Psychic Storm: Ten Dangerously Sexy Tales of Psychic Witches, Vampires, Mediums, Empaths and Seers

by Deanna Chase

  Her breathing quickened. He sensed her willpower melt. He plucked the pink flower from her hair and rolled the stem between his fingers.

  “You will beg me to make love to you…”

  “I am not that kind…” she objected, her face flushed to the color of her flower.

  “When I’m done with you,” he stopped her, “you will leave, but return to my apartment the next night. And the next.” He slid his hands up to her shoulders, no longer caring who saw him. “And Isabella, you are that kind of girl. All women are, with the right man.”

  He picked up the nickel from the counter and showed it to her. “I’ll see you at the fountain in one hour. We’ll throw this in and make a wish.”

  He finished his drink in one quick swig then left the bar, feeling her eyes follow him out the door.

  Three

  Isabella came to the fountain as Armand predicted.

  She had ditched her work attire and now wore a bright yellow skirt the color of summer, a fitting accompaniment to the sunny aura that hummed around her. A fresh pink flower was tucked behind her ear.

  Armand felt an immediate connection with her, and an inexplicable desire to know everything about her. He had never experienced this with any of the others.

  They talked for hours in excited whispers as the fountain burbled behind them, sharing stories and gossiping about the locals. She confessed that although she’d been raised in the village, she envied the freedom of the female tourists who passed through. She planned to leave herself one day, to a place where there were more opportunities for women.

  “My mother would have wanted it for me,” she said, a wall of sadness closing in around her. She fluttered her eyelashes, shaking it off. She squared her shoulders and spoke with determination. “I will do it for her, as well as myself.”

  Bolstered by her own confession, Armand took a chance.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Sebastian Diaz?” He casually tossed their coin into the fountain as he spoke his father’s name.

  Isabella pursed her lips as her eyes drifted to the water.

  “No. I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Well, perhaps. The name does sound familiar, but that is not an uncommon name. Why do you ask?”

  “He was a friend of my mother’s. He must have been a good man if he knew her.” He searched for more coins in his pocket.

  Isabella stared across the village square, before affixing her eyes to the moon. “I will ask around, then.”

  “No, it is not necessary. My mother didn’t know him well. She mentioned they had a brief friendship when she served during the war.”

  “When she worked as a nurse?”

  Armand nodded, and before Isabella could ask more questions he pulled her into the folds of his arms and kissed her, tasting her light. It was honey to his lips. Without reservation, she reached for his hand and allowed him to escort her back to his apartment.

  “Aren’t you worried?” he asked, the sweetness of her kiss still burning his lips as they entered his room.

  “Why should I worry?” She smiled enticingly as she shut the door behind them.

  He kissed her again, pressing her body into the wall with his own. “You don’t know me. Or the things that I can do to you.”

  “But I feel I do know you.”

  Armand blinked. He sensed he knew her, too. But how? He stared for a long moment into her chestnut eyes.

  She wrapped one leg around his back and then the other. He carried her to his bed and laid her down, his hunger growing. He could sense rather than see her smile.

  “Dark be damned!” He went to the window and pulled open the curtains. He needed to see her.

  “Come back,” she called, rolling on to her side.

  She ran her fingers along the edge of the bed as she took him in. The moonlight streaming through the window caught the nape of her neck and he was overcome by an urgent desire to bury his face in that very spot, in the illuminated crest between her shoulders and her face.

  “Take your clothes off for me,” he answered.

  Her eyes flashed. “You first.”

  He liked her unwillingness to submit to his immediate demands. It aroused his body and his mind.

  Armand took his time unbuttoning his dark-green shirt, allowing her eyes time to wander down his muscular chest and slim torso, before settling on the region where his bare skin met his faded jeans. He set the shirt on the back of his chair.

  “Your turn,” he grinned, moving towards the bed.

  She pulled her dress over her head, letting it drop to the pillow behind her. Her breasts were as full and as white as the moon-stamp on her neck. She covered them with the palms of her hands as he continued his advance.

  “Save me,” he said, unbuttoning his jeans and kneeling before her, his breath caressing her ankles.

  She sat up. “What do you mean?”

  Armand squeezed his eyes shut. He had no idea what he’d meant. He lifted her foot, pressing his lips to her heel. “Nothing.”

  “I’ve never been with a man…” she said, her breathing deepening as he crawled his way up her body and pressed her into the mattress.

  “No?”

  “No.” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “I’m a virgin.”

  Armand cocked his head, filtering through her many thoughts. He saw Isabella kissing other men, touching them, but never completing the act. She was a virgin. He pressed his cheek to hers, unsure how to proceed.

  “It’s okay.” Her hand caught in his hair as she freed it from the rubber band. “I feel so close to you. Like we’ve known each other for years, not hours. I want to.”

  He closed his eyes, reading her again. The images that appeared forced his eyes back open. Damn it! He hit the bed with the side of his fist.

  “What’s wrong?” She grasped for the sheet lying next to her. “I’m so embarrassed. I threw myself at you, and you don’t even want me. Please don’t tell anyone.”

