Michele Hauf - An American Witch In Paris

“Had to be done,” Certainly commented.

“How close do we have to stay to one another now?” Ethan asked, as if he’d only been given a simple handshake.

“Not sure. Try it out.”

“Try running off,” Ethan said to her. “See how far you get.”

“Try fucking yourself, vampire.”

“Like I said, she’s going to be a challenge,” Certainly said.

“Challenge accepted. I’ll start walking home,” Ethan said. “We’ll see how far I get before you have no choice but to follow.” He slapped a hand into the dark witch’s. “Thanks, CJ.”

Ethan strolled off down the alley. And Tuesday tugged her coat up and adjusted her hair. She pointed an accusing finger at Certainly. “You, Jones, are on my shit list.”

He shrugged. “I honor your power, Tuesday Knightsbridge. You are an old and strong witch. But I can feel your darkness is even greater than mine.”

“Yeah? Warlock’s looking pretty good right about now.” If she grievously harmed another witch the warlock title would be slapped on her. “That would really put you in your place.”

“As well, it would put you in a place you don’t want to stand. Don’t let it overwhelm you, Tuesday. Remember what you once were.”

Really? The man was trying the New Age-y bullshit on her? “You know nothing about me.”

“No, but I saw into your soul when you were looking into mine.” He bowed his head toward her. “I am sorry for the things you have suffered because of what we are.”

Yeah, so witches had been a favorite cat’s-paw over the centuries. She’d survived, and she would continue to so do thanks to her hardened heart.

Suddenly, Tuesday’s body jerked forward. Certainly stepped aside and they both looked down the alley. Ethan stood about fifty yards off. He gave them a thumbs-up.

And when he started walking again, Tuesday was pulled after him.

“Shit list!” she called back to Certainly, who had the decency to place his palms together and bow to her in reverence.

* * *

Ethan chuckled to himself as the witch reluctantly followed him down the street to his place in the eleventh arrondissement. He lived in a third-floor loft close to Père Lachaise cemetery, which boasted an excellent view of Sacré Coeur up on the hill.

He left the front door open behind him, not feeling the need to wait on the witch. She’d stand back just to piss him off, surely. He tossed his keys onto the gray granite kitchen counter and kicked off his shoes, then wandered through the living area. With a few words to the electronic house butler—“Stuart, modify for sun”—the electrochromic shades fixed between the double windowpanes that looked out over the city adjusted to a soft white that would allow in light but not the UV rays that gave him the most caution.

The layout of the loft was open—no walls, save the ones enclosing the bathroom. Strolling through the living room, around a corner and through the bedroom, he went into the bathroom but left the door open behind him. “Stuart, warm water.” Ethan splashed water on his face, then manually twisted off the faucet and took a few deep breaths.

He opened his palm. The cut CJ had given him had already healed. Sharing blood with the witch hadn’t been as horrible as he’d expected. Remnants of fear over the once-poisonous witch blood remained. He’d have to get over it. And fast. If the demon was a blood demon, surely much blood would be spilled in the coming days. The witch’s. And the demon’s. Ethan wasn’t willing to give any more than the few drops he’d provided today.

He liked blood. As sustenance. But he never drank witch’s blood, even since the Great Protection Spell had been broken. It couldn’t harm him now. And there were even some vampires who liked drinking from witches. If you added in sex and a specific spell for bloodsexmagic, the vampire could steal some of that witch’s magic for himself.

He had no desire to own magic. But to taste the witch’s blood? He couldn’t shake the scent of her blood as it had trickled into the air in the alley outside headquarters. It had roused him so much in that moment that he’d used violence and had shoved her roughly to hide his burgeoning desires. He hoped she wouldn’t bleed near him again.

That would prove a challenge.

“Honey, I’m home!”

He shook his head, but no reflection in the mirror showed his exasperation. CJ had warned she would be a struggle. But that was a challenge he welcomed. Now, to work with the witch.

Tuesday had shucked off her coat and now reclined on the leather sofa that sat against a rough brick wall. She’d kicked off her shoes and waggled her bare toes—the nails were painted bright blue—as she stretched out her arms and yawned. The black shirt had a button below her breasts and was open from there down, revealing abs. And much more skin than he wanted to notice right now.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Unlike vampires, we witches do need a little shut-eye now and then. And after all the torments I’ve endured?”

“Why don’t you take twenty minutes to rest? Stuart, close the shades completely.”

As the windows darkened, Tuesday sat up and glanced over a shoulder. “Who the hell is Stuart? A house brownie?”

Ethan chuckled. “A bit similar. That’s the name of the electronic house butler. This place is high-tech. If you need something, Stuart can usually get it.”

“Stuart, book me a flight back to Boston, STAT,” Tuesday said.

As the butler began to confirm, Ethan canceled that request. “And ignore all requests from any voice but my own,” he ordered.

“Of course,” Stuart replied.

“That’s creepy.” Tuesday lay back down and crossed her arms over her chest. “And so not fair.”

“While you rest I’m going to make a few calls. Plan our first move.”

“You don’t have a plan?”

“Of course I do,” he lied. Sitting before the kitchen counter with his back to her, he pushed aside her spangled coat. A pad of paper and a pen waited near the phone. He was all about the high-tech, but he’d never give up the landline. “You want a blanket or something?”

“Fuck you, Richard.” And she turned over on the sofa and snuggled up in a ball.

Again with the Richard? He thought about it a few seconds. Ah. Richard shortened was... All righty then. He shouldn’t expect her to think very highly of him after having one of his retrievers kidnap her and fly her across the ocean. And then forcibly bind her to him.

He may have to find a means to cozy up to her in order to get her to trust him or he’d never get anywhere with her. At the very least, he needed her to want to trust him.

Pulling out his cell phone, he scrolled through the contacts. He knew the person he had to speak to first to learn anything about any demon in Paris.

* * *

Edamite Thrash was a sort of demon overlord with a penchant for niceness. But Ethan didn’t tell anyone that, or Thrash would scratch you with the poison thorns that grew from his knuckles. The man was a corax demon, which meant he could shift into an unkindness of ravens and take to the skies. He also made it his job to oversee the demons of Paris, knowing who was where, and when and why. He kept a loose rein on his species, and enforced punishment only when one of them threatened to expose their kind with their foolish actions.

Ethan knew most of the major players in the paranormal realm who inhabited Paris. That was his job, to know whom he could trust and with whom he had best watch his back. Ed was trustworthy.

The dark feather tattoo on Ed’s neck always drew Ethan’s eye. He wore many sigils tattooed on his skin, and combined with his standard dark business suit and smartly parted and slicked black hair, he looked dangerous yet disturbingly GQ stylish.