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

by Deanna Chase

  Claude jumped in. “We are asking you.”

  The artist slumped his shoulders. “Fine. That girl's a train wreck, always getting herself into trouble with that temper of hers. One time she was escorted off a plane for throwing her cell phone at a stewardess. I guess it pissed her off when the woman asked her to turn it off before take-off.

  “Another time, she was arrested for assault when she punched some girl at a club. I’m sure there’s more, but I don’t keep up with celebrity gossip.”

  “So she's a celebrity?” Jon-Luc asked.

  “Used to be. She doesn’t work much anymore, I guess.”

  “Are you two close?” Claude asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that, just neighbors.”

  “You said you don’t keep up on celebrity gossip, but then how do you know about the trouble she’s been in?" Jon-Luc asked.

  “People talk. I run into neighbors in the elevator, or getting my mail, and they fill me in on what goes on in this building whether I want them to or not.”

  “I see. Are you privy to who goes in and out of her apartment?” Claude asked.

  “Privy?” The man laughed. “I’ve got better things to do than stand at the peephole in my door and watch her apartment, but I do know that girl really likes to party. She’s woken me up on more than one occasion dragging some guy home for the night, drunk and making a lot of racket.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” Jon-Luc asked.

  “I wouldn’t know, but if I had to guess I’d say no.”

  “And why do you say that?” Claude asked.

  “I’ve never seen her with the same man twice. She’s even come on to me and I’m twice her age. That girl's not picky. In my opinion, women like that are insecure, which really blows my mind. I mean, she's absolutely gorgeous.”

  Jon-Luc raised one brow and asked, “Did you take her up on it?”

  “Did I what?” The guy stared at him, then it was like a light bulb went off in his head. “Oh, hell no.”

  “Why not?” Claude asked. “You said yourself she was gorgeous.”

  “Huh, uh, no way. I like my life the way it is, quiet and drama-free.”

  “Have you seen any strangers hanging around, maybe in front of the building? Someone who looked like they might be casing the joint?” Jon-Luc asked.

  James shook his head. “I don’t get out much when I have a deadline. Pretty much hole-up until I’m done. Why?”

  “Claira may be in danger.”

  The guy uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. “Shit, you mean that sick fuck who killed those other models? You think he’s after her?”

  “Maybe.” Claude pulled out a card and handed it to the guy. “Would you keep an eye out for anyone hanging around who may look suspicious?”

  The guy jumped off his stool and reached for the card. Jon-Luc watched as it disappeared into his front pants pocket. The boredom had left his face, replace by a serious expression. “Yeah, man, sure.” He walked them out.

  Jon-Luc went straight for the door across the hall and knocked again.

  “You know, she doesn’t usually show up until after dark.” James informed them.

  Jon-Luc turned back to the guy, “Thanks, good to know.”

  The door closed and they looked at each other.

  “What do you want to do now?” Claude asked.

  “Better put out a BOLO on her.” Jon-Luc answered.

  "Okay, I'll call in a be-on-the-lookout for Claira Raines, Claude said.

  10

  Angie’s mind reeled, she couldn’t focus on the task at hand. She sat at the sewing machine, ready to mend the hem on the dress Claira had abandoned on the floor. The image of Jon-Luc’s face haunted her thoughts. He truly didn’t seem to know what he’d been doing.

  He’d looked to be in a trance. His open eyes had stared straight ahead, while beads of sweat broke out along his brow. The more she’d tried to free her hand, the tighter he’d gripped it. She couldn’t imagine what was taking place in his head, but if she hadn’t screamed, he would have broken her fingers. Angie glanced down and noticed she was rubbing her hand absently.

  When he’d finally focused on her, the mask had dropped away, replaced with genuine surprise. He couldn’t apologize enough. Then he was gone before she could get an explanation.

  “Angela, are you all right?” Madame Beauchamp pulled up a chair next to her.

