Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis

with his heel.

      Kill one Sullivan Timmerman, then make it up to the other Sullivan Timmerman. He’d better get busy.

      Sully boxed up the teas she’d cut for Lucy and Mary Anne Adler. She realized her hands were trembling, and she curled her fingers over. Tears formed in her eyes. She’d been ready to die.

      She blinked, sniffing, as she gathered the boxes and grabbed her satchel. She wasn’t going to think about it. Nope. She was going to be a good little witch and completely ignore the ramifications of this afternoon’s incident. She wasn’t going to think about that moment when his body lay across hers. She should have felt threatened, frightened, but she felt—nope. Not going there.

      She hesitated at the front door, gazing out at the sea that reflected the light of the moon and stars. From this point she couldn’t see directly down to the beach. She’d have to walk to the edge of the headland to be able to do that.

      She wasn’t going to walk anywhere near the headland at the moment. What if he was still there?

      Well, it would serve him right. She slammed the door closed behind her and stalked over to her car. The guy had tried to kill her.

       He was just doing his duty.

      Screw duty. The man was the Witch Hunter. She climbed into her car and started the engine, reversing out of the drive. All coven children were taught about the Witch Hunter. Much like the bogeyman, the Witch Hunter was someone to fear, someone who would come after you if you did something wrong. You never knew what the Witch Hunter looked like—only that he was out there, and ready to hunt you down if you so much as hinted at violating the universal laws of the covens. Witchery lore claimed there were Witch Hunters in every generation, chosen by the Ancestors, and assigned with the duty of preserving nature’s balance. Only a hunted witch could recognize the Witch Hunter for who he—or she—was.

      No wonder he’d seemed “familiar”.

      She drove down the dark road. Her cottage was the last one in a street of four, with a considerable distance between neighbors. They had no streetlights, and the real estate agent who’d handled the sale had told her to be thankful she had indoor plumbing, a landline and electricity. Cell phone reception kind of sucked, though. With the expanse of the ocean on three sides, the nearest cell tower was quite a distance away. She had to go into town to her shop to get access to the internet, and even there connectivity was a little spotty.

      She still couldn’t believe it. The Witch Hunter had come after her. She shook her head as she turned left onto the coast road. The only crime she committed was a pesky little Reform one, and not one against an individual, a coven, or nature. Why the hell were the Ancestors upset by a little coin-making? Sure, counterfeiting was slightly illegal, but it was all to help others, so really they should be proud of her, right? Witches blurred the legal lines often, with the making of potions and toxins, and spells designed to reveal or conceal...but she’d never used nature’s power to provoke another to an unlawful act, nor had she sought power through the suffering of others, or personal or financial gain at the risk of another. Those were pretty much the deal breakers with the Ancestors, and as far as she was concerned, she’d done neither.

       You’re not the right one.

      She frowned. The Ancestors had gotten it wrong...she grimaced at the memory of the lettering blazing across the man’s chest. That had looked painful. Oh, not the chest. No, the chest had looked damn fine, actually. All those glorious muscles... She shook her head. She was lusting after a guy who’d tried to kill her. She thought she was better than that, now. That she’d grown some insight, maybe even some self-respect and dignity. She needed her head examined. Or to get laid. She preferred...neither. She hadn’t had a companion since she’d left the West Coast and arrived in Serenity Cove four years ago. If she thought the Witch Hunter was a long drink of sex on the beach, it was either too long between lovers, or she really hadn’t experienced the personal growth she’d fooled herself into thinking she had.

      No, damn it. She’d learned her lesson, and wasn’t prepared to make those same disastrous mistakes again. Ever.

      She wound down the driver’s window, trying to get some fresh air, some snap to reality. Her car was so old it didn’t have air-conditioning. She lifted her chin as the wind ruffled her hair. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt and brine, and almost as though he had a homing device in her brain, her thoughts returned to the man on the beach.

      She’d been shocked to see him collapse, and had reluctantly, cautiously approached him. She’d lightly kicked him, but he hadn’t stirred. She’d tentatively relaxed her shields and discovered he truly was unconscious. She couldn’t blame him. That branding—damn, that had stung like the bejeebus.

      She should have left him there for the crabs, or for the tide. Her mouth tightened. When he’d been poised above her, ready to deliver the death strike, she’d sensed him.

      He’d been fighting his own reluctance to kill her. She’d felt the burden of his duty, his responsibility to the Ancestors, to the covens. She’d sensed—of all things—his honor that gave him a core of steel. She’d felt his pain, too, over the killing, and his absolute commitment to delivering her to the Ancestors for her crimes, and his determination to save the vulnerable from her actions. Having all these emotions, the true metal of his character, she’d glimpsed something she wasn’t expecting. She’d seen beyond his actions, beyond his awareness, and she’d seen through the veil. She’d sensed the nothingness. No dark, no light, no pain...no emotion. She’d seen a glimpse of...peace. No emotions to dodge or defend herself from. No effort required to constantly shore up her defenses, to protect her own heart and mind from the pain of others. And for the briefest of moments, that oblivion seemed heaven-sent.

      She’d spent so much energy shielding herself, the constant effort to mute the emotions of others on a daily basis was tiring. At that moment, when the veil parted, and time stood still for her, offering her a glimpse of what could be, she’d realized how alone she was, and how tired she was of playing at being someone else for those who thought they were closest to her, yet knew her not.

      For that briefest of moments, she was ready to step through the veil into the Other Realm, and accept the solace it offered.

      And then he’d received that bodyline text from the Ancestors, and she’d snapped out of it, thank goodness.

      She was such a sucker. The guy had passed out on her after expending all that cosmic energy fighting her, and then enduring some epic pain, and what had she done? Checked on him. What a sap. She’d gone and made him a darn poultice for his wound. She’d even packed the sand into a pillow for him. She told herself it was to get back on the good side of the Ancestors, by looking after their Witch Hunter.

      But she was an empath witch, and she didn’t have the luxury of being able to walk away from a person in pain without making some effort to help. That, and he was the Witch Hunter, for crying out loud. She couldn’t begin to imagine how pissed off the Ancestors would be if she turned her back on their warrior.

      She sighed as she rounded a bend in the road. He certainly looked the part. Hard muscles, skin that was warm and smooth, and strong, handsome facial features. She was surprised the Ancestors had chosen such a hunk for their most difficult job. She’d always expected the Witch Hunter to be some twisted, not-so-attractive guy who looked on the outside as mean and harsh as she thought he’d have to be on the inside.

      Only he hadn’t been mean and harsh on the inside. He’d been determined, yes, and ruthless to boot, but she’d sensed a surprising hint of fairness in him, and a heavy dose of honor. Surprising as she hadn’t expected to find either in the Ancestors’ assassin.

      She turned off the highway, and after a short drive turned onto the street where Mary Anne Adler lived. She frowned at the flashing red-and-blue lights, and slowed to a stop when a county deputy held up his hand.

      A man emerged from Mary Anne’s house, his hat in his hands, and the sheriff nodded when he saw Sully’s car. He trotted down the stairs and over to her car, and she propped her elbow