by Livia Quinn
Also by Livia Quinn
Calloways of Rainbow Bayou
When the Right One Comes Along
Too Good to Be True
Only the Heart Remembers
Christmas Wishes
At Long Last Love
It Had to Be You
Christmas Vows
The Calloways of Rainbow Bayou
Destiny Paramortals
Storm Crazy
Storm Crazy Bonus Edition (Storm Crazy and Cry Me a River)
Cry Me a River
Eve of Chaos
Blame It on the Moon (Paranormal Urban Fantasy)
Take These Broken Wings
Blood Moon
Destiny Box set 1 (1-3)
Destiny Paramortals Boxset 2
Standalone
Undone
Watch for more at Livia Quinn’s site.
Storm Crazy
Destiny Paramortals #1
Livia Quinn
Contents
Introduction
Books by Livia Quinn
Author Note
The World of Destiny
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Glossary of Beings & Terms
About the Author
For Veterans
Storm Crazy © copyright 2014 by Livia Quinn
ISBN: 978-0-9904032-0-3
Cover Art by Cora Graphics
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All characters are from my imagination or fictionalized. To obtain permission to use portions of text, please email: [email protected]
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The Livia Quinn Writes blog is a no-drama place where you can get book links, comment on posts and read excerpts. Do come by.
Praise for Destiny Paramortals
“My new favorite series!” “Okay, I’m hooked, Give me, give me some more!!!” “A bit of magic, a lot of fun and a budding romance!” “Tempest Pomeroy is the best new paranormal heroine of the year!” “Walk don’t run to the buy button.” “Destiny. . .is like a mini-vacation from the real world.”
Welcome to Destiny, or should I say Middle Earth…
I'm Sheriff Jack Lang. After an exciting career as a Navy pilot, Destiny seemed like the perfect place to settle down - safe, sane and secure, but that ship sailed when I met Tempest Pomeroy - sexy redheaded mail lady and trouble magnet. Tempe never fails to test the limits of my patience or the law. Every time I think it's the last straw, up pops another haystack.
My name is Tempest Pomeroy, and my human job is delivering the mail. I’m also a Paramortal like my family, or I’m supposed to be. If I didn’t have a few little talents, I’d think I was adopted. To say I was having a bad day would be like saying Katrina dropped a little rain on New Orleans. My brother's genie bottle is missing, my mother’s AWOL, and the sheriff and my ex-lover are squaring off like yard dogs staking a claim over a poodle. I am no one’s poodle. I've denied my heritage for most of my life but all this chaos is a sign of my quickening Tempestaerie power.
Oh, and the sheriff? He thinks he's settled in a normal, quaint small town—like Mayberry?! We’ll see how that turns out… Things better settle down soon, ‘cause I’m about to go…Storm Crazy.
Books by Livia Quinn
The Destiny Paramortals (Paranormal)
Storm Crazy, #1
Cry Me a River, #2
Eve of Chaos, #3
Blame It on the Moon, #4
Take These Broken Wings. #5
Blood Moon #6
Boxsets 1 & 2
The Calloways of Rainbow Bayou (Small Town Contemporary Romance)
When the Right One Comes Along
Too Good to Be True
Only the Heart Remembers
Christmas Wishes
At Long Last Love
It Had to Be You
Christmas Vows
Blood Opal
Undone
Author Note
You never know when inspiration will hit. When we moved to the south from D.C., I experienced some of the worst weather of my life with tornados walking the Interstate in the middle of the night. Then came Katrina and Gustav. Is it any wonder I gave my heroine, a Tempestaerie, control over weather forces? Though the series is paranormal it embodies some of elements I love in my own life, the rich settings of Louisiana, my experiences as a rural carrier, quirky people and events. There are always themes of family, love and community. I hope you enjoy the series. Jack and Tempe have a lot to learn. Enjoy the ride. . .
The Livia Quinn Writes blog is a no-drama place where you can get book links, comment on posts and read excerpts. Please come by. Sign up for my newsletter to receive updates and deals or follow me on Bookbub
* * *
As they say in my favorite escape. . .
Caide Mile Failte’, A hundred thousand welcomes. Livia
liviaquinn.com
The World of Destiny
Welcome to Destiny!
* * *
Flip to the back of this set for Glossary of terms and beings
Destiny Characters, Paramortals and their Magic (People of Power, and not…yet)
Jack Lang Sheriff, Laccasine Parish, former Navy pilot
Tempest Pomeroy Tempestestaerie and mail carrier
Montana Dinnshencha/half-vamp, can shift into any form to defend abused women and children.
