Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(46)
“Why do you even care if he gets mad?” I ask her. “You treat him like he killed your pet. Huh. Technically you killed your pet…”
Alex practically growls in my direction. “I’m going to ignore that. Anyway, I thought Nova and I could be friends after he showed up with Dad. I could get over the betrayal. But sometimes, when I sit and think about how lucky I am, how I love Rishi and how she makes me happy, how my family is safe, Nova just breaks into my thoughts and I feel helpless and stupid all over again. I just wish he didn’t get under my skin.”
I tap my nails on the glass and consider what my sister is feeling because I’m the one who hasn’t let her forget what she did. Maybe I’m the one who has to tell her what she doesn’t want to hear. “I think there are many different kinds of love. I think you want to love him as a friend because you share a darkness that no one else can understand. You’ll never really be friends if you keep blaming him. But for right this second, you just have to be allies.”
She acts like she didn’t hear me and presses her finger against the counter. Her eyes are set in a frown as if the rows of fried puff pastries oozing caramel did her wrong.
“See something you like?” a raspy voice asks behind us.
I grab Alex’s hand and jump.
A tall old woman waits behind us. Brown skin sags along her jawline, and her long neck is ringed with big, colorful, wooden jewelry. Her thick, curly hair is white as salt and decorated with black feathers. The petals in the resin-covered orchids that dangle from her long earlobes bring out the fuchsia accents in her wildflower-printed dress. There’s a softness to the curves of her body.
But her eyes—sharp circles the color of raw tourmaline framed by high-arched eyebrows—betray everything else. They belong to someone who has seen more than her share of dark days, and when they settle on me, I feel like she knows all my secrets.
“The Mortiz sisters.” She almost sounds amused. She nods her head at Alex and holds out her hands in a display of welcome. “The encantrix herself. What can I do for you?”
Alex’s jaw is set, and I pray, I pray she doesn’t ruin this. Angela is the woman who let her own grandson live on the streets. She’s a woman who dreams up poisons the same way others do wishes. My sister frowns, leans forward to speak, but I cut her off.
“We beseech your help and information,” I say, squeezing Alex’s hand as hard as I can.
“My, my—” Her dark eyes flick from Alex to me, a wicked glee sparks at the center. “Can I offer you something? Pan de bono, right from the oven? Un cafécito?”
And because it would be an insult to turn her hospitality down, we croak out, “Yes.”
While Angela busies herself behind the counter, Alex and I sit at an empty table. She does not look amused when I yank her ponytail and hiss, “Behave.”
“I’m not a dog,” she mutters, and slaps my arm.
It’s only the lightest tap, but I can practically feel myself bruise. The ache pulses hot, and when Alex turns her face to watch Angela, I lift the sleeve of my shirt and my heart sinks at the sight of the black and blue. I hide it and tell myself I’ll deal with this later.
“I figured you take yours black and bitter,” Angela says to Alex. The older bruja sets three steaming cups on the table and takes the empty seat in front of us.
Alex purses her lips and I pinch her thigh under the table. I take my coffee and hold it up to my nose, inhale the frothy milk and a hint of sweetness. Alex stares into her cup as if she can see her future reflected in the rippling, black surface.
“It’s coffee, not poison, ni?a,” Angela says, her voice losing its amusement real quick.
Alex fake smiles but sets her cup down without taking a sip. “Well, you did write the book on the subject.”
“Believe me, if I wanted to hurt you, I’d be more creative.”
“Mmm, this smells great. Thank you.” In an effort to find a middle ground between them, I drink. The coffee is strong, the milk creamy and sweet with brown sugar and honey.
Angela quirks a brow, and her demeanor softens when she turns to me. “Only the finest coffee from Santo Domingo. Does your mother know you’ve come to see me? Why not turn to Lady Lunes and the rest of the High Circle?”
Alex and I look at each other.
“Because they can’t help me,” I say, and I can’t resist taking another sip. The sweetness coats my tongue and my muscles are more relaxed than they’ve been in ages. “Our family’s books aren’t enough. Besides, if it were up to them, I’d be dead. What I’ve done—what’s happening—is beyond anything they’ve ever handled. It’s beyond us all, really, and I think it’s just starting.”
She considers this, and her silence stretches too long for my liking. She points a pointed, black nail at the package Alex brought with her. “Is this your payment?”
“This is for your foster kids,” Alex says. Then she takes a stone out of her pocket. It’s a glittering, purple stone. “This is for you.”
“Amethyst?” Angela says, then chuckles, as if we’ve brought her a bit of rock from Coney Island.
“No,” my sister says. “It’s a stone from Los Lagos. From Las Pe?as.”
Angela’s face falls abruptly. She picks up the stone and weighs it on her palm, then shuts her eyes and inhales. It’s like she’s sensing the power in the crystal right through her skin.