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

by Deanna Chase

  She wanted to call Julie or her mother to come and comfort her, but couldn’t summon the energy. They would also ask questions that she was too humiliated to answer. She couldn’t expect a pity party thrown for her when the situation was entirely her fault. Instead, she shut her eyes and wished herself into someone else’s brain.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kate walked sadly into the kitchen without bothering to turn on the lights. It was dark, but she easily knew her way to the fridge. Gazing inside, she peeked under a container wrapped with aluminum foil. The casserole that her mother made looked sketchy enough that she decided to move on to something yummier. Food could be the ultimate comfort when your life was a complete mess.

  Behind the bottles of soda she hit the jackpot. A tray of mini red velvet cupcakes begged for her to eat them. Popping one in her mouth, she decided that they were small enough that she could eat at least two more to equal a single regular sized cupcake. Her mother would die if she saw her, but she began to drink straight from the two liter bottle of Diet Coke to wash it down.

  Wiping her mouth, Kate stilled when she heard a rustling sound at the front door. She figured it was her mother and called out. “Mom?”

  No response. It was eerie, but maybe her mother hadn’t heard her. It was also strange that her mother wouldn’t turn on the lights as she entered the house. What time was it anyway? She left the fridge open to help her find the light switch and moved towards the hallway.

  Her brain wasn’t able to process what was happening. A dark figure moved out of the shadows and the bottle of Diet Coke fell to the floor. A hand reached out and tightened over her forearm. Scrambling backwards to fend off her attacker, she instead slipped on the liquid and landed hard on her backside. The scream caught in her throat as the light of the refrigerator reflected on the blade of a knife. Time seemed to slow as the knife plunged towards her.

  The knife tore threw fabric, skin and bone. The first cut landed in the dead center of her chest. Her fingertips danced over the wound and she stared dumbfounded at the blood that soaked her skin. After her initial shock, the pain set in. It radiated from her chest and threatened to immobilize her completely. The sting was raw and unforgiving.

  Her survival instincts kicked in as she saw the knife come towards her body again. Kicking out wildly, she was able to land a few blows against the stocky figure that blocked her way to freedom. A male voice grunted as she lashed out at him. The twilight hid her attacker from her complete view and she wondered if it even mattered if she could see him. With her chest bleeding profusely and no weapon readily available, she was as good as dead.

  Kate turned her body towards the dining room to try and make a desperate run for the front door. She barely got a foot away from him before she felt the knife slice into her arm. Ruthlessly, he then stabbed at her waist and pelvis. There was no hesitation in his movements. This man wanted her dead and would cut her until the job was finished.

  A car door slammed nearby. Her attacker mumbled a curse and quickly disappeared into the darkness of the house. He never looked back.

  Kate tried to call out. Warn whoever it was of the impending danger within the house. Instead, a garbled sound escaped her throat. The pain was too much to bear at this point. As much as she wanted to hold on for the people she cared about—her parents, Jared, Declan, Julie—she couldn’t any longer. Kate welcomed oblivion.

  The late afternoon sunlight shone through the windows of the living room. Kate fumbled as she opened her eyes and landed tangled up in the chenille blanket on the carpet. Trying to catch her breath, she did a quick examination of her body. No blood. Just the Thompson College t-shirt and jeans she had changed into when she arrived home.

  Kate surveyed her surrounding and immediately knew something was off. The sun was still shining and she was wearing different clothing than when she was attacked. Her mother was nowhere to be found and the front door was firmly shut. She was certain only a short time had passed since Jared left and she fell asleep on the couch.

  “Oh shit,” she groaned.

  Kate had just received her first future vision. And it was of her being stabbed to death in her own kitchen.

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My husband Bryan, who is my first editor and biggest champion—your love and support does not go unnoticed.

  Dominic and Luke, my two boys who inspire me to create on a daily basis.

  Ashley, an adored member of the family who helps out in so many ways.

  Trisha, who has put her heart and soul into editing both novels in the series.

  My mother and father, thank you for being supportive of my writing.

  A big thank you to my sisters. Their amazing qualities have found their way into each of my books.

  To the rest of my friends and family, I love you all and will be eternally grateful for how much you’ve helped me succeed.

  About the Author

  Heather Topham Wood graduated from the College of New Jersey in 2005 and holds a bachelor’s degree in English. Working full-time as a freelance writer for publications such as USA Today, Livestrong.com, Outlook by the Bay and Step in Style magazine, she writes fiction in her spare time. She resides in Trenton, New Jersey with her husband and two sons.

  New Revelations is the second novel in the Second Sight series. First Visions: Second Sight Book One was published on May 1, 2012.

  Follow Heather on Twitter and her blog to keep posted on her upcoming works:

  https://twitter.com/woodtop255

  http://authorheather.com

  JUMP TO...

