by Reinke, Sara
At the other end, she saw Tomás Lovato, cradling a half-spent cigarette between his thick fingers as he drew it to pursed lips and inhaled a long drag.
He always stunk like cigarette smoke and every time he came near her in Melaza, she’d nearly gag, remembering how that smell had engulfed her as he’d forced himself on her on the night of Enrique’s murder; how it had gotten into her hair, her clothes, her skin, and she’d thought she’d never get it out, that there wasn’t enough shampoo or soap in the world to wash the stink of him off her.
Indoor smoking was prohibited by law in Florida except for in bars like this. Because Pepe didn’t permit smoking on the premises at Melaza, Pilar realized what Tomás was doing there and why he’d been there so long. He’d indeed been drinking—but he’d been smoking too, in a place where he could do so indoors and at his leisure.
His eyes shot toward her as soon as she walked through the door. Obviously, he wasn’t so drunk so as to have dulled his extrasensory perceptions of his fellow Nahual. He didn’t recognize her, not at first—that much was obvious too—and although he clearly didn’t find her to be a threat at first glance, he watched as she approached him, his gaze unwavering, his mouth set in a downturned line.
Pilar settled herself onto the stool next to him and reached for his cigarettes. “Mind to share?”
His hand caught hers, clamping down hard. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl, his breath pungent with the stink of tequila.
She feigned a pout, then made a point to cross her legs slowly, well within his view. Her skirt rode up on her thighs, revealing a considerable length of each—a fact she noticed that he didn’t miss.
“You don’t remember me,” she said.
“Should I?”
Leaning forward, she purposely let her breasts brush against his arm. Her breath rustled his hair as she purred into his ear, “You fucked me so good, I’ll never forget you.”
He leaned back, his brows pinched, his expression puzzled. After a moment, the cogs in his brain slipped and slid around, falling into place. His eyes widened, his entire body stiffening, his breath sucking in sharply. “You’re that huelebicho Enrique Ramirez’s daughter.”
She started to smile, to say something to try to soothe him, but fell silent when a knife suddenly appeared in his free hand as if by magic. Still holding her fiercely with the other, he twisted her arm painfully and jerked her to her feet, making her stumble clumsily into his chest.
“You fucking bitch,” he seethed, shoving the tip of the knife beneath her chin, forcing her head back with it, so she had no choice but to look up at him. “Where’s your brother and his crew? Waiting right outside the door?” He cut his furious gaze toward the entrance. “Hey, yo, Valien Cadana,” he shouted. “You fucking pussy—you want some of me, you come in here and claim it yourself, pendejo!”
Pilar could feel her heart hammering, her breath hiccupping with alarm; she might have been more frightened had she not seen the way he stumbled slightly as he stood, swaying unsteadily on his feet. His outburst had alarmed the three kids shooting pool, however, and even the terminal drunk at the opposite end of the bat had turned his rheumy gaze their way. She had to think fast, calm him down even faster.
Stepping forward, she pressed herself against him, her breasts firmly into his chest, despite the threat of the knife. Reaching down, she felt between his legs, finding the flaccid bulge of his cock through his jeans and gripping it purposefully.
“It’s not Valien who wants some of you. It’s me,” she whispered as he blinked at her in surprise.
“What are you talking about, puta?” he said, calling her a bitch. Despite this, he made no effort to pull away from her, and she felt him respond to her touch, the softness suddenly growing firmer beneath her hand.
“Do you remember that night, when you came to my father’s garage?” she whispered. “I do. I keep thinking about it. How it felt when you were all up in me. Your cock is so big—bigger than Pepe’s. Bigger than Miguel’s. They were like niñitos—little boys. But not you.”
His brows narrowed. “Miguel’s gone missing. What do you know about that, puta?”
All wide-eyed innocence, she looked up at him. “Nada,” she said. Nothing. “I don’t care about him, anyway. I care about this…” His arousal was apparent now, heat seeping through the denim of his fly as her hand moved up and down, firmly, repeatedly. “I dream about it. I want to feel you inside of me again.”
