Chapter 10
Chapter 10
S he slid her arms around his neck as he gathered her close. So many messages, it made her dizzy trying to make sense of them all. Desire, so hot, so sharp, it took her breath away. Frustration. Loneliness. Self-recrimination. Arousal.
She’d meant to comfort him. She’d sensed his guilt and remorse, so heavy it was nearly suffocating. His gaze was hidden behind his sunglasses, but those lips, the set of his jaw... She’d wanted to reach out.
Now, though, there was no thought for comfort, for reassurance. Sully opened her lips to him, her breath hitching as his tongue slid against hers. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her against him, and she could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her stomach.
Her hands trailed over his shoulders, his arms—oh, heavens, his arms. The man was magnificent. So strong and broad, so warm, so—
Dave flexed his hips against hers, and Sully thought she was going to combust. She slanted her head first one way, then the other, their tongues dueling, their breaths coming in shared, staccato pants.
His large hands slid beneath her loose top, and goose bumps rose on her ribs. She arched her back as his hands trailed up her back. She moaned. Heat, so much heat. Her heart thudded in her ears, and she could feel herself getting damp between her thighs. Her breasts swelled, and she pressed herself against him firmly. God, his chest was amazing. She ran her hands over the defined musculature of his torso. His skin was smooth, so sleek, so not what she expected. She could see some marks that weren’t tattoos. Scars. But, astonishingly, the evidence of his strength, of his skill, just felt sexy against her fingertips as she caressed him.
Dave made a surprised sound against her lips when his fingers encountered the clasp of her strapless bra. She raised her eyebrows as she drew back, and he gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve been fantasizing about your underwear,” he murmured, then took her lips again as his clever fingers undid the clasp.
He drew the garment away from her, and she shivered in his arms at the caress against her skin.
And then his hands covered her breasts beneath her top. She moaned, tearing her lips from his, her head tilting back as she surrendered to the sensation. He cupped the weight of her breasts in his hands, his thumbs strumming over her nipples.
So hot. Liquid heat slicked her thighs, and she pulled his head down, capturing his lips in a kiss that conveyed her own hunger. For him. For the Witch Hunter.
He growled softly into her mouth, then his hands glided down to her butt. He caressed her there, clasping the fabric of her skirt and inching it up her legs. She slid her tongue against his, her breath coming in pants. She could feel the heat of his body, the cool against her legs, her nipples tight with want. Dave bent his knees. His grip tightened, and he lifted her up. Sully swung her legs around his hips as he walked her back to rest her butt on a shelf of the bookcase. She ignored the clatter, the tumble of magical texts falling to the floor.
She lifted her head to take a quick breath, then closed her eyes as she tilted her head back. He was hard against her. Everywhere. Hard. Hot. His hips rolled against hers, and she shuddered. Her thighs tightened around his hips, and he moaned, low and sexy, as he trailed his lips down the line of her neck.
So much heat. She heard him hiss in her ear, felt him shudder. Heat. Like, burning. She pulled back, and his neck arched, the veins in stark relief against his skin. He leaned back, his hips holding her in place on the shelf.
The mark on his chest glowed. Her name.
Realization hit. Oh, God, no.
“Dave,” she gasped.
The mark brightened, and Dave clasped the shelf on either side of her, gritting his teeth as he sucked in a breath. His biceps bulged, his knuckles whitened and his thighs tensed beneath hers.
He was in pain. She could feel it. Intense, burning. Consuming.
“Sullivan Timmerman,” Dave gasped, tugging off his sunglasses.
Sully gaped as his light gray eyes turned silver, and his expression went slack as he stared sightlessly at the shelves above her head, entranced.
Instinctively, she reached out to give him comfort, to offer him support.
Red. Fire. Scalding. Darkness. Running. Panting. Determination . A woman, scrambling down the side drive of a house. She pauses at the chain-link fence, fumbling with the gate’s latch. Satisfaction. Gotcha. The woman turns to face her, her eyes wide with terror.
“No! Please, no!” She holds up her arms to ward off blows, but the knife strikes fast. Not to kill, just to stop her from running. Triumph . The woman clutches her stomach, her face twists in pain. She gasps as she falls to her knees, and she collapses, cradling her stomach as the stain blooms across her blouse. Cold intent. End it. The knife flashes again, plunging into her chest. The confusion, the shock, the terror, gently wanes as the light leaves her eyes.