  “I don’t know. While you were out, we had a visit from an Inspector and his associate. They wanted to question Claira and I about Genevieve Lamont. She’s been murdered.”

  Madame gasped. “This is bad, very very bad. Angela, I am worried for you.” The woman placed her manicured hand on Angie’s arm. The deep red polish shimmered. “You know I have grown very fond of you, more like a daughter than an employee. I think you should come live at the chateau. You are not safe with this madman on the loose.”

  Angie’s body pivoted toward her mentor. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. Besides, the killer seems to be after models. I’m sure I’m safe.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Who is to say it is not the entire fashion industry that he loathes? I would feel much better if I knew you weren’t walking around this city at night by yourself.”

  Angie remembered the incident the night before. That feeling of being watched and a chill ran up her spine. “I don’t know-”

  Madame patted her knee. “Well, I do. I can’t afford to lose you; you have become invaluable to me. After all, who could I get to replace you this close to the show?” Madame laughed and stood. “I will send a car for you tonight and you will gather your belongings from that lousy hotel you’ve been calling home.”

  “It’s really kind of you to offer, but I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? Michael and Demetrius live on the grounds. They are strong men who will surely protect us.”

  It was time for Angie to laugh. Both men were big guys around six-foot-five or taller and very loyal to Madame. Anyone would have to be crazy to cross them.

  “I have a guest cottage on the property. It is small, but safe. You will be driven into the city every morning by Demetrius, my driver. These next few days are critical and we will be working around the clock. I can not afford to have sleepless nights worrying about you riding the metro alone. You will make an old woman happy, oui?”

  Angie smiled. “Oui, Madame, merci.”

  “Good, supper will be served promptly at nine. Please be there.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Angela, I think it is time you called me Lissette.”

  Once she left, Angie shook her head. "Old woman. Please." Madame was in her early fifties, but looked ten years younger. She was a stunning woman who had been a model in her youth. Her brunette hair hung in a long bob just below her shoulders, she had large light brown eyes and pronounced cheekbones. Married at the height of her fame to a wealthy older man, she had chosen to leave modeling.

  Although not blessed with children, she said she’d never regretted giving up her career to be with him. Modeling had been fun and it paid for university, but designing was her true calling. It wasn’t until after her husband’s untimely death a few years earlier that Lissette Beauchamp started House de Beauchamp and once again made a name for herself in the world of fashion.

  It was half past eleven that night by the time Angie arrived at the cottage that would be her home for the unforeseeable future. Dinner had been sumptuous: fancy wine, roast beef, new potatoes, and asparagus in Béarnaise sauce. Angie had to pass on dessert; she was just too full. She didn’t remember the last time she’d eaten so well. Most of the conversation centered on the upcoming show.

  She used the key Lissette had given her, then walked into the cottage through the back door and flicked on the light. She found herself in a tiny kitchen, a table with two chairs sat to her left, a bouquet of flowers in the center. The kitchen sink was to her right facing front with a window that overlooked a rose garden. The stove was next to it, then a refrigerator. It all came round in a half-circ
le.

  The main room had a hearth with a bundle of wood stacked inside, ready to be lit. One chair and a love seat sat opposite. On the far wall, a staircase led to the second floor. The place was perfect, simply perfect. Warm and charming, she already knew she never wanted to leave.

  She snatched up her bags the driver had left by the door and headed upstairs. There were two bedrooms. The first was currently used for storage, a sort of catch-all space. So Angie carried on down the hall and flipped the switch in the other bedroom.

  It was amazing. As if someone had peeked into her dreams and decorated the room just for her. It was designed in turquoise and black Art Deco. An antique light sat on a small round table next to a chaise by the window. The base was a nude woman in bronze, leaning back and holding a large ball in her out-stretched hands. She clicked on the lamp and the ball lit up.

  Angie decided it would be the perfect place to sketch her designs. Often she woke in the middle of the night with an idea and had to get it down on paper before it disappeared from her thoughts. In fact, she never knew when an idea would hit her, which was why she carried her sketch pad with her everywhere she went.

