Witch Hunter

by Shannon Curtis

  “That means it was very good,” Susanne explained in a knowing voice to Jenny.

  “And he left you?” Jenny asked, a slight frown of confusion on her forehead. She firmed her lips, then nodded. “Fine. Castration it is, then.”

  “Jen, it’s not that simple.”

  “Yes it is. You can hold him down, and I’ll show you how simple it can be.”

  Sully laughed. “Jen, calm down.” She sobered. “We’re just—he doesn’t trust me as much as I want him to,” she admitted quietly.

  Jenny hesitated, then placed the knife down on the board. “So he’s the one with the trust issues...?”

  Susanne winced, then leaned her hip against the counter. “Ouch.”

  “What do you mean?” Sully glanced between her two friends.

  “I mean,” Jenny said, leaning forward, “you have enough weapons here to arm every man, woman and child in the greater Serenity Cove area, and you showed us some pretty lethal moves out there. That doesn’t just come out of a vacuum, Sully. You’ve been holding out on us.”

  “What the hell happened to you?” Susanne asked quietly, and for once, her face was dead-set serious.

  Sully opened her mouth, then closed it. How did she respond? There was so much she hadn’t told her closest friends...

  “Hmm, I’m thinking your Dave may not be the only one with trust issues,” Jenny stated, then started to resume chopping the cucumber.

  There was a knock at the door, and Sully held up a hand. “I’ll get it,” she said, hurrying toward the hall.

  “This conversation isn’t over,” Jenny called after her.

  “I’m already pouring the wine,” Susanne sang out.

  Sully sighed as she walked down the hallway. Her friends had a point. She’d hidden so much from them—but was she ready to let them in? Was she ready to tell them anything? Everything? And did Jenny have a point? Did her own lack of trust affect her relationship—such as it was—with Dave?

  She opened the front door, and raised her eyebrows when she saw the deputy standing on her veranda. He clasped his hat in his gloved hands, and smiled at her.

  “Hi, ma’am. I’m looking for Jennifer Forsyth, and I was told she was here...? The sheriff has asked me to stop by with some follow-up questions about her attack yesterday.”

  Sully’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, uh, okay.” She stepped aside, gesturing down the hallway. “Come in, she’s in the kitchen.”

  She turned toward the hallway. “I’m surprised Tyler didn’t just call,” she said.

  She heard an agonized cry and turned back. The deputy had stopped just inside her home, and had ducked his head as he clutched his face in pain. She hurried toward him. “What—” she reached for him, but jerked her hand back when he lifted his head.

  His features twisted, his skin bubbled and then his eyes flashed rage at her. Her body processed the danger before her mind could quite grasp it. She turned to run, but he grabbed her hair and spun her around. His fist flashed out, catching her in the jaw, and her head smacked against the hall wall. Anger, fury and an evil that was suffocating, slammed into her. Dizzy, she brought her arms up, but his fist struck her again, and darkness crashed over her.

  Chapter 17

  Dave peered in through the front window. The house really was empty. He stepped back from the front door, and glanced down at his list. Susanne and George Maxwell, not home.

  Just like the other purebloods he’d called on. Nobody was home. Anywhere. He glanced down the street. None of the Forsyths—and he’d tried Jenny first—were home. Neither were the Drummonds, or the Sinclairs. Maxwells, and a bunch of others... It was as if they’d all suddenly gone to ground.

  He strode down the garden path and had almost reached his bike when his tattoo started to heat. He halted, and pressed his hand to his chest. No. Please, no.

  “Sullivan Timmerman,” he whispered, removing his glasses and staring blindly down the street.

  His vision blurred, and then cleared. He was walking up behind a man. The man was stooped over, and using a wire brush on something he held, the grating noise masking the sound of his steps. He reached for the man at the same time he swept his leg out.

  The man cried out in surprise as he was grasped, then tripped backward onto the ground, the grill he was cleaning clattering against cinder blocks.

