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

by Deanna Chase

  Jon-Luc crossed his arms across his chest and put his boots up on the table in front of him, then looked over at Claude. “I talked to Lissette Beauchamp at length about her two male employees before I left. Evidently, she and her husband were big on taking in strays—my observation, not hers. I doubt either man came with references. Lissette’s husband helped Demetrius out of a, and I quote, ‘very bad situation’ back in Greece. He hired him and got him a work visa here in France.

  “She says he’s proven to be a very competent and loyal employee. She never felt the need for a bodyguard, but if it put her husband’s mind at ease, it was fine with her. Now that her husband's gone, it gives her comfort having a protective man like him around.”

  Claude opened a folder and began to skim the page before he spoke. “I ran a background check on Demetrius Markos. He is thirty-five years old. Born and raised in Greece. Grew up poor. Had a few B & E’s in his youth, then later a drug bust that made it into the newspapers. After the arrest, his seventeen year old sister was murdered by what they were calling a drive-by. No arrests made, but it was rumored that the Velentzas crime family was involved. After that, or because of it, Markos pled guilty to the charges, did five years, then disappeared when he got out.”

  “I’d say Lissette’s right. Being involved with the Velentzas Crime family would be a very bad situation. It also explains his dislike of cops.”

  “What did you find out about this Michael D’Arcy?” Claude asked before he drank some coffee.

  “He’s a good boy. Her words, not mine. Shy. Orphaned at the ripe old age of nineteen. Claims he came to France to find his roots. No siblings. Grew up in the States. She doesn’t know where. Claims to have moved around a lot, maybe he’s an Army brat. Hard worker.

  “Handsome enough to be a model, but not interested. She even went so far as to set up an interview with a friend of hers from her old modeling agency, but he didn’t show. The kid’s obviously not interested in making money. He’s worked and lived on the grounds for a little over a year. Does whatever he’s asked. No task too small. Suffice it to say, she doesn’t see him carving up bunnies, or killing models either.”

  Claude opened another folder lying on the table in front of him. Jon-Luc took his boots off the table and leaned forward. “Don’t get too excited. Before he landed here, the guy was a spirit,” Claude informed him.

  “You mean a ghost?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “Fine, have it your way. Did you have a professional do the background check, or did you try to do it yourself?”

  “And what is wrong with my angry computer skills?” Claude tried his best to look indignant, but Jon-Luc wasn’t buying it.

  Jon-Luc raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’ve acquired mad computer skills when I wasn’t looking?"

  “Okay, fine. When I came up with nothing, I had a guy in the department look into it. But when he came up empty, I knew there was something smelly going on.”

  “You mean fishy?”

  Claude’s brows knitted. “Is there a difference?”

  “I guess not, go on.”

  “The name Michael D’Arcy is a common enough name, but he couldn’t find anyone who matched his description in his early twenties.”

  When Jon-Luc got back to the hotel, he took a hot shower, then fell into bed. He lay on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking. Both Beauchamp employees were hiding something, but of course that didn’t mean either one was the UNSUB.

  Claude had dug up the names of the models that hung out with Genevieve Lamont and Claira Raines. They had to assume the close-knit group was either in on the Melody Waterston prank or at least privy to it. They planned on interviewing them tomorrow.

  His mind conjured up Angie, the still shots flashed through his head like a slide show and he wondered how she was doing. He glanced at the clock by the bed. It was after midnight. No, she wouldn’t appreciate hearing from him right now. He dozed off with her image in his head.

  He was standing in the shadows outside an apartment building. The window he’d been watching went dark. A moment later, a woman emerged from the front door and walked briskly down the street. He followed from a safe distance on the other side of the street. Without warning, the woman turned around and surveyed the area behind her. He jumped back into the shadows and stood still, holding his breath. His heartbeat kicked up a notch. A moment later, she continued on.

