ONE

Y
adriel wasn’t technically trespassing because he’d lived in the
cemetery his whole life. But breaking into the church was defi-
nitely crossing the moral-­ambiguity line.
Still, if he was going to finally prove he was a brujo, he had to per-
form the rite in front of Lady Death.
And she was waiting for him inside the church.
The black Hydro Flask full of chicken blood thumped against
Yadriel’s hip as he snuck past his family’s small house at the front of
the cemetery. The rest of the supplies for the ceremony were tucked
away inside his backpack. He and his cousin Maritza ducked under
the front windows, careful not to bump their heads on the sills. Silhou-
ettes of the brujx celebrating inside danced across the curtains. Their
laughter and the sound of music filtered through the graveyard. Yadriel
paused, crouching in the shadows to check the coast was clear before
he jumped from the porch and took off. Maritza followed close behind,
her footsteps echoing in tandem with Yadriel’s as they ran down stone
paths and through puddles.
Yadriel’s heart fluttered in his chest, fingers brushing along the wet
brick of a columbaria wall as he watched for any signs of the brujos
on graveyard duty tonight. Patrolling the cemetery to make sure none
of the spirits of the dead were causing trouble was part of the men’s

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 responsibilities. Spirits turning maligno were few and far between, so
the brujos’ rounds mostly consisted of making sure outsiders hadn’t
snuck beyond the walls, keeping the graves clear of weeds, and general
maintenance.
Hearing a guitar being played up ahead, Yadriel ducked behind a
sarcophagus, dragging Maritza down with him. Peeking around the
corner, he saw Felipe Mendez lounging against a tombstone, playing
his vihuela and singing along. Felipe was a more recent resident of the
brujx cemetery. The day of his death, barely over a week ago, was carved
into the headstone beside him.
Brujx didn’t need to see a spirit to know one was nearby. The men
and women in their community could sense it, like a chill in the air or
an itch at the back of their mind. It was one of their inherent powers,
given to them by their Lady. The powers of life and death: the ability
to sense illness and injury in the living, and to see and communicate
with the dead.
Of course, this ability wasn’t very useful in a cemetery full of spirits.
Instead of a sudden chill, wandering through the brujx cemetery left a
constant icy tickle on Yadriel’s neck.
In the dark, he could barely spot the transparent quality of Fe-
lipe’s body. Felipe’s fingers moved in a ghostly blur as they plucked
at the strings of his vihuela—­it was his tether, the material posses-
sion most important to him, that kept him anchored to the land of
the living. Felipe wasn’t ready to be released to the afterlife quite
yet.
He spent most of his time in the graveyard playing his music and
drawing the attention of the brujas, both of the living and the dead
variety. His girlfriend, Claribel, always chased them off, and the two
spent hours together in the cemetery, as if death had never parted them
to begin with.
Yadriel rolled his eyes. It was all very dramatic, if you asked him.
It’d be nice if Felipe could pass on already, then Yadriel could get a

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 good night’s rest without being woken up by Felipe and Claribel’s bick-
ering or, worse, his terrible renditions of “Wonderwall.”
But the brujx didn’t like forcing a spirit to cross over. As long as the
spirits were peaceful and hadn’t turned maligno, the brujos left them
alone. But no spirit could stay forever. Eventually, they would become
violent, twisted versions of themselves. Being trapped between the land
of the living and the land of the dead wore on a spirit, chipping away
at their humanity. The parts that made them human eventually faded
away until the brujos had no choice but to sever the connection to their
tether and release them to the afterlife.
Yadriel motioned for Maritza to follow him down a side path so
Felipe wouldn’t see them. When the coast was clear, he tugged on the
sleeve of Maritza’s shirt and gave her a nod. He sprinted forward, weav-
ing between statues of angels and saints, careful to not snag his back-
pack on their outstretched fingers. There were aboveground sarcophagi
and some mausoleums large enough to fit an entire family. He’d walked
these paths hundreds of times and could navigate the maze of graves
in his sleep.
He had to stop again when they came upon the spirits of two young
girls playing tag. They chased each other, dark curls and matching
dresses billowing out around them. They giggled madly as they ran
straight through the small birdhouse-­like tombs that held cremated
remains. The tombs were hand-­painted in bright colors and stood in
crowded rows of golden yellow, sunburst orange, sky blue, and seafoam
green. Glass doors revealed clay urns inside.
Yadriel bounced on the balls of his feet as he and Maritza hid.
Seeing the spirits of two dead girls running around a cemetery would
probably freak most people out, but little Nina and Rosa were nefari-
ous for other reasons. They were both huge tattletales who couldn’t be
trusted to not rat him out to his dad. If they got dirt on you, they held
it over your head and subjected you to torture the likes of which you’d
never seen.

