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

by Deanna Chase

  “We’re going to find her,” Mac said, keeping a firm grip on Ben's hand. He held an open arm out to Anita, who was already crying, and she immediately fell against his chest.

  “Oh, Mac,” she said, sobbing. “She’s gone.”

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  Mac stood with them for a moment, absorbing the bizarreness of the situation. In all his life, he’d never have thought to use his expertise to help the man who’d trained him. It was a strange turnabout–and one he could have lived without. Ben and Anita had been like a second set of parents to him in the early days. Was it already ten years ago?

  Slowly, activity resumed around them. As he let Ben and Anita go, he noticed the young woman who stood just behind Anita. She was obviously not a cop or an agent. The clingy dress and heels would have been the first clues but–gloves? Was this a friend of the daughter’s? But in answer to his own question, his profiler’s brain took over. Too old to be an undergraduate. She’s my age, maybe thirty. Attractive. Very attractive. Why the gloves? A friend of Anita’s. From where? Brunette, lipstick, eye makeup, but nothing else. No stockings. The high-heeled shoes are worn. Not in their social circle. How does Anita know her?

  And she seemed vaguely familiar. His eyes narrowed just a bit. He didn’t know her but he’d known someone like her. Suddenly and painfully, it clicked–a single civilian amidst the group of officers and agents. He knew who she reminded him of. Like a wound that wouldn’t close, the memories that he’d worked hard to put away quickly came back. His glance flicked from the long, dark hair to her mouth. That’s where the resemblance was strongest. A familiar tightening in his chest began. Mac willed himself to turn away and motioned to Sharon.

  “Let me introduce my assistant,” he said. “Special Agent Sharon Lyang.” The young Asian woman stepped forward on cue, nodded curtly, and shook hands with Ben and Anita. “Sharon will coordinate the command post which I see you’ve got a good start on.”

  “I’ve already been in touch with CIRG,” Sharon said stepping back again.

  Mac knew that Ben would know what that meant but not necessarily Anita.

  “The Critical Incident Response Group,” he explained. The brunette behind her was listening intently. “Their forensics people are on the way, and we’re mustering local investigators to start canvasing the area.”

  He watched Sharon unshoulder her laptop and stoop over the computer on the coffee table. She’d be the center of the command post, his eyes and ears for all incoming data, and most importantly, she’d coordinate the phone taps and traces.

  “I reviewed everything on the plane,” Mac said to Ben. “I assume there’s still been no ransom call.”

  Ben finally found his voice.

  “No,” he managed to get out.

  He knows as well as I do that it’s already been too long. Twenty-four hours. No one noticed Esme was gone and no one had called to ask for a ransom. The victim was likely dead. He couldn’t help but quote the statistics in his head: only ten percent of abductions went beyond twenty-four hours.

  “I need to see the dorm room,” Mac said. “I understand the roommate is there.”

  “Right,” Ben said, moving toward the front door. “I’ve got a driver for you. They’re–”

  “Isabelle is going with you,” Anita interrupted.

  Ah, thought Mac. Now we’ll find out who that woman is.

  “Anita,” Ben growled as he stopped and slowly turned back toward his wife, a low but vehement warning tone in his voice. Mac scowled at the sudden anger. Even under these circumstances, that didn’t seem like Ben.

  “You’ve got your expert,” Anita said, defiantly. “And I’ve got mine.”

  At that, Mac raised his eyebrows.

  Quickly, Anita dragged the woman forward who, for her part, looked as though she wanted to melt into a crack in the floor.

  “This is Isabelle de Grey,” Anita said. “She’s my psychic.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I’m sending you home,” Prentiss said. “Home.”

  At that the girl stopped crying, if you could call it that when you were gagged. Water ran from her eyes and nose, and she sniffed loudly trying to breathe.