  The neighborhood was quiet and dimly lit. A couple walking hand in hand passed him from the opposite direction, and he kept his head down, eyes on the ground. He glanced up in time to see the woman strut under a streetlight.

  She had a riot of red curls cascading around her shoulders and down her back. Her glittery black dress hugged her body like a glove, barely covering her ass. Large hoop earrings swayed with the rhythm of her steps, and a small clutch purse rested in her hand.

  Her stride held confidence and purpose as she headed toward the brightly lit street ahead. If he didn’t know better, he’d have mistaken her for a hooker. To his way of thinking, she was lower than that. Just then, he realized he couldn’t let her make it off this block. There was too much light, too many witnesses ahead.

  With stealth, he rushed across the street and landed a few feet behind her. She turned around so quickly, he almost ran into her.

  At first she was startled, but her face instantly relaxed. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  Without thinking, he grabbed her; one hand around her waist, the other across her mouth. She struggled against him, his dick grew hard. While dragging her toward the dark alley, her teeth sank into the fleshy part of his hand. He yelped and eased his grip. She wiggled free. Panicked, he grabbed a hank of her hair and yanked her back against his body. He whispered into her ear. “You scream or struggle and I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Her body went limp and he dragged her into the empty chasm. Let her think he intended to rape her. The dark embraced him and he let her drop. He removed his blade and slit the dress from neckline to hem.

  The tight elastic material quickly snapped to her sides, revealing naked flesh. He sneered. “It figures. How can you dress like this and not expect men to go after the goods?”

  A cry escaped her lips. He shoved the knife up under her chin drawing blood. Her eyes rounded like saucers, her mouth became a grim line.

  The fear in her eyes egged him on. He thought of all the things he’d like to do to her.

  For Melody.

  His sweet, beautiful Melody.

  He decided her death would not be swift.

  17

  Jon-Luc awoke to a faint tingling sound. He squinted. Sun streaked through the open drapes of his hotel room. Reluctantly he glanced at the clock. Half-past seven. He shook his head. As the haze began to lift, he realized the muffled sound came from his cell phone. He jumped out of bed, made his way to the chair and started rifling through the pockets of his discarded clothes. By the time he'd found his phone, the ringing had stopped. He pressed send and before long Claude answered.

  “Luc?”

  “There’s been another murder.” Jon-Luc sat down on the edge of the bed hunched over.

  “Wow, you must be psychic,” Claude said, sarcastically.

  Jon-Luc sighed. “Right. I think I’ve heard that joke before.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “I’ll be at the hotel in about. . .seven minutes. Can you be ready?”

  “Sure. See ya then.”

  Claude’s car stood idling in front of the hotel when Jon-Luc came through the double doors. The moment he slid into the seat, Claude handed him a coffee.

  “Thanks.” Jon-Luc took the coffee. “Do you know anything yet?”

  “The victim had a purse nearby, ID inside says her name is Lexine Wilson.”

  “Is she by any chance on the list of girls we're going to interview today?” Jon-Luc sipped his coffee while he waited for the answer.

  “Yes, and before you ask, I’ve already sent
cars around to the other girls’ residences for protection.”

  “Good. If I were you, I’d insert a guy in the actual dwelling. We can’t take any chances.”

  “Right.” Claude placed a call and relayed the information.

  Once he’d put his phone away, he turned to Jon-Luc. “This killer is taking a life a day. What do you make of this?”

  “He has a task he needs to complete before he’s stopped. Do you have any idea what this girl looks like? Does she by any chance have red hair?”

  “I had her passport picture sent to my phone, she’s Scottish.” He pulled it up and handed the device over to Jon-Luc.

  “Yup, red hair.” Shit. Just as he feared, the girl from his dream last night.

  “Right again. Wish I could do what you do. It must come in handy sometimes.”

  “Not as often as you might think,” Jon-Luc said solemnly.

  “But what about with the ladies? Can you read a woman’s mind and get some sort of idea what’s really going on in there?”

