Fireborne by McKenzie Hunter
Series: Raven Cursed #1
Publication date: November 1st, 2019
Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
My magic isn't just a curse - it's an addiction. I crave it the way some people crave chocolate. But, chocolate doesn't kill - my magic does.
I'm Raven Cursed. When I borrow magic from someone, they die. That's always been the case--until I met my client, the devilishly handsome and enigmatic Mephisto. He has his own brand of unique magic and a mysterious past he's determined to keep to himself.
He knows that I'm the one to call anytime a curse goes wrong, a magical object is lost, or a rogue supernatural needs apprehending. So he offers a trade. He'll give me his magic, and in return, I accept a job from him.
It seems like a simple deal until all hell breaks loose. We have to team up to stop a god from unleashing destruction upon the city. It leaves me to wonder: can I battle a god with the devil at my back?
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Excerpt
"Do your visitors know that they are on video?"
"There aren't any cameras in my bedroom, or any of the bedrooms, if that's what you are worried about."
"That's good. No one wants to see what goes on with that chicken and goat in your bedroom," I countered.
He gave a deep chuckle, half turning to give me a look over his shoulder. "Chicken? Goat?"
"I don't claim to know what your deal is with the devil to keep him from claiming your soul, Mephisto. I assume there's a weird dance, chanting, and an animal sacrifice."
He moved so sleek and fast, I sucked in a sharp breath when I found him leaning over the desk, his intense, inquiring eyes fixed on mine.
"I'm confused. Do you consider me Satan or his servant?" he asked.
"Only you would know that. Are you Mephistopheles as seen in the works of Faust or are you the devil himself?"
His answer didn't come immediately. How hard a question was it: Are you Satan or his servant? I knew he was neither, but I wanted to know his name and had been reduced to juvenile antics to try and get it. I wished I was above it.
His real name. The complexity and absurdity of people's nature is that denial heightens longing. Upright now, he took slow, measured steps backward, away from me. Amusement played over his features. "I'm no one's servant," he said before turning to look back at the screens.
It was ridiculous calling him Mephisto. He seemed to know far more about me and my kind than I had thought, and I didn't know the first thing about him. It was bugging me. With a name, I could begin to investigate. Just give me a name.
"Is it working?" he finally asked.
"What?"
"All the effort you make trying to make me seem so undesirable? Have you succeeded?"
His dark eyes appraised me intensely for several moments. "If it hasn't, know that the offer stands. Perhaps you will enjoy that devil's playground." As if to drive home his words, I heard the faint sound of The Rigs's song "Devil's Playground." I was now convinced that he chose Mephisto for the numerous songs about the devil at his disposal. I remembered our first meeting, when I made a comment about working for the devil; on my next visit, I was met with the song "Sinnerman" by Nina Simone. It played at a low volume during the entirety of the meeting.
My rebuttal was not nearly as well thought out as I'd like. Mephisto flustered me.
"I have no interest in what happens in your bedroom because I'll never be one of the women in it. Your magic makes me curious and yes, I want to know what it feels like, but not enough to risk having anything more than what we have now. The tall, dark, and mysterious shtick doesn't intrigue me the way you think it does."
"Hmm," he mused, "if you believe any of that to be true, then good for you." He was out the door, giving me a quick, "Be careful with the job."
Be careful. It was the platitude I hated the most. Most people tried to be careful. What was the alternative--be reckless?
"There aren't any cameras in my bedroom, or any of the bedrooms, if that's what you are worried about."
"That's good. No one wants to see what goes on with that chicken and goat in your bedroom," I countered.
He gave a deep chuckle, half turning to give me a look over his shoulder. "Chicken? Goat?"
"I don't claim to know what your deal is with the devil to keep him from claiming your soul, Mephisto. I assume there's a weird dance, chanting, and an animal sacrifice."
He moved so sleek and fast, I sucked in a sharp breath when I found him leaning over the desk, his intense, inquiring eyes fixed on mine.
"I'm confused. Do you consider me Satan or his servant?" he asked.
"Only you would know that. Are you Mephistopheles as seen in the works of Faust or are you the devil himself?"
His answer didn't come immediately. How hard a question was it: Are you Satan or his servant? I knew he was neither, but I wanted to know his name and had been reduced to juvenile antics to try and get it. I wished I was above it.
His real name. The complexity and absurdity of people's nature is that denial heightens longing. Upright now, he took slow, measured steps backward, away from me. Amusement played over his features. "I'm no one's servant," he said before turning to look back at the screens.
It was ridiculous calling him Mephisto. He seemed to know far more about me and my kind than I had thought, and I didn't know the first thing about him. It was bugging me. With a name, I could begin to investigate. Just give me a name.
"Is it working?" he finally asked.
"What?"
"All the effort you make trying to make me seem so undesirable? Have you succeeded?"
His dark eyes appraised me intensely for several moments. "If it hasn't, know that the offer stands. Perhaps you will enjoy that devil's playground." As if to drive home his words, I heard the faint sound of The Rigs's song "Devil's Playground." I was now convinced that he chose Mephisto for the numerous songs about the devil at his disposal. I remembered our first meeting, when I made a comment about working for the devil; on my next visit, I was met with the song "Sinnerman" by Nina Simone. It played at a low volume during the entirety of the meeting.
My rebuttal was not nearly as well thought out as I'd like. Mephisto flustered me.
"I have no interest in what happens in your bedroom because I'll never be one of the women in it. Your magic makes me curious and yes, I want to know what it feels like, but not enough to risk having anything more than what we have now. The tall, dark, and mysterious shtick doesn't intrigue me the way you think it does."
"Hmm," he mused, "if you believe any of that to be true, then good for you." He was out the door, giving me a quick, "Be careful with the job."
Be careful. It was the platitude I hated the most. Most people tried to be careful. What was the alternative--be reckless?
About the Author:
McKenzie, as a child, discovered that her life could be a whirlwind of adventures by simply opening a book. To this day, reading is still her favorite activity. She has a fondness for fantasy and mystery, which is probably why she writes urban fantasy.
When McKenzie isn't working on her next book she is usually binge-watching paranormal and comedy shows, maintaining her title as "favorite auntie" or trying to create a tasty low-calorie pizza. McKenzie loves to hear from her readers. Feel free to contact her via her website, Facebook, or email.
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