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 Like hours of playing hide-­and-­go-­seek where they always used
their non-­corporeal bodies to cheat, or purposely leave you waiting to
be found behind the smelly dumpster on a hot LA afternoon. It was
definitely not worth being indebted to those two.
When the girls finally ran off, Yadriel wasted no time sprinting to
their final destination.
They rounded a corner and came face-­to-­face with the lich-­gate
to the church. Yadriel’s head tipped back. Whitewashed bricks were
stacked before him, forming an archway. The words “El Jardín Eterno”
were hand-scrawled delicately in black paint. The Eternal Garden.
The paint was faded, but Yadriel knew his cousin Miguel had already
been tasked with giving it a fresh coat before the Día de Muertos
festivities began in a few days. A heavy, bolted lock kept out any
trespassers.
As leader of the brujx families, Yadriel’s father, Enrique, held the
keys and only gave them to the brujos who were on shift to guard
the cemetery at night. Yadriel did not have a key, which meant he
was only allowed to enter during the day, or for rituals and celebra-
tions.
“¡Vámonos!” Maritza’s harsh whisper and her manicured finger-
nail jabbing into his side made Yadriel jolt. Her short thick hair was
windswept. Pastel-­pink and -­purple curls framed her heart-­shaped face,
popping against her deep b
­ rown skin. “We need to get inside before
we’re spotted by someone!”
Yadriel batted her hand away. “Ssh!” he hissed.
Despite her words of warning, Maritza didn’t seem worried about
getting into a heap of trouble. In fact, she looked downright excited.
Dark eyes wide, a devilish grin played across her lips that Yadriel knew
all too well.
Yadriel crept to the left side of the gate. There was a gap between
the last wrought iron bar and the wall, where the bricks slumped. He
tossed his backpack over the wall before turning sideways and wiggling

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 his way through. Even through his polyester-­and-­spandex binder, the
bar scraped painfully against his chest. On the other side, he took a
moment to adjust the half tank top under his shirt so the clasps didn’t
dig into his side. It had taken a while to find one that masculinized his
chest without being itchy or chokingly tight.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Yadriel turned to find
Maritza having a bit more difficulty. Her back was pressed against the
bricks, her legs straddling the bar as she tried to drag herself through.
Yadriel stuffed his fist against his mouth, stifling a laugh.
Maritza shot him a glare as she tried to wiggle her butt free. “¡Cá­
llate!” she hissed before finally stumbling through. “We’re gonna need
another way to get in here soon.” She wiped at the dirt smeared across
her jeans. “We’re getting too big.”
“Your butt’s getting too big,” Yadriel teased. “Maybe you should lay
off the pastelitos.” He grinned.
“And lose these curves?” she asked, smoothing her hands down her
waist and hips. Maritza gave him a sarcastic smile. “Thanks, but I’d
rather die.” She punched his arm before sauntering toward the church.
Yadriel jogged to catch up.
Rows of marigolds—­the flores de muerto—­lined the stone path. The
tall orange and yellow flowers leaned against one another like drunken
friends. They had exploded into bloom over the months leading up to
Día de Muertos. Fallen petals dusted the ground like confetti.
The church was painted white and had a terra-­cotta roof. Starburst
windows flanked either side of the large oak doors. Above, a small alcove
was set into a semicircular wall, housing another cross. On either side,
two cutouts held iron bells.
“Are you ready?” There was no look of trepidation on Maritza’s
face as she watched him. She beamed, practically dancing on the tips
of her toes.
Yadriel’s heart pulsed in his veins. Nerves roiled in his stomach.
He and Maritza had been sneaking around the cemetery at night

