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

by Deanna Chase

  “Touché.” Armand rubbed his hands together for warmth, amazed that Sasha didn’t seem to feel the chill of the night. “Who killed you in your past life? An unrequited love? A jealous woman? How were you accused?”

  The dreamy look on Sasha’s face vanished. She gave a quick glance to Mother Mary towering above her.

  “I was accused by a warlock who had never come out himself. He was afraid, as we all were, so he sacrificed me, instead.” Her aura flared dangerously bright, sending small sparks into the air.

  She might be small, Armand realized, but she was not one to trifle with.

  She held her breath, releasing it over the course of several seconds. “It’s okay,” she said, her face softening as she turned to him. “We have karma together. The sooner we work through it, the sooner we can move on.”

  Armand was familiar with the term.

  His friends were throwing that word around back home. It was bad karma not to pick up a hitchhiker. If you screwed a hooker and didn’t pay her, you’d get bad karma. But he wasn’t sure how it applied to him and Sasha.

  “Close your eyes and feel it,” she instructed him.

  He did as instructed, letting his mind relax.

  All he could hear was the constant tinkling of water on water and Sasha’s soft breathing. Then he glimpsed an image of himself, dressed in a red robe. He stood in a bare room, reading from a large book. A raven hopped near his feet.

  He opened his eyes wide, shaking his head in disbelief. “You mean it was me?”

  “I think so. But that was lifetimes ago and you were afraid.” She wrapped one of her curls around her finger and leaned forward. “You don’t like being called a warlock. I don’t care for the word witch, myself. It makes me sound old and ugly.”

  “I’ve never met a prettier witch.”

  “You’ve never met any witches, at least that you were aware of.”

  “True. What would you like to be called then?”

  “Goddess.”

  “Deal. But only if you call me God.”

  Her hand flew to her heart in mock horror. “Heresy!” she smiled, her eyes wide. “Especially here!”

  Armand shrugged, enjoying their banter. “Okay, but if I agree to call you Goddess then what will you call me?”

  “Be lucky that I call you anything at all.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He peered into her eyes. They were as sharp and strong as polished steel, never missing anything. She might indeed be a goddess.

  He flexed his fingers, stretching them before returning his hands to the cold stone ledge. “And the work that you were out doing tonight? Is that the work of a Goddess, or a Witch?”

  Sasha pressed her hands into her lap. “Dora wanted to take a walk. She never walks this late but she insisted and I couldn’t let her go out alone. While we were out we came across…” Her face paled and she turned away.

  “Yes?”

  “A young woman, surrounded by three men. She was screaming.”

  Armand felt dread in the pit of his stomach. He dug his nails into the stone to calm his trembling fingers. He sensed that whatever she was about to reveal was somehow linked back to him.

  “Go on,” he urged quietly.

  Sasha turned back to him. “They had her pushed against the wall behind the bar. Two were holding her arms while the other had her dress hiked up over her hips.” Sasha swallowed, then reached into her pocket and produced an object, handing it to Armand: a pale, pink flower.

  He felt Isabella’s energy all over it, and instantly burned with rage.

  She gave him a quick pat on the arm. “She’s okay. Fortunately, we arrived before she was harmed. Physically, anyway.”

  Armand dipped his head, letting out a breath of relief.

  “You know her?” Sasha asked, her eyes falling to the flower.

  “Yes. We are…were…friends.”

  “Oh.” She nodded to herself. “I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on that. It’s obvious now. See the way the flower vibrates in your hand?”

  He checked again. The flower did seem to reverberate in his fingers, its pale yellow light growing brighter. He nodded.

  “You were not responsible for this,” Sasha said, placing a warm hand on his knee. “Don’t feel guilty for it.”

  “Thank you. Though I find that hard to believe.” He twirled the stem of the flower in his fingers. It was sweet and fragile, just like the woman it belonged to. “You say there were three men. How did you get rid of them?”