  All the furniture in the room was black lacquer, the fabric turquoise satin. Giant calla lily sconces hung on either side of the bed. Angie sat down on the edge and bounced. No lumps here. She made her way into the bathroom and spied the claw-foot tub with the giant shower head. She grinned. No more cold showers. No more sharing a bathroom. “Damn, I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Angie dropped her toiletry bag on the counter and headed back into the bedroom where she threw her suitcase on the bed. A fireplace stood in the corner, and it too was ready to light. Angie struck one of the long matchsticks and lit the kindling. Not because it was especially cold in the room, but because she could. She watched as a spiral of smoke twirled up.

  She made her way over to the window and found herself gazing out at Madame’s beautiful gardens. She thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She jerked her head in the direction of the gazebo. After awhile, when nothing moved, she decided it was probably just an animal of some sort and closed the drapes. She ignored the goose bumps that had enveloped her arms.

  While lying on her back, Angie watched the shadows of trees dance across the ceiling. Although exhausted, sleep kept just out of reach. As she'd prepared for bed, she'd turned on the television to listen to the news. Genevieve Lamont was all anyone was talking about. Her ravaged body had been found along the Seine. The words serial killer were being tossed about casually like an everyday occurrence. Angie was grateful for her new surroundings more than ever. Here she felt safe.

  So why couldn’t she sleep?

  11

  Jon-Luc glanced down at his watch. It was just after two in the morning. “Where the hell is she? If she were truly torn up about her friend, you’d think she would be home crying her eyes out.”

  “I have never been one to pretend to know the mind of a woman,” Claude answered. “Perhaps she stopped at a friend’s house?”

  "I find it hard to believe that we haven't had any reports from the BOLO you put out. If you put out a be-on-the-lookout request on a six foot, seriously gorgeous blonde with ass-length hair in the States, every policeman from sea to shining sea would drop everything just to get a look at her."

  Jon-Luc was staring at Claude when all of a sudden he was transported to a noisy nightclub. Claira Raines was sitting at the bar downing shots. She sat alone. Seeing only through the killer's eyes, Jon-Luc watched as he stepped up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. She jerked around as if ready to do battle, then her expression relaxed.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Claira said to the man she obviously knew well. She waved her hand in front of her face as if she'd smelled something offensive.

  “Thought I’d grab a beer after a long day. What about you? You look as if you’ve been here awhile.”

  Claira turned back toward the bar. “Yeah, but no amount of alcohol will deaden the pain.”

  The man sat on the vacant stool next to her. “What’s wrong?”

  Her laugh held no mirth. “Someone is killing my friends. For all I know, I could be next.”

  The man placed his hand on her arm. “Maybe I should see you home.”

  “Hmm, that’s a nice thought.” Her words were slurred. “Promise to tuck me in?”

  He chuckled. “That could be arranged.”

  Her brows rose. "Really?"

  "Really." He stroked her arm slowly.

  "Why? I mean, I've been trying to seduce you since the day we met. Why now?"

  "It looks like you could really use a friend right now." The man pulled her hair back over her shoulder and ran his fingers through it.

  Claira closed her eyes. "Mmm, that feels nice. But you'd better be careful. Being my friend could have deadly conscious-" She giggled. "I mean consequences." She over-pronounced each syllable as if concentrating really hard.

  "I'll take my chances. Ready to get out of here?" The man stood.

  “Hell, yes.” She slid off the stool, staggered and started to fall, but he caught her. “Oops.” She erupted into a fit of giggles.

  “Wow, you’re strong,” she said as she gazed up at him with glassy eyes.

  She only made it a couple steps before she lost her footing. The man quickly snatched her around the waist, pulling her tight into his side.

  "Here, lean on me."

  Her hand flew to his chest, where she started caressing him. “Mmm, rock hard. You must work out.”

