He trusts no one. She trusts him.

When a name appears on Dave Carter’s skin, he goes hunting. It’s his job to find and kill witches who transgress natural law. He can’t believe that sweet, naive empath Sully Timmerman is the murderer he’s seeking. Is she dangerous, in danger, or both? Dave wants to protect her, but he can’t protect his own heart. And he might not even want to…

SHANNON CURTIS grew up picnicking in graveyards (long story) and reading by torchlight, and has worked in various roles, such as office admin manager, logistics supervisor and betting agent, to mention a few. Her first love—after reading, and her husband—is writing, and she writes romantic suspense, paranormal and contemporary romance. From faeries to cowboys, military men to business tycoons, she loves crafting stories of thrills, chills, kills and kisses. She divides her time between being an office administrator for the Romance Writers of Australia and creating spellbinding tales of mischief, mayhem and the occasional murder. She lives in Sydney, Australia, with her best-friend husband, three children, a woolly dog and a very disdainful cat. Shannon can be found lurking on Twitter, @2bshannoncurtis, and Facebook, or you can email her at contactme@shannoncurtis.com—she loves hearing from readers. Like…LOVES it. Disturbingly so.

Also by Shannon Curtis

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Warrior Untamed

Vampire Undone

Wolf Undaunted

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Witch Hunter

Shannon Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08217-4

WITCH HUNTER

© 2018 Shannon Curtis

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This book is dedicated to all the readers who have

supported me by reading this series.

You have no idea how meaningful and humbling your

consideration and time have meant to me.

And thank you to Coleen, for the inspiration that has

become Dave Carter, tattoo artist and witch hunter.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

“Why do you have so many tattoos?”

Dave lifted the tip of his needle from his client’s inner wrist and gently dabbed at the skin. The woman was looking up at the ceiling, and she was exhaling slowly through her lips, as though trying not to flinch. Scream. Pee. Puke. Whatever.

“I’m a tattoo artist. Perks of the job.” He eyed the intricate linework he’d inked onto her wrist. He just needed to close the top of the loop of one twist of the knot, and he was finished.

He dabbed at the skin again. He was only doing a simple line tattoo for this woman. It was her first tattoo, and she didn’t think she could stand a lot of shading. He had to agree. The whole time she’d breathed as though she was in a Lamaze class. He was surprised she hadn’t hyperventilated.

“I can’t quite make it out...?” Her tone was raised in query.

He leaned forward, gently pressing his foot on the pedal, and the woman snapped her gaze from the mark on his arm to the ceiling again. The skin on his left breast itched.

Damn.

“I can, and that’s what matters,” he said, smiling at the woman as he carefully pressed the needle against her skin. He focused intently, despite the itch that was getting more annoying—and bound to become more so.

He worked as quickly as he could, his lips tightening as the itch became warm. He didn’t have long.

“Are you sure you can see with those glasses on?” The woman bit her lip as he wiped petroleum jelly across her wrist to hydrate the skin, and then pressed the needle against her, concentrating on drawing out the ink.

“I’m nearly finished and you’re asking me that now?” Dave raised an eyebrow, but didn’t stop his work. The itch began to heat. Sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and he worked faster, gritting his teeth at the burn.

He finished the line perfectly, closing the loop and preventing any breach to the protection spell he’d drawn into her tattoo.

“Right, that’s done,” he rasped, reaching for the antiseptic liquid soap on his table. He washed her skin and gently held her arm so that she could see the intricate linework. It looked like a delicate lace band around her wrist.

“And this will stop him...?” she asked tentatively.

He nodded. “He won’t be able to raise his hand against you.” He worked quickly, placing low adherent bandages over her new tattoo and taping them carefully into place. “Leave those on for about twenty-four hours—or until tomorrow morning at the earliest. It will probably look shiny and gross—don’t worry, that’s normal.” Damn, what had started as an itch now felt like someone was directing a heat lamp on his chest. “Shower and soap it up—antiseptic soap only, nothing scented, and for God’s sake, no scrubs, and don’t scratch it.”

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.

The school fete was scheduled to coincide with the Harvest Moon Festival. Sully turned as the kids cheered, and she folded her arms and frowned. “I don’t know. Is it worth it, Noah?” she looked at the young red-haired boy, who nodded, his blue eyes bright. Noah’s mother, Susanne, was another of Sully’s friends.

“It is, Sully. We’ve got rides and donkeys.”

Sully’s eyebrows rose. “Donkeys?” She glanced over at Jenny.

“Petting zoo,” Jenny explained. She leaned closer. “Jacob will be there, too.”

Sully shot her friend an exasperated look. Jenny had been trying to fix her up with her brother since she’d moved to Serenity Cove, and to date Sully had successfully avoided the hookup. Jacob was nice—good-looking, too, but she just wasn’t interested. In anyone. She turned back to Noah.

“Donkeys, huh? Oh, well, I’ll have to come for that.” She winked at him. “Tell your mom hi from me.” She waved to the kids as she closed the door behind her, grinning. A day surrounded by nulls? Yes, please.

She strode out of the two-story building that was elementary, middle and high school to the resident null community, and over to her beat-up sky blue station wagon. She sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, enjoying the peace, the quiet. All the kids were back in class, but she was still close enough she was affected by their presence.

She closed her eyes. She was surrounded by...nothing. It was so beautiful. Dark. Silent. Peaceful. It was the absence, the void, that embraced her, and she loved it. She knew most witches avoided nulls like a hex, but she found there was a tranquility in their presence that she couldn’t find anywhere else.

She opened her eyes, and shored up her shields, making sure that there were no cracks, no fractures in her defenses. When she was satisfied her mental walls were strong, and no light could cut through, she started her engine and drove the ten minutes into Serenity Cove.

She pulled the box out from the back of her car, lifting the tailgate with her hip. She didn’t bother winding up the window or locking it. Anybody with half a mind to steal her car must be desperate, and welcome to it. Besides, everyone in town knew this was her car, and you didn’t steal from a witch. The resulting curse wasn’t worth it.

She walked up the steps to the Brewhaus Diner, and her flip-flops made a smacking sound on the veranda. She pushed through the door and the tinkling sound of the bell above the door brought an almost instinctive response as she stepped inside. She put a smile on her face as she ignored muffled emotions knocking at her protective walls.

Cheryl Conners, the waitress, was hiding her hurt that Sheriff Clinton was absorbed in his phone and not her. Sheriff Clinton was worried—but that seemed to be his default setting. Harold’s gout was troubling him, Graham, the cook, was tired and his feet hurt, Mrs. Peterson was fighting off a strong cold, and Lucy—

Sully halted at the diner counter. Lucy wasn’t happy. No, she was...heartbroken. She couldn’t see the woman, but she could feel her pain—and that was with her shields up.

She placed the box on the counter and looked over at Cheryl as the waitress walked over to her.

“I’m here to see Lucy,” Sully said softly. She glanced toward the swing door that led to the kitchen and the office beyond. “Is she okay?”

Cheryl shook her head. “She got some bad news.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the sheriff. “They found Gary’s body last night.”

Sully gasped, then lifted her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.”

Gary Adler was the coach over at the null comprehensive school, and Lucy’s longtime boyfriend. No wonder the woman emitted the feel of devastation.

Sully patted the box on the counter. “Look, I’ll leave these here, we can talk about sorting stuff out later. She’s got enough on her plate, tell her not to worry about this. We can talk when she’s ready, but don’t stress over it.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “When is the funeral?”

“Won’t be for a few days, yet,” Sheriff Clinton said, glancing up from his phone. “We’ve got to wait for the autopsy.”

Sully nodded. Gary had watched what he ate, exercised regularly, and apart from that one Christmas festival, didn’t drink much. She wasn’t aware of him suffering from any illness. They’d have to do an autopsy to find out what had made a relatively healthy man drop dead.

