Читать книгу Witch Hunter - Shannon Curtis - Страница 11

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.