Paranormal After Dark: 20 Paranormal Tales of Demons, Shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Fae, Witches, Magics, Ghosts and More

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “What are you doing? What’s that tap, tap, tap sound?”

  “Tapping a pen on the desk, why?”

  “That’s what I thought. Nervous? Or contemplating using your skills on me?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “What are you nervous about? Is this about your past? You’re not daydreaming about your abusive upbringing again, are you? Anything you need to share? You know I’m here for you.”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “Oh, we both know you’re way better than good, V.”

  His voice lands like a lion’s purr in my ear, dangerously sexy, strumming some silvery strings inside my soul. Stop it, stop it, stop it.

  “Sure you don’t want to share?”

  “No, thanks.” I erect my tidy inner walls again, one solid brick at a time.

  “Didn’t think so. You never like to talk about your past.” He sighs. “You know I’d listen.”

  “That’s not what it is.” My heart is racing a little too fast. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip. The thought of being with Jonas, or any real live man for that matter, causes pure terror to bubble and brew inside.

  “Okay, so why are you contemplating accessing my mind? Is this about me or you? If it’s about me, the answer is yes.”

  He pauses and I can almost hear him smiling. He’s always joking about how much he wants me.

  “I’ll just tell you,” he continues. “You don’t have to read my mind or manipulate it to get at the truth, you know.”

  “I know.” Early on, I learned I’m a little different from other people—I can mess with people’s minds and make them think they’re seeing and experiencing things. I’m like a psychic with a twist. It’s a very strange skill to be able to access people’s minds. It feels like a burden, like not only do I have to know things about myself I’d rather not know….such as how freaked I am about having an intimate connection…I have to “hear” the thoughts, fears, insecurities, and drivel everyone drags around.

  As a result, I put up sturdy walls to keep from knowing everything I don’t need to. No future reading for me. None of that bullshit about whether your dead grandma can hear you, or will you get the promotion, or yes, Billy wants to ask you to the prom.

  Not that I couldn’t do it—I simply prefer pulling people’s fantasies from their minds, like naughty golden strands of dirty deliciousness, and weaving them into reality. To me, that’s safety. It’s power. Whereas intimacy? Pure, horrifying terror.

  “Maybe it will work this time.” I smile, feigning my invincible, invulnerable personality. Inside, I’m a jumbled mess. I really want to know if I’ll be judged by him if I tell him my secret.

  “Probably not. I like my version of reality just fine and don’t like to have my mind accessed without consent.”

  “I can always use the practice. You’re a challenge. And you know I can’t enter your mind without consent. Permission must be granted or it’s a mental violation.” Only thing is, people’s minds are like messy, leaky faucets. They spew thoughts and desires like an oil rig blowing its load in the sea thinking no one can sense them. We’re all electromagnetically connected. And I have to work to not access their mental crap. Hence, my walls. I nod to myself, satisfied. Who said I need to share secrets or let myself be vulnerable?

  “Vienna, if you want an all-access pass, I can…”

  “Never mind.” I tug my purple lock. Let’s move this conversation along.

  “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. You want in, I’ll let you in…all the way in. But not that way. Not the way you’ve told me about.”

  A flush creeps up my face. “What are you and the missus having for supper tonight?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

  “My girlfriend and I are having tacos and copious amounts of beer. Or rather, I’m consuming copious amounts of beer. You can join us if you like. Quit stalling. What’s your secret?”

  I frown at his admission of beer consumption. Something’s going on with him. “No, thanks. I have to work. And she acts like your wife. And I’ll get to it…The secret, I mean.”

  “You’d best act fast, Vienna. I’ve gotta jet in ten. I’ve got to get to an appointment across town.”

  “What kind of appointment?”

  “Dentist. I hate going to the dentist.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “I know, right? So, spill the beans, girl.”

  I can picture him, his direct blue water gaze searing into me, inviting to be let in on a deeper level. I swallow. Push a piece of glossy plastic around in circles with my fingertips. Bite the nail of my index finger. Unbutton the collar of my high-tech jumpsuit—the one I wear when I work.

