Yadriel stuffed his hands into the pocket of his black hoodie. “I can’t believe Miguel…” He trailed off, not wanting to speak the words.
Catriz gave a slow shake of his head and took a long drag from his cigarillo. “So young, so sudden,” he said, smoke billowing from his nostrils. “I wish I could help, but…” He shrugged his angular shoulders. “They don’t find me of much use.”
Yadriel let out a short laugh. Yeah, he knew that feeling all too well. “What the hell happened to him?” he asked, repeating the same words Maritza had said earlier.
Catriz sighed deeply. Yadriel followed his uncle’s gaze to the door, beyond which he could still hear muffled voices. “By the sound of it, your dad has already rallied the troops to find out.”
Yadriel nodded stiffly, the earlier exchange with his dad burrowing its way back under his skin. “All the brujos,” he grumbled under his breath, toying with Purrcaso’s tail.
“Well, not all of them,” Catriz pointed out casually.
Yadriel winced at his own insensitivity.
Catriz had long since been left out of the brujos and their tasks. It had been thousands of years since Lady Death had gifted the brujx their powers. At the beginning, the brujx powers rivaled that of the diosa. Women could regrow an entire arm or pull someone back from the brink of death with little more concentration than you’d need to do long division. The most powerful of the men could even bring the dead back to life when their spirits were beyond the brujas’ reach.
But now, with the dilution of power over the generations, such extravagant use of their powers was impossible. Their magic was not a bottomless well. Drawing on your power to heal the living or guide the dead pulled from that well, and it took time for it to fill up again.
Brujx were getting weaker, and there were those who were born with such shallow wells of power they could barely tap them for simple tasks without risking death.
Like Catriz.
Yadriel felt that his uncle was the only one, other than his mom, who really understood him. The brujos treated Yadriel and Catriz the same. Neither had been given their quinces, nor been presented at the aquelarre during Día de Muertos.
Held on the second night of Día de Muertos, the last night the spirits of past brujx spent each year in the land of the living before returning to the afterlife, the aquelarre was a huge party held in the church. Every young brujx who’d turned fifteen and had their quinces pledged to serve Lady Death and help maintain the balance of life and death, as had all their ancestors who came before them. Then they were officially presented to the community.
Yadriel and Tío Catriz both knew what it was like to see others perform their magic, to sit on the sidelines, powerless to do anything themselves.
But now, Yadriel knew he could do the magic.
His tío Catriz had no such luxury. As the eldest son, Catriz should’ve been the leader of the brujx after Yadriel’s abuelito died. But since he wasn’t able to perform magic, the title had been passed to his younger brother—Yadriel’s dad, Enrique. It was an understanding that had been established long ago, when both boys were small children, but Yadriel would never forget the look on his tío’s face when Enrique was presented with the sacred headdress that recognized him as the next leader of the East LA brujx.
Hurt and longing.
Yadriel knew the feeling all too well.
“Sorry, Tío, I just meant—” he rushed to apologize.
His tío’s chuckle was warm and his smile forgiving. “It’s all right, it’s all right.” He clapped his hand on Yadriel’s shoulder.
“We are alike, you and me,” he told Yadriel, scratching his stubble as he nodded with a jutted chin. “They are stuck in their ways, in their traditions, following the ancient rules. Without powers, they see no use for me.”
When he said it, Catriz didn’t sound bitter, just matter-of-fact. “And you, mi sobrino—”
Warmth bloomed in Yadriel’s chest, and a smile dared to pull at his lips.
Catriz hummed a sigh, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “They won’t even give you a chance.”
Yadriel’s smile fell. His heart sank.
The door to the kitchen opened, and Yadriel’s abuelita came stomping into the garage.
Yadriel and his tío sighed in unison. Living in a multigenerational Latinx household meant privacy was always fleeting.
“There you are!” Lita Rosamaria announced with a huff, snapping the hem of her apron with a flourish. Her gray hair was tied back in a knot like she always did when she was cooking. Which was, well, always.
Yadriel inwardly groaned. He really didn’t feel like getting lectured by his abuelita right now. He scooped up Purrcaso, holding her in the crook of his arm as he got to his feet. Catriz remained sitting, taking another drag from his cigarillo.
Lita propped one hand on her wide hip and shook a long finger at Yadriel. “You don’t run off like that!” she chided. Lita was a squat woman, even shorter than him but with a presence that made the cockiest brujo shrink back when she scolded. She always smelled like Royal Violets, which lingered on Yadriel’s clothes long after she released him from a back-popping hug. She had a strong, trilling Cuban accent and an even stronger personality.
“Yes, Lita,” Yadriel grumbled.
“It’s dangerous! What with poor Miguel…” She trailed off, crossing herself and muttering a quick prayer to the dios.
Maybe he was being selfish. He wasn’t trying to make the situation about him. Didn’t he deserve to fight for himself? But maybe now wasn’t the time.
Yadriel frowned. Tío Catriz caught his gaze and rolled his eyes—a grand gesture when Lita wasn’t looking.
“Make yourselves useful!” Lita said, crossing to the shelves as she dug through the boxes.
“¿Dónde está?” she grumbled to herself, talking so fast in her thick Cuban accent that the s’s at the end of her words got left behind.
The garage held a plethora of artifacts and items. Glass display cases and sturdy wooden boxes held ancient weapons and carvings. Sacred regalia and featherwork were kept in the house in fancy containers away from light until they were taken out for special occasions, like Día de Muertos.
Yadriel often got tasked with climbing into the rafters to take down boxes for whatever very specific item Lita was looking for.
She pushed aside a box of chachayotes in her search. The hard shells, sewn onto leather that were worn around the ankles during ceremonial dances, rattled. Purrcaso’s ears perked where she sat in the crook of Yadriel’s arm. She leaped down to help investigate.
“What are you looking for, Mamá?” Catriz asked, though he didn’t move from his seat.
“¡La garra del jaguar!” she snapped, as if it were obvious. Lita turned, consternation pinching her wrinkled face.
Yadriel knew about the claw of the jaguar, mostly because Lita would never let him forget it. It was an ancient set of four ritual daggers and an amulet in the shape of a jaguar’s head. The ceremonial blades had been used back when the dark art of human sacrifice was still in practice. When pierced into the hearts of four humans, the daggers used their spirits to feed the amulet, giving the brujx who wore it immense—but dark—power. Lita liked to pull the daggers out on special occasions—including Día de Muertos—to scare younger brujx and lecture them about the treachery of abusing their powers.