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

by Deanna Chase

  "Thanks, that makes it much clearer." Her words thick with sarcasm. "Do they look like in the movies?"

  Jon-Luc stared at her. "I guess that would depend on what kind of movies you watch. They don't look like Casper, if that's what you mean."

  Angie clucked her tongue in impatience. "Can you see through them?"

  "No. That one I can answer."

  "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. So they look like the ghosts on American Horror Story, season one."

  "If you say so."

  Her hands fell to the bed on either side of her. "You're hopeless."

  "Sorry, but I've been kinda busy the last ten years catching bad guys. I haven't had much time to watch TV or see movies. Remember, FBI agent?" He hooked his thumb toward his chest.

  "Whatever. Can you at least tell me what they want?"

  "I don't know, they're just kind of standing there right now."

  "No, knucklehead, ask them!"

  Jon-Luc couldn't figure out for the life of him what she was so angry about, but he did want to appease her.

  He looked back at the spirits standing before him. "What do you want?" Genevieve pointed to him. He glanced back at Angie.

  "Genevieve says she wants me."

  "Hel-lo." Angie yelled to the room. "He's taken," she said indignantly.

  Then Genevieve motioned for him to follow.

  "Oh." Jon-Luc jumped out of bed and scrambled for his pants.

  "What are you doing?" Surprise was evident in Angie's voice.

  Fastening the front of his pants, he looked up. "She wants me to go with her." Before he knew it, the ghost had disappeared through the door and the other women trailed behind. Not bothering with socks, Jon-Luc pulled on his boots and gave chase.

  "Wait. I'm coming with you!" He heard Angie yell as he flew down the stairs.

  Jon-Luc lost the ghosts. He reached the front door and yanked it open. Greg spun around, reaching for his gun, then relaxed at the site of Luc. "Monsieur?"

  "How's it going out here?" Jon-Luc said as he scanned the grounds. The sun was just rising, breaking through the clouds. Only a few men remained scattered to the far reaches of the estate.

  "Fine. Everything okay inside?" Greg asked.

  "Yeah," Jon-Luc said without looking at the uniformed policeman. He spotted movement on the other side of the grass.

  "Just needed some fresh air." Then he was off.

  By the time he caught up with the women, they were standing in front of the gazebo. Jon-Luc bent at the waist resting his hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. "What's so fascinating about this damn spot?" he said between gasps, to no one in particular. Just then Genevieve aimed her finger at a potted plant to the right of the steps which led to the sitting area.

  This time he addressed the pointing woman. "Nice plant. Could you be more specific?" She glared at him and thrust her nail polished digit once more for emphasis.

  "Fine." Jon-Luc got down on the damp ground to inspect the area further. The moist grass soaked through the knees of his jeans and his body shivered. That's when he realized he'd forgotten his shirt. The thought drifted away when he noticed the plant had been moved. The earth disturbed. He jumped up and slid the pot a few feet out of the way. Underneath, dry soil mixed with wet. He knelt and began to dig with his bare hands, the loose soil gave easily.

  "What is it?" Jon-Luc glanced up and found Angie, fully clothed, standing behind him.

  "Not sure yet." He got about a foot down before he discovered the top of a jar. He dug around it, then lifted it up with two fingers in an attempt to save potential fingerprints. When he held it to the light, Angie screamed.

  Inside the jar were two eyes and a tongue. Trophies.

  Jon-Luc set the jar down gingerly before he took the rattled Angie into his arms. "Go inside. I'll be there in a minute," he said as gently as he could. To his relief, she nodded and wandered off toward the house. The scream alerted the forensic team still working and the policemen walking the grounds. They all stood around him now. Not knowing who was in charge, Jon-Luc addressed the group.

  "We have evidence. The killer has stored his trophies here. I need them dug up, cataloged and fingerprinted. I'll contact Inspector Rousseau myself." Several men nodded.

  Turning to Greg. "I need you to be extra vigilant. This guy knows the estate inside and out. There could be ways to get in we don't know about." Greg nodded. "I want you to stay at the front door, I want officers inside, and I want someone to contact the men in the unit at the front gate. Tell them to notify me if either Demetrius or Michael show up, or anyone suspicious. And get another cruiser here to circle the estate outside the walls."

