Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(3)
I go to my dresser and I pull out a round hand mirror that I got at a garage sale for a dollar. It’s a dull metal but makes me feel like the Evil Queen from Snow White. When I was little, I used to root for Snow, but lately, I feel the queen was way misunderstood. Women with power always get a bad rep.
My mood changes instantly when I look at myself in the mirror. I feel like I’m bound to this bit of magic that gives me back a part of myself, even if it’s superficial. The scars are gone. The Bellaza Canto is a stronger form of glamour. When I touch the area where the four claw marks are supposed to be, there is nothing there but flawless, sun-kissed skin.
“Mirror, mirror,” I whisper to my reflection, tilting my face from side to side.
I grab my favorite pink lipstick and apply it. It’s a coral shade that brings out the honey brown of my skin and make my gray eyes stormier. I fluff my mane of black curls and rub my lips together to make sure my lipstick is even. I wish I could make this feeling last. For now, I’m going to enjoy it until the next time.
“Thank you,” I tell Alex, and press a sticky kiss on her cheek.
“Gross,” she mutters, wiping it off. Then she picks up the decapitated rose stem and bowl of unused petals. “Let’s go, Rosie.”
My phone chimes and my heart flutters when I see Maks’s name on the screen. I’m outside.
I analyze the message as I put on my socks. His texts get shorter and shorter every day. Part of it is my fault for being so distant. Ever since Los Lagos, shadows seem to leap around every corner and crowds make me feel as if I’m sinking, my head barely above water. Nothing puts a big, fat hex on a social life like the fear of monsters only I can see.
“Today will be better,” I tell my reflection, slipping into Maks’s letterman jacket before I run down the stairs.
“See you at the game!” my mom shouts.
I wave as I zoom out the door and into Maks’s car parked out front. The minute I’m outside the house, I can breathe again. When I’m around Maks, I don’t have to think about magic, and I’m ready to sink into the comfort of his humanity.
“Hey,” Maks says, not looking up.
He fiddles with the radio stations, but they’re all staticky. He ends up plugging in his phone. His personal coach doesn’t believe in kissing, or anything else exciting, on game day. I want to believe that’s why his voice is distant and that’s why he isn’t reaching for my hand. But seeing him fills me with a sense of need—the need to be my old self. The need to be happy. So I press my lips on his cheek and leave the pink imprint of my mouth.
“You’re in a good mood,” he says, thick, black brows knitting in confusion, and I’m bothered that he sounds so surprised. His knee shakes a little, and I place my hand on it to try to comfort him. He always gets nervous before games. But he’s the best goalie the school has seen in years. Nothing gets past him.
“Last game of the year. It’s a big deal.” I smile when he looks at me before putting the car in drive. Relief washes over me when he takes my hand in his and kisses my knuckles, then speeds down the empty Brooklyn street.
“We’ve beaten Van Buren like six hundred times, but they’re still a solid team.” He squeezes my hand once, then lets it go.
“You okay?” I ask. As a healer, I can sense the tension knotting his aura. He’s always nervous before a game, but today it’s worse than usual. Maybe I’m feeling the residual magic from Alex’s canto. My magic has been way off.
At the red light, he turns to me. His hair is combed back at the top and his edges are freshly buzzed. I brush my fingers at his nape, where the barber didn’t brush off all the stray hairs.
“Lula,” he says my name like a sigh.
He turns to me again. I can’t tell what he’s searching for, but when I look at him, really look at him, I remember why I fell for him. The sweet, caring boy whose smile made me dizzy. I always keep a sprig of hydrangeas on my altar because they remind me of his eyes.
We both start when someone honks behind us, and he faces the road again.
“I was thinking,” I say, trying to make my voice low and playful, but I end up feeling silly, “we could do something after the game. Just the two of us.”
“I already told the team they could party at my house. My parents are on a business trip, and my sister’s already at Uki camp for the summer.”
I shouldn’t be annoyed, but I am. I tell myself he’s just tired. He’s been practicing extra hard. He’s going to Boston College on a soccer scholarship and wants to be at the top of his game.
“We haven’t really been alone in a while,” I say.
“That’s not my fault.”
“It’s not my fault either. Look, I don’t want to fight.”
Another red light. He shakes his head, like he’s dispersing the thought he just had.
“What?”
“I’m just saying”—he sighs and flicks on his turn signal—“we haven’t been alone because you never feel like being alone. You’ve been so off, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“I told you about my dad coming back. And the break-in.”
I watch the red light, the people at the crosswalk. We’re a few blocks away from school. I recognize a couple of girls from my team by their black-and-red uniforms. A woman dressed in all black trails behind them. She holds a cane that glints in the sunlight, and with every step, her jewelry swings from side to side. She wears dozens of necklaces made of glittering gems and wooden beads. She glances at us in the car, and I swear I’ve seen her before. For a flash, the dark stare takes me to a place of my nightmares. My skin is hot, and when I close my eyes, I picture the shadows reaching for me with their claws. I grip the car seat so my hands will stop shaking.