Devil Take Me Book Cover Devil Take Me
Jordan L. Hawk, TA Moore, Ginn Hale, C.S. Poe, Rhys Ford, Jordan Castillo Price
LGBTQ Urban Fantasy & Paranormal
DSP Publications
October 16, 2018

New Release Giveaway!

Devil Take Me Anthology by

Jordan L. Hawk, TA Moore, Ginn Hale, C.S. Poe, Rhys Ford, Jordan Castillo Price

6 Lucky Winners to receive a digital copy of the Devil Take Me Anthology!

**Giveaway Open Internationally**

Book Blurb:

Temptation lurks around every corner in worlds sometimes dark, sometimes lurid. Giving in is both dangerous and satisfying, though never in the ways one expects. While these enticements offer a vast range of benefits and boons, the cost is a soul and the devil expects his due. Sometimes suave and charming or calculating and cruel, these devils have schemes and desires of their own. They can be creatures to run away from… or toward.

Join the most unique and celebrated authors of LGBT urban fantasy and paranormal fiction for a fast-paced and unpredictable ride, from a city on the other side of reality, to a world suspended in dusk, to a twisted version of the 1960s and 70s.

Meet devils in top hats and waistcoats, a defrocked motorcycle-riding priest, and a genderfluid antihero—among many more. Full of humor, romance, horror, action, intrigue, and magic, these stories have one common element….

They’re one hell of a good time.


Infernal Affairs by Jordan L. Hawk

Ralgath appeared in a perfectly timed flash of smoke and flame, accompanied by just a hint of brimstone. Not too much—the stink of sulfur would never come out of his hair otherwise. He’d learned that the hard way during his apprenticeship.

He manifested with his back to the mortal who’d called him to the crossroads—purely for dramatic effect, of course. Let the human see him framed by the sinister light of the moon as it rose over the swamp. It would establish the mood and give Ralgath a chance to take a deep breath or two.

His first day on the job as a crossroads demon. His first solo contract. It was going to be a memory he’d cherish forever.

“You have summoned me, mortal,” he said. He put a bit of infernal power into his voice, so it echoed ominously through the trees. Perfect. “I will give you whatever you seek… in return for your immortal soul.”

Ralgath spun on the last words, and his cape swirled around him. He intended to fix the mortal with a dangerous-yet-sexy look that would further establish his dominance. Getting the upper hand to begin with was critical to these sorts of negotiations.

Collared by TA Moore

People have always said that the world was going to Hell. In the end it didn’t have to. Hell came to us.

There was a dead man sleeping in Jack’s bed. A red smile had been cut into his throat, deep enough to flash a sliver of stained bone in his spine, and his hands had been nailed to the headboard with thick iron railroad spikes. Flies buzzed blood-drunk circles in the air or crawled, too glutted to fly, over the pillows.

Jack poured himself a whiskey. It didn’t do much for him—his body had gotten used to harsher spirits—but it felt like an appropriate response to the situation.

He was going to have to get new sheets.

The corpse hadn’t put itself there. Jack had seen suicides cut their throats before—you had to really mean it, but some did—but never drive spikes through their palms afterward. So it was either a frame-up or a message. Jack went to the window and twitched the curtain back to look out.

Counterfeit Viscount by Ginn Hale

The vast majority of days came and went for Archibald Lycrugus Granville, Viscount Fallmont, with the genteel luxuries of fresh-cut flowers, boots polished to a razor gleam, suppers served on gilded plates, and night after night of card games, at which he never lost more than he won.

Butter upon bacon, as Nimble would describe it.

Archibald owned a stable of high-strung racehorses and retained a vast staff at each of his estates—though he rarely strayed from his elegant townhouse to visit either. From time to time, he pretended to woo the latest foreign heiress released into the staid waters of the peerage, and on occasion he indulged the expenses of a handsome artist or pretty actress.

Aside from the wide red shrapnel scar hidden beneath the snowy breast of his shirt, he appeared wholly unmarked by hardship. Fair, tan, and slim, he passed for a blithe youth even now at twenty-five.

11:59 by C.S. Poe

The first time Asuka Kawashima met the Devil, he had been falling headfirst from the thirty-third floor of One Penn Plaza.

“Want to make a deal?”

Suspended downward, Asuka stared at the face of a gentleman with the highly particular yet slightly indescribable features of a century long since past. New York City and Asuka’s inevitable death lay as a backdrop to the blond in a three-piece suit with a high collar, tapping an unlit cigarette against a silver case in one hand. Shards of broken glass hung in the air around Asuka, reflecting the tungsten orange glow of the city at night.


The tip of the cigarette burned, smoke curling in lazy circles around the blond.

Wonderland City by Rhys Ford

Funny thing about Wonderland City—even after decades of living behind the looking glass, I’m still fucking surprised by how weird it gets.

Like how the hell does a five-foot-tall White Rabbit in cargo shorts and a fedora get his damned hairy paw to work a shotgun trigger?

“I am so fucking sick of chasing that damned rabbit,” I muttered at the knee-high hedgehog crouched into a quivering ball next to me. He didn’t look up, and I didn’t blame him. The dumpster we were hiding next to had already taken more than its share of damage from the sporadic wide-spray shots the rabbit was packing, and from the itch forming on my scalp, I knew I’d be picking pulverized brick grit out of my hair later.

If there was a later.

Back before I met the Devil and bled my soul out into his hands, I’d have thought chasing a cigar-munching white bunny with pink eyes was something I’d only run into after I chewed on a few peyote buttons.

Dark Favors by Jordan Castillo Price

I was young enough to think I knew everything, but old enough that my stupidity could get me into some serious trouble. I bused tables at the Inferno for a buck and a half an hour and a share of the tips. It was a fancy steakhouse, the type of place where people only went for birthdays and anniversaries, ordered a T-bone big enough to feed a family, and bragged around the water cooler the next morning about how much it set them back. But the kitchen was home to just as many rats as the Chinese joints by the river.

If you’d asked me back then—eighteen-year-old Johnny—whether or not I thought the world was fair, I would’ve scoffed. Secretly, though, in my heart of hearts, I must’ve been clinging to that childish belief. Faith is a funny thing. What else can be strong enough to cure cancer but brittle enough to shatter over a single slight?

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