Witch Hunter
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Shannon Curtis
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Chapter 1
“Why do you have so many tattoos?”
Dave lifted the tip of his needle from his client’s inner wrist and gently dabbed at the skin. The woman was looking up at the ceiling, and she was exhaling slowly through her lips, as though trying not to flinch. Scream. Pee. Puke. Whatever.
“I’m a tattoo artist. Perks of the job.” He eyed the intricate linework he’d inked onto her wrist. He just needed to close the top of the loop of one twist of the knot, and he was finished.
He dabbed at the skin again. He was only doing a simple line tattoo for this woman. It was her first tattoo, and she didn’t think she could stand a lot of shading. He had to agree. The whole time she’d breathed as though she was in a Lamaze class. He was surprised she hadn’t hyperventilated.
“I can’t quite make it out...?” Her tone was raised in query.
He leaned forward, gently pressing his foot on the pedal, and the woman snapped her gaze from the mark on his arm to the ceiling again. The skin on his left breast itched.
Damn.
“I can, and that’s what matters,” he said, smiling at the woman as he carefully pressed the needle against her skin. He focused intently, despite the itch that was getting more annoying—and bound to become more so.
He worked as quickly as he could, his lips tightening as the itch became warm. He didn’t have long.
“Are you sure you can see with those glasses on?” The woman bit her lip as he wiped petroleum jelly across her wrist to hydrate the skin, and then pressed the needle against her, concentrating on drawing out the ink.
“I’m nearly finished and you’re asking me that now?” Dave raised an eyebrow, but didn’t stop his work. The itch began to heat. Sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and he worked faster, gritting his teeth at the burn.
He finished the line perfectly, closing the loop and preventing any breach to the protection spell he’d drawn into her tattoo.
“Right, that’s done,” he rasped, reaching for the antiseptic liquid soap on his table. He washed her skin and gently held her arm so that she could see the intricate linework. It looked like a delicate lace band around her wrist.
“And this will stop him...?” she asked tentatively.
He nodded. “He won’t be able to raise his hand against you.” He worked quickly, placing low adherent bandages over her new tattoo and taping them carefully into place. “Leave those on for about twenty-four hours—or until tomorrow morning at the earliest. It will probably look shiny and gross—don’t worry, that’s normal.” Damn, what had started as an itch now felt like someone was directing a heat lamp on his chest. “Shower and soap it up—antiseptic soap only, nothing scented, and for God’s sake, no scrubs, and don’t scratch it.”
Ow. Crap. The burn! He’d run out of time.
He reached over with his left hand to pick up a flyer he’d had printed. “Here are the instructions for aftercare, call me if you need anything and leave your money on the counter on the way out.”
He rose from his wheeled stool, and she gaped at him, her gaze dropping to his torso. “Hey, are you all rig—?”
“Fine,” he said brusquely, leaving his room and jogging down the hall. He flung open a door marked Private and ran down the metal stairs to the apartment below his tattoo parlor, below street level. He raised his hand, pushing the door at the bottom of the stairs open with his magic, and then flicking it closed behind him. He jogged down the rock-hewn corridor to the door to his private quarters, and thrust it open, kicking it closed behind him, swearing in a soft hiss as he pulled the fabric of his gray T-shirt away from the blooming stain over his left pectoral muscle. He lifted the garment over his head, moving his left arm gingerly as he removed the T-shirt.
He always left the lamp next to his armchair on in his subterranean quarters, and it gave out a low, warm light. At the moment, it was just enough light to show him the damage.
The skin on his breast was blistered, bleeding. He sucked in and held his breath, trying not to yell or scream as it happened again.
The marking glowed as it seared into his skin, and he gritted his teeth, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as his skin was branded. The name was scorched into the very fiber of his being, and he let out a soft, pained growl as the searing seemed to continue forever. He started breathing like his recent client, short hitched gasps that stopped him from crying like a baby. The heat, the pain—it was excruciating, and left him temporarily powerless until the etching was complete.
