Bruja Born

  The train barrels into the station, stale air pushing against my hot skin when the doors open up. The train car is empty because there’s a man passed out across three seats and the air conditioner is broken. It’s better this way, less chance I’ll be recognized.

  I take a seat on the opposite end of the car. I try to breathe through my mouth, but the smell is overwhelming, like stale beer, sea sludge, and urine. It’s only a few more stops to Coney Island. I stare at the thin, white scars on the top of my hands from the shattered glass that fell around me during the crash. The silver threads from my chest have dimmed except for one, floating in the direction the train is going.

  My heart gives another painful tug. I imagine this is what fish feel like when they have a hook driven through their cheeks and then get reeled in. I lean my head back, feeling every bump and jostle the train makes when a whistling noise fills the air.

  “Lula Mortiz,” something hisses.

  The man jerks into a sitting position. His skin is pale and covered in dirt, and his hair is matted into clumps.

  His eyes snap open and find me instantly. His irises go from brown to black, then spread like an ink stain across the whites of his eyes. His mouth stretches in an unnatural way, like someone is pulling his jaw open. Tattered shadows slither from the ground and trail inside, rattling his entire body.

  My heart races as I dart to the doors. The train is approaching the next stop, but the platform zooms by.

  “Oh hell.” I rattle off a string of curses and start to run for the red emergency lever you’re never supposed to pull. What’s more of an emergency than being attacked on the train by someone possessed?

  But the train breaks abruptly. The momentum flips me over once, and I hit the sticky floor with a thud. I fear I’ve ripped my stitches as something wet hits my skin. When I touch it and bring it to my nose, it’s just ketchup.

  The train conductor makes an announcement. We’re stuck between stations, the lights flickering inside the car and out in the tunnel.

  “Ladies and gentlemen”—crackle muffle crackle—“unexpected”—crackle static—“shortly.”

  Great. I’m locked in a train car with a possessed man while my body is being pulled like there’s a master puppeteer at work.

  I push up on my elbows. My wrist feels sprained, but I rummage through my belongings for something, anything, I can use. My pockets are empty except for a few bucks and my MetroCard and—keys!

  I crab-crawl away from the man, who stands slowly. The last of the shadows enter his mouth, and when he’s done shaking, his black eyes snap to where I’m crawling on the dirty floor of the Q train.

  I grab my keys and grip them tightly between my fingers. Jumbled thoughts fill my head:

  I survived a multivehicle crash and two surgeries, but I’m going to be murdered in the subway. Why did I leave my pepper spray at home? Why didn’t I leave a note for my sisters so they’ll know where to look for me? Why did I yell at my dad for the past eight months he’s been home? Why do people throw their garbage here? Why isn’t my power as strong as Alex’s? Just—why?

  Then, at that thought, the man reaches for me and I strike my fist into his gut. He makes a choking sound but keeps advancing. His breath is hot on my face, and my stomach turns when he grabs my shoulder. I kick wildly until he stumbles back a few steps, but I’m positive it hurts me more than him. I scream through the pain as I roll over. I try to pull myself up, but the train jostles and I fall again.

  “I’m not here to hurt you, Lula Mortiz,” the voice hisses. His face contorts, fighting the thing inside him.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say, despite the fear that makes my legs tremble. I’ve heard of possessions but I’ve never seen one. Its dark energy ripples beneath pale graying flesh. “What are you?”

  The man shakes his head slowly, cracked lips lifting over rotten teeth. “You know me.”

  I do. The way my insides twist and my skin puckers with the sudden temperature drop tell me exactly who this is.

  Lady de la Muerte.

  Her voice is like a living shadow, slithering and coiling around my senses.

  When I struggle to get to my feet, I drag myself on the floor until I hit the locked train doors.

  “What do you want?” is all I can get out.

  “Not want. Need.”

  Lights spark in the tunnel as the train tries to move but can’t. The conductor cranks out another announcement. Something about the breaks. Something about connections. Don’t worry. Stay calm. We’re moving shortly.

  But help isn’t coming for me.

  “You’ve betrayed me.” She speaks through the man. “You have betrayed the balance of the worlds.”

  My first reaction is to say, I know, but I can’t be snarky with Death.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” I ask. I hold my arms out to the sides and I drop my keys. I can’t fight her. I’m not strong enough to fight her. The train slams to another stop, but the possessed body rises inches off the floor and is suspended in air.

  He opens his mouth again, shadows undulating like dark water. “I need you.”

  “What could I possibly give you? You’re a god.”

  “I am trapped between—” she says, the last word cuts out in static. The possessed man’s neck turns at an unnatural angle, bones snapping when the head moves too close to the shoulder. “You must free me.”

  Death isn’t here to kill me. My moment of brief relief is instantly replaced with panic.

  “Free you? How? Where are you?”

  The man starts to shake and cough up black mucus. His head rolls back and his mouth snaps wide open as the living shadow starts to escape. “Retrieve my spear. You do not know what you’ve created—”

  “Trapped between what?” I ask. “Where is the spear?”

  The shadows purge from the man’s mouth and leave him unconscious on the floor.

