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

by Deanna Chase

  A sound like rolling thunder echoed through the alley. Everyone held motionless, turning towards the sounds of the reverberating roar. A black horse charged down the narrow road, its blazing eyes wide as it raced straight for them.

  “Devil horse!” Josef cried out.

  The ground trembled with the stallion’s pounding hooves.

  Josef and his friends ran in the opposite direction.

  Armand tried to run, too, but his legs refused to move. His heart beat so fiercely he thought his chest would explode. As the horse barreled down upon him, Armand covered his face with his arms and braced himself.

  The black horse halted with an unexpected abruptness, so close Armand that could smell its rotted breath. There was now a rider on the beast, a cloaked figure as dark as his steed. The form reached inside the folds of his cape, producing a glimmering object.

  A set of silver scales.

  “Who are you?” Armand demanded.

  The rider pulled back his cape, revealing a fleshless skull with wide, empty sockets where his eyes should have been. Two ember lights burned deeper within.

  He laughed and the air grew as cold as a mid-winter’s night.

  The rider drew out another object––Isabella’s pink flower. The flower turned black and crumbled apart, sifting through his bony fingers and fluttering to the ground. He pointed a long skeletal finger at Armand.

  “You!”

  The horse reared up on its hind legs, then raced away, trumpeting down the alleyway only to vanish as it reached the light.

  Armand clutched his chest and slumped down against the wall, trying to find his breath. The coldness fell away. He was covered in his own sweat.

  He had no explanation for what had happened––how he was able to do those things, or the nature of the cloaked rider or what his presence meant.

  He wanted to dismiss it all, but the pain in his ribs and the crumbled black petals that dotted the ground proved he hadn’t imagined any of it.

  His mother was right. There were bad things in the world.

  And for some reason, those bad things were interested in him.

  Seven

  Armand straggled back into the bar, his legs hardly obeying him.

  He was not afraid that he would meet up with his attackers. He had seen a ghost rider. He wasn’t afraid of anything made of flesh and blood. He was terrified, however, of being stuck in Santo Aldea forever and he meant to get his money.

  Limping through the swinging doors, he scooped up his winnings, folding the bills into his wallet and collecting the change into his pockets.

  He wiped the blood from his face and hands on a bar towel, then left a few American dollars on the table for the waiter. He limped his way back into the main room and found a seat near the end of the bar. He listened, but didn’t hear one word about a skeletal rider on the loose.

  Armand ordered a brandy and swallowed it in one swig. A few more of these and he’d forget about the day completely.

  A red-haired woman in an equally red dress eyed him from behind a colorful fan. After several minutes of observation, she approached him, her hips bouncing as she strolled across the floor.

  “My name is Margaret.” She folded her fan and settled her ample bottom onto the stool beside him. She gingerly touched his swollen lips, pulling back her finger to reveal a trickle of blood. “Looks like you need someone to kiss this better.”

  She wasn’t a local. From her voice he guessed she might be American, too. He was glad; he’d had enough of Spaniards for the time being. He allowed himself to be attended to, wincing as her lips met the bruises on his face.

  “Want to have some fun?” she whispered.

  He appraised her. Her features were long and drawn but her aura was strong. She’d cost him, and by the looks of that dress, she wasn’t cheap.

  But he had money and he was leaving soon…

  He took a drink.

  … and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone. Not with all the bad things running around.

  He reached into one of his pants pockets and handed her a handful of pesetas.

  She looked at the offering, grimaced, and shook her head. “American dollars. Cash only.”

  Reluctantly, he pulled out his wallet and peeled off a twenty.

  “Honey,” she said, taking the bill and stuffing it into the crest between her breasts. “When I’m done with you, you’ll think that’s the best money you’ve spent all year.”

  “Better be. That may have cost me first class.”

  Armand burned with fever. He wiped his forehead to prevent the sweat from dripping down the sides of his face.

  They were several hours into a strenuous but enjoyable session, when he began to feel ill.

  “What’s wrong?” Margaret straddled him, her breasts pulled out over the top of her bra. “A few bumps and bruises tire you out?” She stuck her bottom lip out, like she was truly disappointed.

  He couldn’t bring himself to take much from her.

  Her aura was the same grayish-green it had been since they entered his apartment, only now its color and texture no longer stirred him with excitement. Instead, it reminded him of stagnant pond water.

  “And here I hoped I’d have a challenge,” she said, her eyes amused. She tucked her breasts back into her bra and searched for her red dress.

  “You’ve been in your profession too long.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” She regarded him with a lascivious smile. “It means I know things.”

  He pushed her off of him, rolling onto his side. “You’re filthy. Your aura is the color of mud.”

  Margaret’s eyes flashed with anger. “I keep myself clean.” She stood, not bothering to cover her nearly naked body, her hair was a wild, red mess. “And if you tell anyone I’m dirty, I’ll slit your throat.”

  She put on one heeled shoe and searched for the other.

  “You’re angry because you cannot make that thing work again.” She pointed at his wilted manhood. “All men say horrible things to women when it is them to blame.”

