Labyrinth Lost (3 page)

The Deos created the brujos and brujas.

Bless our kind, vessels of their Eternal Gifts.

—from the journal of Philomeno de las Rosas

I run all the way home. The last thing I heard before I took off was Rishi and Lula looking for me in the throng of students. I went out the side door and bolted down the street. I realize running from this is like trying to outrun the sun. Sometimes I feel like all I want to do is run. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I never stopped.

When I get to my street, I slow down. Sweat drips from my temples and down my nose. My muscles burn down to the core. I run into my house. I press my head against the kitchen door until I stop shaking. I practice my breaths like Mrs. Castellano, my guidance counselor, once told me, “If you hold your breath, Alejandra, your panic attacks will get worse. Breathe and you will see how much easier it is to make sense of your emotions.”

She was wrong then and she's wrong now. There is not enough air in the world to calm me down. So I do the only thing that makes me feel better—I clean. I attack the dishes with soap and a sponge. I run the soapy dishes under water. I place them on the drying rack so hard I break one. I grip the sink and try to rationalize today's events.

I couldn't have done that to Ivan. It had to be Aunt Ro's ghost. But why would she do that? Why would she point at me? Aunt Rosaria hasn't shown herself to any family member since her death. Not even on the night of the Waking Canto. My mother's circle blamed me. I broke the enchantment with my midnight appearance. They would never find the true reason for my aunt's death. They're afraid she's lost to the realms beyond the veil. But if she's lost, why appear to me when I didn't even summon her?

The back door slams shut.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” Lula asks. She drops her backpack and stares at me. Her face is a mixture of awe and glee.

She knows.

“Too many people,” I say, turning up the water even though it's already sloshing over the sink and onto the floor. She lets me wallow in my guilty silence. “What happened to Ivan?”

She walks across the kitchen and leans against the wall beside me. Her cool, gray eyes watch as I scrub away the remnants of chicken parm from two nights ago.

“Oh, he's fine. Animal control had the snake cornered, and then it did the most curious thing.”

“What?”

“It vanished into smoke.
Poof.
”

I chance a glance at Lula. Her curls are wild and her pouty lips glisten pink. Then I look at myself in the mirror on the kitchen wall: tangled, sweaty hair; bags from sleepless nights under my big, brown eyes; the sickly green pallor to my tan skin.

Lula lets out an excited squeal and hugs me. She bounces up and down, then leaves a sticky kiss on my cheek.

“How did you do it?” she asks.

I shake my head. I rinse the plate in my hands. I grab for another glass to clean. I breathe. And breathe. And breathe. And Lula bounces around me, doing a bruja dance of joy.

“Do you know what this means?”

“Rose gets to eat all the ambrosia?”

“Smart-ass. This means the three of us finally have our powers!” If she had peacock feathers, they'd be proudly displayed. “This is huge! Think of the things we could do. Why aren't you more excited?”

“Because I made a snake come out of a boy's throat!”

“You
conjured
, Ale! I mean, he'll probably have nightmares for a few nights, but the snake disappeared when you did. What did he do to you?”

He broke Rishi's nose. He attacked me. He had the same red eyes Miluna had on the day…

“I wonder the extent of your powers.” She keeps going, pacing around the kitchen table. “Maybe you'll learn to heal, like Ma and me. Pa could control weather a little. Do you remember? Before his disappearance—”

“Dad
left
,” I shout. The glass cracks in my hand. “He
left
us.”

Lula stops her frantic pacing. I stare at myself in mirror again.
You are
not
a bruja. You are a girl who needs to get far, far away, where the blood dreams can't follow
.

“You don't know that,” Lula says. Her bottom lip trembles and her stormy-gray eyes are glossy with tears.

But I do know that. I was there.

Everyone has a theory of why Patricio Mortiz, benevolent brujo and loving family man, disappeared without a trace. Some think my father was taken by the kind of people who still hunt people like us. But there was no struggle or ransom note. I know in my heart that he left because of the magic inside me. No matter how much I try to forget, the memory floats on the surface of my mind.

It was an accident
. Back then, I repeated that like a mantra.

I was ten years old and suffered from nightmares and paralyzing headaches. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. My parents' Circle came over one day and bathed me in seawater and rubbed ashes on my face to scare away the ghosts. But it wasn't ghosts. It was something inside that wanted to rip me in half to set itself free.

One day, the pain was so bad I stopped going to school. I was alone in the house. Something woke me, a voice calling from the shadows. Claws scratched against the wooden floor. Miluna prowled toward me, her paws trailing ragged, black shadows. Her normally green eyes were red as rubies, and her pearly white teeth were bared and covered in yellow froth.

It was an accident
. I repeat it still.