  "On it," Greg said before he jogged away. The other policemen scrambled in different directions.

  Jon-Luc headed toward the house to finish dressing. When he reached Angie's room, she was coming toward him with a cell phone. "Your phone's been ringing incessantly. I didn't answer it, so they could leave a message," she said handing the device over to him.

  "Thanks." Jon-Luc checked the memory. Two missed calls from Claude and two messages waiting. He hit send and listened to the voicemail. Claude notified him that they'd found Julietta's body. Jake had information he wanted to share. The dead body could wait. He called Jake first.

  "Hey, Luc, sorry it took so long to get back to you. There were complications with the birth and I had to call in the vet. Both mare and foal are fine though."

  "That's good news. What have you got?"

  "I was just preparing to send you an email, but I'll give it to now. It's not much."

  Jon-Luc sat on the edge of the bed. "Lay it on me."

  “Okay. Michael Andrew D'Arcy was born in Albany, New York. He grew up there, happy family, two siblings, then he got a scholarship to NYU. Worked in a pizza joint to support himself. Majored in Economics.”

  “Whoa, Economics? This kid's smart.”

  “He was."

  "Did you say was, as in past tense?"

  "He died in a car crash a year and a half ago. He and a few guys were out partying after a football game when the driver lost control of the car and hit a tree. Michael was the only one killed, the other boys walked away with minor injuries.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Jon-Luc scrubbed a hand down his face.

  “Oh, did I mention that D'Arcy was African American?”

  Jon-Luc took a deep breath. "No shit?"

  "Kind of surprised me too. Sorry I don't have more at this time. I'm looking into the other guys in the car, all Caucasian. I just wanted to give you a heads up so you could watch your ass."

  "Appreciate it. I'll see if I can run down a photo of our guy to send you. Might make things a bit easier."

  "A bit," Jake said sarcastically.

  "In the meantime, let me know if you get anything else."

  "Will do." Jake hung up.

  Jon-Luc found Angie in the bathroom brushing her teeth.

  "Okay, now I'm demanding you stay away from Michael. In fact, we already have an APB out on the guy. So, if you see him, you tell me or any law enforcement type in the vicinity as soon as possible." He stood behind her watching her face in the mirror.

  Angie rinsed her mouth and spat. "What's happened?"

  "The guy's name is not Michael D'Arcy. The real one is dead. We don't know who this guy is." Angie's eyes widened, she dried her mouth and hands, then turned around to face him.

  "Why would he change his name?" she asked.

  "I don't know, but it can't be good."

  She looked at the floor and shook her head, then stared back at him. Her brows furrowed, worry lines creased the edges of her eyes. "My God. Do you have any idea how many times I've been alone with him?"

  "I'd rather not think about it." He took her into his arms and felt her body relax against his. "I have to return a call from Claude. I may have to leave for awhile. Do not go anywhere without a police escort."

  Angie pulled out of his embrace. "We're moving to the hotel in a little bit. Th
e show's this afternoon."

  "Fine, just don't go anywhere alone. Got it?" Jon-Luc couldn't emphasize it enough.

  He returned Claude's call and brought him up to speed on the evidence he'd found as well as filled him in on the D'Arcy imposter.

  "So, this guy is most probably our killer."

  "Can't count out Demetrius just yet. He's still missing. But the odds are in favor of John Doe."

  "Can you get to the city?" Claude asked.

  "I'll see if I can catch a lift back with one of the guys working the scene here."

  "Thanks. Julietta has been found and I'd like your expert opinion on the body."

  Her last image flashed through Jon-Luc's mind. "Ugly sight, huh?"

  "Not pretty."

  29

  The show was halfway over and House de Beauchamp was up next. Still no sign of Jon-Luc, though he'd promised to be there for her. Standing backstage, Angie scanned the crowd through a slit in the curtain. He might have misunderstood and been waiting in the audience. She was eager to point out her work, but if he was sitting out there, she couldn't do it. Surely he would find her as soon as he arrived, if for no other reason than to wish her luck.

