Page 115 of Espíritu

Flaca pressed a dish into his hands with a soft “We saved you one.”

Every apology tugged loose some of the guilt knotted in his chest. No big speeches, no ultimatums—just small mercies, little proofs that they still cared.

For the first time in weeks, Julian felt the warmth of belonging. His friends didn’t forgive everything, but they were there. Yadriel was there. Maritza was there. Rio leaned against the wall, quietly keeping watch while Nacho yapped his ear off.

Later, they all squeezed together onto the back steps, passing around a bag of hot churros from a neighbor. Maritza stole bites from Rocky’s, Omar argued over the score of a past soccer match with Flaca, and Yadriel sat shoulder to shoulder with Julian, candlewax still glued to his sleeve. For a fleeting moment, Julian had all of them in the same place—his two worlds actually touching—and it felt almost impossible.

A tía with a phone called out from the porch, “¡Foto, foto! Julian, ven—one with all your friends!”

She herded them together in front of the string lights, pulling Julian into the center. Rocky slung an arm around his shoulders, Flaca balanced on the step in front, Omar made a face just as the flash went off. Maritza leaned in from the side, grinning, Yadriel pressed between them, awkward but smiling.

For a second, Julian’s chest ached in a good way. Surrounded by the people he cared about most, the sharp edge of the hollow inside him dulled.

Then the moment stretched, and he blinked, scanning the group again. Someone was missing.

The realization landed late, heavy. A prickle of unease threaded through Julian’s chest.

“Where’s Luca?” he asked, looking around.

Five heads turned toward him, blank expressions shifting just slightly.

“Luca?” Flaca said, like she’d only just remembered. “Oh, he left with Angel.”

EIGHTEENJULIAN

Julian’s stomach plummeted. Everything inside him stilled—the air, the room, his thoughts.

“What?” he croaked, his voice barely audible.

Flaca sat up straighter, blinking. “They left like an hour ago.”

“He’s with Angel?” Julian said again, the words tasting like ash. “Where did they go?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “They didn’t say.”

Rocky picked up her phone, squinting at the screen. “He’s at the cemetery. They’re probably looking for you. See—”

But Julian didn’t need to see it.

There was only one place in the cemetery Angel would have taken Luca—the only place in the cemetery he never wanted to go back to.

The place he, Yadriel, and Maritza hadn’t set foot in since the night Catriz died. The place with a door to Xibalba.

The old church.

Julian didn’t think—he just ran.

He shouldered through the party and hit the sidewalk at a sprint, cold air burning his throat. Headlights cut across him as a car swung to the curb—Paola’s, the passenger window rolling down.

“Get in!” Maritza yelled from behind the wheel.

Julian dove into the seat, slamming the door.

Yadriel leaned over the console, face tight. “Seat belt.”

Maritza punched the gas.

“Tracker?” Yadriel asked, already bracing a hand on the dash.