Witch Hunter. Shannon Curtis

       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