Demon Hunting For Beginners

By Vivi Andrews

Demons can be hell on weddings.

Luis Rodriguez, Karmic Consultants’ resident exorcist, will take any job that gets him away from the desperate housewives who’ve been summoning demons in a contest to see who can seduce him first. When a series of demonic accidents run off the wedding planner for a fellow consultant’s wedding, he jumps at the chance to protect the replacement planner instead—but nothing could have prepared him for Brittany Hylton-VanDeere.

Eternal optimist Brittany is thrilled to be working for Karmic Consultants—even if there is a demon hunting her and their no-office-dating policy means she has to keep her hands off the sexy exorcist protecting her. But it’s hard to keep her hands to herself when a mischief demon keeps throwing her into his arms.

At first Rodriguez isn’t sure what to make of bright-eyed, somewhat illogical Brittany, but with every new disaster, he falls farther and farther under her spell... and the demon circles closer, determined to stop the wedding even if it means stopping Brittany. Permanently.

**Previously released as THE SEXORCIST**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vivi Andrews
• Release date: May 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463506660

Vivi Andrews

Vivi Andrews is an award-winning paranormal romance author who calls Alaska home. For more about Vivi and her books, visit www.viviandrews.com.

Book preview

Chapter One—The Desperate Housewives of the Seventh Circle of Hell

The front door of the McMansion swung open to reveal the lady of the house—though calling her a lady might be a stretch.

She draped herself against the doorjamb, wearing a frothy green negligee-type thing that could almost pass for clothing. The sheer satin and lace concoction showcased long, toned legs and the silicone symmetry of her breasts. She flipped her bleached and flat-ironed hair, licked lips already glistening with a heavy layer of reflective gloss and gave him a slow, sultry smile.

Luis Rodriguez cringed. Madre de Dios, not again.

Mr. Rodriguez, she purred throatily, batting lashes heavy with mascara. "How good of you to come."

He nearly groaned aloud, but stopped himself when he realized the vamp on the doorstep might take that as encouragement. You must be Mrs. Sullivan. And here’s betting poor Mr. Sullivan doesn’t have a clue what you’re up to. I understand you have a demon problem.

Mrs. Sullivan shivered delicately and gave a contrived, breathy gasp. "It sounds so sexy when you say it. Demon problem. I can’t wait to see you exorcise it."

He wasn’t sure how she managed to make exorcise sound dirty—triple-X porn dirty—but she did. She licked her too-shiny lips again, clearly hoping it would get him thinking of blow-jobs, but all he could think was how that neon gloss probably contained some toxic chemical that was rotting away her common sense and he didn’t want that shit anywhere near his junk.

She shimmied her shoulders and one strap of her barely-there lingerie slipped off her shoulder.

Rodriguez kept his eyes on hers and his face controlled and expressionless. Professional. Uh-huh. So where’s this demon of yours?

If she said it was in her bedroom, he was walking. Karma could take it out of his ass later. He was not getting trapped with another desperate housewife in her boudoir.

Are you always in such a hurry to get down to business? Her voice was synthetically husky, the infomercial version of sexy. It slices, it dices, it tears off your clothes! It’s the Seduct-o-matic!

She stroked a hand across her hip, causing the slinky fabric of her negligee to ride up and reveal too much upper thigh.

Since it didn’t look like she was going to let him do his job until he acknowledged what she was oh-so-subtly offering, Rodriguez hooked a thumb into his belt loop and shifted his weight back into what his little sister called his cholo pose. He took a minute to survey Mrs. Sullivan’s landscape, running his eyes from her pointy-toed heels to the bleached-into-submission roots of her hair.

The missus was a hot little number. Overblown and ten years his senior, but a certifiable MILF. If her full-court-press seduction weren’t as contrived as her plastic-surgery-perfect body, he might have even been flattered—though she couldn’t have been less his type if she tried.

Rich, materialistic, and fake. The trifecta. No, thank you.

Lately Rodriguez had been seeing a lot of the rapacious trophy-wife set. Apparently the demon community had scented their desperation and called open season on aging arm candy.

And every, single, freaking time he showed up to rid them of their demonic infestations, the wives were waiting for him with open arms. And legs.

At first, the attention had been flattering. There was no way he was ever going to screw someone else’s wife, but initially their attraction to him had at least seemed genuine. They’d waited until they met him before deciding they wanted to fuck him.

Now his new clients were lubed up and ready to go before they even called Karma to schedule an appointment. It was getting downright insulting.

Evidently, banging the Mexican gardener was passé. The hot new accessory in cabana boys this season was Mexican exorcists. Lucky him.