Dave lowered her to the floor and stumbled back, breaking their contact. Sully’s vision snapped into focus once more. She was back in her living room, leaning back against her bookshelf, her skirt gently draping down to her calves as Dave grimaced. He shook his head once, still caught in the violence of his vision.
His lips tightened. Then his lips turned down, and for a brief moment sadness crossed his features, before it was removed by determination and that same ruthlessness she’d seen on the beach. He blinked, and the light in his eyes flickered down to a light silver.
“Are you okay?” she asked. His chest didn’t glow anymore, and she could see him in his eyes again, not some vacant glaze.
His chest, though, looked painful. The mark that had healed a little was now rebranded onto his skin. Her name.
Sullivan Timmerman had killed again.
“I have to go,” Dave muttered, wincing as he reached for his T-shirt.
Sully raised a shaky hand to her lips, trying to fight back the tears.
“Aman—Amanda Sinclair,” she said, then clutched her stomach. Oh, God. Her family...
“What?”
“Amanda Sinclair. The woman he just killed. That’s her name,” she said, then covered her mouth. Deep breaths.
Dave frowned. “You—you saw?” he asked, his tone baffled as he took a step toward her.
She nodded. “Touch, we were touching. Oh, my God, Amanda,” The tears fell, hot on her cheeks. Her gut clenched, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat.
Dave’s eyes widened in shock, then his features showed his dismay. “Oh, Sully. I didn’t know—I’d never want you to see—”
“He hunted her,” she cried, her hands twisting in the cotton of her blouse.
Dave stilled. “What?”
“He—he was hunting her. I could—I could feel it.”
Dave looked from her to the door, and back to her. He reached for her arm, gently pulling her away from the bookshelf, and then turned and guided her to sit on the foldout sofa.
“I’m sorry, I have to go, I have to find him—we’ll talk later,” he promised, his face filled with regret. “Where does Amanda live?”
“Lived,” she corrected automatically, shock putting her into a numb autopilot. The woman was now dead. Oh, hell.
He nodded. “Yes. Lived. Sully, where did Amanda Sinclair live?” he asked gently.
“Two streets down from where we were tonight. Number 6.” Her response was automatic, the words falling from her lips as she replayed what she’d seen in her mind. Amanda had been so terrified. Another tear fell on her cheek. She’d never felt so helpless, so useless, watching the woman’s murder.
He cupped her cheek, and tilted his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Sully.” Intense guilt. Remorse. Grief. He was full of it. For Amanda—and for her.
“No, this isn’t on you,” she told him, blinking back her tears. “I’ll come with you,” she said, and braced herself to rise off the sofa. The Sinclairs...she had to go to them.
Dave’s hand on her shoulder prevented her from moving. “No,” he told her firmly. “You’re staying right here.”
“Dave, I know the family,” she told him urgently.
He nodded. “I understand. But I’m going to the scene of a murder, Sully. This guy—he might still be there. I don’t want you anywhere near this.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can take care of myself, Dave.” She’d spent the last four years making sure that was true.
His lips firmed. “You’re strong, I’ll give you that. But this guy has now murdered three people. I’m not willing to take the chance that you could be the fourth.”
She opened her mouth to protest, and he cut off her words with a quick kiss. “Please, Sully. I have to do this, and you being there—it will be a distraction. I’ll be wanting to make sure you’re safe, and not focusing on the job.” Dave straightened. “I have to go. But we’ll talk when I get back. I promise.”
“Your chest,” she said in protest. Dave was pulling his T-shirt on over his as head as he walked toward the door.
“I’ve got a first aid kit on my bike,” he said brusquely, and then left.
Sully sagged back on the sofa, and stared around the room. Dave’s suggestion was definitely the safest course. His job was to hunt the null killer. The witch killing the people she knew and loved in her name.
“Screw it,” she muttered. Dave expected her to sit quietly at home. She hadn’t let a man make her decisions for her for four years. She wasn’t about to let that happen again. Her friends needed her. She trotted out to the shed in the back garden to gather some supplies.
Dave drove up to the makeshift barricade on the street and surveyed the scene. A crowd had gathered along the designated perimeter, and deputies were out to direct traffic and enforce the boundary. Red-and-blue lights flashed down the street, casting colored flickers into the darkness. The sheriff stood near the driveway gate and was talking to a man who Dave could only guess was Amanda Sinclair’s husband, judging from his devastated, grief-stricken expression.
