From New York Times bestselling author Emily Rath comes a dark, spicy polyamory paranormal romance series set on a New England island about the entangled fates of a witch, wraith, and mortal . . .

Dáinn the Devourer has spent the last two hundred years of his undead life reluctantly bonded to a dark witch. When Dáinn is forced by his mistress to devour the soul of a powerful rival witch, Jasper Prescott, he’s interrupted by a human. With one word, this human does what no being has ever done . . . she takes his breath away.

Forced to stop feeding, the soul he was devouring slips back inside the dying witch. Who is this human? And what dark magic must she possess to stop a wraith?

Birdie Rhodes, hapless historian and sometimes shop girl, works for the witch Dáinn was ordered to devour. Now Jasper Prescott is on the hunt too. For answers. As a powerful witch, with a coven at his command, Jasper will stop at nothing to find out what magical mischief is happening on his island.

Dáinn, Jasper, and Birdie become entangled in a magical love affair which could lead to their ruin.

Tropes:
Why Choose – MMF
Grumpy x Sunshine
Shadow Daddies
Spice
Rivals

Devour Me is due for publication 30th July from Tor Bramble. You can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org

BIRDIE

During the summer season, the ferry for Burr Island leaves from Pier Three once an hour on the hour. I’ve decided there’s something magical about a place only being accessible by boat. No bridges, no roads, those life-giving arteries of trade and industry. Hey, I’m a his-torian. I get nostalgic thinking about things like the miracle of roads. But Burr Island stands alone and apart. Its rocky shores and nar-row cliffs create a natural barrier between Winthrop and the raging sea. I see it there, looming in the morning mist. A jagged line of evergreen trees stretches across tall cliffs. From this distance, I can

just make out the Cinder Pointe Lighthouse.

The summer season is only just starting, but Pier Three is already crowded as I make my way over to the ticket booth. It’s mostly young families with kids and dogs. No doubt they’ll spend the day hiking the island’s trails, maybe canoe around the bay. On the weekends, Winthrop University students camp in the forest. More than once, I’ve been setting up for class on a Monday morning and heard my still-hungover students speaking in hushed, reverent tones about a rager they attended down at Cinder Pointe.

I’m actually kind of excited to see it all for myself. Three years in Winthrop and I’ve never made it out to the island. I just never had a reason before now.

My thrifted floral sundress flutters around my thighs, crossbody purse bouncing on my hip as I trot up to the back of the ticket line. It’s cool this morning, so I’m still wearing my faded jean jacket. The jacket does double duty, covering most of my tattoos. I can’t imagine a tarot and tea shop would be all that fastidious about a shop girl with a chest and arms full of tattoos, but you never know.

There’s a hint of brine in the air. I taste it on my tongue. I smell coffee too. And sugar-coated donuts. I glance over my shoulder to see a pair of food carts with bright umbrellas calling out coffee orders.

It almost feels like I’m on the set of a movie. Everything is so idyllic, almost staged.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, an eager labrador bounds forward, tugging on his retractable leash, and licks my kneecap. My shriek of surprise turns into a laugh as I wave at the owner. He drags the excited dog away with muttered apologies, trying to balance his coffee with his free hand. My smile widens. There’s this foreign feel-ing curling inside my chest as I soak in the sights and sounds of the pier. Happy families. Laughter. Iced coffee and warm donuts. A summer sea breeze.

Goddamn it, I think it’s hope.

This is going to work. It has to. I don’t have any other options. “Next,” a man calls from the ticket window.

“One round-trip ticket, please,” I call through the glass.

“Nine dollars,” he replies, not looking up. “Last ferry leaves at mid-night. You’re late, you’re outta luck.”

I slip a ten-dollar bill through the hole in the glass and he takes it, shoving back one dollar, a pair of stamped ferry tickets, and a map of the island.

“Next ferry leaves at nine,” he adds, waving me on.

I join the pedestrian queue, ticket and map in hand. A young guy in a pink polo shirt takes one of my tickets. I weave through the crowd, finding my way up onto the open-air top deck. The wind whips a little stronger here as I walk over to the railing.

