Page 144 of Espíritu

Lita entered the kitchen, clapping her hands to draw everyone’s attention. “Now, mañana, when I say,” she said, pointing her spoon like a gavel. “Spirits still gotta eat. All the more reason to feed the light.” She pointed her spoon at Rio, Omar, Luca, Flaca, and Rocky. “Chop, stir, clean—everyone pitches in!”

“I don’t even live here,” Omar muttered, but he grabbed a knife anyway, grumbling. Flaca busied herself wiping down the table, Luca grabbed silverware, and Rocky helped Rio bring plates and cups to the counter.

Julian watched the scene unfold, his chest tightening with an odd mixture of gratitude and guilt. His found family and his brujx family didn’t overlap much, but here they were, crammed into the same kitchen, existing in the same space.

He made a mental note to keep working on it—to find ways to bring both worlds together, even if it meant juggling a few extra commitments.

After breakfast, Rio took Luca, Omar, Rocky, and Flaca home for quick showers and a reset, while Julian stayed to help with Danza prep.

The candles from the Midnight Vigil still burned in their holders, arranged in constellations around the gravestones. Their fire from the eternal flame hadn’t dimmed, the wax hadn’t even gone down.

By noon, the yellow church wasn’t solemn—it was blooming. Strings of vibrant poinsettias and papel picado cascaded along the walls, their brilliant hues illuminated by the golden glow of flickering candles.

Long tables were being dressed, not served—embroidered cloths smoothed flat, name cards tucked beside votives. Trays clattered. Aluminum lids billowed steam.

There were pupusas, arepas, arroz con leche, and tres leches cake sitting in a line. Stockpots of pozole murmured on low flame while atole and hot chocolate perfumed the air.

The air buzzed with an energy that felt alive, a current of reverence and joy weaving through the crowd. Families moved about, their voices hushed as they carried steaming platters to the staging tables or adjusted candles at the place settings. Children darted around the edges of the room, their laughter bursting like firecrackers, their bright, carefree energy infectious.

Julian felt Yadriel at his side before he saw him.

“Come on,” Yadriel said, his shoulder brushing against Julian’s in a way that was both grounding and insistent. “We need to grab our candles.”

Maritza appeared on Julian’s other side, adjusting her skirt and nodding toward the door. “Let’s go, Candle Squad.”

They waited in line to approach Lady Death’s altar. Julian picked up his candle and held it to his chest. The wax had softened from the lingering heat, but the flame stayed sharp and steady.

“Council at dusk,” Enrique said, low and practical as he approached Julian, Yadriel, and Maritza. “We meet and decide what to do. If we can force Bahlam back through the rift tonight, we do it.”

Maritza’s mouth flattened. “That slams the door on everyone he’s got trapped in there,” she said, counting on her fingers without looking. “The quince girl. All the others.”

Julian’s stomach went cold. Marisol, he thought. Winning couldn’t look like leaving them behind.

Lita shook her head as she straightened a line of candles. “First the god, then we mourn the rest.”

Julian swallowed what he wanted to say. Not here. Not in front of half the community. Hopefully, the council would hear him.

Back inside the nave, the brujx moved in steady procession, testing placements, setting candles at assigned seats around the long tables. The glow spread across the room like dawn breaking, small flames becoming a tide of light.

At Lady Death’s altar, Julian’s fingers brushed the painted hem of her robe.

“You okay?” Yadriel asked, barely above the rustle of flowers.

“Yeah,” Julian said, though his voice was thick. “It’s just … a lot.”

“It’s supposed to be,” Yadriel said. “That’s how you know it matters.”

Julian nodded once.

Enrique approached. “Come, it’s time,” he said, motioning for them to follow.

Lita pressed a small votive into Julian’s palm. “Para luz,” she said. “Bring it with you.”

Julian tucked the candle into his pocket. Light in one hand, resolve in the other. Time to make them listen.

TWENTY-FIVEYADRIEL

Enrique herded them back to the house. The long dining table had been cleared of its feast and repurposed for something far less celebratory. Candles, legal pads, and a chipped bowl of salt sat in the middle as if they all counted as tools.