Dust and Moonlight
Erotic Fantasy Paranormal
To Purchase
Blurb: When Kira Barton comes face to face with the latest serial killer she's tracking, she gets more than she bargained for. About to be transported into the past, she clings to her father's sacred talisman. Soon she will meet Prince Balion, the Light-Prince of Locke Cress and the rest, as they say, is history.
Excerpt: An interminable amount of time passed, long, agonizing minutes while she thought about a plan. Compelled to follow him when he came out, she exited the car and waited. An hour later, he emerged from the building and turned right at the corner. On the opposite side of the street, Kira paced her steps, but kept him in her line of vision. He stopped twice, before a bakery and a novelty shop and stared into the plate-glass windows. Kira ducked into the alley and peered between two buildings. Damn, had he spotted her? He started out again and set a brisk pace. Breathless by the time he ducked into an apartment building—a seedy, rundown ramshackle dwelling—Kira lost sight of him. She entered warily, not realizing she stood in an abandoned building until an oppressive stillness settled in around her. The chatter of people and the laughter of children were missing. Nothing echoed in the empty air except her own heavy breathing.
Shit, he’s led me into a trap.
She took in her surroundings. An odious stench permeated the empty room―animal feces, rancid food, and the smell of humans who hadn’t benefited from a shower in eons. Empty pallets lined the walls, and others lay scattered throughout the center. Vandals had been at play here. Windows were smashed out and several floorboards had been removed, no doubt to build fires on wintry nights. A well-used mattress sat in one corner―flea-infested and splattered with rust-colored streaks―an army surplus type that had lived through the Korean War. A discarded ice-box sat on a shelf, the college dorm type. The leaky roof was blotched with stains bigger than mud puddles and ringed with black mold. Long cords hung from the ceiling, plumbing fixtures had been ripped from walls and then scattered among the refuse and rubble.
The room emanated heat like a furnace, and every time she took a step, particles of dust scattered upward through the vacant air. Adrenaline coursed through her blood, her palms broke out in a sweat, and her heart pounded in triple beats. If she had any god-given sense, she’d turn tail and run as fast as her wobbly legs could move. Something evil lurked in the darkened corners, a living, breathing malevolence that made her skin crawl.
Low and lethal, his voice drifted across the stagnant air. “Are you FBI or local?”
“Neither,” she said and prayed he couldn’t detect the scorpion fear pedalling through her veins. A silver blade flashed beneath a rectangle of light streaming through a hole in the roof. “You’re him, aren’t you? The Scarlet Angel?”
A sardonic grin curled his lips. “Angel.” He paused, then, “Whoever coined the name has a queer sense of humor.”
Toying with the stiletto, and her, he ran his finger along the blade as if testing its sharpness. Her life flashed before her, all twenty-three short years. Graphic photos of Emma, Antoinette, Nicole, and Paula loomed before her, their lifeless eyes fixed, their throats ripped open and oozing blood. He pulled something from his back pocket. Like the knife, it gleamed beneath the light pouring down.
“Red,” she rasped. “Oh, dear God, a red cross.”
He advanced, one slow foot at a time, his eyes glazed over with the thrill of imminent death. “Why did you follow me from the plasma center?”
“Why do you think, loser?”
“Pity you did,” he said in a cold, flat tone that prickled the flesh along her spine. In an attempt to distance her body from that knife, she drew back, stumbled on a two-by-four and fell to her knees. Her stomach heaved as she searched the ground around her, praying she’d come into contact with something to defend herself. A rush of air left her lungs when her hand made contact with a steel pipe. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him. Bent at the waist, his head low, he came in for the kill.
Their bodies rolled in a blur of heat and dust, the knife inches from her throat. She swung the pipe with fierce determination, cringing as a sickening thud reached her ears. Collapsing on top of her, his body fell limp. With dwindling strength, she pushed him from her and drew several long, deep breaths. His form as still as the night closing in, a stream of blood oozed from a wound near his temple.
She dragged herself to her knees and inched her way to her feet by clinging to a post. Several feet away, she spied her purse and limped toward it. With shaky hand, she fished out her cell phone and punched in the code for Frank Kissel.
“Damn,” she groaned when it rolled into voice mail. “Mr. Kissel, it’s Kira, Kira Barton. You’re not going to believe this, but I’m in an abandoned apartment complex several blocks north of Promenade and Rathbone with The Scarlet―”
“You bitch! I’m going to take my time with you, cut that lily-white throat inch-by-inch!”
A scream tore from her lips as she dropped the phone. In a heartbeat he tackled her, pressing the cold, steel tip of the blade into her throat. I can’t freaking believe this! “Believe it”, her inner voice screamed. “It’s happening”. As his full weight pressed down on her, her starved lungs screamed for air. He smelled of sweat, cigarettes and stale booze. Please God, let me pass out before he does it.
An ancient chant filtered down from the rafters, a soothing dirge that came from far away. She saw her then, hovering over them, her long, silver hair floating listlessly around her, the sea-green dress sheathing her like a giant cocoon…so peaceful, so tranquil. Kira looked into The Scarlet Angel’s lifeless eyes.
“What’s the matter, bitch, giving up so easily?”
His smile faded when she spit in his face, replaced seconds later by a look of blind rage. He pushed the knife into her throat, slowly, methodically. Kira clutched the ruby medallion around her neck and the stone pulsated with the vibrancy of a comet shooting through the sky. Above the cyclonic wind in the room she heard the woman’s voice, sweet and serene. “Full moon, winter’s night, hear my call, see my plight. Come daughter of hope, savior of grief, come with me to a place of peace.”
With alarming speed, The Scarlet Angel’s face contorted, twisted and flattened until his features vanished. Her vision blurred and her hearing faded. Isn’t one’s hearing the last sense to surrender to death? I’m too young to die, there’s so much more to do. Thunder rolled and silver flashes of lightning lit the sky above them. It had been such a bright, sunny day, not a hint of storm clouds. Images of her closet flew through her mind. Her dresses cleaned and pressed and lined up neatly, she wondered which one her parents would choose for her funeral.
Kira tumbled through a great abyss, a tunnel of brilliant colors—blue, fuchsia, magenta and orange―the talisman clutched tightly in her hand. Calm enveloped her as the words echoed in her ears. “Come daughter of hope, savior of grief, come with me to a place of peace.”
And they were the last words she remembered.
