Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(25)

I cross the street, following the thread that’s been leading me here. Sweat drips down my back and between my breasts. I pull off my hoodie and tie it around my waist. I don’t have to worry about being recognized here. Hundreds of people disperse from the train station and across Surf Avenue.

I head down Stillwell Avenue until I’m on the boardwalk. Each step is like wading through a vat of mud, but the light of the threads grows stronger. The pain in my chest throbs like a fresh wound. I hang on to the metal railings and wait for the pain to subside.

When it doesn’t, I know something is wrong. My family healed me, and while their magic can’t fix everything that’s wrong with me, I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t feel like there’s broken glass at my feet and fire in my muscles.

Right now I want my sisters, even if it means listening to Alex yell at me for being reckless and leaving the house in this condition. For being marked by Lady de la Muerte. For not saying a word about this sensation that’s pulling me toward an unknown. Sea breeze caresses my face, and a swell of angry tears spill down my cheeks as I keep pushing forward.

I follow the silver thread across uneven boardwalk planks toward the parachute tower. When I see the carousel, I freeze. My heart runs laps in my chest and I turn around so I won’t have to look at it. Instead, I watch the dark blue waves and the seagulls that fight for scraps in the sand. This is where Maks brought me on our first date.

The carousel had just been brought back to Coney Island, original wooden horses and all. I rode a white horse decked out in gold filigree and brilliant pastels, and Maks stood beside me. No one has ever looked at me the way he did. He watched me like I was a marvel that could vanish at any moment, like surf breaking over the shoreline—there and then gone.

We went ’round and ’round on that carousel all night, stopping once to buy cotton candy. I don’t even remember what we talked about. But I remember the world spinning around us, the twinkling lights, the bell-chime music. I remember the way he leaned in to kiss me, a kiss like the melting of spun sugar across my tongue.

The thread in my chest tugs again—hard. I turn in its direction and face the carousel. The sea air has made the paint crackle and chip, and though the gold accents have lost their shine, there’s still something magical about it.

There are other couples and groups of kids on the ride. They casually glance at the guy with the stark gray skin and the scars on his face. They stare at the stained T-shirt that hugs his bruised arms and the red stains around his mouth that looks like blood. But in his hand is a snow cone, cherry ice dribbling down his hand and onto his worn jeans.

The silver thread pulses brighter, faster, and the other end drives into his chest. He looks down, then follows it back to me. Dull blue eyes stare at me without recognition.

I swallow hard and breathe slowly, trying to quiet the fear in my heart. Because there’s nothing in any world that could’ve prepared me for this.

I stand at the edge of the ride and wait for it to come to a full stop. Words fail me as I watch him stand, watch his chest rise and fall.

“Lula,” he says, eyes darting around my face, like he’s coming out of a fog.

He skips the bottom steps and flings his arms around me. I swallow the cry that gathers in my throat.

“I got lost,” he says, gripping my hair and squeezing me until I’m afraid my stitches will rip.

I hold him tighter out of the fear that my legs will give out beneath me. I don’t know how this is possible. His skin is cold and his wounds still look fresh, but he’s breathing. He’s here. La Muerte’s warning flits through my mind. You have betrayed the balance of the worlds. But I don’t care.

Maks is alive.

And nothing—not even La Muerte—will tear us apart.





11


Las Memorias, sisters two,

one who forgets and

one who thinks of you.

—Twin Sisters of the World’s Memories, Book of Deos




“A third body was found today in Brooklyn. An unidentified man was discovered dead on a Coney Island–bound Q train this evening. Witnesses describe a young Hispanic boy running off the train in a hurry before the body was discovered. If anyone has information on the suspect, contact the police.”

The news plays on the small screen in the back of the taxi that takes Maks and me back to my house.

He stares out the window the entire time. His eyes focus on the strangest things, the flurry of dust in the air, the play of light and shadows as we drive through an underpass, the peeling stickers on the partition, and the single drop of water that hits the window announcing rain.

Every few minutes, he looks at me, and it’s like nothing has changed, even though the stitches on both of our faces and bodies say otherwise.

I reach for his hand. The cold of his skin is jarring, but slowly, he stares at our hands and threads his fingers with mine. Familiar.

“What happened to me?” he asks.

I think of my mother’s words at the hospital. I don’t know who you’d get back, but it might not be Maks.

I don’t know what to tell him. You were dying and I tried to save you? You were gone and now you’re here? I try to form a coherent explanation, but what if it scares him? When I was little, when my dad first disappeared, I remember asking my mom, “Where did Dad go?” And she looked at me with a smile and eyes glistening with tears too stubborn to fall. She talked about everything but. “Do you want to see something cool?” she asked me. “Want to see the Circle make magic?”