Page 116 of Espíritu

Julian shoved his cracked phone at him, blue dot pulsing. “Back of the cemetery. By the old church.”

Maritza gripped the steering wheel tighter, eyes on the road.

They flew past blocks of twinkling porch lights and to the cemetery’s front gate. A few brujx lingered by the yellow church, stacking chairs and wrapping leftovers.

Yadriel ducked his head as they rolled past. “Keep going,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”

Maritza killed the headlights near the back gate. “Let’s go,” she said, throwing the car into park.

They piled out into the cold. Julian didn’t wait. He took off down the gravel, Yadriel and Maritza pounding after him.

The deeper they ran into the cemetery, the quieter the city got. Sirens and dogs and music faded to a tight, unnatural hush.

The old church rose from the earth like a scar.

Wild vines strangled its crumbling stone walls. The patchwork masonry was mottled and cracked, and the crooked bell tower jutted skyward like a broken tooth. A few grave candles still flickered nearby, but the building stood cloaked in shadow.

Julian staggered to a halt, panting. “God, I hate this place.”

“It hates us right back,” Maritza muttered, steps faltering at the wrought iron fence. “We haven’t been here since—”

“I know,” Julian said, voice hoarse. “I remember.”

He forced himself forward. The short iron gate hung askew on one melted hinge. The smell hit them—scorched metal and rotting herbs.

“The wards,” Yadriel said grimly.

Carved along the stone lintel of the church’s doorway were old brujx sigils—protective glyphs shaped like serpents, jaguars, and skulls. One was split down the middle by a jagged crack. Another pulsed faintly with dying orange light, like a coal on the verge of going out. And along the fissures, a thinner, sickly green thread pulsed.

Maritza reached toward the carvings, then pulled her hand back. “These were reinforced with obsidian dust and sacred oil. That should’ve held.”

Yadriel touched the fractured edge with two fingers. They came away gritty and black with soot.

“Obsidian,” he said. “Angel knew what they were doing. They came prepared.”

Julian took in the doorway. Vines had been ripped aside, and the wood along the jamb was scraped and scorched. “They didn’t sneak in,” he said. “They tore their way through.”

A gust of wind blew through the graveyard, carrying with it a breath of sulfur and something older—the heavy scents of wet stone, mildew, and incense left to rot. The church had been a place of reverence once.

Now it smelled like a wound.

Yadriel pushed the door open with the edge of his shoulder. It creaked wide, revealing the main sanctuary of the old church. The three of them slipped inside, boots scuffing against the cracked stone floor.

“Stay close,” he said.

The air was thick with dust and old incense, and something more sour beneath it—the scent of rot and time. Wild vines still clawed in through broken windows, curling around exposed beams like skeletal fingers. Cracked pews stood in crooked rows. Up ahead, the main altar loomed, cloaked in shadow.

Julian’s breath caught.

The tall gold candelabras still stood there, crowding the base of Lady Death’s statue. Most of the candles had long burned out, their wax dripping like frozen tears across the floor. This was where it had all gone wrong. Where Yadriel had tried to release Julian’s spirit—and failed. Where Catriz had appeared. Where everything had changed.

The flickering memory bloomed behind Julian’s eyes. The sea of candlelight, Yadriel walking toward him, the flash of the obsidian dagger. His own breath ragged as he realized he wasn’t ready to die again.

He shook the thought off like a shiver and kept moving.

They passed the altar into the sacristy. Shadows pooled along the walls where an old desk sat askew. In the corner, the trapdoor gaped half-open, hinges blackened. From below came a damp exhale of air and, beneath it, a faint pulse like distant water knocking stone.

“Down there,” Julian said. His voice had gone flat. Focused.