“Any ideas what the cause was?” she asked the sheriff.

He grimaced. “We’re guessing it was the stab wound to the heart that did it.”

Cheryl’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Sully’s eyes widened. “Are you saying he was murdered?”

“Well, it didn’t look like he fell on the knife, or stabbed himself,” the sheriff commented dryly.

“Oh, no, poor Lucy,” Sully murmured. “I’ll go home and put together a tea for her.” She nodded to herself. “I should go visit with Gary’s mother, too.” Gary’s mother lived in a tiny cottage on the northern tip of the seaside town, along with the bulk of the null community. “She’ll be devastated.”

Sheriff Clinton nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure Mary Anne would appreciate a visit, but I don’t think a tea will help her.”

Sully smiled sadly. “Not in the usual way, but herbs can still affect a Null, just like any other person, and there’s always a little comfort to be found in a shared brew.”

She waved briefly to the sheriff and Cheryl, and was nearly at the door when she snapped her fingers. She walked back over to Mrs. Peterson, and gently placed her hand over the older woman’s.

“How are you, Mrs. Peterson?” she asked loudly so the woman could hear.

“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Peterson leaned forward.

“I said, how are you?” Sully said as loud as she could without shouting at the woman.

She opened her shield a crack and pulled in some of the pain she could sense in the swollen knuckles, and fed some warmth through in return, laced with a little calm.

The older woman’s face creased like a scrunched-up piece of paper when she smiled up at Sully.

“I’m doing well, Sully,” she said in her wavery voice.

“You’re looking nice today. I like your dress,” Sully said, gently patting the back of the woman’s hand. She could already sense the easing of tension in the old woman as her arthritic pain subsided.

“What mess?” Mrs. Peterson glanced down in confusion at the table.

“Your dress,” Sully repeated. “I like your dress.” Pity she couldn’t do anything about the woman’s hearing—but she was an empath witch, not a god.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said, and her face scrunched up even further as her smile broadened.

Sully nodded and winked, then turned in the direction of the door, cradling her hand on the top of her satchel. She closed her mental walls, ensuring nothing else leaked in she wasn’t ready for. She walked on toward the door and waved at Harold when he signaled her. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you something back later, too, Harold.” She wagged a finger at him. “But you really do need to lay off the shellfish.”

She pushed through the door, her smile tightening as the pain in her hand throbbed. Poor Mrs. Peterson. That really was a painful condition.

She skipped down the steps and dusted her hands as she walked to her car. To anyone else it looked like she was shaking black pepper off her hands as she discarded the pain she’d drawn in from Mrs. Peterson.

She considered the teas she’d make for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler as she climbed into her car. Lemon balm, linden and motherwort, she decided. They each had a calming effect, and the motherwort would be especially helpful with the heartache and grief. She waited for a motorcycle to turn across the intersection in front of her, and then pulled out. She sighed. Poor Gary. Murdered. Who would do such a thing?

Chapter 2

Dave pulled his motorbike into a spot on Main Street, and slid his helmet off his head. He looked around. So this was Serenity Cove, huh? The town was picture-postcard quaint. Victorian cottages, cute little boutiques and stores, and lots of white picket fences and ornate trim. Lots and lots. This place looked so damned sweet, he could feel a toothache coming on.

There were a few people wandering around. Admittedly, he thought there’d be more. It was summer and Serenity Cove had a fishing marina, nice little beaches—if his online searches could be trusted—but for some reason there wasn’t the usual vacationers drifting around with beet-red sunburns and sarongs. A local bar also seemed to be missing from the scene. He eyed the diner across the street. In lieu of a bar to visit and source information, this place would have to do. Maybe someone in there could tell him where the bar was—after he got some intel on Sullivan Timmerman.

He swung his leg over the bike and placed his helmet over the dash and ignition, uttering a simple security spell. It never paid to mess with a witch’s stuff.

It had been surprisingly easy to track down the witch. The guy had a website, for crying out loud. It was obviously a front, though. A cutler? He’d never heard of the trade. Most people just went to the store and bought their cutlery. Who would have a set made?

He crossed the street and entered the diner, the tinkling of the bell over the door causing the patrons to look up. He didn’t remove his sunglasses, but then he didn’t have a problem seeing inside. An older man, an even older lady and—oh, good. A sheriff. Dave sighed. He wasn’t sure if it was the bike leathers, or the tattoos, but the law always seemed to want to chat with him.

He strolled down to the opposite end of the diner counter and slid onto a stool. The solitary waitress bustled over to him, a smile on her face. Dave smiled back. He read her name tag. Cheryl.

“Hey, stranger, can I get you something?” She leaned a hand on the counter and gave him a wink.

He grinned as he removed his gloves. “That depends, Cheryl.” Her smile broadened at his use of her name. “What can you recommend?” He kept his tone light and flirtatious, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the sheriff lift his gaze from his phone.

She folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward. “Well,” she said, drawing the word out slowly. “I’ve just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so I haven’t had a chance to burn it, yet, and the peach pie is pretty good.”

He nodded. “I’ll take that. For starters,” He winked back at her. She was pretty, she was nice and liked to flirt. Serenity Cove might be all right, after all.

“What brings you to Serenity Cove?” The sheriff put his phone away and directed his full attention to him. His tone was casual, conversational, but the look in the man’s eyes was anything but.

“I’m looking for someone,” Dave replied as Cheryl placed a plate in front of him. She reached for the coffee carafe and poured him a cup, and he took care not to touch anything until she was finished. He waved away the cream and sugar she offered.

“Who?” the sheriff asked. This time his tone wasn’t so casual or conversational.

“Tyler,” Cheryl chided. “Be nice to our visitor.”

“No, it’s okay,” Dave said. If there had been a murder, this officer would know about it—had to, in a place as small as Serenity Cove. He needed information from the man, and he didn’t want to seem threatening or dangerous, because that would lead to an entirely different conversation.

“I’m looking for a friend,” Dave said, flashing a smile at the sheriff in an effort to appear friendly. “I was in the area, so I thought I’d catch up.”

“You have a friend?” the older man sitting at a booth near the door piped up. “Here?”

Dave kept his face impassive. Was the guy surprised at the idea of him having a friend in Serenity Cove or having a friend at all? “Yeah.”

“Who?” Cheryl asked as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t bother to hide her curiosity.

“Sullivan Timmerman.”

Cheryl’s eyes widened. “You know Sully?” her expression was incredulous as she looked him up and down.

“How do you know Sully?” the sheriff asked, his brow dipping.

Sully, huh? Dave took a moment to slip a bit of the peach pie into his mouth as he thought about his response. He always had an explanation ready for barflies, but talking with law enforcement required finesse and strategy. He swallowed the mouthful of pie—and Cheryl was right, it was pretty good.

“Are you an old boyfriend?” the older guy in the booth asked.

Dave coughed into the coffee mug he held to his lips. Boyfriend? Sullivan Timmerman had boyfriends?

“We went to school together,” he responded cautiously once he’d cleared his throat. He hoped to hell Timmerman hadn’t gone to school around here, although the information he’d found online suggested probably not. Timmerman had set up his business four years ago, but he hadn’t been able to find any mention of the guy in the local schools’ hall of fame lists for athletics or other clubs.

“Did you date?” Cheryl asked, waggling her eyebrows.

“Uh...” He ate some more pie as he thought of an appropriate response.

“What’s that about Sully?” the old lady called out, cupping her hand to her ear.

“This guy used to date Sully,” the guy in the booth yelled back.

“Why do you hate Sully?” the woman asked, horrified.

Dave blinked as Cheryl leaned over the counter. “Date, Mrs. Peterson. Date.”

