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324 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 16, 2018

I never should've named my mercenary gig Whatever for Hire. People took the name literally, which explained why I was stuck in a tree fetching a cat.
If I'd been thinking, I would've refused Miss Angorra's fifty dollars, leaving her precious kitty Mistoffelees to fend for herself and climb down without my help.
Instead of taking her money, I should've told her to learn how to spell before hightailing it out of town. Mephistopheles really didn't like when people screwed with his name. Call him the devil, call him Satan, or call him Lucifer; he didn't care as long as you spelled his name right. Nothing pissed off the Lord of Hell quite as much as someone calling him Satin.
It happened. I'd been there when an idiot had thought it'd be funny to invoke Satan's name as graffiti. It hadn't ended well for him. Mephistopheles had appeared, wrapped the poor sod up in satin, and lit him on fire, screaming something in German about the importance of education while I'd watched, my mouth gaping open like an idiot.
I'd learned an important lesson that day: forget summoning circles. If I wanted a quick chat with the devil, all I needed to do was get some glitter and write his name in it- spelled wrong. He'd light my ass on fire, but he'd probably let me live to tell the tale so others would learn form my mistake.
For some reason I couldn't fathom, the devil liked me.
Mistofefelees mewed, and I was willing to bet my soul the eight pound ball of white fluff was scolding me for not getting her out of tree faster. Cats. Couldn't live with them, and no, not matter what people liked to say, I could easily live without them.
"Oh, Mistoffelees," Miss Angorra wailed. "Come home to Mommy.
The cat hissed, and I didn't blame her one bit. No sane being wanted to be named- incorrectly- after the devil. It courted trouble.
[...] Mistoffelees rejected my generous offer and ascended to the parts of the pine I couldn't reach, not while human. Damn it. I didn't want to strip and shift. The resulting disaster, which involved two cats stuck in a tree, would either make me a laughingstock or a prime target for Miss Angorra, who probably hoarded cats and deluded herself into believing they liked her.
Most often that not, I ended up a sex kitten with killer six-inch heels, gypsy bells, a deep diving, too tight blouse, and a satin sari skirt that accommodated my furry tail.
[...] Closing my eyes, I sighed and contemplated summoning His Most Indignant Majesty, Lord Satin of Hell. Shit, Satan. Lord Satan of Hell. It didn't count if I didn't write it down, did it?