Page 91 of Espíritu

“N-nothing! I’m cool— Holy shit, you scared me,” Julian stammered, gripping his shirt when his scar throbbed painfully underneath. “I—I thought I saw a—uh—spider.”

Rio frowned. “Spider?” he asked.

Julian’s pulse hammered as he glanced back at the closet.

It was dark now, like the lights had never been there. Just piles of clothes and junk.

But Julian couldn’t stop staring at the dark. It had felt real. Too real.

He tried to laugh, but it cracked in his throat. “Guess I scared it off.”

Rio’s scowl deepened. Without a word, he grabbed the metal bat from the corner—a relic of their dad—and yanked the closet door open.

The hinges creaked, the dim light spilling over nothing but mess.

“See?” Julian choked out, relief washing over him. “Told you. Just my imagination.”

Rio lingered, eyes darting between the closet and Julian, like he was waiting for something to happen. Finally, he shut the door with a thud, returning the bat to its corner.

He crossed the room and paused in front of Julian. He reached out, hand landing lightly on the side of Julian’s head, thumb brushing the scar behind his ear.

The unexpected gentleness made Julian choke on his own breath.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar,” Rio muttered, exhausted and defeated. “Whatever it is you’re hiding—it’s gonna catch up.”

Then he turned and got back into bed. The bat sat safely in its home, propped in the corner.

Julian stood there a second longer, heart thudding, ears ringing, a tremor working its way into his spine.

The whisper still clung to him.

Just there.

Waiting.

FOURTEENJULIAN

Julian’s fingers wobbled around the striping brush, the fine bristles trembling no matter how tight he tried to hold them. Carlos leaned beside him, one hand braced on the glossy fender of the ’64 Impala they were detailing, his other hand demonstrating the smooth, perfect stroke Julian had watched him do a thousand times.

“Aye, relax, man,” Carlos murmured. “Pinstripes aren’t about strength. It’s all patience and purpose. Breathe with it.”

Normally, Julian loved this—loved the quiet focus of laying down a clean line, the satisfaction of a perfect curve blooming across chrome. Carlos always said Julian had “an artist’s eye,” which made something warm and fizzy settle in Julian’s chest every time.

But today? He hadn’t slept since the whisper in his closet. The susto chill sat in his bones like ice, turning every bolt into a small war. He needed to tell Yadriel before the shadows got worse. And with the Midnight Vigil tonight, he’d see him soon—if he could just get through the day.

The night before had been too much. He could still hear it.

Julian, whispered like a curse, a warning, or both. If anyone would believe him, it was Yads.

The thought of his boyfriend—his steady, grounded Yadriel—eased the worst of the nervousness coiling in his chest. He’d feel better once he saw him. He always did.

But there was more than just comfort pulling Julian toward Yadriel.

They needed to do something before the shadows got any bolder. Well, bolder than they already were.

Plus Angel still hadn’t texted. No calls. No voice messages. Not even a ghost emoji.

The only reason he hadn’t gone to Yadriel’s first thing was that he had to work, and he hadn’t texted him because how would he even explain that through messages?