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

by Deanna Chase

  Sasha gave him a quick nod. Her light returned, setting the room aglow.

  “Who needs love?” she asked, her nails digging into his shoulders as her hips slid closer to his.

  Armand wrapped his arms around the small of her waist. “Certainly not me.”

  “I don’ know why ya insist on takin’ him.” Dora took a long swill from her teacup, grimaced, then added honey. “This is so bad even I can’t drink it straight.”

  “Now, Dora, we have to. You know he is the reason we were led here.”

  “Ya sure it wasn’t fer the girl?”

  “Well…” Sasha puckered her lips, stirring her own cup with a teaspoon. “He may have something to do with the girl’s condition.”

  “I don’ like it. Don’ like warlocks o’ any kind. Why are ya always cavortin’ around with them? Find yerself another hobby.”

  Sasha smiled, lifting the cup to her lips. “It might do you some good to find a similar hobby. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so grumpy all the time.”

  Armand watched the women from the top of the landing where the basement stairwell met the kitchen.

  He’d just woken up, and according to the clock on the kitchen wall directly in front of him, he’d been out awhile. When he’d come to, he’d forgotten where he was until the scent of lavender and roses hit him.

  He stood there quietly, undecided if he should continue to eavesdrop or announce his presence. He was curious about Sasha’s hobby and Dora’s distrust of warlocks, but he felt foolish lurking in the shadows. He was about to cough and make an entrance when Sasha spoke his name.

  “Armand may be a warlock, but I believe he’s a good soul.”

  Dora slammed her cup into its corresponding saucer.

  “Good soul?” She leaned forward, her thick brows knitting together over her keen hawk eyes. “Mark my words. He’ll turn on ya like cream left out o’ the icebox. In my opinion, there shouldn’t be any warlocks on The Council at all.”

  She gathered up her dishes and marched to the sink, clanging saucers and cups together while cursing under her breath.

  Sasha followed, gently placing her own cup inside the soapy water.

  “If we don’t train him, someone else will. The third horseman has come. What else can we do?” She rested a hand on the back of Dora’s shoulders. The two women stared out the window, into the coral sunlight of the December morning.

  “If the Dark Army wants him, there’s nothin’ we can do ta stop it,” Dora answered. “Even in Dark Root.”

  Sasha sighed. Armand noticed her hair was loose and wild. “We will put up the shield,” she said. “If we do it right, nothing can get through.”

  Several minutes passed before Dora spoke again.

  At last, she shook the dishwater from her hands, then dried them on her apron. “Would take at least seven o’ us ta perform the ritual. We’d need a full Council.”

  “Well, we’ve got three, with him. Four if we include Larinda.”

  Dora’s eyes shadowed. “Ya don’ mean to include her, too? After all the trouble she put ya through?”

  “She’s family, Dora. Family forgives.”

  “Humph! If it weren’t fer her, Robbie would still be alive, family or not!” Dora elbowed past Sasha and disappeared into the adjoining living room.

  Sasha stared after but didn’t follow.

  Armand took a quiet step backwards. Dark Army? Council? Train him? He didn’t like the sound of any of it. He wondered if he had somehow gotten involved in a religious nut-cult. They were popping up all around San Francisco.

  He decided right then that he would leave as soon as possible. He’d be cutting it close, but he probably had enough dough to catch a bus to the city and hop a plane.

  At this point, he’d swim back to the States if he had to.

  Besides, Sasha had already said she couldn’t love him. She was using him, just like he’d used the others.

  His Karma, he guessed.

  Armand took another step back, feeling for the narrow stair below him. He missed and lost his balance.

  Tumbling down the sleek wooden stairs, his head hit the hard basement floor.

  Eleven

  “Idiot.”

  It was Dora’s voice that brought him back, her square face staring at him, shoving a cup of her infamous tea in his face. “Drink it,” she ordered.

  Armand sickened at the smell and turned his head away.

  “It will help with the headache,” Sasha said reassuringly. His head rested in her lap.

  He tried to sit, but was struck back down by a sharp pain that shot from his foot through his entire body.

  “I don’t think it’s my head.” He nodded at his ankle.

  Dora carefully drew his pants leg up, revealing a black and purple area the size of a fist.

  He wriggled it, and let out an involuntary yelp.

  “That’ll take more than tea.” Dora took the cup and lumbered back up the stairs.

  “We need pain killers, Dora,” Sasha called after her. “The good stuff, if we have any.”

  Armand patted down his shirt pocket, hoping he’d still had some of his stash. Coming up empty, he tossed his head back into Sasha’s lap. If someone had set fire to his foot, it probably would have hurt less. He prayed that the good stuff Sasha referred to was really, really good.

  Dora returned holding a jar. Stooping beside him, she opened his mouth and popped two pills inside. “Do ya need help chewin’ them, too?”

  “I can do it myself, thanks.” He lifted his head, recognizing the taste as aspirin. “Well, witch,” he turned back to Sasha. “Have any magical remedies for my ankle?”

  “He’s not worth it,” Dora said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ya’ll regret it.”

