Page 102 of Espíritu

Maritza had always been Yadriel’s defender. The first to draw a line in the sand, the first to throw herself into the fire if it meant keeping him safe.

Even now, facing down the spirit of the man who betrayed them, she didn’t flinch. She never did.

Yadriel didn’t say anything, but the gratitude rooted deep. She was his ride or die, and he wouldn’t have made it this far without her.

Catriz’s ghostly form wavered, a look of pain breaking through the cool detachment he’d worn since appearing. His mouth opened, then closed again. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge.

“I was blinded,” he said, low and hollow, like the words had to crawl their way out of him. “By spite. By resentment. I let it fester until it became the only thing I could see. Bahlam saw that darkness in me. My Marca Hueca. And he fed on it.”

Yadriel stared at him, heart heavy. He’d wondered what had twisted Catriz so completely. But hearing it now didn’t make it any easier.

If anything, it made the betrayal more real.

“The more I wanted revenge for what was taken from me—for being denied brujería—the easier it was for him to take hold,” Catriz continued solemnly. “Until I couldn’t tell what was me and what was him.”

Yadriel didn’t want to feel sympathy. But that man—the one who once saw him, believed in him—was still buried in there, twisted beneath Bahlam’s influence. And now, standing before Yadriel, was all that remained.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Catriz said, his voice cracking. His hands twitched, restless and transparent. “I’m trying to stop it from happening again. I don’t want our family”—he glanced toward Yadriel, and his voice dropped into something raw—“I don’t want you to suffer more because of what I did.”

Yadriel looked away, unable to hold Catriz’s gaze, even though part of him wanted to. That same part, the one that had never stopped mourning, wanted to believe him.

But the rest of him, the bruised and wary parts, knew better than to reach for a ghost.

Yadriel didn’t answer.

He didn’t walk away, either.

His mind scrambled to contain the implications, but they were already fracturing out of control. The veil wasn’t just weakening—it was breaking.

It wasn’t just Julian who was in danger. It was everyone.

He found his voice. “How close is he?” Yadriel asked, trying to sound steadier than he felt. He needed something concrete, something they could fight.

Catriz’s expression darkened, and for the first time since appearing, something like real fear crossed his face. “With every spirit sent to him, Bahlam grows stronger. If you don’t act—if you don’t stop this—he will break free.”

Yadriel swallowed hard, a chill crawling down the back of his neck. He didn’t ask what would happen then. He didn’t have to. He could see it written in the tension around Catriz’s mouth, the shadow in his eyes.

“You can’t even fathom the chaos he would bring,” Catriz added. “What he’d do to the dead. To the living.”

Yadriel didn’t respond right away. His hands were fists at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms. He could feel Maritza beside him, still and silent. Julian was quiet, too. The weight of what they’d just heard had settled over them like dust from something ancient collapsing.

Yadriel’s mind raced desperately, fitting pieces together like puzzle pieces. Julian’s illness, the Marca Hueca, the visions—it all stemmed from that failed ritual. “Julian’s connection to Bahlam. Is that why Julian has susto?” he asked, voice tight with urgency.

“Yes,” Catriz said, his usual sarcasm softening into something grimmer. “Julian had susto before, but Bahlam’s influence has made it worse. The Marca Hueca’s been exacerbated.”

Julian blinked. “Exacerbated?!” he repeated, scandalized, clearly not familiar with the word.

Catriz ignored him, voice turning sharper. “But it’s more than that. He’s not the only one fueling Bahlam. There’s a portaje near you that’s been corrupted,” Catriz told them. “A cursed obsidian dagger. When it’s used, the spirit doesn’t release—they’re rerouted. Acid-green light. Screaming. Dragged straight to Xibalba.”

“A cursed portaje?” Yadriel repeated.

A cold dread curled deep in Yadriel’s gut. His mind immediately conjured the image of Angel’s obsidian dagger. He remembered what Julian had said about it—how it glowed acid green, how the spirits screamed when Angel used it, how there was no peace in their release.

Unlike a brujo’s gentle parting, it sounded violent. Wrong. His heart stuttered. Something didn’t add up—and yet it did.

Yadriel looked at Catriz, his voice low and tight. “Who is it? Who’s using the cursed dagger?”

Catriz didn’t answer immediately. His brow furrowed, the flicker of strain deepening. “I don’t know,” he said, and it sounded like a failure. “I can feel the portaje from Xibalba, but the source—whoever’s wielding it—it’s masked. Either Bahlam’s hiding them … or they don’t even know what they’re doing.”