His breath grew ragged now, the tip of the knife wavering. “You’re crazy.”
“I am, yeah.” Pilar smiled, drawing the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, a slow, suggestive sweep. Drawing his hand around behind her, placing his palm heavily against her ass so he could feel through her dress, she added, “And I’m not wearing any panties.”
His brows raised; she had his undivided attention and interest. Lowering the knife, he folded the blade closed against his hand, then shoved it back into his pocket. “Bathroom,” he growled, with a nod toward the back of the bar. “Now. And if you’re messing with me, bitch…” He dragged her forward, crushing her against him. “I’ll give you a bullet in the skull to match your padre’s, you got it?”
He didn’t even let her get past the bathroom door before shoving her forward. Kicking the door closed behind him, he fell against her, cramming his mouth against hers, groping at her breasts with one hand and pawing up her skirt with the other. He was gasping for breath, his hard-on so massive, he had to fight with his pants to get them down, turning loose of her and using both hands to wrestle with his fly.
It was all the opportunity Pilar needed. Reaching up, she clasped the hilt of the knife in her hair and whipped it out. Tomás had only enough time to see the blur of movement out of his peripheral vision as she sprang forward, then rammed the length of the blade through his left hand, pinning it like an insect specimen in a case to his engorged member just beneath.
He started to scream, but she cut him short, ramming her elbow into his mouth and sending him toppling backward. His ass crashed against the sink, his head shattered the mirror hanging above it, then as the basin collapsed, he tumbled to the ground with it. Water erupted in a sudden spray from the ruptured pipes that had likewise cracked beneath Tomás’s weight.
“Puta!” he howled at her, sputtering and sitting, legs sprawled and thrashing, in the torrential shower. Pilar punted him in the face, driving the four-inch spike of her sandal’s stiletto heel into his mouth, mashing his nose into a bloody, ruined pulp beneath her shoe. The heel skewered him, punching through the back of his throat and sticking fast. As his voice dissolved into coarse, gagging sounds, she wrenched her leg free, her foot from the sandal, leaving it buried in his face.
He pawed at it with his uninjured hand, trying to pull it loose. Hobbling back, slipping in the water that now flooded the floor at least a half-inch in depth, Pilar kicked him with her other sandal, this time landing the heel squarely in his eye. He uttered a crow-like squawk as his eyeball splattered in a messy, spongy burst. She felt resistance as she struck bone—the socket of his eye—then grunted and forced her weight behind the blow, driving the spike through, feeling it splinter beneath her.
Because he still wasn’t dead yet, she hefted the porcelain back off the toilet. Raising it above her head, teeth gritted, hair and dress soaked now, she uttered a hoarse cry and swung it down, bludgeoning him in the head. Then she did it again. And again. And again, even as he slumped sideways, crumpling into the water. Even as he stopped squirming and lay lifeless, limp and still, she continued to beat him, not stopping until the ceramic lid at last cracked in her hands and fell apart.
She was shaking, shuddering from head to toe. After a long moment, she let the ruined tank cover fall from her hands, landing with a loud splash. Sloshing forward, she went to the door. Tomás had fallen in front of it, and she leaned down, grasping him by the hand to drag him out of the way. The water immediately around him was bright red with
blood. His head looked misshapen, sunken in places where she’d struck him with the toilet cover. Her sandals remained—one in front of his mouth, the other dangling at a peculiar angle from his eye.
“Pendejo,” Pilar whispered, her brows furrowed as she tried to haul his dead weight away from the door. All at once his remaining eye flew wide—glossy black, the pupil fully dilated—and she realized he might not be so dead after all.
Mierda! she thought, and then he launched himself up, like a great white shark breeching the surface of the sea in violent attack. He struck her headlong and plowed her backward, sending her crashing back the entire length of the narrow bathroom. The back of her head connected solidly enough with the toilet bowl to leave her dazed. As he ripped her shoes from his face, Tomás uttered a furious, guttural howl and pounced at her, grabbing her by the ankles and forcibly hauling her first toward, then beneath him.