  “That’s right,” Prentiss said as he sauntered behind her, hands clasped behind his back. His patent leather shoes padded softly on the industrial gray carpet. It gave him an opportunity to inspect the ropes. They looked nice and tight, but he tugged on them to be sure. Her wrists were securely fastened to the back of the metal chair. He moved her long, black ponytail aside and checked the gag. It looked fine. As he circled to the right in the small room, he stooped and tested the rope that bound her right ankle to the front chair leg. Good. Slowly he stood upright and circled in front. She swiveled her head to look at him.

  It was the first time she’d stopped blubbering. She’d soiled herself in the first few hours, but there was really no help for that. The basement didn’t have a bathroom. No doubt it was distressing. Hopefully, very distressing.

  “I’m sending you home,” Prentiss said, stopping directly in front of her.

  She blinked giant tear drops down her cheeks as though she were trying to see him clearly.

  “Home to your Creator,” he intoned. “To God Almighty.”

  He smirked. It had a certain ring to it.

  She started to cry again, frantically shaking her head back and forth. He stared at the sudden motion.

  How did she do that so quickly? He tried to do it himself. With a quick and vigorous waggling, he gave it everything he had. Quickly, he had to stop. It hurt his neck and made him dizzy.

  How does she do that?

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he backhanded her.

  “Stop that,” he said simply.

  A satisfying thwack bounced off the bare walls in the sparse room. The girl whined loudly through the cloth of the gag.

  “Don’t thank me now,” he said, turning away from her.

  Slowly, patiently, he ambled to the other side of the small room and looked, yet again, at the cardboard boxes strewn against the wall, most torn and half open. Dark blue choir robes spilled out, sheets of music, and some red hymnals. He spun on his heel and, as he did, he let the switchblade that he’d been carrying up his sleeve drop into his hand. With a flick of his wrist, it snicked open, glinting under the bare fluorescent utility lights. But the girl hadn’t noticed. Her head was hung low.

  He rushed back to her side, grabbed a handful of the long, dark hair and yanked her head back. Her wide eyes grew even larger as he showed her the knife.

  “You look at me when I’m talking,” he seethed, before letting her go with a shove.

  He took a moment to smooth his mustache and then circled back to front and center.

  “You’ll thank me later,” he said, quickly regaining control. “When you’re pure.” Yes, purification. That’s what he’d decided to call it this time. “God only wants the pure.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Mac said. “Even with the latex gloves.”

  The police sergeant held up the yellow tape so he and Isabelle could pass under. A psychic, Mac thought. That was a new one. Then again, this is L.A.

  Ben had obviously been unhappy about her presence but Anita–Mac watched as Isabelle stooped to pass under the yellow crime scene tape–Anita had seemed close to panic. It was as though this woman was her way of having some control over what was clearly a situation where no one had control. It’d also been evident that if Isabelle hadn’t been allowed to tag along, family peace was at stake.

  Even so, Mac didn’t approve. He didn’t need a civilian to complicate things. As he ducked under the tape, he couldn’t help but look down the back of her legs, which were shapely. Her high heels were wrapped with the same white booties that he and the sergeant wore, a strange juxtaposition. Once again he was reminded of a different place and time, a different civilian.

  A small crowd of students had formed in the long corridor just outside the door, along with a
few UCLA campus policemen.

  “Officer,” he said to the largest of the three. “Clear this corridor. If these folks can’t stay in their rooms, we’ll evacuate the entire floor, and they can find somewhere else to loiter.”

  “Yessir,” said the man. He motioned another uniformed officer to move left and he went to the right, spreading his arms almost across the entire width of the corridor. “Okay folks. That’s it. Time to go.”

  “Take me through it, sergeant,” Mac said, turning back to the tiny room.

  Dressed in a dark gray suit that was slightly too large for his lean frame, the young, black police sergeant removed a notepad from the interior pocket of his jacket. Isabelle hovered near the door and was looking into what appeared to be a small closet.

