Page 63 of Espíritu

The current sharpened, then swerved. Not a voice. A drag. Heavy. Close. Wrong.

Julian’s spine locked. “It’s … not that. Not the same.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Then what?”

The pull yanked, hard enough to tilt him in his seat.

“There,” he said, already sliding out of the booth.

Angel rose with him. “I’m with you.”

Outside, the night air slapped him hard enough to steal his breath. The pull didn’t fade. It hooked deeper, jerking him into motion. Angel kept pace at his shoulder, matching his steps instead of leading.

“You’re doing better than I expected,” she said, low. “Don’t try to control it.”

“I’m not,” Julian said through chattering teeth. “It’s driving.”

The evening breeze carried the scents of grilled corn and car exhaust as Julian and Angel walked up to Mariachi Plaza.

The plaza was a splash of color against the dusk—strings of warm lights zigzagged overhead, casting a soft glow over the cracked pavement. Banners advertising Christmas posadas flapped lazily from lampposts. The usual sound of trumpets and violins was notably absent.

Julian’s sneakers crunched over litter as he followed the pull toward the center of the plaza. His gaze snagged on the domed bandstand, empty and echoing, then on the statue of Lucha Reyes. The bronze singer stood tall in a traditional ranchera dress, her hand raised mid-note, her eyes defiant as she stared down the plaza.

His breath came in pale puffs, curling in the air before vanishing. But underneath the chill, something else clung to the space—a slow, creeping wrongness. It settled into his bones.

Julian’s chest tugged—that strange inner gravity, like a thread laced through his ribs was being pulled taut. It pulled him east, across the street, toward—

“There,” Julian murmured, nodding toward a sagging building in the distance.

The sign above the entrance was sun-bleached and cracked. Letters missing. Boarded-up windows. A bent chain-link fence encircled it like a warning.

Angel’s glance flicked to him. “Still pulling?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

“Then we follow.”

With that, Angel vaulted the fence like it was nothing, swinging over with feline grace and landing in a crouch.

Julian stared after them. “Seriously?” he muttered, then hoisted himself up—graceless, louder than he meant to be—and tumbled down the other side in a tangle of limbs and shoelaces.

Angel offered a hand without comment. Their face was unreadable in the dim light, but their gold eyes flicked to him briefly. “You good?”

Julian took the hand, nodded. “Totally nailed the landing.”

Angel’s lips twitched.

They moved as one now, steps soft, weaving through debris toward the entrance. The static buzz in Julian’s chest grew louder, more pointed, zeroing in like a tuning fork.

They reached the door. Chains wrapped through the handles, long rusted and crusted with grime. Angel knelt and pulled bolt cutters from their bag.

Julian blinked. “You just carry those around?”

Angel didn’t look up. “Some of us like to be prepared.” A loud snip echoed down the empty street. The chains clattered to the ground, and Angel pushed open the doors.

The building exhaled dust and cold and something worse. Inside, the space was all shadows and ruin. Shelves half-toppled. Mannequin heads turned at unnatural angles. Broken bottles. Graffiti looping like wild thoughts across every wall.

But beneath it all, Julian could feel it—something watching.