  Sasha’s steel eyes softened, twinkling with amusement. “That was mostly Dora. She is like a bull when she’s angry! She ran in, waving a talisman, screaming that she’d put a curse on all of them. You should have seen them run. Cowards, the lot of them.” Sasha snorted, slapping her legs as she recalled the scene. “And the best part––the best part––was that the talisman didn’t even work. It was broken. Has been out of magic, since, well, I don’t know how long. But they didn’t know that.”

  Armand couldn’t help but laugh.

  He had only seen Dora at a distance but he could easily imagine her charging at them, yelling some hoo-doo, voodoo spell. He’d probably be scared shitless, too.

  Sasha stood, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. “You may not have been responsible for the woman’s attack, but the two of you are still linked. You have karma with her, too, and if you leave before that’s finished, I’m afraid it will end badly, for one of you.”

  He stood, as well. “Aside from taking her with me, I’m not sure what I can do for her.”

  “You’ll know,” she said, smiling mysteriously.

  A drop of rain hit Armand’s head. He looked up. Clouds were gathering quickly. He removed the cigarette pack from his pocket, lit the last one, inhaled, and handed it to Sasha. The two shared a silent smoke as the rain quickened.

  “My last one,” Sasha winked, taking her final drag.

  “Mine, too.”

  When they were done he placed Isabella’s flower inside the empty cigarette package and put it back in his shirt pocket.

  Down one of the alleys came the sound of footsteps. Dora’s large frame emerged from the darkness, wearing only a flannel nightgown and a disapproving scowl.

  “Ya shouldn't be out so late,” she said, addressing Sasha as she stormed towards them.

  “Now, sister, I’m a grown…”

  Dora halted her with a fleshy hand. “I’m not here ta lecture ya. Gather yer things. We are needed, right away.”

  Sasha’s face went white and she nodded. She gave Armand an apologetic look as Dora disappeared back into the alley.

  “We’ll see each other again.” Sasha called as she ran to catch up with Dora. “Very soon.”

  They disappeared, leaving Armand with more questions than answers.

  Six

  Armand tried to put Sasha out of his mind. He had felt close to her that night at the fountain, but he had also felt close to Isabella, and the flower in his cigarette packet was a reminder of how that turned out.

  Women were trouble. He needed a new vice.

  It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Screw Sasha and her past lives.

  Screw Isabella and their link.

  Screw his dead father. He’d gone twenty-five years without knowing much about him. He could go twenty-five more. Armand was ready to go back to L.A., where he could drink and smoke and fuck without repercussion. There was a bad scene brewing here, and he wanted no more of it.

  His only obstacle was money. He’d spent most of what he’d had. But a few nights with the right people––doing the wrong sort of things––would change all of that. He’d be sitting in first class, guzzling wine and chatting with a short skirt in no time.

  The quickest way to a fast fortune, without having to do any real work, was an old-fashioned game of cards.

  He had been to Vegas many times and had always come back with enough cash to keep him in booze and women for months. He would have bec
ome a professional gambler were it not for two things: it was too easy to win and the pit bosses kept their eyes on serial winners. This wasn’t Vegas, however, and he’d do whatever was necessary to leave this shithole.

  Like everything else that was fun, gambling was illegal here, but he’d seen card games being played in the back room of the cantina few times. So he dressed in dark jeans, a white t-shirt, his fringed buckskin vest and his cowboy hat. Then he padded the ones in his wallet between two twenties. He needed to look like a simple American, one with plenty of money but not a lot of sense.

  His landlady seemed pleased that he was getting out of his apartment again and urged him to pay a visit to the church while he was out.

  “I pray for you,” she said. “I pray for you every day.”

  Armand gave her a pat on the bottom as he took a biscuit from her tray.

  The sun was out. That was a good sign, if you were one to believe in signs. He made his way to the bar, not even glancing at the fountain. If the angels wanted to record his deeds, that was their deal, but they’d have to find him, first.