  “Vienna?”

  “Still here. I’m gathering courage.” I smile at the phone, staring at it.

  “Wow, this sounds serious. Are you finally going to tell me what you do for a living?”

  “I already told you. I’m sort of a counselor.” Not.

  “Well, Ms. Sort-of-a-Counselor, I’ve got a serious problem. I can’t stop looking at porn holograms. They’re dancing all around me right now, as we speak.”

  I burst out laughing. I know he’s not looking at a porn holo. He’s probably looking at the Lumber Liquidators visual or Handyman High-Tech Hardware. But Jonas always seems to know just what to say to make me laugh. “Which one? ‘Bitches and Beauties’?”

  “No, ‘Naughty Temptresses.’ They remind me of you.”

  “Ha! That’s what you always say.” I like our teasing repartee. It’s light. It’s fun. And, man, oh, man, it’s safe.

  His voice lowers to a caress. “It’s true. When are you going to let me love you?”

  I swallow, frightened by the intrusion of his sexy voice. I’m glad he can’t see my face right now. My cheeks are blazing hot. “You do love me,” I say, twisting my purple hair.

  “Really love you.”

  “You can love me as much as you want. But you’ve got a longtime girlfriend, remember? She’s the one you get to have sex with.” I try to keep it light.

  “Get to or have to?” he mumbles.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You know I think you’re exotic.”

  “So you say.”

  “And unique.”

  “Heard that, too.”

  “And sultry.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And I think you’ve made it your mission to package yourself in such an appealing way and not be available.”

  “You’re the one who’s not available.” I’m grinning. We’re back to playful, thank God. We play this game all the time. “You’re with…what’s her name?” I blank out on her name, even though I know it by heart.

  “Oh, come on, V.”

  “Oh, right, it’s Jenner. Jenner Cartwright, your bitchy mean-as-sin girlfriend. Former high school cheerleader and Up and Comer in the game called Life. Jenner and Jonas, also known as Joner, which rhymes with Boner.” I sing the last sentence.

  He laughs.

  I like it when Jonas laughs. He’s got a great laugh. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “For the secret? I’m listening.”

  I take a deep breath, clench the edge of the desk, and blurt it out. “I’ve never had an orgasm.” What the fuck, Vienna? Who slipped you a truth bomb?

  He laughs again. “Then I’ll have to counter with ‘Well, baby, you’ve never been with a guy like me.’ Seriously, what’s your secret?”

  “I just told you.” I wish I could die right now. If I had a gun, I’d use it.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. Dead serious.” No response. “Jonas?”

  “I’m still here.” He breathes deeply into my ear. “No joke?” he says softly.

  “No joke.” Now that it’s out there I feel ashamed. My face heats to boiling and I suddenly want to be doing something else—anything. Why, oh, why did I think it was a good idea to tell my longtime best friend Jonas about the secret I haven’t told a soul?

  O
h, sure, I’ve had plenty of encounters. Tall, short, fat, skinny, and sculpted. Men who professed to be awesome lovers. Men who seemed to have never done it in their lives. I even loved a couple of them, or at least I think I did. None of them managed to give me an orgasm. Good thing I have a gift in mastering voices. I can fake it like crazy.

  “Uh, I’ve got to go, Jonas,” I say.

  “You’re going to have an orgasm by your birthday,” he blurts.

  A sarcastic laugh burbles from my throat. “Right. In a couple months, I’m going to miraculously achieve what I’ve never achieved before. And who’s going to give it to me? You?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t think your girlfriend will like that.”

  “I’m coming over, Vienna.”

  “What? I thought you had to get to the dentist’s?”

  “I do. Then I’m coming over. I’ll need a drink after whatever Dr. Bob seems to think I’ll need.”

  What is it with him and drinking all of a sudden? “Well, sure, but I thought it was taco night at the Joner’s house. And I told you I have to work.”

