Page 152 of Espíritu

Julian lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders. “Angel—?!”

Her skin was ice-cold, her breath shallow.

A beat of silence.

Then her chest rose, faint but steady. She was still alive.

Relief buckled Julian’s knees. He knelt beside her, gripping her tighter. “She’s back,” he whispered, dizzy. “She’s back.”

But the cenote hadn’t gone still.

It hissed.

The water bubbled and surged, frothing like it was boiling from below. The color changed, deepening into violent black, pulsing with veins of blue and green light. The ritual circle around it flickered—then shattered in a burst of cold air.

Maritza’s voice rang out from behind him. “Incoming!”

The shadows over the cenote twisted and curled, rising like smoke—then solidifying.

A massive shape clawed its way from the surface, shoulder by shoulder, something ancient and buried dragging itself into the world.

A jaguar.

Not flesh, but spirit—enormous and spectral, black as obsidian, ringed with burning green glyphs. His form shimmered like he was stitched from starlight and rage, too big for the chamber that tried to contain him. He crouched at the cenote’s edge, eyes like fingernail-moon daggers, fixed on Julian.

Bahlam. Free.

Julian scrambled to his feet, heart slamming so hard it felt like it would break through his ribs. “He’s out—he’s out—!”

Yadriel was already in motion. He dropped beside Angel, checking her pulse, then shouted, “Where’s the dagger?!”

Julian blinked, his brain struggling to refocus. “The dagger—!”

There.

It still sat in the middle of the broken ritual ring, resting on a flat stone tile. The obsidian blade pulsed darkly, feeding the last flickers of tether energy back into the cenote.

Bahlam’s tether.

The jaguar’s body flexed, smoke trailing from his jaws. He roared—a guttural, echoing blast that rattled the bones of the crypt.

He pounced.

“MOVE!” Yadriel shouted.

Lita threw up a shield just in time—a glowing golden arc flared into place as Bahlam’s spectral form slammed into it. The entire cavern shuddered. Maritza staggered, feet skidding on stone, but the barrier held.

“Julian!” she screamed. “GO!”

Julian didn’t hesitate. He dove for the dagger, sliding across the stone floor as heat and pressure closed in around him. His fingers wrapped around the hilt—searing cold at first touch—and the moment he lifted it, the cenote erupted behind him.

The glyphs on the dagger lit up, burning with green flame. Cold rushed his fingers, copper and cenote-silt flooding his tongue.

Julian’s breath caught. He could feel Bahlam through it—raging, writhing, a god made of pain and hunger and pride. The dagger pulsed in his hand like it had its own heartbeat, like it didn’t want to be let go. A voice slid up the hilt and into his marrow.

“LITTLE OFFERING,” BAHLAM PURRED. “STOLEN BREATH. YOU WERE PROMISED TO ME. THE LADY CHEATED. THE BOY STOLE YOU BACK. COME HOME, AND THE HOLLOW WILL CLOSE. NO MORE NIGHTS GASPING. NO MORE HELPLESS WATCHING. I WILL PUT TEETH IN YOUR LOVE—YOUR BROTHER SAFE, YOUR LUCA LAUGHING, YOUR YADRIEL UNTOUCHABLE. SAY YES.”

The words slammed through Julian’s ribs like cold water. For a heartbeat he was back on the stone, cold, the wound on his chest flaring like an open eye.