Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(69)

“Of course it doesn’t, Mr. Mortiz,” Rhett says, and his voice is unwavering. “We don’t want to erase it. But there are laws for a reason. Lives are at stake, and your daughter is the one who put them in danger. But I can tell you haven’t been yourself since you’ve returned from, well, wherever you’ve been.”

Dad moves so quickly all I see is a blur. He charges at Rhett and slams him into the wall.

I’ve always thought of my dad as the biggest, strongest man I’ve ever known. But Rhett doesn’t even flinch. My dad’s arm is pressed against Rhett’s chest, but he pushes my father away like he weighs no more than a bit of lint.

Mom and Alex catch him as he stumbles.

Rhett pulls back the glamour around his sword, revealing a silver blade glinting in the morning light.

“Believe me, Mr. Mortiz,” he says, “I do want to help.”

“Wait.” I stand between Rhett and my father. The blade is inches from my face. A new, wrenching pain twists at my insides. The threads unfurl, and by the looks on their faces, I know everyone can see them now. Rhett stands back and McKay curses.

“Lula—” Dad says, reaching for me, but Alex catches me first.

“Something’s wrong,” I say. I lock eyes with Alex.

Rhett keeps one hand on his sword. “If this is a trick—”

“It isn’t!” I shout, holding on to my sister for support. “I’m connected to them. It’s like…they’re moving.”

“Oh gods,” McKay mutters, and runs up the stairs to where the holding cells are.

Rhett is right behind him, his movements too fast to be human. An alarm goes off. Doors lock and windows slam shut. People start to come out of their rooms, most of them rubbing sleep out of their eyes at the same time they brandish weapons.

I grab hold of Alex, climbing the stairs one at a time. Bloody footsteps lead out of the open holding cell door. McKay watches footage replay on a screen, and Rhett punches his fist through a wall.

Maks and the other casimuertos are gone.





29


They hunted us across

every land that we claimed.

But we are resilient

as great kapok trees.

But we are as vast

as earth’s brutal blue seas.

—Witchsong #1, Book of Cantos




Rhett turns around and shouts at the room, a vein in his throat bursting against his skin. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know!”

He closes the distance between us and grabs for me, but a forceful wind knocks him back. He slams into the bloody room and rolls over. I scream, turning my face away as his head makes a terrible cracking sound.

“Run,” Alex tells me. She holds her hands in the air, eyes completely white, fingertips sparkling with electricity. “Run!”

I run past the crowd gathered in the halls. I’m sure the front door is locked, but I follow the bloody footsteps that get lighter and lighter as I reach a bathroom at the end of the hall. The window is shattered, and there’s blood on the jagged glass, as if they struggled to fit through the window. I go through, scraping my legs and palms along the way.

When I hit the ground, I’m disoriented by the bright morning light. The beach is to my right and the crowded avenue to my left. A bicyclist shouts at me, nearly clipping my hip with his handle. But I keep running left until I pick up the footprints again on the sidewalk.

A young woman screams at the sight of me emerging around the corner of the building. I don’t need a mirror to know what she sees. My face streaked with sweat and dirt, the scars on skin, my bare legs freshly bloody. She sees me and runs.

I look behind me once, expecting to find Rhett.

But there’s no one there.

I cross the street, following the faint footsteps that jaywalk to the other side. Cars honk and drivers curse at me as I sprint to the sidewalk.

I have no idea what I’m going to do when I find Maks, but I push forward anyway.

My heart is like a fist trying to punch its way out of my chest. I turn another corner, but the bloody prints have stopped at the intersection.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

I close my eyes and search for the thread that links me to the casimuertos. The connection comes easily now. Dozens of silver and iridescent threads appear from my chest, stretching in different directions. Which one is Maks?

I think of him and the way we were before all of this. Before the accident that claimed his life. Before the one that changed mine. I search for those memories. Maks taking my hand and pressing a kiss into it. Maks reaching for a coil of my hair and threading it around his finger. His lips pressing against mine, soft as rose petals.

Then, his thread pulses, flickering like a firefly.

I follow it for blocks and blocks, past rows of homes covered in ivy, until I fear my legs will crumble into nothing. The thread grows brighter and I know I’m getting closer until, suddenly, it disappears at the steps of a familiar brownstone.

I wait a moment for my heart and head to catch up with me. Sweat drips down my face and back. The white metal fence is smeared with blood, and the gate is ajar. I look toward the front door and see another dark smudge on the doorknob.

There’s sobbing coming from somewhere in the house.

“Maks?” I call out for him.