Page 65 of Espíritu

“Left flank!” Angel barked.

“I don’t know what that means!” Julian yelled, scrambling to the side anyway. His breath came fast and uneven. His blood vibrated in his veins, his whole body on high alert.

Angel drew the thing’s attention again, sliding to flank it, eyes sharp.

Julian’s instincts screamed to run, but he wouldn’t leave Angel.

The fight unfolded in flashes of motion and bursts of shadow. The maligno girl shrieked and twisted, lashing out with limbs that stretched and contorted like smoke trying to become solid. She moved like a puppet with tangled strings—jerky, unstable—but something about her was still … elegant. Her gown flared with each motion, layers of tulle snapping through the air like ghostly ribbons.

It looked like she was dancing, a waltz remembered by a body no longer her own.

Angel spun through the wreckage with lethal grace, their portaje flashing as they dodged each blow. Their movements had the rhythm of choreography, but none of the beauty. It was violence made efficient. Clean. Cold.

The spirit wailed again—not a scream of rage but a sound that cracked against the walls like a sob made monstrous.

Julian flinched.

He could see it now—a dark spot throbbing in her chest, pulsing with each twist of grief. The peineta in her hair glinted, and something tugged at the edge of his sight.

He wanted to help her.

“Angel, the tether!” he shouted, voice cracking.

Angel hissed in frustration. “¡Muéstrame el enlace!”

A shimmer bloomed across the room—faint gold threading from the maligno’s chest to a windblown heap. In the heap, glinting among bits of plastic and a crushed soda can, was the real version of the comb.

Julian ran.

He slid behind a toppled shelf and grabbed the peineta. The spirit recoiled with a keening wail that made his bones ache.

From the corner of his eye, Angel vaulted onto a nearby display, blade raised, bubble braids whipping behind her. It was clear they weren’t fighting a person—just the maligno. Just the threat.

But Julian still saw her.

“Here!” he shouted, holding the peineta high.

Both Angel and the spirit turned.

Her fathomless eyes locked on to him.

For a flicker of a moment, her fury cracked open into something raw and human. Her twisted mouth parted, and her gown sagged around her like it remembered what it used to be. Her hand reached forward, trembling like she wanted it back—not to hurt him but to touch something real again.

And then the rage returned.

Julian dove to the side, clutching the peineta to his chest.

Boots thundered behind him. The flash of a blade in motion.

“¡Te libero a la otra vida!” Angel’s voice rang out like a command, absolute.

The blade sliced through the golden thread.

The world erupted.

A shriek tore through the room. Not just sound but force, a scream that pushed everything out.

Julian staggered backward, vision seared by a venomous green flash that lit the room like lightning under skin. No petals. No peace. Just rupture. Smoke. Ash.