Storm Crazy: A paranormal cozy romance (Destiny Paramortals Book 1)

by Livia Quinn

  I look back at the clouds and the circling earth. Ahead I see the white line of the horizon; higher I go until everything in front of me is the deep blue of the stratosphere. Beautiful. The weight on my chest is… unbearable. My eyes widen as I flip over into a swan dive, plummeting back to earth, the spinning horizon on my left as mountains come into view. Mountains… in Louisiana… huh!

  I endure another dizzying rotation through a massive thunderhead. I hear… I hear—Metallica? rocking in the background and see rooster tails of dark water flying beneath me. I blast skyward like a geyser straight up into an azure sky.

  Oohhh… Vapor flares behind me, curling away into the sun. I tilt my head awkwardly. The sky… is upside down. Squinting, I remember, “Don’t look at the Sun.” Suddenly, The heaviness on my chest is lifted and I stagger, dropping through a cottony carpet of clouds, descending toward black waves, blue flames, and silver green eyes…

  “Hey.” A hand encircled my wrist.

  The green trim of the small porch materialized in front of me. I gripped the rail avoiding his eyes. What was that?

  “Are you okay?” Hunky Doctor asked.

  I beat the scanner with my palm to cover my discombobulation. “Uh, sure,” I said, clearing my throat. “My… scanner quit,” I said, keeping my eyes down on the instrument as I restarted it. I tapped my foot staring at the screen…waiting, waiting…feeling his steamy heat next to me. Finally, it came back online. I scanned the barcode and pushed the package into his hands.

  “Have a good day,” I called as I dashed down the steps to my truck.

  What was with the hallucination? Another one of those symptoms Aurora kept warning me about? I gave myself a mental shake. No time to think about it right now. I had to get to the route, make up some time.

  As I backed out of the driveway, I looked over my shoulder. Dr. Jordan made one arresting figure, but the female he had his arm around didn’t look much older than seventeen. I sighed. What a waste.

  I floored the accelerator, my tires squealing sharply as they hit the curb and found purchase on the asphalt.

  There are a lot of things I love about my job—the rhythms of it, driving the streets, interacting with my customers. Well, most of them. My customers are like family, and you know how that is—sometimes you wanna kill ‘em. If things didn’t turn around soon, today might be one of those days.

  Jack

  “Where did she come from?”

  Something about my new mail carrier appealed to me, despite the feistiness I sensed below the surface. She was damned sexy, and normal. She had a government job. Hell, part of what I found sexy about her was her normal-ness. Normal was great.

  It made my decision to put up a mailbox rather than continue to get our mail at work a win-win. Jordie had been responsible for that. She didn’t want everyone at the office knowing she was on acne meds, or speculating about her Victoria Secret packages. I was on board with that. So I bought the new mailbox and requested mail delivery, thinking we’d get one of those scruffy old mailmen like the one we had in Memphis.

  I groaned as a few sprinkles hit the porch in front of me. Better get my act together and get dressed. Jordie’s appointment was in twenty minutes.

  As lightning flashed toward town, I pictured the mail lady with the bizarre rainbow hair, the only indication of a possible adjustment in my opinion. What was up with that? We didn’t need another weirdo in our life for sure. I’d sworn off women after my first experience with Jordie’s mother. It would have been nice to have a date, or a woman, now and then, but it was safer to be cautious.

  Even as the image of T. Pomeroy flashed across my mind again, I affirmed that it was better this way. Right now my job and Jordie were my top priorities.

  I’d probably never see her again anyway.

  Chapter 3

  Tempe

  The mailbox at 5 Casino Drive was decorated in cheery green foil with a new red flag standing straight up. Odd, since this customer never put mail in their box. As soon as I slid to a stop the lid flew open.

  “Happy St. Paddy’s Day!”

  An eight inch Leprechaun unfolded himself out of the mailbox and leaned against the opening, one ankle crossed over the other.

  I aimed a look heavenward as I held my hand out. He slapped a green painted coin into it with a flourish. It read Good for a Guinness at Bons Amis.

  He winked, “Dunnae’ tell Liam.” Liam is the half Churichaun-half vamp bartender at a popular local bar.

