Labyrinth Lost Page 6

  “Alejandra isn’t the problem. This attack didn’t start with her. It started long before, with Rosaria. We never found the cause of her death. Then Patricio’s disappearance… There’s something more to this. Rose was possessed. Someone spoke through her. It said, ‘I found you.’ It’s coming for my family and I won’t let that happen. Not again.”

  They fall silent. My mom never talks about my dad. After he left, a year went by before she stopped reassuring us that he’d return. The second year, she packed his things away. The third, she took his photos down. The Circle’s silence tells me one thing: she hasn’t stopped trying to find him.

  “What happened to your family is beyond a tragedy,” Valeria says. “But we can’t make assumptions when we know so little. I’m afraid—”

  “Afraid of what?” my mother says impatiently.

  “I can’t see Alejandra’s future.”

  My mom gasps.

  “I’m sure,” Lady says, “it’s all of the dark the maloscuro’s brought in. Let’s leave Carmen to tend to her girls. We will get to the root of this together. First, Alejandra must receive her blessing.”

  When they leave, muttering prayers for our safety, I stop hiding and step into the kitchen. My mom sighs heavily and sinks in her chair. Only taper candles are lit, elongating every shadow around us. She stares at the faded, flower-print tablecloth in front of her, then drinks tea that must be cold by now.

  “You heard them,” she tells me.

  My body gets a hot flash from being caught. “I guess being supersneaky isn’t one of my great encantrix powers.”

  I take the seat in front of her. She places a warm hand over mine and squeezes. I’m afraid to look her in the eyes. I’m afraid because everything I want is the opposite of what the Circle wants. I’m afraid that if I tell her, she’ll love me less. She’ll look at me with the same fear as my dad.

  She pats my hand. “They’re a bunch of old farts, but they mean well. I’m going to make some calls. The ceremony will be family only. Less people coming in and out. Less chances of something getting in again.”

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  “Of course we do! Your powers are going to get stronger. The sooner you receive your blessing from the Old Ones, the easier it’ll be to control your abilities. Don’t you see what you did today? You saved your sisters. You saved me.”

  “Lula still got hurt!”

  “A scar is a lot better than being dead. She’ll learn that.”

  “Mom, please,” I beg. “Please listen to me. I don’t want to spend every day of my life looking over my shoulder. I don’t want this.”

  She takes my face, kisses my forehead. She puts the dishes in the sink and braces herself against the counter, staring at the boarded-up windows.

  “One day you’ll learn.”

  She said the same thing to me nine years ago. I don’t want to learn. I want to be free.

  I wish all of my life could be as easy as calling on my dead ancestors for protection from the monsters under my bed. While I’m wishing, I wish my dad had never left. I wish no one would hurt my family ever again. I wish I were the kind of girl they all think I should be.

  They’ve decided that tomorrow will be my Deathday. My ancestors will rise, and I will make my sacrifice. But I’ve decided something too. The Deos gave me this power. And I’m going to give it back.

  9

  The Book of Cantos is all a bruja needs.

  Well, the book, and her wit.

  —Jacinta Ferrera Mortiz

  Aunt Rosaria liked to say, “Tell me your troubles. If there’s a cure, it’ll be in the Book.”

  The Book is our family Book of Cantos. My ancestor Jacinta Ferrera Mortiz was the first of my father’s family to come to America. Her parents died on the ship to Ellis Island from Puerto Rico by way of Ecuador. She was five years old, and she didn’t speak a word of English. They put her in an orphanage. All she had was a small briefcase full of home-sewn dresses that couldn’t stand against the New York December winds, a doll, and our Book of Cantos.

  I flip through the pages of spells, curses, the names of the Deos, the history of our magic, my family tree. It’s all in here. Even depictions of cantos gone wrong. Many brujas and brujos find their deaths by trying to overstep the limits of their magic. If I’m supposed to be this all-powerful bruja, then I should be able to handle it. Mom says that you have to believe in that which you ask of the gods, and I believe in mine.