  Armand strolled into the bar and found a table near the swinging double doors that led to the private room. A sign above the door warned that it was for “Employees Only,” but Armand had seen the undesirables who frequented the room. Unless getting shitfaced was what the employees did on their lunch breaks, he knew the sign was only for show.

  “Señor, would like a brandy?” a young waiter that Armand recognized asked, setting a napkin and a small tray of cheeses onto the table. Armand’s eyes darted around the bar, searching for Isabella.

  Thankfully, she was nowhere in sight.

  “Yes,” Armand said, lifting a finger. “And that will be on the house.”

  The waiter blinked and opened his mouth to protest.

  “On the house,” he repeated.

  The man blinked again, then nodded firmly. “Sí, sí, on the house.”

  Armand concealed a smile.

  It was such a rush to win, even against the simpleton waiter. He felt like his old self again.

  When the server returned, Armand asked him, “Have you seen Isabella?”

  The waiter frowned, his mustache drooping around the corners of his mouth.

  “No, Señor.” He quickly scanned the room, then leaned in and spoke in a near whisper. “The boss say she has taken ill.”

  The waiter shrugged as he walked away, as if to say he didn’t quite believe the boss.

  Taken ill? The words made his liquor taste like mud.

  Armand slammed his fist into the table, nearly knocking over his drink. A few customers glanced his way and he gave them a friendly wave.

  I need to keep my cool, he thought. I do not need to draw any attention to myself now.

  His waiter passed by, carrying a tray through the swinging doors. Armand silently rose to his feet and followed him through. Inside the room, a trio of men played cards. Armand moved to introduce himself when the waiter stopped him.

  “Señor cannot be in this room,” the waiter explained. “It is for the workers only.”

  Armand nodded to the men. “They don’t look like workers.”

  “They are…they are my special friends.”

  Armand snapped his fingers and warmed his eyes. “They are my friends, too. And I’m going to play cards with my friends. Okay?”

  The waiter stared blankly back for a moment, then eagerly nodded. “Sí, Sí. You are playing cards with your friends.”

  Armand made his way to the card table.

  He immediately recognized the man in the center. It was the same hothead who’d smashed the stool into the bar the night he met Isabella. Armand blocked the image from his head and placed his padded wallet on the table.

  “My friends,” he said with a grin. “Have room for another?”

  The game was going well. Armand lost the first several hands, even folding when he’d held three aces while his companions held nothing better than a pair of queens between them. But if he wanted to win the big money, the money that would get him back to L.A., he’d have to be patient.

  After two hours and several more rounds of drinks––all on the house, courtesy of his young waiter friend––their wagers grew as large as their egos.

  Eventually, his patience paid off.

  “I bet it all,” said the stool-throwing man, whose name was Josef. His eyebrows knit into a single line across his forehead as he pushed his entire stack of winnings into the center of the table. “I feel lucky,” he said, bobbing his head and grinning.

  “Your wife, she is going to kill you if you lose so much,” said his friend. He thumped his chest proudly. “That’s why I don’t get married. No woman to tell me how to spend my money.”

  “That’s not the reason,” said the third man. “It’s because no woman can stand your smell.”

  They all laughed and Armand joined in.

  While they joked about wives or lack thereof, Armand scanned their thoughts. A newsreel of lackluster images played before him: work in the morning, an asshole for a boss, a church service. He tried not to linger on any of these images too long. He only needed to see their cards.

  He directed his energy on Josef, who continued to smile as though he held the best hand of his life. Sorting through his drunken brain, Armand saw that Josef held nothing but a pair of fives.

  “Who’s in?” Josef asked, his eyes gleaming and his stubby hands already reaching for the pot.

  “I do have a wife, and she will kill me if I lose so much,” said the married man, folding his hand in front of him and calling for another beer.