  “It’ll be quick. I want to talk to you about what you just said and what I just said.”

  “Uh, okay, but I’m kind of sorry I told you. It’s my secret.”

  “Now it’s out in the open. Or at least it’s a shared secret. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in about an hour and a half. And Vienna?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for trusting me with your secret. It means a lot to me. Seriously, a lot.”

  “Okay. You’re welcome.” Kind of. “I’ll see you in a while.” This was a big, huge, horrifying, worst day of my life kind of mistake.

  Chapter 2

  A MINUTE LATER, my heart begins to hum pleasurably, thanks to the pulse-com chip embedded behind my ear. I softly stroke my lips to answer.

  “Hey, it’s me, Kaama.” His voice enters my ear like a purr.

  “Hey, Kaama.” Kaama’s my skinny wild-haired techno-geek friend from high school. Geek or not, I’ve seen some of his dirty fantasies, and they look hot as Hades. Sometimes the men you think are the strangest can give you the satisfaction you’ve been craving.

  “Just wanted to check and see how the new system’s working.”

  “So far so good.” I reach out to pet Nigel, my sleek Savannah cat, who’s jumped onto the desk. Hey, kitty.

  Hey, human. Get under the chin, will you?

  Like this? A side effect of my special abilities is animal telepathy.

  Purrfect. Nigel is a cross between a domestic cat and an African wildcat known as a serval. He’s got beautiful black markings along his golden fur, long ears, greenish-gold eyes marked by black streaks called “Cheetah tears,” and a bit of a bad attitude about life, like his mistress—me. We get along quite well.

  “You didn’t accept that new upgrade the pulse-com ads are pushing, did you?”

  “Hell, no. You’ve made it so much better than that. You’re a genius.”

  “I am that, true. So it hums in your heart when a friend calls?”

  “It does. It just did when you called. It’s a very pleasurable sensation.”

  “Good, that’s good. And when someone you don’t like calls?”

  “It buzzes like a fly.”

  “A stranger?”

  “Static. All I hear is static.”

  “How does the ‘ignore’ feature work?”

  “Great. I tap my right cheek and the caller gets a ‘do not disturb’ message.”

  “‘Send to message memory’ work okay?”

  “Yep, I just run my fingers through my hair and it takes a message.”

  Kaama chuckles. “You’re sure old school, V.”

  “Because I don’t see a projection of who’s calling?”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, well no one has the badass system I’ve got. And those other people…” I wave my hand in the air. “They don’t have the freak skills I have. I like the element of surprise. So much of the time I sense and know things ahead of time, it’s good to be surprised now and then. I think your system kind of scrambles the impulses; otherwise I’d know who it was each and every time. I’m telling you, you’re a frigging genius.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and how about if one of your clients calls?”

  Kaama’s perhaps the only one who knows what I do. He helped me create the means with which to do it. “Mmm,” I reply, closing my eyes. “I get a series of distinct sensations like someone is drawing a feather down my cheeks or tenderly pushing a drop of creamy oil along the skin of my neck.”

  Kaama laughs. “That was your brilliant touch. Foreplay.”

  “We make a hell of a team, Kaama.”

  “Suit working? It makes you look so effing hot, V.”

  “Yep. And thanks,” I say, my mind jumping on Jonas. Damn. Why did I spill my secret?

  I’ve got a high-tech jumpsuit wired to my brain, the client and my Headspace room. It’s made from a silky see-through fiber extracted from sour milk. The fiber was developed a couple decades ago but has withstood the test of time for its ability to regulate body temperature and blood circulation. Right now it’s not working all that well—it’s trapping a lot of heat inside of it and I mean a lot. I wasn’t this hot a minute ago.

  Beads of sweat are forming along my neck and face. I pluck at a couple of the highly sensitive electrical nodes on the suit. These nodes help me do the magic I do at my job—take my special ability and allow me to sense and feel what a client is thinking, craving, and desiring, and project that fantasy into the space around me for his personal enjoyment. I fan my face with my hand. I’m thinking, feeling, and sensing that telling Jonas my little secret was a bad idea. I don’t need any nodes to determine this.

