Page 31 of Espíritu

And part of Yadriel envied that. Not just the ease with which Julian expressed his joy but the clarity of it. For Yadriel, this wasn’t simple. Angel’s existence made him feel hopeful and hollow at the same time—like he’d glimpsed a better world but didn’t know how to get there.

“Well, it is!” Julian said, practically bouncing beside him. “And they’re trans—like you!”

Maritza gave him a sideways look. “They’re not like Yads. Not exactly. They’ve got both portajes.”

There was something in her voice Yadriel couldn’t quite place. Not judgment, not jealousy, but something.

“They must do things really differently in Texas,” Yadriel offered, trying to keep the peace.

“It’s Lady Death’s magic, that part’s the same,” Maritza continued. “It’s the circle that’s different. Angel’s just lets them without being questioned or judged or ignored.”

Her words echoed in his head, louder than he wanted them to.

Maritza had always been frustrated by the limitations of their community’s traditions. Yadriel could relate. Who wouldn’t be? She had the skill, the drive, the knowledge—but the East LA brujx wouldn’t even let her craft weapons like her dad, let alone give her a dagger of her own. Their círculo had always said she didn’t fit, that her role wasn’t hers to claim.

And yet here was Angel, with both gifts, both portajes, welcomed by their circle without question. It wasn’t fair—and Yadriel could feel the injustice of it buzzing under Maritza’s words like a frayed wire.

He looked over at her and quietly said, “You should have been allowed to have a dagger.”

Maritza gave a soft hum, her lips pressing into a tight-lipped smile that lacked any joy. Neither agreement nor denial.

They walked in silence as the graveyard gate came into view, its iron letters catching the last light of day.

Julian broke the quiet again. “You think Lita’s gonna lose her mind?”

Yadriel felt a flicker of excitement. He had so many questions for Angel—about their círculo, their life, what it was like being a nonbinary bruje where they came from. He’d never met anyone like them before—someone who understood what it was like to stand at the intersection of two worlds and belong fully to neither but also to both.

His father’s words from Día de Muertos echoed in his mind—about the importance of embracing change, of helping the brujx community grow. This was it. Angel was that change. They represented something more, something that Yadriel longed for not only for himself but also for his entire community.

Yadriel exhaled through his nose, a nervous smile playing at his lips. “Honestly? Yeah. But first … I think she needs to meet them.”

The savory aroma of spices and roasted meat wafted through the cozy kitchen, enveloping Yadriel as he carefully diced tomatoes, his hands moving with precise care to help Lita cook. The rhythmic chopping was soothing, grounding him in the present despite the restless excitement simmering just beneath his skin.

He hadn’t told Lita that Angel was coming. He figured it was easier to spring it on her than risk a premature veto. He kept compulsively glancing at the front door, waiting for Angel’s arrival.

The warm, vibrant space of the kitchen offered its own form of protection, one that Yadriel hadn’t fully appreciated until now. Every corner was adorned with Lita’s wards—protective black obsidian stones lined the windowsills, fresh aloe vera plants flourished on every available surface, and red thread twisted like garlands across thresholds. Poinsettias brought bursts of color and the faint scent of flowers.

There were more wards than usual—subtle but unmistakable. A second layer of thread, a fresh rattlesnake skin still drying—Yadriel chalked it up to Lita’s penchant for going all out during the holidays.

It made him feel safer, more grounded, as if the house itself were watching over them.

Julian watched him from a stool across the counter, his lanky frame folded into the small space like an oversize cat. His smirk was teasing, but there was an ease in his posture that wasn’t always there, and Yadriel felt a quiet pride at the sight.

Julian thrived here. The wards, the warmth, Lita’s watchful affection—all of it worked to settle the restless energy that usually vibrated through him.

Maritza, meanwhile, stirred the vegan frijoles with practiced skill, her curls bouncing in rhythm with the Selena song playing from Lita’s ancient boombox.

“Julian, pass the tortillas! And don’t even think about eating them!” Lita called from the stove, her eyes full of mock sternness.

Julian grinned, slipping a tortilla onto his lap before handing the stack over. “Who, me? I would never!”

Maritza bumped him with her hip. “You’re a walking liability.”

Yadriel chuckled softly. The warmth of their banter, the smell of home-cooked food, and the safety of Lita’s wards wrapped around him like a comforting blanket.

“Yadriel, mi amor, grab the box of tissue paper for later! We need more poinsettia decorations for the church,” Lita called, flipping another tortilla barehanded on the comal.

“Got it, Lita.” He moved to the pantry, retrieving the familiar cardboard box. The edges were beat up from years of use, and his fingers brushed over it reverently as he carried it to the kitchen table.