  Like lightning, he straddled the man, and Dave grimaced in horror when he recognized the shocked face staring up at him. Jack Forsyth. Bracing one hand against the older man’s shoulder, the killer brought down his blade in a smooth arc.

  “No,” Dave rasped, bracing his hands on his bike. Damn it.

  Jack’s eyes rounded as the blade pierced him, and Dave’s hands clenched into fists as he saw the life drain out of the older man’s gaze. The killer reached for his wrist, and moved quickly, carving that X symbol into his wrist, draining the blood into that damn horn. The killer rose, turning away from the thicket surrounding them, and faced a house.

  Dave’s breath caught. He knew that house. The killer raised his horn in a silent toast, then drank its contents. He started to walk toward the house—Sully’s house—and murmured those words that blackened Dave’s vision.

  Dave blinked and shook his head. Oh, God. Sully.

  Heart pounding, he started his bike and roared down the street, his helmet still dangling from its strap over his handlebars.

  Sully was in danger.

  The tattoo over his heart began to heat again, and Dave gasped, leaning forward, accelerating out of the null neighborhood and onto the coast road. He blinked furiously, trying to dislodge the vision that was slowly creeping in over the road ahead. “Sull—Sullivan Tim—Timmerman,” he gasped.

  Sully lay still on the floor of the hallway, her face bruised. “No!” Dave roared, taking the curve of the road at a dangerous speed. The killer walked down the hall, and Jenny turned from the kitchen bench. Another woman was closer, one Dave didn’t recognize, and she turned from peering into the fridge.

  “Who was at the door?” Jenny asked, and turned back to sliding salad ingredients with a knife along a wooden chopping board and into a bowl.

  The other woman smiled. “Sauvignon blanc or—”

  The blade flashed, catching the woman in the chest, the smile slowly slipping from her face.

  Jenny screamed, and the board she held fell to the floor. The killer worked quickly, laying the woman on the ground and carving the mark into her flesh, then draining her blood. Jenny darted past him, running for the front door. The witch sipped from the horn as he raced after Jenny.

  “No,” bellowed Dave, his muscles tensing, and he leaned forward, ignoring the high-pitched wail of his bike as it hit maximum speed.

  The witch caught up with Jenny in the hall, tackling her to the floor next to Sully’s still body.

  Jenny screamed and lashed out with the kitchen knife she still held. The witch clasped her wrist, forcing it above her head as he brought his own blade down, and Jenny’s scream ended in a gasp.

  Within moments, the witch had performed his gruesome ritual with the mark, and was drinking from the horn. His gaze turned to Sully as he murmured those damn words, and Dave’s vision again darkened, and he found himself staring at the asphalt of the road unfolding ahead of him.

  Sully.

  Hands gripping the handlebars tightly, his gut clenching, Dave focused his gaze on the road. He overtook a series of cars all heading in the same direction. One of the cars started honking its horn at him, but he ignored the sound.

  He prayed. Prayed for Sully, making all kinds of promises to the Ancestors. He’d never look at a woman again, never get distracted. Keep her safe. He’d walk away, he’d never see her again, just make her safe. Alive.

  He heard the squeal of rubber behind him, but didn’t turn around to look. The turn for Sully’s street was ahead, and he leaned into
the turn early, taking it like a motorbike racer on a circuit, before screaming down the road to Sully’s house. He turned into her drive and jumped off the bike, not even slowing down to stop it properly. He could hear the bike clatter as it fell, the screech of tires on gravel behind him, and ignored it when someone called his name.

  He ran across the yard and up the stairs to the veranda. He shouldered the door open, then raced inside. He skidded on the floor to reach Sully.

  “Please, Jenny.” Sully was sobbing, clutching her friend’s hand. She placed her other hand over the wound in Jenny’s chest. Sully’s shoulders where shaking, her face tear-streaked as she cried. She started murmuring, and Dave felt his own eyes burn with tears at the grief, the heartbreak in Sully’s voice as she tried a healing spell.

  A spell that would have no effect on a null.

  Dave placed his hand on Sully’s arm. “Sully,” he murmured, trying to get the sound past the razor blades in his throat.