  In one swift motion Armand sprang from the bed, grabbing both her hands in his. He clenched his fingers around her thin wrists as she squirmed.

  “Let me go! You bastard, let me go!”

  He pulled her back onto the bed.

  “More money,” she demanded as he fell on top of her.

  “You’re already getting more than you deserve.” Armand pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, using his free hand to trace the line from the hollow of her neck to her bra.

  “I’m not kidding,” she hissed. “If you want the rough stuff, it will cost you extra.”

  He pushed her legs open with his knees. He grew sicker by the minute, but he wasn’t about to let her think she had gotten the best of him.

  As she fought, Armand hardened again. He had power over her, and not just physically. She wanted to be taken, he could read it in her thoughts. He could do whatever he wanted to her, and not be charged a dollar more.

  “You want this, don’t you?” he asked, pressing his lips against hers.

  She twisted her neck from side to side. “I… I…”

  He reached beneath her bra, grasping a firm breast in his hand. She did have great breasts. “Tell me you want this.”

  “I don’t know,” she gasped, arching her back.

  Armand grabbed her face in his hand. “Tell me that it’s my money and I can do whatever I want with you.”

  She moaned but did not reply.

  He flattened his body onto hers. “Count to ten,” he said, his fingers still holding her chin. “And when you get to ten, I have a special surprise for you. Count… now!”

  “One. Two. Three.”

  “Slower.”

  “Yes. One… two… three… four…”

  He could hear her heart beating in her chest and see the possibilities race through her mind. Her breathing deepened, her body went limp. “…five…six…”

  He bit at her neck. She
smelled like bourbon and cigarettes. “You want this, don’t you?”

  “Yes. No.” She kicked with her ankles and he maneuvered his legs to pin her down.

  “Tell me you want this, or you’ll never find out what happens when you get to ten.”

  Her lashes fluttered involuntarily. “I want this.”

  Armand had taken only a sampling of her vitality earlier; he would take more now. As he breathed it in, the sick feeling in his stomach deepened to the point of nausea. He swallowed to keep from retching, then crawled off her in disgust.

  “Why are you stopping?” She sat up, now covering her nakedness with her hands.

  “Leave,” he ordered, running his hands through his matted hair.

  “But…”

  He went to his bureau and retrieved his wallet. He pulled out five more dollars and threw them at her, the bile rising to his throat. “Leave! Now!”

  She gathered the money and pulled on her dress. With one shoe on and the other in her hand, she stumbled out the door.

  Armand felt no pity as her dissimilar footsteps pounded down the hallway. It was her aura that had made him sick, and she’d been paid plenty for her troubles.

  He pushed his fingers into his temples and sat on the bed. Her stink was all over the sheets so he stripped them off, then flopped down on the bare mattress.

  Why had he reacted that way? She wasn’t the first prostitute he’d taken to bed.

  Isabella’s face flickered before him. He let it sit there a moment before pushing it away. Another image came forward: Sasha sitting at the fountain.

  Call me Goddess.

  He lay still, letting the memory linger.

  The sickness in his stomach slowly faded away.

  Eight

  Armand took four sleeping pills––two to knock him out, and two more to make sure he stayed that way. He washed them down with the cold black coffee his landlady had dropped off.

  When she’d seen his bare bed, she collected his sheets from the floor and took them to the laundry room, returning with a new set that smelled like vanilla and honey. She made his bed, all the while mumbling to herself, her words vacillating between compassion and disgust at the way he lived his life.

  Just like mom.

  The image of his mother chasing him around the playground was the last thing he remembered as his eyes melded shut.

  It was a dreamless sleep, just the way he liked it, but it was abruptly interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

  A female’s voice called for him.

  He sat up, the panic rising in his chest as he searched for his clothes. In his groggy state, he couldn’t make out who the voice belonged to. Had Isabella come with her father to finally pay him back? Or maybe Margaret had returned with her pimp to rough him up?

  He reached for his watch on the nightstand. 9:45.

  If it was the morning, he’d been asleep nearly twelve hours.

  He heard the footsteps walk away from his door. His visitor had left. He should leave, too, but where would he go?

  There was a rustling noise at his window, behind the closed curtains. There was a crude fire escape outside. Perhaps whoever had been pounding on his door was now trying to find another way in.

  He sat motionless, not even daring to breathe.

  The curtains fluttered slightly and a sudden, deathly coldness filled the room. The world around him grew hazy and tilted, as if he were looking at it through a distorted lens. He heard the window squeak, followed by creaking footsteps on the floorboards.

  Someone was in the room with him.

  Armand shifted his eyes from the window to the door. He could make a break for it; he wondered if he possessed the willpower to make his legs move.

  The temperature in the room continued to drop.

  Armand exhaled slowly, silently watching his breath curl around him.

  His eyes begrudgingly turned back to the window.

  A shape emerged. It rose from the floor, forming itself into the physique of a man, only taller and devoid of any light, with arms that nearly dragged the ground. Two red dots flickered from its head, watching him.

  The creature lowered itself into Armand’s chair, tapping its sinuous fingers against the armrest.

