Page 50 of Espíritu

“You okay?” Yadriel asked, jogging a few steps to catch up.

“Fine,” Julian muttered, quickening his pace. “Just—keep walking.”

The moment they passed into the older part of the cemetery—past the headstones with faded names, past earshot of Lita’s house, and far enough from any lingering spirits—he veered them off the main path without explaining, eyes sharp, shoulders tight.

Yadriel and Maritza exchanged a glance, startled.

“Jules—what’s going on?” Yadriel asked.

“Just—wait.”

They passed a crooked row of headstones, and Julian paused, scanned the area again.

“Okay,” he said, breath shallow. “We’re alone now, right?”

Yadriel opened his mouth, but Julian didn’t wait for a response. He turned to them so fast he nearly tripped.

“Angel can see my dark spot!” Julian blurted out. “And it’s not just me—Luca has one, too!”

Yadriel’s and Maritza’s eyes went wide.

“What?” Yadriel asked, stepping closer. “Angel can see it?”

“Luca has one?” Maritza repeated, as if Julian must be wrong.

“Yeah! Right here!” Julian pressed a hand to his chest, over the scar above his heart. “I saw it on him!”

Yadriel frowned deeply, his gaze fixed on Julian’s hand. “What did Angel say?”

“They called them Marca Huecas,” Julian said, closing his hand around his St. Jude medal. “They said it’s a sign of susto?” The word was still unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Susto?” Yadriel echoed, his brows knitting together. Then he started nodding. “Yeah, I know what that is.”

“You do?” Julian asked, surprised.

“It’s a common illness,” Yadriel explained. “Even non-brujx know about it.”

Julian shook his head. “Well, I’ve never heard of it before! Angel said it’s like—like—pieces of my soul are missing! Scattered!” he said.

“That’s what happens with susto,” Yadriel confirmed grimly. “It’s like PTSD but spiritual. Brujas treat people for it all the time.” He paused. “I got susto after my mom died.”

That news startled Julian. “You did?!” He instantly searched for signs of a dark spot lurking in the fabric of Yadriel’s black hoodie.

Yadriel self-consciously crossed his arms over his chest, blocking it. “I don’t have susto anymore—I got better,” he said, a little tersely.

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the cracked tile between them. “When my mom died, though … I had it bad for a while. Couldn’t sleep. Felt like my spirit didn’t fit inside me right—like it kept trying to float out through my ribs.” He rubbed his sternum absently.

“How’d you get better?” Julian asked quietly. How could he get better?

“Lita did limpias, and my dad helped with the offerings,” Yadriel explained, quiet and thoughtful at the memory. “But what really made it easier was building her altar at home. Leaving out her candle and favorite café. Knowing I’d see her again on Día de Muertos—that she was still close—that’s when I started feeling whole again.”

Julian swallowed hard. That kind of hope wasn’t available to him. His dad wasn’t waiting anywhere—just gone. No holiday, no candle, no second chance.

“Mostly Lita and my dad taking care of me,” Yadriel went on. “And time. That helps, too.”

Julian’s mind reeled, terrified by the idea of Yadriel having the sickness, even if he’d recovered from it already. “Angel says the Marca Huecas are like … like scars? A hole where your soul busted out of you like that alien in that alien movie!” Julian’s fingers twitched at his sides, craving something to fidget with, a physical anchor to ground his spinning thoughts.

“Seriously?” Yadriel breathed, his dark eyes searching Julian’s face for any hint of jest. But Julian’s somber expression spoke volumes.