An American Witch In Paris. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
He’d handle the witch with a strong hand and command. He had to stay on guard with her. To set an example for others. But it would prove a challenge, not only because of her odd appeal, but also because it had been so long since he’d actually worked a mission. If she learned that he was questioning his own abilities—and thus had taken the job to prove he wasn’t washed up and was physically capable of handling such a mission—he’d never succeed.
* * *
They headed out, Tuesday following Ethan’s sure gait. It was a confident walk. A sexy walk. After many turns and an elevator ride down four floors, the sight of a door up ahead gave her great glee. Soon.
She pressed her hand over the shackle rope, which she’d been holding snug against the sigil. The rope fibers were hot and smoldering. It was working.
“I don’t live far from here. We’ll walk,” Ethan said.
He’d mentioned they would discuss a plan for capturing the demon. Why they didn’t simply do it in his office was beyond her, but she appreciated the opportunity to get out of the building. And away.
He opened a heavy steel door. Bright daylight filtered in, making Tuesday blink. She had lost all concept of time, and even though her muscles were dragging her downward from exhaustion, the crisp winter air, inhaled deeply, worked to lighten her. And keep her focused. Tugging her coat closed, but keeping one hand inside on the shackling rope, she followed the vampire outside.
They exited into a narrow, cobblestone alleyway. Ethan turned left.
Tuesday turned right and started to run. She made it ten feet, pulling away the rope that had burned apart thanks to the demon sigil, and dropped it behind her. But as her speed increased and she began to pump her arms, her body collided with an invisible wall, slamming her backward to land in the arms of Ethan Pierce.
“I expected as much,” he said. A flash of his bright smile did not give her any mirth. “So did CJ. The rope was merely a distraction until CJ had time to work up a stronger spell.”
“Bastard,” she muttered, and collapsed in his arms.
The steel door through which they’d exited opened and the dark witch swung out with urgency. He lifted his hand, exposing the glowing spell tattoos that covered his palm. As he approached, he asked Ethan, “You sure about this, man?”
“Nope. But someone’s got to do it. So do your darkest.”
“Oh, no.” Not knowing what was coming, but not stupid, either, Tuesday struggled out of Ethan’s grasp.
The vampire stretched back an arm toward his approaching cohort while he managed to hold her by the coat with his other hand. She wasn’t going to let whatever might happen...happen.
She began to speak a deflection spell, but a slash of Certainly’s hand caused Tuesday’s words to suddenly jumble and drop in the air. He’d deflected her deflection. He was stronger than she’d anticipated.
With his full body, the vampire crushed her against the brick wall. She kicked, unwilling to be contained. Suddenly, she smelled blood. What the—? The dark witch grabbed her wrist and an icy pain seared the center of her palm. A coppery scent filled the air. He was invoking blood magic?
“No!”
Kicking, Tuesday hit Ethan’s gut, but the vampire lunged forward and slapped his hand into hers. Heat from his blood mingled with hers. The dark witch held their hands together and recited a simple incantation that she recognized as a binder.
Tuesday growled, but the exhaustion from what she’d been through since sitting in the bar—back in the United States—had depleted her magic. The blood spell coursed through her system, and she felt it bite at her neck from the inside. Certainly Jones’s dark and masterful magic bound her to the vampire. They would not be able to leave one another’s side, nor would they be able to harm one another.
“This is the only blood you’ll ever get from me,” the vampire said on a low, accusing tone.
With a shout for survival, Tuesday pushed away from her captor with a shove of her free hand to his chest. The dark witch stepped away, allowing her to stumble against the wall. She caught her hands flat on the rough brick behind her, cursed, then watched as the knife wound sealed in a glow of violet on her palm.
“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