For Carmella Hunter, a witch blood with practically no magick, being surrounded by powerful friends has taken its toll. For once it would be nice to be the one doing the saving. Stuck in a dead-end job in Piccadilly's favorite bakery, Carmella spends her days making cinnamon rolls and her evenings feeding the homeless, all the while dreaming of making a difference. One huge pastry order for the Covens annual meet and an attack of flu germs leaves Carmella delirious with a fever - too delirious to avoid a fateful bargain with a djinn named Paimon.

Nothing brightens up a Monday like finding out you're the spawn of Satan. The big bad is dead and now Satan's spawn must fight for the Morningstar throne. I'm tossed into the ring, whether I want to be there or not. I'm mostly human, a hunter by trade, and totally outmatched by my half siblings. The chance I'll survive these tests and claim the throne is slim. Then someone starts assassinating my siblings. It's only a matter of time until I'm next.

I’ve made it my mission to be useful to my pack. As pack enforcer, I’m fast and strong, but when the time comes to bond with my mate, it isn’t enough. Rejection means lone wolf status and isolation from the pack. But when a package arrives with an unexpected inheritance, the pack that wants to shun me suddenly has a new use for me. Turns out, I’m the proud owner of a house in mysterious territory, rumored to be home to a pack of beautifully twisted shifters. Hawthorne Cove is impregnable to Lycans, but not to a half-human like me.

Finding my husband in bed with another woman was not how I planned to start my day. Or homeless the next minute. And broke. So, when a job comes my way from The Twilight Hotel—a paranormal hotel in midtown Manhattan that serves as a sanctuary and residence—I take it. Cue in tattooed, sexy as sin, grumpy restaurant owner Valen who can’t do drama or high-maintenance women. The problem? He’s cruel and dangerous. And he’s hiding something.

Moving to a new town to start college, where I can try to be normal. Or at least pretend I am. I’m willing to fake it, because I’m tired of trying to get better. Tired of spilling my guts to doctors and therapists to understand why I’ve heard voices since I was a child.