Shannon Curtis - Witch Hunter

Ow. Crap. The burn! He’d run out of time.

He reached over with his left hand to pick up a flyer he’d had printed. “Here are the instructions for aftercare, call me if you need anything and leave your money on the counter on the way out.”

He rose from his wheeled stool, and she gaped at him, her gaze dropping to his torso. “Hey, are you all rig—?”

“Fine,” he said brusquely, leaving his room and jogging down the hall. He flung open a door marked Private and ran down the metal stairs to the apartment below his tattoo parlor, below street level. He raised his hand, pushing the door at the bottom of the stairs open with his magic, and then flicking it closed behind him. He jogged down the rock-hewn corridor to the door to his private quarters, and thrust it open, kicking it closed behind him, swearing in a soft hiss as he pulled the fabric of his gray T-shirt away from the blooming stain over his left pectoral muscle. He lifted the garment over his head, moving his left arm gingerly as he removed the T-shirt.

He always left the lamp next to his armchair on in his subterranean quarters, and it gave out a low, warm light. At the moment, it was just enough light to show him the damage.

The skin on his breast was blistered, bleeding. He sucked in and held his breath, trying not to yell or scream as it happened again.

The marking glowed as it seared into his skin, and he gritted his teeth, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as his skin was branded. The name was scorched into the very fiber of his being, and he let out a soft, pained growl as the searing seemed to continue forever. He started breathing like his recent client, short hitched gasps that stopped him from crying like a baby. The heat, the pain—it was excruciating, and left him temporarily powerless until the etching was complete.

He opened his eyes and stared at the bare-chested figure in the mirror on the wall by the door. The glow was beginning to darken, and he tried to slow his breathing down as the mark was completed, the wound glistening with his blood. He swallowed, his shoulders sagging.

Christ. That was a long name.

He stumbled closer to the mirror, and tilted his head to the side as he translated the script. S. U. double letters...more double letters. He turned back to the natural-edged hardwood table that was his dining table, kitchen prep, spellcasting, office desk and anything else he thought to use it for. He grabbed the pencil and notepad, then turned back to the mirror.

S.U.L.L ... He jotted down the letters, gaze flicking between the notepad and the mirror, until he was sure he’d gotten it right—because he sure as hell couldn’t get this wrong. Of course, it would be much easier if the Ancestors would try scripting their messages in English, and not in a language that hadn’t been spoken in seven hundred years.

He held the paper in front of him and closely compared the lettering. Yep, he was right.

It was damn long name.

Sullivan Timmerman.

Dave’s lips tightened. So what was Timmerman’s crime?

He removed the sunglasses he always wore and took a deep breath.

“Sullivan Timmerman.”

Bright light lanced his vision, and then all of a sudden he could see not his rock-walled apartment beneath his tattoo parlor, but a dark alley instead, as he gazed through Timmerman’s eyes. He gazed down at the body he knelt over, and removed the blade from the man’s heart. Dave watched as gloved hands picked up the limp right wrist and used the intricately carved blade to incise a rough X into the skin, and held a—Dave squinted—a horn?

Timmerman drained some blood into the horn and—Dave’s stomach heaved as the killer drank the blood. He couldn’t hear the words that were uttered, but the X on the wrist turned an inky black—and then Dave’s vision went dark, and he blinked, his vision clearing to reveal his dim apartment.

What the—how had Timmerman kicked him out? He was usually able to piggyback on the vision of the killer until he could identify his location. This time, though, Timmerman had consumed the blood, said a few words and then blocked him.

Dave pressed his lips together. It was easy to see the witch was using dark magic, and he’d taken a life. No wonder the Ancestors had assigned him a new target.

Well, tracking the damned was part of his job, and he was good at it. He’d start looking—right after he’d patched himself up. He winced as he looked down at the brand that was already beginning to heal. Damn. It was over his heart, too. He shook his head as he stalked over to his bathroom door. The Ancestors didn’t seem to care where he got the message, as long as he got it. Well, he’d received it, loud and clear.

He had a witch to kill.

Sully Timmerman glanced cautiously about the schoolroom.

“Relax, Sully. The kids are having their lunch outside,” Jenny Forsyth said with a smile as she set out test papers on the students’ desks.

“The day I relax is the day I get caught,” Sully said, then smiled as she leaned her hip against the teacher’s desk. “How are the munchkins?”

Jenny smiled. “They’re good, right now. They don’t know they have a math test this afternoon.”

Sully grinned. “You are such a cruel woman.”

“And you love it.” Jenny put the paper on the last desk, then strolled toward the front of the classroom. “How is work going?”

Sully nodded. “It’s slowly picking up. I have a delivery in the car for the diner, and it looks like the mayor’s wife wants a new set of cutlery for their anniversary.”

“Cutlery? For an anniversary?”

“Twenty-five years, silver.” Sully shrugged. “Hey, it’s an order, so I’m happy.” Being a cutler was a dying art. There were so many cheaper options for pretty cutlery in a home, but Sully’s reputation as a master cutler was finally beginning to bring in some new business, and now that she had a website, she was getting orders coming in from all over the place. She glanced at her watch and winced. “I’d better get going. I want to get Lucy in between the lunch and dinner rush.”

She picked up her satchel, and the not-so-subtle clink reminded her of the unofficial delivery in her bag. “Oops, nearly forgot.”

She pulled the heavy cloth bag out of her satchel, and set it down on Jenny’s desk with a dull chink. “Better find a good place for this lot.”

Jenny’s eyebrows rose as she undid the drawstring and peered inside. She whistled. “Wow. That is a lot of silver dollars. That will help quite a few families,” she said quietly. She lifted her gaze to Sully’s. “You take a big risk, you know.”

Sully shrugged. “Hey, every little bit counts, right? It’s not much, but if it helps, than that’s the main thing.” She was satisfied with this particular delivery. She’d counterfeited over two thousand dollars, this time, and that bag contained only about half that. Jenny would make sure it got to those who most needed it. This null community was struggling, more so than most, and if the offcuts from the pieces she made could help put food on the table for some of these people, then the risk was worth it. She pulled her strap up over her shoulder as the school bell chimed outside, signaling the end of the lunch play period. “Now, hide it, or we’ll both be in trouble.”

Jenny opened her desk drawer and dropped the bag inside as the door to the classroom burst open, and her students swarmed inside. Their eyes brightened when they saw Sully, and she was nearly bowled over when the twenty or so seven-year-olds rushed to her. She hugged as many as she could as she made her way through the throng to the door.

“Hey, Sully, you want to join us next month for the school fete?” Jenny called.