“Oh.” The old woman looked him up and down, then raised her eyebrows. “You don’t say.”

“You just missed her,” Cheryl told him, then waved toward the door. “She left about five minutes ago.”

Her. Her. He dipped his head for a moment. Phew. Then he frowned. He’d somehow felt a masculine energy in his vision and had assumed he was looking for a man. In his line of work, he couldn’t rest on assumptions. The radio on the sheriff’s hip squawked, and the man sighed as he levered himself off the chair.

“Gotta go.” He grabbed his hat off the seat next to him and put it on his head. “How long are you intending to stay in Serenity Cove?” he asked Dave.

Dave waved a hand. “Oh, I’m only passing through.” This kind of job never took long.

The sheriff nodded, satisfied, then turned to walk out the door.

“Bye, Tyler,” Cheryl called. The sheriff didn’t turn back, but lifted his hand in a casual wave of farewell. Dave caught the fleeting look of disappointment on her face before she masked it with a smile. “So, you used to date Sully, huh?”

Wow. These people were good. He bet that by the time he got back to his bike, he and this Sully would be in a serious, angst-ridden relationship. Which could work for him, really.

“Yeah,” he said, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward conspiratorially. “I want to surprise her, though. Uh, do you know where I can find her?” He sent a compulsion spell in Cheryl’s direction.

“She lives out at Crescent Head, north end, overlooking Driftwood Beach,” Cheryl responded automatically, then blinked.

“Thanks.” Dave scooped up the last of his pie, and nodded farewell as he rose from his seat. He donned his gloves and waved politely to the older patrons as he passed them.

He halted outside the diner. Two youths were checking out his bike. One of them even had the audacity to reach for the handlebars and pretend to steer. He frowned. His security spell should have knocked the kid off his feet. He flicked his fingers at him, but encountered...nothing. He frowned and tried to again.

Nothing.

He grimaced. Great. Nulls. He glanced about. Where there was one—or in this case, two—there were always more. Hopefully, though, it wouldn’t interfere with what he had to do.

He sauntered across the street, and the teens took off as soon as they noticed him. He might not be able to cast a spell on them, but at least he could still look fierce.

Good. Because he had a witch to hunt.

Sully ignored the sparks as she ground the steel against the wheel. She turned the arrowhead slowly, shifting now and then to avoid smoothing the sharp angles she’d hammered into the steel. She pulled back, lifting the arrowhead to the light. Just a little more off there...

She held it back to the wheel and evened out the side, sliding the steel across the spinning wheel. When she was satisfied, she took her foot off the pedal and switched off the grinder.

She crossed over to the forge she’d made out of a soup can, sand and plaster. She’d turned the torch on a little while ago, so it was now ready for her. Using pliers, she carefully placed the arrowhead inside the forge, and then waited for it to glow. She stepped back and lifted her mask to take a sip of water from the glass on the shed sill. It was hot in the shed, and she was sweating profusely.

It didn’t take too long before the arrowhead was glowing. She reached in with the pliers, and carefully dunked it into her bucket of oil, pausing for a long moment before withdrawing it.

Sully smiled. The arrowhead was in the square-headed bodkin style. Sure, the broadhead arrows were sharper and caused more damage, but every now and then it was a nice change to go for a classic shape. Besides, it had worked for the Vikings, so it wasn’t completely useless. And it was exactly what Trey Mackie wanted—he wanted to try hunting just like his computer game avatar did. When the set of arrows were completed, she’d have to have a word with him about aiming at folks. She didn’t make weapons for “fun”. Weapons weren’t toys. She’d bespell them, but she also wanted to make sure the youth used them responsibly.

She placed the arrowhead on the bench next to the other four she’d made that day. Damn, she must reek. She’d go for a quick dip before heading out to see Mary Anne. She shut down the torch on the forge and cleaned up, then quickly strode across her back garden to her cottage. Within minutes she’d donned a bikini, then threw on a peasant-style top and her long, flowing skirt. She didn’t bother to fasten the belt that already twined through the loops on her skirt. The loose clothes were her stock standard wardrobe, especially for summer. She grabbed a ratty old towel, slipped her feet into her flip-flops and trotted to the end of her street. A path led from there to the stairs at the top of the cliff, and then down to the beach below. She paused at the grassy verge at the top of the stairs and took a moment to tilt her head back and let the sun shine down on her. This was one of her favorite spots, offering a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the ocean. She could feel the kiss of a breeze against her skin, the heat of the sun as it beat down on her. The smell of salt and grass and the summer blossoms in her garden... The waves crashing on the beach below. This was one of her recharge places, where she could give herself up to elements of nature and restore her own energy. She gazed out at the vista. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. Whether a storm was coming, or about to pass, she couldn’t tell. She sighed and then headed for the stairs.

Driftwood Beach was pretty much deserted. She saw a man walking his dog down the other end, but it looked like he was at the end of his walk, rather than the start. She was the only other person to walk across the sands. Most folks preferred the more sheltered Crescent Beach for a swim, just on the other side of the headland. Occasionally surfers would venture this far north out of town, but the surf at Caves’ Beach was much better. She hadn’t necessarily been looking for a private beach when she settled here at Crescent Head, it had just worked out that way. And she loved it. The less people she had to deal with, the better.

The surf was crisp and cool, exactly what she needed. The water embraced her, shielded her. She couldn’t feel when she was fully immersed in the water. It was just her and the deep void, the occasional sea creature and strands of seaweed that always startled her into thinking it was a shark. For some reason, though, she was never bothered by the predators of the sea. No matter how far she swam out, it was like the sea provided a shelter for her. Buoyant, enveloping...peaceful. She let herself go, relaxed her mental shields and surrendered to utter unguarded enjoyment. This was as good as being surrounded by nulls, and the void their presence created.

After diving beneath a couple of waves she strode out of the water, lifting her knees so she could walk faster. Within minutes she’d patted herself dry, pulled her clothes on over the top of her swimsuit and fastened her belt. She stood on the beach, looking out over the water. By now it was late afternoon. She’d like to stay a little longer, maybe watch the sunset, but she’d promised teas for Lucy and Mrs. Peterson, and Harold something for his gout. She decided she’d take a double-prong attack with Harold. Something to rub on his toe for instant comfort and a tea to start working from the inside.

She remained where she was and closed her eyes. She mentally pictured her shutters rolling down to shield her mind. As she was going to be visiting grief-stricken women, she added a couple of extra layers to ensure she was protected from the waves of heartbreak she’d encounter. Once Sully was sure she could stand calmly in a room with them both and not crumble to the floor, curl into the fetal position and sob at the overwhelming pain, she opened her eyes.

A movement in the corner of her vision made her turn her head. A guy was walking along the beach. No, walking was too gentle a word. He was striding purposefully, his gait even and rhythmic. His broad shoulders moved with each step he took, like the slinky stalk of a predatory big cat. Graceful. That’s what it was. Little puffs of sand rose at each step, catching in the breeze to dance a little before falling back to the beach. The man moved with a physical grace that suggested he was used to moving, with an added strength that made him look dangerous.

And way sexy. Sully took a moment to enjoy the view. He was built. Like, stripper-at-a-bachelorette-party built, with broad shoulders and lean hips, and thighs that looked... Her lips curled inward. Strong. Despite the heat, the man wore leather pants, boots and a black leather jacket over what she hoped was a T-shirt, for his sake. His hair was cropped short, and the sunglasses hid his eyes. She briefly wondered if he looked just as good out of them as in them. She’d once dated a guy, Marty, who looked hot in his shades, but when he’d removed them he’d revealed his sunken eyes, the dark shadows beneath and the enlarged pupils of a drug addict—which was never a good combination when mixed with his witch talents—such as they were.