  When I find the canto I’m looking for, my magic rattles inside me like a beast in a cage. I tiptoe through to our other supply closet, full of votive candles and shells and everything a bruja needs. I grab a single black feather from a female raven—the messenger of the Lady de la Muerte. She’s a hooded woman with a cane, and the worst omen you get during a card reading.

  The sky starts to brighten. Red stains the fat clouds that hide the sun. I’m running out of time. I feel like my future is slipping from my fingers. I want to do everything I can to hold on. My eyes burn as I read the text once again. I may not want anything to do with being a bruja, but I’ve always been a good student.

  The depiction of the Banishing Canto is virtually recoil free. Side effects look like severe drowsiness and temporary paralysis. I’m prepared for the recoil to hurt. A moment of pain is better than a lifetime of being hunted.

  Somewhere downstairs, I hear my mother’s footsteps. Every morning at five, she puts on a strong pot of coffee and makes buttered toast.

  I leave the Book of Cantos on my bed and start to get ready for today’s festivities. I lock myself in the bathroom. I run the shower as hot as possible. I scrub my skin until it’s red, and I wonder where cantos go. I wonder if there is an endless vortex or a big space dump where this stuff ends up. Every wish, every prayer has to go somewhere, right? I mean, do the gods even listen?

  I lose track of how long I’ve been in the shower until Lula bangs on the door.

  “Just because it’s your party doesn’t mean you can take your sweet time! I have to do your hair.”

  When I don’t answer, all I hear is a grunt and what I presume is a hair flip because she can’t storm out without a good hair flip.

  I lather my body in rose oil and stand in front of the mirror to air dry.

  “You can do this,” I tell my reflection.

  I put on a brave face and go to Lula’s room, where my dress and flowers are laid out.

  “Let me work my magic,” Lula says, like we’re regular girls getting ready for a regular birthday party instead of sister brujas ready to wake the dead.

  • • •

  Mama Juanita used to say that when you drop a spoon, get ready for company, probably from a vindictive woman. A fork—a handsome man. A knife—lock the doors and windows. Since I’ve literally wrecked our kitchen twice in a week, I don’t even want to think of what’s in store for me today.

  Every single surface is filled with fat, white candles and pulsing flames. Dozens of brujas and brujos fill the house in their Deathday best. Lady’s turquoise head wrap is tall, accented with dozens of tiny crystals. Great-Aunt Esperanza shimmers in the colors of a peacock with a fascinator of the same bird’s feathers. Our distant cousins, the brujas from Lula’s circle, are done up in chiffon skirts and silk blouses covered in glitter. You’d think it was their birthday and not mine. When I think of family, I think of Mom, Lula, and Rose. When my mom thinks of family, she means everyone related to us by a single drop of blood or marriage.

  I smooth down my simple, white dress covered in hand-stitched little flowers along the neckline. Traditional. Plain. Functional. It’s going to get stained anyway.

  “Rose, get back here!” I hiss.

  But she leaves my side and dives straight for the tray of guava and brie empanadas.

  Uncle Gladios makes a beeline for me. He holds my face with his grizzly hands. T
races of sweet sugarcane rum and cigar smoke cling to his clothes.

  “You are a woman now,” he says. “I knew there had to be great power in you.”

  I put on a smile when all I want to do is roll my eyes. It’s always nice when your older male relatives tell you how great it is to be a woman now, like I was an androgynous experiment before. I duck out of his grip before he caves my head in.

  The hugging and face pinching goes on for a while. Aunts and uncles and cousins touch my hair and dress and necklace. Suddenly I feel like there are too many people in my house. It’s too loud, too much, too bright.

  Old Samuel drags his conga drums across the living room. He wears a white tunic with tiny mirrors sewn across the chest. The mirrors are to ward off bad spirits because they can’t stand to see their own reflections. Lady’s deep voice shouts orders about where the ceremony will take place. Crazy Uncle Julio brought a lonely pink balloon, and it’s already started to sag in the corner.