  “I was kidding,” Armand said, relaxing as the aspirin began to take effect. “Keep your voodoo practices to yourself. I’m going to find a doctor. They must have one, even in a third-world village like this.”

  Reaching for the stair railing, Armand pulled himself to standing. He squared his shoulders and planted his injured foot on the floor, bracing himself for the pain.

  “Mother fuck!” he yelled, losing his grip and sitting back down.

  His ankle was more than sprained, and possibly broken.

  “I’m using it, Dora,” Sasha said, heading towards her bedroom. “And that is that.”

  Armand couldn’t tell how long Sasha was gone.

  Dora stood vigil, her face pasted into an expression that told him she’d gladly let him rot on the floor, if it were up to her.

  The aspirin was taking effect, at least, the horrible pain in his ankle receding to a bearable throb.

  “We’re all out o’ medicine,” Dora informed him. “Let’s hope ya fall asleep before this dose wears off, or it might be a hard night fer you.”

  At last, Armand heard Sasha’s footsteps near his head. She wore a red, hooded robe, and now wielded a short gnarled stick with a pointed end.

  “What the…” He rubbed his eyes.

  It really was a cult!

  “You’ll be fine,” Sasha reassured him.

  She raised the stick high above her head, then thrust it down upon him.

  Twelve

  Armand rolled onto his side, wincing as he realized he was putting his weight onto his injured ankle. He shut his eyes, readying himself for the pain, but none came.

  He opened his eyes again.

  He was in Sasha’s bed, naked except for his underwear. He sat up and inspected his foot. The bruising had completely disappeared. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his feet into the floor.

  It was as if nothing had happened.

  How long was I out? He scratched his head, suspecting Dora had drugged him with her tea. If he had been unconscious for several days, that would account for part of the healing. But not all of it.

  He found his clothes in the wardrobe, clean and pressed.

  The door opened as he dressed, and Sasha smiled la
zily at him, wearing the same white dress he’d first met her in.

  “Well, hello, sleepy-head.”

  “I’m leaving,” he said, buttoning his shirt.

  “But you just got here.”

  “How long was I sleeping?”

  “All night. I hope you dreamed.”

  Yes, he had. Dark horses and whispering cherubs and pale pink flowers. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all.

  “What did you do to my ankle?” he asked as he pulled on a sock. “Are you a nurse?”

  Sasha put her hands on her hips. “Why do men always assume a woman with any medical training is a nurse? Why not a doctor? Times have changed, Armand, and they are going to keep changing. You’d better get used to it.”

  He sighed, his patience wearing thin. “So you’re a doctor then?”

  “No, but I don’t appreciate assumptions.”

  “Good god, woman, do you always have to play mind games?” He grabbed his wallet from the dresser and limped past her, his subconscious still not believing his ankle had fully healed.

  “You can’t go back to your apartment,” she said, when he was halfway down the hall.

  “I won’t.”

  “You can’t go into the village, either.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  She caught up to him, grabbing him by the crook of his arm. “Armand, listen to me, please. There are people looking for you right now. People you don’t want to mess with.”

  Armand froze. “What people?”

  “The police. They mean to take you in.”

  “What? You’ll say anything to get me to stay here, won’t you?”

  Sasha glanced down the hall, as if those people might be right here in the house with them. “Plain-clothed officers have been watching you since you arrived. Your escapades are an insult to everything they believe in.”

  Armand braced his hands against the walls of the narrow hallway. “And how do you know all this?”

  “They were at the door this morning. Dora covered for you.”

  “This isn’t some kind of ruse so that I have no choice but to stay down here in the cellar with you and Colonel Klink, is it?”

  Sasha’s face hardened. “You think far too highly of yourself. If I wanted to keep you here, I wouldn’t have fixed your ankle.” She looked at his foot. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Storming back down the hall, she slammed her bedroom door behind her.

  He bent down and inspected his ankle once again, still unsure how she’d fixed it. The image of her in a red cloak, holding the gnarled stick returned.

  There are bad things in this world.

  Sasha might be one of them.

  Dressed in one of Dora’s raincoats, Armand puffed on a cigarette stolen from Sasha’s purse as he paced the cobblestone road outside the women’s apartment.

  Every sound made him jump. First demons and now the Spanish police. There was no hiding in this town, from the living or the undead.

  The clock on the old municipal tower announced that it was four in the afternoon. Most of the shops had closed up, only to reopen later in the day. Not that he had any intention of visiting them. He planned to lie low for now, until he figured out how to get out of town unnoticed.

  He could hitchhike. Many tourists bragged about thumbing it across the entire European continent. But what if he got picked up by the wrong person? In a place like this, they probably still had bounties.

  He took another drag of the cigarette, letting the familiar sensation of nicotine fill his lungs. His mother had smoked for most of her life and he’d acquired the habit by snatching smokes from her purse.

  Of course, that was before the government deemed it unhealthy. On her deathbed, he promised her he’d quit, but he hadn’t specified when. Maybe when he was out of here, he’d make a fresh start in L.A., breathing in the pollution instead.

  For now, smoking was one of the few legal reprieves he had from all the craziness.

  He tapped a long ash on the ground as an idea began to take form. These women really wanted him to go with them. If he played along, acting like he was gung-ho-joe about it, they might help smuggle him out of town. It would be easy for them. The policia weren’t looking for women.