  The lights above stop flickering, and the train moves again at a snail’s pace. I hold on to the metal rung, unable to steady my hand.

  Death is trapped. Death wants me to free her.

  I’m swallowing the dryness on my tongue when I realize the man on the ground hasn’t moved since La Muerte left his body. The train lurches forward and barrels out of the tunnel and into the light of the aboveground platforms.

  The train chugs into the next station. I kneel and put my hand on his shoulder to jostle him awake.

  He doesn’t move.

  I press my fingers on his neck to feel for a pulse that isn’t there. The train comes to a stop. I have to get out of here. The thread in my chest returns, silver threads tugging in different directions. I pull my hoodie closer to my face.

  When the doors open, I run and don’t look back. Before I reach the subway exit, I hear someone scream, “Someone call 911! He’s dead.”

  • • •

  When I get out of the subway, I leave the mayhem behind, blending into the crowds of the Coney Island station. The sweet scents of fried dough and sunscreen mingle with sea breeze. I take deep breaths to stop myself from shaking. I think of the fate of the man in the car. There was nothing I could do for him. The gods can’t inhabit human bodies, not without killing the host, destroying all traces of their soul and leaving behind a hollowed shell. I press my shaky fingers to my lips and whisper a prayer for the dead man.

  I cross the street, following the thread that’s been leading me here. Sweat drips down my back and between my breasts. I pull off my hoodie and tie it around my waist. I don’t have to worry about being recognized here. Hundreds of people disperse from the train station and across Surf Avenue.

  I head down Stillwell Avenue until I’m on the boardwalk. Each step is like wading through a vat of mud, but the light of the threads grows stronger. The pain in my chest throbs like a fresh wound. I hang on to the metal railings and wait for the pa
in to subside.

  When it doesn’t, I know something is wrong. My family healed me, and while their magic can’t fix everything that’s wrong with me, I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t feel like there’s broken glass at my feet and fire in my muscles.

  Right now I want my sisters, even if it means listening to Alex yell at me for being reckless and leaving the house in this condition. For being marked by Lady de la Muerte. For not saying a word about this sensation that’s pulling me toward an unknown. Sea breeze caresses my face, and a swell of angry tears spill down my cheeks as I keep pushing forward.

  I follow the silver thread across uneven boardwalk planks toward the parachute tower. When I see the carousel, I freeze. My heart runs laps in my chest and I turn around so I won’t have to look at it. Instead, I watch the dark blue waves and the seagulls that fight for scraps in the sand. This is where Maks brought me on our first date.

  The carousel had just been brought back to Coney Island, original wooden horses and all. I rode a white horse decked out in gold filigree and brilliant pastels, and Maks stood beside me. No one has ever looked at me the way he did. He watched me like I was a marvel that could vanish at any moment, like surf breaking over the shoreline—there and then gone.

  We went ’round and ’round on that carousel all night, stopping once to buy cotton candy. I don’t even remember what we talked about. But I remember the world spinning around us, the twinkling lights, the bell-chime music. I remember the way he leaned in to kiss me, a kiss like the melting of spun sugar across my tongue.

  The thread in my chest tugs again—hard. I turn in its direction and face the carousel. The sea air has made the paint crackle and chip, and though the gold accents have lost their shine, there’s still something magical about it.

  There are other couples and groups of kids on the ride. They casually glance at the guy with the stark gray skin and the scars on his face. They stare at the stained T-shirt that hugs his bruised arms and the red stains around his mouth that looks like blood. But in his hand is a snow cone, cherry ice dribbling down his hand and onto his worn jeans.

  The silver thread pulses brighter, faster, and the other end drives into his chest. He looks down, then follows it back to me. Dull blue eyes stare at me without recognition.

  I swallow hard and breathe slowly, trying to quiet the fear in my heart. Because there’s nothing in any world that could’ve prepared me for this.

  I stand at the edge of the ride and wait for it to come to a full stop. Words fail me as I watch him stand, watch his chest rise and fall.

  “Lula,” he says, eyes darting around my face, like he’s coming out of a fog.

  He skips the bottom steps and flings his arms around me. I swallow the cry that gathers in my throat.

  “I got lost,” he says, gripping my hair and squeezing me until I’m afraid my stitches will rip.

  I hold him tighter out of the fear that my legs will give out beneath me. I don’t know how this is possible. His skin is cold and his wounds still look fresh, but he’s breathing. He’s here. La Muerte’s warning flits through my mind. You have betrayed the balance of the worlds. But I don’t care.

  Maks is alive.

  And nothing—not even La Muerte—will tear us apart.

  11

  Las Memorias, sisters two,

  one who forgets and

  one who thinks of you.

  —Twin Sisters of the World’s Memories, Book of Deos

  “A third body was found today in Brooklyn. An unidentified man was discovered dead on a Coney Island–bound Q train this evening. Witnesses describe a young Hispanic boy running off the train in a hurry before the body was discovered. If anyone has information on the suspect, contact the police.”

  The news plays on the small screen in the back of the taxi that takes Maks and me back to my house.

