Magic in the Desert: Three Paranormal Romance Series Starters Set in the American Southwest

by Christine Pope

I figured this probably wasn’t the best time to go into a discussion of Alex Hathaway and his alien obsession. “No, but the usual TV offerings have sort of palled.”

  “All right. Just let me change. Meet you at your place in twenty.” With that, she disappeared under my feet; her apartment was directly below mine.

  Luckily, it was a Thursday, and so she didn’t have any evening classes to teach. A former professional dancer, she ran a ballroom dance studio in Hollywood, a studio she’d bought with cash when her first husband, a producer, dropped dead of a sudden heart attack and left her a tidy sum. That tidy sum came into dispute when her second husband, another dancer, tried to get her to pay spousal support even though they’d only been married for two years. The lawsuit fell apart when she was able to prove he’d been cheating on her with a male student from her own studio, but the experience had left her more than a little wary about the male half of the species. On more than one occasion, I’d seen her crowned with three gold rings, sort of like a weird triple halo, which indicated husband number three was somewhere in her future, but I knew better than to tell her that. She’d sworn off men — besides letting them buy her drinks — so I figured it was best to let her be surprised by her third foray into matrimony.

  I, on the other hand, hadn’t even gotten close to one trip down the aisle, let alone three. Why I continued to torture myself by venturing out into the singles world instead of just giving up and turning into the crazy cat lady, I wasn’t sure. Probably the same streak of stubbornness that had led me and my mother to continually butt heads over the years. Besides, I was only thirty. The biological clock had gotten a little louder these past couple of years, but it hadn’t swung over into “countdown to detonation” mode yet, so I kept telling myself I had plenty of time and that the situation would work itself out eventually.

  That’s sort of the sad thing, though. You live your life, and you have your work and your small circle of friends, and you think everything is going just fine. And then your mother asks a few pointed questions about your dateless state, and you realize it’s been months, with no prospects of anything better to come. So you make excuses, and you joke and look away, and hope that you’re better at blocking your own emotions than you are at reading those of others. And so it goes.

  So far, the men I’d met had fallen into one of two categories. The first type were the guys who, once they found out I was a psychic, were convinced I’d know everything about them, down to every single impure thought they’d ever had, and headed for the hills at the earliest opportunity. Now, that was just ridiculous — I didn’t read minds, although I could sense people’s emotions if they were strong enough. But who would want to go tromping through every corner of another person’s mind, even if they were able to? No, thanks.

  The other type were even worse in a way. They seemed to think that dating a psychic entitled them to tips on the stock market and the results of every World Series and boxing bout for the next five years. I couldn’t do that any more than I could directly read someone’s mind, but they always seemed to think my refusal to supply them with that information was purely personal. Those relationships usually didn’t end very well, either.

  Despite this wretched track record, I took my usual care in fixing my makeup and selecting something to wear. Now, my closet had its fair share of what the style mavens might disparagingly refer to as “loosy-goosy, airy-fairy” clothes, but that was just sort of how people expected a psychic to dress. But I also had some nice pieces I’d picked up at local boutiques, and it was one of these I selected now, a sapphire blue silk top just low-cut enough to be interesting but not too extreme. I discarded my baggy cotton drawstring trousers and Börn flats in favor of dark jeans and kitten-heeled boots.

  It’ll do, I thought, giving my reflection one last critical look. Not much could be done about my hair at this late notice — if I wanted to beat my unruly curls into submission, I had to give myself at least an hour to blow-dry my hair and then flat-iron the waves that remained. Still, it wasn’t as if I was going out to a speed-dating session or something. It was just drinks with Ginger.

  I heard a knock at the door and headed over to let her in. She’d changed as well, but her crossover top and clingy skirt didn’t look all that different from the dance garb she wore while teaching. Ginger had a good fifteen years on me, but she’d kept herself in great shape. And although I knew she had to have had some work done, she hadn’t gone overboard with it the way so many other women in this town who were approaching fifty had. No frozen foreheads or freakishly lifted eyebrows for Ginger — she just looked fresh and at least ten years younger than her real age. I hadn’t worked up the guts to ask her who her plastic surgeon was — not that I needed one...yet — but when the evil day came, I was definitely going to swallow my pride and get a recommendation.

