Page 139 of Espíritu

Rocky narrowed her eyes, glancing from Julian to Yadriel. “So, wait … you’re, like, full-on magical boy?”

Yadriel shrugged. “Kind of.”

“Excuse me,” Maritza added, eyebrow up, “Yads happens to be Lady Death’s Chosen. It’s a whole thing.”

Yadriel groaned. “Please don’t.”

The corner of Julian’s mouth twitched.

“It’s a long story,” Yadriel said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” Flaca said, sitting back on her heels, “then you better start from the beginning.”

Rocky added, “And there better be snacks.”

Lita’s eyes gleamed. “Snacks I can do.”

The tension in the room finally cracked. Flaca smiled through her tears. Omar let out a deep breath. Rocky looked as if she were already halfway through mentally writing the screenplay.

Julian looked around at his friends—all of them. Rio, Yadriel, Maritza, Luca, the whole chaotic mess of them—and let himself breathe. The air felt steadier.

Joy made space in his chest.

TWENTY-THREEYADRIEL

The house was alive with movement and sound, the kind of controlled chaos that usually overwhelmed Yadriel—but tonight it felt strangely comforting. Everyone was talking over one another, dragging mattresses, tossing pillows, and making half-hearted complaints.

Outside the windows, faint ward-light threaded the glass. Enrique and his team had dusted the thresholds with salt, Miguel had a rotation running pairs along the block, and the older brujos were auditing private altars and locking down portajes. They were moving. They were readying.

It wasn’t that the tension had disappeared. It sat under his breastbone like a stone. The door between this world and Xibalba had cracked. He understood exactly how bad that was—and that there was nothing else they could burn tonight except themselves. Rest was the only thing that would make them strong enough to face tomorrow.

So they made beds on the floor and let the noise happen. It wasn’t pretending things were fine. Borrowing a little normalcy was the first step in fighting back.

From his spot in the corner, Yadriel watched Rio carefully maneuver a twin mattress into the living room. His movements were deliberate and almost too careful, like he was clinging to a simple task so he didn’t have to think about the rest.

Rio was a hard read—stoic and gruff, a contrast to Julian’s brash charm—but Yadriel could see the lines of worry etched into his face, the way his shoulders were tight with tension. He carried himself like someone used to protecting people, even at the expense of his own peace or safety.

Flaca didn’t say much, just kept fluffing the same throw pillow over and over like it had personally wronged her. Every so often she muttered something about “needing symmetry” under her breath, like she could will the energy in the room to balance.

Rocky, meanwhile, offered Rio a constant stream of unsolicited advice as he adjusted the mattress—most of which involved questionable angles and references to “feng shui, probably.” Her gestures were broad and overly animated, her laugh just a little too loud, like she was trying to chase away the night’s shadows with volume.

Then there was Omar, who lingered near the wall, watching it all with a guarded expression. His posture was stiff, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Yadriel could tell he wasn’t used to being out of his depth like this. Omar carried himself like someone who had seen too much, someone who didn’t trust easily. But now, faced with a world he clearly didn’t understand, he seemed smaller, like he was trying to find his place in all of this.

Maritza flopped onto the couch cushions she’d claimed earlier and rummaged through her overstuffed tote. “All right, chaos crew,” she announced, “I come bearing snacks.”

She tossed a crumpled bag of marshmallows onto the coffee table, followed by a sleeve of Oreos and a half-eaten tube of Pringles. “Not exactly a feast, but I regret nothing.”

“Are you feeding us or luring raccoons?” Rocky said, deadpan, one eyebrow up.

Maritza pointed at her. “Rude. Also, yes.”

Flaca leaned forward, laughing through her words. “Wait, wait—are these always in your bag or is this what you grabbed on the way out?”

Maritza lifted her chin proudly. “You think I show up to any major supernatural event without provisions? Please.”

Flaca narrowed her eyes. “You’ve had marshmallows this entire time and didn’t offer any up during the soul ritual?” she teased.

“I was waiting for the dramatic comedown, thank you very much.” Maritza huffed, delighted with herself. “Snacks taste better when you’ve stared down the void.”