  The third man’s face beaded with perspiration. Armand saw that he held a natural straight but was unable to match the bet.

  “I’m out, too,” he said, tossing his cards onto the table and leaning backwards. “Josef, if you’re bluffing, I will kill you.”

  “He’s too mean to die,” said the other, laughing.

  Josef ignored them, his eyes intent on Armand. His bushy brows twitched over the top of his hand. “And you, are you out too, American?”

  Armand opened his wallet. He had exactly seven dollars left and he’d need eighty to match the bet. He cleared his throat and then peeled five, one-dollar bills from his roll. “I see your bet and call.”

  Josef’s friends shook their heads in anger. Josef rose from his seat, clenching his fists. They were drunk, but they were not fools.

  Armand broadcast his dwindling energy in a smooth arc around the table, counting silently to himself: 1…2…3…

  Josef threw a glass across the room. It smashed into the wall behind Armand. “Do you think we are stupid?”

  4…5.

  As suddenly as their anger manifested, it faded. Josef sat down again, looking dumbfounded as he stared at the bills on the table. He rubbed his eyes. They were twenties. The others nodded in agreement.

  Armand breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  “What do you have?” Armand asked.

  Josef’s forehead glistened as he laid out his hand, revealing nothing but the pair of fives Armand had already seen.

  “You bet everything on that?” his friend asked in disbelief.

  “Shut up!” Josef warned him.

  All eyes shifted to Armand. One by one, he flipped over his cards: 8, 2, 2, 4…

  Josef licked his lips, his fingers hovering above the pot. He “He’s bluffing, too.”

  Armand flicked his final card onto the table. Another 4. “I believe two pairs takes it all,” he said, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head.

  Josef’s eyes turned the color of hot coals.

  Before he had time to savor his victory, Armand was pulled from his chair and pushed through the back door leading into a dim alley. His arms were pinned behind him while a hand covered his mouth. If anyone had seen the abduction, they didn’t try to stop it.

  “Cheater!” Josef raged, kicking him hard in the stomach. The pain was so terrible Armand’s mind went momentari
ly black. He doubled over, unable to breathe. Josef lifted his head by his hair, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how, but I know you cheat, American.”

  Armand tried to protest, but every time he tried to speak, a fist would smash against his jaw. There was no reasoning with them. Their thoughts were all red.

  They are going to kill me.

  Blood dripped from Armand’s lips and his cheeks swelled.

  “No one takes from me!” Josef kicked Armand to the ground.

  Armand lifted his head from the ground, wiping the dirt from his bloodied lips. Josef stared down the alley, his attention no longer on Armand; he was recalling another incident that happened in that very alley.

  Armand saw it all, how they’d cornered Isabella after work, made lewd suggestions as she tried to get away. She had turned them all down in the past, yet there she was, disappearing into a foreigner’s apartment and not reappearing for days. If she wasn’t going to give it to them, they would take it.

  Armand felt a sharp pain in the back of his head as he watched Isabella being thrown against the stone wall, her skirt being ripped from her body…

  “You filthy sons of bitches!” Armand sprang to his feet, his eyes becoming slits. He turned his anger on Josef’s companions, pushing them back with the energy produced by his anger. Then he turned on Josef himself.

  “You’re a dog,” he said, advancing on the man. “And I’ll make you beg like one.”

  Josef swung at Armand’s face. Armand saw the punch coming. Without understanding how he’d done it, Armand momentarily froze time and sidestepped the swing.

  “How…?” Josef asked, then swung again.

  Armand shut his eyes and imagined that his body was made of iron. He barely felt Josef’s fist connect with his jaw.

  Armand opened his eyes to see his assailant screaming as he held his bloodied and broken hand against his chest.

  “Diablo!” Josef yelled, looking at his disfigured hand as he backed against the wall.

  Armand raised his arms, ready to unleash his full fury. He had no idea what would happen, and he didn’t care. The tips of his fingers glowed blood red.