly with the husband. Jacob sounded protective. Proprietary.

  Not that he should care. He was here to hunt his witch. If the witch moved on, he moved on. If he managed to kill the witch, he moved on. If another witch committed a crime, he moved on. He couldn’t see a scenario where he didn’t move on. It shouldn’t matter to him what Jacob and Sully did. He wasn’t here to interfere with Sully’s life—after what he’d done to her on the beach, he’d be ensuring that Sully’s life was a long and happy one. If that meant a life with—ugh—Jacob, so be it.

  Only, that idea was more irritating than the recurring brand on his chest, and just as painful, if he let himself follow that thought down the rabbit hole. He tried to tell himself he had no business feeling annoyed at this man trying to stake his claim on Sully.

  But he was, especially when he still had the taste of her on his lips.

  He tilted his head as he eyed the sheet-covered body. “Was Amanda Sinclair a pureblood?” he asked, curious.

  Jacob stilled. He seemed to be considering his response. Then he leaned closer, and Dave lifted his chin to meet the null’s gaze directly. “I know you’re a friend of Sully’s and all, and I know the noise you’ve made about helping us, but my bullshit radar is going full alert around you. You may have Sully convinced that you’re here to help, but I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you. If you’re wanting to get into Sully’s good graces, figure out a different way, because this,” the man said, gesturing between Dave and the Sinclair house, “is a pretty crap way of doing it.”

  Jacob turned and walked farther down the street, and Dave saw Jenny running up to her brother, her face distressed as she took in the scene.

  Dave shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to look at the few people nearby. Each time he made eye contact, they turned away. Jacob wasn’t the only one who didn’t seem to trust him. He wasn’t going to get any answers from this crowd.

  He sighed as he strode back to his bike. Tracking down this killer witch was getting more complicated by the day.

  * * *

  Sully quenched the blade in the tub of oil, watching as steam curled up from the surface. She withdrew it slightly, then dipped, repeating the process gently, moving her head out of the way of the small billowing flare-up when the vapors burned. When the blade had cooled, she placed it on the stone bench where the others lay, then raised her protective visor.

  She surveyed her handiwork. Four blades. As soon as the metal blades were thoroughly cool, she’d do a hollow grind them on them, sharpen them and polish them, and then she’d cut out and fix the tangs inside the handles. She’d have four more close-combat weapons. When finished, these blades would have a forty-five-degree angle to the blade from the hilt that made it easy to draw them from whatever holster or sheath they occupied. She picked up one of the blades. The steel she’d used was composed of a greater iron alloy than usual, and then she’d give them decorative silver engraving along the blade. A kind of catchall against the shadow breeds. While the null’s presence voided a shadow breed’s supernatural abilities, it didn’t stop the effect of injuries. With iron as the base metal, the blade had not only the physical aspects of creating damage, but any race sensitive to silver, or to iron, would still feel the effects of the metal. It was like a double-pronged attack by the wielder. Shadow breeds naturally had a greater muscle mass that put them at a slight advantage over ordinary human beings, whether they were nulls or not. This kind of blade did a little toward evening out the playing field.

  Once the blades had cooled sufficiently and she didn’t run the risk of shattering them, she’d engrave on them some simple spellwork, and bleed some molten silver into the designs. The spells would be voided if being wielded by a null, but if it was, say, a witch against a werewolf, or a human against a vampire, or even witch against witch, the spells would still engage—and cause significant damage. Her lips firmed. She wanted to get this witch, but if she couldn’t, then she’d damn well protect her friends—protect them in a way she’d wished someone had protected her, all those years ago.

  She rolled her shoulders, shaking off the tension, the dark memories. She’d worked through the night, and her neck and shoulder muscles were tired, her feet were sore and she’d definitely be feeling her biceps tomorrow. She reached over and turned off the burners for her forge. She’d added an extension to the back of her factory shop, creating a blacksmithing Shangri-la. It had taken her a few years, but she finally had a number of forges using different fuels, and anything she could think of in the creation of her cutlery...and weapons and coins. She could have made these blades at home. She eyed the other daggers, dirks and swords she’d also stockpiled that now were lined up neatly on one wall, weapons that she could create only here, in the bigger forge. In the past few days she’d made a whole bunch of arrowheads, and this time, she’d used her own unique broadhead style, with three blades angling out from the tip of the arrowhead. Excellent penetration, minimal deflection, maximum damage.