  “No. And I’m not sure I’d want to. I think a woman’s mind would be a scary place to be. So, no, I’m not psychic.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “Some would call me clairvoyant, or a medium.” Jon-Luc turned toward his friend. “I get these. . a. . .visions, you might say. I can’t control them and don’t always know what they mean, but they sometimes help with my cases.”

  “I wish I had me some of that."

  “No you don’t. It’s a pain in the ass. And if I had any way to stop it, I would.” Jon-Luc stared hard at his friend.

  “Believe me.”

  Claude came to a screeching halt at the mouth of the alley Jon-Luc had seen in his mind a few short hours ago. Slowly, he exited the car, then followed his friend through the crowd until they came upon the remains.

  Jon-Luc had not been eager to see the destruction this guy had unleashed on his latest victim. He'd been in the guy’s head, and his anger, his blood lust flew way off the charts. Fortunately for Luc, he hadn't witnessed the deed himself.

  “Holy bull,” Claude said.

  “You mean holy cow?” Jon-Luc corrected him.

  “What does the sex of the animal have to do with anything?”

  “Just keeping it real. I myself would like to add a holy shit to that statement. So that’s one holy bull and one holy shit. Anyone else?” Jon-Luc glanced around at the policemen staring back at them. No one uttered a word.

  Claude said, “I think that about covers it. What do you make of this?”

  “I’d say this guy is fucking nuts. That’s the technical term. You can look it up yourself. Fucking nuts. The most dangerous killer there is. One who tries to kill as many people as possible in a short amount of time. One who doesn’t know when to stop. One who goes balls out to make his point. Also see Over Kill. I believe a picture of this will be under that definition.” Jon-Luc pointed toward the body.

  “Great. And will the killer’s picture be there too?”

  “Once we catch him, I'll make it my own personal mission to see it's done.”

  “So hurry up and catch him already. The suspense is killing me.”

  “Yeah, get in line.” Still looking at the body, neither man noticed they'd been joined by a third party.

  “If you ladies are done with your witty repartee, I would like to get down to business. If you do not mind,” the Générale de la Police Nationale said.

  “Générale.” Claude snapped to attention. “We were just-”

  “I know what you were just doing, Inspector, but I don’t have all day. Bring me up to speed on this case,” the Générale said sternly.

  As Claude ran down the particulars, Jon-Luc walked a wide berth around the victim. The blood had spilled several feet from the body, and getting close was not an option. He had a hard time deciphering the mass destruction from where he stood.

  He squatted to inspect it further. Her head had been almost completely severed from the spinal cord and lay at an odd angle. He could just make out some strange designs carved in her flesh. Her eyes, tongue and heart had been removed, and the vaginal region had been mutilated.

  “You.” Jon-Luc looked up to find himself being addressed by the Générale. “With all your fancy FBI background, what can tell me about this killer?”

  “Highly intelligent. A loner. Single by choice. He's charming and females are attracted to him. I believe the victims knew him or of him. They're going with him willingly. So he is either famous, or known in their circle. He's a sociopath. He has no true emotions, so he emulates expressions he's seen. Probably practices them in the mirror until he got them down pat. He learned at an early age how to manipulate those around him to get what he wants." Jon-Luc paced while he talked.

  "Either independently wealthy, or works alone. He needs his freedom to stalk his prey. He started fires and killed animals as a child. Not necessarily a child of abuse. A growing number of psychologists now believe that psychopathy, like autism, is a distinct neurological condition — one that can be identified in children as young as five. Crucial to this diagnosis are callous-unemotional traits, which most researchers now believe distinguish fledgling psychopaths.

  "I believe these women are his first human kills. This guy is relatively young, early twenties to early thirties. I’ve read the files of the previous victims and noticed he started out slow and simple. Maybe to fool the authorities into thinking they were suicides, or because he was just getting his feet wet. Maybe both.

