Witch Hunter Olivia (3 page)

The door’s chime is the only sound that greets me when I enter the shop. Only half the lights appear to be on, and walls of tattoo illustrations fill my vision as I move farther into the parlor. The last time I was in here, this place was in full swing, complete with the buzzing sound of several tattoo guns humming along together in an annoying melody.

“Sorry, I guess I forgot to lock up, but we’re closed for the night,” a familiar, low-and-smooth sounding voice calls out from the back of the shop. Damn, why does his voice have to sound so freaking hot like that?

“And here I was hoping to sneak in a quickie,” I reply, hoping he’ll pop his head out to see the grin on my face.

“Well, if it isn’t Olivia Adams, the ex-Witch Hunter,” he announces, emerging from the opened door located in the back. He pauses and scans me from head to toe. His baby blue eyes stop on my skirt and then he pans back up to meet mine. “And she’s in a skirt, ladies and gentlemen. How in the hell did someone manage to get you into that getup?”

“It’s a long story,” I reply, sending him a withering stare.

“The store’s closed for the night, so I’ve got all the time in the world for long stories. And from where I’m standing, it doesn’t appear to be that long.”

I roll my eyes while pulling the skirt down to make it cover more of my legs. “Can we focus on the real reason I’m here, and less on the skirt, please?”

“The skirt is so much fun to talk about, though,” he laughs. “But if you insist.”

“I need a touch-up on the masking spell. I may or may not have had a run-in with my brother, and it may or may not have worn off,” I explain sheepishly while moving closer to him.

“You said his name out loud, didn’t you?” he asks straight out with an eyebrow quirked.

I groan. “Maybe.”

“Uh-huh. Come here, let me see,” he says, patting the firm, dark grey leather chair located in his station. It reminds me of one of those massage chairs you see in malls.

I straddle the chair and lean into it with my back facing out so Heath can examine the tattoo on my right shoulder. His fingers graze the area where the edge of my blouse’s sleeve meets my arm before gently moving the fabric up and over my shoulder. His hands are warm to the touch and leave trails of heat wherever they explore. Since Heath is a Blender (slang for a half-mortal and half-anything paranormal), I don’t get the same pains I have when I’m around a full-blooded witch or warlock. His touch feels like a hot stone massage instead of a brief uncomfortable electric surge. It’s a good thing too, because he has a damn fine set of hands. And don’t even get me started on those lips of his.

“Is it fixable?” I inquire, still reeling from the warmth of his hands on my skin.

“Of course it is, but only on one condition.”

I look back and see his lips stretched into a mischievous grin. “And what would that be exactly?”

He chuckles. “Tell me the story behind the skirt.”

“Really?”

“I’m just kidding. But truthfully, you’ve got to be more careful with this spell. It’s not like I have an infinite supply of this ink, you know?”

Heath disappears through the open door leading to the back office and returns moments later with a plain wooden box that has no visible opening or even a lock for a key to be inserted. He places it on the metal tray standing next to me before heading over to the front windows of the shop. After closing the blinds, he takes a seat on the stool beside the chair I’m in and places his hand on top of the wooden box. I watch as his hand begins to glow bright white, and then a pentagram-like symbol I recognize from when he did this before appears on the front of the box. A white line of light originating from the symbol traces from it and wraps around the edge of the box before disappearing and leaving behind a seam in the wood. Heath pops it open along the seam and removes a tattoo gun with the name “Lil’ Bastard” on it, along with a vial of golden yellow ink.

“All right, off with the shirt,” he says while setting up his station.

I push myself away from the back of the chair and slide my blouse up and over my head. Heath reaches his hand out to take the balled-up garment from me before setting it off to the side and out of the way. I relax and lay back against the chair, preparing for Heath to work his magic.

The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air and I wince the moment the needle touches my skin. Getting a tattoo doesn’t really hurt. It’s more annoying than anything—like an itch you can’t scratch. My focus switches from the hum of the gun to Heath’s voice as he softly speaks the masking spell incantation. Who knew that speaking in tongues could sound so sexy?

“So, who’s the lucky guy?” he asks after he finishes reciting the spell.

“Hmm?”

“The one who got you to wear this skirt?”

“Do I sense a hint of jealousy, Mr. Blakemore?” I ask, grinning against the headrest of the chair.

“Should I be?”

I turn to face him when he stops inking me all of a sudden, clearly waiting for my answer. “Oh my God, you
are
jealous.”

“No, I’m not,” he replies, turning away to apply more ink onto the tattoo needle.

“You so are.”

“What if I am? Can you blame me? Or maybe I’m just curious about my competition,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“Well, you can relax. There’s no guy,” I snicker. “Tara talked me into wearing the skirt to this sorority thing tonight. I was her plus-one.”

A smile creeps across his face at my answer. “There’s no other guy?” His voice sounds relieved. I shake my head before snuggling up to the chair’s headrest again. Is Heath interested in me? Maybe I’ve underestimated the effect I have on him by being so preoccupied with the effect he has on me.

“Speaking of Tara, how’s she holding up?” he inquires, continuing to work on the tattoo.

“She’s in adjustment mode. We both are, actually.”

“Does she remember anything?”

“Only what you left in her memory. It’s better that way,” I respond in a somber tone, thinking back to the night both Tara’s and my life changed forever.

