An American Witch in Paris
Autore
Michele Hauf
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Chapter 1
Ethan Pierce stood before a steel-barred cage in the Acquisitions department’s clean room. He was the director of the department, which was responsible for hunting, collecting and containing objects of magical nature, dangerous curses and talismans, even volatile creatures that may prove harmful to common humans if left unmonitored in the mortal realm. Ethan sent retrievers out on jobs that canvassed the world, and those adventuring professionals returned with the items.
This latest acquisition, brought in hours earlier by the retriever Bron Everhart, was needed to help locate an even more important item. For what Acquisitions ultimately sought was the blood demon Gazariel, who had stolen the code for the Final Days. If that code was to be activated, all the angels from Above would fall and smother the mortal realm with their smoldering wings. Literally. And the only way to find the demon was with the one thing in this world that wore its sigil.
“A witch,” Ethan muttered as he paced before the cage.
Behind the steel bars, which were warded to keep in the subject, yet also wired with electricity to keep her docile and hamper any magic she should attempt to use in defense, stood the witch. She was a head shorter than Ethan, thin and dressed in clingy black leggings, fierce-looking black ankle boots with high heels and a silky black shirt that revealed a toned abdomen. Over it all she wore a heavy coat made of what looked like fake gray fur, which was studded with silver and black spangles. Her long white hair spilled forward, concealing one eye, and fell messily over one shoulder to her waist.
The other eye held him intently. It was a blue eye, the iris circled with black as if someone had drawn those eyes to be colored in. And on her eyelids, black shadow granted plenty Gothic melodrama. All together the look was...
Wicked, Ethan thought.
Hatred was too strong a word to apply to his feelings about witches as a species. Not all witches were evil or malicious. Yet he’d never completely get over his dislike for witches. They’d once held a murderous reign over his species, vampires, when their blood had been poisonous. One dip of the fang into a witch’s vein could bring an ugly and permanent death. That was no longer. The Great Protection Spell, which had turned all witches’ blood poisonous, had been broken decades earlier.
Rationally, Ethan knew not all witches were dangerous. And besides, it was the twenty-first century. Things had changed. He worked with a few witches here at Acquisitions and the overseeing department, the Archives. For the most part, witches of the light were safe and trustworthy.
But the dark witches, such as the one standing in the cage before him? A shudder traced Ethan’s spine.
The witch didn’t move, only held his gaze, as if breaking it might arrest her breathing. And he wasn’t about to look away. He must show her his dominance. In order to work with the witch to find the demon, she must be kept under control. Subdued. Yet her magic should remain accessible, which would keep the sigil she supposedly wore somewhere on her body open and ready to lure in the demon Gazariel.
Capturing this specific demon would prove a challenge. All perfunctory means of tracking him through Acquisitions’ database had turned up nothing, though intel revealed that he was definitely in Paris.
Upon receiving orders to obtain the missing Final Days code—from a highly unprecedented command—Ethan had considered all the dozens of retrievers he had on staff. Who could do the job? Most were currently on assignment. None were stationed in Paris at the moment. But that wasn’t the problem; any retriever was available and on call 24/7, able to move about worldwide.
The problem was that blood magic may be required to hold the demon once found. And the best one to deal with such magic? A vampire. Of which Ethan had been since his birth in the 1500s. Of course, he wasn’t willing to give his own blood for this mission, but he didn’t expect he would have to. He’d learned once that his blood could have a devastating effect on another being.
He never made the same mistake twice.
It had been decades, maybe even close to a century, since Ethan had gone out on a job. He’d become complacent, sitting behind a desk, clacking away at reports on the laptop and ordering others around. He loved his job. He did it well.
And yet, the call to adventure, to get out and actually participate in life again, was too strong to resist. He’d once stood alongside his fellow warrior vampires in the Blood Wars of the sixteenth century, defeating werewolves and slaying random witches who would deign to assist the nasty wolves. Then, he had been undefeatable, powerful and virile. He still was. The urge to exercise his soul beyond the paperwork and office politics was strong.
So Ethan had assigned this job to himself. His knowledge on the various demon breeds was minimal, yet he knew Paris, and more importantly, had the determination to root out the target. And he was the perfect partner for a witch. He wouldn’t fall under her spell or forget for one moment who or what he was dealing with.
A dark witch who wore the demon Gazariel’s mark.
* * *
The deflecting vibrations coming off the steel bars were strong, electronic in nature, but Tuesday didn’t allow that to bother her. Yet. What was more disturbing was how she’d just been sitting in a bar, nursing a pink Panty Dropper cocktail, and then the world had gone black. And now she was standing in a cage.