  He stares out the window the entire time. His eyes focus on the strangest things, the flurry of dust in the air, the play of light and shadows as we drive through an underpass, the peeling stickers on the partition, and the single drop of water that hits the window announcing rain.

  Every few minutes, he looks at me, and it’s like nothing has changed, even though the stitches on both of our faces and bodies say otherwise.

  I reach for his hand. The cold of his skin is jarring, but slowly, he stares at our hands and threads his fingers with mine. Familiar.

  “What happened to me?” he asks.

  I think of my mother’s words at the hospital. I don’t know who you’d get back, but it might not be Maks.

  I don’t know what to tell him. You were dying and I tried to save you? You were gone and now you’re here? I try to form a coherent explanation, but what if it scares him? When I was little, when my dad first disappeared, I remember asking my mom, “Where did Dad go?” And she looked at me with a smile and eyes glistening with tears too stubborn to fall. She talked about everything but. “Do you want to see something cool?” she asked me. “Want to see the Circle make magic?”

  And I did, because magic was the best thing in my life. Magic was a living, beautiful force that coursed through my veins.

  That’s when my mom took me to her High Circle meeting and I watched them dance around an ailing person. They covered her in wet corn leaves and used bushels of branches to slap her skin red. They threw flower petals in the air and lit bundles of sage and prayed to the Deos in the Old Tongue. I watched from a corner, promising not to move, to touch, or to make a sound. Respect the Deos, protect our magic.

  Now, when Maks asks me what happened to him, I know why my mother always changed the topic. Maks is different. He defies reason, magic, science. But he’s still mine, and I have to help him find answers for the both of us.

  “Want to see something cool?” I ask him.

  The cab driver stops in front of my house. Our car is gone, which means that my family is probably out looking for me and I have time to hide Maks. I don’t have anywhere else to take him, and despite the tension of the past few months, home has always been the safest place I know.

  I dig into my jeans and discover I don’t have enough cash to cover the ride. The cab driver starts clucking his tongue, demanding his money.

  “I got it. Hang on,” I say.

  Maks stares at the divider. He traces the crack that splinters from the center.

  Then I realize, Maks isn’t wearing his own clothes. They’re too tight and dated. Where did he get them? Who did he take them from? How did I just notice the dark stain on the pant leg? But before I can start to answer all of this, we have to get inside.

  I reach into his back pocket and pull out a thin leather wallet. A voice in the back of my head tells me there’s something wrong. To put it back and listen to the warnings I’ve been given. You’ve betrayed me. You must free me.

  But instead I open the wallet and pull out the bills I need, plus a big tip to keep the driver’s mouth shut. I put the wallet in my hoodie pocket and decline the receipt he offers me. The taxi pulls away the second I shut the door.

  Maks walks ahead of me and through the front gate, looking up at my narrow, old house.

  “You’ve never let me in here before,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take.

  I smile, but it hurts, and I take the arm he offers. Maks always wanted to plan dinners with my parents, but I always came up with an excuse. Relief gives me a moment of clarity. Maybe he’s slowly getting his memory back. Maybe everything will work out.

  I turn the key and leave my sneakers at the front door. The statue of La Mama with her broken hand stares at me as I shut the door.

  “It smells like Christmas,” he says, every word slow and thoughtful. Maks always had a calm, relaxed quality about him that I loved. He wasn’t as hyper or loud as some of the other boys on the team. But the stillness of the way he’s speaking now feels wrong.

  ?
??Rose baked,” I say. I might be imagining things. I should be happy he’s here. He’s really here. “Are you hungry?”

  He jerks back when he sees my hand reaching for his cheek. His eyes widen, the blue turns pale, his pupils shrink to pinpricks. He rakes his nails across his throat, leaving sharp red lines.

  “Oh God…I ate—I ate—”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, still reaching. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I’m going to help you.”

  He keeps walking backward, toward the front door. I want to grab him. I want to help him. I want to hold him in my arms and fix this—whatever this is. But he walks into the statue of La Mama. The statue topples over and I dive to grab it, pressing it against my chest. Blood seeps through the bandage on my arm. I’ll have to change it later. I pull myself up and put the statue back in place.

  “I should go home.” He paces the foyer. “My mom is waiting for me. I was supposed to play and I forgot. I should go home.”

  “Wait,” I say, keeping my distance. He’s like a spooked horse and I don’t know what set him off. “You can’t.”

  “Why?” He squints and presses his hands against his temples, as if the light in the living room is too bright. I flick it off, leaving only the sunset casting a warm glow through the windows. He turns around, pressing his fists against the wall. He grinds his teeth, then slams his fist over and over until it goes through.

  “Stop! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “I can’t! Everything already hurts. I don’t know. I don’t know what is wrong with me.” He pulls his hand back, bits of Sheetrock crumbling around his bloody fist. He wipes his hands on his jeans. He looks at them. They’re still dirty. “I’m sorry.”

  “Your parents aren’t home.” It’s a lie. But how can I send him home like this? What if he hurts himself? Or worse, what if he hurts someone else? “You have to stay here for a little while. Do you trust me?”