Page 40 of Espíritu

Angel joined in, warm in a way Julian hadn’t seen before. “That’s more than gutsy,” they said to Luca. “That’s impressive.”

Color rushed to Luca’s cheeks. He shrugged, mumbling, “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Julian nudged Angel with his elbow. “He’s a menace in disguise. Like a quiet storm—if the storm also apologized afterward and brought snacks.”

Angel chuckled, and Luca ducked his head, pink-eared, pretending to fuss with his plate. The little spark between them lit Julian’s chest with hope. If anyone deserved something good, it was Luca.

Then Julian’s attention snagged on something that didn’t belong.

A blotch marred the front of Luca’s sweater, just below his collar. At first he thought it was chocolate frosting, or maybe a stain he hadn’t noticed, but the edges were too sharp. Too dark.

“Luca, you spill something?” Julian asked, trying to sound casual.

“Probably frosting,” Omar said, licking some off his thumb. “Or glitter from Flaca’s obnoxious sweater.”

“Obnoxious glitter?!” Flaca gasped, mock offended. “That’s holiday shimmer, thank you very much!”

Julian forced a laugh, but the stain wasn’t frosting. It pulsed, like ink bleeding through cloth. Whispers seemed to slither at the edge of his hearing—not sound exactly, but static.

He blinked, and the blotch seemed bigger. The whispers pressed closer. A hum in his bones, like thunder simmering beneath the floorboards. Julian’s breaths turned sharp and shallow.

“Julian?” Luca’s voice was small, far away. “You look spooked.”

Julian tried to respond, but his thoughts were slipping, too fast to catch. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, nails digging deep. The air around him felt wrong. Off. Charged.

The dark stain spread. Fear clawed up his throat.

“Julian, dude, you’re freaking me out,” Luca said with a nervous laugh.

“Sorry,” Julian croaked, scrambling for something that wasn’t the truth. “Just … déjà vu or something.”

His chest buzzed, like something clawing to get out.

Rocky’s voice cut in with some loud retelling of her battle with window clings, laughter rising around the table.

And then—Angel was beside him.

They leaned in close.

“Don’t worry,” Angel whispered, their breath brushing his ear. “I can see it, too.”

SEVENJULIAN

It was already late. The sun was long gone and the streets glowed under harsh orange streetlights. Julian paced back and forth beside the Stingray, his energy sparking like a live wire. His friends had politely ignored his and Angel’s exit—except for Omar, whose hard gaze burned into him until the door shut.

Angel leaned against the car, arms crossed, their golden eyes tracking him.

“You—you can see them?! They’re real?!” Julian shouted, his words tumbling over each other.

Angel’s mouth quirked with amusement. “Yes and yes.”

“Holy SHIT,” Julian breathed. “I’m not seeing things! It’s real!” He nearly laughed, delirious with relief, even as questions piled up. “I thought I was losing it! I’ve got one—Luca too! What are they?!”

Angel tilted their head, studying him, as if weighing how much to say. “It’s called Marca Hueca—the hollow mark,” they said. “And it’s a symptom.”

Julian froze. “A symptom of what?”

“Susto,” Angel replied. The word came out calm and deliberate, as if they’d said it a thousand times before.