Had someone roofied her? She always wore protective wards to deflect any silly human trick. And a clasp of the obsidian crystal that hung from a leather cord around her neck and above her breasts confirmed they hadn’t removed her grounding and protective wards. That could only mean someone with power greater than hers—and was aware of who and what she was—had been able to drug her, kidnap her and cage her.
And while that realization was humiliating she had to remain calm and focused. She wasn’t about to let the vampire see her sweat. No weakness here, buddy.
She knew the man was vampire because his red, ashy aura gave him away. Very few witches had the Sight—an ability to see vampire auras. Tuesday found it more of a nuisance. There were so many vampires walking the world. Sometimes the frequency of red glows in large, overcrowded cities annoyed her. Seriously. The biters were everywhere.
Not that there was anything wrong with vamps. Every once in a while, she didn’t mind the occasional bite with a side of no-strings sex.
The vampire had been observing her for a few minutes. Hadn’t said a word. He’d strode into the large, steel-walled, hexagon-shaped room, which only contained the cage and her, and had turned on the lights, which were blue LEDs along the floors and one blindingly white overhead spotlight.
He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his clean black jeans, which fit well, and were tucked into his combat boots. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows to display muscled forearms dusted with dark hair to match the slicked and cropped hair on his head. From under the shirt, a glimpse of a gray T-shirt hung over his pants. He looked to be strong, a force. And his carriage screamed of discipline, perhaps even military.
A smartly trimmed beard hugged his jaw and a neat mustache framed his solemn mouth. Sprinkled under his lower lip were gray strands amongst the dark brown. His face was expressionless, yet his gray eyes saw everything.
Her unprofessional assessment said that he looked world-weary. Like he’d been doing this far too long and needed a break. Although, what it was that he’d been doing, exactly, she had no clue.
“I’m Ethan Pierce,” he finally said. His voice was deep and not unfriendly, and while he used English, he had a noticeable French accent. Tuesday had known a few Frenchmen in her lifetime. She’d visited France a couple times over the centuries.
“And you are Tuesday Knightsbridge,” he stated.
He didn’t score points for knowing her name. Unless kidnapping random witches was a thing nowadays.
Maintaining her stance, Tuesday held his gaze. But now he swept his eyes back and forth, and his hands slid out of his pockets to clasp before him. Classic villain hand-twist pose? Check, please!
“Do you know where you are?” he asked.
She wasn’t ready to speak. Of course she knew where she was. She stood in a frigging cage.
“Not talking? I can deal with that. For now. You are in a holding cell at Acquisitions. We’re a division of the Council’s Archives.”
The Council? That was a supposedly nonviolent ruling board that oversaw the actions of the world’s paranormal nations, and was composed of various species to represent most. But they were watchers; they never interfered.
Guess that was a myth.
“In Paris,” he said.
Paris? What the—? She’d been flown across the ocean, from her current residence of Boston, Massachusetts, to France?
Anger rising, Tuesday lunged forward, gripping the steel bars. Vicious electricity zapped at her fingers, and she released them, taking the brunt of the shocking force through her body. She was violently tossed backward to land on her ass in the center of the cage. Legs splayed, she shook off a shiver. Her fur coat slipped down her shoulders to her wrists. She sucked in a gulp of air.
The man smirked. “By the way, those bars are activated.”
Tuesday flicked up the sign of the Devil and growled, “Be taken to Beneath!”
“She speaks. And with a curse, of all things. I would expect nothing less from a dark witch. But the cage is warded. As is this clean room. No magic can get in or out. Nice try, though.”
Oh, he wanted a curse? Utterly incensed, Tuesday spread out her fingers and focused a stream of magic at the man’s crotch. “Languidulus!”
While normally invisible, once her magic hit the cage bars, a shot of violet light bounced off and splintered in dying pink embers onto the cage floor.
“What was that?” The vampire’s smirk was annoyingly sexy. “Another curse? Did you try to give me a tail?”
Tuesday smiled nicely and tilted her head. “Actually, I cursed your dick to forever remain limp. And my magic is much stronger than you can imagine. I’d invest in Viagra, if I were you.” She winked at him.
The slightest flinch moved the corner of one of his eyes. Bull’s-eye. She could get under the man’s skin. With mere words. This predicament was going to prove an easy escape. She just had to dig under his outer machismo to access the key.
But Paris? That meant she’d been out, at the very least, for eight or nine hours. And moved around according to this bastard’s will. Not cool.