  She shook her head, the tears streaming down her face. “No, let me help her,” she cried, and crawled a little closer. Footsteps pounded on the veranda outside, and Dave looked up as Jacob halted at the front door. The big man had to clutch the doorjamb as he swayed, his face torn with grief and shock as he looked down at his dead sister inside.

  “Jenny, please,” Sully sobbed, and Dave grasped her shoulder.

  “Sully, she’s gone,” he said softly.

  “No, no, she can’t be,” Sully cried.

  A scream, heartrending, full of grief and rage, echoed through the front yard, and Dave looked up at Jacob. The man had turned, and his eyes widened in disbelief. He took a step forward, and more screams, more wails were heard. Jacob took another step, then collapsed to his knees, his face twisted in anguish. He leaned forward, rocking on the veranda, a howl of pain erupting from deep inside him.

  “Jenny, come on,” Sully gasped, and squeezed her friend’s hand in hers. “Let me take it, let me take it,” she wailed. She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut, but no matter how much she concentrated, Dave knew she wouldn’t be able to take on any of this pain. Not now. Not for Jenny.

  “Sully,” he whispered, pulling her toward him. “She’s gone, love. You can’t help her.”

  “No, no, no,” Sully sobbed, and dropped Jenny’s hand. Sully’s hands clawed over, and she lifted her head and screamed. Her pain, her anguish, her frustration pierced his heart. Dave felt the hot lick of tears trailing down his own cheeks in the face of her despair, and rocked her in his arms.

  * * *

  Sully poured the steaming water into the mug, and blankly watched the chopped-up leaves and twigs swirl as though caught in a mini hurricane.

  A storm in a teacup.

  Sully placed the kettle back on the warmer, and took a seat at the table. The tea had to steep. Not for long, but she needed this tea to be potent. A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of her face. She glanced around the tiny little motel room. She’d turned off the air conditioner. It had made an annoying crank-crank-crank noise, and she’d shut it off before she’d screamed.

  Her eyes skimmed over the ugliest coverlet she’d seen, its geometric pattern looking like a witch’s vision quest on acid. The carpet may have been orange and cream at one point, but now looked brown. Gray. No, baby-crap brown and dead-fish gray.

  Her home was a crime scene. She blinked at the tears that welled in her eyes. Correction. Three crime scenes. The tears fell slowly as she stared at the mug, steam curling up from its surface. She watched the steam as it rose, and sucked in her breath as the tendrils roiled, and she saw his face again, the bones moving underneath the skin, his flesh blistering as he stepped inside her home. She blinked. No. She wasn’t going to think about that anymore.

  She plucked at a loose thread of the long skirt she’d changed into. She’d had to change at her house. Tyler had folded her clothes, covered in Jenny’s blood, and placed them separately into evidence bags. She’d given all the information she could to the sheriff. She’d sat through hours of grueling interviews, had flicked through photos...but she’d known it would be a pointless exercise.

  Still, Tyler needed to feel like he was doing something, that he was taking action at tracking down this killer. She could understand that. She could give him that, at least.

  An image of Jen lying bloodied and still on her hall floor filled her mind. Sully blinked slowly. She didn’t want to see that anymore. Didn’t want to feel that pathetic uselessness ever again. She’d reached for her friend, but couldn’t feel her, couldn’t sense her, no matter how much she opened her walls. She couldn’t take away any of that pain, that fear and horror that must have preyed upon her best friend in the last moments of her life.

  Her gut clenched, and her shoulders shook off a dry retch. Oh, God. Jenny.

  Hot tears welled in her eyes, before trailing down her cheeks. Jenny. Jack. Susanne. They were all gone.

  And it was her fault.

  She reached for the mug, her fingers trembling. A knock sounded at the door.

  “Sully.”

  She closed her eyes briefly at the familiar sound of that voice. Dave. She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to speak with him. Didn’t want to look him in the eye and see the disappointment, the blame.