Darn. With the sheriff and his deputies traipsing all over the area, he couldn’t get any closer to the scene. Couldn’t witch his way past, couldn’t bespell people to tell him what he needed to know, couldn’t become invisible or forgettable—not in null territory, anyway. This was a novel experience, not being able to use his powers to get what he wanted. Which was exactly what Sully had said before, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t date him because he was the kind of guy who did and said whatever was needed to get what he wanted.
And yet, they’d kissed. So maybe dating was off the table, but other stuff wasn’t...? He frowned. The burn in his chest had subsided, but was still an aching reminder of what he was in Serenity Cove for—and it wasn’t to get up close and all kinds of personal with an empath witch who seemed to know him way too well for his liking.
He kicked out the stand for his bike and swung his leg over. He removed his helmet, wincing at the pull on his chest. He’d slapped a nonstick dressing over the wound and used tape to hold it in place, but it ached, and his skin was pinched by the tape with each movement. He hung the strap of his helmet over the handlebars, then strode a little farther along the edge of the perimeter. He eyed the front of the house. The door was closed. His lips tightened. No sign of forced entry. He glanced over toward the gate. A sheet was draped over the figure on the ground. He backed up a little. The drive had a five-foot-high wooden fence down one side. She wouldn’t have been able to scale it, not with her killer right on her heels. House on one side, fence on the other, her only option would have been to run down the drive toward the street. He wondered if that had been the killer’s plan, or whether he’d just been lucky.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Dave turned as the deputy stepped around the roadblock, gesturing beyond him. Dave realized he was standing in the man’s way and stepped aside, giving a casual wave of apology as the deputy passed him.
He turned back to the scene. Sully was right. Amanda Sinclair had been hunted down and killed. He glanced up at the night sky. The moon was a chunk of silver. A waxing gibbous moon. Enough light to stop you from tripping off the curb, but still kind of gloomy, especially in this neighborhood with no streetlights, he noticed, eyeing up and down the street.
A warm breeze ruffled his hair. He would have liked to remove his jacket, but with the law already here, he didn’t think he’d be sticking around for long. A hand thudded down on his shoulder, and he turned, hiding the wince at the resulting pull of muscle and scorched skin.
Jacob Forsyth. Sully’s wannabe-boyfriend nodded grimly at him. “I thought you left?”
“I turned back when I saw all the police cars on the highway,” he lied. He couldn’t very well say he’d received a magical vision from the Ancestors. That wasn’t something folks readily understood or accepted—except for Sully, it seemed.
Jacob nodded, accepting his excuse at face value. He looked over toward the cordoned-off house, his expression dark and grim. “This sucks. Ronald found her when he came home from the Adler farewell.”
Dave looked over at him. “She wasn’t at the farewell?”
Jacob shook his head. “Nope. She was home with the kids.”
“Kids were in the house?” Dave looked back at the house in horror. He hadn’t seen the kids in the vision.
Jacob nodded, his lips tight. “Yeah. They slept through the whole thing.” His answer was short. Abrupt. The man was visibly upset—no, maybe angry was a better word—at what had happened.
“But they’re safe?” Dave’s gut clenched with apprehension at the risk to the kids.
“Yeah, they’re safe.”
“Thank God,” Dave muttered in relief. Jacob watched him closely for a moment, then glanced back up the street.
“When did you say you arrived in Serenity?” Jacob’s tone was conversational, but the words cut like hot steel.
Dave met his gaze. “I didn’t.” He should have expected this. “I arrived the morning of Mary Anne Adler’s death.” Which meant he wasn’t in the area for Gary Adler’s death, and he hoped that was enough to eliminate him from Jacob’s obvious suspicions.
“Murder,” Jacob corrected.
Dave inclined his head. “Murder.”
“Where’s Sully?”
“She’s back home,” Dave said.
Jacob nodded. “Good. She doesn’t need to see this.”
Dave turned back toward where the sheriff was talking quietly with the husband. Jacob sounded protective. Proprietary.
Not that he should care. He was here to hunt his witch. If the witch moved on, he moved on. If he managed to kill the witch, he moved on. If another witch committed a crime, he moved on. He couldn’t see a scenario where he didn’t move on. It shouldn’t matter to him what Jacob and Sully did. He wasn’t here to interfere with Sully’s life—after what he’d done to her on the beach, he’d be ensuring that Sully’s life was a long and happy one. If that meant a life with— ugh —Jacob, so be it.