You got a demon or what? It was too blunt, borderline rude—Karma’d kick his ass if she heard him talking to clients that way—but Mrs. Robinson here didn’t seem too keen on subtlety.

She pouted, thrusting out her collagen-puffed lower lip. Rodriguez squinted against the reflection off the gloss.

She must have realized she wasn’t going to get to play hide the enchilada with her very own Latin lover, because she gave a genuine sigh and stepped back to let him into the house.

It’s upstairs, she said in a normal, non-Seduct-o-matic voice. In my daughter Amber’s room.

Rodriguez shouldered his pack of exorcizing accessories. Lead the way.

She twitched her buns-o-steel in his face all the way up the stairs and down a wide hall until she reached a door with an enormous poison warning sticker taped to it. He wondered for a moment if that was how she was marking the demon-infestation site, but then she shoved open the door and he realized the poison sticker was just typical teen rebellion.

The entire house looked prepped for an unannounced photo shoot from Better Homes and Gardens, except this room. Blackout curtains covered the windows and heavy black cloth lined the walls where they weren’t covered with posters for death metal bands and drawings of figures with blood dripping from their fangs.

A girl of about fourteen sat in a wooden dining-room chair in the center of the room, strapped to it with a collection of expensive leather belts. She was thin and pale, with mousy brown hair artfully snarled around her face. She glared at them as they entered.

Mrs. Sullivan moved to stand near her daughter. She patted the back of the chair, careful not to actually make physical contact with the fruit of her loins. Amber thinks she’s a vampire, she said, with a moue of distaste.

Amber slouched in the chair with a sulk of such classic adolescent disdain that Rodriguez would have been positive there was absolutely nothing supernatural at work here—if not for the fact that Amber’s body gave off an angry red pulsation of energy.

There’s no such thing as vampires, Rodriguez said, crouching down in front of the subject. But she’s definitely possessed.

He straightened and Mrs. Sullivan shifted back into seduction mode. She wrapped her hands around his biceps and pressed his arm against her breasts—right in front of her daughter. Or rather, her daughter’s possessed form.

Charming.

Can you help her? she asked breathily, batting her eyelashes hard enough to give herself whiplash.

Yeah. Rodriguez tugged his arm out of her clutches. Why don’t you watch…from over there. He pointed to the bed on the opposite end of the room. So you’re out of the, you know, the uh, danger zone.

Total bullshit. He could have exorcised a little bitty demon like this one while she held sweet Amber’s hand, but he wanted her as far away from him as possible.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t anticipated what Mrs. Sullivan would think when he pointed her toward the bed. She gave a little giggle and trotted over to the bed. She then splayed herself across the dark purple coverlet—thankfully out of the line of sight of her possessed daughter—and began running her hands over her own body. And moaning.

Rodriguez squinted at her for a second, to make sure the daughter was the only one who was possessed. But no halo of vicious red energy surrounded Mrs. Sullivan. She was just like that.

Poor Amber.

Some subjects of possessions described their memories of the time while their bodies were inhabited by demons as seeing the world through a red haze, while others reported their memories completely wiped away. For Amber’s sake, he hoped she fell into the latter group. Nothing like having your mother’s attempt at adultery rubbed in your face to mold a young girl coming into her own sexuality.

Rodriguez crouched again, setting his pack on the floor and digging out the necessary tools. Holy water, crucifix…performing an exorcism was more about focus than faith, but the two often went hand in hand and Rodriguez found the icons of his Catholic upbringing made the exorcisms go more smoothly.

He did his best to ignore the cooing and moaning emanating from the bed and focused instead on the sullen glower of the teen in front of him. He slowly began chanting. The familiar rhythm of the Latin words was almost a physical presence in the room, a vise tightening around the demon. The thin body in the chair arched and convulsed.

Damn you, Exorcist! the demon snarled. I was promised at least a week on this plane and I’ve only been here a few hours. I’ve been tied up the whole time and not even in the fun way. Little Amber cursed him in a grotesquely low voice as the demon struggled against his entrapment. The resistance was token at best. The demon wasn’t powerful enough to put up too much of a fight.

From the bed came a gasp of awe—or orgasm, it was hard to tell—and Rodriguez felt a stab of pity for Amber that had nothing to do with the demon possessing her body. He’d be done in less than an hour and out of this house for good. Amber Sullivan was stuck with her mother for life.

As the chanting focused his power and enabled him to wrap it around the demonic being inhabiting Amber, Rodriguez saw the demon more clearly. Its name appeared, emblazoned like a fiery red tattoo across Amber’s forehead, visible only to him. Ordoch.

The demon’s curses switched languages—at least he thought the gibberish pouring out of Amber’s mouth was the demonic language—and grew louder, the girl’s vocal chords ripping and snarling over sounds no human throat was meant to make. The demon was of the mischievous rather than malevolent variety, but that didn’t make the words coming out of her mouth sound any less evil.

