My Demon, My Handyman (Hotter than Hell #6)

Chapter 1

I was only there for the donuts.

That’s what I told myself as I slouched in the uncomfortable folding chair, eyeing the sad spread of grocery store pastries that had clearly seen better days.

The community center’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, making everyone look slightly jaundiced—though that might have been the lingering effects of paranormal trauma.

“Welcome to another meeting of the Paranormal Survivors Support Group,” Eden announced, her voice warm but firm. She wore crystal earrings that caught the light and a t-shirt reading ‘KEEP CALM AND BANISH ON.’ “Remember, this is a safe space. What’s shared here, stays here.”

As if I’d tell anyone I spend Thursday nights in a church basement talking about the time a poltergeist used my body as an Airbnb, I thought, picking at a loose thread on my Radiohead t-shirt.

I’m Sam, by the way. Twenty-nine, graphic designer, and reluctant member of the “yes, ghosts are real and they’re assholes” club.

Three months ago, I’d been possessed by something that called itself Veximus.

For two weeks, I’d been a passenger in my own body while this spectral douchebag used my hands to rearrange my furniture at 3 AM and write cryptic messages on my bathroom mirror in toothpaste.

The group had started sharing. Zachary, possessed by a Victorian ghost, was lamenting how difficult it was to date when he randomly slipped into flowery 19th-century speech patterns.

“Verily, the maiden was most distressed when I requested to court her with proper decorum rather than ‘Netflix and chill,’” he sighed, adjusting his waistcoat. “Most vexing, indeed.”

I was mentally calculating how long I needed to stay before I could politely grab a donut and bail when the community center door swung open so hard it nearly came off its hinges.

And that’s when he walked in.

“Holy shit,” I whispered under my breath.

The… man?… creature?… was at least seven feet tall with shoulders broad enough to fill the doorframe.

His skin was deep red, like wine or blood, stretched over a muscular frame that made every fitness influencer on Instagram look like a weakling.

Two obsidian horns curved elegantly from his forehead, and his eyes glowed like embers.

He wore what appeared to be some unholy combination of leather armor and a business casual outfit, like someone had tried to dress a war god for an office job.

That’s… that’s a fucking demon. An actual demon just walked into our support group.

Everyone froze. Eden’s welcoming smile faltered only slightly as the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“You’re right on time,” she said with remarkable composure. “Everyone, please welcome our newest member.”

The demon ducked his head to clear the doorframe and took hesitant steps toward the circle. His heavy boots made the floorboards creak in protest.

“Sorry I’m late,” he rumbled, his voice so deep I swear I felt it in my chest. “I… uh… couldn’t decide what to wear.”

That’s when I noticed he was carrying a plate of immaculately arranged Rice Krispie treats.

“I brought snacks,” he added, almost sheepishly. “The recipe was on the back of the marshmallow bag.”

The incongruity nearly gave me whiplash. Otherworldly menace, meet Midwestern potluck contribution.

The only empty seat was next to me. Because of course it was. The universe hates me that much.

As he lowered his massive frame onto the folding chair that seemed comically inadequate for his bulk, I caught his scent—an impossible mix of brimstone and… was that Fresh Linen Febreze?

“I’m Malphas,” he said to me quietly as Eden continued with group announcements. “Prince of Hell, Commander of Forty Legions, Bearer of the Obsidian Crown.”

He extended a hand. His nails were black and sharp, but I noticed with bewilderment that they appeared to be freshly manicured.

“Sam,” I replied, taking his hand automatically. His skin was hot, like he had a fever, and the handshake was surprisingly gentle. “Graphic designer, occasional poltergeist hotel, bearer of student loan debt.”

To my shock, he laughed—a sound like distant thunder that somehow held genuine amusement.

“So, um, what brings a… prince of hell to our little support group?” I asked, trying to sound casual while my brain screamed DEMON DEMON ACTUAL DEMON SITTING NEXT TO YOU.

Malphas sighed heavily, and the lights flickered.

“I’ve been… reverse-possessed,” he admitted, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “By a Midwestern ghost named Gary.”

I blinked. “Come again?”

“I was performing a standard soul collection in Milwaukee,” he explained in a hushed tone. “The target was a hardware store manager named Gary Petersen. But something went wrong with the ritual. Instead of me claiming his soul, a part of his consciousness… attached to mine.”

I stifled a laugh. “So you’ve got a ghost possessing you? Isn’t that like, I don’t know, a mouse catching a cat?”

Malphas’s eyes flared bright red for a moment, and I instinctively leaned away. Then they faded to an almost normal hazel, and he looked down at his hands.

“It’s not possession exactly. More like… contamination. I keep having these… urges.”

“Urges?” I repeated, suddenly very aware of how close we were sitting.

“Yesterday, I found myself at a garden center buying mulch,” he whispered, sounding haunted. “I spent three hours comparing lawn mowers. I organized my toolbox by size and function.” His massive hands clenched. “I bought cargo shorts, Sam. Cargo shorts.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a quick, strangled sound that I tried to cover with a cough. The idea of this terrifying hell beast fretting over lawn care was just too much.

Malphas looked at me with surprising vulnerability in his otherworldly eyes. “It’s not funny. I’m supposed to be harvesting souls and tormenting the damned. Instead, I’m comparison shopping for grill accessories and worrying about proper lawn irrigation.”

“Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry at all. “So Gary’s making you… domestic?”

“It’s worse than that,” Malphas groaned. “I actually enjoy it. The satisfaction of a well-organized garage… the pride in a freshly mowed lawn… the simple pleasure of finding the perfect tool for a repair job.” He looked at me with desperation. “These aren’t demonic thoughts, Sam.”

Before I could respond, Eden called on Malphas to introduce himself to the group. As he stood—unfolding to his full, intimidating height—I found myself staring at him with newfound fascination.

Oh no, I thought, watching the play of muscles beneath his crimson skin as he awkwardly introduced himself. Oh no no no. You are NOT attracted to the demon handyman. That is a TERRIBLE idea.

But as Malphas sat back down, his thigh briefly pressing against mine in the cramped circle of chairs, I felt a jolt of heat that had nothing to do with his supernatural temperature.

Well, fuck.

That’s how it started. Me, a donuts-seeking survivor of the occult, sitting next to seven feet of horned, terrifying muscle who smelled like brimstone and somehow also like a responsible homeowner.

I should have run screaming from the community center.

Instead, I found myself asking, “So… those Rice Krispie treats. Are they up for grabs?”