  “Sully.” The voice was louder, as was the pounding on her door.

  She pulled the mug closer, but opened her eyes when she heard the lock disengage, the handle turn and the door open.

  “Sully.” He filled the doorway. So big, so strong. He wore his leather jacket, despite the heat outside. His sunglasses shielded his eyes, but she could guess at the accusation, the recrimination. She deserved it. Hell, she deserved so much more than looks of censure. From everyone. Dave. Jacob... She winced. Mrs. Forsyth.

  “Go away,” she said, her voice hoarse from screaming.

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I’m not going away.”

  She cupped her cold hands around the warm mug but couldn’t seem to absorb any of the heat. His words sank in, but slowly, like sharp little barbs hitting rubber walls. Some stuck, some didn’t, but not quite penetrating the numbness surrounding her. For once, she could feel...nothing.

  “You were going away,” she said, her gaze fixed on the mug. “Jenny wanted to castrate you.” She almost smiled, remembering the conversation, only she couldn’t quite get her facial muscles to work. Nothing worked anymore.

  Dave paused, then bowed his head. “Yeah, well, I would have deserved it,” he said in a low voice.

  He crossed over and lowered himself into the seat opposite her at the table.

  “I don’t want you here,” she said in a low voice.

  “Well, from what Jacob and Tyler have told me, you don’t want anyone here.”

  She drew the mug closer to her. “I want to be alone.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone, Sully. Not now.”

  She slowly lifted her gaze to meet his, and decided to ignore the pain and grief she saw etched into his face. “Yeah, I should.”

  “Sully—it wasn’t your fault,” he said roughly, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table between them.

  This time her mouth did move into a smile, a bitter, self-hating smile that bore no joy or warmth. “But it was, Dave,” she whispered. “I let him in.”

  Dave frowned, and looked down at the table. “Everyone let him in, Sully. Gary let him in close. Mary Anne let him into her home, so did Amanda... Jenny.” He clasped his hands together. “I don’t know how he does it—”

  “He’s a skinshifter,” she said, and tried to hug the mug closer to her chest. Dave’s gaze met hers.

  “What?”

  “He’s a skinshifter,” she said, and she moistened her lips.

  Dave’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned forward some more. “A skinshifter? How do you know?”

  “When he—w
hen he came inside, I don’t know why, but his facade started to drop.” She shuddered. “Literally.” She could see it happening again, the way his bones seemed to dissolve, the skin bubbling... She flinched. “He couldn’t keep up the disguise.” She glanced down at the tea.

  Dave sat back for a moment, stunned. “A skinshifter.”

  She nodded. Skinshifters were a special breed of witch. They could rearrange their features, their physique, to look like anyone they’d physically come in contact with. They couldn’t shift into a different species, though, like a bird or a cat, only people. They were the chameleons of witchcraft, and not very well liked. The only time you disguised yourself was when you had something to hide, and these witches had a questionable moral compass. They passed themselves off as others. Sometimes it was a harmless form of mischief, but most of the time it was a form of betrayal and deceit. As such, those witches born with skinshifting abilities were generally outcast—the witch equivalent to a werewolf stray or a vampire vagabond. Tricksters. Imposters. Charlatans.

  And in this case, a murderer.

  “So that’s how he got close to them,” Dave murmured.

  “Yes.” She stirred the tea. “He looked like a deputy. I guess he couldn’t pretend to be me with me.”

  Dave’s eyes narrowed. “You say his disguise faltered when he stepped inside your home?”

  She shuddered. “If by faltered it looked like his face was melting off his skull, then yes.”

  Dave rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I, uh—I put a ward on your door,” he said quietly.

  Sully lifted her gaze to meet his. “What?”

  “Uh, the night before, when we got home. I put a ward on your door. A protection spell. You only have a very basic lock on your door, and I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  Her lips twisted. “Those spells don’t work when the source of dark intent is invited in,” she told him.

  “No, but they reveal dark intent,” Dave told her. He winced. “I, uh, I’m so sorry. About Jenny. And...the others.”