  The sensation of soft feathers pulses down my face, distracting me. “Speaking of suits and systems, I gotta go. It’s time to get to work.” We disconnect and I enter the room I call the Headspace Hall of Sexual Delights, or just Headspace, stand in the middle of the room, take a deep breath, and assume the voice of Sultana, one of my crowd-pleasing favorites. I stroke my mouth as I reaffix the nodes and get ready for action. “Hey, big dog. Who wants to come out and play?”

  “Sultana,” comes the oozy, dripping, oily voice. “It’s me.”

  They always speak as if they know me personally, not just a projection of my personality. I roll my eyes. Ew. It’s that guy. Little do they know that when I’m in this sexual headspace, I can access whatever I need or care to know about them. It’s a one-way street, and only I know the way. I let my voice melt into a silky purr. “Hello, handsome. What can I do for you today?” I already know the answer.

  Today Captain Jack—that’s the name he uses—wants me to pretend I’m his love slave, get down on all fours, and stick my tongue between his toes while he comes all over my hair. Revolting. It makes me want to regurgitate the toast and strawberry jam I had for supper. He wants me to fawn all over him and let him know that he’s The Man. Ew, ew, and double ew. Good thing it’s all virtual fantasy.

  “Get down on your knees, you bitch,” he commands.

  I roll my eyes again. I know outside of this room the guy is a pathetic loser. He’s fifty pounds overweight. Smokes Camels. Drinks bourbon, neat. His wife wants to leave him. He’s in a dead-end job. This is the only place where he feels a sense of control. “Anything for you, baby,” I say, dropping to all fours and closing my eyes in disgust.

  “Why can’t I see you? Are you trying to be coy, you little bitch?”

  I look up. There’s something wrong with the terminal that powers this space, which means there’s something wrong with me. I can only see it as what it truly is—my nondescript back room, instead of a fantasy virtual playroom, with every toy imaginable.

  There’s a plush sheepskin rug that covers the entire floor. This is in case I have to do elaborate floor play—no sense in getting scuffed knees. Although I could enact the entire scene without moving a muscle, I believe in taking adv
antage of the time and staying fit. A few overhead lights illuminate the room. The walls are simple, unadorned, and see-through when I want them to be; completely opaque when I have visitors.

  They are made of plastic and a “special secret blend” alloy that only Kaama knows the formula for. There are delicate fiber-optic strands no bigger than a human hair woven throughout. It’s highly specialized, high-tech artistry. Thanks to Kaama’s mad skills and my abilities, I can project whatever fantasy my customer wants onto the walls and into the scene. I can appear as whatever they need me to be. Redheaded, blond, brunette, rainbow-hued tech-rocker chick, tall, curvy, slender, athletic—whatever they want, I can deliver in this minimalistic, empty-of-furnishings room, as long as it doesn’t involve feeling or intimacy.

  I scan my high-tech suit. All the nodes are in place. I glance at the power terminal on the wall in the hallway, just outside of the room. It appears to be functional, too.

  “Do you have your Headspace headpiece in place?” I ask Captain Jack. To access my Headspace, my clients have to wear a special headpiece Kaama created.

  “Of course, I do. Do you take me for an idiot?”

  “Never! I would never do that!” I pause, frowning. I’m feeling vulnerable…frayed…like stepping onto an ice arena with no knowledge of how to stay upright. Shit.

  “I paid for it. I read the instructions. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Of course,” I soothe. “I’ll have this fixed in a quick sec.”

  “I’m pretty good with technology. Let me take a look at it.”

  “No!” Get it together, V. I pull my long tresses. The system’s programmed to dissolve on contact if someone tries to take it apart to see how it operates.

  The client stiffens. When he’s in here, he doesn’t like to be told what to do.