“Puta,” he seethed, blood spilling in a thick stream from his mouth. His fangs dropped, forcing his lips apart. “You fucking bitch!”
Pilar struggled beneath him, trying to hit his uninjured eye, to wedge one of her knees up into his vulnerable crotch, but he pinned her down. Clenching his teeth to stifle a scream, he ripped his hand free from his impaled penis, the knife still thrust fully through his palm.
“I…I’m going to fuck you up,” he said. “First I’m going to drill you a new goddamn cunt…”
“No!” Pilar fought wildly, kicking and punching as he pried her legs apart.
“Then I’m going to fuck you again—this time with my new friend here…” Tomás rammed his hand—with the knife shoved through it—down demonstratively at her face. “See how you like that.”
Pilar felt el cambio come over her in full too, surging through her veins, imbuing her with a sudden burst of furious, impossible strength. As her pupils widened, even the dimly lit bathroom seemed suddenly, starkly alight. Her fangs extended; she bared them and hissed at him, kicking at him with her bare heels, slapping and clawing in the water around her for something, anything, she could use for a weapon. She felt the jagged edge of one fragment of the broken toilet lid and curled her fingers around it. Screaming hoarsely, she sat up, clutching it with both hands, ramming it into his chest. Blood spurted in a hot fountain, slapping her in the face as the tip thrust past his ribs and into his heart. This time, when the son of a bitch went down, crashing into the water, he stayed there, half-submerged and motionless.
Pilar kicked him again, over and over, shoving him away from her. Staggering to her feet, she again floundered through the water to the bathroom door. Without looking back, she wrenched it open, then stumbled out into the bar. Water had seeped out, pooling just beyond the threshold. Of the trio playing pool, the drunk at the bar and the lone bartender who’d been there upon her arrival, there was no longer any sign; they’d all apparently taken off like their asses were on fire at the sounds of Pilar and Miguel fighting. The jukebox continued playing, some tinny-sounding mariachi music; the ceiling fans overhead swung in lazy, slow-moving circles, and the cigarette Tomás had abandoned still smoldered in a dingy glass ashtray at the bar.
Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her, Pilar limped to the door. It was warm outside, but she still shivered. She’d left Elías’s car unlocked, the keys hidden in a console inside, and as she crumpled into the driver’s seat, she reached for them. When she started the ignition, she glanced up into the rearview mirror and got a look at herself. Her hair hung in her face in a soggy, tangled mess. Her makeup, lightly applied for the festín earlier, now streaked and smeared down her face. Her skin looked alabaster in the dim light, her eyes shell-shocked and stunned. There was blood on her; it had spattered onto her face when she pierced Tomás in the heart.
In that moment, it felt to Pilar as though she snapped out of a dream, some kind of sleepwalking episode of which she’d only been dimly consciously aware. She stared, stricken, at herself in the mirror, the blood gruesome evidence of what she’d done.
Shuddering again, she flipped the mirror to the side so she wouldn’t have to see her reflection anymore. Dropping the car in reverse, she spun the steering wheel in a tight arc, whipping the Charger out of the parking slot and then peeling out into the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Something’s wrong.
Pilar couldn’t put her finger on what, but she could sense it as soon as she pulled back into Elías’s driveway. Killing the engine, she slipped the key from the ignition and looked up at the darkened condo through the windshield.
She knew he’d be angry with her, had expected to sense this. Though she’d tried to steel herself—because she’d have been pissed off in his place—what she was feeling now, what her telepathy was picking up, was something altogether different.
Something’s wrong, she thought again, a peculiar shiver stealing down her spine. As she climbed out the car, she opened her mind further. Is he sleeping? she wondered. But no, she realized with a worried frown as she hurried up the patio steps, her bare feet slapping softly against the wood. His mind felt strange to her, his thoughts incoherent and confused, as if he hovered on the brink of delirium or unconsciousness, everything jumbled and dazed. Not sleeping. It’s something else.
“Elías?” Throwing open the door, she rushed inside. She smelled something odd—metallic and bitter, unusually so.