He opened his eyes and stared at the bare-chested figure in the mirror on the wall by the door. The glow was beginning to darken, and he tried to slow his breathing down as the mark was completed, the wound glistening with his blood. He swallowed, his shoulders sagging.
Christ. That was a long name.
He stumbled closer to the mirror, and tilted his head to the side as he translated the script. S. U. double letters...more double letters. He turned back to the natural-edged hardwood table that was his dining table, kitchen prep, spellcasting, office desk and anything else he thought to use it for. He grabbed the pencil and notepad, then turned back to the mirror.
S.U.L.L... He jotted down the letters, gaze flicking between the notepad and the mirror, until he was sure he’d gotten it right—because he sure as hell couldn’t get this wrong. Of course, it would be much easier if the Ancestors would try scripting their messages in English, and not in a language that hadn’t been spoken in seven hundred years.
He held the paper in front of him and closely compared the lettering. Yep, he was right.
It was damn long name.
Sullivan Timmerman.
Dave’s lips tightened. So what was Timmerman’s crime?
He removed the sunglasses he always wore and took a deep breath.
“Sullivan Timmerman.”
Bright light lanced his vision, and then all of a sudden he could see not his rock-walled apartment beneath his tattoo parlor, but a dark alley instead, as he gazed through Timmerman’s eyes. He gazed down at the body he knelt over, and removed the blade from the man’s heart. Dave watched as gloved hands picked up the limp right wrist and used the intricately carved blade to incise a rough X into the skin, and held a—Dave squinted—a horn?
Timmerman drained some blood into the horn and—Dave’s stomach heaved as the killer drank the blood. He couldn’t hear the words that were uttered, but the X on the wrist turned an inky black—and then Dave’s vision went dark, and he blinked, his vision clearing to reveal his dim apartment.
What the—how had Timmerman kicked him out? He was usually able to piggyback on the vision of the killer until he could identify his location. This time, though, Timmerman had consumed the blood, said a few words and then blocked him.
Dave pressed his lips together. It was easy to see the witch was using dark magic, and he’d taken a life. No wonder the Ancestors had assigned him a new target.
Well, tracking the damned was part of his job, and he was good at it. He’d start looking—right after he’d patched himself up. He winced as he looked down at the brand that was already beginning to heal. Damn. It was over his heart, too. He shook his head as he stalked over to his bathroom door. The Ancestors didn’t seem to care where he got the message, as long as he got it. Well, he’d received it, loud and clear.
He had a witch to kill.
Sully Timmerman glanced cautiously about the schoolroom.
“Relax, Sully. The kids are having their lunch outside,” Jenny Forsyth said with a smile as she set out test papers on the students’ desks.
“The day I relax is the day I get caught,” Sully said, then smiled as she leaned her hip against the teacher’s desk. “How are the munchkins?”
Jenny smiled. “They’re good, right now. They don’t know they have a math test this afternoon.”
Sully grinned. “You are such a cruel woman.”
“And you love it.” Jenny put the paper on the last desk, then strolled toward the front of the classroom. “How is work going?”
Sully nodded. “It’s slowly picking up. I have a delivery in the car for the diner, and it looks like the mayor’s wife wants a new set of cutlery for their anniversary.”
“Cutlery? For an anniversary?”
“Twenty-five years, silver.” Sully shrugged. “Hey, it’s an order, so I’m happy.” Being a cutler was a dying art. There were so many cheaper options for pretty cutlery in a home, but Sully’s reputation as a master cutler was finally beginning to bring in some new business, and now that she had a website, she was getting orders coming in from all over the place. She glanced at her watch and winced. “I’d better get going. I want to get Lucy in between the lunch and dinner rush.”
She picked up her satchel, and the not-so-subtle clink reminded her of the unofficial delivery in her bag. “Oops, nearly forgot.”
She pulled the heavy cloth bag out of her satchel, and set it down on Jenny’s desk with a dull chink. “Better find a good place for this lot.”
