Page 6

Grace leaned back against the seat as the driver zipped through the narrow streets and past golden lit façades. She’d always wanted to visit Paris, to walk the Champs-Élysées and visit Notre Dame. Have a picnic by the Seine. See the Eiffel Tower all lit up at night. That wouldn’t be happening on this trip. And if she got caught, she might see parts of France she’d never planned to. Like the inside of a police cell. Not if she could help it.

Grace had a few tricks up her sleeve and a few herbs in her clutch. The Kings didn’t see her as much of a threat or an ally. Not country-bumpkin Grace, formerly of Pickens County, Alabama, with her Southern accent and old-fashioned values. Well, she might not be the strongest witch—she wasn’t the most ruthless or the most devious—but she knew her herbs and what they could do. Had done so before she’d moved to California, and six years of owning the Thrifty Witch had added to her knowledge and experience.

The taxi pulled up to the curb, and she craned her neck. Six stories of elegant columns, wrought-iron balconies and a steeply pitched roof illuminated by decorative streetlights. Quintessentially Parisian, like something on a travel blogger’s page on Instagram. And there, decorating the lintel above the double entryway, carved in stone, were two peacocks facing each other, their tails trailing down either side of the door. The Peacock House. It screamed money and privilege and connections. The entire neighborhood did.

Grace paid the driver and watched his taillights fade away along the tree-lined boulevard. After this, would she want to come back to Paris? Would she be able to? She sighed and turned toward the building, stopping in her tracks.

Oh.

There, between the looming façades of the apartment buildings lining the street, was the Eiffel Tower, lit up against the night sky with hundreds of lights flickering, making it sparkle. She stood on the pavement, watching the display until the lights stopped twinkling. She could’ve stood there all night. Would’ve rather she did, but…

Her phone rang. She dug it out of her clutch. “Hello?”

“Dubois. I’ve bypassed the security on the front door. You can go in now.”

“How did you know—?” She glanced up at the building. Nestled above the peacocks, almost hidden in the shadows, was a camera. He was watching her.

“Stay on the phone. The elevator needs a passkey. I’ll have to override it, too.”

“Oh, okay.” Who is this guy?

Grace eyed the ornate double doors. Once she stepped into the building, there was no turning back. She was committed. Grace smoothed down her dress. At least she was dressed appropriately. Nobody would question her being in the building. But would that be enough to convince a doorman or security? She could only hope Alain’s reputation of bringing women home would get her through.

Grace took a deep breath and ascended the steps, pushed open the door and entered the foyer. Understated old-world elegance greeted her. High ceilings with elaborate moldings, a glittering chandelier and a large, ornate staircase curving up to the next floor. He was definitely living in high cotton.

But the foyer was empty. No doorman and no security, apart from the cameras watching her every move.

No elevator.

“Take the stairs. The elevator is a retrofit. It starts on the first floor.”

Grace took the stairs as fast as her heels would allow.

On the second floor, she found the elevator—a small glass tube barely big enough for two people. The door opened before she could press the button, and Grace stepped inside. Another camera, this one in the top right-hand corner. She turned her back to it, fiddling with the low neckline of her dress. The doors closed, the control panel lit up, and the elevator rose. She shuffled from foot to foot, the skin on the back of her neck prickling. He could be anybody, this Dubois. Sitting in a room, surrounded by screens, getting his jollies out of watching her walking into the building, climbing the stairs, riding the elevator.

She suppressed a shudder. At least when she’d got what she came for, he could wipe it and no one would be any wiser. She glanced at the camera. He was going to wipe the footage, wasn’t he? It would be hard to argue with evidence like that.

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors sprung open onto a small, private foyer. Grace surged forward, desperate to get out of the confined space as if her shoes were on fire.

“Wait.”

She froze. “Why?”

“There’s another camera system independent of the building’s security. Give me a minute.”

Of course there was. And it wasn’t the only security. Magic hummed, powerful and raw. Primal. Like the man himself. Grace would have to break it. And there’d be footage of her doing that, too. Footage in the hands of a faceless man named Dubois, who worked for the Faucherians, the tattooed group Cordelia had made an alliance with.

H-E-double hockey sticks.

She’d never get away from the Kings. Not with that kind of leverage.

“I have control of the camera,” said Dubois in her ear. “You can exit the elevator now.”

Grace heaved in a deep breath, released it slowly, then stepped into the foyer and approached the double doors. Magic prickled across her skin, growing stronger the closer she got. There was a discordant note to it—a compulsion to retreat—typical of most wards, but it also had bite, a sharp edge. This ward was designed to do serious damage to anyone who crossed it. Incapacitate them. Maybe even kill them. Fingers crossed, her herbs and her spell would be enough to protect her.

There was a click from the door. “I’ve disabled the electronic lock. You can go in now.”

Not yet. She eyed the blinking red light in the device on the ceiling above the door. “Can you do anything about the smoke alarm?” The last thing she needed was its shrill beeping bringing tenants from other floors running or calling emergency services.