Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(20)

“You’re wrong. Deathdays are about sacrifice and blood and binding yourself 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?”

“You have everything. A mom that busts her ass for you. All the gifts of the Deos at your disposal. Look at all the people here for you.”

“They’re here for my mother.”

“They’re here for you. You have a legacy. They’re family. You think your life is so tough—you don’t know what tough is. If you knew what I’ve been through, you’d never sleep again.”

I hop off the chair. My magic sparks between my fingers. “You’re right. I don’t know you. So do us both a favor and leave. You don’t want to stick around for what comes next, trust me.”

I hear him jump. Hear his footsteps walk around me and toward the door leading to the backyard. He shoves his hands in his pockets, turning around to look at me. “I guess you’re not a fan of tough love.”

“Not a fan of any love if it’s coming from you.”

Part of me wants to take it back. Out of everyone here, he’s the only one who noticed me leave. I want to tell him to come back, but he’s already gone. When Nova shuts the door, I look up at the light he left. It dims slowly, like a concentrated sunset meant just for me.

“There you are!” my mom says, running into the kitchen. She holds my face with her hands. She kisses my forehead. I take a deep breath, but I can’t stop myself from shaking. “It’s time.”





10


When the bruja meets her dead,

she will welcome them.

She will open her heart

and know her true potential.

—The Deathday, Book of Cantos

It starts in the dark.

My closest living relatives—my mother, Lula, Rose, Aunt Jeanette, and, from my dad’s side, cousin Teresa and Maria—sit in a circle with me at the center. My feet fall asleep in seconds. Sweat clings to my lashes, blurring my vision with every blink. Somewhere in the dark is Old Samuel, tapping the drum skins, matching the rhythm of Lady’s song.

Lady lights the stone bowl between us. She thanks the Deos for blessing me with such power. She’s singing about the moon and sun and the balance of the earth. Then, the names of my ancestors are listed one by one and called forth to meet me.

The lights go out, but a different brightness fills the rooms. Soft, red, and warm. My heart booms—a terrible, bloody thing inside of me. My first instinct is to run. Lula widens her eyes at me, a quiet order to stop fidgeting. So I concentrate on the rattle of shells, on the tsssss of tongues against teeth. On the wisps of smoke rising to the ceiling. On the parakeet batting its wings in my hands.

“Carmen,” Lady says my mother’s name. “The death mask.”

My mother dips her fingers in a bowl of white clay. She covers my face with it, blows on it to help it dry quickly. Her breath is sweet like rose punch. Then comes the coal. She traces the black of bone around my eyes, down my nose, my lips, my cheeks. We wear the face of the dead so the waking spirits feel at home.

Lady takes my hand and slices it down the center. I gasp and pull away. She grabs it back, and I force myself to stay still. For my counter-canto to work, I need my blood too. I look away and squeeze my fist. Warm wetness trickles into the fire. The fire burns acid green, which is strange. I see the confusion on Lady’s face. She and my mother look at each other. Is it my canto? Every Deathday I’ve been to, the fire burns white once the blood is spilt. I fear I’m caught when there’s a firecracker pop, and the green flame becomes true white. Relief washes over my mother’s face.