Only, that idea was more irritating than the recurring brand on his chest, and just as painful, if he let himself follow that thought down the rabbit hole. He tried to tell himself he had no business feeling annoyed at this man trying to stake his claim on Sully.
But he was, especially when he still had the taste of her on his lips.
He tilted his head as he eyed the sheet-covered body. “Was Amanda Sinclair a pureblood?” he asked, curious.
Jacob stilled. He seemed to be considering his response. Then he leaned closer, and Dave lifted his chin to meet the null’s gaze directly. “I know you’re a friend of Sully’s and all, and I know the noise you’ve made about helping us, but my bullshit radar is going full alert around you. You may have Sully convinced that you’re here to help, but I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you. If you’re wanting to get into Sully’s good graces, figure out a different way, because this,” the man said, gesturing between Dave and the Sinclair house, “is a pretty crap way of doing it.”
Jacob turned and walked farther down the street, and Dave saw Jenny running up to her brother, her face distressed as she took in the scene.
Dave shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to look at the few people nearby. Each time he made eye contact, they turned away. Jacob wasn’t the only one who didn’t seem to trust him. He wasn’t going to get any answers from this crowd.
He sighed as he strode back to his bike. Tracking down this killer witch was getting more complicated by the day.
Sully quenched the blade in the tub of oil, watching as steam curled up from the surface. She withdrew it slightly, then dipped, repeating the process gently, moving her head out of the way of the small billowing flare-up when the vapors burned. When the blade had cooled, she placed it on the stone bench where the others lay, then raised her protective visor.
She surveyed her handiwork. Four blades. As soon as the metal blades were thoroughly cool, she’d do a hollow grind them on them, sharpen them and polish them, and then she’d cut out and fix the tangs inside the handles. She’d have four more close-combat weapons. When finished, these blades would have a forty-five-degree angle to the blade from the hilt that made it easy to draw them from whatever holster or sheath they occupied. She picked up one of the blades. The steel she’d used was composed of a greater iron alloy than usual, and then she’d give them decorative silver engraving along the blade. A kind of catchall against the shadow breeds. While the null’s presence voided a shadow breed’s supernatural abilities, it didn’t stop the effect of injuries. With iron as the base metal, the blade had not only the physical aspects of creating damage, but any race sensitive to silver, or to iron, would still feel the effects of the metal. It was like a double-pronged attack by the wielder. Shadow breeds naturally had a greater muscle mass that put them at a slight advantage over ordinary human beings, whether they were nulls or not. This kind of blade did a little toward evening out the playing field.
Once the blades had cooled sufficiently and she didn’t run the risk of shattering them, she’d engrave on them some simple spellwork, and bleed some molten silver into the designs. The spells would be voided if being wielded by a null, but if it was, say, a witch against a werewolf, or a human against a vampire, or even witch against witch, the spells would still engage—and cause significant damage. Her lips firmed. She wanted to get this witch, but if she couldn’t, then she’d damn well protect her friends—protect them in a way she’d wished someone had protected her, all those years ago.
She rolled her shoulders, shaking off the tension, the dark memories. She’d worked through the night, and her neck and shoulder muscles were tired, her feet were sore and she’d definitely be feeling her biceps tomorrow. She reached over and turned off the burners for her forge. She’d added an extension to the back of her factory shop, creating a blacksmithing Shangri-la. It had taken her a few years, but she finally had a number of forges using different fuels, and anything she could think of in the creation of her cutlery...and weapons and coins. She could have made these blades at home. She eyed the other daggers, dirks and swords she’d also stockpiled that now were lined up neatly on one wall, weapons that she could create only here, in the bigger forge. In the past few days she’d made a whole bunch of arrowheads, and this time, she’d used her own unique broadhead style, with three blades angling out from the tip of the arrowhead. Excellent penetration, minimal deflection, maximum damage.
She removed her protective glasses, apron and gloves and started to clean up. She wrinkled her nose as she hung her leather apron up on a hook. Man, she was rank. She’d have to go home and shower before she did anything.
She put all her tools away, and then placed her new blades and their handles on a shelf running along the wall. She then pulled the sliding wall along its track until it settled into its position. She stood back and eyed the wall, then nodded, satisfied. It looked like a normal wall, and not the entry to her secret armory.