Sully shook her head as she turned her back on the leather-clad man. Cute, but she wasn’t interested. She sure knew how to pick ‘em, as her grandmother would say. Marty was the reason she’d moved clear across the country and settled herself in a Null-saturated area. Never trust a guy who hides his eyes.

She scooped up her flip-flops and started to trudge along the waterline in the opposite direction, toward the timber stairs that hugged the cliff and led to the cliff-top walk.

She normally cut her herbs at either sunrise or sunset, when they were most potent. She’d have to hurry so she could collect all the ingredients for the teas she planned to make for her patients. Clients. Whatever you wanted to call them.

A soft breeze, warm and whispery, teased at the hem of her skirt. She grasped some of the fabric in her hand, lifting the skirt as she waded through the shallows, her lips curving at the rhythmic, refreshing chill of the waves washing over her feet.

“Sullivan Timmerman!”

Sully frowned at the sound of her name and glanced over her shoulder. The man in black was closer to her, his expression—well, it didn’t look flirty or friendly. No, he looked determined.

“What?”

“Are you Sullivan Timmerman?” the man asked again, and Sully nodded, although the movement was more a cautious dip of her head. She halted, but still looked over her shoulder at him, ready to bolt if need be. At this distance, though, she could see more of his face. He was unshaven, but not unkempt. The dusting of a beard along his jawline was closely trimmed, but it didn’t hide the strong line of his jaw, or the sculpted shape of his lips. His cheekbones were balanced, his sunglasses revealing tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that could be from laughter, or scowling, she had no idea. Although she couldn’t see his eyes, she could feel his stare boring into her.

There was an intensity about this man, a focus, that sparked a flare of attraction, yet the overwhelming impression she got was one of danger. She instinctively bolstered her shields with more protection. Whatever this guy was going through, she didn’t want to feel it.

And yet...she knew she’d never seen this man, but there was something familiar about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it was intuitive, a bone-deep recognition she couldn’t quite fathom.

“Uh, yes,” she answered. She turned to face him warily. “Who wants to know?”

The man raised both of his arms out from his sides, palms up, fingers curled slightly. He started to murmur in a low voice, and it took Sully a moment to realize he was talking in the Old Language. She frowned as she struggled to decipher his words.

“...for your dark crimes, and the Ancestors call upon your return to the Other Realm, to a place of execution—”

Sully’s eyes widened in shock. Holy crap. A memory, lessons long since learned and nearly forgotten, fluttered in her mind, but it was dread that hit her, followed by comprehension.

“—until you are dead. May the Ancestors have mercy upon your soul.”

His wrists rolled as he brought his arms around in front, toward her, and still clutching her flip-flops, she brought her own arms up, crossing them in front of her chest to brace against the magical blast that rolled over her.

Her feet created long burrows in the sand as she was pushed back under the force—a force that should have crushed her, but was mostly deflected by her shields.

The man blinked when he realized she remained standing.

“What the—?” Sully gaped at him, stunned dismay warring with anger. The Witch Hunter. He was here. Now. For her.

The man tilted his head. “Hmm.” He raised his arms again, and Sully narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She refused to be at another man’s mercy. She summoned her own magic, drawing from deep within and hurling her own cloud of badassery in his direction. Their powers met with a thunderous clap. Sully’s shields coalesced into swirling colors as his magic rolled over her safeguards, and she twisted, guiding the force around and beyond her. Away from her.

Holy capital H.C. Crap. The Witch Hunter. One of the most powerful witches in existence, and he wanted to return her to the Other Realm.

She sidestepped another supernatural blast, deflecting it right back at him. He grunted as it hit him, sending him stumbling for a few steps. It gave her enough of a respite to bolster up her shields. She didn’t have the juice to kill him—and she couldn’t begin to fathom the karma that would come from killing the Witch Hunter—but she might be able hold him off long enough to—oh, crap.

It seemed he’d figured he couldn’t pierce her shields, and had decided a more direct approach was in order. He roared something that could have been a battle cry in the Old Language—or perhaps a curse word—then lowered his head and charged straight at her.

Sully dipped to the side and started to run, but he flung out his arm and caught her around the knees. She hit the sand hard. She tried to wriggle away as he pulled her toward him.

Chapter 3

Dave swore as the witch flung a handful of sand in his face. What the—how the hell was Timmerman so damn strong? She’d shaken off his initial blast like a dog shaking off water.

She muttered something, and then her bare foot connected with his chest, sending him flying. A percussion incantation. Damn it. He flung another blast in her direction, but saw the sparks as it rolled over the armor she’d shielded herself with. Any other time he’d admit to being impressed, but right now he was annoyed. He had a duty to perform, and her impressive damn barriers were preventing him from doing it.

He murmured a spell, raising his hands, fingers splayed, satisfied when he felt the erosion spell spread over her shield like a wave of acid, eroding her safeguards.

She flinched, her face paling, and she murmured something. A wall of sand rose around him, enclosing him. He uttered a quick spell, and the sand erupted away from him.

A flip-flop slapped him in the face. His head whipped back at the sting. He blinked, shaking his head, then focused on his—where the hell did she go?

The beach was empty. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the sand. There. His lips curved. The damn witch had covered herself with an unseen spell, but that didn’t mean she didn’t leave tracks.

He saw the footprints and the little puffs of sand as she ran up the beach. He took off after her. He gritted his teeth. He hated running in sand. It always felt like it was clawing at you, pulling you back, slowing you down. He angled across the wet sand, where it was firmer under foot, then growled. Screw it.

He raised his hand toward her, murmuring a restraining spell, and a lariat of power lashed from his hand, encircling his target. He heard her surprised cry when he yanked her back. The sand was forming thrashing mounds, until finally she couldn’t hold her invisibility and fight off his magical restraint, and her concealment gave way to show the struggling woman as he dragged her toward him.

A wave of water edged around his boots. Damn it. His favorite boots were getting a bath in salt water.

He grasped her thighs, and she roared—roared at him, her fist connecting with his jaw. His teeth snapped, and he blinked, then jerked to avoid the feet that kicked uncomfortably close to his groin. He tugged her farther along the sand.

“Sullivan Timmerman,” he panted, straddling her thighs to keep her from turning him into a eunuch. “You have been found guilty of—”

He closed his eyes instinctively as her hand flashed toward him, catching him on the cheek in an openhanded, stinging slap. By the time he focused again, she held a short but wickedly sharp blade in each hand, one pointed at his groin, the other against his throat.

He froze, and his eyebrows rose. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” That was an understatement. The woman had deflected his power with a skill he hadn’t seen before, and now had him at a slight disadvantage. Only slight, though. He outweighed, outmuscled and outpowered her. If outpowered was a thing.

“This is a little extreme for some coins, don’t you think?” she panted up at him.

He frowned. “What?” Coins? What? The memory of her victim, the man in the alley with the X carved in his flesh...the draining of his blood. The blade in his chest...he didn’t recall seeing any money. What the hell did all that have to do with coins?

“What the hell do the Ancestors have against the nulls?” she demanded.

His frown deepened. What the—? He was having trouble keeping up with the conversation. And why were they even having this conversation? Was she completely mad? Did she seriously not comprehend the damage she’d done—to an innocent, to the balance of nature itself? He’d never really had a witch withstand justice before, at least, not long enough to challenge the Ancestors. The blade at his neck pressed against his skin just a little harder.

“Get off me. Now.” Her blue eyes glared at him, and her slightly lopsided mouth formed a tight pout. Her hair hung in a tangled curtain behind her, dark and wet and...okay, maybe a little bit more than mildly sexy. She was attractive, slim yet curvy beneath him. Her cotton top clung to the wet triangles of her red bikini, and despite the toned strength of her arms and the thighs he straddled, she still had a softness about her that would have had him buying her a drink in a bar under different circumstances. Very different. Like, without the execution directive.

