Chapter Three. Julian #3
Maritza pulled out her phone and angled it like she was texting, ready to flash a distraction if anyone wandered too close. Julian squared his shoulders, scanning the area with exaggerated nonchalance.
Even though they were surrounded by life—the distant rumble of skateboards, the warbling of mariachi trumpets, the whirring of hydraulic pumps on a lowrider—the quiet area by the water felt set apart.
Yadriel laid a simple cloth on the ground and placed a small ceramic bowl in its center. From the pouch, he poured a splash of clear tequila from a nip bottle, followed by a dark vial of chicken blood. The scents mixed in the air, sharp and earthy, oddly grounding.
Julian knew he was supposed to be a lookout, but watching Yadriel prepare the ritual was magnetic. There was something about the way Yads moved when he was doing magic—careful, focused, reverent. He looked different in that moment. Not just confident but also powerful.
Like this was what he was made for. Julian couldn’t help but grin. He’d fallen for Yadriel once in a cemetery. Apparently he could keep falling for him anywhere.
Yadriel struck a match. The flame caught on the third try, and he dropped it into the bowl. Julian held his breath.
“Te invoco, espíritu,” Yadriel whispered to the flame.
For a beat, nothing happened.
Then a soft whoosh. The offering lit with golden fire, casting gentle, dancing light. The flame shimmered more than burned, like sunlight rippling across water.
Julian stared, heart full and heavy all at once. Brujería at work. And damn if it wasn’t kind of beautiful.
The air thickened, the charge of magic stirring the hairs on Julian’s arms. And then there was a soft, almost imperceptible sigh as the fabric of reality folded, allowing the past to bleed into the present.
A figure materialized on the bench by the water’s edge. The spirit looked like a memory struggling to maintain its shape. Edges blurred and features softened to the point of near transparency.
Bartolomé had a ghostly, rugged charm. He looked like he had walked straight out of an old black-and-white movie—scuffed leather jacket, high-waisted pants, and tousled hair with streaks of silver.
His eyes held a kind sadness, as though he’d seen too much, and Julian couldn’t help but notice the thin scar along his jaw.
He had that musician vibe—long, calloused fingers and all—as if he were still holding on to the feel of his guitar even in death. There was a glow about him, a glimmer that trailed behind, as though he were made of music itself, flickering and unfinished, waiting for an ending that never came.
In his hands, Bartolomé held a ghostly guitar, the same one Yadriel had brought, which was in his lap.
“Whoa,” Julian breathed.
“Hey, Bartolomé,” Maritza called gently. She sat down next to him and Julian moved to stand on his other side.
“Hello,” the spirit replied, his voice a rustle of leaves. A sound that felt both there and not.
“Got something for you.” Yadriel offered the packet of stale pan. “Lita sent it.”
“Ah, how kind of her.” Bartolomé’s smile was a mere quiver of light, but it was sincere. He took the offering, crumbling the bread between ethereal fingers, which impressed Julian because it had taken him a whole day to move crumpled-up paper when he was ghost-ish.
Ducks waddled over, eager for the unexpected feast as they let out happy quacks.
“Man, ducks really love this stuff, huh?” Julian said, watching the birds squabble playfully over the pan. A chuckle escaped him, tension shedding from his shoulders.
“Doesn’t take much to make ’em happy,” Bartolomé agreed, his attention torn between their company and the simple joy of feeding his feathered friends.
The ducks glided over the shimmering water, oblivious to the spectral figure feeding them. Bartolomé’s form wavered like a candle flame caught in a gentle breeze, his gaze fixed on the little fleet of birds.
“Your abuela,” he began with a sorrowful nostalgia that rippled through the air, “we’d sit here for hours, just like this. She understood the beauty of quiet moments.” His eyes, though faded, held an ocean’s depth of memory.
“Life … it’s precious, and I’ll miss it immensely.” Bartolomé released another handful of crumbs into the wind. “But I’d rather go now, on my terms. I trust Enrique, and if he worries, so do I.”
