Page 127 of Espíritu

For a moment, the room was quiet again. But not the tense silence from before—this one held purpose.

“We need to put the wards back up,” Lita said, rising to her feet. “Tonight. Before anyone else gets ideas about that cenote.”

She moved toward the supply cabinet, already switching into task mode. “Maritza, I’ll need your help to start brewing a stronger set. If Bahlam or Angel try again, they’ll feel it.”

The expression on Maritza’s face could only be described as gleeful. “It would literally be my honor.”

“If they got through the first set so easily, I’m not sure wards will work,” Yadriel said.

Angel was working with a god, after all.

“We’ll have to try,” Lita said, not at all swayed.

Enrique stood slowly. “And the spirits in the cemetery?” he asked, frowning. “If Angel’s still hunting…”

“They are,” Yadriel said without hesitation.

Maritza made an irritated sound. “Definitely.”

Enrique nodded grimly. “All right. We’ll double the protections around the graves. I’ll talk to the elders.” He turned to Yadriel. “You’ll come with me to lead the ward team.”

For a stunned second, Yadriel felt seventeen and ten and timeless all at once—seen, chosen, and trusted in the same breath. He straightened. “I’ve got it.”

Enrique gave him a small, approving smile. “We’ll set rotations. No one enters the cemetery alone until we get this figured out,” he said, checking the old watch on his wrist.

It was already nearing 2:00 a.m. and no one had slept yet.

Enrique clapped a hand to the table, decision made. “Let’s move.”

Lita pressed a vial of sacred oil into Yadriel’s palm. Maritza was already thumbing out texts.

Yadriel rolled his shoulders, pocketed the vial, and looked at the door. The nave beyond still smelled like wax and flowers, a thin line of dawn hours away.

“We lock it down,” he said, steady now. “Wards up, watch posted, no one alone.” The others nodded in agreement.

And for the first time all night, everyone moved in the same direction.

TWENTY-ONEJULIAN

The Stingray hummed through the quiet, broken now and then by bass from a passing car or a distant siren. Streetlights swept across Luca’s face, casting long shadows that danced across his scar. Julian watched him quietly, a gnawing concern squirming under his exhaustion. Luca’s usual spark was gone, replaced by a glassy stillness Julian couldn’t read.

He wanted to tell Luca it would be fine, but the words felt like a lie too heavy to lift. Instead, he let his gaze linger, willing him to feel the silent promise of protection.

He thought about their narrow escape under the church—how Bahlam’s grip seemed to reach further into their world with each passing day. Julian’s brow furrowed. They were running out of time. To stop Bahlam, they had to stop Angel. What that meant, Julian wasn’t sure, but that was why he had Yadriel and Maritza to help him.

The car rolled to a stop outside the apartment. Upstairs, a few windows still glowed faintly.

They trudged up the stairs with squelching footsteps, every one heavier than the last. Julian’s limbs ached, and the back of his neck prickled with the lingering residue of Bahlam’s presence. It clung to him like smog—weightless but choking.

Inside, the apartment was dim and warm. The soft flicker of the TV cast shifting light over the living room. Omar, Flaca, and Rocky were curled up in blankets, half asleep and anxious. At the sound of the door, they sat up quickly, blinking at the sight of the three of them.

“Julian!” Flaca exclaimed, blinking hard as she scrambled upright. “Luca—? Are you okay?”

“Oh my God,” Rocky said, eyes wide as they took in Luca’s pale face and soaked hoodie. “What happened? Where were you?”

Omar squinted. “Why are you guys wet?”

Julian stepped aside instinctively, letting Luca shuffle into the light. He looked half frozen, half faded. Even Rocky, who’d been giving Julian the cold shoulder for days, went straight to him.