Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis

      He cleared his throat. “I see the crimes, so I know what they’ve done, and generally where I can find them.”

      Her hands halted, and she slowly turned to face him, her face showing her confusion, and perhaps a hint of nervousness. “What did you see me do?”

      He reached for one of the mugs—he couldn’t quite believe the woman he’d tried to kill the day before was calmly making him tea in her kitchen.

      His lips quirked. Sully Timmerman was proving to be an unexpected intrigue, on so many levels. “I didn’t see you.”

      She frowned, confused. “Then why come after me?”

      He sighed. “Usually, I see the crime through the killer’s eyes, and can be with them for as long as it takes to identify them, or their whereabouts. This time I got neither.”

      Her frown deepened as her confusion did, and he leaned against the doorjamb. “I saw what Sullivan Timmerman did. Not you, this...monster. I saw—” he hesitated. It was one thing for him to witness these horrendous acts, he didn’t need to spread that taint to this woman.

      Her brow eased. “It’s okay. You can’t surprise me.”

      His mouth tightened. “Oh, I think I can.”

      “I think I have a right to know what I was accused of, don’t you?” Her tone was gentle, yet with a core of steel-like implacability. She wasn’t about to be fobbed off with half-truths and generalizations. She wanted—and deserved—the facts.

      “I see through the witch’s eyes,” he explained. “So I see what they do. I saw someone get stabbed, and some ritualistic markings, the drinking of blood...”

      She shuddered. “Yeah, well, I didn’t do any of that. What did this witch look like?”

      Dave grimaced, then sipped his tea. “That’s the problem. Usually I can stay with the witch until he or she looks in the mirror, or passes a window, and I can see their reflection. Usually I get to see the neighborhood, some more of the crime scene, enough to establish their location... This time I got bumped.”

      “Bumped?”

      He took another sip, nodding. Once the dam broke, it felt easier to talk, easier to explain. There was something surprisingly relaxing about Sully Timmerman. “Bumped. He—or she—drank the blood, said a spell and bam, I was out of there.”

      “So you didn’t get to see this witch’s face, or where they were?”

      “I saw an alley, I saw a sign on a building—Mack’s Gym, by the way—and I had the name.”

      Sully’s mouth pouted as she mulled over his words. “Mack’s Gym is in the next town...” Then she shook her head. “But I don’t understand. My name?”

      He nodded. “Yep. Sullivan Timmerman.” He frowned, then glanced down at the tea. “What’s in this?” He was finding it too easy to talk.

      “Oh, it’s just a little lavender, lemon balm, a tidge of nutmeg...”

      His eyes narrowed. “Antianxiety?” Most of those ingredients were relaxants.

      She shrugged. “A calmative. I thought you could use it.”

      He had to admit, it worked. He’d come here with his gut roiling, concerned about how she’d receive him, whether she’d hear him out...whether she’d forgive him. But...how did she know? Realization dawned, and he put the mug down.

      “You’re an empath.” It wasn’t a question. Everything added up. She’d made him a poultice to ease his pain and help him heal, had made him as comfortable as possible on his bed of sand and had displayed an unexpected insight to his turmoil—accepting he had a job to do.

      She stepped back, her skirt moving around her legs as she did so, her movement was so sudden. “What—what makes you say that?” she asked cautiously. Warily.

      He eyed the increased distance that now separated them. He’d spooked her, somehow. He shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “Oh, just putting the pieces together. I don’t know how many witches would patch me up, hear me out and make me tea after I’ve tried to kill them.” She was a sweetheart. She’d tried to ease his pain, and ease his guilt.

      She frowned as she crossed to the sink—putting even more distance between them. “That’s quite a stretch. Maybe I’m just a sucker for a bad boy.”

      His lips quirked. As tempting as the suggestion was, he doubted it. He edged a little closer, and put his own mug in the sink, managing to hem her in at the same time. Sully paused, her gaze on the mug he still clasped. “Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong, Sully,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward. “I can be very, very good.”

      Sully lifted her gaze from the large hand that made her mug look like a kid’s tea party toy, up the corded forearm, over the bulging bicep, the edge of the dark tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his fresh black T-shirt, and across the broad shoulder and torso to the strong column of his throat. She swallowed, hesitating, before lifting it farther. The man had a great jaw. Strong, defined, with just the right dusting of hair that made you want to reach and stroke it. Was he—was the Witch Hunter flirting with her? His lips curled up at one end, a sexy little smile that made heat bloom tight and low in her stomach. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, couldn’t see whether he was flirting, teasing, or just making an observation. And she desperately wanted to see his eyes.

      The fact that she couldn’t was frustrating, and just a little unnerving. She could relax her shields, get a sense of what he was feeling, but that method was fraught with risks. Risks she’d learned long ago weren’t worth it, and she should have the sense to know better.

      She stepped back, clearing her throat. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said softly.

      He tilted his head, and she tried to keep her expression impassive. Aloof. That’s what she was going for, here. Distant. Cool. He was the Witch Hunter, tracking down a murderous wi—she frowned.

      “I want to help,” she blurted.

      His eyebrows rose over his sunglasses. “What?”

      “There is a witch out there murdering in my name. I want to help you catch him. Her. Whatever.”

      He shook his head, backing up a little. “Sorry, sweetness. No can do.”

      Funny. He didn’t sound apologetic at all. She put her hands on her hips. “I insist. You said Mack’s Gym. That’s local. You’ll need someone with local knowledge to help you. I can do that.”

      He shook his head. “I work alone.”

      “And look where it got you,” she said, gesturing to herself.

      “Hey, that was an honest mistake,” he said in faint protest.

      “One that you should avoid making again,” she said primly. “Let me help.”

      “Not happening.”

      She stepped closer. “Someone is using my name—”

      “It could be just as much his as it is yours,” he pointed out.

      “I can tell you now, there is no other person in the county with my name,” she informed him. “But this person even has the Ancestors confused,” she told him, her tone serious.

      This time Dave stepped closer toward her, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze through his sunglasses. “The term is Witch Hunter—not hunters,” he told her roughly. “We don’t buddy up on a job. This is something I’ve got to do on my own, Sully. You haven’t seen what this person is capable of. I have. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

      “But this is my name, Dave,” she protested.

      “And I will get him,” he assured her, “and you will stay far