Maybe that was one of the reasons this woman was so damn dangerous. She looked like some sexy beach goddess, but he’d seen the blade in the man’s heart, the carving on his wrist, and...ugh. His eyes flicked to those pouty little lips. She’d drunk his blood. She’d killed a human. And it hadn’t been in self-defense. It hadn’t been to protect others. It had been calculated and cruel. It was intentional harm to an innocent, to the personal benefit of the witch. He had no idea why she’d killed the man, or why she’d murdered in the manner she had, but he was the enforcer, his authority was recognized by Reform society and by the witch population. No matter how damn smoking hot sexy the witch was, she’d committed a crime against nature, against all of witchery, and she had to be punished.

He held up his hands, palms out, in a nonthreatening manner as he rose. She shuffled out from beneath him, her daggers still held in a guarded, defensive position. He eyed her outfit. Loose sleeves, loose skirt—where the hell had she hidden those blades?

He let her back up a little. She thought she now had the upper hand. She was so wrong, but for now he’d let her go with it.

“This is not fair,” she hissed at him as she took another step backward.

His eyebrows rose. “Not fair? Do you think I haven’t heard that before?”

She shook her head, frowning at him. “What I did—sure, some might consider it a crime, but I was doing it for the greater good.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before, too.”

“Damn it, I mean it. There was no harm done!”

“No harm?” he repeated, incredulous. His brows dipped. “Are you kidding me? You think that what you did was harmless?”

“I was doing a service for the community,” she snapped back at him.

“A service.” His lips tightened, and he had to look away for a brief moment. Her words sparked a flare of anger in him that he didn’t normally let himself feel. “You want to talk service? I live my life in service, and what you did—” he wagged a finger at her. “You should be ashamed. You’ve brought darkness to all of witchery for your actions.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Darkness? To all of witchery? Wow. They’ve really set the bar low, then, haven’t they? What I did, and how it affects others, should have no bearing whatsoever on all of witchery. For the Ancestors to call upon the Witch Hunter over such a trifling matter—that’s extreme.”

He gaped at her. She talked about murder so callously, as though it was of such little consequence. He couldn’t begin to imagine the damage this woman could do if she wasn’t stopped.

He took a step forward, and she shifted, angling the blades toward him. “I can defend every damn thing I’ve done,” she said in a low voice.

Disappointment, hot and sickening, roiled through him. “You defend the indefensible,” he said. “And for that, the Ancestors call you to—”

He dived for her, thigh muscles bunching as he launched himself at her. He caught her hands and raised them above her head as he tackled her to the ground. Her breath left her in a grunt as she hit the sand. He spread his body over hers, using his weight to anchor her beneath him.

That’s when it hit him. It was as though their powers met and coalesced in a sensory explosion. Her scent, salty and sweet, clouded his mind, as though blanketing him in an awareness of the woman beneath him. Her hair, wet and dark, still showed the odd strand of burnished gold. Her skin, smooth and warm, her eyes so blue and stormy, and her mouth—a delicate, lopsided pout that drew his attention.

For a moment, they both halted, staring at each other. Her mouth opened, and her expression showed her confusion, her surprise. His gaze dropped down to her lips, and he could hear his heartbeat throbbing in his ears—or was it her heartbeat? He couldn’t tell. He lifted his stare to hers, dazed. He blinked—and time snapped its fingers, speeding up through the last few moments, folding itself over so that he felt a little unbalanced, a little bereft and a whole lot shaken.

She was supposed to be a hit, damn it. As though she was also catching up to speed—or perhaps she hadn’t felt whatever the hell that was—the woman beneath him frowned up at him and started to struggle again.

She was surprisingly strong, and tried to free her arms, those blades glinting in the light from the setting sun. His grasp tightened on her wrists until she whimpered slightly and released her hold on the short daggers.

He stared down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes bright with outrage and perhaps a tiny bit of fear. Her chest was heaving beneath his, her breasts brushing against his pecs. His legs were tangled with hers, and as his gaze drifted down her body, he saw the fabric of her skirt had hiked up in the struggle, revealing a shapely calf and toned thigh. He’d have to be a dead man not to find the woman attractive, and it was with a heavy heart that he returned his gaze to hers.

She was young. Passionate. Highly skilled. What a waste of a witch. She could have done so much good, and yet she’d acted against nature, against humanity—the vulnerable people they were charged to protect from the shadow breeds.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“I have to,” he told her quietly. “This brings me no joy.”

Her pouty lips trembled, and she nodded. “I know.”

He blinked at the unexpected concession from the witch he was about to kill. He eyed her face, the resignation in her expression, despite the resistance in her eyes. He wished... He shut that thought down. That way led to madness. Wishes were for fools. His lips firmed, and he sucked in a breath.

“The Ancestors call upon your return to—”

“The Other Realm, yeah, I know the drill,” she said. “I remember the First Degree classes. Why don’t we skip the speech and get to it?”

He frowned. She had just fought him off with skill and power of an elder, she’d almost gotten away from him, had pulled a knife—two, actually—on him, and now she wanted him to hurry up and kill her. This woman was doing his head in.

“Why are you suddenly so eager to die?” He dipped his head to gaze directly into her eyes, despite his sunglasses. Admittedly, this was possibly the most conversation he’d ever had with one of his hits, but he couldn’t help it. She was an intriguing package of contradictions.

“I just realized that death isn’t all bad,” she said softly, lifting her chin.

He tilted his head, surprised. “You do realize that being summoned to the Other Realm is kind of...bad.” It was hell—at least, a witch’s version of it. Being summoned by the Ancestors who watched from beyond the veil was most definitely not good. The Ancestors had been there long enough to know how to tailor punishment to an excruciating degree for the individual witch who dared to act contrary to the beliefs and morality of the universal covens.

Her expression softened into one of sadness, a weariness that was a stark contrast to the young, vibrant woman she’d seemed just a short while ago as she’d tried to kick his ass.

“I’m ready.”

He hesitated. He didn’t often come across a target resigned and accepting of their fate. This particular hit was proving a first on many fronts. He nodded. “Okay, then.” His frown deepened. After holding a blade to his balls, this witch was proving to be quite civil.

He moved back, just a little bit, one hand still grasping both of her wrists as he pulled his other hand back, almost as though to strike. “May the Ancestors have mercy upon your soul.”

He summoned his inherited powers and sparks flickered at his fingertips.

Heat blazed across his chest. He cried out in pain and grasped his left pec as he rolled off her. He blinked furiously, trying to catch his breath.

What was happening? What the hell was—?

“Argh,” he growled as the name branded on his chest flared to life. He shook his head. No. No, this can’t be happening. She’s here, he was about—

He winced as the wound blistered anew, and pulled at his T-shirt, tearing the fabric from neck to hem. He grunted when the cloth pulled away from the burn.

The witch on the ground next to him rolled, grabbing one of the blades in the sand before she scrambled to his side. She clasped the dagger in both hands and raised it above her head, poised to bring it down on him.

The pain was blinding, all-consuming, and he couldn’t do anything to defend himself. When the ancestral fire was branded into his skin, he was powerless. He stared up at the woman above him, confused. She was here, and yet her name was being rebranded into his flesh.

Another innocent had been killed.

But not by this witch.

The woman started to bring the blade down, but she gasped when she looked down at his body.

Sully dropped the knife, her gaze locked on the Witch Hunter’s chest. His T-shirt hung in tatters at his side. His chest was broadly muscled, his skin a light golden tan, his toned torso lined with dark tattoos that looked both beautiful and dangerous, but it was the glowing mark that drew her gaze, and made the sweat break out on her brow as she tried resurrect her shields.

