Dark Passages 2: Pilar & Elias

DARK PASSAGES: Pilar & Elías

Book Five in The Brethren Series

by Sara Reinke

Edited by Jennifer Barker

Published by Bloodhorse Press, LLC at Smashwords

www.bloodhorsepress.com

Cover artwork by Sara Reinke

Copyright 2011 Sara Reinke

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Part of the fun for me of relaunching The Brethren Series is the opportunity to bring to readers new stories about new characters in all new lengths and formats. My plan was to have one novella and one novel-length installment in the series released each year. Each novella-length installment would released under the umbrella title of Dark Passages, and each would include the hero and heroine’s name as a subtitle. The first one, Dark Passages: Tristan & Karen was released in February, 2011.

Of course, you know what poet Robert Burns once said about the best laid plans of mice and men. And so, as 2011 progressed, I realized I wanted to produce more than just two stories per year. But writing a novel, from inception through final edits, is a lengthy process, so I figured additional shorter stories and novellas would work best. Thus, we have Dark Passages 2: Pilar & Elías. The book isn’t a sequel to Tristan and Karen’s book; rather, it’s a continuation of the Dark Passages theme—shorter books from The Brethren Series.

Look for future Dark Passages titles to focus on different couples, both new and established. For example, my next planned installment for 2012 will be Dark Passages 3: Mason & Will. From there, who knows? I’m open to suggestions. Let me know who you think deserves his or her own story and we’ll see what happens.

A NOTE ABOUT THE VAMPIRES IN THIS BOOK

To date, I’ve introduced you to the world of the Brethren vampires. Get ready to meet some of their distant cousins—the Nahual. In Mesoamerican folklore, the Nahual are witches who are able to turn themselves into jaguars and then drink blood from human victims. In my book, the Nahual are neither sorcerers nor shapeshifters, but rather are descendants of the same creatures the Brethren call the Abomination, who came overseas from Europe aboard the ships of Spanish and Portuguese conquistadores and subsequently established themselves in Central and South America. The Nahual possess many of the same abilities—and bloodlust—as the Brethren.

I like the idea that there are additional races of vampires not just from Europe, but potentially from all over the world, wherever this common ancestor’s thirst for blood might have driven it in search of prey. My hope is that it will keep the series continuously evolving and growing, as well as keeping both me as the writer and you as the reader interested, engaged and excited about the books.

You’ll find out more about the Nahual in Dark Vengeance and as the entire series progresses.

CHAPTER ONE

I can’t do this anymore, Pilar Ramirez Cadana thought as she ripped the short-cropped platinum blonde wig from her head and threw it furiously against the dressing room mirror. By the stark glare of the light bulbs framing it, she stared at her reflection.

Her dark hair, pinned up beneath the wig, now stuck out haphazardly around her face, forced askew as she’d wrenched bobby pins loose. Her makeup was heavily applied—glittering eye shadow, black eyeliner, thick false lashes and bright red lips so glossy, she looked like she’d been eating a pork chop without the benefit of a fork or napkin. Her cheeks were flushed as much from disgusted fury as from rouge.

Great, she thought, leaning closer, realizing that despite the bright lights, her pupils had started to dilate, opening wide, threatening to engulf the visible portions of her eyes with blackness. She could feel her upper gum tingling too. Now I’m so upset, I’ve started el cambio.

Humans might have called them vampires, but among Pilar and her people, they were the Nahual, a race whose origins, according to their sectarian legends, dated back to pre-Columbian times. Pilar’s canines could extend from recessed niches in her upper palate to nearly the length of her littlest finger. Her lower jaw could unhinge, allowing her a greater degree of flexibility when striking to consume human blood. Unfortunately, these same transformations that came upon her when it was time to feed—collectively called el cambio, or the changing—were her body’s natural defense against stress or emotional upset—both of which she was feeling at the moment.

A lot.

What are you doing?

The dressing room was long and narrow, a shotgun-style antechamber leading from the club floor to the stage entrance. Pilar’s best friend since early childhood, Conchita Chita Madera Ruiz, hurried in, her eyes widening when she saw that Pilar had taken off her wig.

You’re on stage next, she exclaimed, visibly surprised and bewildered. The song’s nearly over.

I don’t care. Pilar reached for one of her gaudy rhinestone earrings and plucked it from her earlobe. She wore a champagne-colored bikini top covered in translucent sequins that sparkled and flashed every time her breasts rose and fell with her ragged breaths. The matching thong cut into the cleft between her buttocks, the scraps of string suspending it from her hips stretched out with dollar bills shoved and packed beneath. Having thrown the second earring down alongside the first, she began yanking the money out, tossing it onto the table, not missing the scattered mug shots of Ben Franklin among the Washingtons, Jeffersons and Hamiltons she’d accumulated.

