An American Witch In Paris. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