Sullivan Timmerman.

It was written in the Old Language, but she couldn’t mistake it.

Her name radiated on his chest, searing through his skin as though borne from a fire within, and the cords of his neck stuck out in stark relief as he tilted his head, growling in pain.

Holy capital H.C. Crap. She was too late.

She sucked in a breath at the hot wave that flashed through her, over her. It was everywhere. Pain. Tormented heat. Searing agony. Guilt. Self-loathing. Confusion. Loyalty. So many more emotions, too fast, too ferocious to name, bombarded her. The sensations were excruciating.

The Witch Hunter writhed on the ground, his teeth gritted, until she felt the pain drop from excruciating agony to aggravating throb. He gasped as he rolled over and onto his knees, wheezing slightly.

Sully looked away, mustering all the strength she could from within to shakily layer up some protections, although they were weak and tattered. Holy f—

“Sullivan Timmerman,” the man at her side gasped, turning away from her as he removed his sunglasses to stare at the sea.

She eyed him warily. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t quite get past the lump in her throat. Her arms hung limply by her side and she trembled all over. It didn’t seem to matter, though. The Witch Hunter didn’t look like he was talking to her, though. He was on his knees, hands fisted in the sand, and she stared at the back of his head as his chest rose and fell with deep, shuddering breaths. How the hell could the man still be conscious after that experience? Her gut twisted, and she felt shaky and nauseous, and quite frankly wanted to curl up on the sand and pass out.

After a moment he dipped his head, then he slid his sunglasses on. Sully rose to her feet, stumbled on her shaky knees and almost face-planted in the sand when she bent over to scoop up her blades. If he was coming for her again, she was going to fight. He’d obliterated her shields, and it would take her some time to rebuild them, but she could still hit.

Right now, though, all she could feel was him. His pain, his shock, his confusion.

He glanced over his shoulder to her, his brows drawn. “Sullivan Timmerman...?”

This time, his tone was uncertain, and she raised her arms in front of her in a defensive block, blades ready. She didn’t bother to answer him. She’d almost gotten herself killed the last time she’d responded.

He shook his head as he rose to his feet. “You’re not the right one.” Even if she couldn’t hear it in his tone, or see it in his face, she could feel the shock reverberating through him, the dismay. The guilt.

Her eyes widened, and she gaped at him. “Are you—? What the—? Holy—.” She blinked at him. He’d just attacked her. Nearly killed her. And she wasn’t the right one? She’d almost died. For the briefest of moments, she’d wanted to die. She squished that thought down deep, buried it under a fragile barrier.

He drew himself up to his full height, and she could see his wound was already beginning to heal, the lettering darkening to a semblance of what she’d assume would become a tattoo that matched the rest of the markings on his body.

He touched his abdomen and dipped his head. “I have made a grave mistake. My duty is not with you. Please forgive me, Sullivan Timmerman.”

His apology was sincere, his gestures faintly noble. Courtly. His earnestness was almost tangible, along with a profound sense of guilt, of sadness and of dismayed shock. And pain.

“For—forgive you?” she responded, her mouth slack.

She’d practically begged him to kill her.

Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed. “Screw you, Witch Hunter.”

She backed away from him, then turned and headed toward the cliff stairs. He’d tried to kill her, and normally she wouldn’t be turning her back on a man who’d just tried to kill her, but she’d felt his remorse, his guilt. His exhaustion. He wouldn’t come after her again.

“I’m so sorry,” he called after her. She didn’t look back as she flipped him the bird, then realized she still carried her blades. She slid them into the slim-line sheath that formed part of her belt, and it wasn’t until she put her foot on the bottom step that she realized she’d left her flip-flops behind.

She glanced back at the beach in frustration, just in time to see the Witch Hunter drop to his knees, then collapse on the sand, his unconscious body an inert dark form on the sand.

Chapter 4

Dave’s eyes fluttered open. He frowned. Stars? He blinked. Yep. Stars. A cool breeze—not unpleasant—brushed across him, and he could hear the rhythmic roar of waves. He shifted and groaned. His neck was supported by a mound of sand, but it felt like he’d been lying there for hours. He moved his arms and realized a light cloth covered him. He glanced down. Despite it being sometime in the night, the stars and a glimmer of the moon gave enough light to see a little. He picked at the cloth. A towel?

He sat up, hissing at the pull of skin on his chest. He flicked off the towel. A white patch was taped to his chest. What the—? He peeled back a corner of the bandage and caught a whiff of something disgusting. He scrunched his nose up. Ew. He could smell marigold, aloe vera, maybe jasmine and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but whatever it was, it smelled gross. He patted the tape back down. Someone had made him an herbal poultice to help heal his wound and limit infection and inflammation. He could think of only one person in the area that would have the plant knowledge for it, yet he couldn’t quite believe she’d do that for him, not after what he’d attempted to do to her. Where was she? He glanced around. He was alone on the beach, with just the waves to keep him company.

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.

No, damn it. She’d learned her lesson, and wasn’t prepared to make those same disastrous mistakes again. Ever.

She wound down the driver’s window, trying to get some fresh air, some snap to reality. Her car was so old it didn’t have air-conditioning. She lifted her chin as the wind ruffled her hair. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt and brine, and almost as though he had a homing device in her brain, her thoughts returned to the man on the beach.

She’d been shocked to see him collapse, and had reluctantly, cautiously approached him. She’d lightly kicked him, but he hadn’t stirred. She’d tentatively relaxed her shields and discovered he truly was unconscious. She couldn’t blame him. That branding—damn, that had stung like the bejeebus.

She should have left him there for the crabs, or for the tide. Her mouth tightened. When he’d been poised above her, ready to deliver the death strike, she’d sensed him.

He’d been fighting his own reluctance to kill her. She’d felt the burden of his duty, his responsibility to the Ancestors, to the covens. She’d sensed—of all things—his honor that gave him a core of steel. She’d felt his pain, too, over the killing, and his absolute commitment to delivering her to the Ancestors for her crimes, and his determination to save the vulnerable from her actions. Having all these emotions, the true metal of his character, she’d glimpsed something she wasn’t expecting. She’d seen beyond his actions, beyond his awareness, and she’d seen through the veil. She’d sensed the nothingness. No dark, no light, no pain...no emotion. She’d seen a glimpse of...peace. No emotions to dodge or defend herself from. No effort required to constantly shore up her defenses, to protect her own heart and mind from the pain of others. And for the briefest of moments, that oblivion seemed heaven-sent.

She’d spent so much energy shielding herself, the constant effort to mute the emotions of others on a daily basis was tiring. At that moment, when the veil parted, and time stood still for her, offering her a glimpse of what could be, she’d realized how alone she was, and how tired she was of playing at being someone else for those who thought they were closest to her, yet knew her not.

For that briefest of moments, she was ready to step through the veil into the Other Realm, and accept the solace it offered.

And then he’d received that bodyline text from the Ancestors, and she’d snapped out of it, thank goodness.

She was such a sucker. The guy had passed out on her after expending all that cosmic energy fighting her, and then enduring some epic pain, and what had she done? Checked on him. What a sap. She’d gone and made him a darn poultice for his wound. She’d even packed the sand into a pillow for him. She told herself it was to get back on the good side of the Ancestors, by looking after their Witch Hunter.

But she was an empath witch, and she didn’t have the luxury of being able to walk away from a person in pain without making some effort to help. That, and he was the Witch Hunter, for crying out loud. She couldn’t begin to imagine how pissed off the Ancestors would be if she turned her back on their warrior.

She sighed as she rounded a bend in the road. He certainly looked the part. Hard muscles, skin that was warm and smooth, and strong, handsome facial features. She was surprised the Ancestors had chosen such a hunk for their most difficult job. She’d always expected the Witch Hunter to be some twisted, not-so-attractive guy who looked on the outside as mean and harsh as she thought he’d have to be on the inside.

