Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(6)

A bruise blooms on her smooth forehead. She presses her hand on it. “Recoil. You know that. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” I hate the recoil, the unyielding give-and-take of the universe. My sister can heal, but it comes at a price. Mom tells her to save it. Nicks and scratches heal easy enough. But Lula doesn’t listen.

“Let me worry about me.”

“But look at you!” I try to take her face in my hands, but she pulls away from me. The green spot on her forehead is darkening.

“This is what we do, Ale.” Ah-ley. My family nickname. “I know sometimes it’s scary. But we can’t just turn our backs on who we are.”

I scoff. “Right, and end up like Aunt Ro and Mama Juanita and Dad. Our lives are cursed. Magic is the problem.”

Lula looks down at her lap. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Who else is going to say it?”

If I were braver, I would tell Lula the truth. Maybe they aren’t cursed, but I am. I’m the reason our lives changed—the reason Dad left us. Instead, I look out the window, where Maks and the blue-hooded boy are still fighting. Lula hops back to the front seat and presses down on the horn.

“Maks!” she shouts. “Come on. Alex is fine. We’re late.”

Maks slams his door shut. His face is red from screaming. The impatient traffic jam starts to drive around us.

The guy we almost hit gives us the middle finger, then keeps crossing the street as the pedestrian light turns white. I watch him as he walks. He rubs the long string of blue beads around his neck, an odd length for a rosary. Then I lose him in a crowd of pedestrians.

Maks takes Lula’s face in his hands. “Baby, you’re hurt. I’m so sorry.”

He kisses her forehead, and I count the seconds before he lets go. One…six…ten…

I tap the back of his seat. “You guys know I’m still back here, right?”

He turns to me and winks. “Want one too?”

“I’ll pass. Can you park without killing us?”

Lula’s back to sister-mode. Her resting witch face silences me.

Maks smirks, but the humor is gone. “Buckle up.”

And I do something I haven’t done in years. I whisper a little prayer.





4


The encantrix walks alone,

her power too great.

Her madness, even greater.

—The Creation of Witches, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz

At the steps of Thorne Hill High, Lula pulls me into a hug.

“I’m fine,” I groan.

“Wait for me after school. We have to—”

“Sunset,” I say quickly. I wish she wouldn’t talk about bruja things in public. “I know. I got it.”

She kisses my cheek, and I grumble because her lip gloss is so sticky it only comes off with soap. I leave her and Maks to loiter with the soccer team and race up the steps. The school’s tall gothic spires cast pointed shadows across the hordes of students hanging out front. I check my watch. I have two and a half minutes to make it to the girls’ locker room and then first period gym. At my locker, I quickly change into my uniform. I throw on my hoodie because it’s cold.

A sharp pain pulls from my belly button so hard I drop onto one knee.

“Are you okay?” a girl asks.

“Cramps,” I lie, trying to breathe through the pain. I feel a shortness of breath as my heart races. Get a grip, Alex.

The girl raises her eyebrows, like she’s positive I should be studied by NASA, and walks away.

Today is not off to a good start. I shut my locker harder than I intended. Static pricks my fingertips like needles and leaves burn marks on the metal door. The slam echoes through the changing room, turning heads in my direction. I bend my head down and concentrate on tying my shoelaces. Girls around me snicker on their way out. Their whispers echo against the metal doors and sharp acoustics of the locker room.

“That girl is so creepy. Her whole family is so weird.”

“My mom says her mom smells like garlic. She’s like a voodoo priestess or something.”

“Did you know her slutty sister is dating the goalie?”

I let go of a shaky breath. A new pain pulls at my chest. I’m used to people thinking I’m weird. Despite my best efforts at not being seen, something always calls attention. When I was a kid, my mom used to put good luck charms in my backpack without telling me, so they’d fall out at school and scare the other kids. No one likes a real rabbit’s paw strung with smelly incense pouches and seashells that jingle with every step. Even now, I keep to myself, except when I’m busy making lab-partner situations awkward. I don’t care when people say things about me. I’ve learned to take it. But I really hate it when they say things about my family. I ball my hands into fists and pull back the anger itching at my fingertips.

I exit the locker room and search the stairwell for the single familiar face that cheers me up.

“Today, loser,” a boy says behind me. Then, when I don’t speed up to his liking, he huffs and puffs and shoves me aside. He beats me to the next landing—Ivan Stoliyov, suspended for punching people and throwing a desk chair at Principal Quinn’s head. He reminds me of a blond troll. I’m mentally putting him in check with a witty remark that’ll never actually leave my lips when I, very gracefully, trip up the steps.