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 since they were kids. The churchyard was a good place to hide and
play when they were little. It was close enough to the house to hear
Lita when she called them for dinner. But they’d never actually snuck
into the church before. If he did this, they’d be breaking about a dozen
brujx rules and traditions.
If he did this, there was no turning back.
Yadriel nodded stiffly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Let’s do it.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the same time Maritza
shivered next to him.
“Do what?”
The bark-­like demand made both of them jump. Maritza sprang
back, and Yadriel had to catch her arms to keep her from bowling him
over.
Just to their left, a man stood next to a small peach-­colored tomb.
“Holy crap, Tito.” Yadriel exhaled, a hand still clutching the front of
his hoodie. “You scared the hell out of us!”
Maritza sniffed indignantly.
Sometimes, even to Yadriel and Maritza, a ghost could go unno-
ticed.
Tito was a squat man wearing a burgundy Venezuela soccer kit and
shorts. A large, worn straw hat sat on his head. He squinted at Yadriel
and Maritza from under the brim as he bent over the marigolds. Tito
was the longtime gardener of the cemetery.
Or well, he was. Tito had been dead for four years.
When he was alive, Tito had been an incredibly talented gardener.
He used to supply all the flowers for the brujx celebrations, as well as
weddings, holidays, and funerals for the non-­magic folks in East LA.
What had started as selling flowers from buckets at the local flea market
had grown into his own brick-­and-­mortar shop.
After dying in his sleep and having his body laid to rest, Tito re-
appeared in the cemetery, determined to take care of the flowers he’d

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 painstakingly tended to for most of his life. He told Yadriel’s father he
still had a job to do and didn’t trust anyone else to take it over.
Enrique said Tito could remain as long as he was Tito. Yadriel won-
dered if sheer stubbornness would keep his father from being able to
release Tito’s spirit, even if he tried.
“Do what?” Tito repeated. Under the orange lights of the church,
he seemed solid enough, though he was the faintest bit transparent
compared to the very corporeal garden shears in his hand. Spirits had
blurry edges and were a little less vibrant than the world around them.
They looked like a photograph taken out of focus and with the satura-
tion turned down. If Yadriel turned his head a bit, Tito’s form smudged
and faded into the background.
Yadriel mentally kicked himself. His nerves were getting the better
of him, distracting him from sensing Tito sooner.
“Why aren’t you two back at the house with everyone else?” Tito
pressed.
“Uh, we were just going to go into the church,” Yadriel said, voice
breaking mid­sentence. He cleared his throat.
The rise of an unruly eyebrow meant Tito wasn’t falling for it.
“Just to check on some supplies, you know.” Yadriel shrugged.
“Make sure things are . . . ​set up.”
With a sch, Tito’s shears sliced off a wilted marigold from its stem.
Maritza elbowed Yadriel in the side and tipped her head pointedly.
“Oh!” Yadriel wrestled off his backpack and dug around inside,
pulling out a bundled white dishcloth. “I grabbed you something!”
Felipe was too busy with his girlfriend to care about what Yadriel
and Maritza got up to, and it was pretty easy to sneak past Nina and
Rosa, but Tito was a bit of a wild card. Tito had been good friends with
Yadriel’s dad, and Tito had very little patience for nonsense.
But offerings of food seemed to make him look the other way.
“Lita just made them—­it’s still warm!” Yadriel pulled back the ­layers
to reveal a concha. The delicious sweet bread had a crumbly topping

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 and looked like a seashell. “I got you a green one, your favorite!” If
Tito wasn’t convinced by his terrible lying, maybe pan dulce could
sway him.
Tito waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t care what you two bus-
capleitos are up to,” he grumbled.
Maritza gasped and pressed her hand to her chest dramatically.
“Us? We would never—­!”
Yadriel shoved Maritza to get her to shut up. He didn’t think they
were troublemakers, especially compared to some of the other younger
brujx, but he also knew laying on the innocent act too thick would not
work on Tito.
Luckily, Tito seemed to want to get rid of them. “Pa’ fuera,” he said
dismissively. “But don’t touch my cempasúchitl.”
Yadriel didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed Maritza’s arm and
made for the church.
“Leave the concha,” Tito added.
Yadriel left it on top of the peach-­colored tomb while Tito went
back to trimming his marigolds.
He ran up the steps to the church, Maritza right on his heels. With a
hard shove, the heavy doors swung open with a groan.
Yadriel and Maritza crept down the aisle. The inside was simple.
Unlike a standard church, there weren’t many rows of pews and there
were no seats at the back. When the brujx gathered for ceremonies
and rituals, everyone stood in large circles together in the open space.
Three tall windows made up the apse of the church. During the day,
the California sunlight streamed through the colorful, intricate stained
glass. Dozens of unlit candles crowded the main altar.
On a ledge halfway up the wall stood a statue of their sacred goddess,
the diosa who had bestowed the brujx with their powers thousands of
years ago, when gods and monsters roamed the lands of Latin America
and the Caribbean: the Lady of the Dead.
The skeleton was carved out of white stone. Black paint accented