The demonic tongue sounded like it had been forged in the fires of hell by the prince of darkness himself. But then so did German.

Ordoch was just bitching about its vacation being cut short, but to the layperson, it was a dramatic show. Mrs. Sullivan was certainly impressed, if the gasps from the bed were any indication.

Rodriguez wished they would both shut up. His other exorcisms had been much quieter.

He frowned, the truth of that statement ricocheting in his mind. None of the previous mischief demons he’d exorcised for the housewives had been verbal. Which meant they couldn’t answer questions. This one, however…

He smiled. Finally, he had a chance to ask why the desperate housewife demographic was suddenly being targeted.

"Ordoch," Rodriguez said, making the name a command, a call of power.

The demon hissed at the sound of its name and fell silent, crouched down in the chair as much as the restraining belts would allow.

Who summoned you here?

What? The sudden yelping sound that came from the bed was a far cry from Mrs. Sullivan’s previously pre-orgasmic moans. No! You don’t need to know that! Just get rid of it!

Suspicion congealed in Rodriguez’s gut. "Who, Ordoch?"

Katrina Sullivan, the demon hissed.

I did not! Mrs. Sullivan bounded off the bed, her eyes wide and guilty. You can’t prove it!

Rodriguez arched a brow. Demons can’t lie, Mrs. Sullivan. Something you might want to consider before you call another one to possess your daughter.

I would never! she protested again, clearly having missed the part about demons being helplessly truthful.

Sit down, he ordered. You can try to think up a good excuse while I exorcise this demon from your daughter. Hopefully before she sustains permanent damage.

Damage? Mrs. Sullivan bleated. They didn’t say it would hurt her. I would never hurt Amber.

"Yeah, you’re mother of the year. Sit down, Mrs. Sullivan. You can tell me all about them and what they told you about possession as soon as I’m done here."

She plopped down onto the bed, no longer looking like an eager nymph. She looked more like she was about to lose her lunch all over her designer heels.

Rodriguez was feeling pretty queasy himself. What kind of person called up a demon to possess her own child? And what kind of people told her how to do it?

He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer to either question.

Chapter Two—Hello, I Love You

Karma eyed the latest secretary the temp agency had sent over and wondered how long this one would last. A whole day? Two?

She glanced down at the name on the resume. Brittany Hylton-VanDeere. The hyphenated last name fit. She looked like she belonged at an afternoon tea at the DAR rather than a job placement.

She wore a yellow sundress, a gauzy turquoise scarf and strappy sandals with daisies on them. And unless Karma was mistaken, the designer tags on those items meant the new secretary’s ensemble cost more than the position paid in a month. Brown curls were piled on top of her head in an artful tumble and wide, guileless brown eyes stared back at Karma. Wide, guileless blank brown eyes.

Brittany Hylton-VanDeere looked like she didn’t have two brain cells to rub together.

Really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one. The temp agency must be getting desperate.

Karma scanned the resume as Brittany sat quietly like a good little girl. Educated at one of the finest—and most expensive—prep schools in the country. Undergrad at an Ivy, majoring in Communications. Master’s at another Ivy. Liberal Studies. Karma had no idea what the hell a degree in liberal studies was.

Then came the work experience section. Dog walker. Cupcake icer. Volunteer zookeeper, for crying out loud. But not a single listing for anything that might be considered business or secretarial work.

The resume had to be a joke. The temp agency was having a little fun with one of their most difficult to place clients. The designer dimwit, Brittany Hylton-VanDeere, couldn’t be for real.

Ms. Hylton, did the agency—

Hylton-VanDeere, the brunette chirped cheerfully. But, please, just call me Brittany.

Brittany. Fine. Did the agency brief you at all about what would be required of you here at Karmic Consultants?

Secretarial work. Answering phones and scheduling appointments! Brittany gushed, in the same way a young girl might exclaim, Lollipops and candy canes!

You will also greet clients and provide basic administrative support to me as needed. Do you have any secretarial experience that isn’t listed on your resume? Any secretarial experience at all…

Brittany beamed and shook her head. Karma listened closely for the sound of her brains rattling around in there.

I like phones though, she enthused. And I’m good with people.

Well, that was better than if she’d been a misanthrope with a deathly fear of phones.

Karma braced herself for the next part of the conversation—the part few candidates made it past.

Are you aware of what we do here at Karmic Consultants?

Brittany’s smile grew even wider—a feat Karma hadn’t thought possible. Oh yes! Witches and mediums and exorcists! The other temps at the agency warned me about you. They said you were insane. Completely bonkers. Isn’t that funny? And that your clients were madder still. That they believed in haunted houses, possessed people and cursed…well, cursed just about everything.

