Page 57 of Espíritu

He drank. The cinnamon hit first, then the orange peel—comfort scents that made his chest ache. He remembered being the one shivering after his mom died, Lita moving around him the same way.

She gathered a stub of copal and a bundle of tea leaves with quick, practiced hands, her knuckles like knots of a tree. “Keep him fed and warm, and he needs good sleep,” she said. “Souls mend faster in rested bodies.”

Yadriel nodded too fast. Rested bodies. He pictured Julian pretending he wasn’t cold, cracking jokes while he shivered. Had he dragged Julian back wrong? Left a thread behind? The thought bit deep. He shoved it down and listened.

A match flared. Sweet smoke rose. “Limpia—copal over the head and heart—and a ruda tea,” Lita said. “I’ll show you the brew again.”

He watched the smoke curl and imagined tracing the same circles over Julian’s sternum. It’d be hard to get him to sit still. His hands would probably shake. He could practice on himself first.

Her gaze sharpened. “No listening for whispers, no following shadows. If anything calls his name, he turns away and calls you, or me. Names are hooks.”

She tapped Yadriel’s sternum. “Give him an anchor. Something to ground him when the pulling starts.”

“His necklace,” Yadriel said. He pictured Julian’s St. Jude medal on its thin chain, the way Julian thumbed it when he was nervous. Good. A thing to hold on to.

Lita set a candle between them. “At dusk, you can light a candle and breathe with him. In four, hold two, out six. Think of roots.”

Yadriel counted it in his head—four, two, six—and felt his shoulders drop a fraction. He could do that. He could be steady.

“Write down when and where the mark flares. Time, place, what he felt. Patterns tell us how to treat a wound.”

Yadriel was already mentally labeling a notebook page: Date. Time. Trigger. Aftercare. He’d text Maritza to help track when he missed something.

“No heavy places, no stray portajes, and if it worsens—fever, chills, lost time—you bring him straight home to me or your father.” She squeezed his hand. “You love him. Do these, and you’ll hold him steady.”

It still didn’t feel like enough, but at least it was a plan, and a plan was something he could carry.

Yadriel looked down at their clasped hands. The list steadied him—sleep, warmth, smoke, breath, anchors—things he could actually do. But questions pressed at the edges. Julian’s susto, the Marca Hueca, Angel’s strange link—none of it felt separate anymore.

A hand rested on his shoulder. Maritza. “We’ll figure it out,” she said quietly. “He’s not alone. Neither are you.”

Yadriel nodded. The ache in his chest didn’t disappear, but it dulled just enough to make room for something else.

Determination.

Maritza nudged his shoulder. “Conchas for courage?”

“Conchas for information,” Yadriel said, already turning.

If the elders were seeing disturbed vigils and quiet corners, Miguel would be the one to tell them.

The small panadería smelled like heaven—bread and sugar mingling with the faint aroma of cinnamon and chocolate. Yadriel grabbed a tray and tongs, his movements mechanical as he tried to focus on selecting the perfect concha. The warmth of the shop, usually comforting, felt oppressive against the weight of his thoughts. His stomach churned with an uneasy mix of guilt and dread.

“Come on, Yads.” Maritza tapped her foot impatiently. “Miguel’s probably waiting.”

“Relax.” His voice was clipped, sharper than he intended. He softened his tone as he placed the concha in a paper bag. “He’ll appreciate this.”

They walked the rest of the way to Miguel’s house in silence, the tension between them palpable. Yadriel’s mind churned, replaying every strange thing Julian had told him, every worried glance he’d caught on his boyfriend’s face. It all felt like puzzle pieces scattered across a table, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see the full picture.

When they turned onto Miguel’s street, the familiar rumble of a motorcycle broke through Yadriel’s thoughts. Miguel pulled into the driveway, cutting the engine with practiced ease. He swung a leg over the bike, his mid-length wavy brown hair catching the light in a way that made him look like he’d stepped out of a movie. His leather jacket gleamed, the boots he wore scuffed but sturdy.

Miguel always exuded a confidence that Yadriel admired, even envied.

“Yads! Maritza!” he called, his broad smile so effortlessly warm it almost made Yadriel forget why they were there. “What can I do for you two?”

Yadriel held up the bag. “A thank-you,” he said, trying to match Miguel’s lighthearted tone, though his voice betrayed a hint of tension.

Miguel chuckled, accepting the concha with a knowing look. “You know me too well. Come inside,” he said, ushering them to the door on the side of the house.