Flipping open the colorful, trifold map, I let my finger brush over the names and features of the island. Port Calumet is the little downtown area. It juts out on the closest bit of land to the mainland. Nature enthusiasts can kayak around the cluster of small northern islands—the Bird Islands, the Breakers, the Jewels. The names all sound so quaint, adding to my feeling that Burr Island is a place lost in time.

The crowd fills the upper deck, and I find myself squished up against the railing as the ferry horn blasts. A safety announcement buzzes over the intercom. The ferry begins to move, and I inch along the rail, pausing at a silver plaque mounted on a wooden frame. It’s weatherworn, hard to read in places, with little more than a few short paragraphs on the founding of the island. I smile as I spy the logo stamped at the bottom: The Burr Island Historical Society.

That’s something else I researched last night: Professor Ezra Howe. It turns out my new research adviser specializes in occult

studies. The Doctor Strange moniker now makes way more sense. He teaches online courses like History of Witchcraft and Magic and Folklore.

According to Howe, the founders of Burr Island were a coven of witches escaping early Puritan oppression. His team recently started a dig up in Beale Pointe Forest that they claim is the first settlement founded by these religious refugees. The historical society just won a grant from the Raven Hill Group that will fund the dig for the next two years. The RHG is this old money consortium of New England elite who cherry-pick special projects designed to conserve local his-tory, art, and culture.

My own area of study is gender history, so I’m actually pretty ex-cited to learn more. I may focus on the early Middle Ages, but I’m good in an archive. If there’s proof that will help tie this archeological site to the witches, I’m happy to help find it.

❦

“Birdie—hey!” Phoebe waves me down, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’s standing under the pink and white–striped awning of what looks like a bougie cat boutique. She looks cute in a flirty blue sundress that nips in at her waist and flares over her thick curves. Her springy black curls are pulled up high today in two poofy space buns. A spray of fringe frames her face.

Throngs of people push their way down the dock, taking me along with them. As I get closer to Phoebe, I read the curly gold font on the painted glass behind her: The Cat’s Meow. The window is deco-rated with a range of colorful climbing towers and feathered cat toys. Phoebe holds a paper bag stamped with the same logo as the shop.

“Hey,” I say, ducking out of the way of a woman pushing a double stroller. “Busy morning.”

“Yeah, we call it the Stampede.” She looks me up and down. “Girl, you look hot. Hungry?”

“A bit.” More than anything, I’m nervous.

Reading my mind, she checks her phone. “Sorry, Birds. Jasper always opens the shop late on Fridays. He hasn’t left the house yet. Why don’t we go get that brunch I promised first?”

I nod down at the bag in her hand. “I didn’t know you have a cat.”

She laughs, holding it up. “Oh, I don’t, technically. Pickles is more of a shop cat. And he’s fussy when it comes to food. He’ll only eat the

super expensive stuff. If you ever need proof that Uncle Jas is secretly a big softy, I’ll show you the receipt for these cans of tuna.” She leads the way up the street. “We lock Pickles inside the shop every night, but I swear he knows how to open doors. Don’t be surprised if you find him curled up on your chest in the morning or stealing your butter off the counter.”

“Consider me warned.” Tucking a strand of flyaway auburn hair behind my ear, I follow my friend.

The main street of Port Calumet looks like something off a post-card. It’s a sweeping street of shopfronts leading up a forested hill. Each shop features colorful awnings with large windows adorned with blooming flower boxes. Every other shop is either a coffee shop, bakery, or restaurant. Tourists lounge at the outdoor café tables, en-joying coffee or a danish, while naughty dogs bark at each other, their owners tugging on their leashes to lead them away. In all the chaos, seagulls swoop overhead, looking for a piece of donut to steal. I can’t help but smile when I spy a horse and carriage parked up the street. Phoebe follows my gaze. “This is your first time to our little island,

right?”

I nod, still glancing around. “Yeah. I’ve never had the time be-fore.”

“Well, what do you think?”

I look for the right word that will satisfy the feeling of warmth blooming in my chest, the pull of this smile I can’t keep off my lips. “It’s enchanting.”

