Part I
The Deathday
1
Claribelle was lost in the forest.
She stepped between two ceiba trees
under the light of the full moon.
A door opened and she walked through it.
—Claribelle and the Kingdom of Adas: Tales Tall and True, Gloriana Palacios
I’m supposed to be the good one. The bruja who studies dusty tomes and respects her magical lineage. The sister who doesn’t trap her family in another dimension or raise an army of heart-chomping zombies. The daughter who doesn’t talk back, flosses twice a day, cleans her altar without being told to, takes out the trash, and recites rezos to the gods before going to bed at midnight. If I were the good one, I wouldn’t be hiding today of all days.
It is, after all, my Deathday and my birthday combined, and like the average fifteen-year-old bruja, I’m spending the party in a hallway pantry, sitting on a crate of Goya beans, with my dress pockets full of chocolate candy bars. A low-hanging light bulb casts a white glow over the open storybook on my lap.
“Have you seen Rose?” My mother asks someone from the other side of the door.
I don’t know who she’s talking to, but they make a noncommittal sound. Ma shouts my name, and I freeze mid-page-turn. After the ceremony, I said I’d go change into party clothes and be right back, and I had every intention of doing so. Mostly. But I started imagining all those people—friends, family, and strangers—wanting to talk to me. To look at me. To wonder why, after fifteen years of being an ordinary bruja I am suddenly so interesting. That’s the word people keep using, at least. Since I don’t have an answer, I decided to put myself in time-out.
When my mom gives up and the hammering tap of heels dissolves into echoes, I breathe a little easier. I flip to my bookmark and sigh. I’ll read one more chapter and then go. I know. I know I can’t stay in here forever.
If you ask me, and no one ever does, it’s too soon to celebrate my freakish new abilities. I mean, one minute, I was a seer, speaking to ghosts and the world beyond the Veil of the living. Now I’m something completely different that no one in my family, our network of brujas, or supernatural allies have ever heard of. There isn’t even a name for it since I’ve forbidden everyone from calling me a “magical hacker.” It’s a miracle our lives haven’t been threatened for a whole six months, so I haven’t had to put my power to the test. Honestly, I’m not so sure my family even wants me to try.
Lula told me to enjoy the moments we get to be normal and danger free, but there’s no “normal” when you’re a bruja. Unlike the rest of the Mortiz family, I can’t pretend like the last year and half hasn’t been filled with monsters and blood and guts and secret societies and more resurrections than I am personally comfortable with. We’ve just accepted Dad’s magical memory loss from the years he was gone. Alex is all One with the Force after she accidentally banished us to Los Lagos. Lula unleashed dead hordes across the city, but no worries, she’s back to her old self again. Ma finally has her family whole and together.
I’m the only one who seems to notice that there is something wrong around here, but every time I work up the nerve to speak, I convince myself that it’s all in my head. Things are peaceful. Things are fine.
Aren’t they?
Sandals slap against the tiled hallway floor. I recognize the cadence of her walk instantly. I hold in a sneeze brought on by pantry dust as my eldest sister starts yelling for me.
“Rose Elizabeta Mortiz, get your bedazzled butt out here and dance!” Lula manages to walk right past my hiding spot.
I sneeze, and a handful of pink and white petals fall between the pages of my book. The flowers in my ceremonial crown are already wilting. So much for fresh carnations. I’ve tried to undo the braid Lula and Alex artfully twisted around my head with gold twine, but they used so much hairspray and so many bobby pins that I only managed to yank a few strands out by the root. I blow on the petals. They scatter on the blush-pink tulle skirt of my dress, stuffed around my feet.
The door opens, letting in the bright kitchen light and the rhythmic tap of drums from the living room.
Lula purses her lips. There’s a flash of relief in her gray eyes before she shouts, “Found her!”
Alex pokes her head around Lula’s body. Her brown hair is in a braided ballerina bun, decorated with a glittering crescent moon. “I told you she wouldn’t have been in the garage. That’s where all the old folks are playing cards.”
“I have to say, I’m disappointed in your hide-and-seek skills.” I turn the page of my book and clear my throat, hoping they’ll take the hint and go away. “Good thing neither of you are going into search and rescue for a living.”
“Um, rude,” Lula says, dusting her bare shoulder, but the pantry dust only mixes with her body glitter. When she leans into the light, the four claw marks that scar my sister’s face are iridescent as pearl. Over the summer, she started accentuating them with colorful eye shadow because she says people stare anyway, so she might as well get creative. “There are too many rooms in this house. I keep confusing the guest bathroom for the guest closet, which is not a fun surprise when there are a hundred people in the house and no one locks the door.”
“And yet”—I slam my book shut—“you managed to find me in the only place I’ve been able to find some peace and quiet since the ceremony finished.”
My sisters ignore me and shove their way in, party dresses and all. I groan in protest when one of them steps on my foot and another one jams an elbow in my ribs as they squeeze on either side of me and close the door.
“Come on, Rosie!” Lula says. “You’re missing out. Tía Panchita says she’s dancing with a ghost but really she’s had six cups of Tío Julio’s coquito.”
If I were still connected to the Veil I could debunk her theory. Instead, I ask, “Are you sure you haven’t had six cups of Tío Julio’s coquito? Or is a certain thirsty hunter here?”
She elbows me, and in an attempt to move away, I slam into Alex, who bumps into the supplies stacked on the shelves that surround us. The jars wobble precariously, and a dozen of them tip forward. I shield my face from the impact, but Alex thrusts her hands up, conjuring a gust of wind. The chilly air funnels around us, and the force of her magic sets every jar of spices and bird bones back into place. When our arms brush against each other, I jump at the electric charge of her lingering power.
Alex dusts her palms, and even in the dim light, her smug grin is unmistakable. It’s a welcome change to the days when she rejected anything that had to do with being a bruja. But now she’s just showing off.
“Okay,” Alex says, “Why are you reading a book you’ve already read a thousand times instead of enjoying your Deathday after-party?”