Aurora Boreal Shop owner, seer? witch? old friend of the Pomeroys
Conor de Sept Flambé dragon knight /black dragon
Dylan McGuinness Finrir and undercover inspector
River Pomeroy Tempe’s Djnni brother, contractor
Jordie Lang Jack’s daughter
Georgeanne Lang Jack’s crazy ex
Phoebe Pomeroy Tempe’s mother, a Tempestaerie
Dutch Pomeroy Tempe’s father, an old Djnni
Freddie Taylor Storm Lake’s un-handyman
Petre The Fae king, owner of the Faerie Inn with
Arabella Queen of the faerie and Tempe’s friend
Ryan Kirkwood Jack’s deputy and former wingman
Katerina Blackmoor half panther/vamp, friend
SOAPs Tempe’s friends call themselves ‘Sisters of the Astral Plane’. To humans they are soap opera fans
Liam O’Neill Bon Amis’ bartender, Churichaun/vamp
Chapter 1
There’s wisdom on the wind, and power.
Think about it.
The same breeze that ruffled your hair
this morning
whipped the soccer player’s shorts
in Spain yesterday
and
guided the lightning bolt
from Zeus’ fist
millennia ago.
Aurora Boreal
* * *
Tempestaeries are often described with words like “quirky, erratic… dysfunctional.”
* * *
Tempe
Zeus’ holey boxers! I’d known this would happen, but why now? Why today of all days? I leaned against the heavy oak mantle, shoulders sagging suddenly, and studied the clearly delineated blank space in the dust, the exact shape of my brother’s amphora—that’s “genie bottle” to you mere-mortals.
My baby brother hadn’t come home last night—for the first time since our little chat.
A month ago I’d have been calling his cell, taking a detour from my mail route to locate him, or if worse came to the very worst, calling our mother, Phoebe, to find out if she’d seen him. But that was before River and I had a discussion about what he called my “embarrassing over-protectiveness”. As a result, I promised not to leap to dire conclusions when I didn’t hear from him for a day or, he insisted, two. Since then I’d been hands-off, and spectacularly “un-protective”.
Okay, so he’s not my baby brother. He’s only six years younger than me, and he runs his own contracting business, but I’ve practically raised him since he was four.
Was he testing me, I wondered, as I took the stairs to the slave quarters of our antebellum home, each one hundred and fifty year old step creaking under my weight. River and I are in the process of remodeling the old house, but each project has to take a back seat to my delivery job for Universal Mail and River’s construction jobs, not to mention our shortage of funds.
I rapped firmly on his door as I have nearly every morning of his life.
“River! You up?”
Before I turned the knob to his apartment I sensed the lack of his Djinni force. The tidy bed confirmed he hadn’t slept here last night. I was tempted to break our agreement right then and call his cell, but I’d heard him loud and clear, “What am I supposed to do, carry you with me when I decide to have sex with a woman?”
I sooo didn’t want to go there. Of course, that had been his intention.
I couldn’t afford to be late for work on EVAL Monday, so I scratched out a benign note, Call me when you get in, had second thoughts, grabbed another piece of paper and wrote, Pizza tonight? I sped down the stairs, plucked my keys from the counter and stepped through the front door onto the veranda.
Thunder gave a long low grumble in the South. As soon as I heard it I stopped, turned my face up to the sky. My heart rate slowed. My feet itched to sink into the wet grass, to plug into the fresh energy of the approaching storm. I stood for a moment feeling the wind’s intimate caress, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the rain as it drizzled down my cheek. The cool wind lifted my hair with loving fingers. If my nature were feline, I’d have been purring.
But duty called, so I plucked the soggy newspaper from the driveway, got in my truck, and headed to the postal center. The temperature was starting to drop as the cold front advanced. There were sure to be weather consequences.
Hot, cold; moist, dry; calm, blustery. These seasonal disputes create a smorgasbord of ionic imbalances. For a Tempestaerie like me, wind is menori, the Breath of Life, and that smorgasbord—the fuel. It can manifest as a mild zephyr, or a full on weather disaster, like Katrina.
I’m also a Paramortal, a consequence of the ancient bond forged between the supernatural species to ensure peace and defend the weak.
At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. If I didn’t have a few little talents, I’d think I was adopted. You’ve heard that old song, “Cry Me a River”? Well, my emotions need to be running pretty high to produce even a trickle from a spigot.
If you look in the Paramortal dictionary, Tempestaeries are often described with words like “quirky, erratic… dysfunctional.” No kidding, there might even be a picture of my family—if you could capture a Djinni on camera.