  Armand vaulted from his bed, almost tripping over his blankets as he flew towards the door. Whoever was out there in the hall was surely better than what was in here.

  He opened the door, shielding his eyes from the heavy light.

  The sound of footsteps returned, echoing the sound of his rushing heartbeat. Armand took a quick look at the chair. The creature’s mouth stretched itself into the curve of a smile. The apparition then vaporized, leaving nothing behind.

  Firm hands planted themselves on his shoulders, spinning him around. “Are ya okay?”

  Armand stood frozen, unable to answer. Dora pushed him aside and entered the room.

  Sasha followed, raising her hands. “I can still feel its chill.”

  Armand pointed to the now empty chair. “It was there.”

  Dora opened a book. “Stand back,” she said, moving in the vicinity of the window. “We know what haunts ya.”

  Nine

  “Don’t argue with me. Drink it!”

  Dora stood over Armand like a drill sergeant, her hawk eyes scrutinizing him as he drank the tea.

  It had a bitter taste he found hard to choke down but he wasn’t about to argue it anymore. Though hardly five feet tall, Dora was an imposing woman and Armand knew he wasn’t leaving the table until he’d finished it.

  Sitting beside him, Sasha coolly sipped her own tea.

  “Is your head clear yet?” she asked, adding a sugar cube to her cup.

  “Clear enough.”

  To be honest, his head had cleared the moment he saw that thing sitting in his room. If he had tried to dismiss the skeletal rider as a drunken illusion, he had no doubt that what smiled at him in his apartment had been real.

  Its appearance had sobered him up like no amount of coffee could.

  He hadn’t even needed to explain to the women.

  They’d barged in, waving a foul-smelling incense through the room while reciting Latin, dousing the chair in sprinklets of water. After several minutes, they announced the room clean and escorted Armand out of his apartment and over to theirs. He had been sitting in their kitchen for nearly three hours now, feeling humiliated at having run from a ghost, and worse, having the two women know it.

  “I’m done,” Armand pushed his empty cup back to Dora who immediately refilled it. He shook his head and slammed his palms on the table. “No. I mean I’m done with all of this.”

  “Ya’ll drink till I tell ya to stop. And then ya’ll drink some more.” She was a broad woman, built like a football player, and Armand wasn’t sure that he could break past her, even on his best day.

  He stared into the newly refilled cup, the bitter scent curling his nose.

  Dora crossed her arms and he resigned himself to another helping of the foul concoction.

  Sasha leaned forward and whispered. “It doesn’t taste very good, but you should drink as much as you can. Dora specializes in herb-crafting. You’ll feel good as new in no time.”

  Armand watched the steam rise up from the cup.

  “To tell you the truth,” he whispered back, “I’m not sure I remember what new feels like.”

  Sasha smiled while Dora continued her stare down.

  “I sense your visitor is gone for now,” Sasha said, in a voice now loud enough for Dora to hear. “But I think you should stay here for the night. Whatever portal it passed through may still be open until the spell takes full effect. In your current state, you’d be an easy vessel.”

  Armand put his cup down and rubbed at a spot between his eyebrows. “My current state happens to be my only state, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Then you’re lucky they haven’t gotten to you sooner.”

  Dora harrumphed and shook her head. Her mousey gray-brown curls didn�
��t move. “I fail ta see what is so special about him. He’s average, at best. I’ve seen carnival workers with more talent than he has.” She looked him up and down, unimpressed by her appraisal. “A common charlatan.”

  Sasha leisurely stretched her arms, as if she had conversations like this every day. “Don’t be so hasty to judge, Dora. He may not look like much, but he does have abilities.”

  Dora eyed him again, her nostrils flaring. “Abilities. We all have abilities.” She smiled, her eyes mocking him. “Prove me wrong. Show us what sort o’ abilities ya have.”

  The women kept their eyes fixed on him.

  He knew he didn’t need to prove himself, especially to a couple of chicks with more than a few marbles loose. But he did want to wipe that smirk from Dora’s face. To pull that off, he’d need to do something more impressive than predicting that a light would go off. He rolled his shoulders back and went to the kitchen window.

  He shaped his energy into a long heavy arc that spread out from the window to the street outside.

  Like puzzle pieces, the immediate future fell into place in his mind. He beckoned for the others to join him.

  “Do you see that little girl out there? In a few seconds she’ll trip and fall. Then she’ll cry and some bigger kid will help her up.”

  Just as he envisioned, the little girl tripped and fell, hitting her lip on a sharp stone. When she wiped her mouth and saw the blood she cried out.

  An older boy emerged from one of the more run-down apartments and scooped her up, carrying her inside.

  Dora took another glance out the window then returned to the table.

  “See?” Sasha placed her hands on Dora’s shoulders. “He is gifted.”

  “Humph. If he were really that great he would have stopped it from happening in the first place.”

  Dora brewed more tea while Sasha paced and Armand took his seat at the table, biting into one of the hard biscuits Dora had baked up earlier. It was as tasteless as cardboard but with every bite he could feel a bit of his energy restored.

  “The good news is that I sense your apparition was only there to scare you,” Sasha said, wringing her hands.