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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 (#u48532d1a-bfa7-5838-ab1a-492d27a926ae)
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.