Jenny’s eyebrows rose as she undid the drawstring and peered inside. She whistled. “Wow. That is a lot of silver dollars. That will help quite a few families,” she said quietly. She lifted her gaze to Sully’s. “You take a big risk, you know.”
Sully shrugged. “Hey, every little bit counts, right? It’s not much, but if it helps, than that’s the main thing.” She was satisfied with this particular delivery. She’d counterfeited over two thousand dollars, this time, and that bag contained only about half that. Jenny would make sure it got to those who most needed it. This null community was struggling, more so than most, and if the offcuts from the pieces she made could help put food on the table for some of these people, then the risk was worth it. She pulled her strap up over her shoulder as the school bell chimed outside, signaling the end of the lunch play period. “Now, hide it, or we’ll both be in trouble.”
Jenny opened her desk drawer and dropped the bag inside as the door to the classroom burst open, and her students swarmed inside. Their eyes brightened when they saw Sully, and she was nearly bowled over when the twenty or so seven-year-olds rushed to her. She hugged as many as she could as she made her way through the throng to the door.
“Hey, Sully, you want to join us next month for the school fete?” Jenny called.
The school fete was scheduled to coincide with the Harvest Moon Festival. Sully turned as the kids cheered, and she folded her arms and frowned. “I don’t know. Is it worth it, Noah?” she looked at the young red-haired boy, who nodded, his blue eyes bright. Noah’s mother, Susanne, was another of Sully’s friends.
“It is, Sully. We’ve got rides and donkeys.”
Sully’s eyebrows rose. “Donkeys?” She glanced over at Jenny.
“Petting zoo,” Jenny explained. She leaned closer. “Jacob will be there, too.”
Sully shot her friend an exasperated look. Jenny had been trying to fix her up with her brother since she’d moved to Serenity Cove, and to date Sully had successfully avoided the hookup. Jacob was nice—good-looking, too, but she just wasn’t interested. In anyone. She turned back to Noah.
“Donkeys, huh? Oh, well, I’ll have to come for that.” She winked at him. “Tell your mom hi from me.” She waved to the kids as she closed the door behind her, grinning. A day surrounded by nulls? Yes, please.
She strode out of the two-story building that was elementary, middle and high school to the resident null community, and over to her beat-up sky blue station wagon. She sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, enjoying the peace, the quiet. All the kids were back in class, but she was still close enough she was affected by their presence.
She closed her eyes. She was surrounded by...nothing. It was so beautiful. Dark. Silent. Peaceful. It was the absence, the void, that embraced her, and she loved it. She knew most witches avoided nulls like a hex, but she found there was a tranquility in their presence that she couldn’t find anywhere else.
She opened her eyes, and shored up her shields, making sure that there were no cracks, no fractures in her defenses. When she was satisfied her mental walls were strong, and no light could cut through, she started her engine and drove the ten minutes into Serenity Cove.
She pulled the box out from the back of her car, lifting the tailgate with her hip. She didn’t bother winding up the window or locking it. Anybody with half a mind to steal her car must be desperate, and welcome to it. Besides, everyone in town knew this was her car, and you didn’t steal from a witch. The resulting curse wasn’t worth it.
She walked up the steps to the Brewhaus Diner, and her flip-flops made a smacking sound on the veranda. She pushed through the door and the tinkling sound of the bell above the door brought an almost instinctive response as she stepped inside. She put a smile on her face as she ignored muffled emotions knocking at her protective walls.
Cheryl Conners, the waitress, was hiding her hurt that Sheriff Clinton was absorbed in his phone and not her. Sheriff Clinton was worried—but that seemed to be his default setting. Harold’s gout was troubling him, Graham, the cook, was tired and his feet hurt, Mrs. Peterson was fighting off a strong cold, and Lucy—
Sully halted at the diner counter. Lucy wasn’t happy. No, she was...heartbroken. She couldn’t see the woman, but she could feel her pain—and that was with her shields up.
She placed the box on the counter and looked over at Cheryl as the waitress walked over to her.
