An American Witch In Paris

“Again, not a romantic bone in your body, eh?”

“What? Do you require emotion, some feeling next time I kiss you?”

“You think you’re going to kiss me again?”

“Probably.”

She turned on the seat to look at him. “Why? Do you like kissing me?”

“It was pleasant.” He sounded like an asshole, but what was she angling for right now with that teasing question? The woman was a curiously complex mixture of opposites. One minute she was trying to put a hex on him to make his dick limp, the next she wanted to make out. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

She sat up, lifting her chin haughtily. “You haven’t been kissed by me yet, vampire. When I kiss you properly? You’ll know. And you’ll never have to wonder if you want another again. Because you will. You’ll crave my kiss, my touch. You’ll want to hex me every chance you get.”

Ethan offered a shrug. “Have to say, that does sound intriguing.”

“Damn right it does. So we heading out on the demon quest?”

“First, I need the details.” He pushed back his seat and tilted to face her comfortably. Taking off the sunglasses, he asked, “Tell me how you got Gazariel’s sigil.”

Boston, MA—1680

Finnister McAdams was going blind. He wore a black strip of sack cloth across his eyes now because he had explained to Tuesday how the light bothered him. Made him blink and gave him headaches. ’Twas as if the devil was prodding his eyes with his mighty pitchfork.

Tuesday knew well the Devil Himself did not wield a pitchfork, but to correct him would only put her in danger. She’d prepared Finn an herbal tincture in his morning tea. Rosemary, black salts and feverfew. Had cast a healing spell...without him knowing. Even laid mustard plasters over his eyes. Nothing proved efficacious.

Now she considered calling up a demon to aid in healing her lover’s eyes. Such creatures did possess healing powers. At least, a few of them did so. If only the witch summoning them could find a beneficent demon. And that was the challenge.

Tuesday loved her man, Finn. From the moment he’d settled next to her in the lavender field and compared her eyes to the sky, she had loved him desperately. Three months they had been sharing her tiny cabin at the edge of the village with one another. Finn was strong and proud, and very handsome. His hair was copper, his thick beard as well. His skin was ruddy and pale, so he always wore a wide-brimmed hat when outside. He was fashioned of flame and earth. And when he held her in his arms it wasn’t tentative or rough. He knew how to hold a woman. And Tuesday’s heart fluttered when he kissed her.

But if he knew she was a witch he would be displeased. The man was Puritan. His family had sailed across the Atlantic Ocean from England six months earlier. His father was seeking a congregation to share and spread the word of God. And Finnister, while a godly man, seemed more inclined to craftwork that involved turning wood into beautiful creations. He even fashioned lovely knife hilts, and had skill with a blade.