Death Moon

by Sandy DeLuca

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Author

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

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  9

  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, sl
iding 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.