  He looked at her. How could she think he did not desire her? She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Yes, yes I do want you.”

  “It only has to be for tonight…”

  She wasn’t telling the truth.

  Isabella believed in signs and earlier that day that she had been fighting with her father. He demanded that she marry a man much older than herself who had a good family and owned some land. She prayed to the Angels to have her burdens lightened, and then, miraculously, Armand appeared. It must be God’s hand. She had no intention of letting him go.

  Armand pressed his lips together. This wasn’t the first woman who’d made such assumptions, and he had even played along, but there was something different about Isabella. He sat up and dangled his legs over the side of the bed, his face in his hands.

  Isabella climbed to her knees and pressed her naked breasts into his back. She ran her fingers through the long strands of his hair. “I shouldn’t have told you, but I didn’t want you to think I was one of those women.”

  “I wish you were.” He had taken his share of those women, Hell, he had taken someone else's share, too. But he had never taken a virgin.

  Her warm breath fell upon his neck.

  He dropped one of his hands into his lap. He could show her things, of course. Open her up to a new world of pleasure. No real harm in that. Not if she loved it.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I’m a grown woman. I know what I want.”

  And it wasn’t like he was promising anything. His other hand dropped.

  “Armand…”

  Her fingers traced a line across the back of his neck. Her aura filled the room, an intoxicating blend of fear and desire.

  “I can’t.” He turned to look at her, hardly believing he spoke the words.

  “Lay by me.” She patted the mattress beside her, lowering herself down. He obeyed. White-yellow energy rippled around her and he wanted to immerse himself in it. He took her hand again, allowing her thoughts to flood through him: memorie
s of her childhood, Catholic School, news of her mother dying…

  She was as broken as he was.

  His eyes slid towards the window, staring at the stone wall of the adjacent building outside. “I can never love you. I don’t think I can love anyone.”

  She smiled, climbing on top of him, turning his head back to meet hers. “I’m not asking you to.”

  Armand’s eyes took in the swell of her breasts, the soft roundedness of her belly. She raised her skirt, allowing him a glimpse of her thighs. She raised it further, revealing the white lace of her panties.

  His resolve broke.

  If there was a God, as his Catholic mother claimed, at least He would know Armand had tried to be good.

  His hands worked on his zipper. He needed to feel her life-force, to understand what it was like to be pure, too.

  She lowered her hips, hovering above him. He saw her thoughts without probing––she imagined them falling in love, getting married, moving away and sending for her family. He saw all the hopes she pinned on him.

  He squeezed his eyes to block it out. The images broke into confetti.

  The pink flower fell from her hair, landing on his chest. He took it, holding it against his heart. If he was going to do it, he was going to make this memorable for her.

  “Close your eyes,” he said rolling her onto her back. He looked down at her, tucking his hair behind his ears so that he could see her face. “It will feel like a dream.” He brushed the side of her face with her flower. “A very good dream.”

  Four

  There are some doors you should not open.

  Armand sipped his brandy from the far edge of the town square, watching the people of the village go about their lives with the self-importance one gives the task of buying a loaf of bread or sweeping a sidewalk.

  The sun cast a fiery hazy over the landscape, blurring the multi-colored, two and three story buildings into the sleek mosaic pavers that covered the square. The scene resembled a watercolor painting, with no clear edges or images to focus upon.

  Armand put on his sunglasses, not to shield his eyes against the setting sun or the hazy watercolor world, but because he felt less conspicuous with them on.

  The municipal building clock tower hovered above the town, watching for moral infractions while counting down the hours until judgment. Superstition ran deep in this part of the world, even among the more progressive.

  God and his Angels and his Saints saw everything and would reward––or punish––accordingly.

  The fountain in the middle of the square was the most obvious reminder of God’s presence here: four laughing cherubs converged around a tall statue of Mother Mary. The cherubs held pens and scrolls in their chubby fingers, recording the deeds of the township while Mother Mary looked on with compassionate eyes, her arms outstretched and ready to receive the worthy.

  An arrow of birds flew overhead, chasing the sun. They had the right idea, Armand thought, suddenly missing L.A. Back home, he’d still be in shorts and the women would be in sundresses and bikini tops. Well, at least he had his drink––if he was going to be stuck somewhere so dark and primitive, at least he had his drink.

  As he nursed his third brandy of the evening, he watched for Isabella. Her work shift started two hours ago, yet he hadn't seen her enter the bar. Was she ill? He could go in and inquire, but if she was there he’d have to face her, and if she wasn’t…

  …if she wasn’t, he didn’t want to know why.

  A woman emerged from a shop across from him.

  For a moment he was certain it was Isabella. He sat up straight, craning his neck, only to see that the woman was older and rounder than Isabella, her aura the color of ripened fruit.

  To hell with it all.

  He crinkled the flower in his hands: the flower from Isabella’s hair the first night they made love. Three weeks they were together, and each night she came to him with a new pink flower in her hair, but this one he kept.

  He opened his palm and stared at the crushed petals. Why should he care what happened to her? She wasn’t the first woman he’d let go and she wouldn’t be the last.

  Feeling the anger rise up in his chest, Armand disentangled himself from the patio chair and stormed towards the fountain.

