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

by Deanna Chase

  She took the lead, up the cracked cement path that led to the dingy building. The exterior lights had stopped working some time ago but the street lights were enough, plus the constant background glow from the skyscrapers of downtown, only a few miles away.

  “Watch your step,” she said, beginning the climb.

  He didn’t say a word, just fell in behind her. They climbed like that and, as they did, she thought of the day. It must have been months since she’d spent so much time with people. And she’d actually worked alongside them–Mac, the sergeant, even Brendan. It felt good to think she’d actually made a difference. And it was so good not to be all alone. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how wearing that had been.

  As they reached her landing, she took out her keys.

  “I’m glad Anita made Ben eat something,” Mac said. “He was looking gray.”

  Isabelle tensed as she turned to him and the keys fell from her hand. A shadow fell across his face, the street light behind and below him, and she couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Our hands touched,” he said quietly.

  Her breath caught. So, he’d remembered. When she’d read Brendan she’d wondered if Mac had put two and two together. Blood pounded in her ears. People never knew their own thoughts this well. But Mac was obviously not like other people.

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she said quickly. “You grabbed my–”

  “Hand,” he finished. “I know.”

  Even in the cool evening breeze, she felt her cheeks flush hot, as though she’d been caught in the act of some…some…crime. So the FBI agent had caught her in the act. He stooped in front of her and picked up the keys.

  “I’d never read anybody without their permission. Never.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he said holding out her keys. But just before she could take them, he quickly raised them up and out of reach. “Wait. Are you saying it was bad?”

  No reading was good. Too often she learned things that were better left unknown. Reading Mac, though, even as quickly as it had ended, had been a revelation. On the outside, he was the man in charge, a solid pillar for Ben and Anita to lean on, a smooth professional to everyone he met. But inside, intense emotions ran fast and deep. Suddenly, though she remembered that she’d also read the word psychobabble.

  Hold on.

  She looked up at her keys and Mac’s shadowed face. He had yet to say that he actually believed she did readings. Not once during the day had he acknowledged it. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to supply other explanations for what she’d seen.

  “May I have my keys?” she said evenly.

  “Not until you tell me,” he said.

  He sounded serious.

  But is he?

  People were almost never ready to hear about their own thoughts. In fact, most of the time, people were blindsided by them. Did he really want to hear about the reading? Fine. If that’s what he wanted, that’s what he’d get.

  Who was the brunette? Isabelle thought. It was the one question worth asking and yet the one that she dared not. Who is the woman who makes you sad?

  She wanted to know. More than that, she wanted Mac to know that her ability was real. But more than anything, in this moment, she didn’t want to push him away. She was tired of pushing people away.

  “So, nothing to tell me?” he asked. “Nothing–”

  “Did you get an eyeful of my shapely legs on the way up here?”

  Mac froze.

  Suddenly, Isabelle became aware of the sound of traffic from the nearby freeway and a television across the street blaring the sounds of a car chase. There was a siren in the opposite direction, maybe a real one. But not a sound came from Mac, and Isabelle thought her chest might burst.

  Finally, Mac lowered the keys. But as she reached for them, he caught her gloved hand in midair.

  “I did get an eyeful,” he said lowly, drawing her toward him. She felt his other hand slip around her waist. “And you know I did,” he said, stepping close to her, nearly touching. “That’s why you went first. So I’ll do a little reading of my own,” he said, closing the distance between them and lowering his face to hers, “I’ll say you liked that I got an eyeful,” he said, just before their lips met.

  Though Mac had watched Isabelle’s lips all day, he’d never permitted himself to think about this moment. Kissing her went against training. It flew in the face of professionalism. It probably wasn’t ethical. And Mac knew from bitter experience that romance and work had to be kept separate.

  But that was the problem–that bitter experience and the emptiness that never went away. Besides, he told himself, Isabelle wasn’t exactly work. She was…he didn’t know what she was. But right now, as he held her in his arms, he didn’t care. Isabelle was warm, incredibly vital, and exceptionally beautiful.

  As though drawn by a powerful magnet, his lips immediately melded with hers. His mouth probed her as he marveled at the lush give of her tender flesh. He gently suckled it, tasting the sweetness of her, feeling the silky glide of her lower lip along his.

  Her moist breath came more rapidly and, as he let go of her hand, the keys fell to the landing again, but neither of them paid attention. Instead, he felt her hands behind his neck as his went to her tiny waist, his fingers nearly circling her. Through the thin fabric of the dress, he felt her slender waistline move, supple in his hands.

  Though at first she’d reminded him of someone else, Isabelle wasn’t like her at all. Though disappointment tugged at him, so did relief. Maybe it was finally time to move on. He wanted to, needed to, maybe more than he’d been willing to admit.

  Isabelle’s lips moved slowly, provocatively, responding to the mounting press of his. He lightly nibbled her upper lip, starting in the middle but moving steadily toward the corner that he had watched crook upward. He dwelled there for a moment but then retraced his path, his lips kneading into hers with growing urgency. Her mouth drifted with his, seeking him out, as though she didn’t want to lose contact. The motion was completely seductive, and he found himself teasing her, relishing the moist glide of her lips on his, their constant movement. But as his arousal stiffened and his fingers gripped her waist, he realized it wasn’t just her who’d been tantalized.

