Читать книгу Witch Hunter - Shannon Curtis - Страница 13

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.