Getting Familiar With Your Demon--Review ARCs!

I'll be sending out review ARCs for Getting Familiar With Your Demon around mid-December. If you have a review blog, and/or post on GoodReads, Amazon, etc and would be interested in getting on the list for GFWYD, just shoot me an email here. Not sure if Getting Familiar With Your Demon is your cup of tea? Then check out the blurb and excerpt snippit below:

That Old Black Magic, Book 4

Coming this February from Samhain Publishing


He should push her away...but he'd rather have his wicked way with her.

After too many years learning death from the inside out as the familiar of a voodoo queen, soul collector Samael Gorasola betrayed his boss, which landed him on demon death row.

He should have known not even his punishment would come easy, but the deal he’s offered to escape his fate stinks. Become the indentured servant to his despised enemy? No thanks, he’d rather be six feet under. With that in mind, he picks a deadly fight with two demon hunters, only to be rescued by one misguided, deliciously innocent white witch.

Marabella hasn’t a clue what possessed her to help Sam, particularly since he’s not the least bit grateful. She blames it on her overwhelming attraction to the dark, dangerous demon, and her exasperating quest to rid herself of the stubborn curse that guards her virginity. If the guild finds out, though, she can kiss her white-witch status goodbye.

A kiss is exactly what she gets, followed by a consuming hunger that breaks down all heavenly and earthly barriers…and leaves Sam saddled with the one thing he never wanted, a conscience, and a connection to Marabella that puts her soul on the line.

Warning: This book contains torturous use of disco music, one sinfully sexy demon who revels in being bad, a virgin witch whose innocence runs more than skin deep, and plenty of wicked, forbidden sex with explosive side effects—literally.

Excerpt

                                                                              Chapter One

Samael Gorasola grimaced as the blaring strains of It’s Raining Men pounded through the speakers recessed in the walls of his prison cell. There weren’t many things that made him yearn for a quick, merciful death. Not even the three-centuries-old demon currently torturing him. Disco music on the other hand—where was a damn bullet to the brain when he needed one?

Right on cue, Toran joined in on the chorus with a piercing falsetto that was akin to sharp toothpicks jabbing into Sam’s corneas. Sam gritted his teeth. Fucking. Kill. Me. Now.

A series of crackles fizzled and spit through the air, and a second later the charged wires of Toran’s whip snapped across the exposed skin on Sam’s back, sizzling his flesh with white-hot agony. Despite his best efforts to cage it, Sam’s pained roar broke loose. At least the sound momentarily drowned out the horrendous music.

“What’s the matter, Gorasola? Can’t take the heat?” A grating laugh rumbled from the punishment master. Sam didn’t know what he despised more—Toran’s shitty taste in music or incredibly lame sense of humor. The whip whistled across Sam again, almost masking the patronizing drone of Toran’s voice. “I’m going to miss you when you’re dead, Gorasola. Who the hell will give me the same delight in torturing than you?”

“Imagine you’ll find someone.” Damn dickhead.

A heavy clang reverberated, and Sam tensed, thinking it was Toran increasing the whip’s voltage—or worse, cranking up the sound system. Instead, a distinctly feminine cough echoed in the chamber.

“Forgive the interruption, Master Toran.” Pricilla Roundtree’s cold, haughty tone provoked Sam into grinding his molars. Eighteen hours of Toran’s harshest punishment while a continuous loop of It’s Raining Men played in the background held more appeal than a single second spent in Pricilla’s presence. The demon king’s personal secretary was a poisoned thorn in his side. One that refused to be extracted.

“Mistress Roundtree.” Toran’s voice dripped with enough ass-kissing grovel to give Sam a serious case of indigestion.

“I’m here to speak with Samael. Could you give us a moment?”

“Certainly. Do you want me to chain the prisoner to the wall?”

“No, I’ll handle him myself.”

Sam didn’t care for the acid sweetness in Pricilla’s statement—and the notion of her handling any part of him made his flesh crawl—but balking would only earn him another electrified bite from Toran’s whip.

“Very well,” Toran offered reluctantly. “If Gorasola gives you any problem, I’ll be down the hall.”

“I’m sure Samael will be on his best behavior.”