Karma resisted the urge to grind her molars. "We do deal in haunted houses and possessions, she said flatly. Those are the realities of business here at Karmic."

Brittany laughed, the sweet chirping roll of sound innocent and endearing. Karma was having a hard time disliking Brittany, even though she had a feeling the little ditz was messing with her. There was just something so wholesome about her; she was impossible to detest.

Of course they are, the wholesome twit twittered. That’s why this job is perfect for me.

Perfect, huh? Karma wasn’t sure which one of them was confused, but she was willing to place money on the girl who might as well have had a vacancy sign flashing on her forehead. Ms. Hylto—

Brittany.

"Brittany. Karma took a deep breath, striving for patience. I cannot have a secretary who is unwilling to take this business seriously. The clients are often under a great deal of stress when they call us and I cannot have their first contact with Karmic be with someone who will mock their needs out of ignorance or superstition."

The words couldn’t be more true. The rotating cast of secretaries had been amusing at first, but now it was bordering on unprofessional and Karma would not allow Karmic Consultants to be viewed as an unprofessional organization. Their services might be unconventional, but they would not be mocked. Legitimacy was tenuous at best when you provided occult services, but she was determined that Karmic would be legitimate.

Brittany nodded solemnly. I completely understand.

Karma wasn’t sure whether Brittany was being sincere or facetious, but she couldn’t take the chance that one of her valued clients would presume it was the latter and take offense. Brittany wouldn’t do. Karma would personally start the search for a real, permanent secretary. Immediately.

She opened her mouth, fully intending to thank Brittany for her time and send her on her way, when the door to her office burst open.

Her best exorcist stormed through the doorway.

"I have had enough, Rodriguez snarled, his slight accent more pronounced in his agitation. I am not a fucking gigolo."

* * * * *

Brittany Hylton-VanDeere believed in Love at First Sight the same way born-agains believed in their Savior—with a fervor that was awe-inspiring and, at times, downright frightening.

Her instant adorations were not limited to people. Oh no. She was just as likely to fall suddenly, madly in love with a car, a pair of shoes, a skinny-half-caf-no-foam latte, or a new job.

Especially a new job.

When she first walked through the door to Karmic Consultants, she knew, with a passion that was as sincere as it was irrational, this was The One. This was where she belonged.

Karmic Consultants was a place where people believed. Where the outside-the-everyday happened every single day. And where one slightly-off-kilter, cockeyed optimist such as herself could fit right in.

No two ways about it. Brittany was in love.

And then she saw him.

The man who stomped into Karma’s office was unlike anyone in Brittany’s—admittedly limited—experience of men.

For one thing, he was swearing. And calling himself a gigolo. Or rather, not a gigolo, which really only seemed like the kind of protest a gigolo would feel the need to make. So, clearly a gigolo. A swearing gigolo. And a hot one.

Hot was not a word Brittany often had cause to use regarding the men of her acquaintance—the men her family approved of. Proper, yes. Distinguished, absolutely. Respectable? Heck yes, with a side of darn straight.

But hot? Sizzling, smoking, white-hot-sex-on-a-tropical-beach-in-front-of-God-and-everyone hot? That was another matter.

He had tattoos. Tribal, lay-me-naked-on-the-altar-as-an-offering-to-the-gods-of-sex tattoos that slashed and spiraled their way up his deliciously muscled arms to disappear beneath the short sleeves of his snug black T-shirt. Brittany’s eyes traced those heavy black markings and she imagined she could hear the sound of distant drums. Aboriginal. Primal. Oh yeah, Mr. I’m-Not-A-Gigolo was primal, all right.

Hair so black it had blue highlights tumbled over his brow in a disarray so carelessly sexy it would have taken the average mortal two hours and seventeen different greasy hair products to reproduce it. Big Sexy here probably rolled out of bed looking that good.

He was tall-ish, but not grotesquely so, which Brittany appreciated, being a bit on the petite side herself. She’d have to tip her head back for a kiss, but he wasn’t so huge he could tuck her under his arm like a football.

He strode into the room and toward Karma’s desk without glancing a single time in Brittany’s direction—so she could only speculate on the color of his eyes.

Emerald, perhaps? Or maybe a deep, mossy hue?

Green was Brittany’s favorite color, and if he was going to be her dream man, he could at least be so considerate as to have her favorite color eyes. She’d let him pick the shade.

He folded his tattooed, muscled forearms across his chest and glowered at the cool, composed, and utterly unfazed woman behind the desk.

Karma rose from her chair. Rodriguez, if you could wait outside for a moment… She waved an elegant hand in