Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis
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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.
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