Cemetery Boys(9)

“There you are, Catriz.” Enrique sighed.

“Tío,” Yadriel said, feeling less outnumbered.

Catriz threw Yadriel a small grin before turning to his brother. “I came as soon as I felt it,” he said, a little winded. His fine eyebrows pulled together. “Miguel, is he…?”

Yadriel’s dad nodded. Catriz gave a slow, somber shake of his head. Several brujos in the room crossed themselves.

Yadriel couldn’t take all the standing around. He wanted to do something. He wanted to help. Miguel was family and a good man—he helped provide for his family and had always been kind to Yadriel. One of Yadriel’s favorite childhood memories was of riding around on the back of Miguel’s motorcycle. Yadriel’s parents had explicitly forbidden him from going anywhere near it, but if he begged enough, Miguel would always give in. Yadriel remembered how his helmet was way too big and heavy as Miguel would give him a ride around the block, barely going ten miles an hour.

Realizing he’d never see him alive again hit Yadriel with a fresh wave of grief.

“What if we can’t find him?” Andrés asked, breaking the quiet. He was a skinny, freckle-faced boy, and also Diego’s best friend.

The muscles in his dad’s jaw tensed. People exchanged looks.

“Keep searching. We need to find his portaje,” Enrique told them. “If we can summon his spirit, we can ask him what happened.” He rubbed his fist across his brow. Clearly, his dad didn’t think Miguel had died and simply passed peacefully to the afterlife. Yadriel agreed, he just couldn’t see how that could’ve happened with how violently his death felt. “Hopefully, it’ll be with his body.”

Yadriel’s stomach clenched at the idea of finding Miguel’s lifeless body lying somewhere in their cemetery.

Andrés’s face turned an impressive shade of green. Yadriel couldn’t believe he used to have a crush on him.

Enrique picked up his portaje from the counter. It was a hunting knife, much larger and more severe than Yadriel’s, but still understated compared to the style of the young brujos’ portajes.

Like Diego’s and Andrés’s. Their knives were longer, with a slight curve, too big to be practical or easily concealed. They got their names engraved into the blades and added flashy charms. A small cross hung on a one-inch chain from Andrés’s hilt. Diego’s had a gold-plated calavera. “Gaudy,” Maritza called them. Adornments were impractical and completely unnecessary.

“We need to get going,” Enrique said, and everyone started to move.

This was it.

He would help them find Miguel and lay his cousin to rest in the brujx graveyard. This was the duty of the brujos, so he would do it. Now that he had his own portaje, maybe Yadriel could even be the one to release Miguel’s spirit to the afterlife.

Yadriel stepped to follow his dad, but Enrique held out his arm to stop him.

“Not you. You stay here,” he instructed.

Yadriel’s stomach plummeted. “But I can help!” he insisted.

“No, Yadriel.” A loud ringing had Enrique digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He swiped his thumb across the screen and lifted it to his ear. “Benny, did you find him?” he asked, expression tense.

Everyone in the group stilled. Yadriel could hear rushed Spanish on the other side.

But his father’s shoulders slumped. “No, we haven’t, either.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We’re trying to gather more people to help search—”

Yadriel leaped at the opportunity. “I can help!” he repeated.

His dad turned away from him and continued to speak into the phone. “No, we haven’t—”

Yadriel scowled, frustration boiling over. “Dad!” he insisted, stepping in front of him. “Let me help, I—”

“No, Yadriel,” Enrique hissed, frowning as he tried to hear the voice on the other line.

Normally, Yadriel wasn’t prone to arguing with his dad, but this was important. He looked around to the brujos in the room, for someone to listen to him, but they were already filing out. Except for Tío Catriz, who gave Yadriel a puzzled look.

When his dad made for the front door, fierce determination made Yadriel step in his way.

“If you’d just listen to me—” Yadriel wrestled his backpack off his shoulder and yanked open the zipper.

“Yadriel—”

He plunged his hand inside, fingers grasping the hilt of his portaje. “Look—”

“?Basta!”

Enrique’s shout made Yadriel jump.

His dad was an even-tempered man. It genuinely took a lot to get him rattled or for him to lose his temper. It was part of what made him a good leader. Seeing his dad’s face so red, hearing the sharpness of his voice, was jarring. Even Diego, standing just behind Enrique, was startled.

The room fell silent. Yadriel felt every pair of eyes on him.

He snapped his mouth shut. The cut on his tongue stung, sharp and metallic.

Enrique jabbed a finger toward the living room. “You stay here with the rest of the women!”

Yadriel flinched. Hot shame flooded his cheeks. He released the dagger, letting it fall to the bottom of his backpack. He glared up at his dad in an attempt to look fierce and defiant, even though his eyes burned and his hands quaked.