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 the lines of her bony fingers, toothy smile, and empty eyes. Lady Death
wore a traditional white lace-­trimmed huipil and layered skirt. A mantle
was draped over the crown of her head, flowing to rest on her shoulders.
The neck of her dress and hem of the mantle were embroidered with
delicate flowers of golden thread. A bouquet of Tito’s freshly cut mari-
golds lay in her skeletal hands.
She had many names and iterations—­Santa Muerte, la Huesuda,
Lady of Shadows, Mictecacihuatl. It depended on the culture and lan-
guage, but each representation and image came down to the same
thing. To be blessed by Lady Death, to have his own portaje and to
serve her, was what Yadriel wanted most in the world. He wanted to
be like the other brujos, to find lost spirits and help them pass to the
afterlife. He wanted to stay up all night on boring graveyard duty. Hell,
he’d even spend hours pulling weeds and painting tombs if it meant
being accepted by his people as a brujo.
As Yadriel approached her, propelled forward by his desire to
serve her, he thought about all the generations of brujx who had
their own quinces ceremonies right here. Men and women who’d em-
igrated from all over—­Mexico and Cuba, Puerto Rico and Colombia,
Honduras and Haiti, even the ancient Incas, Aztecs, and Maya—­all
bestowed with powers by the ancient gods. A mix of beautifully nu-
anced, vibrant cultures that came together to make their community
whole.
When brujx turned fifteen years old, they were presented to Lady
Death, who would give them her blessing and tie their magic to their
chosen conduit, their portaje. For women, portajes often took the form
of a rosary (a symbol that had begun as a ceremonial necklace and was
altered with the rise of Catholicism in Latin America). It was a piece
of jewelry that could go unnoticed and ended with a charm that could
hold a small amount of sacrificial animal blood. While a crucifix was
the most common symbol, sometimes a bruja’s rosary ended in a sacred
heart or a statuette of Lady Death.

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 Men’s portajes were often daggers of some sort, as a blade was re-
quired to sever the golden thread that bound a spirit to their earthly
tether. By cutting that tie, brujos were able to release spirits to the af-
terlife.
Being gifted your portaje was an important rite of passage for every
brujx.
Every one, except for Yadriel.
His quinces had been postponed indefinitely. He’d turned sixteen
the past July, and he was tired of waiting.
In order to show his family what he was, who he was, Yadriel
needed to go through with his own quinces ceremony—­with or with-
out their blessings. His father and the rest of the brujx hadn’t left him
with a choice.
Sweat trickled down Yadriel’s spine, sending a shiver through his
body. The air felt charged, like the ground hummed with energy below
his feet. It was now or never.
Kneeling before Lady Death, he unpacked the supplies he needed for
the ritual. He placed four prayer candles on the ground in a diamond
to represent the four winds. A clay bowl went in the center to represent
the earth. Yadriel had nicked a mini bottle of Cabrito tequila from one
of the boxes that had been gathered for the Día de Muertos ofrendas. He
fumbled with the bottle before popping the cap off and pouring it into
the bowl. The smell stung his nose. Beside it, he placed a small jar of salt.
He dug out a box of matches from the pocket of his jeans. The flame
trembled as he lit the candles. The flickering lights sparked the gold
threads in Lady Death’s mantle, catching in the folds and crevices.
Air, earth, wind, and fire. North, south, east, and west. All the elements
needed to call upon Lady Death.
The last ingredient was blood.
Calling upon Lady Death required an offering of blood. It was the
most powerful thing to give, as it held life. Giving your blood to Lady
Death was giving her a part of your earthly body and your spirit. It was

