Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis
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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