“I’m here to see Lucy,” Sully said softly. She glanced toward the swing door that led to the kitchen and the office beyond. “Is she okay?”
Cheryl shook her head. “She got some bad news.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the sheriff. “They found Gary’s body last night.”
Sully gasped, then lifted her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.”
Gary Adler was the coach over at the null comprehensive school, and Lucy’s longtime boyfriend. No wonder the woman emitted the feel of devastation.
Sully patted the box on the counter. “Look, I’ll leave these here, we can talk about sorting stuff out later. She’s got enough on her plate, tell her not to worry about this. We can talk when she’s ready, but don’t stress over it.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “When is the funeral?”
“Won’t be for a few days, yet,” Sheriff Clinton said, glancing up from his phone. “We’ve got to wait for the autopsy.”
Sully nodded. Gary had watched what he ate, exercised regularly, and apart from that one Christmas festival, didn’t drink much. She wasn’t aware of him suffering from any illness. They’d have to do an autopsy to find out what had made a relatively healthy man drop dead.
“Any ideas what the cause was?” she asked the sheriff.
He grimaced. “We’re guessing it was the stab wound to the heart that did it.”
Cheryl’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Sully’s eyes widened. “Are you saying he was murdered?”
“Well, it didn’t look like he fell on the knife, or stabbed himself,” the sheriff commented dryly.
“Oh, no, poor Lucy,” Sully murmured. “I’ll go home and put together a tea for her.” She nodded to herself. “I should go visit with Gary’s mother, too.” Gary’s mother lived in a tiny cottage on the northern tip of the seaside town, along with the bulk of the null community. “She’ll be devastated.”
Sheriff Clinton nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure Mary Anne would appreciate a visit, but I don’t think a tea will help her.”
Sully smiled sadly. “Not in the usual way, but herbs can still affect a Null, just like any other person, and there’s always a little comfort to be found in a shared brew.”
She waved briefly to the sheriff and Cheryl, and was nearly at the door when she snapped her fingers. She walked back over to Mrs. Peterson, and gently placed her hand over the older woman’s.
“How are you, Mrs. Peterson?” she asked loudly so the woman could hear.
“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Peterson leaned forward.
“I said, how are you?” Sully said as loud as she could without shouting at the woman.
She opened her shield a crack and pulled in some of the pain she could sense in the swollen knuckles, and fed some warmth through in return, laced with a little calm.
The older woman’s face creased like a scrunched-up piece of paper when she smiled up at Sully.
“I’m doing well, Sully,” she said in her wavery voice.
“You’re looking nice today. I like your dress,” Sully said, gently patting the back of the woman’s hand. She could already sense the easing of tension in the old woman as her arthritic pain subsided.
“What mess?” Mrs. Peterson glanced down in confusion at the table.
“Your dress,” Sully repeated. “I like your dress.” Pity she couldn’t do anything about the woman’s hearing—but she was an empath witch, not a god.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Peterson said, and her face scrunched up even further as her smile broadened.
Sully nodded and winked, then turned in the direction of the door, cradling her hand on the top of her satchel. She closed her mental walls, ensuring nothing else leaked in she wasn’t ready for. She walked on toward the door and waved at Harold when he signaled her. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you something back later, too, Harold.” She wagged a finger at him. “But you really do need to lay off the shellfish.”
She pushed through the door, her smile tightening as the pain in her hand throbbed. Poor Mrs. Peterson. That really was a painful condition.
She skipped down the steps and dusted her hands as she walked to her car. To anyone else it looked like she was shaking black pepper off her hands as she discarded the pain she’d drawn in from Mrs. Peterson.
She considered the teas she’d make for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler as she climbed into her car. Lemon balm, linden and motherwort, she decided. They each had a calming effect, and the motherwort would be especially helpful with the heartache and grief. She waited for a motorcycle to turn across the intersection in front of her, and then pulled out. She sighed. Poor Gary. Murdered. Who would do such a thing?