10

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 so powerful that human blood given in sacrifice could not be more
than a few drops; otherwise the offering was enough to drain any brujx
of their life force, leading to certain death.
There were only two rituals that ever called for brujx to make an
offering of their own blood. When they were born, their ears were
pierced, releasing a pin-­drop amount of blood. This act enabled them
to hear the spirits of the dead. Yadriel’s ears were gauged with black
plastic plugs. He liked paying homage to the ancient practice of brujx
stretching their earlobes with increasingly large discs made of sacred
stones, like obsidian or jade. Over the years he’d gotten them to about
the size of a dime.
The only other time brujx used their own blood as a sacrifice was
during the quinces ceremony. The offering was made from their tongues
to let them speak to the diosa, to ask Lady Death for her blessing and
protection.
And that cut was made with their portaje.
Maritza pulled a bundle of cloth from her own backpack and held
it out for him to take.
“It took me weeks to make,” she said as Yadriel untied the twine.
“Burned myself like eight times and nearly cut off my finger, but I
think my dad has pretty much given up trying to keep me out of the
forge.” Her shrug was casual, but she stood tall, a proud grin pulling
the corners of her lips. Yadriel knew this was a big deal for her.
Maritza’s family had been forging weapons for the men for decades,
a trade her father had brought over from Haiti. She had a keen interest
in learning how to craft blades from him. Since blood wasn’t used with
the blades until a boy’s quinces ceremony, it was a way for her to still
be a part of the community without compromising her ethics. Her mom
didn’t think it was a proper career choice for a girl, but when Maritza
set her mind on something, it was impossible to dissuade her.
“Nothing gaudy and ridiculous like Diego’s,” she said with a roll of
her eyes, referring to Yadriel’s older brother.

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 Yadriel pulled back the last of the cloth to reveal a dagger nestled
inside. “Wow,” he breathed.
“It’s practical,” Maritza explained, hovering over his shoulder.
“It’s badass,” Yadriel corrected, a wide smile pressing into his cheeks.
Maritza beamed.
The dagger was the length of his forearm with a straight blade and
a cross guard that curved like a sideways S. Lady Death had been deli-
cately painted onto the polished wooden grip. Yadriel held the dagger
in his hand, solid and reassuring. He traced his thumb along the thin
lines of gold paint that radiated from Lady Death, feeling every intri-
cate brushstroke.
This was his dagger. His portaje.
Yadriel had everything he needed. Now all that was left was to
finish the ritual.
He was ready for this. He was determined to present himself to Lady
Death, whether or not anyone else approved. But still, he hesitated.
Clutching his portaje as he stared up at Lady Death, he sucked on his
bottom lip. Doubt crept its way under his skin.
“Hey.”
Yadriel jumped as Maritza placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
Her brown eyes were intense as she studied his face.
“It’s just—­” Yadriel cleared his throat, his eyes sweeping around
the room.
Maritza’s eyebrows tipped with concern.
A brujx’s quinces was the most important day in their life. Yadriel’s
dad, brother, and abuela should’ve been standing next to him. As he
knelt on the hard stone floor, the emptiness pressed around him. In the
silence, he could hear the static of the uneasy candle flames. Under
the hollowed eyes of Lady Death, Yadriel felt small and alone.
“What if—­what if it doesn’t work?” he asked. Even at nearly a whis-
per, his voice echoed through the empty church. His heart clenched.
“What if she rejects me?”

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 “Escúchame.” Maritza gave his shoulders a tight squeeze. “You’ve
got this, okay?”
Yadriel nodded, wetting his dry lips.
“You know who you are, I know who you are, and our Lady does,
too.” She said with fierce conviction. “So screw the rest of them!” Maritza
grinned at him. “Remember why we’re doing this.”
Yadriel steeled himself and spoke with as much courage as he could
muster. “So they’ll see that I’m a brujo.”
“Well, yeah, but other than that.”
“Spite?” Yadriel guessed.
“Spite!” Maritza agreed enthusiastically. “They’re gonna feel real
stupid once you show them. And I want you to savor that moment,
Yads! Really”—­she took in a deep breath through her nose and clasped
her hands to her chest—­“savor that taste of sweet, sweet vindication!”
A laugh jumped in Yadriel’s throat.
Maritza smiled. “Let’s do this, brujo.”
Yadriel could feel the goofy grin back on his face.
“Just don’t screw it up and make the diosa shoot you down with
lightning or something, okay?” she said, backing up a few steps. “I
can’t carry the responsibility of the family black sheep on my own.”
Being transgender and gay had earned Yadriel the title of Head
Black Sheep among the brujx. Though, in truth, being gay had actually
been much easier for them to accept, but only because they saw Yadriel’s
liking boys as still being heterosexual.
But Maritza had certainly earned the title in her own right as the
only vegan brujx in their community. One year younger than Yadriel,
she’d gone through her own quinces when she turned fifteen earlier
that year, but she refused to heal because it required the use of animal
blood. One of Yadriel’s earliest memories of Maritza was of her crying
inconsolably when her mother had used blood from a pig to heal a
child’s broken leg. Early on, Maritza decided she wanted no part of
healing if it meant harming another living creature.