  “Jodie Ashmont, the roommate,” Sergeant Dixon said, reading from his notepad, “called campus police this morning when she realized that the victim’s bed hadn’t been slept in last night.” He pointed down to the twin on the right side of the room. Across from it, on the left, was presumably the roommate’s bed. In fact, everything in the cramped space was mirrored: two desks, two chairs, two single-door closets near the front door. On the inside of the open closet doors, identical mirrors hung. Narrow wire baskets suspended underneath them were filled with sundry toiletry items. “The last time Jodie saw Esme was yesterday when she left for a morning run, which she did every day.” He flipped to the next page. “She didn’t see what she was wearing or note the exact time.”

  Twenty-four hours, thought Mac. A whole day before anyone had even noticed that she was missing. The most important time period when it came to solving any crime, the first twenty-four hours was invaluable, but now it was gone.

  He opened the desk drawer, looking for anything that might help to characterize Esme more than the interviews with Ben and Anita had already done. An assortment of pens, pencils, highlighters and push-pins in an organizing tray was no help. He pulled open the drawer next to it: sticky notes and envelopes. The drawer below that held pads of paper and a new notebook. He leafed through everything. No checkbook for more information on her finances, no journal or diary to judge her frame of mind.

  “No one else on the floor remembers seeing her that day,” the sergeant said, as Mac upended Esme’s backpack on the bed. He rifled through the textbooks, consistent with her economics major. No phone but her wallet was there, consistent with the jog. The wallet held student ID, a credit card, which Mac already knew was linked to her parents account and hadn’t been accessed since her disappearance. Movie posters on the wall above the bed included one for Lord of the Rings, one from Star Wars, and also Gone with the Wind. Everything pointed to Esme being your average freshman, and that didn’t help victimology. Nothing about her family, her schoolwork, her personality, her likes or dislikes indicated what might have contributed to her being a victim. By all accounts, she had not been emotionally vulnerable.

  Mac shook his head. The abductor had selected her on his terms and, at present, they had no insight into him.

  In his peripheral vision, Isabelle crouched at the foot of the open closet. But when he looked over at her, he realized that she’d picked up something, and she’d removed the latex glove.

  “Hey!” he started, as she stood up holding a running shoe.

  “A running track,” Isabelle said quickly as she stood, staring blankly into the closet. “There are bleachers, metal, a stadium on one side. The track is red and spongy. White lines in it. Round and round.” Her chest heaved as she sucked in a breath and then she plunged on. “Now there’s a dirt path with exercise stations. Metal bars with pealing paint. The gravel on the path is crunchy. Early morning.”

  Mac stared at her, listening to the stream of babbling.

  So this is the act, he thought. He quickly studied her.

  Small-boned and delicate, her chestnut-colored hair fell in long waves to mid-back. Her high cheekbones, full mouth and light, olive skin suggested more than just the English ancestry of her last name–maybe from her mother’s side. That might also explain the strikingly pale, amber eyes.

  “The brick buildings aren’t tall,” she breathed. “The grass is nice to run on, soft.”

  “Ma’am,” said Sergeant Dixon. “Please don’t touch anything.”

  But Isabelle didn’t appear to have heard him. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and she gripped the shoe so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Her hand began to shake.

  “Ma’am,” the sergeant tried again.

  Mac had seen enough.

  “Miss de Grey,” he said loudly, stepping toward her.

  She dropped the shoe.

  “Let me be very clear,” he said and paused.

  He waited for a moment for her to look at him but she didn’t. She continued to stare into the closet. He scowled a bit as he watched her. This might work for her clients but not for him–not for any profiler worth their salt. Vague predictions, a scattershot of random observations–those were the tools of the psychic. He’d just heard it himself. It was classic. They also dwelled on the obvious, which he was just about to point out, when Isabelle started to sway. She held out a trembling hand to the bed next to her and, reacting instinctively, Mac lunged forward.

  “No you don’t,” he said, grasping her hand. “Don’t touch anything.”

  Even as Isabelle screamed “No!” she knew it was too late. The reading came hard and fast.