She just shrugs. “Yeah, it’s pretty cute, I guess. But trust me, it gets boring quick. Beyond Main Street, there’s nothing to do unless you like hiking or kayaking. Or you could try a little drunken naked cliff-diving off Cinder Pointe . . . but that’s usually preceded by a rag-ing kegger in the woods.” She nudges me with her elbow. “You don’t seem like the naked cliff-diving type.”

“Definitely not.”

She laughs, but the sound is cut short as she grabs the sleeve of my jacket. “Oops—sorry—this is us.”

We’ve stopped under the green and white–striped awning of Heirloom Café. There’s a counter up front where people are grab-bing to-go orders of coffee and baked goods. But there’s also a host-ess stand and a messy collection of bistro tables that continue into a back patio area.

“Heirloom does the best brunch on the island,” Phoebe explains.

“Don’t let anyone tell you the Broken Egg is better. All the produce here is farm-to-table. We’re actually one of their suppliers. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Uncle Jasper’s Cajun seasoning on some eggs Benedict. And we share an alley with them,” she goes on, cutting the line to move inside. “You’ll probably run into Manny and Evan emptying the trash. When things get slow, Evan slips out to smoke pot. He’s got the good stuff. And he shares. Good edibles too.” “Good to know.” I keep close to her back as we weave through the

crowd.

Phoebe waves at someone. “Hey, Kimi!”

A Japanese woman rushes past with her arms full of menus. Hearing Phoebe’s voice, she stops. “I have a table for you out back!”

“Thanks, babe!” Phoebe leads the way between the tables. “Kim-iko is the manager,” she adds over her shoulder. “Her brother is the head chef and he’s a genius. You’ll probably see him at Salt & Sage. Saito Sigura. He’s friends with Jasper.”

“Kimiko and Saito,” I echo, trying to commit all these names to memory. “And Evan and  ”

“Manny,” Phoebe repeats. “Manuel. Don’t worry. If you forget, just ask. Islanders like to play up the whole ‘we hate outsiders’ thing, but if you remind them you work for Jasper, they’ll back right off.”

“Why? Is he a big deal around here?”

She snorts. “Oh yeah. He pretty much runs the place. On this island, all roads lead to Jasper Prescott.”

“Good to know,” I say under my breath.

Kimiko settles us at a table for two out on the back patio. It’s a walled-in little courtyard. The weathered red bricks are covered in ivy, and the patio is dotted with blue umbrellas over round bistro ta-bles. She hands us each a menu. “Bottomless mimosas for the table, ladies?”

Phoebe sighs. “I wish. My friend has an interview with Jasper, so we’ll need all our wits about us.”

“Oh.” Kimiko’s eyes widen slightly as she takes me in. “Will you be working at Salt & Sage this summer?”

“Yep,” Phoebe replies for me. “Kimiko Sigura, this is my friend from WU, Birdie Rhodes.”

“I haven’t gotten the job yet,” I remind her. “And I’ll thank you not to jinx it for me.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “It’s called manifesting, Birds. By speaking of it positively, I’m willing it into existence.”

I hold her with my stare.

“Fine.” Grabbing the saltshaker off the table, she shakes a little salt into her palm and tosses it over her left shoulder. “There. Better?”

I smile. “Much. Thank you.”

“Well, I hope you get the job,” says Kimiko. “Wes will be your waiter but just shout if you need anything, okay? Good to see you, Pheebs. Let’s do drinks before you leave for Germany, yeah?”

I peek my head out from behind my menu as Kimiko walks away. “You already told people you’re leaving?”

Phoebe just smiles, wholly unfazed. “Manifesting, remember?”

At a nod from Kimiko, a cute blonde kid hurries over, pencil tucked behind his ear. After some shameless flirting from Phoebe, he takes our order. Avocado toast for me, Cajun eggs Benedict for Phoebe, with an orange glazed cinnamon roll to share.

“They’re orgasmic,” she assures me, folding her menu and hand-ing it off to our blushing waiter. As soon as he’s gone, she places both hands flat on the table. “Okay, down to business. We need to make sure this interview goes well. Both our summers depend on it. So, tell me, Birds, how much do you know about tarot reading?”

Devour Me is due for publication 30th July from Tor Bramble. You can pre-order your copy on Bookshop.org