Only he hadn’t been mean and harsh on the inside. He’d been determined, yes, and ruthless to boot, but she’d sensed a surprising hint of fairness in him, and a heavy dose of honor. Surprising as she hadn’t expected to find either in the Ancestors’ assassin.

She turned off the highway, and after a short drive turned onto the street where Mary Anne Adler lived. She frowned at the flashing red-and-blue lights, and slowed to a stop when a county deputy held up his hand.

A man emerged from Mary Anne’s house, his hat in his hands, and the sheriff nodded when he saw Sully’s car. He trotted down the stairs and over to her car, and she propped her elbow on the window frame. She leaned her head out slightly to look up at him.

“Evening, Tyler.”

“Sully. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move on,” he said, resting his hand on the roof of her car.

She frowned, and picked up the boxes that sat on the passenger seat. “I’m here with some tea for Lucy and Mary Anne.” She knew Lucy and Gary had moved in with Mary Anne for a little while, to help her get her house ready for sale so that the older woman could downsize and move to a place closer to town.

The sheriff grimaced. “Well, Lucy’s in the back of an ambulance on her way to St. Michael’s Hospital,” he told her.

“Is she all right?” Sully asked, concerned, then realized what a stupid question that was. Of course the woman wasn’t all right. She was on her way to the hospital.

Tyler nodded. “She will be.”

“Uh, well, do you want me to stay with Mary Anne until she gets back home?” Sully offered. The poor woman had to be devastated by her son’s murder, and probably just a little anxious with her daughter-in-law being rushed to hospital.

Tyler’s face grew grim. “Mary Anne isn’t going to be needing your tea anymore, Sully. She died earlier tonight.”

Sully gaped, and sorrow pierced her from within. Mary Anne was a sweet lady. “Oh, no. That’s so sad. Gary’s death was too much for her, huh?”

Tyler shrugged. “We’ll never know. She was murdered.”

Sully blanched, stunned. “No.”

“Well, we’re still investigating, obviously, but from what I saw, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a suicide or an accident.”

Sully tilted her head against the backrest. “How—how did it...?” she couldn’t quite finish the sentence. How did Mary Anne die?

Tyler glanced back at the house. “I can’t say. Not yet.” He looked down at Sully. “But I will say this—go home and lock your doors. Stay safe.”

He tapped the roof of her car, then turned back to the Adler house. A deputy was unravelling yellow tape along the front veranda railing, and Sully’s blood cooled in her veins at the sight, and what it meant.

The Adler house was a crime scene. Sweet little Mary Anne had been murdered in her home. That woman was so lovely, Sully couldn’t imagine anyone having enough animosity, enough rage, to want to kill the older woman. And so soon after her son’s murder. Were they connected? She couldn’t quite believe that one murder had been committed in their sleepy little cove, let alone two. What were the odds that they were two separate, random acts? What were the odds they were connected? Poor Mary Anne. Sully shifted gears and reversed down the street until she could do a U-turn. It wasn’t until she was pulling into her darkened yard, with only the moonlight and the stars to illuminate her garden, that Tyler’s words really sank in.

Lock the doors. Stay safe.

What the hell kind of danger was out there? And why did he think it could visit her?

Chapter 5

Dave frowned at the Closed sign on the shop door. There was a lot of that going around Serenity Cove, today. He’d just tried to get some breakfast at the diner in town, only to find it was temporarily closed for business. He’d managed to find a burger joint down near Crescent Beach. He’d also found a bar, but it was too early to open.

He had not found a certain witch, though. He’d checked the beach he’d first seen her on, and then had taken the walk up the stairs to the top of the cliff. He’d found a cleared area at the top, and then a little road that led back to the highway. He’d found her home—her garden was very impressive, along with a little shed out the back. He hadn’t been able to find her, though.

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.

“It’s...complicated.”

She arched an eyebrow. Well, he guess she at least deserved a little bit of an explanation.

“I receive the name when a crime is committed, and I go hunt.” Simple, really.

She frowned as she glanced at his chest. “I saw...how.” Her voice was soft, confused. “I haven’t committed any of those crimes, though.”

His eyes narrowed at her word selection. Those crimes. Did that mean there were other crimes she had committed? He was getting curious about those coins she’d mentioned on the beach.

“It’s never happened before,” he admitted.

She frowned. “How can you be certain?”

Cold horror washed over him at the prospect. “Because I wouldn’t be able to continue,” he said roughly. The thought he could have killed other innocents...it would crush him. Cripple him. He shook his head. No. If that had been the case, the Ancestors would have yanked his ass into the Other Realm. The punishment for a Witch Hunter to break the laws they’ve sworn to uphold would be extreme, to say the least.

She folded her arms and strolled over toward another door he only just noticed. “Soooo,” she said slowly, “when a witch breaks one of the Three, they...brand you with that witch’s name, and you go hunt? Like a guard dog? Sic ‘em, Rex?”

He tilted his head. “Kind of...” he said slowly, hating the analogy, no matter how apt it seemed. She opened the door and entered what was a small kitchen, with a door leading to the backyard, and another that led to a small bathroom, and a door that led to what looked like an addition to the back of the house. Shop. Factory. Whatever the hell this place was. She crossed over to the stove and lit the stove, then placed a kettle on it.

“But how do you know you’re going after a witch for something serious? I mean, what if the Ancestors want you to just warn someone?” She reached up to a cupboard, and Dave’s gaze flicked down to where her loose blouse rose above the belt of her skirt. He wanted to focus on the gold skin of her back and side, but his eyes widened when he saw the decorative panel at the back of her belt, with two metal prongs that looked suspiciously like the hilts of the blades she’d used on him. How about that.

He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation, and he narrowed his eyes at her words. “Do you feel like you’ve needed to be warned about something, Sullivan?” What was this chick into?

“Sully,” she corrected him, then shook her head, her expression forced into something that almost looked innocent. “Uh, no. Not really. I just—I guess I never thought I’d ever have the opportunity to talk with the Witch Hunter, and I want to understand...how do you know you’re doing the right thing?”

Wow. She cut straight to the heart of his current doubts. He wanted to shrug it off with some sort of general comment, but Sullivan—no, Sully—deserved at least the truth from him, in all its unadorned, vicious glory.

“When a witch breaks one of the Three,” he said, referring to the Three Immutable Laws of Witchcraft—never draw on nature’s power to provoke another to an unlawful act—never seek power through the suffering of others, and never draw on nature’s power for personal gain at the expense of another’s well-being, “I am delivered their name, and I see their crime.”

She frowned. “You see the crime?” Her face relaxed into something he could only call sympathy. “That’s got to be hard.” She turned as the kettle whistled, and lifted it off the stove. She pulled down a tin and spooned tea into two strainers and popped them into the ceramic mugs she’d pulled from the cupboard.

He was glad he was wearing his sunglasses, and could hide is surprise as she made the tea. He hadn’t told anyone about that before, and it was difficult to broach such a personal subject. He’d never expected to feel sympathy directed toward him over it, but she was right. It was hard. There were some things you just couldn’t unsee. Some crimes—especially the kids, damn it. He swallowed as he shut down that line of memory. He’d seen his own kind do terrible, horrible, heinous things. He’d seen them do great things, too, but when dealing with the dregs, you started to feel like you were covered in the muck, and it was all you generally got to see.

He cleared his throat. “I see the crimes, so I know what they’ve done, and generally where I can find them.”

Her hands halted, and she slowly turned to face him, her face showing her confusion, and perhaps a hint of nervousness. “What did you see me do?”