  Lula comes over and holds my hand. She stands straight and defiant as eyes linger on the scars on her cheek. Her hair is braided around her head like a crown, and instead of traditional flowers, she opted for a veiled fascinator covered in gems. She pulls on the veil to make sure it falls over her scars, and for the first time, I see a chink in my sister’s armor.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “Not now.” She holds my hand tighter, and we do a lap around the living room.

  Lula elbows me hard and nods at the group of newcomers. She whistles just loud enough for me to hear.

  “That’s a drink of water and a half.”

  “Gross, we’re probably related,” I remind her.

  Rose shakes her head on her way to the punch bowl. “No, we’re not.”

  But when Nova turns around, dressed in a blue button-down that frames his broad chest and shoulders, the magic in my belly tugs, and a warm pain passes over me. His earrings wink in the light. I don’t know if I want to keep staring at his smile or find a quiet corner where I can throw up. Who am I kidding? There are no quiet corners in this house. Not tonight. He looks down the hall, where I’m standing, but his gaze goes right past me.

  Emma, a cousin thrice removed, stands next to Lula, hooking their arms together. Emma has small teeth and a pointy nose that gives her a look like she’s always smelling something sour. “Oh my Deos, he’s so fine.”

  “Totally fly,” Mayi joins in, pursing her lips like she’s getting ready to blow him a kiss.

  “I heard he did three years in juvie,” Emma says.

  “I heard his parents were into some really bad juju,” Mayi says. Her dark skin is like polished stone. Her long, dark hair comes down to her tiny waist. “That’s why he lives with his grandma.”

  “You guys are holding out on me,” Lula tells them.

  Mayi turns to Lula. She hesitates, then says, “Want me to glamour your scars?”

  Lula looks startled for a moment. She unhooks herself from Emma’s arm, reaches for her veil, and adjusts it.

  “No,” Lula says. “But you might want to go to the bathroom. Your real nose is starting to show.”

  Nova looks over to where we’re all staring at him. The girls all turn around quickly, except me. He smiles and licks his lips. A no-good kind of lick that says, I’m going to get you.

  “Oh hey, Alex,” Emma says, as if only just noticing me. “Happy early birthday.”

  “Are you ready to accept our Circle invitation?” Mayi asks.

  “I think I’d rather clip Crazy Uncle Julio’s toenails,” I say as the front door opens again. “More people. I’d better go say hi.”

  Lula runs after me and pulls me into the corner near the stairs. She stares at the center of my forehead. “Are you going to be like this the whole time?”

  “What?” I drop my voice to a whisper.

  “Can you at least try to have fun?”

  “We’ve never gotten along. Magic isn’t going to change that.”

  Lula shakes her head. “You’re just mad you can’t go to that stupid party with Rishi.”

  “And you’re mad at me because of the maloscuro.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You won’t even look me in the eye. You wanted us all to have our powers. Now look. We do. Maybe you want to spend the rest of your life hiding from monsters and watching the people you love die, but I don’t.”

  She meets my eyes to prove a point, but only for a second. Her stormy-gray eyes flick to the side. “You’re hopeless.”

  She leaves me for her Circle, and I stand alone against the wall. Old Samuel starts off with a song that has everyone dancing. The only good thing about this party is that I can hear my mother laughing. That alone is worth it.

  I send Rishi a text.

  Me: Change of plans. Family thing is ending early. Meet you at ten? Can I still be your date?

  Rishi: Maybe.

  Me: Rishi…I’m sorry.

  Rishi: Just kidding. I can’t stay mad at you for long. See you.

  I find myself smiling for the first time today. Something like hope fills my chest.

  When I turn around to find the bathroom, Nova’s standing there holding two cups of fizzy, red punch.

  “You’re here.” Dear Alex, please stop being so awkward.

