Shannon Curtis - Witch Hunter

He rolled to his knees, then his feet, groaning as the kinks in his neck and back straightened themselves out. He shook out his shoulders. Sleeping on the beach worked only if you were drunk and in the company of a woman. Here, he was neither.

His tattered T-shirt fluttered in the breeze, and he shrugged out of his jacket so he could discard the ruined garment. His mouth tightened. Damn. He’d almost killed her.

He dragged his thumb across his forehead. What the hell happened? He’d struggled to comprehend when his chest had started to burn again. He’d had Sullivan Timmerman right where he wanted her, and had been about to send her across the veil, but then...

It was still so hard to accept, to make sense of. Another innocent had died at the hands of Sullivan Timmerman, yet the woman had been right in front of him at the time, ready to accept her fate. When he’d uttered the name and channeled the killer’s vision, he’d seen the latest victim. An older woman, tears running down her face as she’d stared up at him with confusion, horror and pain, and then with shock as the blade had pierced her heart. Once again, the killer had carved that mark on her wrist and used that same horn to capture the woman’s blood. And once again, Dave had been booted out of the vision when the killer had consumed the blood and uttered his spell—whatever that damn spell was.

He placed his hand over the dressing. He’d had the wrong person. His stomach clenched, and he had to suck in some deep breaths to stop from throwing up. He’d almost killed an innocent—a crime that would send him across the veil to the Ancestors. How could that be?

Sullivan Timmerman wasn’t a common name. How could he have gotten it so damn wrong? Guilt, hot and sickening, wrung his gut. The woman had answered his call, and had confirmed her identity—she’d even mentioned something about coins, as though she knew she was guilty of some wrongdoing... He looked down as the towel fluttered in the breeze, then rolled a little along the sand. He reached down and picked it up.

Death isn’t all bad.

What the hell did she mean? She was so young, so full of life, so full of power when she’d fought him—the first witch to be able to maintain a defense against him...ever. She was also the first witch to halt him in his tracks, midhit. What the hell was that all about? And yet, when he’d had her down on the sand, it was as if all her fight had left her, and she was ready to cross the veil. He’d nearly killed an innocent witch. How...? What...?

He started to walk across the beach toward the trail at the edge of the dunes that would lead him to where he’d parked his bike. He ducked his head as he trudged through the sand. He’d fought with a woman, for God’s sake. He—the guy who inked up women with protective spells against their abusers, who was committed to never hurting an innocent, who believed the women in his life, however fiery and frustrating they could be—and his mother and sister could be plenty of both—should be safeguarded, whatever the cost.

He stumbled. Hell. He’d tackled the woman. He’d threatened her, dominated her. He was no better than the monsters he hunted.

His toe hit something, and he glanced down. A white flip-flop lay half-buried in the sand.

Hers.

He scooped it up, turning it over to look at it. It was well worn, with dents in the rubber from her heel and the ball of her foot. He sighed as he continued along the beach. He’d have to make it up to her. Somehow. He didn’t apologize very often, but words couldn’t make up for his transgressions against her. Part of his job as the Witch Hunter was to redress the balance, wherever possible—especially by counteracting the misdeeds of the malefactors. What he’d done today with this Sullivan Timmerman—well, he had some counteracting to do.

After he caught the real Sullivan Timmerman and put an end to these murders.

He crested the last rise and walked over to his bike. He slipped the flip-flop and towel into one of his panniers. He wasn’t quite sure where to start. All he’d managed to see was the female victim, an older woman, and what looked like a wooden floor beneath her, and the claw foot of a threadbare sofa.

He straddled his bike, started it and flicked up the kickstand with his heel.

Kill one Sullivan Timmerman, then make it up to the other Sullivan Timmerman. He’d better get busy.

Sully boxed up the teas she’d cut for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler. She realized her hands were trembling, and she curled her fingers over. Tears formed in her eyes. She’d been ready to die.

She blinked, sniffing, as she gathered the boxes and grabbed her satchel. She wasn’t going to think about it. Nope. She was going to be a good little witch and completely ignore the ramifications of this afternoon’s incident. She wasn’t going to think about that moment when his body lay across hers. She should have felt threatened, frightened, but she felt—nope. Not going there.

She hesitated at the front door, gazing out at the sea that reflected the light of the moon and stars. From this point she couldn’t see directly down to the beach. She’d have to walk to the edge of the headland to be able to do that.

She wasn’t going to walk anywhere near the headland at the moment. What if he was still there?

Well, it would serve him right. She slammed the door closed behind her and stalked over to her car. The guy had tried to kill her.

He was just doing his duty.

Screw duty. The man was the Witch Hunter. She climbed into her car and started the engine, reversing out of the drive. All coven children were taught about the Witch Hunter. Much like the bogeyman, the Witch Hunter was someone to fear, someone who would come after you if you did something wrong. You never knew what the Witch Hunter looked like—only that he was out there, and ready to hunt you down if you so much as hinted at violating the universal laws of the covens. Witchery lore claimed there were Witch Hunters in every generation, chosen by the Ancestors, and assigned with the duty of preserving nature’s balance. Only a hunted witch could recognize the Witch Hunter for who he—or she—was.

No wonder he’d seemed “familiar”.

She drove down the dark road. Her cottage was the last one in a street of four, with a considerable distance between neighbors. They had no streetlights, and the real estate agent who’d handled the sale had told her to be thankful she had indoor plumbing, a landline and electricity. Cell phone reception kind of sucked, though. With the expanse of the ocean on three sides, the nearest cell tower was quite a distance away. She had to go into town to her shop to get access to the internet, and even there connectivity was a little spotty.

She still couldn’t believe it. The Witch Hunter had come after her . She shook her head as she turned left onto the coast road. The only crime she committed was a pesky little Reform one, and not one against an individual, a coven, or nature. Why the hell were the Ancestors upset by a little coin-making? Sure, counterfeiting was slightly illegal, but it was all to help others, so really they should be proud of her, right? Witches blurred the legal lines often, with the making of potions and toxins, and spells designed to reveal or conceal...but she’d never used nature’s power to provoke another to an unlawful act, nor had she sought power through the suffering of others, or personal or financial gain at the risk of another. Those were pretty much the deal breakers with the Ancestors, and as far as she was concerned, she’d done neither.

You’re not the right one.

She frowned. The Ancestors had gotten it wrong...she grimaced at the memory of the lettering blazing across the man’s chest. That had looked painful. Oh, not the chest. No, the chest had looked damn fine, actually. All those glorious muscles... She shook her head. She was lusting after a guy who’d tried to kill her. She thought she was better than that, now. That she’d grown some insight, maybe even some self-respect and dignity. She needed her head examined. Or to get laid. She preferred...neither. She hadn’t had a companion since she’d left the West Coast and arrived in Serenity Cove four years ago. If she thought the Witch Hunter was a long drink of sex on the beach, it was either too long between lovers, or she really hadn’t experienced the personal growth she’d fooled herself into thinking she had.