Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(45)

“And he still ran?”

Nova nods, then hits his fist against the wall. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“But you did,” I snap. “You’re here. You have two choices. Either help us and prove that you’ve changed, or go squat in the park because all you know how to do is run from your problems.”

The door opens and Alex walks in holding a plastic bag full to the brim.

“Glad everyone’s getting along,” she says darkly.

“To be expected,” Nova mutters. “What’s that face for?”

“It’s the only one I’ve got,” she says. She rolls her eyes and I can see the struggle in her body because I know her better than she knows herself. “Nova. I need—”

“No,” he cuts her off.

“You’re not even going to hear me out?”

Nova squeezes the bridge of his nose with his black-tipped fingers. “I know what that bag is full of. I know you want to see her.”

Alex shakes her head, not ready to give up. “Do you know anyone who might know as much about death and blood magic?”

“It’s a bad idea, Alex.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.”

“It’s always urgent. Don’t you get it? That woman kicked me out. She’s the only flesh and blood I have in this city because the siblings I got left are either locked up or in a ditch somewhere. I don’t want to see her.”

Her breath hitches, and I swear she’s letting herself feel sorry for him, despite swearing to every Deo in existence she’d never forgive him. Meanwhile, Maks is busy admiring the scars that riddle his body. I want to look away from Nova’s pain, but I can’t because as much as I hate it, I know what he’s feeling.

Alex places her hand on his. “I’m not asking you to come. But I won’t go see her without your okay. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

Nova looks at my sister’s face, and I see how much he cares about her. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked into his armpits. Then his glance falls to me. Does he wonder if we’re the same? Desperate and willing to do anything? Whatever it is, he nods once, and I suppose that’s as good as we’re going to get.

“Who are you going to see?” Maks asks me.

“The scariest bruja in all of Brooklyn,” I tell him.

Nova’s laugh is bitter as he says, “But I call her grandma.”





20


Pero he descubierto que el veneno más puro es la amargura en los corazones humanos.

—The Art of Poison, Angela Santiago




Bay Ridge is bright with new shops and an excess of hipsters priced out of Williamsburg. I don’t come down this way a lot, but the pizza and bagel shop Dad used to love is still open, sandwiched between a barbershop and a dollar store, where bearded old men bake in the sun on a rickety wooden bench. Kids about our age gather in groups at bodega corners and under the shade of bus stops, cutting school because it’s June and the end of school is so near you can taste the sweetness in the summer heat.

Alex and I cross the street and turn a corner that marks the start of the poor side of town. Within a block, the houses are more rundown, more worn. Not even a fresh coat of paint would fix the cracks and lopsided porches or tilting foundations.

A group of guys whistles at us, but we keep walking, linking our arms together. They laugh and shout out obscenities. Alex’s hand tightens around mine and the surge of her magic prickles my skin.

Something pops, and I whip around to see a lamppost shattering over the catcallers. Some of them scream. Some cross themselves. None of them bother us anymore.

Alex’s smile is feline and I can’t help but laugh. But a block later, when we reach the little bakery with frosted windows, we stop.

The awning over the store is ripped, and though it’s a dirty brown now, I can see splotches in the fabric where it used to be red. There’s a wreath on the door I recognize as a protection spell. Black branches are twisted into a ring, and at the center is a cat’s cradle of copper wire with a glass eye at the heart. El Mal Ojo. When I was little, and I saw other brujas place the eye on their doors or walls or wear it as jewelry, I thought the eye could truly see. Even though now I know it doesn’t, it still gives me the creeps. I always thought it was strange that a curse and the thing that protects you from the curse are called the same thing.

When we open the door to Angela’s Bakery, the bells at the top jingle a pleasant chime. Despite the shabby exterior, the floors are clean, there are two tables where people can sit and eat their pastries, and the cloying sweetness of citrus and lemongrass clings to the air.

“Hello?” I call out.

No one comes to the door, despite the chiming bell.

“Deos help me,” Alex says, pressing a hand on her belly and shutting her eyes. “It smells incredible.”

We both inhale dreamily. Butter, fresh bread, and burned sugar waft across my senses, and, for the first time in so long, my mouth waters with hunger. I press my hands against the glass separating me from rows of decadent cupcakes topped with sugared rose petals. They almost look too pretty to eat and remind me of the canto Alex used to do for me. I touch the scars on the side of my face.

“Do you think Nova would kill me if I bought some empanadas?” she asks.