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 In the dim light of the church, Yadriel could see her portaje hanging
around her neck—­a rosary of pink quartz that ended in a silver cross,
but the concealed vessel remained empty. Maritza explained that, even
though she refused to use her powers, she still respected the diosa and
their ancestors.
Yadriel admired her for her convictions, but he was also frustrated
by them. All he wanted was to be accepted—­he wanted to be given his
own portaje, treated like any other brujo, and given the same responsi-
bilities. Maritza, on the other hand, had been offered every right of the
brujx, but she chose to reject it.
“Now, prisa!” Maritza said, waving him on impatiently.
Yadriel took a deep, steadying breath.
He tightened his grip on his Hydro Flask, the metal cool against his
sweaty palms, as he exhaled through pursed lips.
With a more steadied resolve, Yadriel unscrewed the cap and poured
the chicken blood into the bowl. To her credit, Maritza did her best to
hide a look of disgust.
As the deep red liquid mixed with the tequila, a gust of wind blew
through the church. The candle flames flickered. The air in the room
felt thick, as if it were crowded with bodies even though, except for
him and Maritza, it was empty.
Adrenaline coursed through Yadriel’s veins, and excited chills raced
up his arms. When he spoke, he did his best to keep his voice steady
and deep.
“Santísima Santa Muerte, te pido tu bendición,” Yadriel said, calling
upon Lady Death to ask for her blessing.
A rush of air brushed against his face and dragged like fingers
through his hair. The flames trembled, and the statue of Lady Death
suddenly felt alive. She didn’t move or change, but Yadriel could feel
something pressing toward him.
He lit a match and dropped it into the bowl. The liquid caught, burst-
ing into flames. “Prometo proteger a los vivos y guiar a los muertos,”

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 Yadriel said, vowing to uphold the responsibilities of the brujos. His
hands trembled and he gripped his portaje tighter.
“Esta es mi sangre, derramada por ti.” Holding the dagger, Yadriel
opened his mouth and pressed the tip of the blade to his tongue until
it bit into him. He winced and held his portaje out in front of him.
A thin line of red glistened on the edge of the blade in the warm light
of the candles.
He held the dagger over the burning bowl. As soon as the flames
licked the steel, the blood sizzled and the candles blazed like torches, their
flames tall and strong. Yadriel squinted as a rush of heat hit his face.
He removed his portaje from the fire and spoke the final words.
“Con un beso, te prometo mi devoción,” he murmured before brush-
ing his tongue over his lips. Balancing the hilt in his palm, he kissed
the image of Lady Death.
Golden light sparked at the tip of the blade and raced down the hilt
to his hand. His skin glowed as the light shot down his fingers and up
his arm. It traveled down his legs and curled around his toes. Yadriel
shuddered, the thrilling sensation robbing him of his breath.
As quickly as it had appeared, the thick thrum of magic in the church
dissipated. The candle flames extinguished themselves in the same pulse.
The air in the room went still. Yadriel pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie
and stared at his arm in awe as the golden light faded, leaving his brown
skin unadorned.
He stared up at Lady Death. “Holy crap,” Yadriel breathed, pressing
his hands to his cheeks.
“Holy crap!” he repeated. “It worked!” He felt his chest, the thun-
derous beat of his heart pulsing against his palm. He jerked to look at
Maritza for confirmation. “Did—­did it work?”
The fire in the bowl glinted in her eyes, a huge smile on her face.
“There’s one way to find out.”
Laughter bubbled in Yadriel’s throat, relief and adrenaline making
him half delirious. “Right.”