  Quickly, he captured her lower lip in his mouth. His tongue stroked it, licking her, savoring the delicious feel and taste of her. He felt her mouth close on his upper lip and then the tentative touch of her tongue. He sucked her lower lip completely into his mouth, wet and warm, making her gasp and drag in a ragged breath. Her diaphragm pulsed against his thumbs and, before she even had a chance to finish inhaling, he released her mouth and pulled her to him.

  “Isabelle,” he breathed, as his arms wound around her and he pressed her body to his.

  As Mac’s chest pushed against hers, Isabelle realized that his suit and shirt hid a rock-hard body. She knew he looked fit, his shoulders wide and his waist narrow, but the hardness of the muscles of his chest came as a shock–almost as surprising as the sudden intensity in his lips as they captured hers.

  This morning, if someone had asked her, Isabelle wasn’t sure if she’d even remember what a kiss felt like. Most guys were turned off by the word psychic right from the start. But for the few who stuck around, her ability to read them, especially when they made love, was a deal breaker. While lots of people said they wanted truth in their relationships, few were actually ready for the reality of it.

  But she had already read Mac, if only accidentally, and the passion in his kiss began to match the profound emotion that she’d discovered.

  His rounded shoulders bunched under her forearms as his embrace tightened. Like bands of steel, his arms closed around her. And as his mouth engulfed hers, the intensity there became all-consuming. His lips urged hers on, as though they were no longer hers to control. He suckled her lower lip again and then the upper, moving faster and pressing harder. His nose pressed into her cheek before he quickly tilted his head the ot
her way. Her lips followed his, clinging to them, desperate not to be parted from them for a single instant.

  The rough stubble of his chin rubbed against her skin. Her gloved hands ran down over the broad shoulders. Though her lungs began to burn, her lips never left his as she dragged in air through her nose. Though her heart beat in her ears, and her chest wanted to burst, she could not lose contact. The feel of his mouth blotted out everything else. The images of the day fell away as pent-up desire rose to take their place. Mindless oblivion was approaching and yet just out of reach.

  His tongue probed her then, the rhythm of his absorbing kiss broken, urging her mouth to open. As her lips parted in response, she felt his arms tighten and he leaned forward. Her body curved against him, luxuriating in the press of the hard slabs of muscle. But as the jab of his arousal pushed into her abdomen, she gasped and he kissed her deeply.

  The more Isabelle opened herself to him, the more Mac wanted. The curve of her, the press of her hips, her soft breasts, the sweetness of her mouth–she was irresistible. His tongue swept inside her with a carnal desire that made him lean even further forward. Even though they stood where they’d started, he pursued her. He felt the lithe movement of her body against his, and he wanted more. His mouth engulfed hers, capturing the soft, pink lips that had fascinated him during the day, tasting them, and feeding from them as though he were a starving man–and he wanted more.

  And her skin?

  Was it just as delicious?

  He had to find out.

  With a small smacking sound, he suddenly released her mouth and immediately ducked under her chin. She gasped, inhaling deeply, and he felt her diaphragm flex against his abs. He held her close and leaned forward yet again. Her back arched to accommodate him and, as her head tilted back, he covered her throat with fevered kisses. He lapped at her with his tongue, nibbled her with his lips, and savored the fresh taste of her silky skin. Her hands clung to his shoulders as he tilted her back even further, and his mouth covered the dip between her collar bones.

  Her gasps had turned to rasping breaths that moved in time with his steady progression across and down her skin. Though he tried not to hurry, it was as though his mouth knew what waited just below. But of course it did. He hadn’t been immune to the sight of her figure. His lips and tongue traced a sucking and nibbling line directly to the top of her dress.

  Isabelle quietly moaned in response, arching her back even further. He held her weight completely in his arms, and her hands moved into the hair at the back of his head. Both of them breathed quickly now, their lungs heaving for air. His tongue darted under the dress and between the softly curved swell of her breasts. His lips bit gently into her, savoring the creamy flesh, his nose filled with the fragrant smell of her. Lower he went, as his chin nudged the dress down, kneading his mouth into the plump mounds as she moaned again.

  Suddenly, his phone rang.

  For a moment, he couldn’t place the sound. His mind had gone somewhere else completely and his mouth–it couldn’t stop exploring Isabelle.

  But on the second ring, he couldn’t ignore it and on the third he knew he had to answer.

  “Dammit,” he muttered quietly, as Isabelle stood upright.

  With more willpower than it should have taken, he withdrew his arms from around her and took the phone from his pocket.

  It was Sharon. He jabbed the answer button with his thumb.

  “Mac,” he said, as he watched Isabelle take a deep breath and try to straighten her dress.

  “We’ve had a call,” Sharon said.

  Mac’s mind immediately snapped to an image of Special Agent Lyang at her laptop in Ben’s living room.

  “The kidnapper?” Mac said, almost not believing he was saying it. He and Ben had both known that the chances of getting a ransom call at this point were none.

