Yadriel went to his dad.
“You had me worried,” his dad told him as brujx filed by, shaking his hand.
“Yeah, sorry,” Yadriel replied, sidestepping the line of people. Luckily, his dad seemed to be in a good mood. He didn’t see his tío Catriz, but before he could ask where he was, Lita spotted him and gasped.
“You are not dressed!” she scolded.
Yadriel looked down at himself. The last thing he was worried about right now was his clothes. “What do you need me to do?” Yadriel asked his dad.
“I need you to get dressed!” Lita said before welcoming a family of brujx to the church.
His dad chuckled and gave a small shake of his head. “Go get changed,” he said before nodding toward the church. “I set aside the calavera you made for your mamá. Take it to her ofrenda, and then you and Maritza can go enjoy the party for a while. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great,” Yadriel said, not even finishing his sentence before he was off and running toward the house.
“Meet at the ofrenda by midnight!” his dad called after him. Yadriel lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
He raced through the cemetery and back to the house. Throwing open the door, he ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. The sooner he did what his dad asked, the sooner he could get back to Julian.
In his room, Yadriel tore off his hoodie and T-shirt and changed into an olive-green button-down. He didn’t have time to obsess and worry over whether his binder flattened down his chest enough to make it fit right. Yadriel shucked off his torn black jeans for a clean, if a bit wrinkled, pair. He kept the combat boots and headed back to the church.
His heart thudded in his chest, like a clock ticking down to midnight as he dodged brujx and spirits to get back into the church. It was packed with people and long tables covered in white linens, laden with food and drinks.
During Día de Muertos, you could really see how the diverse cultures of the brujx came together in celebration. Ecuadorian colada morada—a sweet, purple corn juice made with berries—was passed around in plastic cups. Brujos from El Salvador brought honeyed pumpkin to share. The Haitian families always brought plenty of homemade beeswax candles for decorating ofrendas and tombstones. Andean t’anta wawa—fruit-filled sweet rolls in the shape of babies—had been one of Yadriel’s favorites since he was little.
But he didn’t have time to indulge.
There were only a couple of boxes of calaveras left sitting on one of the tables. Yadriel picked up the one filled with the skulls he’d decorated for his mom and the rest of his ancestors the other night. Carefully cradling it in his arms, Yadriel left the church and the delicious smells behind him.
Just outside the church, a large dance circle had formed. In a ring, men and women played huehuetl, large animal hide drums, and teponaxtle, log drums with slits. The beat shook in Yadriel’s chest as he skirted around the outside of the crowd.
Clay flutes and ocarinas trilled like birds, while conch shells bellowed, deep and strong. The beat thrummed, and, in the center of the circle, the dancers danced. Chachayotes, adornments of shells and nuts, rattled on their wrists and ankles, shaking with each stomp. They wore traditional regalia, large and colorful headdresses made of long feathers. Women wore colorful tunics, while the men wore maxtlatl. A small girl in purple danced next to her older sister, her face serious and pinched in concentration. Sweat glistened on the dancers’ skin, catching the orange glow of the candles as they danced and moved through their paces.
Yadriel wondered if Julian had seen them. He would’ve liked to see his face as he watched them.
His mother’s grave was in the small graveyard adjacent to the church, saved for the family of the brujx leaders. His grandparents on his mother’s side, as well as his Lito, were all laid to rest in the same plot. The quiet little corner of the cemetery was decorated with care and pride.
Diego’s sugarcane handiwork was front and center. Tall arches and crosses stood at each grave, adorned with marigold blooms bursting with hundreds of petals. Lita’s hand-cut papel picado hung in colorful banners, gently swaying in the October breeze. His father had built sturdy altars for everyone, seven steps high and covered in trinkets, pictures, and food.
One by one, he placed each calavera atop a headstone. His mother’s parents had a matching set of understated worn stone. Lito’s was a huge slab of jade carved with intricate Maya glyphs, befitting of a passed brujx leader.
Yadriel’s mother’s tombstone was made of polished white marble. Sinking down into a crouch, Yadriel placed her calavera, careful to make sure it was straight and wouldn’t slip off the slick stone.
He ran his fingers along her name carved into the front in gold lettering.
CAMILA FLORES DE VÉLEZ.
Her picture smiled up at him from the ofrenda, illuminated by the soft glow of white candles.
In less than an hour, he would be able to see her again. They would be a complete family again, if just for a couple of days. She would talk to his dad, and she would see all that he had accomplished. Tomorrow night, Yadriel would be part of the aquelarre, and his whole family, and all the brujx, would see. Finally, he would be a brujo.
He should’ve been excited. He should’ve been thrilled. He had been fighting for this moment for years.
But there was a growing ache in the pit of his stomach. An anticipation of impending mourning was looming over him.
Tonight, he would get so much back, but he was also going to lose Julian.
He needed to get back to him, while there was still time.
The bustle of the celebrations began to fade as he ran deeper into the cemetery. The old church loomed before Yadriel. A soft glow from inside the church flickered through the dusty glass windows. As Yadriel stepped through the small gate, a strange, tingling sensation went from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
Maritza sat on the steps, her white skirts splayed out around her.
She stood when he approached. “Is it time?” she asked as Yadriel came to a stop in front of her.
He gave her a jerky nod, unwilling to tear his eyes away from the wooden doors. Yadriel’s fingers trembled, so he clenched his hands into fists and pinned his elbows tight to his sides.
For a moment, she didn’t say anything, and neither did he.
Then Maritza stepped to the side. “Go on.” She gave his side a soft push and said in a gentle voice, “I’ll stand guard.”
Yadriel forced himself to walk up the steps, breath shaky as he struggled to fill his lungs.
When he pushed the door open, his breath hitched in his throat.
Dozens of candles lined the windows and stone walls. From tea lights to thick pillar candles, they adorned sconces and sat on the floor, lining the pews.
Yadriel reached for Julian’s necklace around his neck. He squeezed the St. Jude medal in his hand. It was warm in his sweaty palm. Yadriel’s heavy feet carried him down the aisle, past the steadily burning flames. Tall gold stands, stocky prayer candles, and ornate candelabras crowded the main altar, creating a sea of gently swaying light.
Julian stood before them at the foot of the altar, his back to Yadriel. His chin was tilted up to where Lady Death stood in her black mantle.
Every sluggish heartbeat pulsed painfully through Yadriel veins.
Hearing his approach, Julian looked back over his shoulder. When he saw Yadriel, he turned and smiled.