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About the Author

DEATH MOON

Sandy DeLuca

First Digital Edition
May 2012

Published by:

Darkside Digital

P.O. Box 338

North Webster, IN 46555

www.darkfuse.com/darkside_digital

Death Moon © 2012 by Sandy DeLuca

All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Other Books by Author

DARKNESS CONJURED

DESCENT

FROM ASHES

MANHATTAN GRIMOIRE

REIGN OF BLOOD

1

TOM

Blood fell in rivulets from a black sky and faces of the dead leered at Tom from darkened windows—a college girl who danced for tips at a downtown strip club, a tattoo artist from the bowery and a hooker working Broadway. Victims of a stalker—sacrifices found butchered, sometimes mutilated beyond recognition, hearts ripped out and eyes seemingly pleading with Tom for retribution.

“Please save me…” a vaporous voice called out. And he turned, watched as a girl floated toward him—her dress like white smoke—her feet pointed to the pavement, hands outstretched as though reaching for him. Empty black holes for eyes and mouth open in a silent scream. “Please…” And the phantom blended with fog, newspapers and ticket stubs spiraling toward him—touching his face for a moment, and then rising above tall buildings and sailing beneath a cloud-covered moon.

It’s only the rain—only night shadows, he thought as he moved toward flashing neon, craving alcohol and needing to ease his heartache.

He left behind desolate streets with darkened windows, and ventured to a place where neon lights made abstract patterns on rain-soaked walks and girls smiled at him from café windows, flirting with their eyes, waving with pink-tipped fingers—offerings of the city—sweet kisses on a bitter night.

None sparked his interest, nor could they quench the need inside. He sought something harder, raw and wild.

Tom ended up at Moonlight, still wearing the leather jacket Alice bought him for Christmas—though only an hour before he’d sworn he’d burn it. He hadn’t been to the bar in months—not since he hooked up with Alice, but she’d gotten cold—distant—and he feared she’d gone elsewhere for love.

Nothing had changed. The hookers, junkies and sex addicts posed and preened in the usual spots—downtown girls searched the crowd for new lovers—and the drinks were strong and cheap. A working girl strolled close by him, sipping from a beer bottle, feather boa loose around her shoulders, lips painted deep red, eyeing a bald man huddled in a corner. The man smiled shyly when the hooker wrapped the boa around his neck.

Music pulsed from overhead speakers, disco from decades before. And petite waitresses, dressed in spandex, wearing violet wigs with rhinestone headbands, served drinks and chips, swaying girlish hips and mouthing lyrics.

A dainty chick, with garish plastic hoop earrings pressed against Tom, her lips moist with gloss and her eyes lined with royal blue. Not his type, not tonight, so he smiled politely and made his way to the bar where glasses clinked and women, dressed in form-fitting jeans and low-cut sweaters, with hair sleek and straight, sat huddled together, whispering about men they wished they could have—sobbing about the ones who’d hurt them and left without saying good-bye. Longing for something beyond all the midnight kisses they’d tasted—for the kind of love they’d never find.

Everybody pined for something—for someone. And most everyone accepted the dullness of an unsatisfying workday—and either slept alone, or settled for someone easy, devoid of drama—a person plain and steady.

Tom liked girls with fire and grit—the kind that gave good love—the ones who eventually left him. And he blamed the job, the things he dealt with. And he blamed the dead.

Drink dimmed memories, made it easier for next time—two shots and visions of blood-spattered walls and marred flesh drifted away with ghost screams only he could hear. I need to find the killer, he told himself.

“You hear about the murdered women? Five of them now,” a bartender named Benny said as he poured Tom another drink.

“I’m working the case.”

Benny leaned close to Tom, elbows on the bar and with eyes narrowed. “I heard the papers leave out the good stuff. Got any details you want to share? I heard they nailed the woman from Chinatown to the kitchen wall.”

“Can’t talk it about it, Benny.”

Benny shrugged, then wiped a glass as he bobbed his head to the music.