  Isabelle had stooped to pick up her keys but looked up at him.

  “Yes, the kidnapper,” said Sharon. “But no ransom.”

  Mac scowled as Isabelle stared at him.

  “He wants to talk to the psychic,” Sharon said. “To Isabelle.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Keep him talking,” Isabelle said. “Ask to speak with Esme.”

  “Right,” Mac said.

  The living room was buzzing with excitement. Anita and Ben stood together at the far end of the room and stared at her, looking hopeful–worried but hopeful. Ben held a headset with a wire that led to the computer and other electronics boxes on the coffee table. Sharon already wore her headset and sat to Isabelle’s left, on the couch. Mac sat to her right. He’d quickly jotted down some dialogue for her to read, and that sheet of paper lay on the coffee table in front of her.

  Why me?

  “Just act natural,” Mac said.

  She nodded and tried to give him a smile. Though they hadn’t held hands or anything, Mac had stayed close.

  “One minute,” Sharon said.

  She pointed to the clock on the screen, almost nine o’clock.

  Why does he want to talk to me?

  Her gloved hands seemed to wrestle with one another in her lap, and now she realized they were shaking.

  “You’ll do fine,” Mac whispered. “I’m right here.”

  She nodded, aware she was holding her breath, and let it go with a whoosh.

  The phone rang.

  As though a fire alarm had gone off, the sound seemed to shatter the air. Isabelle jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

  Sharon held out two fingers, then one, then pointed at the handset in the charger. Isabelle picked it up.

  “Hello?” she said.

  Sharon hit the enter key on her laptop and a timer started. Mac had already explained that every second on the phone could count. If he was calling on a land line, they’d be able to trace it instantaneously. If he was calling on a cell phone though, the longer the better to narrow down which cell tower was being hit the strongest. Something about triangulation.

  Another agent across from her, also wearing a headset, nodded.

  Isabelle listened but there was only silence.

  “Hello?” she said, again louder.

  “Your gift comes from Satan,” a man’s muffled voice said. “It’s filthy.”

  Whether it was the tone of his voice or what he said, Isabelle didn’t know, but a shudder ran down her spine. Sharon nodded, rotated her hand as though she were cranking a pencil sharpener, and pointed at the timer.

  “Satan?” Isabelle asked. “Satan gives gifts?”

  That was lame.

  “Do you mock me?” the voice said.

  “No!” Isabelle quickly answered. “No. I’m just a psychic. I don’t know the first thing about Satan.”

  There was a dry chuckle on the other end of the line.

  “But he knows you,” he finally said. “He owns you.”

  Isabelle glanced at the laptop screen. Fifteen seconds elapsed. Across the room, Anita was clutching Ben as the two of them shared the headset. Mac pointed to the top paragraph on his sheet of notes.

  “May I speak with Esme?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Is that her name?” the kidnapper asked, sounding amused. “I call her the Whore of Babylon. Satan owns her too.”

  “Her name is Esme,” Isabelle replied. “You’ve seen it on TV. The way you saw mine.”

  Mac gave her the ‘okay’ sign.

  “I need to speak with her,” Isabelle said.

  “With whom the kings of the earth had committed incest?” the kidnapper yelled and everyone who was wearing a headset flinched. “The one who the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her incest? You don’t tell me what to do!”

  “I’m not telling,” Isabelle said quickly. “I’m asking. I need to know if she’s alive. You’re not the first person to call this phone number today.”

  “You don’t know?” asked the muffled voice. “You don’t know if she’s alive? How can a psychic not know if she’s ali
ve?”

  “That’s not how it works,” Isabelle said, automatically. “I see things through touch.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “So working with the FBI and touching things?” he asked.

  Isabelle checked with Mac. He nodded.

  “That’s right,” Isabelle said.

  “And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus,” the kidnapper replied.

  “I still don’t know if Esme’s alive,” Isabelle said. Mac nodded. “Is there any point to this conversation?”

  “There’s a point,” the kidnapper snapped. “It’s a war between good and evil. Faith versus heresy. Between God and the devil.” He paused. “Between me and you.”

  Isabelle swallowed in a dry throat and, for the first time, she doubted that this phone call was serious or that Esme was even alive.

  “Between you and me there’s nothing,” Isabelle said. “Not until I know Esme is alive.”

  There was only silence.

  The timer on Sharon’s computer said two minutes.

  “Hello?” Isabelle said into the silence.

  “Hello?” came a young girl’s voice.

  “Esme?” Isabelle said, nearly yelling.

  Across the room, Anita clamped both her hands over her mouth and Ben closed his eyes.

  “Esme,” Isabelle tried again. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” came the faltering, trembling answer. “I’m–”

  Then there was the sound of scraping and jostling.

  “Between you and me,” said the kidnapper suddenly and then the line went dead.

  Sharon and the man across from her frantically typed on their keyboards. Everyone in the room held their breath. But finally, the agent across the table shook his head and took of his headset.

  “Didn’t get a lock,” Sharon said as she took off hers. “The signal strength was too weak and we couldn’t narrow it down to one tower, more like four.”

  Shoulders sagged around the room and Isabelle quickly looked at Mac.