Page 64 of Espíritu

Angel’s hand slipped to her portaje, but she didn’t draw it yet. She was scanning. Waiting.

Julian followed her eyes, his skin buzzing as if he’d been plugged into something wrong.

Then—movement.

Angel’s gaze snapped to a dark corner of the shop, where the moonlight couldn’t quite reach. Julian squinted, and at first, it looked like nothing. Just shadow on shadow.

Then the shape moved.

Writhing.

Waiting.

From the edge of the shadows, something began to take shape—not with a dramatic entrance but like smoke slowly thickening into form.

A girl.

She sat hunched in the far corner, trembling. Her limbs jerked in unnatural, twitchy spasms, like her body couldn’t remember how to move properly. A tortoiseshell peineta crowned her head, holding up stringy dark hair that clung to her face. Her shoulders shook as if she were crying, though no sound came out.

She wore a quinceañera gown—or what was left of it. Layers of white tulle and satin hung from her like fog, torn and soiled, stained with streaks of black sludge. A single satin glove still clung to one hand, the other bare and twitching. One foot was bare. The other wore a delicate heel that dangled loosely, like she’d forgotten how to stand in it.

On her wrist, Julian spotted a wilted corsage—its petals shriveled and blackened like they’d been scorched.

His breath caught.

Not just a girl. A maligno.

He could almost see the moment that should’ve been—her spinning beneath papel picado and lights, a mariachi band playing behind her, family gathered, proud and joyful. She should’ve been smiling. She should’ve been surrounded by people who loved her.

Now, she was alone in a room that stank of mildew and rot, collapsed in on herself like a marionette with its strings cut. Her face lifted slightly—and Julian saw that her eyes were gone, swallowed by inky, hollow voids.

“Damn,” he whispered, a lump forming in his throat. “She’s just a girl.”

“Was a girl,” Angel corrected, voice flat, never looking away from the maligno, like they’d already decided that sympathy didn’t get a vote. “Now she’s dangerous.”

They stepped forward, drawing their portaje in a single fluid motion. The blade gleamed cold and sharp in the half-light.

Julian hesitated, startled by the clean efficiency of it all. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Angel’s jaw tightened, but they didn’t answer. Their eyes were locked on the spirit.

“It’s time,” she said, voice ringing low and clear. Power thrummed beneath the words.

The girl-spirit flinched. For one brief, flickering moment, she looked frightened—like a cornered animal. Julian’s stomach twisted.

“Wait—!”

But then she lunged, erupting from the shadows with a guttural sound that scraped across the walls like tearing silk.

Angel was already moving, their reaction seamless—dodging to the left, foot sliding over debris, portaje raised. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. Every movement was practiced, precise, like a dancer who’d done this a hundred times before.

Julian stood frozen at first, stunned by the transformation. He’d seen Yadriel release spirits before—graceful, yes, but reverent. Angel moved like someone burning something out.

Julian’s fists clenched. He had no portaje. Just fear and the static crawling over his skin.

“Careful!” he called out, his voice cracking.

The maligno’s hollow gaze snapped to him. Cold slammed into him like a wave, and he ducked as a shadow limb lashed past his head. Wood exploded behind him.