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240 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 21, 2016
I received an e-ARC of this novella from NetGalley in exchange for a free and honest review.
Oh my god, Matt Wallace, stop doing this to me! I get so hungry reading the Sin du Jour novellas even WITH the gross out bits, and you could at least share a recipe at the end, right? I don’t even know what a maple rum panna cotta IS, but I’d try to make that right now if I had the recipe. UGH.
Pride’s Spell is the third in the Sin du Jour series, and yes – the best so far! The catering service for the supernatural world gets double-booked, and line cooks Lena and Darren get shipped off to the second engagement in LA to cater a movie premiere. It’s supposed to be a normal, not crazy job. The special Stocking & Receiving Department even has the week off!
But it’s Hollywood, where eviscerated authors and the ashes of dead bloggers are offered to the zombie movie moguls in return for blessings on new projects. So, you know…. Pretty much what I was looking for. (I laughed out loud during that chapter. Oh man, the YA dystopia commentary!)
Also, this time there are vegetarian and vegan options! And Hell comes trying to kill everyone!
Why’s this one the best so far? The opening prologue scene drew me in with growing horror in a way that a lot of prologues don’t even really pique my interest. The characters are firmly established. I could feel the tensions and conflicts in the relationships. The humor and banter and one-liners have gelled. By this point, I and other readers should know what to expect, but are still going to be surprised and amused by how events turn out. The biggest compliment I can give here is that this story is insane, but Wallace pulls it off without it spinning out of control.
Overall, I was impressed that Pride’s Spell felt strong and well-gauged. The parts fell into place easily and naturally. And it continues being one hell of a fun and wild ride! PLEASE let Cindy wear one of her magnificent dresses in a future book, because the woman deserves it. And everyone deserves a break after fighting off Hell and Hollywood.
How Ritter ends up bashing in the Easter Bunny's skull with a sledgehammer is a funny story.
"Why would the damn devil create killer Easter Bunnies and fucked-up pumpkin monsters?"
"Because he thinks it's funny? I don't know."



The bodies are stacked high near the door of a windowless conference room. A long-deceased Warner brother is currently devouring the heart of the writer Producer Two can't remember [the name of]. He sits eternally at the head of a granite slab conference table surrounded by all the big old-time Hollywood moguls.
They're not zombies, strictly speaking.
They don't need to eat human organs to survive.
They just demand them.
In truth no one living knows what they are anymore, but since the 1950s they've sat here in their best funereal suits, eyeballs black and flesh necrotic but never rotting off. They don't move from their chairs. They don't speak.
They just eat.
All day.
Every day.
Directly above the blazing sacrificial pyre, aimed at the spot where the giant cherries jubilee dessert stood just an hour ago, a thousand gallons of creamy, gourmet white chocolate pours from the ceiling.
It bathes the chefs first, covering them head to toe before splattering over the entire breadth of the pyre and beyond.
The torrential cream extinguishes every inch of flame with a bubbling chorus of "pops," giving rise to the distinct, but not entirely unpleasant smell of burnt marshmallows.
It even puts out the Oexial clansmen's torches slathering their ceremonial robes.
[...]
No one, not even the demons, speaks.
They don't seem to have the words to describe the last few seconds.
Who would, really?
[...]
"This is the deepest blasphemy!" the Oexial's elder announces from beneath a layer of ceremonial robe covered in a layer of vanilla ganache.
"It's a temporary delay," the producer assures him.
"My warriors will feast on your guts!"
The producer is unmoved. "Yeah? Get in line behind the Teamsters, pal."
"We didn't die, we didn't die, we didn't die," Darren is repeating frantically, gratefully, half his head and face obscured by frothy cherries jubilee topping.

"Oh, fuck it."
