Читать книгу Witch Hunter - Shannon Curtis - Страница 12

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?