Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(4)

The kitchen fills with the sweet, rose-scented smoke. I turn off the burner and drain the rosewater into a mason jar. While Lula isn’t looking, Rose sticks her finger in the ambrosia. I bite my lips to keep from laughing.

“You always claim to be so busy,” Lula says, tracing her shimmering nail across the page. “It’s just school, Alex. This is your life.”

“You’re starting to sound too much like Mom.”

“And you don’t sound like her at all.”

“You never want to listen to me. I have a really long day. First period gym, then student council, then class, then the paper. I have to use my lunch period to finish the reading on Romeo and Juliet. I have indoor track practice and lab and—”

“Oh my goddess, please stop. No wonder your magic is blocked. You’ve got a broomstick up your butt.”

“My magic isn’t blocked.” I bite my tongue.

Lula shrugs and taps the metal whisk against the bowl to get rid of the excess ambrosia. Then she separates it into two clean mason jars. “I don’t know why you’re more worried about school than your powers. You’re going to overthink yourself to death.”

You don’t understand, I want to say but don’t. Lula isn’t the one who got left back a year because she was too afraid to leave her room and missed too much school. Lula isn’t the one who’s seen or done the things I have.

“I know it seems scary,” Lula says, reaching over and tucking my hair behind my ear. “But this is important. Waking your magic could really bring us together. We all know that ever since what happened to Dad, Ma hasn’t been the same. All we need is a little push and you’ll see. You can’t have your Deathday until your powers show. You’re going to be sixteen in less than two weeks. It’s the perfect time. I know the other cantos didn’t work, but that’s why we’re going to try again.”

Deathday: a bruja’s coming-of-age ceremony. While some girls are having their bat mitzvahs, sweet sixteens, or quincea?eras, brujas get their Deathday. There’s no cut-off age, but puberty is when our magic develops. Sometimes, like with Rose, when you’re born with powers, the family chooses to wait a little while for them to mature. Over the years, modern brujas like to have Deathdays line up with birthdays to have even bigger celebrations. Nothing says “happy birthday” like summoning the spirits of your dead relatives.

Lula ignores my worry and keeps trying to convince me she’s right. “Remember my Deathday? Papa Philomeno himself appeared. And he’s been dead for like a hundred years. I went from healing paper cuts to mending your ankle that time you fell from the tree. Magic is in our blood. We come from a long line of powerful brujas.”

“A long line of dead brujas, you mean,” I say. Why do I bother? Lula doesn’t want to hear the bad parts. She just wants to concentrate on the power instead of the consequences.

“You say that now. Magic transforms you. You’ll see.”

I breathe deep, like there isn’t enough air in the whole world. I brush my messy hair out of my face. It’s easy for Lula to talk about power. She sees magic as something to be revered. All I can think of is the blood and rot and smoke and whispers of my dreams. All I can think about is the terrible thing I did. The secrets I keep from my family every day.

Lula’s phone chimes three times. Maks must be outside.

“Trust me on this,” Lula says. “And hurry up and get dressed. Maks is here.”

I start to head back up the stairs when I hear Lula shout, “Rose! That’s an offering!”

Rose is licking the excess ambrosia from the whisk, a guilty smile spreading to her round cheeks. “What? The ambrosia’s a metaphor for our divine offering. It’s not like the Deos are going to eat all of it.”

Lula looks up at the ceiling and asks, “What did I do in my last life to deserve you two?”

“You were a pirate queen who stole a treasure from Cortés and then ended up deserting your crew to man-hungry sharks,” Rose tells her. “We’re your punishment for every lifetime to come.”

Lula rolls her eyes. “Seems excessive.”

I leave them and run upstairs to get dressed.

I can’t believe I let Lula talk me into doing another canto. I still haven’t learned how to say no to her. I’d like to meet someone who can. I know if I’m not careful, I’m going to get caught. The cantos she picks are harmless really, unless you account for attracting ants because of the ambrosia. Maybe I can stay late after school and come home after sunset. She’ll be mad, but she’s always mad at me for something.

I get a tight feeling in my chest and brace myself against the wall. Something feels different today. Even Rose felt it.

I can hear Lula shout and Maks press down on his horn. A cold breeze blows through the window and knocks a photo off my altar. It’s a picture of Aunt Rosaria. In it, Aunt Ro is alive and smiling. Her dress is as blue as the summer sky and in her arms is a crying baby. It was a few days after I was born, and my parents chose her as the godmother for my Birth Rites. It’s how I want to think of her. Not dead. Not rotting. I put the picture back in place beside my turquoise prex—a bruja’s rosary—and a candle that’s been burned to a tiny stub and not replaced for months.

Something inside of me aches. “I miss you. Mom’s getting crazier every day without you.”