  Concern for her. Worry about Ben–his skin looked gray. Where is the damn campus map? Don’t touch anything! Her shapely legs. Time is running out. A woman, a brunette, in his bed. The agony of loss. Psychobabble. Nothing on the abductor. Nothing! Don’t touch anything.

  She snatched her hand from his and nearly toppled backward. Only Mac’s grip on her arm prevented her from doing just that.

  “Don’t ever,” she managed to get out between gasping breaths, “touch my hands. Not ever.”

  As the room slowly came into focus, she shook loose from his grip and quickly covered her bare hand with the latex-gloved one, clutching it to her chest. It’d been months since she’d read anyone, and this was why. A moment of nausea swept over her, and suddenly the already warm room was too hot. She focused on Mac’s tie, dark blue.

  “Well if you hadn’t taken your gloves off and touched something–”

  “That’s how I work,” she said, standing straighter, concentrating on his face now. “I–”

  “I don’t care if it’s how you live and breathe,” Mac said evenly.

  Though he’d backed up, giving her space, his large physique still loomed. The handsome face, with its square jaw and deeply set eyes, was lent a sense of boyishness by the dark, short-cropped hair. But it was his eyes that were riveting. They were the deepest, most intense, blue-green she’d ever seen.

  “You touch anything else,” he said slowly, enunciating each word, “and you are out of here. Do you hear me? I don’t care what Ben says.”

  The images and emotions from the reading still reverberated in her head. Mac’s controlled exterior was just that. The buttoned-down agent was positively roiling inside. He was enraged about the abductor and deeply worried for Ben. His skin did look gray. She hadn’t noticed at the time. And he thinks I have shapely legs. Were it not for the dire circumstances–and the nausea–she might have smiled. Compared to most men, Special Agent MacMillan was a Boy Scout.

  “Do you hear me?” Mac said.

  She took a deep breath and slowly let it go. Two readings so close together wasn’t good. One was hard enough. She took a moment to run her fingers back through her hair, but then looked him directly in the eye.

  “It’s not psychobabble,” she said.

  “What?” he said, staring at her.

  More often than not, people weren’t explicitly aware of their own thoughts. Not even hearing them repeated verbatim registered but–as she bent to her purse, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye–maybe an FBI profiler was an exception.

  The sergeant c
leared his throat.

  “Did you say stadium?” he asked.

  Psychobabble? Mac thought. That’s exactly the word I would have used.

  Except that he hadn’t.

  Though Isabelle initially appeared shaken, the act of putting on her own gloves seemed to calm her. The small tremble he had noticed in her hands disappeared and color had returned to her cheeks–the smooth skin a little less pale. But when his gaze drifted to her lips, an alarm went off in the back of his mind.

  Time is running out.

  “Let’s talk about the stadium in a moment,” Mac said, forcing himself to take his eyes off Isabelle and the glove ritual. “First, I want to talk to the roommate.”

  A sour look crossed the sergeant’s face as he motioned to the officer standing at the door, who promptly left.

  “Yes, Sergeant Dixon?” Mac said. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well,” he said slowly. “She’s been a little less than helpful.”

  “When can I get my stuff?” came a young woman’s voice from down the hallway. The three of them turned toward the doorway just as Esme’s roommate appeared. Wearing red plaid pajamas and fuzzy slippers that looked like giant mice, Jodie Ashton came to a sudden stop at the yellow tape, hands on hips, and glared at them all.

  “When can I get my stuff?” she said, her voice high and shrill.

  “Jodie,” Mac said, taking a business card from his jacket pocket. “I’m Special Agent MacMillan, this is Sergeant Dixon, and this is Isabelle de Grey.” He held out the card to Jodie. “I wish this didn’t inconvenience you and that I could pick a better time to do this but,” he shook his head slowly, “I’m afraid time is one thing we just don’t have.” He waited for her to take the card and watched her appraise him, in that way women usually did. He smiled, a genuine smile, and kept holding out the card, and eventually Jodie’s expression softened and she took it.