  He could pretend his way all the way to freedom, then ditch them once the plane landed on U.S. soil. They might even pay for his plane ticket.

  He’d have to play it cool, of course.

  The plan, though a sound one, somehow left him cold. He couldn’t deceive Sasha, even if she was a pain in his ass.

  He decided not to go with them, but they might help him anyway, if he asked.

  Armand stamped out his cigarette.

  Feeling like a beaten dog, he returned to Sasha’s apartment, angry that he was at her mercy. Angrier still that she knew it.

  Thirteen

  The room was dark, lit up only by the lightning that slashed across the night sky. Outside the bedroom, window Nature was putting on quite a show. The last silver blaze practically ripped the sky apart.

  Armand sat in Dora’s bed, smoking as he watched the spectacle. As usual, he couldn’t sleep, but it wasn’t the storm that kept him up. It was the sound of Sasha and Dora’s footsteps, parading up and down the hallway all night.

  “As soon as the storm is over,” he thought. “I’ll tell them I’m catching the next plane out of here. If they’re as righteous as they claim to be, they’ll help me. If not, screw them. I’ll walk to the nearest city myself.”

  The thunder sounded like cannon fire and the old building quaked. This wasn’t any storm, it was THE storm. He didn’t know Spain had such weather.

  Another thing left out of the travel brochures.

  Light suddenly flooded the room. Armand turned to see Sasha standing in the doorway with a large basket draped over her arm.

  “Get up,” she said. “We have to go.”

  “I already told you I’m not going back to Dark Land with you.”

  “It’s Dark Root, and that’s not where we’re going. There’s been an emergency.”

  “Ah, hell, lady. Do I look like I’d be any use in an emergency? Get me a drink and we’ll talk about it.”

  Sasha answered by throwing him his clothes.

  Armand pulled on his corduroy jeans, paisley shirt, his trench coat, and his cowboy hat to help keep the rain off of his head, all the while wondering what kind of emergency could possibly call them out in a storm like this?

  But these two whackos had no sense of time or even temperature. They probably didn’t even notice it was raining.

  With the cigarette still in his mouth, he followed her down the hall, mumbling out loud that this “better be good.”

  A man in a long jacket stood in the front doorway, clutching his wet hat.

  Armand panicked. Was this a trap?

  He did a quick scan of the man’s mind. He was not a policeman; he was a grieving father.

  Dora emerged from the kitchen, carrying a cup of one of her concoctions. She handed it to the man and motioned for him to take a seat near the fireplace.

  “Gracias, no,” the man said, his eyes full of worry. “There is no time,” he explained, looking at each of them in turn.

  When his eyes met Armand’s they flickered with anger.

  Armand read the man’s thoughts again.

  He was Isabella’s father.

  Sasha put on her raincoat. “He is right,” she said. “There is very little time.”

  They tramped through the night, following the man into rain so thick Armand couldn’t see three feet ahead of him.

  “Where the hell are we going?” he asked aloud, his feet seemingly finding every puddle along the way. “And why does it have to be now?”

  Sasha stopped in her tracks and Armand bumped into her.

  “This is partly your mess,” she said. “Therefore, you will help to clean it up.”

  She raised her chin and returned to her march, sloshing through the rain as the man led them further
away from the village and into the outskirts of town.

  They picked their way down a slippery dirt road, grasping at tree branches for support until they came upon a small house. The man opened the door and they entered into a room as dark as the night outside.

  “I am sorry,” the man apologized. “The power, it is out.”

  “I don’t like this,” Armand whispered. “Every horror movie I’ve ever watched has a scene like this. I hope you have your gym shoes on.”

  Sasha shushed him. “Dora, did you bring the candles?”

  Dora’s shadow rummaged through her large bag, her breathing labored.

  At last, she withdrew a candle and lit it.

  Armand squinted as his eyes fought to adjust. The room had been cleared of all furniture except for a makeshift bed on the floor. A young woman lay on the mat, her eyes wide and staring upwards as a dozen statues of the Virgin Mary and at least as many crucifixes held vigil on stands and shelves around her.

  The woman rolled her head to face Armand. “I knew you’d return for me.” She licked her lips and grinned.

  That can’t be Isabella. She was so thin and pale. Her hair had turned the color of ash. And the voice. It wasn’t hers.

  Armand inched closer. She looked so different, but even with only one candle to see by, there was no denying this was her.

  “It hurts,” she said in a child’s voice, lifting her hands to show him that they were tied. Her ankles were bound as well.

  “What the hell have you done to her?” Armand grabbed her father by the collar and pulled him up on his toes.

  “We had to tie her,” the man insisted, his eyes darting around the room. “She has the diablo inside her.”

  Isabelle turned her head towards her father and hissed. A statue of the Virgin Mary fell from its shelf. “Cállate!”

  “He did the right thing,” Sasha stepped between the two men. “If she hadn’t been bound, she might have hurt herself or worse.”

  Isabella turned her attention to Dora, her eyes filling with tears. “You remind me of my mother. Please untie me. I promise to be good.”