Page 107 of Espíritu

And now Julian was watching it happen again. With someone he had trusted.

“That’s it,” Maritza snapped, stepping between Julian and Angel, tense and glaring, the dagger glinting in their grip. “I don’t care what sob story they’re sitting on—they just turned Felipe into a maligno! They don’t get a pass!”

Angel bristled. “You don’t understand!” they spat. “I didn’t—”

“Save it!” Maritza snarled, cutting them off. “You’re hurting people! Our people!” Maritza turned toward Julian. “You saw it! You felt it! Whatever you thought Angel was, this is who they really are!”

Julian didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His heart felt too loud in his ears.

Angel’s breathing was fast and shallow now, their hand tightening on the dagger. Julian could see it—the tension building, the panic. They weren’t going to stand here and let the three of them close in.

Julian’s voice cracked through the standoff. “I just thought…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Angel lashed out with her boot, kicking up a cloud of grave dust straight into their faces.

Maritza staggered back with a sharp “Fuck,” blinking furiously.

Yadriel coughed, waving his hands.

Julian choked, vision swimming. By the time he cleared his eyes, Angel was already sprinting away, her silhouette disappearing behind a crooked row of mausoleums.

“There!” he barked, already pushing forward.

Yadriel grabbed his arm. “She’s heading toward the old church,” he said, his voice low and tight.

Julian’s feet skidded to a halt.

A chill rippled up his spine. That church was a scar—for all of them.

Behind him, Maritza cursed under her breath.

But Angel was already gone, swallowed by the shadows stretching out from the cemetery’s oldest edge.

Julian blinked grit from his eyes, chest heaving, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do without something to punch. The silence that followed her escape was thick, cloying like smoke in his throat.

No one moved.

No one said anything.

Not for a long moment.

Maritza wiped the dirt from her cheek with the back of her hand. “She got away.”

Julian’s gaze snapped back to the empty rows of headstones. “Marisol,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Yadriel didn’t say anything. He just stared toward the old church, toward the nightmares none of them wanted to revisit, his jaw clenched so hard it trembled.

Julian’s whole body buzzed with fury—fury at Angel, at himself, at how fucking stupid he’d been. His fists curled until his nails bit into his palms.

“She played us,” he snapped. “She played me.”

No one answered.

He laughed, a sharp, joyless sound. “I defended her. I told you she was good. I told you she was just trying to help!” he shouted in frustration.

“Julian,” Maritza warned.