He reached for one of the mugs—he couldn’t quite believe the woman he’d tried to kill the day before was calmly making him tea in her kitchen.

His lips quirked. Sully Timmerman was proving to be an unexpected intrigue, on so many levels. “I didn’t see you.”

She frowned, confused. “Then why come after me?”

He sighed. “Usually, I see the crime through the killer’s eyes, and can be with them for as long as it takes to identify them, or their whereabouts. This time I got neither.”

Her frown deepened as her confusion did, and he leaned against the doorjamb. “I saw what Sullivan Timmerman did. Not you, this...monster. I saw—” he hesitated. It was one thing for him to witness these horrendous acts, he didn’t need to spread that taint to this woman.

Her brow eased. “It’s okay. You can’t surprise me.”

His mouth tightened. “Oh, I think I can.”

“I think I have a right to know what I was accused of, don’t you?” Her tone was gentle, yet with a core of steel-like implacability. She wasn’t about to be fobbed off with half-truths and generalizations. She wanted—and deserved—the facts.

“I see through the witch’s eyes,” he explained. “So I see what they do. I saw someone get stabbed, and some ritualistic markings, the drinking of blood...”

She shuddered. “Yeah, well, I didn’t do any of that. What did this witch look like?”

Dave grimaced, then sipped his tea. “That’s the problem. Usually I can stay with the witch until he or she looks in the mirror, or passes a window, and I can see their reflection. Usually I get to see the neighborhood, some more of the crime scene, enough to establish their location... This time I got bumped.”

“Bumped?”

He took another sip, nodding. Once the dam broke, it felt easier to talk, easier to explain. There was something surprisingly relaxing about Sully Timmerman. “Bumped. He—or she—drank the blood, said a spell and bam, I was out of there.”

“So you didn’t get to see this witch’s face, or where they were?”

“I saw an alley, I saw a sign on a building—Mack’s Gym, by the way—and I had the name.”

Sully’s mouth pouted as she mulled over his words. “Mack’s Gym is in the next town...” Then she shook her head. “But I don’t understand. My name?”

He nodded. “Yep. Sullivan Timmerman.” He frowned, then glanced down at the tea. “What’s in this?” He was finding it too easy to talk.

“Oh, it’s just a little lavender, lemon balm, a tidge of nutmeg...”

His eyes narrowed. “Antianxiety?” Most of those ingredients were relaxants.

She shrugged. “A calmative. I thought you could use it.”

He had to admit, it worked. He’d come here with his gut roiling, concerned about how she’d receive him, whether she’d hear him out...whether she’d forgive him. But...how did she know? Realization dawned, and he put the mug down.

“You’re an empath.” It wasn’t a question. Everything added up. She’d made him a poultice to ease his pain and help him heal, had made him as comfortable as possible on his bed of sand and had displayed an unexpected insight to his turmoil—accepting he had a job to do.

She stepped back, her skirt moving around her legs as she did so, her movement was so sudden. “What—what makes you say that?” she asked cautiously. Warily.

He eyed the increased distance that now separated them. He’d spooked her, somehow. He shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “Oh, just putting the pieces together. I don’t know how many witches would patch me up, hear me out and make me tea after I’ve tried to kill them.” She was a sweetheart. She’d tried to ease his pain, and ease his guilt.

She frowned as she crossed to the sink—putting even more distance between them. “That’s quite a stretch. Maybe I’m just a sucker for a bad boy.”

His lips quirked. As tempting as the suggestion was, he doubted it. He edged a little closer, and put his own mug in the sink, managing to hem her in at the same time. Sully paused, her gaze on the mug he still clasped. “Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong, Sully,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward. “I can be very, very good.”

Sully lifted her gaze from the large hand that made her mug look like a kid’s tea party toy, up the corded forearm, over the bulging bicep, the edge of the dark tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his fresh black T-shirt, and across the broad shoulder and torso to the strong column of his throat. She swallowed, hesitating, before lifting it farther. The man had a great jaw. Strong, defined, with just the right dusting of hair that made you want to reach and stroke it. Was he—was the Witch Hunter flirting with her? His lips curled up at one end, a sexy little smile that made heat bloom tight and low in her stomach. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, couldn’t see whether he was flirting, teasing, or just making an observation. And she desperately wanted to see his eyes.

The fact that she couldn’t was frustrating, and just a little unnerving. She could relax her shields, get a sense of what he was feeling, but that method was fraught with risks. Risks she’d learned long ago weren’t worth it, and she should have the sense to know better.

She stepped back, clearing her throat. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said softly.

He tilted his head, and she tried to keep her expression impassive. Aloof. That’s what she was going for, here. Distant. Cool. He was the Witch Hunter, tracking down a murderous wi—she frowned.

“I want to help,” she blurted.

His eyebrows rose over his sunglasses. “What?”

“There is a witch out there murdering in my name. I want to help you catch him. Her. Whatever.”

He shook his head, backing up a little. “Sorry, sweetness. No can do.”

Funny. He didn’t sound apologetic at all. She put her hands on her hips. “I insist. You said Mack’s Gym. That’s local. You’ll need someone with local knowledge to help you. I can do that.”

He shook his head. “I work alone.”

“And look where it got you,” she said, gesturing to herself.

“Hey, that was an honest mistake,” he said in faint protest.

“One that you should avoid making again,” she said primly. “Let me help.”

“Not happening.”

She stepped closer. “Someone is using my name—”

“It could be just as much his as it is yours,” he pointed out.

“I can tell you now, there is no other person in the county with my name,” she informed him. “But this person even has the Ancestors confused,” she told him, her tone serious.

This time Dave stepped closer toward her, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze through his sunglasses. “The term is Witch Hunter—not hunters,” he told her roughly. “We don’t buddy up on a job. This is something I’ve got to do on my own, Sully. You haven’t seen what this person is capable of. I have. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

“But this is my name, Dave,” she protested.

“And I will get him,” he assured her, “and you will stay far away from this matter, and be safe.”

She opened her mouth to protest further, then halted when he stepped closer and cupped her cheek. Sensation. Heat. Desire. Protectiveness. Everything bombarded her, leaving her trying to catch her balance. Her shields. It was like he could pierce her shields with just a touch, invading both her personal and mental spaces. She tried to shore them up, but no matter how many times she tried erecting them, his presence kept swamping her.

“I owe you one, Sully,” he told her seriously, his voice low. “What I did, I have to make it up to you. I’m granting you a favor.”

A flare of forthrightness, a heavy dose of resolve, washed over her. “A favor,” she repeated.

He nodded. “I happen to take debts very seriously. I owe you.”

Well, she didn’t think he owed her anything, but if this was important to him, she wasn’t above using it. Warm promise. Integrity.

“Great. Let me—”

He placed a finger on her lips, and again, sensations rolled through her, her senses awakening to him, overriding her personal shields. She could feel his determination, his dedication—and his resistance. And something else. Something... Oh. Desire. She trembled, feeling a reciprocal flare of attraction.

“I have to find this witch,” he murmured, “and I will not endanger you. This favor I grant you is for your use, at a time of your choosing, but I will never let you use it to put yourself in danger. Do you understand?”

His voice was so deep, so low. His expression was grim, intent. She stared up at his sunglasses, stunned by the sincerity, the commitment behind his words. “Uh, yes.” She whispered the words against his finger.

“You need anything, you call for me.”

She nodded slowly.

“I’ll come for you. This is my promise to you.” He said the words like a vow, conveying a determination that was...well, knee-weakening.

He dipped his head once in acknowledgment. His finger trailed across her lips. It was as though every cell in her body awakened and paused in anticipation. He brushed his finger first over her top lip, then across the bottom, pressing it down gently. Her mouth parted, and he lowered his head, removing his finger as his lips pressed against hers.

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