Pepe tips big, Chita had told her—as if this could ever make up for the fact that Pilar wanted desperately to wash every place on her body where the son of a bitch had touched her, scrubbing until she was raw, then dousing herself head to toe in rubbing alcohol for good measure.

As if it could ever bring my father back, she thought, her eyes growing shiny in the mirror, glassy with tears.

I’m out of here, she said. I can’t do this anymore, Chita. I just can’t.

Dámelo, puta, Pepe Minoza Cervantes had told her less than ten minutes earlier, his lips peeled back in a hungry leer, his hands clapped to her waist as she danced for him, topless, her breasts vulnerably exposed and within inches of his face. Give it to me, bitch.

House rules were no touching, and if it had been anyone other than Pepe Minoza Cervantes groping Pilar—in the guise of her blonde stage persona, Destiny—the bouncers would have called them on it. But Pepe also owned the strip club, Melaza. He could do whatever he wanted and he damn well knew it—and so did Pilar. Which was why, for the time being anyway, the huelebicho was still breathing.

Stern-faced, Chita regarded Pilar through the mirror. Yes, you can. Look, Pepe has no idea who you are. You’ve almost got him where you want him. Why stop now?

It made sense to Pilar that Pepe didn’t recognize her, considering the only time he’d ever seen her outside of the strip club, he had his hand mashed over most of her face, obscuring it from his view.

He traveled nowhere lightly or without the company of at least a half dozen members of the Los Pandilleros street gang, of which he was one of the primary leaders. Pepe and his crew were also Nahual. Because of that, if he sensed Pilar or Chita—that they were really vampires like he was—he mistook it for the proximity of his friends and remained unalarmed and oblivious.

Goddamn, girl, you make me want to come, he’d breathed to her as she’d danced, the tip of his tongue swiping his upper lip hungrily.

And you make me want to rip your heart out, she thought, gazing into the mirror, watching as a tear slipped past her lashes and rolled slowly down her cheek, glistening in the vanity lights. I want to tear it from your rib cage with my bare hands, then watch you bleed out across the floor.

Pilar’s brows furrowed as she furiously wiped the tear away. Chita was right and she knew it.

Come on now. Leaning across the dressing table, Chita reached for the blonde wig, then pressed it gently into Pilar’s hands. Your eyes are changing. Come on. Chill. Stroking her hand against Pilar’s hair, she began to sing softly. El coquí, el coquí siempre canta…

It was an old Puerto Rican folksong, one about the song of a tree frog, el coquí, they’d learned as children—one Pilar’s father, Enrique, used to sing frequently to her. Hearing it now reminded Pilar poignantly of those happier times and of Enrique’s low and gentle baritone:

El coquí, el coquí siempre canta

es muy lindo el cantar del coquí

por las noches a veces me duermo

con el dulce cantar del coquí

coquí, coquí, coquí, qui, qui, qui.

Enrique had lived a long time for a Nahual male. Although females often enjoyed lifespans that lasted a century or more, Nahual men seldom if ever survived longer than what would be considered middle age among humans. This was primarily because of competition among corillos, or packs of Nahual clans who lived together in collective units protecting each other, sharing food resources and breeding together. Corillos competed against one another frequently for both blood resources and mates, which was why females lived longer as a rule—they were a valuable commodity—and men did not. They were often killed defending their corillos’ territory and women.

Enrique had lived into his sixties—venerable for a Nahual man—because he’d always strived for a peaceful existence for his pack, and they’d lived for many years in the Bayshore area without fear or rivalry. That had all changed, however, when Pepe had arrived.

Pilar closed her eyes, struggling to compose herself, and when Chita finished singing, she opened them again, her pupils visibly constricting back to normal proportions, the throbbing sensation in her gumline receding.

Better? Chita asked, carefully repinning Pilar’s loose strands of dark hair.

Pilar nodded, easing the net cap of the wig snugly back against her scalp. Yeah.

Through the thin walls of the dressing room, they could hear the throbbing beat of music as it blared from the other side in the club. As this pounding rhythm faded, they heard the deejay calling out over the loudspeaker, Let’s give it up for Mercedes! Then, in Spanish, Ponga sus manos juntas!

That’s your cue, Chita said, giving one last tug against the chin-length bobbed wig to settle it straight on Pilar’s head.