Tom downed another shot of tequila when he spotted a woman sitting at the end of the bar, legs crossed, a black skirt hiked up to the edge of her hips and a low-cut leather vest. He could tell she had attitude. It was in her eyes. She was sure of herself and knew she was sexy. She was teasing him with that body, with that look. She shifted on the bar stool and uncrossed her legs. She parted them a little and smiled at him.

Benny smiled and told Tom, “Her name is Lila.”

* * *

Before long Lila took a seat next to him. They made small talk with the bartender for a while, and then Benny moved away.

“Read your palm?” Lila smiled, tipping her head to the side, toying with a gold-plated locket around her neck.

“Yeah sure.” Tom gave her his hand.

She seemed to be studying every detail, tracing lines with her fingertips, and then she closed her hand over his palm. He liked the way she touched him, the warmth of her skin and the way she smelled—roses, whiskey and musk. She looked at him, fluttered her lashes. “Lots of changes. Could be good or bad.” She smiled mischievously, licking her lips and pressing her knee to his shin.

“That’s vague. Things always change, don’t they?”

She tapped her fingers on the bar. It was a little annoying and she annoyed him more when she asked, “Where’d you get that scar on your face?”

“Bar fight. Long time ago. Didn’t you see it when you read my palm?”

She shrugged, and then laughed a little.

“You come here a lot?” He didn’t care, but he had to keep the conversation going. She was pretty. Guys were checking her out. He wanted to be the one who went home with her.

“Sometimes—other times I’m at Levo’s.” She pouted. It turned him on.

“You got any booze at your place?”

She laughed. “I got some beer.” She bit her bottom lip. “You lonely tonight?”

“I get restless.”

She looked at him like she could see inside his head, read his thoughts. “You got somebody at home—a wife, a girlfriend. I can tell.”

“Don’t mean nothing.” But he wondered where Alice was—whom she was with.

“Nothing means everything.” Lila’s voice was sultry and inviting.

“What about you? You got somebody?”

“Nobody special. I get so lonely sometimes. It’s not right how we end up.” She twirled a strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger.

He didn’t have patience for melancholy crap. He just wanted to get inside her, maybe touch her a little before they got down to business. Something by Lionel Richie now played over the speakers, slow and easy. A couple of drag queens held each other close, red heels gliding over the floor and painted lips parted. A fat man wrapped meaty arms around a younger woman, sliding his hands over her ass, his eyes watery. She pressed close to him, fingers coiling through his hair.

“Want to dance?” Tom asked Lila.

“No, I want to talk. Tell me about yourself.”

She started to irritate him again. He looked around. A couple of other chicks were sitting alone, nursing drinks, but none as cute as Lila. He’d play her game. He knew he’d be doing her before long. “My name is Tom Rozzoti. I work homicide—NYPD. I’ve seen a lot of shit. Yeah, I’m involved with somebody, but it’s going bad and I don’t want to be alone tonight. So, what’s your story?”

There was a playful look in her eyes, like she was having a good time at his expense. She leaned real close to him and said, “I was raised by gypsies.”

He laughed.

“I’m not kidding. They were crazy motherfuckers.”

“So you did time?” He figured she had.

“No.” She seemed surprised by his question.

“Just lucky.” He downed another drink, saw blood rain spattering on the window.

“No, just smart.”

“I’m sure you are.” He was being sarcastic. She was a whore and respectable women don’t hang out in joints like Moonlight. They don’t fuck strangers.

“Want to go home with me?” Her eyes were laughing.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Before he knew it he was walking down Canal, one arm wrapped around her waist, fingers brushing over her breasts. Shadowy things floated over windows and a dead girl he once found hanging in a basement—wrists slashed and her eyelids stitched shut—stood outside a Chinese Laundromat.

“I see ghosts, too,” Lila whispered when she led him up the front stairs, holding his hand as they walked through a gloomy hall.

“How’d you know?” Maybe she was psychic after all.

“By the way you stare at shadows behind windows—and when the fog comes up from the sidewalk…the look in your eyes…like you see the dead.”