  “Brooklyn’s best delivery boy, at your service.” He smirks. His skin is so smooth. I wonder how often he moisturizes.

  I take the drink he offers and smell it. Lady’s special blend of fizzy sangria. Her secret is rose petals. She says nothing coats the senses quite like roses do. I should have worn roses in my hair.

  Over in the living room, the girls from Lula’s circle are dancing to the drums and Spanish guitar of Old Samuel and his band. Their hands twist in the air, like they’re calling a forth a spirit. But this is only dancing. Except for Mayi, the show-off.

  She spins in place, her skirt swishing around her dainty feet. Soft candlelight adds a glow to her brown skin. I want to hate it, but instead, I love the way it flows, the way her glamour magic makes us see things that aren’t there, like the rain of flower petals that fall to the floor. My guests ooh and aah at her. They reach for the petals and their hands go through them. Just a trick of the light.

  “You know, an encantrix has the ability to channel any kind of power,” Nova says so close to my ear that it tickles. He smells like rain hugging the new green of spring. “You can do that too.”

  “I can’t.” Despite the roses in the drink, something inside of me is restless. The raven feather wedged in my bra pokes me. I remember the hideous face of the maloscuro. I shut my eyes, pushing down the surge of magic that burns the palms of my hands.

  I run to the kitchen and close the door behind me. There’s a draft coming from the boarded-up windows. I pace around the kitchen table. My dress feels too tight. The skin over my rib cage itches. When the door opens and Nova walks in, I jump. A spark of magic slips from my hold and the light bulb above us pops.

  “Are you still planning on doing the thing we talked about?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

  “Are you going to talk me out of it?” While my eyes adjust to the dark, I fumble toward the cabinets for a spare light bulb.

  “That’s not my place. I already told you that you might not like the recoil.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  I walk past him, trying to ignore the way my senses flare when I’m around him. I stand on the chair under the broken light. I try to unscrew the glass cover, but the knob is too tight.

  “Free food, good music, cute girls. Gatherings are few and far between nowadays. Everyone acts like Deathdays are only big parties. But they’re more than that. They’re about getting the blessing and connecting with the Old Ones.”

  “You’re wrong. Deathdays are about sacrifice and blood and binding your
self to a power that destroys.”

  He reaches for my hand. I pull away. “It’s supposed to get better.”

  “How old are you?” I ask. The blown-out light bulb is stuck in there.

  “Seventeen. Why?”

  “Because I don’t need someone my own age telling me that life gets better.”

  He’s quiet for a little while. Out in the living room, the music gets louder, all drums and horns and wailing voices.

  “I think I’ve lived enough for about two lifetimes.” He sounds so worn when he says that. But he recovers his charm quickly. “I hope in the next one I come back as a billionaire playboy.”

  “The way the Deos work, you might come back as the billionaire playboy’s toothbrush.” I grunt, trying to twist the bulb, but it won’t budge.

  “Don’t be stubborn,” he tells me. “Let me help.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  He drags a second chair beside me and hops on it.

  “What are you doing?”

  My eyes have adjusted enough that the light from the living room lets me see the outline of his face. His cheekbones are perfect. His eyes are on the green side of the spectrum now. I can see myself in them.

  And then the light comes on.

  Nova pinches the air with his black-inked fingers. A soft, white light flows from his fingertips and fills the room. I can feel its warmth along my skin, brushing against my own magic.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Oh,” he says playfully.

  I want to ask him how he did that. How do you control something that is living inside of you, like a parasite, a virus? Like this growing thing that has attached itself to me without asking my permission.

  “Come back to the party, Alex.”

  “Why can’t everyone just leave me in peace?”

  It’s a hypothetical question, but in truth, I want an answer. A real, true answer.

  “You’re a brat, you know that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  His blue-green eyes are brilliant in the shadows. He doesn’t even blink. “I always hated kids like you growing up.”

  “Kids like me?”