  Marty’s an Imp, not a Leprechaun, but he can shift into a variety of forms depending on his agenda. And he always has an agenda. Usually it’s to create havoc whenever, wherever and however…thus the slang “imp.” Marty’s costume consisted only of a red wig, shiny black shoes and a quivering four-leaf clover positioned squarely over his frisky Imp-hood.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought imps and four leaf clovers couldn’t—”

  “It’s just polyester,” Marty grinned, stroking the clover and waggling his eyebrows, gauging my reaction. The show was about to begin.

  “‘Ahh, Colleen, where is your green?’ ”

  He placed his hand over his heart and gushed Thomas Daly’s poem in his best stage voice,

  “‘The whole blue vault of heaven is wan grand triumphal arch…

  …Fur the whole world is Irish, on the Seventeenth o’ March!’”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve just exposed yourself as an IMPoster and certainly not Irish. Today is February seventeenth. You’re a month early.” I laughed.

  “Wh⎯” The delight on his face vanished.

  Uh-oh, he was miffed. Marty was a might unpredictable. Better smooth things over. “But, Marty, m’ lad. You cut a fine Leprechau’ish figure, if I do say so m’self.”

  He sketched a solemn bow.

  “Now, tell me what you’re doing here—” A prickle of disquiet sizzled down my neck. Marty was often found in River’s company. Did his appearance have something to do with River? I shouldn’t have ignored the feeling I’d had this morning that something was wrong. Sure, River had told me to back off, but he usually let me know when he had something planned.

  “River.” The name slipped from my lips, and Marty flinched, nearly dropping his cover to expose more than I wanted to see. True to his Imp nature, he ignored me, looking around and straightening the edges of the poly clover.

  Sniffing, he said, “I just stopped by to wish you a Happy St. Paddy’s Day, Tempest. But as ye pointed out me lack of proper timing, I’ll be leavin’.”

  “Wait⎯” but the sulky little Imp had poofed.

  “Damn. If only Marty were a cooperative sidekick—one that played by Paramortal rules. But then, maybe he did, and I didn’t know the secret. If I saw him again, I’d have to figure out a way to make him cooperate.

  “…Nothing but a bunch of high paid idiots.”

  Mr. Jackson’s hands shook as he beat the envelope against the hood of my mail truck. The eighty-year old grouch stood around five-three, his body withered from arthritis and bad habits, cigarette stench wafting around him. He’d dyed his comb-over hair black, what there was of it, and his beady eyes looked just about that color. It was pretty creepy.

  I sighed and watched him stomp—well, in his case—gimp with attitude in my direction. He attempted to plant his feet firmly in the thick grass, but rocked back and forth on his heels. He lifted his cane, and aimed it at me. It did make more impact than his wrinkly index finger.

  Glaring he said, “It’s not like it was when I worked for the Postal Service, the real one. We cared about our job. Now they put it all in order for you and all you do is ride around in an air-conditioned truck and poke it in the box.”

  I resent that. The last time I had air-conditioning was just before the Chevy turned over her second hundred thousand.

  “Yet, here I am again getting mail that’s not even addressed to me! Like this.” He gripped an envelope in his gnarled fingers, shaking it in my face. While I waited for his rant to en
d, I looked up at the fast moving clouds. Then the sharp corner of an envelope hit my cheek. The old fart had thrown his mail at me.

  I scrubbed my face with my hands trying to keep a lid on my temper. I overlook a lot of what Mr. Jackson does out of respect for his age and because he was a carrier for over forty years. “Mr. Jackson, I realize you’re frustrated, but you need to calm down.”

  “Then stop giving me mail that isn’t mine!” he screamed. If his purple complexion and the rigid veins in his neck were any indication, he was about to blow a gasket. He started trembling violently as if he were about to have a seizure, and drifted forward over his cane.

  Uh-oh.

  I slammed the lever into park, kicking packages and mail out of my way, and shoved the door open with my foot. I didn’t remember grabbing my cell from over the visor, but as I knelt next to Mr. Jackson, I heard, “911” in my headset and realized I’d pushed the emergency button.