Miluna attacked me. I raised my hands in defense, and the magic coiled in my heart was unleashed. I saw ribbons of red and flesh. Then, I remember darkness and, for the first time in a long time, relief. I woke to my father shouting my name. “Alejandra, Alejandra, are you okay?” He picked me up and carried me to the couch. My body shook with recoil. My veins buzzed with freed magic.

I cried and screamed and my father held me tighter. He brushed my hair back and kissed away the tears on my cheeks. He cleaned the blood on my hands and face.

“Everything will be okay,” he said, but I could see the fear darkening his gray eyes. I will always remember the way he looked at me, as if he didn't know who I was. “Miluna was possessed. She didn't know it was you. There are bad things in this world, Alejandra. They hurt people like us. I'll take care of it. I promise. It'll be our secret, but you can't tell a soul. Do you swear it?”

“I swear it,” I cried. I clung to him, but he pulled away. Wouldn't look into my eyes.

“Sh, my darling. Everything will be okay.”

He ran outside. From my window, I could see him digging a small grave. I told myself my dad would make things right.

When I woke up again, he was gone, and I knew it was because of me. My own father was afraid of me. I pulled my magic deep inside and kept it there. Our secret.

Now, in our kitchen, Lula gasps. My whole body tenses with magic.

“Alejandra,” my mom says.

I hadn't even heard her come in. The door is wide-open, letting in the cold.

My mom presses her hands against her mouth. “Oh, my sweet girl.”

When I look up, I see what I've done. Everything—the dishes and the beads of water and soap on them, the flower pots, the jars of pickled chicken feet and frog eyes. The vials of cooking spices, the chairs, the frames on the walls, the fruits, and the collection of good luck roosters on the kitchen sill. Even the ends of Lula's hair.

All of it.
All of it is floating around me.

In a heartbeat, my mom drops her shopping bags. The air is thick, like a steam room. Then she puts her hands on my face. “Mi'jita,” she says.
My little daughter.
“Don't worry. Everything will be okay.”

I've heard that before, and I know it isn't true. Then, like the fall of our tears, everything I've done comes crashing to the ground.

Father, my father, my light through the dark,

my soul and my hope and my path to embark.

—Rezo de El Papa, Book of Cantos

SOMETHING IS WRONG AND YOU'D BETTER TEXT ME.

NO CALL ME.

SILENCE WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.

IF YOU DON'T CALL ME, I'M COMING OVER AND YOU BETTER LET ME IN.

…ARE YOU OKAY? I HAVE ALL THE WORRIES.

All texts from Rishi over the last two days.

For the first time in six years, I skip school. My mom is so busy planning my Deathday ceremony that she
lets
me. Rishi stopped by this morning and Lula took my homework from her but said I was sick and sleeping. Sometimes I want to tell Rishi the truth. I wonder if she'd be surprised or scared or even believe me. Rishi likes her days with a side of weird. Lula reminds me we're discouraged from revealing ourselves. Otherwise, she'd tell Maks in a heartbeat. Our uncle Harry married a human who died when she tried using his Book of Cantos to make herself younger.

I'm in the car with my family
, I start to type.
We're getting supplies for my magical birthday ceremony. BTW, I'm a witch.

Then I delete it and retype.
I'll explain. I promise.

Lula turns around in the front seat. She tries to grab my phone, but I yank it away. “Is that Rishi?”

“Why?”

“Just kidding. Who else would it be?”

“Lula,” my mom warns. “Be nice.”

“I'm just saying.”

“Better than the whole swim team having my number,” I hiss so just Lula can hear me. If looks could kill, I'd be dead for three lifetimes.

“Too bad you can't invite her,” Lula says, “so at least you'd have one friend there.”

I sink in the backseat and watch the Brooklyn brownstones pass by. A few blocks later, we get to a row of shops that look so old a really good East River gust could cave them in. At a red light, my mom dabs her lipstick on, then rubs her lips together to smooth it out. The plum color brings out the beautiful gold undertones in her brown skin, the freckles around her cheeks that look like constellations. She closes the visor, caps the lipstick, and hands it to Lula. She copies Ma's exact lipstick application. Lula's wild curls are extra scrunched and smell like rose oil. Her skin shines from her homemade coconut milk and brown sugar scrub. I think I still have eye crud in my eyes from this morning.

“Oh, relax,” Lula tells me. “I'm just playing.”

She keeps the visor down, so I can see her resting witch face. She's mad that I levitated the whole kitchen because she's always wanted a physical power. She wouldn't even help me clean up after. Rose nudges my arm and gives me one of her calming, close-lipped smiles. Fine, I'll play along for Rose.