  "Angie!"

  "Shit," Angie muttered under her breath. She spun around in time to see Didi limp across the room toward her. "What is it?"

  She shoved a shoe in her face, the heel dangled by a thread.

  "Oh, hell." Angie grabbed the shoe. "Follow me." She took off in the direction of her emergency kit, actually a tackle box, and lifted the lid. "Where is it?" She shoved things around, then started emptying everything out on the table. "Crapbasket!" She looked back at the shoe. "Size eleven, narrow?"

  Didi's chin jutted out as if she'd been offended. "So?"

  "So, take mine. I won't need them until I leave." Angie slipped out of her stilettos and kicked them over to the girl.

  Didi stared at them, her nose scrunched as if disgusted.

  The music changed. "Put the damn things on now." Angie slapped her thigh. "Hurry!" As soon as the girl had her foot in the second shoe, Angie started to drag her. "You're up next!" She pushed Didi and the model almost lost her footing, but corrected herself before she hit the runway. Angie let out a pent up breath and shifted her position so she could watch the show. Flash bulbs went crazy as the girls strutted by.

  Angie's eyes watered watching the expressions of the audience whenever one of her designs went past. Jennifer Lopez elbowed the guy sitting next to her, then pointed at one of her dresses. Elated, Angie thought she might scream. She covered her mouth, just in case, then laughed at her stupidity. No one would have heard even if she screamed at the top of her lungs the music was so loud. She felt an arm wrap around her waist. "Luc!" She tried to turn, but found herself in a tight hold.

  "Close, but no cigar," a menacing voice whispered in her ear. A cloth enveloped her face and she couldn't breathe. She kicked and clawed at her assailant, but soon felt the fight leave her body. Then nothing.

  Jon-Luc glanced at his watch. "Shit. I'm late. I told Angie I'd be at her show." He and Claude were back at the Beauchamp estate going over the evidence that had been uncovered.

  Claude's phone rang. "Oui. Be there momentarily."

  "What's up?" Jon-Luc asked.

  "The men sent over to Demetrius' room found something. They want us there now." Claude slipped his phone back into his pocket and both men took off at a jog toward the garage apartment.

  As they entered the room, a man said, "In the bedroom."

  Jon-Luc followed Claude and stopped short. "Holy shit."

  The door to the walk-in closet stood open. It was covered in photos of Angie and not the posed kind. "This son of a bitch has been stalking her." He moved closer, his anger mounting. One shot was of her in the bedroom of the cottage here on the grounds. Thankfully she was dressed, but the idea of some sick fuck spying on her in her bedroom pissed him off.

  "I want him. Now," he said through gritted teeth. Jon-Luc pulled out his cell phone and called Angie's number. It rang four times before being sent to voicemail. "Chere, call me the second you get this." He turned to Claude. "We're outta here."

  "You think he's got her?"

  "She's not answering. I'm not waiting around here to find out. Come on, you can call your guys from the car. I want to make sure someone has her in their sights."

  They jumped in the Peugeot and took off, siren blaring. It was pretty much a straight shot back to the city. Jon-Luc continued to try and reach Angie, though all attempts failed. Claude pulled his phone away from his mouth and turned to Jon-Luc. "No one can find her. She was there ten minutes ago."

  "Make sure they comb every inch of that damn hotel and get your people outside. See if anyone saw a vehicle parked or idling by the back door." While Claude relayed the message, Jon-Luc's phone beeped. He had a text. He watched as it loaded on the screen, and a picture popped up.

  It was a Louisiana driver’s license of a Chauvin, pronounced Show-van, Boudreaux, twenty-two, brown eyes, 6'6". He stared at the picture of a younger Michael D'Arcy. His phone rang. It was Jake. Instead of his usual greeting he said, "What the fuck?"

  "I take that to mean you got the picture I sent?"

  "Good guess. I don't get it, what is this shit?"

  "You mean you didn't know you had a younger sibling?"