  “So where do you want to go?” she asked, after giving me a quick once-over and an approving nod.

  “I don’t want to drive,” I said. Even on a Thursday night, navigating around West Hollywood could be a nightmare, and I wasn’t sure my nerves could handle it. But luckily, we had several candidates within walking distance.

  “El Churro? We can make the tail end of happy hour and get four-dollar mojitos.”

  Personally, I thought El Churro’s mojitos were pretty weak, but the purpose of going out wasn’t to get blotto. I just wanted to do something normal so I wouldn’t be seeing space aliens around every corner.

  “Sure,” I replied, and gathered up my purse. Besides, El Churro was only two blocks away, easy to navigate even in heels.

  As we walked over to the restaurant, I kept getting distracted when people with fake-looking tans walked by. But none of them seemed to be showing evidence of alien possession — no flat stares, no antennas sprouting out of their heads.

  “Something wrong?” Ginger asked as we paused at a corner and waited for the light to change so we could cross the street to the restaurant. “You seem a little jumpy.”

  Automatically, I replied, “I’m fine,” even though I felt far from fine. Maybe going out had been a bad idea after all. Who knew that one random client could set me so much on edge? Especially since I’d never been the type to believe in UFOs and alien abductions. Oh, sure, I’d enjoyed watching The X-Files back in high school, but that was probably more because I thought David Duchovny was hot than because of the show’s actual subject matter. I’d always had a thing for the brainy types, starting with a crush on the Professor from Gilligan’s Island and working my way on from there. Too bad the science-minded guys tended to bolt at the first mention of psychic abilities.

  Ginger shot me a dubious look from under her expertly applied false eyelashes but said nothing. Thankful for that small bit of grace, I followed her across the street with the rest of the pedestrians and on into El Churro’s waiting area.

  It was packed, but as we had already decided that we were just going into the bar, I knew I didn’t have to resign myself to a forty-five-minute wait. Even so, there weren’t any seats available, and we had to grab a precarious spot at the end of the bar and hope that someone would leave soon. At least there it was easy enough for the bartender to see us, and we had mojitos in our hands before I had a chance to complain about the crowd.

  Maybe the bartender had taken pity on us and our unfortunate perch, because the drinks were definitely stronger than the norm. I sipped and let the cool flavors of mint and rum run over my tongue. A tension I hadn’t even realized was there began to leave my neck and shoulders, and I let out a little sigh.

  “Better?” Ginger asked, and I nodded.

  “Much.”

  “I never thought I’d be telling a psychic she works too hard, but you do work too hard, ’Seph.”

  I lifted my shoulders. “Not really.”

  “Yeah, really.” She opened her mouth as if she meant to say more, but then her eyes narrowed, even as she raised her brows. “Mmmm…what have we here?”

  “Huh?”

  “L
ook…but don’t look like you’re looking.”

  Right. Easy for her to say, since she was facing the entrance to the bar and my back was squarely to it. Still, I’d spent enough time in bars and clubs that I wasn’t completely unpracticed at the surreptitious glance over my shoulder. So I shifted my position a fraction and then took a sneak peek in the direction she’d indicated.

  El Churro had its usual crowd, which generally consisted of a mixture of well-dressed gay couples, singles stopping by after work, some industry executives in suits, and a sprinkling of tourists. I could tell at once the man I was looking at didn’t fit into any of those groups.

  He might have been my age, or maybe a few years older, and he wore a rumpled sports jacket over a white shirt and some khakis. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, because he was a few yards away and the lighting in the bar wasn’t that good, and he carried an honest-to-God hard-sided briefcase in one hand. I didn’t think anyone used briefcases like that anymore. Despite all that — or maybe because of it — I thought he was definitely worth the crick I was getting in my neck. Tanned, but not the fake kind, and his hair was an indeterminate light brown and in need of a trim. In short, he stuck out in El Churro the way I, with my pale skin and curly dark hair, would have stood out at a Miss Sweden competition.

