CHAPTER ONE
There’s no place like home, right? Well, in my case, it’s true. There’s nowhere quite like Isla Bruja, home of rich witches, restless ghosts, and rampant chisme.
But with my older sister’s wedding just three days away, even I can’t make an excuse to get out of coming home. I am the maid of honor, after all.
Following a direct flight from New York to Miami, I take a taxi to one of the waterfront parks. There’s a small wooden pier that goes ignored by the other parkgoers, but of course, I can see it. I drag my luggage to the end and reach into my purse for a coin. My fingers touch a piece of stiff, luxurious paper, and I pull out the wedding invitation instead.
Unable to help myself, I read it for the umpteenth time, hearing the words in my mother’s voice.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Carolyn Maria Cristina Cartagena Vargas and Matteo Alejandro Paz De León, hosted by Benito and Rosalinda Cartagena Vargas.
Join us under the light of la Luna to witness Caro and Matteo joining together in magical matrimony.
This invitation admits the bearer plus one guest.
Across the bottom in bubbly script, my sister Caro scribbled,
Cat, for the love of Sol, bring a plus one!
I snort at the demand and shove the invite back into my purse. Who does my sister think she is? Even if I had a plus one, I wouldn’t bring them, if only to show Caro she can’t push me around. As second oldest, I long ago accepted my mission to keep her in check.
Even at her own wedding.
Rummaging in my bag, I eventually find a quarter and toss it off the end of the pier. It disappears before it hits the water. A moment later, a blue and white runabout boat with a small cabin appears, helmed by a slender young man with a deep tan and a flashing smile.
I blink at him in surprise. “Are you El Capitán?”
He whips the white and gold captain’s hat off his head and bows in his seat. “At your service, mi sirenita. Call me Cap.”
And then he pulls down his sunglasses and winks.
I resist the urge to scold an ancient water spirit for hitting on me and instead gesture at his appearance.
“What happened to your…self?”
The last time I visited my family and used the water spirit taxi, El Capitán took the form of a grizzled viejito who smelled like beer and grumbled in Spanish. Not an eighteen-year-old Casanova.
He shrugs. “Needed a change. Vamanos, muchacha.”
Cap snaps his fingers and my luggage bounces jauntily into the boat. I take his hand and let him help me in. The seats are plush, and a small roof awning protects us from the glaring Florida sun. He touches the wheel, and a second later, we’re off. Behind us, the pier shimmers, then disappears from sight.
The little boat leaves the shore and heads straight into the open waters of Biscayne Bay toward Isla Bruja, a crescent-shaped island that is both there and not there. It was founded in 1915 by a few magic-wielding Latino families from islands in the Caribbean—the Cartagenas and De Leóns from Puerto Rico, the Paz familia from the Dominican Republic, the Garcías from Cuba, and more.
Shrouded in magical mist, Isla Bruja is invisible to humans, and their boats pass right through. No one has ever successfully measured and mapped it, since the island changes shape and size according to the magical might of its residents.
Even though I was born there, I’ve been so disconnected over the last five years, part of me fears the island won’t reveal itself to me. But I trust my driver.
Cap’s boat cuts through the water easily, and after a few minutes of silence, he looks over his shoulder. I can see my reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses.
“¿Cómo estás, Catalina? Haven’t seen you in a minute. Where you been?”
“Here and there. New York. Paris. Milan. London.”
“World traveler!”
“Fashion Week never rests, and neither do designers.”
“Still making dresses?”