A grunt fell from Toran, more than relaying his thoughts on the idea of Sam being anything less than a troublesome pain in the ass. Heavy footsteps tromped across the stone floor, and a second later the music fell mute. The cell door clanked again, announcing the punishment master’s departure. Pricilla stepped closer, and her heavy, cloying scent of gardenia ambushed him.

“Hello, Samael.” Sharp-tipped fingernails scored the scythe-shaped gun tattooed on Sam’s back, making him flinch. “It’s been a while. Missed me?”

“About as much as I miss that damn disco music.”

A bucket of ice contained more warmth than Pricilla’s laugh. Her fingers dug into him, making him wince. “Is that any way to speak to the individual who holds the deed to your life?”

Every muscle in his body seized. “What?”

“It took some doing, but I persuaded the king to sign your contract over to me rather than execute you.” Pricilla traced the line of his spine before ruffling his hair in a way that was entirely too territorial. “I own you now, Samael.”

To say the thought left him far from warm and fuzzy was a severe understatement. “I’d rather be dead.”

“You wound me with this unprovoked hatred.”

“Unprovoked?” Being flat on his belly atop the metal torture table made him less threatening than a toothless dog. Still, it didn’t muzzle him enough to stop the growl from slipping past his throat. “You went behind my back and revoked my petition to have my contract with Antoinette Delacroix severed, you viperous bitch.”

Pricilla’s clawlike nails dug into his skull, creating a painful sting he couldn’t readily ignore. “Mind your tongue. As for your complaint and petition, I saw no reason for the king to allow it, just because your mistress was a ghost. You’re a demon familiar and a soul collector, Samael. Your duty was clear. If you’d simply done as told instead of taking matters into your own hands, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”

In other words, neck-deep in a pile of shit. Sam’s jaw clenched hard enough to trigger a cramp. Fuck me. Aiding in the permanent demise of Antoinette Delacroix hadn’t been one of his more brilliant moments. But damn if he wouldn’t do it all over again. Eternal punishment was a small price to pay for packing Nettie’s spirit off to hell. Served the damn bitch right after making it her mission in life—and death—to ensure his existence was mired in misery. The past six months were a vacation compared to being under her thumb all those years.

Only now it looked like he’d be under an even worse one. For devil’s sake, would someone damn well kill me already?

The bindings around his right wrist suddenly slackened before releasing him entirely. Rolling onto his side, he glared at Pricilla. She was dressed in a tailored black pantsuit, her only concession to color provided by her scarlet lipstick. Even the coal-dark hair pulled into a rigid bun was in keeping with her all-black ensemble. No doubt she’d chosen the color to match her heart. Assuming she possessed one.

He stretched his fingers, attempting to work out the kinks. “If you expect me to bow at your feet for the honor of being your slave, you’ll have to undo the rest of my manacles.”

Judging from the tightening of her lips, his sarcasm hadn’t missed its target. “I’d start acting more grateful, if I were you. I’m not averse to inviting Toran back in here to give you a proper farewell.”

He was leaving? Now? For the first time in what felt like forever, a spark of hope flickered within Sam. Five minutes ago, before Pricilla came waltzing in with her pronouncement, the prospect of seeing a world beyond his dank prison cell was an absurd dream. He’d resigned himself to this existence. It’d been easier that way. But now that he was being offered another chance…it seemed too good to be true.

The reminder of the role Pricilla played in his newfound freedom smothered his rising spirits. Of course it was too good to be true. Because he wasn’t really free. Not as long as he was beholden to the damn bitch.

“I see from your scowl you’re not pleased with our arrangement.” Pricilla’s mouth curled upward. If an asp could smile, it’d look exactly like the calculating devil spawn. “No matter. You’re still mine to command. Better get used to it, Samael.”

Command. The damnable word hazed his vision with red. He was tired of doing the bidding of others. Of being nothing more than a fucking errand boy to one asshole after another. It used to mean something, being a soul collector. A title to be proud of. Now his status felt like a noose, vising tighter and tighter.

As if she’d read his torturous thoughts, Pricilla stepped to the other side of the table and ran her fingertips over his tattoo—the official seal of his now-despised title. The coldness of her touch leached into him like a condemnation. “I have great plans in store for you, Samael Gorasola. Just you wait.”