  All of which was great…until his eyes locked on mine and he headed straight for me.

  “Shit, he saw me staring,” I hissed at Ginger.

  She grinned. “Good.”

  Then I heard him say, “Excuse me.”

  I’d never been very good at the whole sophisticated and blasé thing, but I did my best. Cool, be cool, I told myself. Turning slowly, not lifting my eyes from my drink, I replied, “Yes?”

  “Do you know the way to the Sheraton Universal hotel? The GPS in my rental car is malfunctioning, and my cell phone is acting up so I can’t use it to navigate.”

  Oh, boy. I should have known. No one was going to approach me in a bar on purpose. I really needed to stop kidding myself.

  Still, he looked more than a little stressed-out, and it wasn’t his fault my dating life was in the crapper. I managed a smile and said, “Sheraton Universal? Your GPS must really have died. That’s all the way across the city from here.”

  He glanced at his watch, one of those big black jobs that hikers and other outdoorsy types tended to sport. It clashed terribly with his tweedy jacket and wrinkled khakis. “I have to be at the Sheraton no later than seven.”

  That didn’t give him much time, but luckily, I knew my way around L.A. as well as I knew my way around my apartment. “It’ll be tight, but you should make it. Just head east on Santa Monica Boulevard until you get to Highland. Hang a left and take Highland until it merges with the 101. Get off at Lankershim and follow the signs. Ignore the stuff for Universal Studios — the hotel backs up to the lot, but you can’t get to the hotel parking structure from Barham unless you go the long way around.”

  The stranger nodded, brow furrowed. Most people would have asked me to repeat at least part of the directions, but he seemed to have absorbed them immediately. “Thank you…?” And then he hesitated, as if expecting me to provide my name.

  I didn’t bother to sigh anymore. It wasn’t usually until the second date that I explained my Greek mother and my father’s minor in Classics. Until then, people could think whatever they wanted of my name. “Persephone,” I told him.

  He didn’t even blink. “Thank you very much, Persephone.” And then he turned and headed out back through the foyer, and presumably to the parking lot. I found myself hoping he hadn’t popped for the valet.

  “You just let him go?” Ginger demanded. She drank down the last of her mojito and signaled the bartender for another one.

  “What was I supposed to do — tie him to the bar? All he needed was directions.”

  “And yet he asked you, out of everyone in the bar.”

  “I’m closest to the door,” I pointed out.

  Since that was the simple truth, she didn’t have much of a rejoinder. “Still….”

  “Still nothing. Yeah, he was good-looking. I got my quota of eye candy for the night.” I couldn’t help smiling to myself. There was something about the way the stranger talked, and the way he dressed, that told me he’d probably be horrified to be referred to as “eye candy.” I guessed he didn’t move in the kind of circles that used those sorts of terms. I took a long pull on my straw, thus finishing my own mojito just in time for the bartender to come over and take our order for another round.

  Ginger waited until the bartender had gone, then said, “Think he might have been a college professor?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Mmm…not sure. Just something about him. He definitely wasn’t the West Hollywood type.”

  I chuckled. “That’s for sure!”

  Afterward, Ginger seemed to abandon the topic, thank God. I really didn’t see the point in discussing the stranger anymore.

  After all, it wasn’t as if I was ever going to see him again.

  I said my goodnights to Ginger and climbed the stairs to my apartment. After two mojitos and just enough bar snacks to dilute them a little, I was ready to kick off my heels and call it a night. Maybe I’d finally get that delayed binge session with Netflix.

  When I stepped into my living room, however, I found myself confronted by Otto, who was floating a yard off the floor in the center of my Persian rug. His eyes were shut, but they snapped open immediately as I entered.

  Staring straight at me, he intoned, “You must go to the Sheraton Universal hotel.”

