Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(17)
“What about after tomorrow?” a woman’s high-pitched voice asks. “My daughter says Alejandra never attends your classes, Lady. Perhaps it’s time you ushered her in the right direction, Carmen. After what happened to Rosaria—”
“You don’t have to remind me what happened to my sister.”
“Peace, Carmen.” Valeria now. She’s a seer, like Rose. She brings us ham croquettes and pan de dulce once a month. “We came here to help.”
“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.