Julian frowned. He knew the threat of turning maligno was something all spirits faced from overstaying in the land of the living, but what did Bartolomé mean by Enrique worrying?
He looked to Yadriel and Maritza for clarification, but they were both too focused on the task at hand.
Yadriel nodded solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching downward as if he could feel the weight of Bartolomé’s words. Julian watched, feeling the echo of loss in his own chest.
Carefully, Julian picked up the guitar Lita had safeguarded, his hand tightening around the neck. It was surprisingly heavy.
He stepped forward, the guitar extended. “Here,” Julian said, his voice steady despite the swirl of emotions within him. “Lita’s been keeping it safe for you.”
Bartolomé turned toward him, and the air seemed to vibrate as their hands met, the guitar passing from living skin to ghostly fingers.
The touch sent a chill down Julian’s spine and goose bumps racing up his arm.
The old man’s smile was a sunrise of gratitude, the lines on his face deepening with joy.
“Ah, my guitar,” he murmured, running his fingers along the fretboard. “I’ve missed it.”
With a practiced ease, Bartolomé began to play, coaxing a melancholic melody from the strings. The notes hung in the air, beautiful and heartbreaking.
Julian closed his eyes, letting the music envelop him. It spoke of love and loss, of joy and sorrow—of a life fully lived and a goodbye long overdue.
“That’s beautiful,” Maritza whispered, her usually sharp tone softened by the serenade.
Yadriel only nodded in agreement, his eyes bright.
They stood there, united in silence, as Bartolomé played. Each note was a farewell, a release of what had been and what could never be again. When the last chord faded into the twilight, Bartolomé lowered the guitar and looked at them with a serene finality.
“It’s time,” he declared.
A lump formed in Julian’s throat. He scrubbed his fist against his eyes impatiently. This was somehow Yadriel’s fault. Having a boyfriend was making him soft.
Bartolomé sat quietly on the bench now, his guitar resting in his lap, his fingers still curled gently around the frets. The ducks wandered off.
Yadriel lifted his portaje, hand steady.
Something shifted in the air, as though the space between worlds had gone paper-thin.
Yadriel approached Bartolomé, his face open and solemn. “?Estás listo?” he asked gently.
Bartolomé gave a slow, sure nod. “Listo,” he confirmed with a tired smile, his spectral form shimmering.
Julian didn’t know how this worked, not really, but everything about the moment soothed his restless mind.
“Muéstrame el enlace,” Yadriel said.
A golden thread sparked to life between the guitar and Bartolomé’s heart, gleaming against the darkening sky. It pulsed with its own heartbeat.
The thread hovered in the air, beautiful and fragile, impossibly real.
Julian held his breath. His chest went tight—not with fear, exactly. With that familiar awe that always showed up when Yadriel moved as though Lady Death had carved him for moments like this.
Yadriel hesitated for a fraction of a second, then brought the dagger down, slicing through the golden thread connecting spirit to guitar.
For a moment, Bartolomé’s spirit, once blurry and faded, gleamed with golden light. He stared out at the lake and at the ducks one final time. A soft smile graced his features.
Then as if a dam had broken, marigolds burst forth in a vibrant rush, showering golden hues that painted the world in warmth and light.
The scent of cempasúchil filled the air.
And then, with a soft sigh, Bartolomé was gone, released into the embrace of whatever lay beyond, leaving nothing but the gentle rustle of marigold petals.
“Adiós, Bartolomé,” Yadriel murmured.
Maritza wiped away a tear. Julian felt something catch in his throat. They had helped a soul find peace. It was heavy, this mix of sadness and pride, like saying goodbye to a friend while cheering for the new life waiting for them.
Helping Bartolomé cross over—it had meant something.
“Come on,” Yadriel said, picking up the guitar. “Let’s take this back to Lita.”
Julian, Yadriel, and Maritza walked together, the weight of their task lifting as they joked and teased. As they left Belvedere Park behind, the echoes of folklórico music danced in the air.