  I leaned over to check his airway and listened to his chest. He wasn’t breathing.

  I tilted the old man’s head back and began fast, brief compressions, the way my friend Montana, an EMT, had instructed me.

  “911. What is your emergency?” the voice requested in a monotone.

  “One, two, three, four…Phineas T. Jackson, 26 Stony Drive. One, two, three, four… Blackwell subdivision…doing CPR.”

  “I’m sending a unit. Stay on the line.”

  I sped up the compressions on his frail chest praying I wouldn’t break anything.

  The dispatcher said in her calm, almost bored voice, “ETA is eight minutes. Can you give me any information for the EMTs?”

  Eight…friggin’… minutes. “Mid-eighties…he had some kind of seizure and he’s not breathing.” Seconds ticked off as I continued to pump his chest. I stopped, put my fingers to his mouth. Nothing.

  “Oomph,” I sat back. He wasn’t going to make it. Unless… Maybe there was something I could do, but then I’d never actually attempted it. Usually it just happened when things got out of control. Well, not things—me.

  Part of the problem was I’d be in clear sight of anyone looking this way from their front yard or driving down the street, but if I didn’t try something before the EMTs arrived, he was going to die. I looked around. It had to be now. I wondered if my little zapper would have enough zip.

  Mr. Jackson’s tirade had miraculously not drawn any attention. The street was deserted. A squirrel bounded onto the road nearby, swished his tail madly and took off toward a large oak. At least he couldn’t tell.

  Extending my hand out in front of me, palm up, I concentrated, willing the power inside me to obey. Again, nothing. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, grit my teeth, and whispered hopefully, “Come to me.”

  Blast! I sounded like a bad vamp movie. Separating my index finger, the one with the tiny tattoo-like image on the tip, away from my other fingers, I turned it up toward the darkening sky.

  The cells in my body began to vibrate. Like an energy solar panel, menori tapped the unstable air and focused it like a laser through the tattoo, accumulating until my head felt like it would explode.

  The rumble beneath my feet was the only notice I had of the electric strike that rode straight up my legs, curling in my midsection and crawling swiftly along my right arm to produce my own version… of a 4th of July sparkler, emanating out of that fingertip. Then the sparks changed. Brilliant bolts of crackling white light spit and sizzled in my palm, sending jagged streamers of hot blue fire ten feet into the air. I just gawked.

  A car entering a nearby street freed me from the mesmerizing light display. This was different from any of the charging I’d previously experienced. Bigger. Usually it just sort of replenished on its own. Panicked, I looked over my shoulder, and exhaled. So far so good.

  Now what? I needed to command the fire in my hand to… what? Before I could say, “Be gone,” or “Go thither,” the light subsided to a small crackly glow. That was it then.

  Instinct took over. I knelt beside Mr. Jackson, placing my glowing index finger against his chest. With a single szzwaattt, I zapped him, right in the heart. His chest arched up only the barest of seconds as it met my magical defibrillator, then his body relaxed.

  Momentarily deafened and somewhat addled as my faculties came back online, I groped for the pulse in his neck. For a second I thought I’d failed. But then, his tired, smoke glutted organ started beating.

  Thank the gods.

  Only the slight whiff of burnt flesh remained on the wind. Drained of energy, I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead. That’s when I noticed the mark.

  “Zeus’ rechargeable bolts! That better be temporary.”

  Centered on the spot where I’d zapped him, a pale image was forming. It looked like a pale, mini version of… well… me.

  Chapter 4

  Tempe

  I held Mr. Jackson’s wrist while we waited for the ambulance and spoke softly to him, telling him he was going to be okay, until a shadow moved over us, and a hand dropped onto my shoulder. I looked up. Silhouetted against the glare of the intermittent clouds was the broad form of a man, in a cowboy hat.

  “Sheriff—I’ll take over.”

  I rose and stepped aside, wondering what he’d seen. In the immediacy of the moment I’d almost blown Paramortal rule number one, Don’t let mere-mortals see you use your magic.

