Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis
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cream and sugar she offered.
“Who?” the sheriff asked. This time his tone wasn’t so casual or conversational.
“Tyler,” Cheryl chided. “Be nice to our visitor.”
“No, it’s okay,” Dave said. If there had been a murder, this officer would know about it—had to, in a place as small as Serenity Cove. He needed information from the man, and he didn’t want to seem threatening or dangerous, because that would lead to an entirely different conversation.
“I’m looking for a friend,” Dave said, flashing a smile at the sheriff in an effort to appear friendly. “I was in the area, so I thought I’d catch up.”
“You have a friend?” the older man sitting at a booth near the door piped up. “Here?”
Dave kept his face impassive. Was the guy surprised at the idea of him having a friend in Serenity Cove or having a friend at all? “Yeah.”
“Who?” Cheryl asked as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t bother to hide her curiosity.
“Sullivan Timmerman.”
Cheryl’s eyes widened. “You know Sully?” her expression was incredulous as she looked him up and down.
“How do you know Sully?” the sheriff asked, his brow dipping.
Sully, huh? Dave took a moment to slip a bit of the peach pie into his mouth as he thought about his response. He always had an explanation ready for barflies, but talking with law enforcement required finesse and strategy. He swallowed the mouthful of pie—and Cheryl was right, it was pretty good.
“Are you an old boyfriend?” the older guy in the booth asked.
Dave coughed into the coffee mug he held to his lips. Boyfriend? Sullivan Timmerman had boyfriends?
“We went to school together,” he responded cautiously once he’d cleared his throat. He hoped to hell Timmerman hadn’t gone to school around here, although the information he’d found online suggested probably not. Timmerman had set up his business four years ago, but he hadn’t been able to find any mention of the guy in the local schools’ hall of fame lists for athletics or other clubs.
“Did you date?” Cheryl asked, waggling her eyebrows.
“Uh...” He ate some more pie as he thought of an appropriate response.
“What’s that about Sully?” the old lady called out, cupping her hand to her ear.
“This guy used to date Sully,” the guy in the booth yelled back.
“Why do you hate Sully?” the woman asked, horrified.
Dave blinked as Cheryl leaned over the counter. “Date, Mrs. Peterson. Date.”
“Oh.” The old woman looked him up and down, then raised her eyebrows. “You don’t say.”
“You just missed her,” Cheryl told him, then waved toward the door. “She left about five minutes ago.”
Her. Her. He dipped his head for a moment. Phew. Then he frowned. He’d somehow felt a masculine energy in his vision and had assumed he was looking for a man. In his line of work, he couldn’t rest on assumptions. The radio on the sheriff’s hip squawked, and the man sighed as he levered himself off the chair.
“Gotta go.” He grabbed his hat off the seat next to him and put it on his head. “How long are you intending to stay in Serenity Cove?” he asked Dave.
Dave waved a hand. “Oh, I’m only passing through.” This kind of job never took long.
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