* * *

Her place was small—a living room with a foldout bed, a pantry with a bathroom off to the side. She guided him to a table, motioned for him to sit on a rickety chair. He brushed away a blue feather, watched it float across the room. He sized her up as she took the seat across from him, and then he took in her space. There were weird wall hangings—things with feathers and beads. Someone had painted a circle in the middle of the floor. He recognized some of the symbols painted around it. Astrological. Like crime scenes after ritual killings—places where bodies lay bludgeoned and decapitated—victims of people who believe their offerings grant power—that human blood is the ultimate gift to the twisted gods they worship—but he doubted Lila was a killer.

For a minute he imagined Lila lying there, blood oozing out of her head, but he pushed the thought away and pointed to the walls and floor. “What’s all this crap? You a witch or something?”

“White magic, you know? I’m into spiritual stuff. My grandmother—my parents taught me—a couple of other people along the way, too. What of it? We’re all into our own thing.”

“Gypsy family, right?”

“Yeah. My mother was a fortune teller, my father—the guy who helped raise me till I was six—charted horoscopes and shit. I learned to draw the wheels—the astrological glyphs for every sign and planet. Taurus is my sign. She pointed toward the floor, to a crudely sketched bull at the tip of a large sphere, painted dark blue and orange, glitter and beds stretched around the perimeter. My grandmother…” She stopped short. She didn’t smile. There was a flash of sadness in her eyes. It went away when she looked to the colorful and strange circle. “How about a beer?”

It was flat. Tom pushed it away and looked at Lila. He thought about Alice again, maybe she waited for him—wearing her white see-through camisole—wet and hot—like when things were good.

“You getting cold feet? Want to go home to your woman?” Lila laughed.

“No, I’m staying.” He took off his jacket and shirt, watched as she got undressed, and then sat in the middle of the circle. Her body was firm and had the look of someone who spent time in the gym. There was a rose tattoo on her upper thigh and another on her shoulder—a butterfly with a drop of blood on its wing.

“Come on,” she said, winking playfully.

“On the floor?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s my sexual circle.”

“Whatever.” He undid his pants and squatted in front of her.

He played with her breasts, and then sucked her nipples. She reached down and stroked him while he fingered her. She was soaked and it wasn’t long before he was in her. They were like wild animals, rolling around in that circle as rain thrashed windows and fog became thick spiraling strands against glass. She moaned and he felt her climax a couple times. “Don’t finish inside me,” she told him. He wondered why not. Maybe she forgot her birth control, or maybe she was weirder than he thought.

He felt himself building and building and the rain poured angrily, making metallic sounds as it beat on a rusted trellis. Somebody slammed a door in the hall and said something in Spanish, and then heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs as the ferocity of their lovemaking reached its pinnacle.

He pulled out of her fast, watched his juice drip inside that circle and the twelve glyphs seemed to melt together for a moment—as though she’d just performed a black magic spell—like the kids he’d arrested because they killed an old lady in the barrio—or the old Santeria priest who’d murdered his wife—feeling a rush with semen and blood inside a painted orb.

“I could do you again,” he told her.

“Maybe another time. You’d better go now.”

“What? I’m still hot. You can’t just turn it off like that.”

“You don’t understand.” She leaned forward. “Go.” She stood up, went to the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, lashes fluttering and fingers tapping on silken fabric.

He went to her side. “Honey, we’re just getting things going here. I know you want more.”

“It’s all wrong, Tom.” She wrapped her arms around him. “But I haven’t been with the likes of you for so long. I don’t know…”

“Kiss me,” he said. And she did, flicking her tongue over his lips, moving her hands over him. He tore the covers off her, gazing at her body for a moment—taking in the full breasts, firm thighs and downy patch between her legs—and tattoos mystic and sensual.

She spread those legs, opening up like a flower moist with rain, and she guided him inside. Before long she bucked her hips in time with his. He moved quickly, slamming his body against her, the sounds of skin against skin and the moans escaping from her lips filled the room. He grabbed her hair, yanked hard, and then she went ballistic, nails digging into his back, legs and arms flailing wildly—rage etched across her face.

“What the fuck?” he yelled as he grabbed both her arms with one hand and tried to steady her legs with the other. “What’s the matter with you? I thought you liked it.”

“Nothing. I get scared sometimes. I…” The anger in her eyes faded and she smiled weakly.

