Читать книгу Witch Hunter - Shannon Curtis - Страница 10

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.