Page 111 of Espíritu

She turned back to the table, reaching for his candle.

Lita passed him his candle—sky-blue wax, silver ribbon, tiny red flames near the base, messy Sharpie skulls, a crooked skateboard, and the words “Para mi papá.”

“Hold it close,” she said, and then reached up to rest her hand lightly on his shoulder.

She murmured a blessing under her breath as she moved the smoking palo santo and copal bundle in a gentle arc around him—first over his head, then down his arms and chest. The scent clung to his clothes and skin, sharp and clean, cutting through the fog in his mind.

Her limpia was quick but grounding, smoke curling over his head and shoulders.

When she stepped back, Julian felt like he could breathe again, just a little.

The brujx gathered quietly, forming a slow-moving line inside the church. A hush fell over the space as Yadriel stepped forward to the front of the altar, where the eternal flame burned in a tall glass lantern flanked by marigolds and saint candles.

With practiced reverence, Yadriel lit his candle from the flame and turned. He passed the fire to Maritza, who lit her own, and together they began spreading the flame down the line.

Julian held his own candle tightly, feeling the warmth bloom through the wax as it caught fire. Around him, a quiet ripple of light spread like dawn breaking.

Two by two, brujx walked out into the cemetery, their candles in hand. They moved in silence, a river of flickering light weaving past ancient tombstones and shadowy mausoleums.

Julian walked next to Yadriel with Maritza and her sister, Paola, just behind, candle held tight, his breath clouding faintly in the cold air. The night pressed close, rich with the smells of earth and incense, marigolds and wax. It should’ve felt comforting, holy, even.

But his thoughts wouldn’t stop.

Luca’s voice from earlier haunted him. It feels like you’re leaving us behind.

Omar’s bitterness. Rocky’s anger. Flaca’s silence.

The way Luca wouldn’t meet his eyes when he left.

And Angel—

He gripped the candle tighter. The flame quivered.

They were supposed to come. They were supposed to stand beside him. To prove everyone wrong.

Instead, Julian had watched them destroy someone.

Angel hadn’t changed. Julian had just been wrong about who they were and now he felt like a fool.

Just thinking about it made Julian’s chest ache, deep and sharp. He could feel the flare of his dark spot, something festering just beneath his ribs. Every step past the grave markers seemed to make it worse until the pain bloomed into phantom heat, his skin prickling, throat tightening.

When the procession turned a curve near the back of the cemetery—near the old, crumbling church—Julian faltered.

He didn’t mean to. But the moment they passed the shadowed chapel, a sudden pull gripped his chest. Like something calling to him, low and ragged. A whisper that wasn’t sound but pressure. The veil felt thinner here, like it had once torn and never fully healed.

His vision wavered. The shadows of the church stretched long and unnatural. For a split second, the back of his neck tingled, the way it had when Catriz had first appeared to him. The Marca Hueca pulsed in warning, the pain sharp and sour.

Julian bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper, forcing himself to look away. To keep walking.

He looked to Yadriel beside him, candle cradled in his hands, the flame flickering softly against his face.

Julian’s breath hitched again, but this time for a different reason.

The light illuminated Yadriel’s features in gold. The curve of his cheekbone, the shape of his lashes, the quiet strength in his jaw. He looked like something holy. Not just because he was a brujo, but because he was Yadriel.

And the fear ebbed.

Julian was safe beside him, like Yadriel’s presence alone could chase back the shadows curling in his chest, could hold the pain of the Marca Hueca at bay.