He released her arms, took the pressure off her legs and spoke softly. “I’ll go slower.” And he moved gently, slowly.

“Not slower. I want…”

“What do you really want?”

“I don’t want to die.”

“This won’t kill you. I promise.”

He pressed his body against her, watching as her eyes smoldered—enjoying the rough confrontation. She managed to lean forward, biting his shoulder, and then she slashed his face with her fingernails.

He flinched. “You bitch. Why the hell did you do that?” He ran his hand over his chin, and then noticed blood dripping on white sheets. He slapped her. She touched her cheek, stunned for a moment, and then she wrapped herself around him, allowing him deeper inside—giving him permission to explode within the heat and wetness consuming him.

He leaned against the bed frame when it was over. “You’re a real tiger, Lila. I’ll leave now if that’s what you want.”

She took his hand. “You don’t understand. I’m not like other girls.”

She was different all right, sexy, savage and mean. He should have left when he had the chance, but he pressed close to her, knowing it was a mistake—feeling something dark and unsettling creep into the room. And he knew before long he’d leave Alice and follow Lila anywhere she wanted him to go.

2

LILA

Lila held Tom’s hand, feeling the toughness melt away and sensing pain he tried to conceal. He was good-looking, with thick dark hair, brown eyes with gold specks, not too tall, but well built. The kind she liked. She could tell he had secrets—dark things he didn’t want to talk about and she could tell by the way he kept looking to the door at Moonlight—and over his shoulder when they’d walked down Canal that he was still in love with his girl—afraid she’d find out about his infidelity.

Lila had never been with a cop before and she’d wondered what it would be like once they made it—once he got to know her better. She liked it rough and when a guy took her over the edge. Sometimes fear got the best of her and she believed one day the demon consuming her would cause her demise.

She’d become an addict, but not to drink or drugs. The thought of sex dominated her thinking—her life—the thrill of encounters with strangers got her high, but guilt got the best of her when she came down.

She gripped Tom’s hand tighter as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and then she thought about things she’d done, feeling shame, knowing it did no good to beat herself up—about tonight—or the previous night when she’d made it with a guy in his SUV outside Levo’s Hot Club, her legs tossed over the top of the seat, watching clouds move over the stars.

She whispered, “I want more. Give me more.”

And the stranger she’d met only hours before was happy to oblige her.

The SUV windows were tinted and people moved by on the walk unaware. Lila looked upward at tall buildings glowing with bright lights and rain coming down—like silvery streaks of glass. She imagined each sliver, each pointed edge digging into her flesh, impaling her as the man stretched her legs wider—sweat beading on his face, his eyes half-closed as his semen filled her.

A bag lady came into view when the guy slid inside Lila a second time. The woman stopped and gazed at the vehicle. Her eyes were green, like a cat’s. They seemed to meet Lila’s when climax began to build again. The woman moved closer, pressed her hands against the windows and smiled. Impossible, thought Lila, she can’t see us.

The woman licked her lips, nodded and then moved away, pushing a shopping cart filled with old clothes, bottles and a pair of tattered boots. Misty tendrils spiraled from the woman’s shoes and an orange glow surrounded her when she passed beneath Levo’s flashing sign. She turned, looked again when Lila sighed softly, and then the woman disappeared into shadow. 

Lila went home alone, wondering if she’d see the guy again. Was his name Jack or Jerry? Would she remember his face? After a while they all looked the same.

Three months before a guy named Brad had been the only guy she’d slept with since the previous spring. Things moved quickly with Brad, the lovemaking was exciting and she fell deeply in love. But when Christmas lights and decorations began to fill store windows, stream over buildings and shimmer on poles and park benches, he told her he needed his freedom, so he packed his bags and split. But she heard he’d moved in with a singer he’d met in a downtown club, a girl named Ginger, with light red hair, the kind he always turned and stared at when he thought Lila wasn’t looking.

At first she cried a lot, but after a while compulsion to fill the emptiness overpowered her grief and she began to frequent downtown clubs where strangers gathered—where acts—secret and sordid—played out like surreal pornographic films—most times in seedy hotels and apartments—always in darkness—with men who did not kiss or hold her because a kiss—a soft touch creates a bond between two people—exhibits sweet emotion. Those men merely used her body—and she used them.

