Page 149 of Espíritu

Yadriel slashed his portaje through the first one, light erupting from the blade. The tendril shrieked and evaporated, but three more whipped toward the circle.

Yadriel didn’t think. He lunged, sliding between Julian and the shadows. His portaje carved a line of gold across the air, burning two. The third rebounded off Lita’s ward with a screech and skittered back like a scorched eel.

Julian knelt behind him, already inside the circle. Lita pressed a shaking hand to his shoulder, grounding him. Maritza slammed the last candle into place.

“Anchors set!” she called. “Hold steady!”

Bahlam raised his arms, and the cenote responded—the spiral of tethers glowing with a pulsing, sickly light. The water bubbled like it was boiling from the inside out, the colors deepening to something darker, more violent.

“You can’t stop what’s already begun,” Bahlam said, his voice low and thick with promise. “The veil will rupture. The forgotten dead will flood this world. And I will feed until your sky bleeds.”

“Not while we’re standing here,” Enrique said, stepping forward with his portaje drawn.

From the stairwell, the second wave of brujx poured down, splitting. The release team to the tethers, shield team to the water’s lip. Behind them, brujas lifted their hands in unison. A dome of soft light rose, thin at first, then bright as breath filled it. Doña Clara’s voice cut through—crisp commands sending runners to each quarter.

“Eyes on me, cabrón,” Enrique growled, raising his portaje again.

Bahlam bared their teeth. “With pleasure.”

The crypt detonated into motion. A barrage of barbed tendrils shot from the water—dozens—fanning like whiskers. And then the water itself rose, shadow-coalescing into a jaguar’s skull and shoulders over Angel’s body, a half-formed beast rearing from the cenote. Its maw yawned wide, obsidian fangs dripping green fire, and it lunged straight for the eastern quarter.

Yadriel reacted on instinct, slashing his portaje again and again, gold cutting through black. Each strike burned, but the beast didn’t slow. The air pressure crushed his lungs and his arm went numb at the elbow. The jaguar’s head crashed down, close enough for heat to lick his face.

Yadriel planted his boots, every muscle locked. If he slipped, the circle slipped with him.

Bahlam’s gaze locked onto Yadriel now, realization dawning.

“You,” he hissed. “The Lady’s heir.”

Yadriel raised his portaje. “You’re not getting past me,” he said, voice shaking but firm.

The shadow-jaguar struck—not a feeler now, but a killing blow.

Yadriel braced.

Then—

A blinding flash—not of blue or green, but gold, pure and furious—split the crypt like a lightning strike.

The impact hit the lunging head midair with the force of a divine storm. It shrieked, splintering apart as if it had slammed into the sun itself.

And standing in its wake, haloed in golden light, was a man Yadriel had expected to never see again.

Catriz.

His ghost shimmered with impossible intensity—brighter than any spirit Yadriel had ever summoned, brighter even than Lady Death’s altar flame. His golden gaze was fixed not on Yadriel, but on the god who’d just struck at his nephew.

“Not today,” Catriz said.

His voice was quiet, but it carried—cutting through the chaos, through the roars of Bahlam, through the pounding in Yadriel’s chest.

The shattered tendrils collapsed in on themselves, seared by Catriz’s presence.

Yadriel could only stare, breath caught somewhere between fear and awe.

“Tío…?” he whispered.

Catriz finally looked at him. The hard edge in his face eased, just for a second.