Don't Summon the Demon

He’s the Warden of the Void. She’s a librarian who shushes eldritch horrors. Silence has never been this loud. Cleo Hargrove prefers books to people. Books are quiet. Books have spines that don't ache. Books don't try to eat you—usually. As the head archivist of the University Occult Library, she runs a tight ship. But when she gets "downsized" by a department head who thinks necromancy is a "growth industry," Cleo finds herself with a new, mysterious employer. The client? Malphas. He is the Warden of the Void, a demon lord of shadow and silence who guards the barrier between reality and Nothing. He is terrifying, ancient, and looming. His problem? His daughter, Lilith, is a spider-child who walks on the ceiling and refuses to come down. And his library—the repository of all forbidden knowledge—is a disaster zone of uncatalogued scrolls and screaming grimoires. Malphas expects Cleo to scream. He expects her to run. Instead, she puts on her reading glasses, hands him a "Quiet Please" sign, and gets to work. But as Cleo tames the library and connects with the misunderstood Lilith, she realizes the Void isn't the only thing leaking into the house. Malphas is leaking into her heart. And when the barrier starts to fracture, threatening to erase everything they’ve built, Cleo has to decide if love is worth breaking the rules for. Don't Summon the Demon is the final book in the Nanny for Nightmares series. It features a scary-on-the-outside demon dad, a fearless librarian, and a spider-kid who just wants a friend. Three monster dads, three fearless women, three happily-ever-afters. Each book stands alone. No cliffhangers, ever. Perfect for readers who love: grumpy demon x sunshine librarian · single dads in over their heads · bookish heroines · found family (spider-child included) · low angst, guaranteed HEA.

The Grimoire of Eternal Screaming lived up to its name. Cleo had one hand braced against the spine—leather that felt disturbingly warm, like skin left too long in the sun—and the other shoving the book back onto the top shelf of the Restricted Collection. The book shrieked. Not metaphorically. It shrieked, a sound like a thousand nails on a thousand chalkboards, and tried to sink its corner into her thumb. "Don't you dare bite me, Gerald," Cleo said, and gave it a final shove. The book hissed, but settled onto the shelf with a sulky thump. The shrieking cut off mid-wail. Cleo wiped her hands on her skirt—black velvet, because she had standards—and adjusted her cat-eye glasses. Around her, the University Occult Library hummed with the particular energy of a thousand cursed texts trying very hard to behave themselves. Most days, they failed. The Codex Malificarum was currently trying to scuttle off its shelf like a crab. The Love Poems of the Lich King were sobbing softly in the corner. She loved her job. "Ms. Hargrove?" Cleo turned. Dr. Pemberton stood in the doorway to her office, looking like a man who'd just swallowed a live frog. He was pale, sweating, and clutching a folder to his chest like a shield. "Good morning, Dr. Pemberton," Cleo said pleasantly. "I've got Gerald back on his shelf, but the Necronomicon Junior Edition is trying to start a conga line with the cookbooks again. I'll handle it after lunch." "Ah. Yes. About that." Pemberton's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Could you step into my office, please?" Cleo's stomach sank. She followed him into the cramped office, past the dusty bust of some long-dead occultist, and sat in the chair across from his desk. Pemberton didn't sit. He hovered, like a man afraid the furniture might attack him. Which, to be fair, in this building it might. "Ms. Hargrove," he began, and stopped. Started again. "Cleo. You've been an invaluable member of our team." "I'm fired," Cleo said flatly. Pemberton flinched. "It's not—it's not a reflection of your work. Your work is exceptional. You're the only archivist we've ever had who can handle the Restricted Collection without going mad or losing a finger." "Then why?" He looked miserable. "The donors are… uncomfortable." "With the books?" "With you." Cleo stared at him. "I'm sorry, what?" "You're too…" He gestured vaguely, like he was trying to shape the words out of air. "You're too comfortable with the cursed objects. Mrs. Van der Berg came in last week and saw you having a conversation with the Tome of Unholy Whispers. She was very disturbed." "I was telling it to stop whispering recipes for human sacrifice during the undergraduate tour," Cleo said. "That's literally my job." "You called it 'Kevin.'" "It responds to Kevin." Pemberton set the folder on the desk and slid it toward her. Inside was a single piece of paper. A pink slip, naturally. "I'm so sorry, Cleo. The board voted. It's effective immediately." Cleo took the folder. Stared at it. The paper didn't burst into flames or sprout tentacles, which was almost disappointing. "Effective immediately," she repeated. "We'll provide a reference, of course—" "Don't bother." Cleo stood, the chair scraping against the floor. "I'll pack my desk." She left before he could stammer out another apology. ### Her desk was small, tucked into an alcove near the Forbidden Stacks, and it took her all of ten minutes to pack. Three mugs (one shaped like a bat, one that said Librarians Do It Quietly, and one that screamed if you poured coffee into it). A collection of bookmarks shaped like tiny daggers. Her emergency kit of salt, iron nails, and a spray bottle of holy water. And Yorick. The skull sat on the corner of her desk, grinning his permanent grin. Cleo had found him in the basement during her first week, half-buried in a crate of banned hymnals. He didn't talk, didn't move, didn't do much of anything, really. But he had good energy. "Well, Yorick," Cleo said, wrapping him in a scarf and tucking him into her bag. "Looks like we're unemployed." Yorick said nothing, as usual. She was reaching for the last drawer when she saw it. The envelope. It was black. Not the black of regular paper, but the kind of black that seemed to swallow light, like a hole cut into the world. It sat on top of her stack of overdue library notices, and it hadn't been there five minutes ago. Cleo picked it up. It didn't smell like ozone, the way magical summons usually did. It smelled like static. Like the air after a thunderstorm, or a TV left on too long in an empty room. The kind of smell that made your teeth ache. Her name was written on the front in silver ink that shimmered like oil on water. Ms. Cleopatra Hargrove. She flipped it over. The seal was a crescent moon wrapped in thorns. Hecate's Babysitting Agency. Cleo tore it open. The letter inside was short. Ms. Hargrove, Your services are required. Immediate placement. High risk. Higher pay. The Warden of the Void needs a nanny. Report to the address below at sunset. Don't be late. —Madame Hecate Below the signature was an address that didn't exist on any map Cleo had ever seen, written in coordinates that made her eyes water if she looked at them too long. She folded the letter, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked it into her bag next to Yorick. "Well," she said to the skull. "At least we won't be bored." Yorick grinned.