Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(22)

“We can try to heal you,” Paloma says. The most Paloma has ever used her power for is to change her failing grades into As. “We’re not natural healers like you, but maybe there’s something in the Book of Cantos.”

“And wind up turning into a slug?” I say, trying to sound like the old Lula. The one they expect me to be so quickly. “I’ll pass.”

“Have a little faith,” Mayi tells me. In this light, she’s ethereal. Like a fairy queen lounging, taking slow bites of the chocolate-caramel treats.

“I have faith,” I say, gruffer than I wanted to.

But Mayi looks at my unkempt altar and Emma purses her lips skeptically.

“Well,” Paloma says, “we’ve failed in cheering you up.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s too soon.”

These same girls I’ve know my whole life, girls I’ve shared magic with, stare at me like I’m a stranger. Their eyes are full of worry and something else I couldn’t place until just now: fear. They’re all afraid of me, with the exception of Adrian. He looks like he wants to move in and fanboy over my sister.

“Thank you for coming over,” I tell them, trying to salvage this visit. Rose goes upstairs to help our parents and Alex.

My friends gather their purses, and I walk them out. The girls kiss me on the cheek and give me their blessings. Before they reach the door, they touch the statue of La Mama that we keep in the foyer, as is customary.

Each girl does this—rubs the hand and walks out. I stand on the porch and watch them exit our metal fence and turn down the street. They hold hands and break into a laugh halfway down the block.

Jealousy tugs at me because I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a nightmare featuring shadow monsters or skeletons reaching for my throat.

“Hey,” Adrian says, standing behind me.

I jump and swear loudly. “Don’t sneak up on people. Why didn’t you leave with your Circle?”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he says. “And I don’t want to be part of that circle. I just came because I wanted to meet Alex.”

“I’ll tell her you stopped by, kid,” I tell him, and start to head back inside.

“Does it get easier?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. At first glance, he’s a normal kid—fresh kicks, new jeans, a band T-shirt. Now, looking into his big, brown eyes framed by eyelashes most girls would kill to have, I see the power he doesn’t know what do with. The power that haunts my own family. “The magic, I mean. Does it get easier?”

How do I give this kid hope when I don’t have any for myself? I swallow the hurt that bubbles up in my throat and blink away the new tears that are multiplying like the heads of a hydra.

“Not always,” I say honestly. “It’s different for everyone. Have you told your dad?”

He shakes his head. “He wants to wait for my Deathday to let me try any cantos. But look.” He holds his hand out, palm up, and conjures a tiny tornado that spins at the center, flecks of dirt and tiny leaves are pulled into the breeze. It’s only for a second, but it’s some of the most beautiful magic I’ve seen in so long. Magic without death or darkness.

I take his hand in mine, and the baby tornado disappears as I close his fingers into a fist. “That’s amazing.”

He looks down at his sneakers shyly. “Really?”

“Yes, really. But you have to be careful. Talk to your dad, okay? I’m sure Alex would love to help you out too. But first, start with family.” Take your own advice, a voice whispers in the back of my thoughts.

He smiles and runs down the porch steps, waving at me. Most of the brujas I know have faint traces of power, and here Adrian can command the wind. I head back in the house to get Alex, but I notice a bundle left on the floor.

Flowers.

They’re still wrapped in plastic. They’re the darkest plum, nearly black in the shadow of our doorstep. I never knew flowers could be this color or shape, wild and elegant at the same time, like a cross between orchids and roses. There’s no note attached.

I can’t imagine who would leave me flowers. A sharp ache pulls at my chest again when I think of the impossible. Maks.

I bring the flowers in with me and shut the door.

I sit in front of the TV, but only the evening news is on, and we don’t have cable. I flip channels, but the same image appears every time I press the button. A breeze finds its way into the living room, bringing the scent of summer barbecue and car exhaust.

The door must be open.

I shake my head. I thought I shut it. I know I shut it. But yesterday I also put the remote in the freezer.

My body aches in protest as I get off the couch again. After I close the door, I turn the bottom lock and the dead bolt and do the chain on top.

I settle back on the couch and wrap myself in a blanket. Wailing noises come from upstairs, where it’s all hands-on deck as my mom tries to heal five fairy children who picked a fight with a preteen werewolf pack.

I ignore the tugging sensation in my chest. It’s not pain. It’s like dust that never settles. It’s like the rumble before a storm.

Then, I see the words flash red across the screen. TWO BROOKLYN TEENS FOUND DEAD.

I turn up the volume as loud as possible.