This time it was different because Tom kissed her and ran his fingers through her hair, whispering, “It was great.”

She watched him in semidarkness, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange, eyes dark and dreamy, a man who hunted for killers—a man who deep inside craved love. But love can hurt—it can destroy you and leave you with nothing but tears and a broken heart.

3

TOM

Lila laid her head on Tom’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t have anybody to talk to, nobody to hold in the night.”

“It’s not safe what you do—picking up men you don’t know.”

“So maybe one day one of them—maybe you—will end it.”

“Don’t say that…ever.”

He thought about a killer he’d interviewed months before, a guy who preyed on women like Lila. His name was Buddy Clemente and his eyes—his face—revealed no remorse when he spoke about what he’d done.

Buddy glared at Tom, his lips curled and he narrowed his eyes when he spoke. “Did you ever feel real fury, Detective, the kind that makes you crazy? A killer’s rage?”

Tom shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. Tell me what happened at Mora Bentley’s apartment.”

Buddy shrugged, spoke slowly, evenly. “We made it and things were going good, but something spooked her and she told me to get out. Just like that, like I was dirt.”

“You could have just left.”

“I forced myself on her and she started biting, kicking. I felt that fury, Detective.”

“That’s when you killed her?”

“I’d thrown my jacket on the bed earlier, so I grabbed the knife in my pocket. She went for the lamp on the night table when I put the knife to her neck. She tried to whack me with it, but I wrestled it away, slammed it against her head, and then I slit her throat.”

“You ran like a coward after that, right?”

“I’m not a coward, Detective. Something was wrong with this chick. She was evil—didn’t deserve to live, believe me. Anyway, I knew she was dead then. The blood was still pouring out of her and her eyes were glassy. Then it started raining harder and the thunder was so loud it felt like the room was shaking. A big bolt of lightning lit up the room. That’s when I saw it. It looked human at first—hands and legs like a man—but when lightning struck again, I saw the face of a big cat with blood dripping from its mouth. Its teeth were like daggers. It—”

“Insanity is tough to plead. Try again.”

“I’m not crazy. I thought it might be the whiskey, the fatigue, but I was wrong. It was still there when my eyes adjusted to the dark. It crawled on hands and knees, hissing. It wasn’t looking at me. I could swear it sobbed when it looked at the chick.

“I couldn’t move for a while, but I figured sooner or later it would realize I’d killed her and tear me apart. I got up real slow, backed out of the room and I ran until I got to the soup kitchen in the bowery. I called my girl from the pay phone when I got there. Told her I’d just killed somebody, to wait a half hour, and then call the cops. She argued with me, begged me to come home, but I told her to do as I asked or I’d go there and kill her, too. I guess that worked because you came for me.”

Tom figured Lila would meet somebody like Buddy Clemente sooner or later. He wanted to protect her, keep her from places like Levo’s and Moonlight.

None of my business, he thought. I need to make things right with Alice. But he knew things would never be right and the terror of Lila’s loving had him hooked. He thought he heard something under the bed, and then dismissed it as imagination—fatigue—storm sounds. He leaned over, kissed her and said softly, “Gotta go, Lila. I’ll call you.”

“Promise.”

“We’ll see each other when we can. I have to get some things straight first.” He grabbed his jacket, kissed her quickly again and headed for the door without looking back, into the rainstorm, knowing the dead were not far behind.

4

LILA

She listened to Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, to sounds of night and the relentless storm.

“Come back,” she whispered, knowing somewhere in the city there’d be another murder—another body torn and mutilated.

She tried to stop it with the rituals and magical techniques she’d learned as a kid—trying to help women who met the wrong men and had their lives snuffed out because of dark obsession, dependence or sheer desperation. Once she’d believed semen and blood would satiate the demon within—a thing she sometimes saw on city streets, in the bars she frequented—inside her mystical etchings.

