Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(13)

Nova laughs and raises his hands. “Fine. Every Book of Cantos has something to block negative forces. My grandmother uses them on her bakery, so she doesn’t get bad reviews. You can probably use the same to block the blessing of your ancestors. But you’d be foolish to try. You don’t know what could happen.”

“What if—” I bite my tongue. Nervous sweat accumulates between my shoulder blades. “What if I wanted to get rid of it?”

“I already told you it’s too late to stop the party without getting your moms pissed.”

“No,” I whisper. “Get rid of the magic.”

“Oh. Damn.” Nova stares at me. I hate that it makes me feel exposed, judged even. I can practically feel his thoughts racing. Would he tell Lady? Perhaps I’m not special in feeling this way, like I’m in a body that doesn’t fit quite right, but saying the words aloud makes me realize that, maybe, I can change my fate.

Nova raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. A fat vein in his throat jerks when he tenses. I decide I don’t care what he thinks of me. He doesn’t exactly look like a saint.

He rings the bell on the counter and says, “Then I don’t think I’m the person who can help you.”

Finally, Lady makes her way to us with my mom. I get shooed away from the register.

“What are you planning, Trouble?” Lady asks Nova.

For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to rat me out. Nova winks at me and that dimple appears, like we weren’t just discussing a bruja’s greatest family betrayal. I go stand beside my mother. She looks at Nova, trying to place him. Surely all the brujos and brujas in the tristate area know each other. She tells me all the time that there are so few of us left and our connections matter.

“Look at that face,” she whispers to me, like we’re schoolgirls.

“Ma.”

Nova smiles—no sarcastic laugh, no mocking twitch of the lips. Just a smile. His dark hair is shaved short, so all you focus on are his cheekbones and lips and lashes.

I take the list from my mom’s hand. Everything is crossed out except for one: blood of the guide. I shut my eyes and think of Lula’s Deathday. We strung white fairy lights in the yard and spent all night hot-gluing sparkles on her midnight-blue dress. I glued my fingers so many times that they were raw and bloody. I probably bled as much for her Deathday as the sacrificial dove. If I think on it, I can see Lula’s slender hands holding the dove, red dots smattered all over her perfectly calm face.

Lady punches numbers into the register. “Love canto? Finally met one you couldn’t charm with your pretty green eyes.”

In this light, they’re more blue than green. But I don’t tell her that.

“Nah, Lady,” he says. “Ain’t never had no trouble with love.”

“That’s a double negative,” I say.

Lady’s grave laugh fills the store. Then she says, “Twenty-five dollars.”

“You raised the price on liar tongues? What the hell, Lady?”

He takes out crumpled-up bills from his pocket and smooths them out like each dead president just insulted his mother.

Lady shrugs. “You think rent here’s getting any cheaper? You want to do your love canto or don’t you?”

“It’s not a love canto!” He pushes the money toward her, a sudden jerk going through his body. He glances at me, then gives me his back. Beneath the close crop of his hair is a crescent moon tattoo, El Papa’s symbol, right behind his ear.

“Just put the rest on my bill,” my mom says.

“Five bucks,” Lady tells my mother, shoving his candle and tongues and feathers into a black plastic bag. “What do you say, Nova?”

Nova looks to the floor for one, two, three, before facing my mother and saying a somber, “Thank you, Ms…”

“Carmen,” she says.

“Nova Santiago.”

“You’re a bleeding heart,” I tell my mom.

My mom is always the lady who gives a dollar to the young, homeless kids on the street. She always says, “If it were you, I’d want someone to help you too.” This is different. So he’s not doing a love canto. He could be doing a canto to make someone lose their voice. Who needs liar tongue for any kind of good magic?

“Santiago?” Mom asks. “Are you Angela’s grandson?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nova nods, losing the confident posture from before. “Angela the Great.” He says her name like he doesn’t think she’s great at all, like he doesn’t understand why people call her that. My mom doesn’t seem to catch that, but I do.

“I ordered some of her sweets for Alejandra’s Deathday next week,” Mom continues.

“Alejandra,” he says, and I realize I never told him my name.

“Alex,” I correct him.

“I work at the bakery,” he tells me. “I’ll probably be the one delivering them.”

“Oh, you’ll have to stay!” Mom says.

I tug on my mom’s sleeve, but she slaps my hand away.

“Alex doesn’t have many friends.” The traitor who birthed me pleads my case. “It’ll be nice to have some young blood.”

I want to cut off my head and add it to the mounted wall. They can label it “Head of a Friendless Girl.”