Examining the infinity tattoo on my wrist, I recollect that night from a few months ago. Sadness tears at my heart as images of how she looked when I found her lying on the ground, bloodied and pale, flash through my mind. This little tattoo was what brought Tara back to life, and what also bonds us together. When Heath asked me if I wanted to tie my soul to Tara’s in order to save hers, I said yes without even giving it a second thought.

“Are you ever going to tell her what happened?” he asks, taking another break from the tattoo to apply more ink to the needle.

I push away from the chair and pivot at my waist to face him. “No,” I answer pointedly. “She can never know what she was, or the fact that Witch Hunters were responsible for the death of her family. All she needs to believe is they died in a car accident, and I was only able to save her with your help.”

Heath twiddles the tattoo gun between his fingers while sending me an “if you say so” look, letting me know he wants to continue. I feel his hand rest on my shoulder blade just below the tattoo and a hot sensation flows through the area. His hand is like a heating pad resting there. The heat begins to swirl around my back, spreading like a brush fire, making me want to moan in satisfaction, but I bite back the urge. I wish he’d continue talking to me so I could occupy my mind and not focus on how flipping amazing he’s making me feel right now.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about how I bumped into my brother tonight?” I ask, hoping this question will open up a whole line of dialogue in order to distract my mind from the dangerous Heath thoughts.

“I was just going to ask you about that,” he replies. “I’m assuming it was at the party?”

“Yep. Big Bro decided to crash it with three Maulers. He even shot up the place.”

“What the hell was he after?” he probes, speaking close to my shoulder. I can feel his breath against my skin, which causes goose bumps to sprout up all over.

I take a moment to regain my composure before answering. “My guess is a pretty powerful witch. There was this girl there named Angelica—”

“Wait, Angelica? Like Angelica Delacour?” he asks, cutting me off.

“I don’t know her last name, but maybe. Do you know her?”

“Uh, I’m surprised you don’t. You’ve only been away from the game for a few months, and you’re already out of the loop,” he says. “Angelica Delacour is the daughter of one of the seven High Priestess light witches. She’s like royalty in the witch world.”

“That would explain why it felt like my abdomen was going to implode when I dragged her out of harm’s way.”

“Wait, you’re telling me you saved the life of a High Priestess’s daughter? You realize what that means, right?”

I catch his eyebrow raise when I turn to look at him. “No, what?”

“First of all, it means your brother is an idiot—no offense—for trying to down a witch with that much pull. And second, you’re now owed a favor by the High Priestesses,” he explains. “That makes you two for two in the witch saving business, doesn’t it? Imagine that … an ex-Hunter saving the lives of two witches.”

“Yeah, well, what does it say about me that I’ve made out with one?”

A smirk curls one corner of his mouth. “I’d say it’s pretty hot … in a forbidden romance sort of way.”

“Like a real Romeo and Juliet kind of story,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes.

“Exactly,” he responds, pinning my eyes and locking our gazes. We continue to stare at each other, and I find myself getting lost in his icy blues. His smirk forms into a full-on grin, which snaps me out of my daze, but doesn’t make me not want to go to town on his mouth any less.

“How much more do you have left to do?” I ask after clearing my throat, wanting to change the subject when awkward silence decides to take up residence between us.

“Oh, uh, about halfway done,” he mentions casually. After a few moments, Heath asks, “Why do you think your brother was after Angelica? Do you think he knew who she was?”

“To be honest, I have no idea. Now that I know who she is, I’m even more confused by it all. I’ve always thought there was this unwritten truce between light witch royalty and the Elders. He had to have had a good reason though. Malcolm isn’t one to just go after a witch for the hell of it. He’s very by-the-book,” I answer, trying to make sense of it in my head while I’m explaining it out loud.

“Well, if there was a truce, it may be over when Angelica’s mother finds out about your brother. You do realize this will make him witch enemy numero uno, right?”

“I was the only one who saw him. There’s no way they’ll know he was there,” I reply, but can’t help but feel a little uneasy about my brother being hunted down by the very beings he hunts.

My argument is met with silence. Heath doesn’t say a word; he just keeps his head down and continues working on my tattoo. His nonresponse is worrisome because it makes me wonder if my brother might be in danger now after what he did.

“Do you disagree?” I ask offhandedly, hoping for a no.

“No,” he answers, but I hear the reluctance in his voice.

“You hesitated. Why did you hesitate?” I ask, spinning around to look at him. He groans, probably because I moved for the umpteenth time and interrupted his work again.

“I just think if you care for your brother as much as I think you do, I’d reconsider getting the masking spell redone. Witches, light or dark, get pretty pissed off when someone comes after one of their own. It’s only a matter of time before they find out it was your brother, and since you’re the only one who saw him there, you might want to ask him about it.”

This was the last thing I wanted to hear out of Heath’s mouth. I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I can finish the tattoo and try to forget my old life altogether, or I can ditch the color touch-up and confront the one person who most likely doesn’t want anything to do with me. Hmmm … decisions, decisions.

I raise myself to sit up straight and turn to face Heath. His eyes show he’s concerned, and I can tell he’s waiting for me to respond.

“Hey, I’m sorry if what I said bothered you.”

“I think I’m going to head out. Could you clean me up real quick?” I ask, pointing to the rubbing alcohol on the metal tray.