  “What?” I shot him an irritated look. “You channeling Obi-Wan Kenobi or something?”

  “I do not know this Obi-Wan. I do know that you must go to the Sheraton Universal hotel. Immediately.”

  Of all the — “What happened to not interfering in my life?”

  “I never said I wouldn’t interfere. I have merely stated that I could not give you direct information pertaining to your future.”

  Talk about splitting semantic hairs. “And what precisely am I supposed to do at the Sheraton Universal hotel?”

  “That I cannot say. Only that the consequences will be dire if you do not.”

  It didn’t take a genius to make the connection. Mystery Man had been going to the Sheraton Universal; therefore, it must be that my business with him wasn’t quite as finished as I had thought. “Any other hints? Like a name?”

  “You’ll know when you get there.”

  By that point, I was fairly used to Otto’s penchant for cryptic remarks, but that didn’t make me any less crabby about the situation. Never mind that I was tired and tipsy and also a bit crabby, and I just wanted to call it a day. How bad would it look for me to show up at the hotel in pursuit of this man whose name I didn’t even know? I’d come off as a crazy stalker.

  “Tick-tock, Persephone.”

  “I just had two mojitos,” I pointed out. “I shouldn’t be driving anywhere.”

  “Take some bottled water with you.”

  I knew it was pointless to argue when Otto got like this. Despite his fondness for making himself scarce when I needed him, he also could hang around interminably when I wanted him to be gone. As spirit guides went, actually, he was sort of a pain in the ass. I supposed I should be glad he was my one and only guide; some psychics tended to boast of being visited by numerous entities from different planes, and I could never quite figure out why that was supposed to be a good thing.

  Arms crossed, I demanded, “Are you going to bail me out if I get a DUI?”

  “You will not get a DUI.”

  That response didn’t reassure me quite as much as it probably should have. His predictions, when he finally got around to making them, were almost always correct. But since I also knew he would hang around like the ghost of that one annoying relative who would never leave a family party at the end of the evening unless I did as he said, I shrugged and went to retrieve my black leather jacket and thro
w it on over my silk top. Despite the warmth of the day, it had started to get fairly chilly as soon as the sun went down.

  “Anything else?” I inquired as I dug around in my purse for my car keys. “Do I need to know a secret word or something?”

  “Just go.”

  This time, I didn’t bother to repress the sigh. I just let it out, complete with raised eyebrow, but Otto appeared supremely unimpressed. He continued to float in the middle of my living room, doing a fairly good Buddha impression. Well, a Turkish Buddha, anyway.

  “If you’re going to hang around, you could water my plants. The African violets are looking a little droopy.”

  Otto didn’t deign to reply, but only shut his eyes. Since there was no point in putting off the inevitable, I let myself out and headed down the stairs to the carport.

  By that time, the sky was lit by only the haziest remains of sunset. The fluorescent glare overhead in the carport more than made up for the lack of light, though. I squinted and pushed the button on my remote to disengage the alarm and unlock the car. After depositing my purse on the passenger seat, I slid behind the wheel and fastened the seatbelt in grim silence. The satellite radio blared the second I turned the key; I’d forgotten to turn it off the last time I’d driven the car, which had been during a run out to my parents’ house in Claremont the previous weekend.

  I wanted silence now, though. Music sometimes helped to soothe my jangled nerves, but I knew this wasn’t one of those times. I maneuvered out of the carport, waited at the light, and then headed east on Sunset.

  Even though rush hour had technically been over for almost an hour at that point, the streets in West Hollywood were still clogged. I tried to ignore the traffic, since I knew I couldn’t do anything to change it. That strategy was only partly successful — some of Otto’s urgency seemed to have rubbed off on me. I found myself drumming my fingers on the steering wheel every time I missed a light, muttering curses at the drivers who swung into my lane at the very last minute for reasons that seemed to be obvious only to them. Not very mature behavior, I’d admit. Mentally, I berated myself for letting Otto bully me into this fool’s errand. Why couldn’t I have just stood up for myself for once?