  He hadn’t made his wish the night they tossed Isabella’s coin into the well. He’d make it now.

  “I wish to never think of you again.” His words slurred as he dropped the broken flower into the water.

  He was drunk, publically drunk, but he didn’t care.

  “Take me away!” He beckoned with his fingers, looking up and down the road to see if any of the policia were out, but there was only a handful of people left as day turned to dusk.

  “Ah, hell. I can’t even get myself arrested.”

  His head pounded like a drum and he pushed his fingers into the sides of his temple to alleviate the pressure. He thought the liquor would have cured it, but it only made it worse.

  I just need to sleep.

  Sleep.

  Now there was an idea.

  He hadn’t been lying when he told the English woman he didn’t sleep. Sleep came hard to him. His insomnia was the reason he started drinking and smoking weed at the age of sixteen. Now, the remedies which were meant to help him get through the night were necessary to get him through his days.

  He could take some pills, but he had less than a handful left and he wasn’t sure he could get more.

  He stared at the cherub nearest him: a fat, winged child with round, mocking eyes. It wrote quickly and Armand stepped backwards, resisting the urge to read the scroll. The pounding in his temples quickened.

  Three nights. That’s how long it had been since he had slept. He stopped doing everything the night he said goodbye to Isabella.

  They had just made love. She was still in bed, a dreamy expression on her face, her black hair fanned across the white pillow. He dressed, not meeting her eyes as he gave her the speech.

  She was a great girl, he said buttoning his jeans, but he just didn’t see a future for them.

  Armand remembered the look on her face as if he had taken a picture. Her lips slightly parted, her eyes crinkled, her head cocked to the side.

  She smiled a little. “You are joking?”

  “It’s not you.” He continued his march across the room, gathering pieces of her clothing and placing them on the foot of the bed. “It’s me. I’m not in any position to continue this relationship. I have to leave soon, you know that. I don’t have a job. You deserve so much better.”

  She cried, soundless tears at first, begging him to reconsider.

  “It will be better once we are out of here and can share our lives in public,” she said.

  Armand lit a joint, inhaling––holding for the count of four, then, slowly exhaling. He continued pacing around the room, listening but not responding.

  Next came the screaming and the accusations that he was without a heart and had never loved anyone but himself.

  “I know, I know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I told you in the beginning.” He took another hit from his joint as she cursed him in multiple languages.

  Armand had given this speech to enough women to know that she would throw things next: plates, glasses, and his brandy. He readied himself; he might even let her hit him with something.

  She needed the absolution. So did he.

  But she didn’t throw anything. Instead, once the crying and the screaming were over, she stood in the center of his room with the curtains open and the murky light streaming across her tear-stained face and stared at him.

  After a long, terrible silence she spoke her final words to him.

  “You’ll pay, Diablo.”

  She collected her things and left.

  For several days, Armand stayed in his apartment, sure she would return with her father, or the policia.

  But no one came.

  He should have left town.

  That would have been the s
mart thing to do. If you screw a tourist or two, no one cares, but if you ruin a local woman you’ve got trouble. He’d come to Santo Aldea hoping to learn more about his father, but his father wasn’t here, nor his father’s ghost. There was nothing to keep Armand from leaving.

  Except he needed to know that Isabella was okay.

  Eventually, Armand had to leave his apartment. His weed and his brandy were gone and he was growing hungry.

  Sleep-deprived and shaky from withdrawals, he had staggered through the low arch that led into town, uncombed and un-showered, amazed at how the world went on, even when his life was shit.

  “Are you okay?”

  Armand jumped, looking for the speaker, but he was still alone by the fountain.

  He eyed the scribbling cherub nearest him. By now, Armand’s scroll should be quite long. Where would he send the scroll, he wondered? To heaven or hell? Armand wished for clay to cover the thing’s eyes so it would stop watching him. He waved the statue away and stumbled back to his chair.

  “Cheers!” he said, lifting his drink. “Cheers! Here’s to being alone in this screwed up world.”

  A woman with a baby walked by. She frowned and gripped her child tighter.

  He winked and she quickened her pace.

  Armand managed to sit himself back down as his waiter dropped off a cup of hot coffee. “Please,” said the waiter, his eyes darting around the square. “Drink this and try to be more quiet. People, they will start to complain.”

  “What people?” Armand opened his arms. “There’s me, and you, and that woman whose pretending she doesn’t hear me…” He raised his voice as the woman disappeared with her child. “And those demon-angels at the fountain.”

  The waiter moved his gaze from the fountain back to Armand and made the sign of the cross over his heart.

  “Senor, please…”

  “Fine. I’ll be quiet.” Even in his state, Armand knew the waiter was right. He didn’t really want to disappear with the policia. He lifted the cup and let the steam rise to his nose.

  It calmed him almost at once.

  The waiter disappeared and Armand felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Why couldn’t he have stayed with Isabella? He had felt a strong connection to her, but he had meant it when he said he couldn’t love anyone. He might be able to tune into someone’s thoughts but he was incapable of sustaining any deep emotion. There was something missing from him.