From an early age Lila had been unusual—seemingly older because she saw things—felt things unlike other kids. Girls her age preferred colorful wardrobes, donning bright pink sweaters, jeans adorned with vibrant embellishments and pretty headbands. They listened to popular music and dated boys who drove nice cars. Lila was more comfortable in black, from her collection of miniskirts to the high boots she’d found at a secondhand store in the village. She lined her eyes with black kohl and sprayed her light blonde hair with dark streaks. She listened to Sun Ra and hung with downtown tattooed guys.

And her mother would shuffle cards behind beaded curtains, eyes half-closed as though she peered into a shadow world. She’d pluck a card from the deck, study it carefully and tears would trickle down her cheek—shimmering in candlelight as she spoke softly.

“It’ll happen sooner or later, Lila. You’ll hate being alone and you’ll go to dark places to find love—that’s when the demon will come for you.”

5

DEATH

A lone figure waited beneath a canopy, watching as people streamed through Moonlight’s door, their feet splashing on the rain-covered walk. Men walked close together, frail with long-fingered hands, the promise of love in their eyes. Women draped their arms around guys with muscled bodies, going to walk-ups deep in the city, drinking from dark-colored bottles, knowing that in the morning there would be no kiss good-bye—only the scent of sex would remain and no promises would be made.

A girl stepped onto pavement, dressed in garish clothing, her hair loose and long, young eyes searching the crowd—perhaps looking for one last trick before finding refuge in sleep. The sadness in her eyes evident as colored lights flashed and as she watched lovers pass by her.

She walked farther down the avenue, hands tucked inside thin coat pockets, shivering when rain and wind assaulted her—unsteady, falling against brick tattooed with graffiti when her legs buckled and black stockings slipped down.

The figure left its shelter, moving quickly toward the girl, suddenly beside her and asking, “Are you all right?”

She smiled weakly, white face gazing at raindrops, eyes tearing. “I haven’t eaten. That’s what it is. I’ll be okay in a while.”

“Come on then. Some coffee, a bit of food and if you’re feeling better…”

She nodded, grasping a strong hand, wet with rain, one that led her down the walk, stopping to lift the edges of a winter coat and wrapping it around her, shielding her from wind and the storm—taking her to a place of death.

6

TOM

The MO was the same, but this time the victim’s head rested on her ruined chest, the eyes and lips cut out. She’d been a working girl—donned in a purple mini and a gold halter. Her green faux fur splattered with red and soaked with mud. Tom watched as blood and water mixed, swirling on pavement, spiraling into a gutter.

“Girl’s only eighteen. Worked the strip for two weeks according to her friends,” a young plainclothes guy spoke, his brimmed hat pulled low.

“Probably came here from a small town and probably scared and cold.” Tom lifted the girl’s hand; slash wounds covered her palm and a thumb was missing.

“They stay with you?” The plainclothesman tugged the hat brim, looked into Tom’s eyes as though seeking reassurance.

“Yeah, Stan, it happens. I swear sometimes they follow me home…all of them.” Tom thought about Lila, wondered if she was safe inside her apartment, painting circles on the floor.

He made his report and headed home—footsteps sounded behind him and no one was there when he looked over his shoulder—expecting to see the hooker, headless, sauntering down Broadway, blood dripping from her faux fur.

A shadow stretched atop a tall building—sultry—twining with the setting sun—moving inside that glowing circle—like Lila on her hands and knees—coming to his side—casting off the warmth of that sun—with something wicked in her eyes.

He reached his building, unlocked the front door and scanned the street. Nothing there but an empty walk and relentless rain. He slammed the door, took the stairs two at a time.

Alice greeted him, face flush, hands shaking, her coat and boots wet from the rain.

“You go out?”

“Was with a couple of girlfriends.”

The subtle smells of sex and shaving lotion wafted in the air when she brushed by him. She slipped off her sweater, bra and jeans—moved into the bathroom. The shower splashed on aqua tile and steam floated through the open door. She’d wash away her act—her betrayal. But he’d leave before she returned—before she donned fresh clothes—her hair wet, dripping on pale skin.

Continual rainfall and fog seemed more pleasurable than reminders of broken promises—of the lie he lived with Alice. He told himself he needed to walk—needed to think, but before long he was standing on Lila’s front stairs, ringing her buzzer—wanting her body, craving to be inside her iniquitous circle.

