Maximum Witch - By Jodi Redford Page 0,2

to breathe under water, a shifter remained a thousand times more vulnerable in their human skin. Unless she’d been unconscious when the beast grabbed her—and what were the odds?—she wouldn’t have left herself open to attack.

Well, whatever the hell she was, he couldn’t leave her stranded in the middle of the damn Atlantic.

He hugged her to him and kicked away from the sandy bottom, propelling them upward. Being deprived the use of his other arm made the task of swimming longer and more difficult than it should have been, but finally he broke the water’s surface. He bobbed for a moment, the slumped torso of his dead-to-the-world companion secured within the crook of his arm while he scanned the vista. The shoreline was closer than he’d anticipated, thank the gods.

Keeping the woman anchored close to his chest, he plowed along with the waves, riding their powerful currents rather than attempting to go it on his own. The choice to conserve his energy paid off, and roughly fifteen minutes later, the tide deposited them on a deserted stretch of beach. Catching her beneath the knees, he staggered toward the nearby dunes. It wasn’t the girl’s weight that made his gait awkward—hell, even dripping wet she weighed next to nothing—but it always took him a moment to acquire his land legs.

After reaching a concealing cluster of sea oats, he carefully lowered the woman onto the sand and knelt beside her. Ignoring the bite marks on his lower calves which were beginning to sting like hell, he worriedly surveyed the girl’s pale face. She hadn’t so much as fluttered an eyelash. Now that they were on land the steady flow of her breaths was readily apparent. Her lungs obviously hadn’t filled with seawater, one more clue that revealed her to be something beyond human.

Which sure as shit complicated things. As sheriff of parish nine, it wasn’t only his responsibility to keep order within his district, but also to keep the citizens of Savannah as blissfully ignorant of the slightly less-than-normal creatures splashing around their coastal waters. He couldn’t risk taking the girl to the hospital, not without knowing exactly what she was.

Awarding the ever-darkening sky a wary glance, he rose to his feet. Full nightfall was rapidly approaching. Whatever he ultimately planned to do, it needed to be done soon. Scrubbing a hand along his jaw, he eyed the female again. The best course of action would be taking her back to his place and having his buddy Boone check her over. Though Boone wasn’t a doc, per se, he was a vet, and possessed enough medical know-how to hopefully treat whatever was wrong with the girl.

Fortunately, Max was less than a ten-minute jog from his bungalow. Unfortunately, that journey required a stroll across a popular section of beach. Even at this time of evening, there was always the chance beachcombers would be out and about. Considering he was buck naked and would be carrying an unconscious woman, the odds of someone not raising an alarm were slim to none.

“Fuck.” Much as he didn’t like it, he’d have to risk leaving her alone while he swam back to his house and grabbed his car. He dropped onto his haunches and smoothed a wet straggle of hair off the delicate slope of her forehead. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m only leaving you for a few. I promise. We’re gonna get you someplace safe and all fixed up. You’re gonna be okay.” Hopefully.

She didn’t stir. Not that he’d expected her to. After reassuring himself she was properly hidden behind the protective screen of tall grasses, he climbed atop the dunes. Keeping hunkered low enough not to draw attention in case a car passed by, he scoped his surroundings for any memorable landmarks. About thirty yards down the road and across the street a mailbox shaped like a purple sailboat flanked a driveway. With that image branded into his memory, he ran back down the beach and dove into the surf. He shifted into his shark, figuring it’d cut his trip time in half, and less than five minutes later he was sprinting toward the deck of his bungalow.

He yanked the French doors open and raced inside the house. His cell phone sat on the kitchen table. Snatching it up, he hit the speed dial for Boone’s number and thundered into his bedroom. He snagged a pair of sweats and wrenched them on one-handed. Boone’s voice mail clicked on and after