Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis
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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 full height, and she could see his wound was already beginning to heal, the lettering darkening to a semblance of what she’d assume would become a tattoo that matched the rest of the markings on his body.
He touched his abdomen and dipped his head. “I have made a grave mistake. My duty is not with you. Please forgive me, Sullivan Timmerman.”
His apology was sincere, his gestures faintly noble. Courtly. His earnestness was almost tangible, along with a profound sense of guilt, of sadness and of dismayed shock. And pain.
“For—forgive you?” she responded, her mouth slack.
She’d practically begged him to kill her.
Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed. “Screw you, Witch Hunter.”
She backed away from him, then turned and headed toward the cliff stairs. He’d tried to kill her, and normally she wouldn’t be turning her back on a man who’d just tried to kill her, but she’d felt his remorse, his guilt. His exhaustion. He wouldn’t come after her again.
“I’m so sorry,” he called after her. She didn’t look back as she flipped him the bird, then realized she still carried her blades. She slid them into the slim-line sheath that formed part of her belt, and it wasn’t until she put her foot on the bottom step that she realized she’d left her flip-flops behind.
She glanced back at the beach in frustration, just in time to see the Witch Hunter drop to his knees, then collapse on the sand, his unconscious body an inert dark form on the sand.
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