her shields, and had decided a more direct approach was in order. He roared something that could have been a battle cry in the Old Language—or perhaps a curse word—then lowered his head and charged straight at her.
Sully dipped to the side and started to run, but he flung out his arm and caught her around the knees. She hit the sand hard. She tried to wriggle away as he pulled her toward him.
Dave swore as the witch flung a handful of sand in his face. What the—how the hell was Timmerman so damn strong? She’d shaken off his initial blast like a dog shaking off water.
She muttered something, and then her bare foot connected with his chest, sending him flying. A percussion incantation. Damn it. He flung another blast in her direction, but saw the sparks as it rolled over the armor she’d shielded herself with. Any other time he’d admit to being impressed, but right now he was annoyed. He had a duty to perform, and her impressive damn barriers were preventing him from doing it.
He murmured a spell, raising his hands, fingers splayed, satisfied when he felt the erosion spell spread over her shield like a wave of acid, eroding her safeguards.
She flinched, her face paling, and she murmured something. A wall of sand rose around him, enclosing him. He uttered a quick spell, and the sand erupted away from him.
A flip-flop slapped him in the face. His head whipped back at the sting. He blinked, shaking his head, then focused on his—where the hell did she go?
The beach was empty. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the sand. There. His lips curved. The damn witch had covered herself with an unseen spell, but that didn’t mean she didn’t leave tracks.
He saw the footprints and the little puffs of sand as she ran up the beach. He took off after her. He gritted his teeth. He hated running in sand. It always felt like it was clawing at you, pulling you back, slowing you down. He angled across the wet sand, where it was firmer under foot, then growled. Screw it.
He raised his hand toward her, murmuring a restraining spell, and a lariat of power lashed from his hand, encircling his target. He heard her surprised cry when he yanked her back. The sand was forming thrashing mounds, until finally she couldn’t hold her invisibility and fight off his magical restraint, and her concealment gave way to show the struggling woman as he dragged her toward him.
A wave of water edged around his boots. Damn it. His favorite boots were getting a bath in salt water.
He grasped her thighs, and she roared—roared at him, her fist connecting with his jaw. His teeth snapped, and he blinked, then jerked to avoid the feet that kicked uncomfortably close to his groin. He tugged her farther along the sand.
“Sullivan Timmerman,” he panted, straddling her thighs to keep her from turning him into a eunuch. “You have been found guilty of—”
He closed his eyes instinctively as her hand flashed toward him, catching him on the cheek in an openhanded, stinging slap. By the time he focused again, she held a short but wickedly sharp blade in each hand, one pointed at his groin, the other against his throat.
He froze, and his eyebrows rose. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” That was an understatement. The woman had deflected his power with a skill he hadn’t seen before, and now had him at a slight disadvantage. Only slight, though. He outweighed, outmuscled and outpowered her. If outpowered was a thing.
“This is a little extreme for some coins, don’t you think?” she panted up at him.
He frowned. “What?” Coins? What? The memory of her victim, the man in the alley with the X carved in his flesh...the draining of his blood. The blade in his chest...he didn’t recall seeing any money. What the hell did all that have to do with coins?
“What the hell do the Ancestors have against the nulls?” she demanded.
His frown deepened. What the—? He was having trouble keeping up with the conversation. And why were they even having this conversation? Was she completely mad? Did she seriously not comprehend the damage she’d done—to an innocent, to the balance of nature itself? He’d never really had a witch withstand justice before, at least, not long enough to challenge the Ancestors. The blade at his neck pressed against his skin just a little harder.
“Get off me. Now.” Her blue eyes glared at him, and her slightly lopsided mouth formed a tight pout. Her hair hung in a tangled curtain behind her, dark and wet and...okay, maybe a little bit more than mildly sexy. She was attractive, slim yet curvy beneath him. Her cotton top clung to the wet triangles of her red bikini, and despite the toned strength of her arms and the thighs he straddled, she still had a softness about her that would have had him buying her a drink in a bar under different circumstances. Very different. Like, without the execution directive.
Maybe that was one of the reasons this woman was so damn dangerous. She looked like some sexy beach goddess, but he’d seen the blade in the man’s heart, the carving on his wrist, and...ugh. His eyes flicked to those pouty little lips. She’d drunk his blood. She’d killed a human. And it hadn’t been in self-defense. It hadn’t been to protect others. It had been calculated and cruel. It was intentional harm to an innocent, to the personal benefit of the witch. He had no idea why she’d killed the man, or why she’d murdered in the manner she had, but he was the enforcer, his authority was recognized by Reform society and by the witch population. No matter how damn smoking hot sexy the witch was, she’d committed a crime against nature, against all of witchery, and she had to be punished.
He held up his hands, palms out, in a nonthreatening manner as he rose. She shuffled out from beneath him, her daggers still held in a guarded, defensive position. He eyed her outfit. Loose sleeves, loose skirt—where the hell had she hidden those blades?
He let her back up a little. She thought she now had the upper hand. She was so wrong, but for now he’d let her go with it.
“This is not fair,” she hissed at him as she took another step backward.
His eyebrows rose. “Not fair? Do you think I haven’t heard that before?”
She shook her head, frowning at him. “What I did—sure, some might consider it a crime, but I was doing it for the greater good.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before, too.”
“Damn it, I mean it. There was no harm done!”
“No harm?” he repeated, incredulous. His brows dipped. “Are you kidding me? You think that what you did was harmless?”
“I was doing a service for the community,” she snapped back at him.
“A service.” His lips tightened, and he had to look away for a brief moment. Her words sparked a flare of anger in him that he didn’t normally let himself feel. “You want to talk service? I live my life in service, and what you did—” he wagged a finger at her. “You should be ashamed. You’ve brought darkness to all of witchery for your actions.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Darkness? To all of witchery? Wow. They’ve really set the bar low, then, haven’t they? What I did, and how it affects others, should have no bearing whatsoever on all of witchery. For the Ancestors to call upon the Witch Hunter over such a trifling matter—that’s extreme.”
He gaped at her. She talked about murder so callously, as though it was of such little consequence. He couldn’t begin to imagine the damage this woman could do if she wasn’t stopped.
He took a step forward, and she shifted, angling the blades toward him. “I can defend every damn thing I’ve done,” she said in a low voice.
Disappointment, hot and sickening, roiled through him. “You defend the indefensible,” he said. “And for that, the Ancestors call you to—”
He dived for her, thigh muscles bunching