  His capable looking hands replaced mine on the old man’s wrist. He leaned over him and checked his responses. “He’s breathing. Go move your truck so the EMTs can pull in.”

  “Right.”

  I parked my truck in the driveway adjacent to Mr. Jackson’s and ran back to the scene on the right of way. Perspiration was causing the sheriff’s white shirt to adhere to his impressively broad shoulders. I heard the ambulance approaching. The driver cut the siren as they turned onto the gravel road, pulling up even with the driveway.

  Montana, and her partner, Rafe, one of a few enlightened humans, started unloading equipment next to Mr. Jackson. “We’ve got it, Sheriff. Tempe,” Rafe said.

  I caught Montana’s eye, tapped my chest with my index finger and pointed discreetly at the prone figure. “He started breathing just before the sheriff arrived.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Good thing you were here, Tempe.”

  The sheriff stood and I saw now that what I’d mistaken for a cowboy hat was actually one of those flannel trooper style hats. He addressed me, pulling a small notebook from his jacket pocket. “Your name, ma’am?”

  “Tempest Pomeroy. I’m Mr. Jackson’s mail carrier. He was by the road waiting for me.”

  “Explain.”

  “As usual, Mr. Jackson wanted to complain about some mis-delivered mail. He was out of control, I mean, worse than usual—slapping his letter against my antenna, pounding his cane on my hood. I realized it was over the top behavior even for him when he started screaming, then he threw a letter at me. Before I could get out of my truck, he went face first into the grass.”

  While the sheriff took notes, I asked Rafe about Mr. Jackson’s condition.

  “Looks like an MI—cardiac arrest—but he’s stabilized. Good job, you two.” Closing the back doors on the gurney with Montana and Jackson inside, he stepped up into the vehicle and took off, sirens blaring, lights pulsing once again.

  “Okay, Ms. Pomeroy, I have your statement. Give me your address and phone number and you can get back to work.” He handed me the notebook.

  The bill of his hat shaded his eyes, but I felt him studying me. Suddenly I wished I was wearing something sexier than jeans and a sweatshirt; my hair brushed out, instead of in a ponytail out of necessity; and maybe a bit of makeup?

  I sighed. I am what I am. If a guy’s looking for a fashion plate, he won’t be interested in a woman whose priorities include a delivery job and remodeling a hundred-fifty-year-old house.

  He reached for his pen and for the second time that day, I felt a little zing, and that weird weightless feeling. Maybe my luck was changing. I re
ally should talk to Aurora about the visions and hormonal blips.

  Before things could get awkward, I said, “I’d better go. I’m running behind. Ever since my first delivery this morning, things have gone steadily down hill.” I started toward my truck.

  “See ya’ around, Tempest Pomeroy,” the sheriff said under his breath.

  “Back ‘atcha, Sheriff.” I felt his gaze on me all the way to my truck. You gotta love those little pheromones.

  I backed out of the driveway, the oscillating light on top of my cab reflecting off his spotless vehicle. As he got behind the wheel I watched the play of strong thigh muscles against khaki and tried to get my mind back on my progress. I had four hours to deliver five hours’ worth of mail—without further interruptions.

  I pushed the pedal down, my tires slinging gravel. From the look I got in my rear view mirror, a rock had struck the sheriff’s brand new SUV.

  “Shootfire.”

  Chapter 5

  Tempe

  I turned onto Hawthorn Street, and tried River’s cell again. On the sixth ring I heard my brother’s voice, “You’ve reached Pomeroy Construction, leave your name, state you—” I bypassed it, threatening him with his life if he didn’t call me UDWITM, which he knew as “you don’t wanna ignore this message”.

  So far, it wasn’t working. For the first time since I left Harmony, I wondered if I should call the authorities. Now that was an overreaction! I could just hear him, “Back off, ‘Mommy’.”

  I called Montana and asked her how Mr. Jackson was doing. “He’s still stable. I see you finally met the new sheriff,” Montana said. “Hunky, huh?”

  “Yeppers,” I said noncommittally. “I met another guy this morning on my route, new customer—a doctor, I think.” I described the man in the green house to Montana, who subsequently dubbed him “Six packs and Shaving Cream.”