Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(26)

And I did, because magic was the best thing in my life. Magic was a living, beautiful force that coursed through my veins.

That’s when my mom took me to her High Circle meeting and I watched them dance around an ailing person. They covered her in wet corn leaves and used bushels of branches to slap her skin red. They threw flower petals in the air and lit bundles of sage and prayed to the Deos in the Old Tongue. I watched from a corner, promising not to move, to touch, or to make a sound. Respect the Deos, protect our magic.

Now, when Maks asks me what happened to him, I know why my mother always changed the topic. Maks is different. He defies reason, magic, science. But he’s still mine, and I have to help him find answers for the both of us.

“Want to see something cool?” I ask him.

The cab driver stops in front of my house. Our car is gone, which means that my family is probably out looking for me and I have time to hide Maks. I don’t have anywhere else to take him, and despite the tension of the past few months, home has always been the safest place I know.

I dig into my jeans and discover I don’t have enough cash to cover the ride. The cab driver starts clucking his tongue, demanding his money.

“I got it. Hang on,” I say.

Maks stares at the divider. He traces the crack that splinters from the center.

Then I realize, Maks isn’t wearing his own clothes. They’re too tight and dated. Where did he get them? Who did he take them from? How did I just notice the dark stain on the pant leg? But before I can start to answer all of this, we have to get inside.

I reach into his back pocket and pull out a thin leather wallet. A voice in the back of my head tells me there’s something wrong. To put it back and listen to the warnings I’ve been given. You’ve betrayed me. You must free me.

But instead I open the wallet and pull out the bills I need, plus a big tip to keep the driver’s mouth shut. I put the wallet in my hoodie pocket and decline the receipt he offers me. The taxi pulls away the second I shut the door.

Maks walks ahead of me and through the front gate, looking up at my narrow, old house.

“You’ve never let me in here before,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take.

I smile, but it hurts, and I take the arm he offers. Maks always wanted to plan dinners with my parents, but I always came up with an excuse. Relief gives me a moment of clarity. Maybe he’s slowly getting his memory back. Maybe everything will work out.

I turn the key and leave my sneakers at the front door. The statue of La Mama with her broken hand stares at me as I shut the door.

“It smells like Christmas,” he says, every word slow and thoughtful. Maks always had a calm, relaxed quality about him that I loved. He wasn’t as hyper or loud as some of the other boys on the team. But the stillness of the way he’s speaking now feels wrong.

“Rose baked,” I say. I might be imagining things. I should be happy he’s here. He’s really here. “Are you hungry?”

He jerks back when he sees my hand reaching for his cheek. His eyes widen, the blue turns pale, his pupils shrink to pinpricks. He rakes his nails across his throat, leaving sharp red lines.

“Oh God…I ate—I ate—”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, still reaching. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I’m going to help you.”

He keeps walking backward, toward the front door. I want to grab him. I want to help him. I want to hold him in my arms and fix this—whatever this is. But he walks into the statue of La Mama. The statue topples over and I dive to grab it, pressing it against my chest. Blood seeps through the bandage on my arm. I’ll have to change it later. I pull myself up and put the statue back in place.

“I should go home.” He paces the foyer. “My mom is waiting for me. I was supposed to play and I forgot. I should go home.”

“Wait,” I say, keeping my distance. He’s like a spooked horse and I don’t know what set him off. “You can’t.”

“Why?” He squints and presses his hands against his temples, as if the light in the living room is too bright. I flick it off, leaving only the sunset casting a warm glow through the windows. He turns around, pressing his fists against the wall. He grinds his teeth, then slams his fist over and over until it goes through.

“Stop! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I can’t! Everything already hurts. I don’t know. I don’t know what is wrong with me.” He pulls his hand back, bits of Sheetrock crumbling around his bloody fist. He wipes his hands on his jeans. He looks at them. They’re still dirty. “I’m sorry.”

“Your parents aren’t home.” It’s a lie. But how can I send him home like this? What if he hurts himself? Or worse, what if he hurts someone else? “You have to stay here for a little while. Do you trust me?”

His eyes snap up in my direction. He takes my face in his hands, and for the first time since I’ve known him, a pang of fear strikes my heart. “How can you ask me that? Of course, I do.”

? ? ?

I rush to the closet in our infirmary room, where we keep spare clothes for our patients, and grab a clean white shirt and sweatpants. Hopefully they’ll fit better than what he’s wearing now.

As I make my way out of the infirmary and down the hall, my footsteps are heavy. There are too many questions floating around my head, too many things to do. So I focus on what I can handle right now. Get Maks clean. Make a calming draught. Get him fed.