An American Witch In Paris. Michele Hauf

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,