  The man steered her through the crowd toward the exit.

  “Why are you covering that wonderful hair of yours?” She reached up and tried to knock his hat off, but he grabbed her hand before she succeeded. “That’s okay, I’ll have it and the rest of your clothes off soon enough,” she said before she licked her lips.

  Once out the door of the club, he coaxed her down the hill away from the crowd. The noise and laughter faded into the night. The silence surrounding them was welcome. The only sound heard now were her five-inch heels clomping along the sidewalk at an unsteady gait. When they reached the bottom, he guided her across the street and turned left.

  “Hey, where are we going? I live the other way.” She tried looking over her shoulder.

  “I thought it would be romantic to make love to you by the Seine.”

  “Ooh, still waters run deep and all that rot.” A snicker turned into a hiccup. “I like that.”

  They arrived at the top of the stairs and Claira glanced down, blinked a couple of times, then leaned her head back and focused on the man. “Whoa, I don’t think so.”

  “Not to worry.” He bent down and picked her up in his arms.

  “Wheee!” she squealed. He glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention. No one was. Just another pair of lovers in Paris. They were half-way down the stairs when she let go of his neck and pointed. “My shoe!”

  He turned his head back. “Shit.” Then looked at her. “I’ll go back and get it.”

  Claira kicked off the other one. “Whoopsee!”

  “Cut that out,” he growled.

  “Oh, now I’ve made you cross.” She pursed her lips into an exaggerated pout.

  He hurried down the rest of the steps and set her on her feet. Her body swayed. “Hold onto this railing and don’t move.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” She tried to curtsy and almost fell.

  “Quit screwing around. Do you want me to retrieve your shoes or not?”

  “Fine. Shoes. Then we have fun.” Claira giggled.

  The man ran up the stairs, snagged her shoes, and ran back down. He dropped them by her feet.

  She reached out with both hands and fell against him. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He enveloped them with one hand and stayed their progress.

  “You first.” He lifted the hem of her blouse and she raised her arms to help. In no time at all, the woman before him was naked.

  Her hea
d lolled back and her eyes closed.

  He patted her cheek. “Wake up.”

  “I’m sleepy,” she whined.

  “No sleep for the wicked.” He spun her around to face the wall and her hands splayed against it.

  “I think I’m going to be-” Claira doubled over and vomited on the ground. The man caught her around the waist before she landed right in it.

  He pulled a switchblade from his pocket. “God, you make me sick.” His voice oozed contempt.

  “Hey, I couldn’t help-” a gurgling sound interrupted her sentence as he drew the knife across her throat. Blood sprayed the wall in front of them. He dragged her body backward a few feet, then let her fall. “Stupid cunt.”

  A phone rang from far away. Jon-Luc surfaced and glanced around. He was in bed back at the hotel, but didn't remember how he'd gotten that way. The muffled ringing continued. He lay atop the covers fully dressed. The digital clock on the bedside table read 7:23. Realization finally took hold and he fished the phone from his pocket.

  “Yeah, Boudreaux here.”

  “Luc, it is Claude. We found Claira.”

  The image of her body bleeding out at his feet filled his head, her sightless eyes stared up at him. “She’s dead.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Oui. I am sorry to disturb your sleep, my friend. Would you mind coming to the scene with me?” Claude asked.

  Jon-Luc glanced down at his wrinkled clothes. “Sure, how much time do I have?”

  “I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait for you out front.” Jon-Luc shut off his phone and tossed it on the nightstand while he slid off the bed. As he removed his jacket, he noticed his shirt stuck to his sweat-drenched body. His head pounded as if he had a hangover. He wished he could talk to someone about these new developments. He felt as if his body was no longer his own. Once naked, he ambled into the bathroom and turned the shower to hot while he relieved himself.

  Twelve minutes later, in fresh clothes and wet hair, Jon-Luc emerged through the double doors of the hotel in time to watch Claude pull up.