The stage was no more than two feet wide and at least twelve feet long. Raised a good three feet off the main club floor, it had always reminded Pilar of walking the plank in an old pirate movie. The music blared from overhead, something fast-tempo and deafening. Spotlights shone almost directly into her eyes, masking everything beyond the leading edge of the stage’s circumference in indistinguishable shadows.

It was midafternoon, and the lunch crowd was thinning out, the businessmen and blue-collar workers on their way back to their day jobs, having stopped in for a beer or a quick lap dance. There was more money to be made working the night shift—a lot more—but Pilar was only able to escape the hawklike notice of her mother and older brother during daytime hours, using the pretense of attending classes at the local community college with Chita. Because Pepe owned the club, and therefore it was Los Pandilleros territory, they figured they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone they knew coming in and recognizing them through their stage names and disguises.

As she approached the first of two brass poles punctuating the length of the stage, Pilar glanced down, surveying the front-row audience. An hour earlier, it had been shoulder to shoulder, all the way around. Now only a loose handful remained. Though she didn’t know any of them, had never seen them in her life, she still loathed them all. In the past year, she’d come to despise men in general, but none more than those who came into the club. Because every single one of them, no matter his background, proclivities, preferences or income, had one thing in common.

I’m nothing but a piece of ass to them. A piece of meat.

Clasping the pole with one hand, Pilar hooked her leg around it, swinging in a swift, graceful loop as she passed. Once on the other side, she continued to hold the pole, sliding backward down its length, pausing long enough to part her thighs tauntingly wide before rising again.

Pepe always took the best seat in the house, a small but opulent dais area he called the Salón Tipeja—the Pussy Lounge. She could see him now to her right. On either side of him sat the two men who’d accompanied him on the night her father was killed—his fellow Los Pandilleros members, Miguel Torres and Tomás Lovato.

For once, Pepe’s attention wasn’t riveted on her. Instead, he was all eyes—not to mention hands—on Chita as she gyrated and stripped down to her G-string within inches of him. While she turned, thrusting her buttocks almost directly into his crotch and bobbing up and down, he glanced at his nearest compadre and grinned lecherously, miming a pelvic thrust. Chita met Pilar’s gaze and dropped her a wink.

If the rest of the bar’s patrons viewed the dancers there as pieces of meat, then Pepe considered them his own private all-you-can-eat buffet. "You know why I called this place Melaza?" he’d asked Pilar on her first night of work. She’d been terrified that he’d recognize her, frozen like a rabbit cornered by a pit bull, her eyes enormous, her entire body trembling with fright. For a long moment, she’d been unable to breathe; it wasn’t until he’d walked away that she realized she’d been holding her breath in grim, panicked anticipation.

Melaza was Spanish for molasses, and waggling his tongue with nasty promise, Pepe said, "That’s what pussy tastes like to me. Sweet like melaza."

I owe you one, Pilar thought, and because the Nahual were naturally endowed with a modicum of telepathic abilities, she said this directly to Chita, who could hear her plainly.

Damn right you do, she replied.

Movement at the far end of the stage as a man approached drew her gaze. Because the club’s clientele seldom saw her as more than tits and an ass, she never thought of them as more than wallets with dicks. She couldn’t pick most of her customers, even her so-called regulars out of a line-up, but she recognized the man stepping up to the end of the stage, waiting for her, at once.

And nearly fainted.

He was Hispanic, tall and lean, with dark hair and eyes, no more than thirty at the most. His face was sculpted, all long lines and sharp angles, his cheeks high, his mouth unfurled in a soft sort of smile as she approached.

Elías Velasco. That was how he’d introduced himself to her on the night Enrique had been slain. He was one of several police detectives who had shown up to investigate, and of all of them, the only one to whom Pilar had offered anything beyond a shell-shocked stare in reply. He’d knelt down to face her, eye to eye, as she sat in a chair.

"Hola," he’d said, greeting her in Spanish. Me llamo Elías Velasco. Flipping open his wallet, he’d showed her the gold shield of his badge. "Hablas inglés?"

He’d asked if she spoke English, and she’d mumbled in reply, Not a word.

It had always been her father’s favorite joke. He’d say this to his customers, the ones who didn’t come in regularly enough to know any differently. It had always made them laugh, and Pilar along with them; in that moment, on that terrible night, her father still lying facedown beneath a bloodstained sheet less than twenty feet away, it had made Elías Velasco smile too.

He was dressed now as he had been then: in a sport jacket and button-down dress shirt with the collar laid open, no tie, a pair of dark chino slacks, like he was just another noontime patron out cadging his