  “I'm not sure what do make of these marks in her body. Maybe he's part of some cult. I think once the ME examines the body he'll find this girl was not under the influence of alcohol or a controlled substance–”

  “How the hell can you tell that?” the Générale interrupted.

  “He’s that good,” Claude threw in.

  “Check the area around the mouth of the alley.” Jon-Luc pointed to the dented trashcans lying on their side and garbage strewn about. “This girl fought back. We didn’t see destruction like this at the other crime scenes. I bet when you check under her fingernails, we get DNA. He couldn’t wait. Whether it’s his need to kill, or he’s in a hurry, it’s making him take risks he hadn’t taken before. This could be his downfall." Jon-Luc stared at the Générale, waiting to see if he had more questions.

  “Why is this guy in a hurry?” asked the Générale.

  “He knows we’re on his trail, the press has made sure of it. He’s running out of time. He may have decided he won’t be taken alive so he wants to finish what he’s started.

  “I believe Inspector Rousseau explained our theory regarding this having to do with the Melody Waterston suicide? The victims so far have been part of a close group of friends. Friends who may have conspired on a prank which resulted in the young woman's suicide. Regarding him removing the eyes, the eyes are the windows to the soul, these women have no souls. He takes their tongues to silence them and the heart is pretty self-explanatory. He believes they have no heart,” Jon-Luc finished. then waited for the Générale's answer.

  “He mentioned it,” the Générale responded.

  “Since it’s the only theory we have at this point, we have to assume the other women on our list are in danger. This victim is one of three we intended to interview today. The other two are being protected as we speak.”

  “Then after you wrap up here, I want you to go to these women and see if they can add any more names to the list,” the Générale said while looking from Jon-Luc to Claude.

  “Yes, sir,” Claude answered.

  The Générale looked at his watch, then back at Claude. “I have a meeting with the Maire de Paris. Keep me posted with your progress.” He turned and left the scene.

  “There's one problem with our theory. How does Angie fit in? She’s not a model, nor does she belong to the same circle of friends,” Jon-Luc said as they walked back to the car.

  “Oui, this is a dilemma. Perhaps our theory is wrong?”

  “My gu
t says no.”

  “Your gut sure talks a lot.” Claude opened his car door.

  “Yes, it does. But it’s rarely wrong, so I have to listen.”

  The men sat in the car as they decided where to go next.

  After a moment Jon-Luc said, “We need to find out more about this Michael D’Arcy. He’s shady. I don’t like the idea we can’t find any background on him. I’m going to contact a friend of mine from WITSEC and see if he’s one of theirs.”

  “WITSEC?” Claude started the car.

  “Witness Security, or as we call it, the witness protection program,” Jon-Luc explained.

  “Ah, oui, I have seen this in American movies.”

  “I also know a guy that’s good with computers. If I strike out with WITSEC, I’ll see if he can get me background for D'Arcy.”

  “What do you say we find some food before we do those interviews?” Claude asked.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Claude dropped Jon-Luc back at his hotel around eight that evening. They had spent most of the day in the presence of two of the most beautiful women in the world. Had he not met Angie first, he might have thought this case pretty fantastic. But now the women he’d met paled in comparison. Angie’s sex appeal was matched only by her humor. A deadly combination for him. When he wasn’t thinking lustful thoughts, he was laughing his ass off.

  He thought about the interviews they’d conducted today and realized Claude had really done all the work. Jon-Luc’s mind tended to wander the minute the waterworks began. Both women sobbed over the friends they'd lost, which was to be expected.

  And both feared for their own safety, of course. But hearing them recount the tale of what they called innocent fun, or just a little prank, enraged him to the point he thought it best he kept his mouth shut.

  He couldn’t wait to get away from either one. In fact, it was why he stood in a hot shower now. He needed to wash their filth away. How could anyone be so cruel to another human being and call it fun? Neither one had any useful information. All in all it was a giant waste of time. No wonder his thoughts kept running back to Angie.