Once everything was cleared away, and the floor swept, she switched off the lights and locked the doors. She smiled as she turned to her car. Dave expected her to bespell her factory and shop. The problem was, in null territory, it didn’t matter how many wards she layered over the access points, they were rendered useless here.
She yawned as she drove out of town and along the coast road toward her home. The ocean was on her right, and the sky was already lightening, the sun just beginning to edge its way over the horizon. It was early. Too early to call Jenny. She’d go home, have a quick shower and some breakfast and then—she yawned again. Okay, so it had been a while since she’d pulled an all-nighter in the forge.
She braked gently, eyeing the turnoff that would take her to the null neighborhood. She clenched the wheel. Poor Ronald. He and Amanda had just celebrated their four-year anniversary. She’d babysat their little darlings, Becky and Lily. She took the turn, and moments later was driving quietly down the main street. She stopped at the corner and looked down the street. Yellow crime scene ribbon fluttered in the warm morning breeze. Two deputies stood by their car, and another was using one of those wheely measure things as he walked along the driveway. The sheriff rose from where he’d squatted near the gate, camera in one hand as he rubbed his other over his face.
Sully eyed that gate. That’s where it had happened. A flash of memory, Amanda’s terror-filled eyes, her trembling hands. Sully blinked rapidly to dispel the vision.
A long night for the local law, too, by the looks of things. She eyed the house. Now was not the time to visit Ronald and express her condolences. She drove on down the street and took the next right, and then another right and then a left to head back out to toward the coastal road. A little while later she was pulling into her driveway and avoiding the motorcycle that was parked up near the side of the house.
She climbed out of the car, closing the door quietly, then climbed the stairs to her porch. She turned and gazed out over the headland. The sun was higher now, the sky bathed in fiery pinks, burning away the horrors of the night. Sully bit her lip as she again remembered seeing Amanda run down the driveway, only this time the memory morphed into her running, her stumbling along, trying to get away.
Of being caught.
Sully sniffed and turned her back on the beautiful view of a stunning sunrise over the ocean. She had stuff to do. Shower. Breakfast. Call Jenny.
She let herself inside the house, wincing as she tried to close the door silently, then cringing at the soft snick of the latch. Darn it. She hesitated. The house was quiet, save for a sonorous snore emanating from her living room. So Dave had returned. Her lips tightened as she remembered him commanding her to stay. That chafed. And she hadn’t rebelled, either. She’d stayed away from the Sinclair home, from the null neighborhood. Damn it. She’d have to watch for that. She wasn’t some guy’s doormat anymore.
She slipped her flip-flops off and started to tiptoe across the foyer toward the hall. She peeked into the living room as she passed. Well, peeked and then stopped.
Dave lay sprawled out on her sofa, his feet dangling over the sofa arm at the end, one arm draped toward the floor. He made her lounge look like furniture from a dollhouse. The blanket laid pooled on the floor—it had been a warm night—and he lay there, with just the sheet covering him. Almost. His sunglasses were folded and placed on the end table by his head.
Her mouth grew slack. Holy mother of smoking hot men. His chest was bare, and she could see again all the Old Language lettering inked across his biceps, and down his rib cage and across his abdomen. A white square dressing was taped across his left pec, but it didn’t quite cover his nipple. It was almost as if the Ancestors had used his musculature as a writing guide, and the markings enhanced the dips and bulges of his body. His sheet was—she swallowed— just covering his groin, and she could see his bare hip, and the curve of his butt cheek... She curled her fingers into a fist. No touching.
Warmth bloomed inside her. Damn, Dave Carter was one crazy hot Witch Hunter. She tried to look down the hall. She really did. Her lip caught between her teeth as she eyed his smooth skin, his broad chest with the—she frowned. Good grief. Had he used duct tape to stick his bandage down?
She shook her head. Men. She let her gaze travel down his body. The one leg outside the sheet revealed a strong thigh and muscular calf. Her heart thumped a little faster in her chest. She was perving on a guy who was sleeping, a guest in her home.
And she was not sorry at all. She eyed the sheet. It really was draped precariously. She tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t sure if that was just a large rumple of the sheet or whether that was him...
She blinked. No. She should march herself down to the bathroom and jump into a nice cold shower. She nodded. Yep. That’s exactly what she should do. She took a step back, and the floorboard creaked.
Her eyes widened.
Dave’s eyes opened to slits, his silver-gray gaze meeting hers.