Mom parallel parks in front of Miss Trix, a rundown shop located on the only undeveloped street of Park Slope. A wind chime made of mismatched shells greets us in the funky-smelling botanica. Normally, buildings have vines crawling on the outside brick. Here, the vines have made their way into the shop, as if they're eating the store from the inside out.

Mountains of books balance in precarious stacks, because Deos forbid you need the book all the way at the bottom. The windows are caked with dust, and spiders have erected a web metropolis on every available corner. There's a giant caiman bolted to the ceiling, like it's swimming in the middle of a swamp. It's yellow eyes look so alive, even though Lady swears it's as dead as her first husband.

I turn around and come face-to-face with the pickle wall. Rose picks up a jar of human eyes, each one with a different color iris. A blue one moves around of its own volition.

“I don't like him,” she whispers, setting the jar back on the shelf.

“What's not to like?” I ask.

Lady, the storeowner, Alta Bruja of the Greater New York area, and my aunt by marriage, greets us with a smile.

Her dark laugh makes me think of cigarettes being crushed into an ashtray. “Don't mind the eyes, Rosie. They can't hurt anyone from in there.”

The fringe on her clothes bounces when she waves. Her black lipstick makes her mouth look like a bruised plum. She stands behind the register, a rickety, black metal thing with large, white buttons for the numbers. It probably survived the Coney Island fire of 1911.

Lady has always been an enigma to the younger generation of brujas. Only the Viejos know her real name. After her second husband died trying to make the journey back to Cuba, she married an aunt on my dad's side. She became part of our community and teaches the younger brujas everything, from our history to magic realms to cantos. Lula and her Circle have a bet about how old Lady really is. They've guessed everything from thirty to ninety-one. When we were little, I had a theory she was a vampire, but Lady likes browning under the sun like Sunday bacon.

“Alejandra, come here.” Lady refuses to call me Alex. She says the Deos don't take kindly to false names. I just hate the way some people say “Alejandra.” It's like trying to say it right makes their tongue have a seizure.

I try to blend into the corner of dusty books, but when I don't move, Lady makes a beeline for me. She grabs my hand and spins me in place. Then she traces the map of lines on the palm of my hand. She grabs my chin, and one of her long, black nails digs into my skin. I try to pull back, but she holds on harder. Her dark eyes widen.

“You have it.” Her deep voice is soft as smoke. “It” makes me think I've been diagnosed with some incurable plague. “An encantrix, like Mama Juanita. The highest blessing of the Deos.”

“What?” I shake my head. I can't be an encantrix.

Lady turns to my mother. “Carmen, did you know?”

“It's been two generations since one appeared in the family,” Mom says. “I thought the gift was lost. Mama Juanita—she could do everything. Command the elements. Heal the sick. Speak to the dead. She wrote her own cantos. And she made the best sopa de pollo in all of Brooklyn.”

“Didn't she get struck by lightning?” I ask, moving from denial and on to panic.

Lady waves her hand in the air, dispelling my worries. No big deal. It's only
lightning
.

“How do you know that's what I am? I just made a few things float.” I also made a snake of smoke come out of a boy's throat… I also killed Miluna. I made my father leave us. That's not a blessing. That's a curse.

“You're a late bloomer, mi'jita,” my mom says.

“Our magic isn't as strong as it was when we were free to practice.” Lady crosses her arms over her chest, and her long, fringe shawl dances around her. “Nowadays, some brujas are lucky if they can make a pencil float, even with years of practice. Some can only see the future in two-minute intervals. Some can only heal shallow cuts. The gifts of the Deos get weaker with each generation. That's why you are so very curious. What you did—what your mama told me—that's physical. That takes
power
. Only an encantrix has that kind of power. You might be a great one.”

A feather falls from somewhere and brushes my skin. I take a step back, knocking against an armoire. The knob digs into my spine. I try to turn around to hold the structure steady, but a small, bleached skull falls off and smashes on the ground.

“Encantrix or not, you'd better clean that up,” Lady says. She points to the black velvet curtain that leads to the back of the store. Lula scoffs and tries on a prex made of sparkling crystals, and Rose mutters something to the mounted head of a jackalope. My mom goes over the list of things we need for my ceremony with Lady.

I rush to the back, where she keeps the cleaning supplies. There's a door painted dark purple. At eye level is an etching of a golden sun and silver moon for La Mama and El Papa. The sun is crowned by the sideways crescent of the moon. It's the same moon I wear as a necklace, a gift from my father. I trace the painted symbols on the door. Directly below the sun is a gnarly-looking tree with thin, stringy leaves.

“Encantrix.” I sound the word out.

The seashell wind chime snaps me out of my thoughts. I grab a broom and dustpan and head back out to clean up the mess I made. Some of the bone dust gets up in my nose and makes me sneeze.