  NEW REVELATIONS by HEATHER TOPHAM WOOD

  ARMAND by APRIL AASHEIM

  TUESDAY’S CHILD by DALE MAYER

  JUST A LITTLE NUDGE by JESI LEA RYAN

  HAUNTED ON BOURBON STREET by DEANNA CHASE

  SPIRITS AMONG US by MORGAN HANNAH MACDONAND

  LONDON by JC ANDRIJESKI

  AMONG THE LIVING by JORDAN CASTILLO PRICE

  VAMPIRE VACATION by C.J. ELLISSON

  TOUCHED by HAZEL HUNTER

  ARMAND

  A Daughters of Dark Root Companion Novel

  BY APRIL AASHEIM

  "Never trust a warlock..."

  Before Maggie Maddock and her sisters returned to Dark Root, Oregon, a generation of witches and warlocks reigned over The Council – 13 men and women devoted to holding back the dark they believed would eventually end the world.

  This is the origin story of Dark Root's most notable warlock: Armand.

  A natural magician, Armand uses his abilities to indulge in pleasurable pursuits with little regard for others, but when a beautiful woman, a skeletal ghost rider, and a powerful witch enter his life, his world will forever change.

  This novella is a prequel to The Daughters of Dark Root Series. It can be read as a standalone book or as a companion piece.

  Heat Level: 2

  To Mike and Nick, my little warlocks

  Santo Aldea

  Spain

  Late October, 1964

  One

  Armand sat upright in his bed, a sheet draped around his waist, almost but not quite concealing the line of auburn hairs that ran from his navel to his pelvis. He reached across the naked woman, careful not to touch her as he retrieved the bottle of brandy from the nightstand beside her.

  He took a long swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then closed his eyes, giving the brandy time to seep down into his belly. The warmth hit him almost immediately.

  Much better.

  When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the grayness of the room, a hue that deepened by degrees rather than shades.

  He eyed the woman in his bed again.

  She had been a beauty the night before, and he wasn’t sure if it had been the poor bar lighting or the fact that he’d been as high as Sputnik when they met. He could see now that she was not beautiful, not like the voluptuous, blonde skirts he’d partied with in Los Angeles, or the raven-
haired locals of the village.

  His latest companion was attractive at best, bordering on plain.

  Taking another drink, he turned his attention to the stark wall in front of him, wondering how he would pass the time until she woke. Getting a woman into his bed was easy; getting her to leave was the hard part.

  In LA he would have gone to her place, but here, with nothing but traveling students and backpackers to choose from, Armand was forced to bring women back to his rented room, unless he wanted to try his luck at the only motel in the area–a dump of a place rumored to be a front for a brothel, with payouts going to the local Policia.

  No, thank you.

  Armand slipped out of the sheets and stepped onto the cold, bare floor, looking for his pack of smokes. Ah, hell. He’d smoked them all the night before. Rifling through her purse, he saw that hers were gone, too.

  Come on, lady.

  A thought occurred to him as he hovered over the woman: she hadn’t moved in a very, very long time.

  His best friend John liked to joke that Armand would kill a woman with his lovemaking one day. He remembered John’s exact words, spoken during a late night tequila binge in West Hollywood. “You have the death touch, man. Everything you touch turns to shit. Except for me. I’m already shit.”

  What if John was right?

  There were too many instances of pets falling unexpectedly ill in his care, not to mention friends and acquaintances who’d died without warning over the last several years. At the time, Armand attributed it to hard living––a peril in LA––but what if it was more than coincidence?

  His mother had a green thumb. Maybe his was black.

  Armand lifted the woman’s limp wrist and watched it drop back on the bed with a muffled thump. She didn’t move, not even a little.

  “Ah, hell,” he said, pushing his hair behind his ears.

  He considered going down the hall to his landlady’s room to use her phone, but the thought of dealing with the local Policia left him cold. He had learned the lay of the land pretty quickly, and the two main rules were: foreigners were not to be trusted, and screwing without a marriage license was strictly forbidden.

  Even if she turned out to be all right, Armand might be charged with committing an Act Against God and thrown into one of those jails the other tourists whispered about. “No electricity or heat,” they joked. “But plenty of rats.”

  “Wake up.”

  If she was alive, she was too far under to hear him.

  He repeated the words, adding a soft nudge. When she still didn’t respond, he gave her a good shake, the sweat beading on his forehead.

  At last, the woman rolled onto her back, drool spilling from the side of her open mouth. Armand breathed a deep, brandy-sick sigh of relief. She wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t about to wake up, either.

  Maybe he had taken too much this time.

  The woman––what the hell was her name?––had given herself freely the night before, prompted by a few drinks and a shared joint. Even so, that didn’t mean she grasped the implications of allowing herself to be seduced by him.

  Maybe he should warn his future lovers, issue a disclaimer right from the start:

  “Screwing me will cost you a piece of your soul.”

  Let them decide if it was worth the risk. Then, if something did happen, the damage was not on his hands.

  Still grasping the bottle of brandy, Armand walked naked across the room. He seated himself in his only chair, next to his only window, resting his gaze on the woman’s boyish silhouette.

