Page 158 of Espíritu

“Maybe,” she said.

Maritza edged in on Julian’s other side, tone practical instead of sharp. “Start with whoever remembers your mamá—a tía, a cousin. Let them tell you stories you missed.” She flicked her gaze to the rosaries. “Bring those.”

Angel’s breath hitched—just barely—but she nodded.

“You’re still a bruje,” Yadriel cut in. “A powerful one. And I bet your family could use you—not just to make things right, but to do some real good.”

He hesitated, then added, softer, “If you go to them … let them know Lady Death kept your parents’ and sister’s spirits safe. That they never suffered.”

“It’s a place to start,” Julian said, his voice softer now as well. “And you wouldn’t be following the dead anymore.”

Angel gave a small, rough laugh—barely more than an exhale. “That would be new.”

Her gaze dropped to the bundle of tethers still cradled in her hands. She held them like they might still answer her. Like if she stayed still enough, they’d stir.

When she looked up again, her eyes were shining.

“Will it ever stop hurting?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.

Julian responded anyway. “No,” he said honestly. “But you learn how to carry it.”

She nodded, slow and brittle, then turned toward the stone steps that led out of the crypt. Her shoulders were squared, but her steps were uneven—like someone learning to walk again.

At the threshold, she paused and looked back into the crypt. For a moment, she looked younger. Not innocent, but stripped down to something raw and real.

“Thank you,” she said. “For bringing me back.”

Julian met her eyes, steady. “Just don’t waste it, okay?”

Angel nodded once, the smallest shimmer of something like hope in her eyes. Then she turned and started up the stairs, her footsteps echoing into the dark.

The others didn’t speak.

Julian felt the air shift. For the first time in weeks, his chest wasn’t screaming.

His brow furrowed. He pressed a hand to his sternum, fingertips brushing against the front of his shirt. Slowly, cautiously, he tugged the collar of his T-shirt down.

Then, just over his heart, he saw it—his Marca Hueca. Smaller than before. Duller.

Faint and silvered, like the ghost of a scar rather than a gaping wound spilling shadows.

Julian stared at it, stunned.

“Yads,” he said hoarsely, “it’s different.”

Yadriel stepped closer, alarm flashing across his face. “What? Your Marca Hueca?”

Julian nodded vigorously. “Holy shit!” he breathed. “It healed! Well, sort of.” He squinted, trying to get a better look, to make sure he wasn’t just imagining things. “Not all the way. But … it doesn’t hurt like a bitch anymore.”

Yadriel’s hand hovered over his chest, just shy of touching. “It must’ve been Bahlam,” he murmured. “Or—” His gaze flicked toward the stairwell Angel had vanished through. “Saving her. And Luca. Pulling them back from him—it must’ve severed some of the power he had over you.”

Julian let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said. “It definitely feels like something let go.”

He let his shirt fall back into place.

A long beat passed.

“Should we perform a recuperación del alma for you?” Yadriel asked carefully. “We can do it tomorrow, or whenever you’re ready.”