She was breathless, holding a pan—smelling of copper. There was a streak of crimson on her cheek, and her mascara had smeared, making dark circles under her eyes.

“You kill somebody?” he asked, noticing her bloodstained hands.

“I use the blood for magic. Friend of mine gets it from the meatpacking plant he works at. It’s not illegal or anything.”

“It’s disgusting. You crazy witch. I’m outta here. I—”

“Tom, no. It’s not what you think. Passed down from my family.”

“That’s what the Santeria priest told me when we found the guy he killed nailed to his kitchen floor.”

She sighed. “We make magic circles—most times with chalk or paint. On the night of the Death Moon we use blood. Nobody in my family ever had the guts to kill an animal, so we’ve always relied on friends down at West Fourteenth—in the meatpacking district—or sometimes a butcher.”

“Who is this friend?”

“Son of a guy my mother knew. His parents read fortunes downtown back in the day. We’re still tight, you know?”

“Gypsies, huh? You people are all loony.”

“Maybe, but it is part of my heritage—and it makes me feel good…safe…even if it’s crazy to you…one of the only things I have left of my Ma—my grandmother.”

He thought about his grandmother raising pigs in her backyard upstate, slaughtering them and collecting the blood in a pan to make blood pudding. And he remembered old ladies dressed in black standing around a gravestone, praying in Italian—smearing the blood of a calf on the front step to keep the Devil away. He shrugged. “So what’s it all mean?”

“Tonight is the last full moon of winter—the Death Moon. If you make love inside a circle painted with blood—when that moon is high—then you’re protected from demons all year long.”

“My demons don’t listen to anybody. They just keep coming around. Anyway, this is ridiculous.”

“Come on. Humor me.” She began to unbutton her blouse.

“You were planning on going out and finding somebody else…bringing him here for this heebie-jeebie?”

“I knew you’d be here.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because you can’t stay away from me…”

“You read my mind again?”

“Maybe,” she said, smiling coquettishly.

“Lila, I swear if I didn’t want you so bad…I’d…”

“Come on,” she whispered.

He went with her, watching as she dipped a finger inside the pan, with blood dripping on her hands and arms, slowly drawing a circle on the floor—ancient signs and mystic glyphs manifesting like ghosts appearing in the dark. He took her hand when she finished, followed her inside the ring, despite how crazy it seemed, despite the warning in his gut—and the screams inside his head.

* * *

“I never made it like this before. I mean, I see a lot of bad shit, but…” His gaze took in the bloody circle, the vermillion puddles streaming over the floor—the blood-filled pan just outside the numinous ring.

“I haven’t felt anything for anybody in a while. I mean, if I didn’t see you again, it would hurt.” Lila touched his face, leaving a dark stain on his cheek.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody, but this isn’t anything but sex—crazy sex.”

“You still love your girl?”

“Up until tonight—until I knew for sure she was with another guy.”

“Then you and I have a chance to make it. We’re both lonely—both wounded—both—”

“Lila, not now. This isn’t what I came here for.”

She slapped him hard across the face, and then she raised her arm again. He grabbed it, twisted it, fury building inside him.

“Did you ever feel real fury, Detective, the kind that makes you crazy? A killer’s rage?”

“I’ll go. This isn’t healthy—not for either of us.”

“No.” She kissed him, kicking over the pan of blood, watching as it rushed over Taurus’s glyph, smearing the symbol for Venus, touching her heel.

He pulled her hair and pushed her down. She smiled as she scraped her nails over his back, kissing him hard.

“Crazy,” Tom whispered as he returned the kiss.

7

LILA

She crouched on the floor, pail of water and soap at her side, washing the stains away with an old Rolling Stones shirt she’d bought in a downtown music store. Keith Richards’s face streaked with crimson, his guitar faded from years of wear—from bleach and strong detergent, moving over the floor like a phantom, the rocker’s eyes and mouth frozen in time.

She went to Tom when there was nothing left of that shirt but tattered cloth and nothing on that floor but the ghosts of a dozen crudely drawn patterns—crosshatched lines depicting planets and constellations scarred deep in olden wood boards. She went to him with water, towel, white lotion and washcloth in her aching hands. He looked at her with sleepy eyes as the water splashed onto white sheets and the downpour continued outside.