It’s blood, she thought. His blood…only there’s something different about it…something wrong with him. He’s in trouble.
“Elías?” Pilar hesitated at the doorway to the bedroom. Her dress was still wet, clinging to her legs, her hair hanging around her face in a damp, knotted mess, and she shivered.
He didn’t answer. She could see him on the bed; he’d kicked all the blankets off the bed, thrown the pillows aside and lay naked and exposed, his entire body shuddering as if an electrical current thrummed through him.
“Oh, my God.” Pilar rushed to the bedside, leaning over him. He’d been struggling against the cuff, and in doing so had sheared open his wrist against the metal lip. The wounds weren’t deep, but they’d been enough to leave a smear of blood drying on his forearm; the scent, coupled with her sudden bright alarm, was enough to trigger el cambio again. The shadow-draped bedroom grew instantly brighter as her pupils expanded, and she felt the sharpened tips of her fangs push against her lower lip, forcing her mouth open.
“Elías,” she breathed. She didn’t want him to see her like this, but had no choice. She reached out, cupping his face between her hands. His eyes had been closed but fluttered open now, glassy and dazed. When he saw her—saw her teeth—he jerked, uttering a frightened sound, hoarse and breathless.
“N-no!” He gasped, trying to recoil, to turn his head away. He was soaked in sweat, his heart racing; she could all but hear its frantic, pounding measure from beneath the confines of his torso. “Don’t!”
“Elías, it’s me,” she said, and because she didn’t have time for niceties, to go back into the living room to retrieve his keys, she reached out, grasping his wrist and giving a sharp, sudden jerk. The chains of the cuffs snapped like dried, brittle clay, freeing him, leaving one of the cuffs still affixed to the bed frame, the other around his wrist like a bracelet.
“D-don’t…” he croaked, pawing weakly at her, trying to push her away. “Don’t…t-touch me…”
She didn’t know what was wrong with him, but again, had no time to try to gently figure it out. Framing his face with her hands again, she leaned over, holding him still, opening her mind to him in sudden, concentrated effort, scouring his memories, searching his mind for any hint or clue as to what might have happened. Through him, she could see a tangled mess of memories playing out, overlapping in a disharmonic, confusing timeline—Elías wrapping some kind of elastic bandages around his hands, then beating them against a punching bag; Elías in his car outside of Melaza only the day before, stabbing the sharpened end of a metal lancet into his finger, then squeezing the resulting blood drop onto a small machine.
/>
Blood sugar, she realized, remembering what he’d told her about taking his medicine. Diabetic, that’s what he told me. He’s diabetic.
“Elías, what do I do?” She was terrified, her eyes flooding with tears, and she smoothed his hair back, trying to comfort him. “Oh, God, Elías, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do!”
“P-pills…” He gasped, rolling his eyes to look at her. It was a split second of lucidity that abruptly vanished; his eyelids fluttered closed and he moaned, his legs kicking feebly, his hands scrabbling against the bedspread.
In his mind, she saw him boxing again. At least, that’s what she thought he was doing. But all at once, in his memory, he stopped, leaning heavily against the punching bag, a tremor running through his form.
It happening to him there too, she realized, and as she watched through Elías’s mind, he stumbled down the hallway and into the bedroom. Because he knew what it was—knows what this is, what’s happening to him. It’s happened before. He knows how to fix it.
“Tell me how,” she breathed to him as in his mind, she saw it clearly—he fell on his knees in front of the bedside nightstand and pulled open the same drawer where she’d found his handcuffs. After reaching inside, he’d pulled something out: a small plastic bottle.
A medicine bottle, she realized. The pills he mentioned.
She scrambled to her feet and raced around the end of the bed. Throwing open the drawer, she dug frantically until she found the bottle and pulled it out. Glucose tablets, the label read. Dissolves instantly! Great fruit flavor!
Because her pupils remained dilated, she could read the fine print on the back label even in the dim light. 3-5 pills by mouth as needed per hypoglycemic episode, it read. As she yanked the cap off the bottle, she leaned across the bed toward Elías, pouring a handful of pills into her palm.