  She removed her protective glasses, apron and gloves and started to clean up. She wrinkled her nose as she hung her leather apron up on a hook. Man, she was rank
. She’d have to go home and shower before she did anything.

  She put all her tools away, and then placed her new blades and their handles on a shelf running along the wall. She then pulled the sliding wall along its track until it settled into its position. She stood back and eyed the wall, then nodded, satisfied. It looked like a normal wall, and not the entry to her secret armory.

  Once everything was cleared away, and the floor swept, she switched off the lights and locked the doors. She smiled as she turned to her car. Dave expected her to bespell her factory and shop. The problem was, in null territory, it didn’t matter how many wards she layered over the access points, they were rendered useless here.

  She yawned as she drove out of town and along the coast road toward her home. The ocean was on her right, and the sky was already lightening, the sun just beginning to edge its way over the horizon. It was early. Too early to call Jenny. She’d go home, have a quick shower and some breakfast and then—she yawned again. Okay, so it had been a while since she’d pulled an all-nighter in the forge.

  She braked gently, eyeing the turnoff that would take her to the null neighborhood. She clenched the wheel. Poor Ronald. He and Amanda had just celebrated their four-year anniversary. She’d babysat their little darlings, Becky and Lily. She took the turn, and moments later was driving quietly down the main street. She stopped at the corner and looked down the street. Yellow crime scene ribbon fluttered in the warm morning breeze. Two deputies stood by their car, and another was using one of those wheely measure things as he walked along the driveway. The sheriff rose from where he’d squatted near the gate, camera in one hand as he rubbed his other over his face.

  Sully eyed that gate. That’s where it had happened. A flash of memory, Amanda’s terror-filled eyes, her trembling hands. Sully blinked rapidly to dispel the vision.

  A long night for the local law, too, by the looks of things. She eyed the house. Now was not the time to visit Ronald and express her condolences. She drove on down the street and took the next right, and then another right and then a left to head back out to toward the coastal road. A little while later she was pulling into her driveway and avoiding the motorcycle that was parked up near the side of the house.

  She climbed out of the car, closing the door quietly, then climbed the stairs to her porch. She turned and gazed out over the headland. The sun was higher now, the sky bathed in fiery pinks, burning away the horrors of the night. Sully bit her lip as she again remembered seeing Amanda run down the driveway, only this time the memory morphed into her running, her stumbling along, trying to get away.

  Of being caught.

  Sully sniffed and turned her back on the beautiful view of a stunning sunrise over the ocean. She had stuff to do. Shower. Breakfast. Call Jenny.

  She let herself inside the house, wincing as she tried to close the door silently, then cringing at the soft snick of the latch. Darn it. She hesitated. The house was quiet, save for a sonorous snore emanating from her living room. So Dave had returned. Her lips tightened as she remembered him commanding her to stay. That chafed. And she hadn’t rebelled, either. She’d stayed away from the Sinclair home, from the null neighborhood. Damn it. She’d have to watch for that. She wasn’t some guy’s doormat anymore.

  She slipped her flip-flops off and started to tiptoe across the foyer toward the hall. She peeked into the living room as she passed. Well, peeked and then stopped.

  Dave lay sprawled out on her sofa, his feet dangling over the sofa arm at the end, one arm draped toward the floor. He made her lounge look like furniture from a dollhouse. The blanket laid pooled on the floor—it had been a warm night—and he lay there, with just the sheet covering him. Almost. His sunglasses were folded and placed on the end table by his head.

  Her mouth grew slack. Holy mother of smoking hot men. His chest was bare, and she could see again all the Old Language lettering inked across his biceps, and down his rib cage and across his abdomen. A white square dressing was taped across his left pec, but it didn’t quite cover his nipple. It was almost as if the Ancestors had used his musculature as a writing guide, and the markings enhanced the dips and bulges of his body. His sheet was—she swallowed—just covering his groin, and she could see his bare hip, and the curve of his butt cheek... She curled her fingers into a fist. No touching.

  Warmth bloomed inside her. Damn, Dave Carter was one crazy hot Witch Hunter. She tried to look down the hall. She really did. Her lip caught between her teeth as she eyed his smooth skin, his broad chest with the—she frowned. Good grief. Had he used duct tape to stick his bandage down?

