Shannon Curtis - Witch Hunter

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 transom 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.