  The image of his mother playing at the park with a toddler filled his head. "Yeah, but we've never actually met. Last time I saw him he was still in diapers."

  "Not anymore. This explains the message I received. The killer is close to Jon-Luc."

  "Holy shit, not close as in physically, but close as in the same family tree!" Jon-Luc was stunned.

  "Yup. You know, I can see the resemblance now."

  "Like hell you can," Jon-Luc said, miffed.

  "Of course you can't see it, you're too close. He attended NYU as a business major and his best friend was the real Michael D'Arcy. In fact, he was driving the car that killed him. After that, he dropped out of college and was admitted to Our Lady of the Lake Regional Medical Center, a psychiatric hospital in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and Fanatic Narcissistic Personality Disorder."

  "That makes things a bit clearer. He must be clairvoyant like me, so obviously they label him a schizophrenic. Being responsible for the death of his friend must have been a catalyst for him. The dead friend probably hung around, reminding him on a daily basis of the accident. Maybe that's why he took his name, to keep him alive. But being a fanatic narcissist means he's most likely our killer. People in this category may have suffered some childhood trauma that resulted in a lack of self-esteem."

  "Seeing ghosts from a young age would qualify," Jake interjected.

  "Exactly, and having no one in your life who understands," Jon-Luc added. "Consequently, these people fantasize about and put into play grand schemes that will make them appear significant in the eyes of others. When these actions fail to impress those around them, they begin to think of themselves as a hero with a great mission to accomplish."

  "I forgot you have a degree in psychology," Jake said.

  "Yup, I knew before starting college I wanted to enter the FBI, so I majored in criminology with a minor in psychology."

  "So what great mission is he trying to accomplish by killing these women?" Jake asked.

  "There was a young model here who took her own life because of the bullying she endured at the hands of the women he's killed. Perhaps he cared about this girl, Melody, so he decided to be her hero and pay back those who've wronged her."

  "They wouldn't be the first people he's killed."

  "There's more?" Jon-Luc said.

  "After six months in the mental hospital, he went on a bloody rampage and escaped. He's smart. He waited until night when they ran on a skeleton crew. He slit their throats with some crude tool he'd made himself. Then changed into scrubs and stole one of their cars."

  "So he ran to France. We have some relatives, on my mother�
��s side, who live over here. Maybe we should check and see if he looked any of them up?"

  "I don't think he's the sentimental type."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've got some bad news."

  "More?"

  "Yeah, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your parents are dead. Killed about a year ago. Same MO as the victims in the mental hospital, throats slit."

  Jon-Luc swallowed the lump in his throat. "You sure?"

  "I'll send you the article."

  "Save it." Jon-Luc covered his face. For years after he'd run away, he fantasized about his parents searching for him and apologizing. Promising they wouldn't lock him up. Of course, that never happened. There were no flyers put up around the city, no photo on the back of milk cartons. No press release pleading for him to return. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he always thought he'd see them again. The dream in the car. His mother's warning.

  "I understand," Jake said quietly.

  "Thanks, buddy." Jon-Luc's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "So he killed our parents and fled the country under his new identity, Michael D'Arcy. You know, this could have just as easily have been my story if I hadn't met Frank."

  "Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind," Jake said softly.

  "Dammit. I should have been there for him. If he just had someone around to let him know he wasn't nuts. . ."

  "Hey, you didn't know."

  "But I should have. After all, this shit is hereditary. If I'd just checked up on him, maybe-"

  "Don't make yourself crazy over this. None of it's your fault."

  "Right, I've got to stay focused. He may have grabbed that woman I was telling you about."

  "The one you're romantically involved with?"

  Jon-Luc's laugh held no mirth. "That's the one. Her name is Angie and at the moment she's missing. I honestly don't know if anyone has her or not. Yet. And to tell you the truth, we have a more viable suspect."

  Jake cleared his throat. "Luc, I think you're missing something important here."

  "What's that?"

  "Your visions? You said you could see through the killer's eyes."

  "Holy shit! Blood ties. How the hell could I have forgotten about that?"