  She shook her head. Men. She let her gaze travel down his body. The one leg outside the sheet revealed a strong thigh and muscular calf. Her heart thumped a little faster in her chest. She was perving on a guy who was sleeping, a guest in her home.

  And she was not sorry at all. She eyed the sheet. It really was draped precariously. She tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t sure if that was just a large rumple of the sheet or whether that was him...

  She blinked. No. She should march herself down to the bathroom and jump into a nice cold shower. She nodded. Yep. That’s exactly what she should do. She took a step back, and the floorboard creaked.

  Her eyes widened.

  Dave’s eyes opened to slits, his silver-gray gaze meeting hers.

  Chapter 11

  Dave’s lips quirked. Sully looked like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Hey, good morning,” he said, his voice husky as he started to sit up.

  “No!” Sully said, her hand flashing up in that universal stop signal.

  He froze. “What?” He glanced about, narrowing his eyes against the soft morning light. He couldn’t see any threat. He looked back at her, bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, you might want to cover up,” she whispered, gesturing in the general direction of his groin while keeping her gaze on the ceiling. Except for when she peeked at him. Twice.

  His lips curved into a smile as he sat up. He didn’t touch the sheet. Not that he was in any danger of losing it. His body had apparently recognized Sully before his brain kicked in, and his hard-on had hooked the sheet.

  And then he realized she was wearing the same clothes he’d kissed her in. That loose billowy top with the strapless bra underneath. His eyebrows rose. “Are you just getting in?” He’d tiptoed in last night, thinking she was asleep down the hall in her bedroom.

  Sully nodded as she glanced toward the end of the hall, then back at him. “Yeah. I couldn’t just sit here, last night, so I went into the factory.”

  “The factory,” he repeated, then frowned. “Your factory near town? With the lousy locks?”

  She nodded. “Yep, that would be the one.” Her gaze dropped to the sheet, and her cheeks grew rosy.

  The room was gradually getting lighter, as the sun climbed higher, glinting through the bay windows, and he had to narrow his eyes against the glare.

  “Sully, that could have been dangerous,” he told her as he reached for his sunglasses.

  She folded her arms, her flip-flops dangling from one hand. “You can’t have it both ways, Dave. If it was too dangerous for me to go with you to Amanda’s house because the killer may have been there, it should have been fine for me at my factory.”

  His lips tightened at her logic as he slid his glasses on. The dimming of the room gave him some relief, but he could still see Sully clearly. Too clearly. She was annoyed. Well, so was he. He’d slept here, knowing that he’d hear anyone entering through the house and could protect her. It was galling to realize he’d been protecting an empty bed.

  “Sully, until I catch this guy, anywhere you go—”

  She shook her head. “No, let’s put this into perspective. So far, this witch has gone after nulls. I am not a null. There is no link between me and the victims, other than I know them, and in a town this
size, so does pretty much everyone else. I’m going to go wherever I want, whenever I want—starting with visiting Jenny after breakfast.”

  “The guy kills in your name, Sully. The Ancestors gave me your name.” He rose from the couch, frustration eating at him. He pulled the sheet with him to save embarrassment—not his, hers. Her eyes widened, but to her credit she kept her gaze fastened on his. “You say you only have a minor connection to these people, but we both know that’s not right.”

  “You’re right. My connection to these people is not minor. These people...” She gestured toward her front door, to the community beyond, “These people have become my family, my home.” She turned to face him, and her expression was so sad, so frustrated, he took a step toward her before he realized what he was doing. He halted, clutching the sheet to his groin.

  “I will do what I can to help them, to protect them,” she said, her shoulders straightening. “So for the record, I will do everything within my power to stop this witch. Don’t even think you can sideline me on this.”

  Her gaze had turned fierce, her blue eyes practically snapping fire at him.

  This time he took that step, bringing him closer to her, and her gaze dropped to his chest. “Don’t even think I’m going to let you risk your life here doing my job,” he said, his voice low and rough. His job sucked. She had no idea the toll it took on a person, especially a witch, to kill another. It was that one little loophole—and every spell and rule had one. Witches were supposed to honor and protect nature and her creatures. Witches weren’t supposed to harm another, but when they did, his ordained job was to harm them. And it sucked a little at his soul, each and every time.