“What the hell is the benevolent Council doing sending someone to kidnap me?” she asked. Standing, her heels clicked on the cage floor. She shook out the alpaca fur coat she wore over black leggings and a comfy shirt. The coat was spangled in warding designs. A Tibetan monk had initially made it for her. A glitter sidhe-witch had sewn on the wards a few years ago. “And who the fuck is Ethan Pierce?”
“I’m the director of Acquisitions. We acquire things that need to be locked away. Behind chains and wards.”
“And you think I need to be locked away?” She flipped him the bird. Yeah, so it wasn’t a hex. Some common gestures were much more to the point.
“Actually, Acquisitions needs you to get to what we really want.”
“Which is?”
“The blood demon Gazariel.”
Tuesday’s hand slapped across her chest, below the obsidian crystal. Though rarely spoken, the sound of that demon’s name always provoked such an action. She could feel his sigil burn her skin under the silk shirt.
“We know you wear the demon’s sigil,” Ethan explained. “Got it in the seventeenth century, if our records are accurate. Will you show it to me?”
She wouldn’t give him anything. Not until she heard what weird and strange plans he—they; Acquisitions?—had for her.
“The sigil is some kind of blood curse, yes?” He paced a few steps to the side then turned back to her. “Doesn’t matter how you got it. Or what it does. But I’ve been told, because of your connection to the demon, it makes you one of the darkest of the dark witches. I don’t like dark witches, by the way.”
“Would have never guessed. Your hosting skills are severely lacking. And I don’t care what the hell you are, Pierce, I don’t like you.”
“I’m vampire.”
“I knew that.” She sneered. “A flesh pricker. Who is also a Richard.”
“A... Richard?” The man narrowed his eyes and shrugged in question.
“Think about it a bit,” she offered. He’d get it, sooner or later. “So you think you have the right to pluck any old witch off the streets and force her to do your bidding?”
“I wouldn’t use the word force. But you are old, aren’t you?”
His self-satisfied smirk did not rile her. Too much. Age was relative when a person had immortality; he should know that. She snapped the rubber band she wore about her wrist. The man would not like to see her dark magic in all its wicked glory.
“You have been brought to Paris to assist us in locating Gazariel.”
The sigil she’d worn since the seventeenth century burned over her skin. “Quit saying that name,” she insisted. “You only grant the demon more power with each utterance. Do you know that?”
Apparently he did not.
The man hung his head for a few seconds, then looked up at her. “I know my demon lore. Basically. The saying a name three times thing generally only works with Himself. Demons are much more slippery when it comes to summoning them. Which is why you are here in Paris.”
Paris! She could not believe this.
“Now, you’ll serve to lure the demon to us—me, since I’m in charge of this mission—and then I will obtain from him what we seek to contain.”
“The demon has something you want?”
He nodded. “It’s dangerous to all. In the demon’s hands, the world could be destroyed.”
Tuesday scoffed. Always so dramatic with the end-of-the-world crap. It was never a small portion of the world, but the whole thing. What kind of villain would even think to destroy a world he would like to remain on to rule? The demon couldn’t rule anything if he didn’t have followers to bow down to him. End of the world, her ass.
But then she considered what she knew about Gazariel. He was a trickster. His title was The Beautiful One. Because he was a pretty bit of charm and allure. Vain and self-serving, as well. And deadly. He liked to take advantage of a person when they were at their lowest, defeated. But most importantly, he was an asshole. And she didn’t want to get any closer to him than she already was. Wearing his sigil did not make her his bitch—so long as she kept her distance from him.
“So let me get this straight.” She walked up to the bars until the shock waves from the wards teased at her skin and lifted the hairs in her pores. Must have been warded by another dark witch with a tech edge. It messed with her personal vibrations, so she took a step back and, with a thought, pulled a white light over herself. All she could manage in this damnable cage was a weak veil, but it gave her some solace. “You want to dangle me before the demon as bait?”
The man tapped a finger against his jaw, then nodded. “Yes, that’s about it.”
She turned and paced in a half arc, hands to her hips, head down in thought. A glance to the man’s face found him stoic, trying to show her he would not back down, no matter what. Tough guy, pushing around a helpless woman. Been there, done that. Never going to let it happen again.
If she should refuse him, he would force her. And enjoy it. Typical male.
But he didn’t know Tuesday Knightsbridge at all. Helplessness was not a condition she had ever ascribed to. And that would give her the upper hand.
“Sounds like fun,” she said cheerily. “Let’s do it.”