“Gross,” I mutter, dumping the contents in the garbage can near the register.

“Gross yourself,” he says.

A guy, possibly around Lula's age but trying to look older, stands on the other side of the counter. He's got brilliant diamond stud earrings and a fresh, buzzed haircut like the boys around the block. I find myself staring. His hands are covered in tattoos, like he dipped his arms in solid ink up to his wrists. From there, the ink continues in swirling lines, like jellyfish tendrils drifting on the sea of his light-brown skin.

Thick, dark lashes fringe his eyes, which can't decide between green and blue. When he sees me, he smiles, revealing a tiny dimple, like a comma at the edge of his mouth. He licks the cold off his full lips. Touches his necklace. Blue beads like a long rosary. A prex.

My face burns when I realize this is the same guy we almost ran over the other day.

He grabs a few things on the way to the counter. I should probably go to my mother, but I don't want to deal with Deathday things. So I stay put and try to ignore the guy's presence, even though he seems to take up the whole room with the way he walks right up to me. He sets a red votive candle, some dove feathers, and a jar of tongues on the counter. The tongues swim in the murky, green liquid like they're mocking me. I flick the bell at the register to let Lady know she's got a customer.

“I'll be right there,” Lady shouts from the front of the shop.

I put the broom and dustpan in the back. When I return, he's still standing there. Again, he smiles when he looks at me.

“What?” I ask. I wonder if he's aware of how his stare makes me want to turn around and run.

“You look familiar.”

“I just have that kind of face.”

“No, you don't,” he says, smirking. “I
remember
you. Red Civic. Riding with that pretty boy that wore too much cologne.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You weren't the one driving.” He crosses his arms over his chest, making his muscles more pronounced. It makes his tattoo appear like it's moving. The ends of the inky tendrils stop at the finest points.

“My eyes are up here,” he says, making a
V
with his middle and index finger and points them at his eyes.

I've never seen a boy with such bipolar eyes, let alone a permanent wrinkle between his brows, like he spends more time frowning than anything else. I ring Lady's bell a few more times.

“Deathday shopping?” he says, smirking. “You look excited.”

“How'd you know?” I ask, matching his sarcasm.

“Overheard your mom. I'm Nova, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't.” The pads of my hands itch. It's like the magic I've tried to push back so long has gotten a little bit of freedom and now it wants more. It coils inside me at the base of my belly and spreads. I take a deep, calming breath and push it back. “Shouldn't you be out jaywalking?”

He laughs, then leans close to me, so I can see the dip between his brows is not a frown mark but a thin scar. And it's not just there. He's got three more matching nicks, one on each cheek and the last on his chin, like the cardinal points of a compass.

“Most girls get pumped for their Deathday.”

“Yeah,
you
know what a bruja wants.”

“Not really. I just guess until I get it right.” His smile falters, but not for long. “It's okay to be scared. You just have to do your part and welcome your dead. It's tradition.”

“It's not fair,” I say. I don't know why I say it. It just came out. He's a stranger. But sometimes it's easier to confide in strangers than the people who love us. “It feels like I don't have a choice in my life.”

“You could always not do it.”

I can't really tell if he's joking, but I can't deny the little spark of hope that fills my heart. Every bruja and brujo I know has had their Deathday.

“How?” I hope I don't sound too eager.

He shrugs. “I'm sure you're not the first witch in history to fear her own strength. Sorry to break it to you, brujita.”
Little bruja.

“Didn't you hear? I'm superspecial. I'm an encantrix.” Why did I admit to that? A second ago I wanted to deny it.

His eyes brighten with surprise, then appraisal. “Good for you.”

“I'm not sure ‘good' is what I was going for.”

“Well, you only get one Deathday.”

“Except the actual day we die.”

He chuckles, and it makes his face look softer. “That's a little morbid, even for me.”

I rest my hands on the cool glass. He leans closer to me. His eyes are bluer now. Smoke from the sage bundle burning in the corner descends around us. “I think it's sweet that you're nervous.”

“That doesn't answer my question. How?”

“Well, I usually charge for my wisdom.” He raps his knuckles on the countertop.

I doubt he's the kind of person who would give me a straight answer. I think he likes to hear himself be charming and clever. Then again, I don't really know what kind of person he is at all. But I can't exactly ask my mother or sisters or my best friend, so a stranger is going to have to do.

“Look,” he says, “if there are cantos for raising the dead and making it rain, then there should be something for stopping your Deathday. That is what you're talking about, right? I mean, I wouldn't do it because you don't know what the recoil might be or the effects it could have.
You
shouldn't do it because you don't seem like you know the first thing about performing a canto and might set your house on fire. No offense.”