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 If Lady Death had blessed him, granting him the powers of the
brujx, that meant he could summon a lost spirit. If he could summon a
spirit and release it to the afterlife, then he would finally prove himself
to everyone—­the brujx, his family, and his dad. They would see him as
he was. A boy and a brujo.
Yadriel got to his feet, holding his portaje carefully against his
chest. He sucked in his lips, tasting the last traces of blood. His tongue
stung, but the cut had been small. It hurt about as much as when he
burned it trying to drink café de olla fresh off the stove.
As Maritza gathered the candles, pointedly steering clear of the
flaming bowl of blood, Yadriel approached the statue of Lady Death.
At a little over five feet, he had to crane his neck back to look up at
her in her alcove.
He wished he could speak to her. Could she see him for who he
really was? What his own family couldn’t? Yadriel had spent years
feeling misunderstood by everyone except for Maritza. When he had told
her he was trans three years ago, she hadn’t batted an eye. Ay, finally!
she’d said, exasperated but smiling. I figured something was up, I was
just waiting for you to spit it out.
During that time, Maritza had been his reliable secret keeper,
smoothly going back and forth between pronouns when they were
alone, versus when they were around everyone else, until he was ready.
It took him another year, when he was fourteen, to work up the
courage to come out to his family. It hadn’t gone nearly as well, and it
was still a constant struggle to get them and the other brujx to use the
right pronouns and to call him by the right name.
Other than Maritza, his mother, Camila, had been the most support-
ive. It took time to relearn old habits, but she’d caught on surprisingly
fast. Yadriel’s mom had even taken on the task of gently correcting
people so he didn’t have to. It was a heavy burden, small instances
piling up, but his mom helped him shoulder some of the weight.
When he felt especially raw, from the constant fight to be who

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 he was—­either at school or within their own community—­his mom
would sit him down on the couch. She’d pull him close, and he’d rest
his head on her shoulder. She always smelled of cloves and cinna-
mon, like she’d just made torta bejarana. As she gently ran her fingers
through his hair, she’d murmur, Mijo, my Yadriel, slowly coaxing the
pain away to a dull ache that never completely vanished.
But she’d been gone for almost a year now.
Yadriel sniffed and dragged his fist across his nose, the back of his
throat burning.
This would be the first Día de Muertos since she’d died. Come mid-
night, November 1, the church bells would ring, welcoming back the
spirits of passed brujx to the cemetery. Then, for two days, Yadriel
would be able to see her again.
He would show her he was a true brujo. A son she could be proud
of. He would perform the tasks that his father and his father’s father
had as the children of Lady Death. Yadriel would prove himself to
everyone.
“C’mon, brujo,” Maritza called gently, waving him forward. “We
need to get out of here before someone finds us.”
Yadriel turned and grinned.
Brujo.
He was about to bend down and pick up the bowl from the ground
when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Yadriel froze and
looked to Maritza, who had also stopped mid-­step.
Something was wrong.
“Did you feel that?” he asked. Even in a whisper, his voice seemed
too loud in the empty church.
Maritza nodded. “What is it?”
Yadriel gave a small shake of his head. It was almost like sensing
a nearby spirit but different. Stronger than anything Yadriel had felt
before. A sense of unexplained dread swarmed in his stomach.
He saw Maritza shiver just as he felt a tingle shoot down his spine.

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 There was a beat of nothingness.
Then searing pain stabbed into Yadriel’s chest.
He cried out, the force knocking him to his knees.
Maritza fell, a strangled cry lodging in her throat.
The pain was unbearable. Yadriel’s breath came in sharp bursts as
he clutched at his chest. His eyes watered, blurring the vision of Lady
Death standing above him.
Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, that, surely,
the pain would kill him, it stopped.
Tension released his muscles, and his arms and legs went limp, heavy
with exhaustion. Sweat clung to his skin. His body trembled as he gulped
air. Yadriel’s hand clutched his chest, right above his heart, where the
throbbing pain slowly faded to a dull ache. Maritza knelt on the floor,
one hand pressed to the same place. Her skin was ashen and covered in
a sheen of sweat.
They stared at each other, trying to catch their breath. They didn’t
say anything. They knew what it meant. They could feel it in their
bones.
Miguel was gone. One of their own had died.

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