“Functional” would have described my family before Daddy died, before Mother became too preoccupied with her lifestyle to care for her children. Before I was left to raise my baby brother.
My name is Tempest Pomeroy. Yeah, Tempest and River. Bless mother’s cliché lovin’ heart. I’m just grateful we didn’t wind up as Thunderclap and Snowflake, Black Cloud and Little Sprinkle, or Flash and Flood. With my hair—a bright copper streaked with rainbow hues—I’d have been Flash.
Back in the day, Paramortals intentionally mingled with human society, so it would be less traumatic for humans to accept our existence on those rare occasions when one of us is exposed inadvertently. Imagine how an unsuspecting mere-mortal would react if he knew the local bartender was a vamp, or the popular ambulance tech, a Dinnchensha. That’s how a budding storm “witch” like me became a mail carrier.
A few humans suspect we live in their midst, but we try to keep the magical weirdness to a minimum—let them think of it as “quirkiness.””. We don’t just slap them upside the head with the truth, unless the human in question needs an attitude adjustment, or we’re having a particularly bad day.
Like today—EVAL Monday, the first of seven days when the mail service re-certifies each carrier through an intense pressure cooker of counts, inspections and evaluations. We call it EVIL week because of the harsh, sometimes unfair scrutiny involved. If you fail to re-cert, one of the hovering substitutes could take your job quicker than you can say, “You’ve got mail”.
The day was already looking like a seven on the EVIL crapola meter. My supervisor, Calvin Beck stood in the middle of the parking lot, scanning each carrier’s progress and timing us with a stopwatch. “Do not spend company time organizing your packages,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Get loaded and get out of here.” Of course, if we didn’t organize our loads, we’d find ourselves written up for not returning to the dock on time. And Beck knew it. The upcoming Mardi Gras holiday meant the mail was especially heavy.
“You just want to skew the results in management’s favor, Beck,” I said, already thinking ahead to my first deliveries, and hoping I wouldn’t be chosen for a driver observation.
He ignored me and directed his next command at the new carrier who was applying the magnetic warning signs to the sides of her truck. “Barbara, move it. Good God, look at the time. You should have already had those signs on your truck. Nine minutes…”
“Ignore him, Barbara,” I called. Beck aimed another glare in my direction. Enough of this. When he looked off I held my tattooed fingertip aloft, tapped into the moisture-laden atmosphere, and used menori to aim those molecules in his direction. Ten seconds later he was banging his stopwatch against his palm. That should do it.
But as usual, he got the last word.
“Time,” he called—before I’d finished throwing the last few packages into the truck from my buggy. “Nine minutes, twenty-seven seconds.” He scowled at me. “Next time make it eight, flat.”
He stepped onto the bumper of Barbara’s truck and yelled, “Listen up, people. There will be a back door inspection today when you return at 4:30. Make sure you’re compliant with regulations and have no, I repeat, no undeliverables. Your scans will be monitored.”
“Great.” We also might be followed on our route, which meant no speeding, no talking on the cell phone, no rule-breaking. Too bad my brother wasn’t handy. He was the only one who could grant my wish for things to go perfectly.
I secured the remaining packages and arranged the mail so I could climb in on the right side; stretch my left foot over the console and onto the pedal. I cranked the truck, flipped on my flashing light, and beeped the horn. With my left hand on the steering wheel, I looked over my shoulder and backed out of my space. And felt immediate relief.
The first two hours of the job, the part with all the BS—that part—I hate. Being on my own, driving the route, connecting with my customers—most days, it’s like being self-employed.
A squeal of brakes interrupted my reverie and the “Toa
d” stopped his mail truck just short of my right bumper. With a blast of his horn, he leered out the window. “Ze—Shootfire, Fritz. You saw me pulling out.”
He just leered and blew his horn. “Get those buns out of my way, sweet cakes. I’ve got mail to deliver.” Scanning the area for onlookers, he grabbed his crotch and gave it a tug, “I can always find time for you, though. How ‘bout it, Tempest?”
“The way I hear it, that package is too small to even be certified.” I heard chuckles behind me as I peeled out of the parking lot, chastising myself for letting him get to me.
Smoothing the furrow between my eyebrows with my middle finger, I considered the unique pressure. It was odd, not really a headache, more a rumbling threat. I told myself it was the barometer, the Toad’s four-thousandth sexual innuendo, and the worst mail day of the year. It was not because I have a bad temper.
Chapter 2
