Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(11)

I try to blend into the corner of dusty books, but when I don’t move, Lady makes a beeline for me. She grabs my hand and spins me in place. Then she traces the map of lines on the palm of my hand. She grabs my chin, and one of her long, black nails digs into my skin. I try to pull back, but she holds on harder. Her dark eyes widen.

“You have it.” Her deep voice is soft as smoke. “It” makes me think I’ve been diagnosed with some incurable plague. “An encantrix, like Mama Juanita. The highest blessing of the Deos.”

“What?” I shake my head. I can’t be an encantrix.

Lady turns to my mother. “Carmen, did you know?”

“It’s been two generations since one appeared in the family,” Mom says. “I thought the gift was lost. Mama Juanita—she could do everything. Command the elements. Heal the sick. Speak to the dead. She wrote her own cantos. And she made the best sopa de pollo in all of Brooklyn.”

“Didn’t she get struck by lightning?” I ask, moving from denial and on to panic.

Lady waves her hand in the air, dispelling my worries. No big deal. It’s only lightning.

“How do you know that’s what I am? I just made a few things float.” I also made a snake of smoke come out of a boy’s throat… I also killed Miluna. I made my father leave us. That’s not a blessing. That’s a curse.

“You’re a late bloomer, mi’jita,” my mom says.

“Our magic isn’t as strong as it was when we were free to practice.” Lady crosses her arms over her chest, and her long, fringe shawl dances around her. “Nowadays, some brujas are lucky if they can make a pencil float, even with years of practice. Some can only see the future in two-minute intervals. Some can only heal shallow cuts. The gifts of the Deos get weaker with each generation. That’s why you are so very curious. What you did—what your mama told me—that’s physical. That takes power. Only an encantrix has that kind of power. You might be a great one.”

A feather falls from somewhere and brushes my skin. I take a step back, knocking against an armoire. The knob digs into my spine. I try to turn around to hold the structure steady, but a small, bleached skull falls off and smashes on the ground.

“Encantrix or not, you’d better clean that up,” Lady says. She points to the black velvet curtain that leads to the back of the store. Lula scoffs and tries on a prex made of sparkling crystals, and Rose mutters something to the mounted head of a jackalope. My mom goes over the list of things we need for my ceremony with Lady.

I rush to the back, where she keeps the cleaning supplies. There’s a door painted dark purple. At eye level is an etching of a golden sun and silver moon for La Mama and El Papa. The sun is crowned by the sideways crescent of the moon. It’s the same moon I wear as a necklace, a gift from my father. I trace the painted symbols on the door. Directly below the sun is a gnarly-looking tree with thin, stringy leaves.

“Encantrix.” I sound the word out.

The seashell wind chime snaps me out of my thoughts. I grab a broom and dustpan and head back out to clean up the mess I made. Some of the bone dust gets up in my nose and makes me sneeze.

“Gross,” I mutter, dumping the contents in the garbage can near the register.

“Gross yourself,” he says.

A guy, possibly around Lula’s age but trying to look older, stands on the other side of the counter. He’s got brilliant diamond stud earrings and a fresh, buzzed haircut like the boys around the block. I find myself staring. His hands are covered in tattoos, like he dipped his arms in solid ink up to his wrists. From there, the ink continues in swirling lines, like jellyfish tendrils drifting on the sea of his light-brown skin.

Thick, dark lashes fringe his eyes, which can’t decide between green and blue. When he sees me, he smiles, revealing a tiny dimple, like a comma at the edge of his mouth. He licks the cold off his full lips. Touches his necklace. Blue beads like a long rosary. A prex.

My face burns when I realize this is the same guy we almost ran over the other day.

He grabs a few things on the way to the counter. I should probably go to my mother, but I don’t want to deal with Deathday things. So I stay put and try to ignore the guy’s presence, even though he seems to take up the whole room with the way he walks right up to me. He sets a red votive candle, some dove feathers, and a jar of tongues on the counter. The tongues swim in the murky, green liquid like they’re mocking me. I flick the bell at the register to let Lady know she’s got a customer.

“I’ll be right there,” Lady shouts from the front of the shop.

I put the broom and dustpan in the back. When I return, he’s still standing there. Again, he smiles when he looks at me.

“What?” I ask. I wonder if he’s aware of how his stare makes me want to turn around and run.

“You look familiar.”

“I just have that kind of face.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, smirking. “I remember you. Red Civic. Riding with that pretty boy that wore too much cologne.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You weren’t the one driving.” He crosses his arms over his chest, making his muscles more pronounced. It makes his tattoo appear like it’s moving. The ends of the inky tendrils stop at the finest points.

“My eyes are up here,” he says, making a V with his middle and index finger and points them at his eyes.