She ran the washcloth over his feet, his legs, his torso—listening to his heartbeat, his sigh and soft moans. She lay down when his flesh was unsoiled and moist with cream, closed her eyes and waited for the warmth—the sensation of water and soap on her skin—waited for Tom to bathe her. And she dreamed of an old school friend who’d died when her lover shot her as she slept. He hung himself above the blood-soaked bed, above a girl whose skull and brain splattered on the headboard. Her name was Belle and she liked boys bad and tough—the kind with fire in their guts—with tempers beyond control. She loved them hard and fierce, barreling to her demise, using up her years too quickly.

“Better?” Tom asked, his voice soft, breaking the reverie, taking Lila away from the death scene with the sound of soapy water splashing and the smell of musk-scented balm.

“Will you stay tonight?”

“And tomorrow night, too,” he answered and the storm subsided—just for a while—just until dawn.”

“It’s gone,” she whispered.

“What?”

“The demon.”

“Oh,” he said softly as they drifted to sleep together, walking in a foggy dreamscape and somewhere in the city someone cried out as a knife blade cut into her flesh.

8

DEATH

The woman’s name was Alice; blonde, curvy with crystal blue eyes, smoking clove-scented cigarettes that made misty gray patterns in semidarkness when she exhaled. She’d began frequenting Levo’s Hot Club several weeks ago, always sitting at a corner booth, sipping Shiraz, gazing at the door. Sometimes she left with men who had perpetual hardness etched across their faces and eyes dark and intense. And sometimes she left alone—head bowed, moving somewhat awkwardly because she’d drank too much wine.

On the night of March seventh, when the moon was full and the relentless winds and rain continued to fall, she left without a partner, unaware that someone followed, hand grasping a knife with crusted blood on its hilt.

Alice did not hear footsteps behind her over raging squalls, nor did she realize—when she unlocked the door to her building and pushed it open—that a killer would be upon her, knocking her to the floor and dragging her into a darkened hall.

The pain stopped when the last of her fingers were severed, after her nose and lips had been cut away and her crystal blue eyes carved out. That’s when the knife hacked into her neck—sawing back and forth as blood splattered on walls and pooled onto the floor.

And the old woman from down the hall screamed—slipping on the crimson-soaked floor—when she saw red droplets streaming down aged wooden stairs—and a bottle of Shiraz by Alice’s head.

9

TOM AND LILA

They made love deep in the woods, in a farmhouse Tom’s father left when he passed. Tom hadn’t been there in years, but it became the perfect place for secrets, for darkened trysts. On bloody sheets, with rainwater streaming down dirt-caked windows they moved in perfect rhythm.

“You’re the only one,” whispered Lila.

When the lovemaking ended Tom flicked on the light, gazing at supernatural symbols painted with deep cherry on the walls and floor—and he looked into the eyes of the dead. “We’ll bury them soon,” he told her, waving his hand at bodies they’d posed against crumbling plaster and shabby furniture, hands clasped, scarred with hundreds of cruel acts and severed heads lining the sills.

Tom and Lila didn’t plan it, not in the beginning anyway, not until it became a mania. Part of their passion—their love—a need they had to fill—things they’d once done separately—when heartache became too much to bear—when they could not control their fury beneath a never-ending death moon.

About the Author

Sandy DeLuca has written five novels: Settling in Nazareth, Descent, Manhattan Grimoire, From Ashes and the forthcoming Messages From the Dead.

She has authored three novellas Darkness Conjured, Into the Red and Reign of Blood, all published by DarkFuse.

A poetry/art collection, called Mad Hattery (with Marge Simon), was also released in 2011 and another called Vampires, Zombies and Wanton Souls was released in 2012. Her poetry chapbook, Burial Plot in Sagittarius, was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award in 2001. She is also the author of a poetry/short story collection called Paths of Destiny.

In addition, she has been a painter for over twenty years, and her work has been exhibited in galleries, hair salons, book stores and online venues. She has also done covers for various small-press venues.

Visit her website at www.sandydeluca.com.