Chronicles of Forbidden Witchery

Being the dud in my coven wasn't the worst thing—until they decided to re-evaluate our contributions. Without magic, all I had was a resting witch face and a smart mouth. Neither will save me when the next full moon comes. Having the last name Byrne can only get me so far.

Being hunted was the perfect excuse for a shopping spree. Just because I was probably going to die didn't mean I couldn't go down in style. My grandmother called it idiotic. I disagreed . . . right up until I came face to face with a demon. And the bastard ate my Prada shirt. Seriously, who does that? You'd think he'd be into souls, not silk. But apparently, my spastic magic makes me a walking buffet for supernatural weirdos. Which is exactly how I ended up shackled to River.

Just when I thought things were looking up, Fate decided to kick me in the kidneys. Surviving a brush with Death should've earned me a break, but instead, I got stuck with a womanizer as my so-called protector. If River had kept his pants up, we wouldn't be in this mess. They say power corrupts, but unlimited magic? That twists a mind beyond repair—just look at my grandmother. Not even the shifters can fix this mess. Now, I have to track down an archdemon, avoid becoming a vampire's midnight snack, and dodge a vengeful scorned lover. And—just for the record—I wasn't even the one getting laid.

There's screwing up a spell . . . and then there's my level of catastrophe. Magical ambitions of a Ferrari, but the skill of a Go-Kart. That's me. If profanities were spells, I'd be Merlin. Instead, I'm just wasting my "French" on the ungrateful—again. Story of my life. When a spell goes...