An American Witch In Paris

“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.”

Chapter 2 (#u798c94f9-5156-58e1-8db3-9c61a9887ffc)

Another man entered the clean room and Tuesday immediately felt familiar vibrations flow off of him. Another dark witch. He was tall and lean, and everything about him was black, from his long straight hair and thin mustache to his clothing. Spell tattoos covered his hands and exposed neck. A coil of thin rope was attached to his hip holster à la the Wild West. Weird. Also, he wasn’t wearing shoes.

“You’ve got her in a cage?” he said to the vampire. “What the hell?”

“She’s dangerous,” Ethan said.

Yeah, and don’t forget it, buddy. But Tuesday didn’t say that.