  Back home, he would have had a TV or a radio to occupy him. Here, his only diversion was a Bible provided by his landlady. He picked it up and thumbed through it, stopping at a painting of angels and sinners, their flesh melting in flames. Spanish Bibles got right to the point. He shut it and stuck it under his chair.

  He considered making noise, clanging some pans together or something. That might rouse her, but it would also bring his landlady. He wanted to get rid of one woman, not invite in another.

  Instead, he peeled back a corner of the dark-paneled curtain to let the light in. The sky outside was as gray as the room, a long streak of nothingness separated only by a pane of glass. Despite what the travel agent told him, it wasn’t sunny everywhere in Spain, especially in the late fall.

  A black bird the size of a football landed on his windowsill. It regarded Armand with large charcoal eyes, tilting its head up and down, taking him in. The bird’s appraisal was unnerving, as if it knew his every secret.

  Armand rapped on the window twice, hoping to frighten the bird away. The creature threw back its head and emitted a loud, guttural screech––a sound so horrible, the woman in Armand’s bed sat suddenly up, clutching the sheet around her.

  The bird gave him a long, knowing look, and then flew from the sill, fading into the steel-gray sky.

  Armand’s heart thumped in his ears. He took a slow breath, not wanting the woman to see him startled.

  “I just had a nightmare,” the woman said, her voice jittery as she looked around the room. “It was horrible…” She wiped her face with the corner of the sheet, then brushed a strand of her blond hair from her face. Her bare midriff extended outwards as she stretched, allowing Armand another glimpse of her small, pendulous breasts.

  She’d claimed to be in her early twenties when he’d met her the night before, a traveler from London out for one final adventure before she had to grow up. With the muted light from the window falling on her face, Armand noted that she was at least a decade older than she’d claimed. Soft lines formed at the edges of her eyes and two deep crevices swept across her forehead. She was thirty if she was a day.

  Not that age mattered to Armand; he was only interested in her energy.

  “Hello, you,” she said, gathering her hair into a low ponytail as she smiled. “I was really out, wasn’t I? Are you sure you didn't drug me?”

  It was a fair question, and one that came up surprisingly often. Armand arched an eyebrow and offered her a half-smile in return.

  “It’s cool if you did give me something,” she continued. “I just need to know so I don’t take it again.”

  Armand clicked his fingers against the half-empty bottle as she droned on. She wasn’t going to let it go, so he decided to amuse himself instead. “I didn’t drug you, but I did steal some of your life force.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t worry, though. It was only three days’ worth and I can see you are going to live a very long time, anyway.” He nodded to her pack of empty cigarettes on the nightstand. “You might even get those three days back, if you quit smoking. I hear it’s bad for you.”

  She shook her head and laughed, thinking he joked. “You may have stolen my heart, as well.” She smiled, the lines around her mouth deepening. “How did you sleep?”

  “I don’t sleep.”

  She furrowed her brows. “You don’t sleep? Ever?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Her eyes flickered with curiosity but she didn’t pursue it. “I have to meet my friends at 3:00,” she said, searching under the blankets for her clothes. Armand remembered the moment she had removed her blouse, unbuttoning it slowly and tossing it on to the bed with the grace and tease of a show girl, her blue-grey aura flaring with anticipation.

  Armand took a sip from the bottle, clearing the image from his head.

  “What time is it now?” she asked.

  “I don't keep track of time.”

  She stared at him, expressionless. “You’re a strange and charming man, Sir.” She held up her blouse to show him that she’d found one article of clothing. “But some of us need to sleep and know the time. We can’t all be barons.”

  “Touché.” Armand recalled the story he’d told her the night before. Of course, she hadn’t believed that he was actually a baron––his buckskin vest and cowboy hat screamed American––but his story interested her enough to stick around, even after her friends had left the bar
for the night.

  “I’ve got a watch somewhere.” She dug through her purse. “It must have fallen off during…” a blush crept across her face. She would get naked with a man, but she wouldn’t talk about it.

  English women.

  He went to his dresser and produced an ornate silver pocket watch from the top drawer.

  “11:00,” he said, staring at it for a long moment. His mother gave the watch to him on his thirteenth birthday, claiming it was the only thing she had that belonged to his father, Sebastian Diaz. Armand clamped it shut and returned it to the drawer.

  “We have time for lunch then,” she smiled, buttoning her blouse up to the neck.

  Her aura was returning, a shimmering blue that swirled around her in small, heady waves. It illuminated her face, lending her a beauty she would not have otherwise possessed. Armand felt a sudden need to have her again.

  “Want to get a bite to eat?” she asked more directly. “I’m buying.”

  He stretched his arms, allowing her to gaze at his naked body. She stopped dressing, her pupils dilating with excitement. Without waiting for an invitation, he left the bottle on the dresser and returned to the bed, pulling her along with him. He pushed her backwards, straddling her, his fingers crawling up under her blouse.